《A Vampire Scholar's Tale》


 Chapter One: If It Hadnt Been For That Explosion...

    ¡°So there I was - hanging from a cliff, armed only with a hairbrush, and surrounded by demons hellbent on converting me to the cause of postmodern literary criticism,¡± the vampire calmly observed, eating another handful of popcorn.


    I sighed, and planted another fence pole, determined to ignore the undead regaling me with tales of his glory days. Such endeavours were, alackaday, unsuccessful; on the job as I was, I could not leave, and so had to listen as the vampire began to explain exactly what he¡¯d done with the chandelier.


    But perhaps I should turn about and turn again, retrace our steps a little, and tell you precisely how I ended up trapped listening to the epics of an exanimate anecdotist.


    And so I take us far, far into the past, to a time long ago - about two weeks back - a time when I was not yet burdened with a knowledge of the existence of the supernatural, and indeed was living my life in blissful ignorance of both it and the inanities it contained.


    It had all started, as most things do, when the economy collapsed. No one could say precisely why it had happened. Perhaps it was the civil war in the Captaincy of the Corduroy Coast, and its rippling effect on trade; or perhaps it was the sudden disintegration of Democratic Vespuccia, our great southern neighbour. Or then again, perhaps it was merely the serial incompetence of my own country¡¯s leaders. In any event, the economy was gone; and I too was gone, from my old place of employment.


    Now, to be fair to the poor economy (lying dead upon the ground as it was), it ought to be admitted that it was none of the usual features of a failing economy - the stock market crash, the bottoming-out of the fried bread industry, the prime minister driving an artillery wagon drunk into the garage of the chief opposition leader - that resulted in me losing my job.


    Indeed, I was holding onto my job just fine, until our main offices were incinerated in a fiery explosion. This took out the entirety of our upper crust, and left the company wandering about headless and, you may imagine, mightily confused.


    Even then we might have made it, had not the families of the Board of Directors argued that, as they had been expelled from the company (at exciting speeds of two hundred and four miles per hour, over a distance of half a mile), they ought to be entitled to severance.


    The company, naturally enough, argued that as they had been expelled by means of an incendiary explosion they were not terminated but fired, and therefore no severance was permitted; to which the families replied that while they may have been fired from the building, this resulted in their termination, thereby entitling them to severance.


    Eventually they agreed to settle the matter in court, with the resulting legal fees bankrupting both parties.


    You can imagine my trouble. Unemployed - divested, shall we say, of the means by which I might act in the world of my fellows - I was as one dead; and I flitted like a ghost from one place of work to another, seeking in vain to come to life again.


    Perhaps fittingly enough, after a matter of time I had exhausted all avenues in the realm of the living, and arrived at one of the city¡¯s cemeteries, there to try my luck with the realm of the dead.


    It was deep beyond the outskirts of town, set high on a hill hidden by trees that had been ancient before I was born, and it showed its great age in every mouldering headstone and rusting, half-fallen fence post. Half the posts had fallen down about the ornate, wrought-iron gate, and the small structure in which they took care of business was in desperate need of refurbishing.


    As it happened, the owners of the graveyard were looking for someone to work nights. They were a perfectly normal pair of old gentlemen who had been watching over the silent stones for the better part of thirty years - ever since they were out of high school - and, feeling they were getting on in years, wanted someone to take over nights so they could spend the time with their wives and kids.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    An undesirable shift, maybe, but one has little choice when starvation looms, and it was with alacrity that I accepted the job offer. The graveyard keepers heaved a great sigh of relief, then-


    ¡°And you¡¯ll make sure to keep the gates locked at night?¡± Asked the one.


    ¡°Oh yes, yes, the gates must stay locked. It is essential, don¡¯t you know,¡± snivelled the other, rubbing his hands nervously.


    I must confess I raised an eyebrow at this. ¡°Oh? Do you have a problem with thieves?¡±


    ¡°No, no,¡± snivelled the other, ¡°rather, thieves have a problem with us - so you can¡¯t let them in.¡±


    ¡°Precisely. They mustn¡¯t come in,¡± concurred the one.


    ¡°The thieves have a problem with you?¡± I repeated, to make sure I¡¯d heard correctly.


    ¡°You¡¯ll understand tonight,¡± said the one. The other snivelled in agreement. ¡°Yes, yes, tonight - and remember it¡¯s not ¡®you,¡¯ but ¡®us,¡¯ for now you are one of us.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. Make sure not to leave till the morning - and we hope you come back tomorrow,¡± the one said, and after giving me some further instructions the pair left.


