The Castle of Sighs

THE BETTER PART OF VALOUR

What with overnight accommodation, a charter boat, and the admission fee, I ended up paying $600 for the castle tour, but I thought it was worth it. It would be the highlight of my summer, something to brag about for years. My outstanding productivity at the accounting firm where I worked did not allow me much time to bond with my fellow workers. They never invited me to their parties and made fun of me behind my back.

My name didn’t help matters much. My father is a bit of an egghead, and insisted on naming me Copernicus. Copernicus Andreas Buttweiler. He called me Coperny. My mother called me Andy. Everyone else called me Butt.

Before planning my very first paid vacation, I spent hours scouring the internet for an adventure that would give me status. I found the perfect destination: a mysterious castle perched on top of a 400-foot sea stack off the coast of Italy. No one had ever succeeded in scaling the perpendicular cliffs of L’Ago del Diavolo – the Devil’s Needle. The only way to the top was a narrow staircase carved out of the interior. The logistics of building a castle on top of a sheer column of rock were so mind-boggling that it had taken a decade to complete.

It took half an hour by motorboat to get to the towering formation in the middle of the Baia Maledetta. The tide was low, so we had to climb a ladder to reach the main entrance at the base of the cliff. By the time I entered the dank, torchlit interior, I was having second thoughts about the three hundred and fourteen stairs that awaited me. Two of the other tourists declined to leave the safety of the boat. That left nine of us to make the ascent.

"How in the world do they get their groceries up there?" I panted.

"Usually, supplies are lowered from a helicopter.," our guide said. "But some local merchants send their apprentices up the stairs to deliver their wares. It's considered an important test of perseverance."

After that, there was no more conversation. One by one, the others dropped out, until I was the only one left.

"How many more?" I gasped, gazing up at the seemingly endless circular staircase, which had become narrower and steeper with every step.

"You are almost there, sir. Just another thirty steps or so."

I started counting down from thirty to encourage myself. When I reached zero, the end was in sight, eleven more steps away. They seemed steeper than the others, and I wondered how in the world I would ever get down. The guide was already at the summit, encouraging me to persevere. I huffed and puffed like the little engine that could, and arrived at the top on my hands and knees.

We were greeted by a pair of liveried footmen with crystal flutes of pink champagne to celebrate our victory. The guide took a quick swig and excused himself, saying that he should go down and tend to the other guests. "

The footmen led me from room to room, overtaxing my brain with tourist-guide chatter. They spewed names and dates that I immediately forgot. Everything looked very old and covered with dust.

Just when I started to suspect that the place was completely uninhabited, we came to a door with a sign. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.

"What's in there?" I asked.

"A mystery. Many enter, few return. Those who do never speak of what transpired."

"You've whetted my appetite," I said boldly, and grabbed the door handle.

All I had to do was push it down. The door would open, and I would join the ranks of the intrepid adventurers who dared to probe the mystery of the castle.

I couldn't do it.

Even though I told myself that the whole thing was just a connived tourist attraction, my body started prickling with apprehension. My hand refused to move.

I stood still for a few minutes, yelling at myself internally, trying to shame myself into proving my manhood.

I let go of the handle, turned around, and forced a smile.

"Another day."

The footmen bowed. One of them murmured, "You are wise."

"Have you been in there?" I asked.

"Once, when I was thirteen. I was apprenticed to a tailor, and brought a suit for fitting. I was offered my position here that day."

"Will you tell me about your experience? I will pay you handsomely." If I had a good story to tell, I wouldn't have to mention that I wasn't actually part of it.

The footman shook his head. "I am sworn to silence. If I break my vow, the consequences will be ... considerable."

All the way down the stairs, I berated myself for being a coward. Or was I? Discretion is the better part of valour.



CURIOSITY KILLS THE BUDGET

Four years later, I came back, determined to open that door.

