Path of the Vampire forum

Apparently, the camera never lies, or so the saying goes. What utter rubbish! In the modern, digital world, the good old camera, along with its close friend, the computer, was one of the greatest fairy tale creators since Hans Christian Anderson. Photoshopped fabrications, with a nip and a tuck here, a hint of airbrushing, and some subtle softening of the colours, could easily transform an ugly duckling into a radiant swan. The honest camera was no longer the paragon of virtue, the deliverer of truth and justice that it had once been. It was now a devious, deceitful device that could manipulate reality, warping and twisting facts into fiction. The camera never lies? No, the camera always lies. Perhaps only a mirror could be trusted to pass fair judgement nowadays?

Maybe the Brothers Grimm were right all along when they invented the magic mirror in their classic tale, Snow White? Without fail, the elegant, reflective piece of fantastical furniture answered the Evil Queen truthfully, even if the response wasn’t necessarily what the vain monarch wanted to hear. The same could be said of the full-length mirror that adorned the wall of Stonehouse’s bedroom. It was a constant reminder of what he really was. No matter how smartly he dressed, in whichever designer label suit was flavour of the month, the shining surface of the silvery mirror would consistently confirm the bitter truth of his existence. He was not the fairest of them all, the most handsome man in the land, no, according to the mirror, he didn’t even exist. The sophisticated businessman was agonisingly trapped in limbo between life and death, undead, a vampire seemingly destined to live in the shadows without even a reflection to keep him company.

What cruel trick, then, was the silver-framed mirror playing upon his guest? Had Stonehouse’s bedroom suddenly transformed into a crazy hall of mirrors that could be found at a funfair, where the images offered back to those who gawped in disbelief were often distorted, comical contortions of their true bodies? Perhaps Stonehouse wasn’t the ringmaster who was in control of the travelling circus, running the show with his cunning plan, but instead, nothing more than a hapless clown, about to have a proverbial custard pie thrown squarely into his confused face.

For a split second, the tall Englishman thought about grabbing the woman and standing right behind her in front of the glistening surface of the mirror. His invisible hands could rub her shoulders while she stared in bemusement at his amazing disappearing trick. A totally transparent set of fingers could fiddle with the bride’s blonde hair, making it appear to stand up on end as if she were touching a Van de Graaff generator in a classroom science experiment. The possibilities were endless! But he didn’t. This particular party trick would have to wait.

It was clear that the groggy blonde was fairly freaked out by the whole situation. After all, she had just woken up, semi-naked, in a strange man’s house. How would he be feeling if the roles were reversed? Looking beyond the initial “nice work ending up in this hot woman’s bed” reaction, Stonehouse knew that he’d be pretty confused by the whole scenario. He briefly recalled his first few days as a vampire, when he hadn’t got a clue what was going on. A more gentle approach was needed, starting with giving the young woman what she required.

“Yes,” he said softly, “some water and painkillers coming right up.”

As he turned towards the door and made his way into the kitchen, taking a slight detour into the bathroom to grab an old packet of generically branded paracetamol, Stonehouse called out to his bridal guest.

“Last night was crazy,” he said, while filling up a large glass with ice cool water, “you were so drunk! I tried to be a nice guy and save you from a marauding band of urban pirates before they plundered your treasures.”

Jesus, could he actually sound any cheesier? He may as well throw himself head first into a cooking pot and be called a fondue. Spinning on his heels by the kitchen sink, Stonehouse walked purposefully back to his bedroom to deliver his gifts to the rescue victim, not even sure whether or not she’d be violently sick once consuming the items. The poor plant pot had already seen enough vomit for one day.

Knocking open the door with his foot, Stonehouse gazed at the woman as she huddled up beneath the bedding. Was she simply dazed and confused, or was the dishevelled bride actually frightened? Had he saved her, or had he condemned her to a life of misery and anguish?