    I was rather surprised to have my first shift so early - especially since we hadn¡¯t even discussed, nevermind agreed upon, a start date - but as I have said, times were tight and money was tighter, and in such circumstances it would be foolish to complain about windfalls.


    My duties, as had been explained to me, were simple: lock the gates, patrol the yard, and maybe do a bit of light cleaning in their office if¡¯n I had the time. I was not to go into the graveyard proper - there were graves, they said, that had yet to be filled, and in the night it would be difficult to avoid falling into them by mistake.


    I had been given a lantern, one of the older models with trim around the dome, and a truncheon ¡ª and these, I had been told, were to be sufficient; I had been warned, repeatedly, to avoid touching any of the shovels, and not to lay hands on the spirit level.


    They were easy enough instructions, and would - I hoped - prove easy to follow. And indeed, it was not until the second hour of my shift that I thought it anything other than a normal if slightly eerie job, for the graveyard was some distance from the city, and I had yet to see a soul.


    It was on my second circumnavigation of the graveyard, as I rounded one of the lower hills, that I heard it - a rhythmic thwack, thwack, thwack, the heavy sound of iron slamming into the earth.


    I froze, and swallowed nervously, then ascended the hill in search of the noise. The wind howled down from the mountains of the north, stirring the snowflakes in his wrath, and the trees - the last of whose leaves clung tightly to the branches - tapped in time with his maddened tune. The frost on the grass crunched softly as I ascended the hill, barely audible - for over and above the crunch of the grass and the roar of the wind and the rustling of trees could be heard that rhythmic thwack, thwack, thwack.


    It continued quite heedless of me, growing ever louder - thwack, thwack, thwack - until there was an almighty CLANG, followed by a gravelly voice cursing. After this the owner of the voice evidently shifted to a stiffer tool, for when the sound resumed it was stronger and yet more pronounced.


    It was joined by caterwauling - some sort of old mining song, sung raucously and out of tune - only for both noises to cease as I crested the hill.


    Nobody was there. All that could be seen in the clearing below was a lantern, swinging from the end of a tree branch, and a silent, open grave.


    Wary, fearful, curious, I descended the hill into the trees. Finding no one in the clearing itself - and having checked behind the trees - I decided to look down into the grave, to see if the interloper had chosen to hide in its depths.


    There, lying at the base of the grave, was a dead man. He was flat on his back, black plaid overcoat spread out about him, tools scattered to either side. He had evidently been dead for some time - his fingernails had grown out into claws, his lengthened canines were visible, and his face had deteriorated into a grey and indistinguishable mass.


    I choked back the urge to vomit. Who was he? The graveyard keepers would never have left a body lying in the grave, not without a casket - but then, what if they-? And what if that was why I was not to go into the graveyard proper? And if that was so, or even if it wasn¡¯t, who was digging just a minute prior? No - who was singing just a minute prior? Of all the things to do next to a mouldering corpse-


    And then the man¡¯s eyes stirred to life.


    His eyeballs had rotted away, but burning pinpricks appeared all the same, staring at me from out of a head half gone - mottled grey and blue, and so desiccated as to be part and parcel of the very skull. The man smiled, revealing that his canines were far more than unusually long.


    ¡°¡®Allo,¡± he said amicably, ¡°how can I help you?¡±

 Chapter Two: If It Hadnt Been For the Grave...

    The dead man continued to lie there, beaming at me all friendly-like. I merely stood there, mute, struck dumb with terror. At last my silence must have been too much for him, for he repeated his query. ¡°Hello? Howdyhoo? A yoohoo yoohoo wubba-dab-a doo? Anyone up there? How can I help you - and while we¡¯re at it, who are you? I don¡¯t believe I¡¯ve seen you out and about at night before, and I¡¯ve been here a while yet.¡±


    The mouldering man waited patiently for some moments, moments in which I continued to say nothing, before finally deciding that it was too uncomfortable to carry on a conversation where one of the parties stood above the grave, and the other lay within it. With a single movement - barely even seeming to rise to his feet - he vaulted the six feet out of the pit, landing on the upper earth with an inhuman spring.


    Up close his visage was far more horrifying. His face was not, as I had first thought, rotting - it was instead made of a rubbery if rather ethereal material, halfway between a newt¡¯s glabrous skin and ancient loam. The rest of his head was plain, almost smoothed out, save for those wicked, wicked fangs and eyes of burning fire.