The mystery of the castle had become an obsession. No matter how hard I tried to put it aside, it haunted my dreams and distracted me during the day. Have you ever tried NOT to think of something?

I dare you. For the next five minutes, DO NOT THINK of a purple rabbit hiding under your couch.

DO NOT THINK of a multicoloured dragon spewing confetti on your garage.

DO NOT THINK of that elephant dancing in your dining room.

I even invested in therapy. But the more I talked about my problem, the more problematic it became.

I finally decided that the only solution was to make another pilgrimage to the source of my dilemma. I had to know what was behind that door. If that decision cost me my life, so be it. One way or another, my struggle would be resolved.

When I arrived at the village of Castelloguardia, I thought I had taken a wrong turn somewhere. It was no longer the sleepy hamlet I remembered. The bucolic pastureland had been invaded four new motels with Wifi, six restaurants, and a tour agency touting an elaborate menu of life-transforming adventures. After checking into the cheapest motel room I could find ($175 US), I stashed my luggage and hurried to the beach.

What a shock!

The castle was festooned with brightly-coloured flags bearing advertising slogans. The weathered masonry was covered with surreal murals. An enclosed plexiglass walkway encircled the perimeter, extending out over the ocean. The new and improved tourist boat, Skyprincess, had a capacity of seventy-five passengers. The English-speaking tours were fully booked for the next two days. On the bright side, the cost of the tour had been reduced to $125 US, including the boat ride.

I did my best to make good use of my enforced wait by strolling around town and learning as much as I could I could about the metamorphosis of Castelloguardia. The younger villagers were too engrossed with their mobile phones to carry on a meaningful conversation, but the elders who had mastered the English language had much to say about the loss of their lifestyle.

“Everything is noisy and frantic now. No more leisurely naps. People are chasing money, money, money, enslaving themselves to buy useless toys that will never satisfy them. Count Erasmus must be spinning in his grave.”

The weekly market was now a daily affair, with goods galore, most of which were fabricated in China. The narrow streets were chronically congested. Everyone was rushing, counting down the minutes as if the world were coming to an end. New houses and apartment buildings were springing up like mushrooms around the village, displacing the flocks of livestock.

The original inhabitants were still wearing their traditional clothing, dancing their dances and singing their songs, but they were doing it for the benefit of the flood of tourists that tripled their population in the peak season, transforming the economy.

The perpetrator of the changes was a multi-national amusement provider, Wide World Adventures, and their aggressive marketing strategies.
WWA had purchased the castle two years before and refurbished it into a lavish tourist trap with an elevator, coffee bar, gourmet restaurant and gift shop, animated by grinning minions in costume. A dozen lavishly decorated bedrooms had been added for well-heeled visitors who wanted to prolong their immersive experience. WWA had become the primary employer of the community, eclipsing the traditional professions.

“Prepare yourself for a magical journey into our glorious past!” the tour guide crowed into his microphone as the Skyprincess cast off. Everyone cheered and snapped pictures while I clutched my messenger bag, mentally inventorying the equipment I had stashed inside, wondering whether I had brought everything I needed to ensure my survival.

As it turned out, getting into the secret room was no problem. It was the highlight of the tour. The sign on the door proclaimed WELCOME TO THE THRONE ROOM. We were herded in like sheep, not to be slaughtered, but to be absorbed into WWA's universe of lucrative fantasy.

King Aeldred and Queen Elisha were enshrined on their thrones, flanked by their children, Prince Rudolph and Princess Ariane, graciously welcoming us to their realm. We had each been given a scroll with a message of welcome and a commendation for extraordinary contributions to the welfare of humanity and the entertainment industry. Each was solemnly read out by a herald, followed by polite applause. The king bestowed an impressive-sounding title on the owner of the scroll, and the queen presented a gift certificate to the newly-created nobility. The value of the gift certificates varied, creating hopeful suspense. Even so, it took far too long to repeat the ritual seventy-five times, with nowhere to sit down.