A strange, yet comforting warmth radiated through his body, as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of fine single malt whisky. Was there another twist in this story? Maybe the bride had saved him, as he now had something, or rather someone, to focus upon. A new challenge in which to sink his teeth, or not as the case may ironically be.

Stonehouse approached his guest with an air of caution in his step, stretching out his arms to offer her the water and pills.

“Here you go,” he said with a warm tone to his voice. “Is there anything else that you need?”

Stonehouse was sure that, like some mystical prophet, he already knew the answer. Maybe not now, maybe not even tomorrow, but some time in the very near future, the host was convinced that his sleepy guest would need blood. Stonehouse really had given the bedraggled blonde bride a rather unique wedding gift.

The questions finally began to tumble from Finley’s dry lips. It was as if the hazy dam of drowsy intoxication had suddenly been broken, releasing a torrent of inquisitiveness. The comedy pioneers that were Monty Python, once wrote a sketch about nobody expecting the Spanish Inquisition, but Stonehouse was certainly preparing for a thorough interrogation. The tall Englishman could only imagine how incredibly awful his bedraggled guest would now be feeling, but he was also acutely aware that she would be trying to piece together the mystery that was last night. Currently, the runaway bride was trying to complete a giant jigsaw puzzle with half of the pieces missing, or blocks that simply didn’t appear to fit together properly. It would be like trying to read a book with half of the words scribbled out.

The successful businessman was highly adept at delivering speeches and presentations, so assuming the role of a bard and retelling the events of the night before should not prove to be such a difficult task, yet Stonehouse felt strangely nervous. Although he didn’t doubt his own skills as a raconteur, the self-confident charmer was still somewhat perplexed as to how, exactly, he was going to explain what had actually transpired. Perhaps he needed to adopt the persona of Hans Christian Andersen or the Brothers Grimm, and transform the whole affair into a flamboyant fairy tale? Finley could be the drunken ugly duckling who had undergone a magical metamorphosis into the magnificent vampiric swan, or maybe she was an inebriated Cinderella, Finderella, rescued by Prince Charming before everything crumbled into chaos at midnight. Unfortunately, the reality could be viewed as being more akin to Beauty and the Beast, as the gorgeous bride was taken home by a monstrous creature of the night. At least Prince Charmless had managed to salvage Finderella’s glass slippers.

One of Stonehouse’s strongest attributes, a key trait that had aided him greatly in his pursuit of a successful career, was his ability to listen attentively to his business colleagues and clients. He was very much of the belief that he’d been given two ears and only one mouth for a reason. Anyone could talk, but few people seemed capable of listening, as if it were a dying art form. While other, less talented members of the business community seemed determined to try and win a gold medal at the talking-corporate-********-Olympics, firing off their boardroom catchphrases like a machine-gun, and chuntering away endlessly like a hyperactive parrot, Stonehouse would regularly pause for thought. The psychology graduate would listen attentively to the words being spoken by his counterparts, rather than simply letting them wash over him like an April shower. Combined with an in-depth understanding of body language, the competent communicator would often squeeze out more information from his partners than they had actually intended to deliver. Knowledge was power, and milking each and every last detailed drop of data was a masterful trick.

The way that the blonde bride was staring at Stonehouse from behind her defensive duvet fortress indicated that she was still somewhat suspicious of him, and with due cause. They were, effectively, still strangers. Finley’s mention of drugs sent alarm bells ringing inside Stonehouse’s head. Did the nervous woman suspect that Prince Charmless was actually some kind of freaky date rapist, armed with an arsenal of Rohypnol? It seemed crystal clear that the drunken table dancer had ingested more than just alcohol last night, but that was definitely nothing to do with Stonehouse, well, taking vampire blood out of the equation, of course.

The charismatic host’s hand delved deeply into his pocket, quickly drawing out the small cardboard packet that had housed the paracetamol tablets. He tossed it gently over to his guest.

“You did seem to get totally wiped out last night,” said Stonehouse, “so it wouldn’t surprise me if some scumbag tried to spike your drink. But those pills I just gave you were only painkillers, I swear.”