    His head tilted at an unnatural angle, a long snakelike tongue licking a lipless maw as he considered me, thinking¡­ And then he caught sight of the trim upon my lantern and the truncheon in my hand and whatever suspicions he had cleared up, and he gave me a grin that showed off his entire mouth of sharpened teeth.


    ¡°Ah! You must be the new gravekeeper. Yes, the gravekeepers had mentioned to me that they were hiring one - and really I thought they had, for I have seen several men and women of your age floating about after dark¡­ Only their faces were horror-struck when they gazed upon me, and I never have seen them since, so they must have been here for no more than a night jaunt.¡±


    I had a very good idea as to why they had never been seen since, but the thing, whatever it was, seemed friendly enough, so I held my tongue. Instead I bowed low, and offered my regards.


    ¡°Indeed. This one is the new¡­ gravekeeper,¡± I said, using his strange term, ¡°but recently appointed, sent to keep the graves at night so that his elders may go home to their wives and rest.¡±


    The being stepped back into a fantastically ornate bow - not a dip, as mine had been, but a full and proper bow, with the back foot extended and one hand clutched under the ribs. ¡°Ah? An honour, lad, an honour¡­ And may I just say it¡¯s a pleasure to have you - we could do with some fresh blood around here.¡±


    I froze once more at this pronouncement, and the thing laughed, giving me a pat on the shoulder. The move gave me no comfort, for by it I learnt that his hands, far from having overgrown fingernails, were tipped with claws. ¡°A joke, a joke. We don¡¯t feast upon first contact, you know: dinner should be saved till after coffee, once we¡¯ve gotten to know each other.¡±


    Then he stretched, his bones making a horrible cracking sound, before grabbing the lantern from off the bough and eyeing the silent landscape.


    ¡°So you are guarding the graves tonight? The nights are cold and lonely, the breeze beating out a morbid tune, and you would walk these hallowed hills all by yourself? Hmm - Tell me, would you like me to keep you company? Ask, and I shall step over the threshold.¡± This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    I considered this. By now it was clear that the creature - however horrible he might look - intended me no harm, but I was still filled with misgivings at the thought of prowling through a nighttime graveyard with a stranger - and so strange a stranger - and I couldn¡¯t help but demur. ¡°I thank you kindly for the offer, but are you not busy¡­ over there?¡±


    And I gestured vaguely towards the empty grave.


    ¡°I was engaged in the serious task of interior decorating,¡± the thing confided, following my line of sight. ¡°Redoing the walls, making the floor a little bit more comfortable - you know how it is. But talking to you, I suspect, will be much more enjoyable; and besides, ¡®tis not like it¡¯s a time sensitive project.¡±


    By now we had already begun to walk, going back down the hill and once more continuing the round of the grave guard. The darkness danced about our lanterns, occasionally skipping betwixt the two pools of light, and in the distance I heard the call of a Van Der Beak¡¯s Owl.


    The creature cracked its arms, again, pinwheeling them to get the blood flowing. His lantern spun wildly, the light momentarily blinding me. ¡°So, tell me my lad, why is a youngun such as yourself working in a dull place like this? Not much goes on here after dark, save for the undead waltzing about.¡±


    The undead waltzing about was plenty intriguing, but I held my tongue and, in a halting voice, poured out my woes to the mottled thing. The creature was a good listener, nodding along, clucking his tongue at the bad parts and making the appropriate noises of approval at the good parts. At last, having heard the story, he remarked,


    ¡°Now what to do, what to do? You have told me the story of your woes and - ah! I know. Naturally, you must hear my entire life story.¡±


    ¡°Your life story? Are you not dead?¡±


    The thing tsked. ¡°The man who merely eats and sleeps is surviving, not living; and consequently it follows that one may live without ever having survived.¡±


    Unfortunately for him I had been a petty clerk at my past job, and I knew a sophism when I saw one. ¡°It does not follow, as you presume the difference between survival and life is sufficient to posit a divide, whereas reason tells us that the latter comes only from the former¡­ I beg your pardon,¡± I interrupted myself, as something occurred to me, ¡°but did you say without ever?¡±


    ¡°But of course. I was born dead,¡± my interlocutor idly observed, as he ran his hand along a barren branch. It was difficult to tell if his tone was jocular or melancholy.


    ¡°And you were buried here, why?¡± I continued my train of thought, still keeping an eye out for intruders as we paced about the graveyard.