“Now that you are part of our kingdom,” King Aeldred admonished us to the end of the ceremony, “be sure to visit our website and sign up for our monthly newsletters.”

After the royal sales pitch, we were turned loose to explore until it was time for the boat to return to the mainland. I happened to spot Princess Ariane sitting in a corner booth in the coffee bar, engrossed in her mobile phone. She had changed into sweats. I slid into the seat across from her.

“Things have changed a lot since my last visit, your Royal Highness,” I remarked.

She looked up, frowning. “Shhh! Don’t blow my cover. I’m supposed to circulate in costume and charm the visitors, but I need a break. This is the most boring job I have ever had. Smile, smile, smile! Minimum wage and tips, and the tips aren’t that great. People don’t expect a princess to have car payments and utility bills.”

“Could you tell what happened to the people who used to live here?” I asked.

“Count Erasmus and his lady died three years ago. Their children got bored, sold the place, and moved on. That’s what I was told, anyway. They were a very reclusive family, so nobody really knows what happened.”

“When I was here four years ago, the throne room was off limits and the servants were sworn to secrecy. Do you think they would talk to me now?”

“They were all replaced by Wide World employees.”

“There has to be someone here who knows!” I exclaimed, slipping a twenty-dollar bill across the table.

She stared at me, shaking her head.

I pulled out another bill, then another and another until she relented.

“The barista, Gregorio, might be able to help you. His grandfather used to work here. He’s the one with the green jacket and blond wig.”

I missed my ride back to the mainland and had to spend $400 for a room in the castle, but I managed to corner Gregorio as he was coming off shift. He agreed to tell me what he knew for $250 US, e-transfer. He refused to haggle. He said he needed the money because he was planning to seek his fortune in the United States.

I told him I would pay him $50 when he arrived at my room, and the rest if I was satisfied with what he had to tell me. He sulked a bit about the arrangement, but agreed to meet me at seven.



COUNT ERASMUS’ FOLLY

Gregorio knocked at the door promptly at seven, bearing two enormous Styrofoam coffee cups. “This is our signature libation,” he said, handing me one of the cups. "We call it the Devil’s Brew. Just add $29.90 to your e-transfer. No service charge.”

I almost threw him out then and there, but I was curious, so I paid up. The Devil’s Brew was a mulled wine that burned my throat, stimulated my libido, and erased all my suspicions. The perfect date-rape drug. Fortunately, Greg was not expecting anything but cash.

He invited me to call him Greg, “because it sounds more American.” I said he could call me Andreas because that was less painful than Signor Buttweiler.

I took notes while Greg talked. Some of them were unintelligible in the morning, but I think I got the gist of the story.

World-weary Count Erasmus Pendergrass was exploring Italy in search of his personal nirvana when he chanced on the isolated community of Castelloguardia. He was fascinated by the Devil’s Needle, and hired a boat to inspect it more closely. The boatman timed his departure with the rising of the ride, and delivered the count to the entrance to the stairwell. There was no ladder in those days. By the time the count had climbed the stairs, enjoyed the view, and descended again, the tide had receded. He spent several uncomfortable hours before he could be retrieved. Nonetheless, he was more fascinated than ever, because he had discovered ruins at the summit of the Needle. The village elders informed him, through a translator, that some foreign fool had undertaken to build a vacation home on the summit of the Devil’s Needle. It had taken four years to carve out the staircase that allowed workers to ascend and winch up building materials. When the project was half-finished, an earthquake rocked the Needle and the walls collapsed.

The unnamed foreigner gave up the project and moved on, leaving the locals with a colourful story to tell. They decided to name their village Castelloguardia in honour of the castle that never was. It had put a great deal of cash into their pockets.

Count Erasmus resolved to build a castle of his own, where he could contemplate the sea and reflect on the ultimate meaning of life. He was convinced that modern technology could create an earthquake-proof edifice. The locals were delighted to support his plans because they had experienced two years of crop failures and were in dire need of cash. Count Erasmus was revered as a saint sent from God to rescue them from starvation.