A comforting smile spread across Stonehouse’s chiselled face, hoping to alleviate some of the tension. He perched his tall frame down on the corner of the bed, ensuring that there was plenty of distance between himself and his guest. He certainly didn’t want to stray too close into her personal space in case it made the bride uneasy. But maybe it was already too late? Stonehouse had invaded her personal space; he’d sailed out of international waters and docked in Finley’s harbour, uninvited, depositing a cargo of rich life-giving blood into her parched throat.

Dark, shimmering eyes scanned across the face and shoulders of the blonde bride as she poked out above the flimsy parapets of the soft bedding. It was as if Stonehouse was trying to see some part of him reflecting back, like a doting father looking to see if his newly born child shares the same facial characteristics. There was a portion of the would-be chivalrous vampire imbedded within the body of the hung-over woman, a trace of his essence floating around inside her. This was a strange epiphany for the normally well in control businessman.

Stonehouse’s mind momentarily drifted, caught on a breeze of his own curiosity. He’d never totally been able to figure out precisely what had happened on the fateful night when his own journey into the world of the undead had begun. The whole escapade was still very much a blurry mess of events, a cocktail with unknown ingredients that had left him feeling utterly ruined. It was the hangover from hell. Whose blood had granted him the gift of eternal life, or should that be contaminated him with poison? He’d never quite decided. The assumption had always been that the mystery ballerina was the culprit, but she had vanished without a trace like a ghost ship floating off into a dense sea fog. There were still so many unanswered questions.

Perhaps this frustrating lack of knowledge was the driving force behind Stonehouse’s need to come clean to his newly sired guest, the impetus to regale his fanciful tale of the night before? He owed it to her to be honest, even if the truth would sound completely unbelievable.

Ensuring that he didn’t begin his story with “once upon a time”, Stonehouse slowly delivered his entire recollection of the previous night’s activities: the drunken singing in the bar, complete with table dancing; the numerous pairs of miscreant eyes, ogling Finley’s vulnerable body like vultures; the quick getaway in the taxi, with the subsequent vomiting upon arrival at his flat; and the grand finale, the fairy tale ending involving the blood. Living happily ever after was yet to be determined, but living forever after was, apparently, part of the deal.

Stonehouse concluded his narrative, which had been delivered with a strange calmness and sincerity, and smiled politely at Finley. He’d watched her reactions to his words with an apprehensive intensity throughout.

“So, Finderella,” he asked, half expecting the woman to burst out into fits of uncontrollable laughter, “do you have any questions? Oh, and what happened with your wedding?”

The animal kingdom is overflowing with creatures possessing a multitude of weird and wonderful abilities, traits that help each individual species to survive. Exotic birds have their flamboyant feathers, a colourful plumage to catch the eye of a potential mate, while others use amazing displays of vocal gymnastics to attract breeding partners. Bees work together as if they were one huge collective, a biological super-machine, pulling in one direction to create a thriving insect community. Rats reproduce as though their entire life were a giant Roman orgy, causing their numbers to spread at an incredible rate, allowing them to take over vast areas in short periods of time. Their progress was like a subterranean urban conquest by the rodent centurions, often leading to the proliferation of disease. Such inherent characteristics enable the continuation of the genetic line, the on-going success of a family, a group, or an entire species.

It’s perhaps no surprise that humans are often labelled as showing similar qualities and features to their distantly related animal counterparts. The glamorous woman, wearing her glitzy Gucci dress, and luxurious Louboutin heels, or her male equivalent, who’s adorned in a tailored Armani suit, will often be classed as a peacock while they strut around elegantly, grabbing whatever attention is available. The charismatic talkers are the chirpy sparrows, regaling endless stories, captivating their audiences, while we all know someone who simply won’t shut up, and becomes known as the squawking parrot. What about the girl in the office who works so enthusiastically and diligently that her colleagues call them the busy bee? Sadly, we probably all know the dirty rat, the underhand, creepy guy who seems to lurk in the shadows, spreading rumours, ready to stab you in the back at any given opportunity.

