I Have a Date with the Vampire

Standing behind the bar, I neatly arranged the bottles with one hand while still clutching the phone in the other. On the other end, sirens blared amidst the chaos, and a clear baritone voice hastily dismissed me, "Margie, I've got a case to investigate tonight. I won't be coming back. Clean up the restaurant and get some rest early."

"Bevis, you haven't been home in a week…"

Before I could finish, the line went dead with a series of beeps. A wave of loneliness washed over me, and an inexplicable ache rose in my nose. Frustrated, I slammed the phone to the ground, staring blankly at the shattered pieces for a moment before walking to the entrance. I flipped the "Open" sign to "Closed" and dragged the large pop sign to the wall.

I still hoped my cousin Bevis, who was three years older than me, would come back. I left the outdoor lights on, thinking that if he returned, the glow might make him feel a little warmer.

Just like every time I called him, even though he always gave excuses for not coming back, the fact that he answered meant he was safe. That alone was enough to comfort me. Having a relative to care about in this world made me feel somewhat blessed.

Standing on the street, I felt like I was searching, waiting, or perhaps just gazing. The road stretched endlessly ahead.

The night in Avion carried an eerie mix of ancient and modern elements. In the distance, old buildings were silhouetted against the glow of neon lights, cold and mysterious. The ancient city walls encircling the area separated the Papal Palace in the city center from this part of town. Travelers passing through Provence would always visit that palace, which had once flourished in the 14th century.

In contrast, where I stood felt more like a remote, desolate town. The predawn sky was heavy and gloomy, and the streets were sparsely populated.

At the corner, a young street musician sat on the stone steps, strumming his guitar. The slow, melancholic melody only deepened my unease. In this remote suburb, aside from a few troublemakers, no one appreciated such transcendent art at night.

Under the streetlight, he hid his face beneath the hood of his sweatshirt. His worn-out jeans accentuated his long legs, and his fingers moved deftly across the strings.

As I walked closer, I noticed a large bat ring on his finger, his fingertips grimy. Perhaps he had been playing all day, though I clearly remembered not seeing him there when I left at noon. I casually pulled out some tips from my pocket, took three bills, and placed them in his box.

As I reached the door, I suddenly heard a strange screech, like a gale sweeping overhead.

Turning back, the figure under the streetlight was gone.

Maybe I was just too tired and hallucinating. I pulled down the security gate and locked the glass door inside.

The restaurant wasn't large—thirteen tables in total, with three waiters and three chefs. By now, they had all gone home.

After my mother, aunt, and uncle passed away one after another, Bevis became particularly superstitious. Three was his lucky number, but thirteen was definitely not. He cared about the three at the end, while I was fixated on the entire number. Sometimes, I couldn't help but wonder if the weekly fights with the unemployed drifters were somehow connected to the number 'thirteen.'

The orange lampshade trapped the light, casting it onto the yellow tabletops as if it had frozen in place. Compared to the daytime bustle, the silence now was terrifying. Only one light remained on. I yawned, ready to head upstairs to rest.

"Bang!" Just as I was about to turn off the light, the sound of a window being abruptly yanked open startled me.

I'm such an idiot—I forgot to lock the window?!

A cold gust swept through. On high alert, I turned toward the sound. The window was already closed, and a bloodied figure in black was curled up under a table—his movements were astonishingly quick.