During the decade of castle building, Count Erasmus brought in skilled craftsmen to supervise the construction, as well as teachers to educate the children in both Italian and English. The village grew in size, knowledge, and prosperity.

Everyone was thrilled when Count Erasmus chose an Italian bride, Luigina Berlusconi. She was pregnant when the pair took up residence in the newly-finished castle. Neither of them ever emerged again, giving rise to many imaginative rumours which attracted curious visitors whose enjoyment was augmented by local wines, women, and songs. That was the beginning of the Castelloguardia tourist trade.
Count Erasmus had named his personal fortress Hyperion, but the locals dubbed it Il Castello dei Sospiri -- The Castle of Sighs. Even though they could only speculate about what ailed the family that inhabited it, they continued to embroider their narratives to charm tourists and motivate them to sign up for a tour with commentary in Italian or English. European visitors were sceptical, but North Americans were utterly charmed and took endless pictures.

Greg paused and yawned. “I must go. It is late, and I am tired.”

I jumped up and stood between him and the door. “Not until you tell me what I am paying so exorbitantly to hear.”



THE FOOTMAN’S SECRET

Greg tried to negotiate a higher price for the complete story, but I was adamant. After some stormy negotiation, I ordered two regular coffees – double-double – from room service to keep us alert.

“What happened to Erasmus and Luigina?” I demanded.

Greg made a face. “By a tragic coincidence, they were both carrying a recessive vampirism gene. Their first child, a daughter they named Rosilyn, was a vampire.”

“Vampirism isn’t genetic,” I protested. “Ordinary people are turned by vampire bites.”

“True enough,” Greg said, “but not the whole truth. Have you given any thought to how the first vampire came to be?”

“Someone was bitten by a radioactive bat?” I ventured.

“Not exactly. It was a mutation, possibly lateral gene transfer from a bat to a human by a virus. The gene is rare and recessive, and causes no problem unless two people with it mate.”

I googled “vampirism gene” on my phone and found something called “erythropoietic protoporphyria,” EPP for short. I didn’t want to waste time reading just then, so I gave Greg the benefit of the doubt and asked him to continue the story.

Erasmus and Luigina kept their secret as best they could. Their second child, Enrico, was born two years later. He was normal until he was inadvertently turned by his sister after he stole one of her toys and broke it.

“How did Erasmus and Luigina feed their children?” I asked.

“They tried various alternatives, but it barely kept the children alive. They needed human blood to thrive.” Greg paused dramatically.

I leaned forward.

“Did they let their children feed on them?”

“No. They chose to preserve their humanity. Erasmus decided to obtain a supply of blood by inviting visitors to tour the castle.”

The muscles in my chest cramped. If I had opened that door four years ago, I would be dead or vampirized.

“Why did he put that warning on the door?” I asked. “Didn’t that make it harder to recruit … blood donors?”

“It was a disclaimer of legal liability for insurance purposes. Most of the tourists returned home safely, providing positive word-of-mouth advertising for the castle. No one seemed to be overly surprised by the disappearance of those who chose to pass through the door. Erasmus maintained that the notice on the door was a useful test of prudence. According to him, reckless fools were better eliminated from the gene pool.”

We pondered quietly for a few minutes, draining the dregs of our coffee. Greg broke the silence.

“Everyone who ventured through that door was either fed upon or offered a lifetime career as a castle employee. Erasmus had an ongoing need for daywalkers to conduct his business.”

“So your grandfather was one of the lucky ones who was offered a job that he couldn’t quit?”

“Yes. He was thirteen. He was sent to the castle with a suit for Enrico. It was his home until WWA purchased it.”

“I think I met him during my previous visit,” I said. “He wouldn’t tell me much.”

“Servants with loose tongues were left at the mercy of the children.”