What about nature’s great hunters? Stonehouse loved those people who possessed the killer instinct. Not literally, of course, he didn’t want to admire cold-blooded murders, but more figuratively. He adored those folk who had a ruthless streak to their persona, the kind of businessmen or women who knew exactly when to pounce like a panther and take down their financial prey. The entrepreneurial sharks who were totally focussed on seeking out the perfect deal, and would devour an opportunity given half a chance. Just as a prowling tiger has its deadly claws and teeth, these power-hungry individuals were blessed with razor-sharp business acumen, and cutting-edge wit; an ability to slice into the needs of the marketplace, and gouge the soft underbelly of their competitors. But for every predator, every creature that goes on the offensive, there is usually quarry, possible targets in need of a sturdy defence.

Although Stonehouse firmly placed himself in the alpha-male predatory category, the psychology graduate held a keen fascination for those at the opposite end of the scale, the non-confrontational types who preferred to avoid conflict. Ignore it, and it will go away. There were the hibernating badgers; the people who locked themselves away like hermits in a cave so that they didn’t have to deal with the harsh realities of life. Human hedgehogs who chose to curl up into a spiky ball and hope that they wouldn’t be squashed by the chunky tyres of the endless flow of oncoming traffic. It was all well and good burying your head in the sand like a frightened ostrich and praying that all your troubles would simply disappear, but generally you’d just end up getting fucked up your sunburnt, exposed arse. Denying that a problem existed meant that it would never be solved.

During his first few days in the Land of the Undead, the normally energetic go-getter wondered if slipping into a permanent torpor, like an overdosing grizzly bear, was the best solution. He hadn’t a clue what was going on, whether the whole crazy scenario was simply a terrible dream from which he would shortly awaken. As Stonehouse’s astute eye continued to cast its gaze over the blonde bride, he wondered if she was feeling the same way.

Despite the fact that the smooth-talking vampire had just described to his guest, in fairly intricate detail, that she was now also a bloodsucking creature of the night, her response was somewhat subdued. Was she simply taking on the role of the hedgehog, curling up into a cosy ball beneath the duvet? Was the bedding nothing more than metaphorical sand in which to bury her undoubtedly throbbing head? Was she in denial, choosing to believe that such a fanciful story was utterly ridiculous, and that she was merely nursing the hangover from hell? Even Stonehouse himself would have to admit that he’d woken up from wild nights of partying feeling like an extra from The Walking Dead, so if a virtual stranger had spun him a yarn about being turned into a vampire, he’d probably agree.

Instead of bursting into fits of laughter over Stonehouse’s unbelievable vampire tale, Finley had decided to open up a little more about the circumstances leading to last night’s fateful escapade. So, she hadn’t been jilted at the altar after all, and hadn’t sought refuge in the pub to drown her sorrows having been cast aside like yesterday’s newspaper. Stonehouse’s damsel in distress was a runaway bride. In many ways, the revelation offered the intrigued Englishman some comfort, as he now knew that he was dealing with someone who liked to be in control of their own destiny. He had a fondness for those who drove the car, rather than those who were happy to be a passenger. However, it also meant that he’d taken over the reins of her fate by means of his actions. How appreciative would she really be of his intervention? The bride didn’t go through with her wedding because she “did not think that it was fair”, so how “fair” would she think Stonehouse’s decision to transform her entire existence be without first consulting her? This situation could get far trickier, as the swamp was likely to get deeper and deeper.

Stonehouse was about to launch into a series of further question, hoping to extract more information liked a trained interrogator attempting to obtain secrets from a captured enemy spy, when suddenly his captive jolted abruptly. The watery vomit that escaped from her lips was more of a minor aftershock, compared to the volcanic eruption of the night before.

“Don’t worry,” said Stonehouse calmly, “I’ll grab a towel.”