    ¡°Buried here? My dear sir, this is a resting place for the dead. Where else would we go on vacation?¡±


    I looked about, at the desolate hills, covered with trees that were dying away for winter; at the mausoleum, rising bleak and forbidding in the distance; and at the graveyard¡¯s lake, choked in weeds, where weird white worms were wriggling. An unusual vacation spot, but who was I to speak of the joys of the dead?


    Meanwhile, the creature continued his train of thought. ¡°Now then, you¡¯ve indicated fairly clearly - if circuitously - that you have little to no desire to hear about the incidence of my birth. Alas! ¡®Tis a fine tale. But fair enough, fair enough; never let it be said that I am not respectful to the needs of my audience. In that case, sir¡­ Hmmm¡­ Ah! You will hear a story of my school days.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d really rather not.¡±


    ¡°Ah c''mon. Dead men tell the best tales - after all, only we can appreciate how difficult it is to make your stories true to life.¡±

 Chapter Three: If It Hadnt Been For That Paper...

    It was back when I was freshly dead, back before I quit being a vampire.


    ***


    ¡°Hang on,¡± I said, interrupting the undead a mere sentence into his tale. ¡°How can you quit being a vampire?¡±


    The vampire turned to gaze upon me, his burning eyes shrinking down to a soft glow. ¡°How can¡¯t you quit being a vampire? Think about it for a moment - ¡®job,¡¯ ¡®species,¡¯ the both of them are just words, and differ only by a matter of definitions. And you can always quit definitions.¡±


    This premise struck me as singularly and sheerly illogical, and I said as much; but the vampire waved me off, merely noting in reply that the conclusion followed from the premises, and thus possessed validity. Incapable of responding, I could only content myself with imagining the vampire impotently throwing his letter of resignation in the face of a surprised Dracula, while the vampire in question, heedless of my ruminations, continued his tale.


    ***


    It was back when I was freshly dead, back before I quit being a vampire. This was long after the fair folk had given up on man, and retreated to their abodes at the edge of the sea of dreams; and I, I had just angered a fellow academic.


    Our dispute happened quite naturally, so much so that I almost didn''t know it had commenced till I was right in the thick of it. I had published a paper on a favoured subject - to wit, the inexistence of human beings - and my fellow academic, incensed by the perceived odiousness of my position-


    **¡±


    ¡°Wait a moment, wait a moment, wait just a moment here,¡± I cut in, once more rudely interrupting. ¡°Did you say you wrote a paper defending the inexistence of human beings?¡±


    ¡°Don''t forget to check under those toppled headstones,¡± the vampire advised, ignoring my query. ¡°They may look like they merely cover a depression in the soil, but that is actually a hole - cleverly concealed beneath the shadows - and used by the ghouls when they want to sneak out for roadkill; a habit which bothers the gravekeepers most dreadfully, for the monsters never clean up after themselves.¡±


    I grumbled at this lack of reply, but checked all the same. Much to my surprise a slew of slimy, furry things sped out from under the toppled tombstones and skittered off into the night, a severed rabbit''s head flopping to the ground behind them.


    ¡°Oy!¡± Snapped the vampire, stirred up for the first time since I''d met him. ¡°Pick that up, and bury it properly!¡±


    ¡°Fah!¡± came the reply from what must have been the ghoul, before a bloody spleen came flying out of the dark. ¡°Every sound metaphysician knows that physical objects exist only in the mind, so once the darn thing¡¯s dead it don¡¯t exist anyway nohow.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not how that works-¡± the vampire started, then, ¡°ah, they¡¯re gone.¡±


    ¡°Tom will be mighty pissed about the mess - you know how particular he is about the state of his grave dirt,¡± the vampire offered, and then, remembering that I had not the foggiest of clues as to who Tom was, continued, ¡°ah, Tom is our live-in literate lich - he keeps Tom''s Tomb Tomes on the east side of the graveyard. You should pay him a visit later - just make sure not to disturb the dirt.¡±


    ¡°Right, I¡¯ll remember that - but back to the question. Did you say you wrote a paper defending the inexistence of human beings?¡±


    ¡°Why yes, yes I did,¡± the vampire replied, with an easygoing swagger. ¡°Do try to keep up, please.¡±


    ¡°But you''re having a conversation with me, and I''m a human,¡± I pointed out (very reasonably, might I add).