“How come the castle isn’t overrun by vampires by now? They’re immortal, aren’t they?”

“There is a secret passage leading downwards to a giant geode chamber at the base of the needle. After the feeding, the victims were thanked profusely and escorted to the chamber, where they were treated to a magnificent banquet. The wine was drugged to put them into a deep sleep. Just before sunrise, the servants would carry the unconscious guests outside and lay them on the beach. The sun and the tide did the rest. None were ever seen again.”

“Will you show me the secret passage?”

“If I knew how to find it, it would not be secret.”

I digested the story, looking for flaws, considering whether it was worth an additional $200 US.

“How was your grandfather able to father descendants? Did he marry one of the other servants?”

“He became enamoured of a buxom milkmaid while he was running errands in town. When she became pregnant, he married her, but they never lived together. She continued to live with her parents, and he stayed in the castle and visited when he could.”

“Where is your grandfather now?”

“He died three months ago.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I would have liked to talk to him myself. Are you sure he didn’t dream up this story?”

“He was never the same after he left the castle, but there was nothing wrong with his veracity or his memory.”

“How do I know the whole thing isn’t just a fabrication that you were primed to feed to the tourists?”

“Are you trying to get out of paying me?” Greg demanded.

“Do you have any proof at all? Will you show me the geode chamber?”

“Maybe on your next visit,” Greg said with an enigmatic smile.



THE GEODE CHAMBER

A year later, the secret passage and the geode chamber were star attractions announced on the WWA website. Returning guests on the e-mail list were offered a 25% discount on admission, refreshments, and gift shop items.

I told myself sternly to ignore this potential scam, but I kept “forgetting” to block the e-mails. They kept coming and coming, luring me with incentives. What could I do? I booked the flight.

The Skyprincess had been replaced by a larger craft named Suspiria. Its schedule was adapted to the tides, eliminating the nuisance of ladder-climbing. The Suspiria pulled up beside the castle entrance and lowered a wheelchair-friendly gangplank.

We were greeted by Greg, who had been promoted to assistant manager. After a multilingual oration of welcome, he turned us over to a group of footmen who herded us onto the elevator, a dozen at a time, to begin our tour.

The castle had been redecorated on a more somber theme, complete with plastic cobwebs and spooky music. The former throne room was now the vampire nursery. A pair of fanged children in in Victorian garb played listlessly with their toys. WWA had made clever use of technology to create a convincing illusion in the flickering candlelight. It took a few minutes of deep breathing before I could reassure myself that I was in no danger of being turned into a vampire.

The entrance to the secret passage was hidden behind a tapestry at the back of the chamber. We were ushered through the narrow opening onto a landing, where we were offered the choice between braving a steep pathway into darkness on foot, or riding on the seat of a ski lift. I decided riding was safer than walking, fastened my seat belt as tightly as possible, and tried to keep my mind occupied with imaginary kittens and balloons.
The geode chamber was not as large as I had imagined, but it was impressive nonetheless. I was running my hands over one of the walls when Greg came up behind me to say hello.

“You’ve come up in the world,” I said. “Congratulations.”

“WWA was looking for a way to increase tourist traffic, so I pitched the vampire narrative to them. It was so successful that they promoted me.”

“Is this actually real crystal? It feels like plastic.”

“This part of the wall is one of our patches. There were enormous cracks in the structure.”

I sighed impatiently. Once again, I had been given a plausible story that I could not verify.

“Where is the exit?” I asked.

“There is none.”

“There has to be. You told me that the unconscious banqueters were taken outside to be dispatched by the sun. You must know where it is.”

“If I did, it would not be a secret.”

“Enough!” I exclaimed. “How do I know that this is not a tourist trap fabrication? I want to see for myself and search for evidence.”

“Come,” Greg said. “It is time for the banquet.”

Reluctantly, I took my place at the table and pretended to enjoy the gourmet Mediterranean fare. The wine was plentiful and tempting, but I abstained, just in case.