Springing from his perch on the bed’s end, Stonehouse quickly dashed into the en suite bathroom, returning almost instantly with a couple of hand towels that could be used as makeshift mops.

“Don’t cry over spilt milk,” announced Stonehouse, as he padded down the damp patch in his bedding with the cotton sponge, offering the second one to Finley in case she wanted to wipe her mouth. “Or should that be spilt water?”

Stonehouse offered a comforting smile to his bedraggled guest. He allowed his dark, shinning eyes to once again roam across her facial features, mentally mapping the contours of her cheekbones, the lines formed by her impeccably plunked eyebrows, and the soft ridges of her lips. Would those lips need to clamp onto his skin? Would she need to feed from him again, a blood booster so to speak, or would his vampiric progeny need fresh, human blood? Stonehouse literally had no clue. What was the etiquette involved in such unnatural situations? Excuse me, Miss, would you care to suck on my wrist and drink my blood?

It was Stonehouse’s turn to be the ostrich, to bury his handsome head in the sand as he completely dodged the burning questions inside that he was aching to ask. Instead, he chose to be polite and caring, focussing on his guest’s marital affairs.

“Everything will be ok, Finley,” said Stonehouse, “you just need some rest.”

He paused before continuing, wondering if he was about to walk into a minefield.

“I’m sure that your fiancé is concerned about you, about where you are. Do you need to contact him? You are safe here, you don’t need to go running off anywhere.”

Undoubtedly, Stonehouse would look after the fledgling; that was no lie. He wouldn’t shirk any responsibilities, or dodge any duties, but he was interested to know if he’d have an unexpected knock at the door delivered by an angry bridegroom and a bunch of rowdy ushers.

The sound of Finley’s mental penny dropping was almost tangible, like a token rattling through the payment mechanism of an old arcade machine. Her internal circuit boards suddenly sparked into life as though the touch-paper to a firework display on New Year’s Eve had just been ignited. The blonde’s dazzling blue eyes appeared to double in size like giant computer screens, her irises illuminated, spinning Catherine wheels around widely dilated pupils that had adopted the role of knowledge-grabbing black holes, desperate to suck out more information from Stonehouse’s lips. The matter of her marital minefield had been cast aside like yesterday’s newspaper once the sophisticated storyteller’s words had finally registered in the bride’s muddled thoughts.

The unfortunate man who had been left high and dry at the altar, fated to look like a fool in front of his friends and family, was no longer an immediate concern. Cleaning up the watery vomit stain that had just decorated Stonehouse’s bedding was not a priority anymore. Even the pounding headache that was keeping the shell-shocked woman’s head in a prison of annoying pain had seemingly been swept aside and put on hold. It may have taken a few moments for Stonehouse’s tall tale to reach its intended destination, but it was becoming crystal clear that Finley was slowly assimilating every single word that the raconteur had regaled, digesting his story just as she had earlier digested his blood.

Finley’s hand shot out from behind the defensive barricade of the duvet, swooping to grasp Stonehouse’s arm like a falcon diving down to grab its prey. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the cool skin his forearm, resembling the tentacles of a giant squid clinging tightly to the hull of a treacherous pirate ship, ready to crush the vessel and drown the crew who had dared to plunder the treasure from its secret cove. Stonehouse was unsure as to whether she was simply desperate for more answers, for him to continue with his fanciful fairy-tale and pad out the details, or that she was just utterly disgusted by the thought of drinking his blood. The truth was probably a mixture of both!

