Interview With Vampires

chapter five

Joe sat in the quiet hum of early dawn, the last hours of night humming gently against his window. His laptop glowed faintly on the desk, audio software open, the volume low. He’d spent the last hour editing down clips from Lucien’s most recent session — trimming long pauses, removing background noise, cataloging key timestamps. The emotion in Lucien’s voice haunted him more than the confessions themselves.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Intentional.

The door creaked open, and there stood Celeste — barefoot, pale even in the silvered morning light, holding a thick leather bag in his arms. His presence made the room feel colder, heavier.

“I thought he’d want to tell you himself,” Celeste said, voice low, “but... he can’t. Not yet.”

He placed the bag on the desk. Inside were thirteen worn, hand-bound journals — the kind a young person might decorate, then hide under a mattress. The leather cracked along the spines. Pages peeked out at odd angles. Each one bore the same initials, scribbled in looping ink: S.V.

Joe raised a brow. “These are Skyler’s?”

Celeste nodded. “He wrote everything. Thoughts, memories, dreams he never got to live. Lucien says it’s easier for you to read it than for him to say it out loud.” He hesitated. “When you’re done… don’t ask him too many questions.”

And with that, Celeste left — the room darkening slightly in his absence.

Joe looked at the stack of diaries. His hands hovered before settling on the first. He opened his laptop again, pressed record, and cleared his throat.

“This is… Skyler’s diary. Volume One.”

He began to read aloud.

---

Diary One. Entry One.

My name is Skyler Vale. And if you’re reading this… I’m probably already dead... again.

But not that night. That night, I woke up.

At first, I thought it was a dream. The world was far too quiet. No pain, no heartbeat thumping in my ears like a war drum, no blood flooding my mouth. The pain from the beatings — the boots, the fists, the curb — was gone.

I opened my eyes to silk.
Literally.

Black silk sheets, cold against my skin. The room smelled like sandalwood, old books, and iron. There was soft candlelight flickering in antique wall sconces. It looked like something out of a Victorian novel. And in the doorway stood a man in black, pale as the moon, with long auburn hair tied back with a velvet ribbon.

He looked at me with boredom… or maybe curiosity.

“Welcome back,” he said, voice smooth as ice. “I was beginning to think you’d made a mistake of dying permanently.”

I stared at him. “Where… where am I?”

A second figure entered the room — this one gentler. Softer eyes. Familiar.

Lucien.

He knelt by the bed, his hands shaking just slightly. “You’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re with us now.”

I remember touching my chest, expecting to feel pain. But instead… nothing. No heartbeat. No breath.

Dead.

But I was still here.

---

The next few nights were blurry.
Lucien told me bits of what happened. The man who beat me — he was dead. Lucien killed him in a rage, then begged Celeste to save me. I’d lost too much blood. My ribs had caved in. My lung was punctured. There was no time for an ambulance.