Greg sidled up behind me as I was finishing dessert. “I will show you,” he murmured in my ear. “But you must do me a favour.”



DISCOVERY

Early the next morning, before the first wave of tourists arrived, Greg and I reconvened in the Geode Chamber. He had persuaded one of the overnight guests to take the last boat to the mainland with a tale of a booking mix-up, and rented the vacated suite to me at half price as a show of good-will.

The “favour” he sought was outrageous. He wanted a sponsor to immigrate to Canada.

“Canada? Weren’t you planning to go to the United States?”

“I think I will find Canada more agreeable. Is your city of Edmonton close to Montreal?”

“No. But you can fly there in a few hours. Why are you attracted to Montreal?”

“There is a medical laboratory that specializes retroviral gene therapy. I have a genetic abnormality. Perhaps they might help me.”

“That will be very expensive. Even if you lived in Canada long enough to be enrolled the medical plan, you might not get coverage for retroviral therapy.”

“My grandfather left me some valuables.”

Soft-headed that I was, I agreed to be his sponsor, comforting myself with the thought that I could always change my mind later. I was so aflame with curiosity that I would have sold my soul to the devil for a chance to explore that beach which had seen the extinction of so many newly-created vampires. Surely at least one of them had left behind some personal token that had not been swept away by the tide!

The exit door was fitted into the wall seamlessly. Greg pressed several of the crystals in sequence, and then stepped back as the massive portal creaked open.

“You have one hour. You must be back before the visitors begin to arrive. Pull on the vine that is hanging down beside the entrance, and it will summon me.”

I stepped out on a narrow ledge and flattened myself against the cliff. The door clicked shut. It was only then that I wondered what would happen to me if Greg decided not to let me back in. Was he getting rid of me because I was asking too many questions? On the other hand, if I were dead, I would not be available to help him come to Canada.

I looked around. A rough staircase led to the beach below. It was not an easy descent, but not as bad as a ladder. The beach was a narrow strip of rocks and grey sand, being eaten away moment by moment by the incoming tide. I found nothing useful there at all. With a sigh, I started back up the stairs.

A large flowering shrub covered the cliff face half-way up the stairs. I decided to duck behind it to relieve myself. I didn’t want to confront Greg with an overflowing bladder.

My urge to pee turned out to be the key to epiphany. The shrub hid the entrance of a tunnel.

Was this a clue, or just a random land form?

I turned on the light on my phone and started to explore, hoping against hope that the battery had enough juice to last until I emerged again. Any sensible person would have returned later with a more reliable light source, but I could not resist the thought that I was on the verge of discovery.
Just as my light began to fade ominously, the passage widened into a chamber.

It was the size of a living room, and it had been lived in. I saw blankets, pillows, eating utensils, even a couple of books. Best of all, there was a coal oil lantern and matches.



DENOUEMENT

I almost didn’t make it back to the entry to the geode chamber in time. Greg was frowning impatiently when he let me in. His jaw dropped when he saw the lantern I was carrying and the jewelled pendant dangling on my chest. I had googled its design to confirm my suspicions. The pendant I had found in the cave bore the Pendergrass coat of arms.

Greg pushed the door shut behind me. “I see you found the cave.”

“Yes. And you are going to tell me the whole truth NOW, or I will see to it that you never set foot in Canada!”

“I can’t. The guests will be here in a moment.”

“You’re in management. Delegate!”

Greg pulled out his phone and unleashed a flood of Italian on someone named Sophia. Then he escorted me to his office, a windowless corporate den with a desk, two chairs, and all the standard electronics, including video monitors.

I pulled out my notebook, determined to write legibly this time.

Greg sighed. “Technical progress is not always a good thing. The Pendergrass family fell apart when the castle was cursed with electricity.”

“Electricity? I saw no evidence of electricity on my first visit. I thought WWA was responsible for installing it.”