Immediately, the Englishman’s subconscious reflexes kicked into gear. Stonehouse responded to Finley’s arm-grabbing gesture with something similar, albeit much gentler. His own hand wrapped around that of the confused woman, lightly rubbing her knuckles in a circular motion with his palm as if he were polishing her satin skin. The touch was neither a delicate, tender caress that one would bestow upon a lover, nor the comforting, reassuring grip that one would offer a child when he or she was afraid. Stonehouse wasn’t about to whisper sweet nothings into Finley’s ears, or lavish her with pillow talk. The charmer had talked his way along the passion pathway on numerous occasions, but this was definitely not the time or the place for such a journey. Similarly, he wasn’t going to utter endless assurances that monsters under the bed didn’t exist either. There were many instances when an infant Stonehouse would love having a bedtime story told to him by his father, accompanied by the customary promises than trolls weren’t real. Those days were, sadly, long gone, and besides, Stonehouse was fully aware that monsters under the bed, or in this instance perched on the edge of the mattress, really did exist. Instead, his hold fell somewhere in between intimacy and solace, between seduction and support.

Finley had become ultra-focussed, transforming into the rabbit that was caught in the headlights of a fantastical, unbelievable juggernaut that was Stonehouse’s recollection of events. For too long, Stonehouse had dwelt into the shadows, becoming the ostrich in denial that buried its formally flamboyant head in the sand. There was nowhere to hide now, no maze of underground tunnels in which the rat could retreat. He had made his bed - and put Finley in it - and now he needed to lie in it too.

Stonehouse eyeballed his bemused guest while he continued to cup her hand. Should he have left her in the bar at the mercy of the leering and lecherous louts? Maybe, but that simply wasn’t his style. Perhaps the wannabe knight in shining Armani could have called for a taxi to take the woman home, but did she actually have somewhere to go? With the marvellous gift of hindsight, would the situation have been easier if the greedy businessman had just fucked her, feasted on her flesh and the contents of her arteries, then left her for dead? She wouldn’t have been the first to suffer such a fate, and undoubtedly wouldn’t be the last either. The blonde had legs to die for, literally, so maybe having those luscious limbs clamped around him, pulling him in deeper, rather than having her hungry lips clenched to his bleeding wrist, guzzling down his mystical blood, would have been a better option?

No, he repeatedly told himself as he gazed into Finley’s sparkling sapphire eyes, none of those alterative choices were acceptable. In any case, it was too late now, the ship of possibilities had already sailed. The two passengers had commenced their epic and eternal voyage together, even if the bride had effectively been pressganged aboard the boat.

“Pay attention, Finderella,” said Stonehouse through slightly dry lips, “it’s pretty important.”

His long fingers curled tighter around Finley’s hand like tiny boa constrictors, his dark eyes intensifying their gaze. Was he hoping to feel a tingle in his perfectly manicured fingertips as some kind of shared vampiric electricity flowed between their hands? Did he expect to sense his essence seeping through the pores of her silky soft skin? He was part of her from now on, rightly or wrongly, as if she were carrying his baby in her womb, rather than his blood in her stomach.

“Yes,” Stonehouse continued in a surprisingly calm voice, “things got a little bit… crazy last night. You were going to die, so I fed you my blood.”

He didn’t need to retell the entire tale, the bullet points more than adequately recapped the key facts that had defined the evening.

“What it all means is that you are still alive. Let’s just say that my blood is kind of… medicinal.”

Stonehouse’s next thought was to release his hold on Finley’s hand, but his firm fingers froze. Perhaps he was afraid that her fist would come hurtling towards his face if he released it?

Fairy tales are such wonderful creations. The works of fanciful fiction allow the reader to become completely immersed in a magical, make-believe land of gingerbread houses and candyfloss trees, where fantastical creatures dwell, and handsome princes marry beautiful princesses. They offer pure escapism for enchanted children and doting adults alike, a sumptuous sanctuary where happily ever after rules the day. But, they often harbour a much darker side to their seemingly perfect paradise, a shadowy underbelly where demons take shelter.

The downtrodden scullery-maid may well end up in the loving embrace of her ideal man, and the croaking frog might just be a cursed prince, waiting for a gentle kiss to break his wicked torment, but at what cost? Is there a limit to the number of blisters that can adorn a woman’s aching foot, or times that she can break her ankle while wearing ridiculously impractical glass slippers that would rip her Achilles tendon to shreds if they broke, in order to ensnare a member of the Royal Family who has a secret shoe fetish? How many warts must the tender red lips of the gorgeous girl have to endure as a result of kissing an endless procession of slimy toads until one of them turns out to be the amorous amphibian of her dreams?

Aside from the flamboyant characters dressed in the finest outfits, the lavish kingdoms paved with gold, and the almost infinite number of possibilities that can be created by the imagination of the writer and reader alike, there is always a moral to the story. Whether it be something simple such as sticking to the road so that a nasty witch or a big, bad wolf won’t gobble you up, or something more profound about not being consumed with envy or vanity, there is inevitably a deeper meaning to each tale.

Despite his best efforts to regale a story - that surely sounded like the ramblings of a spaced-out junkie - in a succinct and believable manner, Stonehouse was slapped across his chiselled face with a predictable response. When Finley asked: “what does this mean?” how on earth was Stonehouse supposed to reply? He didn’t really know what was supposed to happen now, what would transpire when the next page of the mythical leather-bound book titled Tall Tales of Harper Rock was turned. Would there be a happy ever after ending or not? As with many of the folk tales that had been passed down from generation to generation, there was huge ambiguity in the Englishman’s story, several interpretations that could be made of his chosen course of action.

The problem with fairy tales, the problem with any story that has been shared between communities over a lengthy period of time, is that they change. They evolve, are often embellished with additional information to make them more appealing to the audience. People generally prefer a happy ending to a sad one, so narratives can become twisted, contorted versions of their original form. Nowadays, before a movie is released to the general public, there are frequent test screenings to gauge the reaction of the crowd. It’s not uncommon for a final scene to be modified, altered to make it more pleasing, so that the clientele go home smiling. Stonehouse, ever the salesman, had not only needed to make his wacky story sound plausible, but he should have also ensured that it excited the ears and imagination of its recipient.

When the Brothers Grimm adaptation of Little Red Riding Hood was written, they gave it a great, heart-warming ending. Although the young woman, with her scarlet cape and picnic basket filled with delicious treats, had been duped by the Big Bad Wolf, and was taken in by his charm and wit, the heroic hunter arrived in the nick of time to save the damsel in distress. The ravenous animal had already swallowed Little Red Riding Hood whole, but the powerful huntsman managed to chop open the belly of the beast with a swing of his mighty axe, allowing the girl and her equally ill-fated grandmother to escape. This was the approach that Stonehouse had intended to portray in his recollection of the previous night’s escapade. Finley was Little Red Ridding Hood, straying off the beaten track, blown off course by an alcohol-fuelled wind, and the sweating, sneering men in the bar were, collectively, the Big Bad Wolf, eager to plunder her hamper and get their grubby hands on her goodies. That scenario, of course, meant that Stonehouse was the brave huntsman, rescuing the endangered heroine, and leading her to safety and a new life, her emergence from the wolf’s innards symbolizing a rebirth, in this case as a vampire. Finley’s confused line of questioning about Stonehouse having to save her by killing her wasn’t correct. He had saved her, but it was the sleazy wolf, the greasy blokes in the bar, who had been the architects of her death.

Surely, this was both a desirable and highly believable plotline? In answer to Finley’s questions about whether or not he’d simply send her on her way, Stonehouse would take a stance of responsibility, and offer a virtuous hand of companionship to his new “friend”. Stonehouse was many things, but reckless wasn’t one of them. He would take ownership of his actions; manage his latest project with the care and attention that Finderella deserved. Yesterday evening had effectively morphed into a warped one-night stand, with a somewhat unconventional exchange of bodily fluids. The resulting “child” was equally as unconventional, but that wouldn’t prevent a strangely pragmatic Stonehouse from doing what could only be deemed as “the right thing”, and standing by his unearthly creation. Or was that simply a case of a normally redundant, romanticized portion of Stonehouse’s brain attempting to justify and rationalize his actions?