“The presence of electricity was hidden from the tourists for the sake of atmosphere. But the family enjoyed the full gamut of services, including television.”

Television opened the eyes of the children to the existence of the outside world. They started ordering books and videos and games, and soon demanded to be set free to explore beyond the boundaries of their home. Their parents explained why it was essential for them to remain in seclusion, but to no avail. The conflict came to a head when WWA made a generous offer to purchase the castle.

Since their parents were mortal, all the children had to do was wait for them to die a natural death. But they were impatient. They turned on their parents, drained them, and ordered Greg’s grandfather to dispose of their bodies in the usual way.

“Nonno took Erasmus to the beach, laid him out, and performed the last rites, just in case his soul was still intact. Then he returned for Luigina. While he was carrying her, he became aware that she was still alive. He hid her in the cave, looked after her, and fed her with his own blood. When she regained her strength, he helped her escape.”

“The children never found out?”

“They looted the treasures of the castle and departed for parts unknown. All subsequent negotiations with WWA are conducted through agents.”

“So Luigina was left penniless?”

“Far from it. She and Erasmus had assets hidden away that the children knew nothing about. Security was lax at the time, so Nonno had no difficulty retrieving the treasure. Luigina rewarded him handsomely.”

My skin prickled at the thought of a vengeful Luigina loose in the world, searching for her murderous children.

“So your Nonno returned to his family a rich man?”

“No. He buried the treasure in the cave.”

“Well, it’s been dug up. There is a big hole with a shovel beside it.”

Greg nodded. “Before Nonno died, he gave me a letter telling me where to find the jewels. I was able to dispose of them quite profitably. Not the full value, of course, but enough to allow me to leave this accursed place and create a new life.”

I frowned. “You said your Nonno fed Luigina. Didn’t that give him immortality?”

“Yes. But not happiness. One morning before dawn, he went outside to his favourite place to watch the sun rise. We told everyone that he had drowned.”

“But there would be no body – no death certificate –“

“This is an out-of-the way place. Paperwork is less important here. We had a magnificent funeral for him with a closed casket filled with sand.”

I looked over my notes, trying to connect the dots. Finally, I looked up.

“You’re a vampire, aren’t you?”

Greg’s eyes widened with injured innocence. “Why would you think that?”

“You live in a land of sunshine, and have not the slightest hint of a tan. And when you opened the door to the outside, you were very careful not to let the sunlight touch you.”

Greg said nothing.

“Did your Nonno do this to you?” I asked.

“No, no. It happened at a rave in Milan. I never found out who was responsible.”

“That’s why you want to go to Montreal? You’re hoping for a cure?” I guessed.

Greg nodded. “My fangs have been surgically removed. I have never fed on a human being, but I have made some unauthorized withdrawals from blood banks. I am thirsty all the time.”



EPILOGUE

I never returned to the castle. A few months after I returned home, it was closed to the public because of the devastation of Covid-19. Soon afterwards, another earthquake shook the area, followed by a tsunami. The Devil’s Needle broke at the base, and everything came tumbling down. The rubble was dubbed The Devil’s Hump.

Greg is now a Canadian landed immigrant. We share a condo near West Edmonton Mall. He has a job at a vampire bar. Ironically, he is required to wear fake fangs at work.

He claims that the retroviral treatments are working. He’s been experimenting with daywalking when the weather is overcast, wearing a hood, sunglasses, and a mask. Because of the pandemic, no one gives his attire a second glance.

I installed a deadbolt inside my bedroom door and keep it locked at night, just in case. Even if Greg is as harmless as he says, I never know who he will bring home for a sleepover. His social life is much more active than mine.

It’s not an ideal arrangement, but it is better than living alone. My biggest problem is that I can’t tell anyone about the most exciting thing that ever happened to me. Greg has assured me that if I fail to respect his privacy, I will become his very first blood brother.