There are other versions of the Grimm’s classic tale. The earliest known printed edition had been put together by a Frenchman called Charles Perrault. His interpretation was more closely linked to old folklore, and carried a more sinister and moralistic overtone than the rendition penned by the German brothers. There is no happy ending in this particular incarnation of the story, no last minute appearance of a saviour. Instead, the wolf takes the vulnerable Little Red Riding Hood to bed, where it subsequently devours her, satisfying the greed of the ferocious lupine beast. Was this a more truthful recollection of the events that had unfolded, one that conveyed a harsh message to be learned? Don’t talk to strangers, and definitely don’t let them take you back to their apartment, or the consequences will be bad?

Stonehouse was greedy. He always wanted more; he wanted it all. Was the wannabe knight in shining armour really nothing more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing, claiming the drunken woman as his own, dragging her back to his lair where he would have his wicked way? In the earliest variants of the tale, the wolf was downright devilish, eating Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, but offering the unsuspecting girl a monumental meal upon which she could dine that consisted of her dead relative’s blood and meat, effectively turning the innocent young woman into an unwitting cannibal. The delighted deviant wolf then takes his bloody, defiled companion to bed, feasting on her flesh to his cold heart’s content. Perhaps this sounded more like the truth? Feeding the innocent Finley with blood, sullying her very existence by transforming her into a blood-sucking beast?

But there was one huge, gapping error in this specific scenario: Stonehouse, the gluttonous wolf, hadn’t dined on his guest like a B-movie version of Hannibal Lecter. Had Finley made a comment about what big fangs he had, Stonehouse’s reply would not have included the words “all the better to bite your neck with”. Stonehouse had done the right thing; he was the huntsman, not the monstrous wolf. Whether Finley wanted to believe him or not, Stonehouse knew that if he spoke with enough authority he could at least convince himself that he had planted his flag of good intentions firmly in the moral high ground.

Stonehouse trusted his powers of persuasion. His self-assured hubris would not be shaken by this bizarre situation. Perhaps Beauty and the Beast was a better fairy tale metaphor for these circumstances? In Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve’s original classic, the hideous “Beast” holds a merchant’s beautiful daughter captive in his castle, but she eventually grows fond of the creature, like a magical version of Stockholm syndrome, a psychological condition that often causes hostages to develop sympathetic sentiments or bonds of trust and friendship towards their captors. The narrative describes the outwardly terrifying beast lavishing gifts on the young woman, allowing her the freedom of his home, in essence making her mistress of the castle in all but name.

Yes, that was it! That was the plan! Stonehouse would treat Finley like a princess, for now at least, until he had fully gained her trust and loyalty. She could be the mistress of his citadel, his urban apartment in the magical kingdom of Harper Rock, while he would take on the mantle of the master. This was nothing more than a glorified business deal, and it would be a truly formidable partnership!

Just as Stonehouse was about to offer answers to Finley’s numerous questions, and relay his epic strategy to his as yet unknowing partner in crime, Finley’s soft hand slipped from his grasp like an eel wriggling free from a fisherman’s net. In a flash, the tall, slender frame of the recently turned vampire made her way towards the bedroom window. Was it a dose of claustrophobia - both physical and mental with all the information that had been shoved into her undoubtedly throbbing head - that was driving Finley towards the great wide world outside the glass barrier? It mattered not. All that genuinely concerned a suddenly panicked Stonehouse was the fact that his blackout curtains had been yanked apart like a chubby kid ripping open a bag of Doritos. In the almost unfathomable commotion of the last few hours, Stonehouse had lost all track of time, and couldn’t be sure of the strength of the sunlight that potentially awaited Finley’s delicate, exposed skin, were she to prize open the frosted glass of his window.

Springing into action like a jack-in-the-box, Stonehouse launched himself headlong towards the woman in the manner of a father attempting to pull his wandering infant daughter out of the busy road as a lorry hurtled towards her.

“Finley, no!” yelled Stonehouse. “Don’t open the window!”