    ¡°Yes, but you¡¯re misunderstanding the problem. The obvious question is not whether humans are there; the obvious question is whether humans exist.¡±


    ¡°Are those not one and the same?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Most assuredly not. It is an indisputable fact that we - that is to say, those of us on the Other Side - encounter humans with a frequency like clockwork; the problem, so to speak, is whether there is anything beneath the surface of that encounter. Who knows what dwells behind the mask, or if there is indeed more than a shadow?¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    By this point my mind, which had been scrambling to keep up ever since it learnt that there was more to this world than just the machinations of man, finally leapt before my eyes, and reminded me that what I thought was reasonable, and why, was by no means what lay in the minds of others¡­ Even if (as was the case here) I was right; and that, should I desire to understand, I would have to step back, listen a little, and seek to comprehend.


    ¡°Alright, so let me get the story straight,¡± I said, moving my hands about to accentuate my point. ¡°So, you published a paper on the inexistence of human beings?¡±


    ¡°Yessir,¡± concurred the vampire.


    ¡°And this stirred your colleague to rage, on account of the odiousness of your claims that humans don''t exist?¡±


    ¡°Oh, no,¡± the vampire laughed, ¡°no, on that point she agreed with me. What infuriated her was my attempted justification of the claim.¡±


    ***


    There I was, preparing a lecture on superstitions about humans in the thirteenth century - did you know they used to believe humans went about wearing tinsel? - when my colleague kicked in the door.


    At first I mistook her entry for that of a stray wind - she¡¯s only six inches tall, you know - and it was only after I heard the first cries of rage and thought to look over the desk that I saw her, angrily pumping her fist in the air and waving about my paper.


    I had argued - to my mind, convincingly - in the Periodical of Post-Ontological Perambulations that humans were an illusion, generated by the credulity of the fairies supposedly seeing them. This my colleague had taken exception to, to such a degree that she went to make her displeasure known, personally.


    ***


    ¡°Well of course she did. You¡¯re talking to me now, so if that premise was true then wouldn¡¯t it follow that you too are credulous?¡±


    ¡°The fey who lived before me believed in humans, and the fey who lived before them believed in humans, and the fey who lived before them, and so on and so forth, and it takes an awful long time to root a false idea out of your soul, when once it has taken root.¡±


    ***


    She told me, in no uncertain times, that it was entirely irresponsible to selectively posit the existence of illusions for specific physical phenomena; to which I responded that, said physical phenomena depicting things we knew not to exist, it was more than justifiable to posit an explanation for this and only this instance, absent other more compelling theories. She then returned that humans were entirely explainable as audiovisual hallucinations generated by the organic development of houses, thus justifying their inexistence within a salient framework for the explanation of physical phenomena.


    (At this point in the conversation a ghoul could be heard to distantly call out, ¡°Except physical phenomena don¡¯t exist!¡±, but both of us ignored it.)


    I reiterated my point, citing my research, to which she reiterated hers. Having thus reached an impasse we did what all scholars do when they discover their findings conflict: we settled things like men.


    Having prepared for challenges to my scholarly acumen beforehand, I kept a poleaxe over top of the desk - just under my framed diploma - and grabbing it sought to keep my colleague, a pixie, at arm''s reach.


    The pixie, for her part a veteran wrestler, used only a pair of brass knuckles.


    We clashed in the middle of the room, axe against fist, and after a swift exchange I regret to say that she proved the swifter, pushing me back and sending me staggering. Unsatisfied with this much she leapt through the air; I raised the poleaxe cross-wise to block; she slammed into it, the blow from her knuckles possessing sufficient force to cleft the haft in twain.


    As I was now disarmed she did the honourable thing and threw her own weapons to the side, before grabbing me in an attempted single leg takedown (or, more accurately, a single foot takedown, as she was too tiny to grab me around the knee).


    I fell to the ground, and we rolled - a brutal ball of fearless fists and flashing feet - out the door and down the hall, slamming from wall to wall, knocking the pictures off and sending the stuffed hippogriff flying. At last we fought so long and so far that we rolled, still fighting, into the lecture hall.


    This turned out to be highly fortuitous, as I was supposed to be delivering my lecture then, and the faculty would have been rather annoyed with me had I missed my lecture because I was settling an academic dispute. As the department head said, ¡°the scholar is always a warrior, and the warrior follows proper timing.¡±


    Accordingly I multitasked, and delivered my lecture to the students while continuing my dispute with my fellow professor. Smash, smack, bang, went the pair of us as we rolled about the room, brawling, all while I argued with her about the applicability of the Principle of Extension and lectured my students on why late mediaeval fairies thought human females went about wearing really long and pointy hats.


    One of the dryads fainted as I described what the humans purportedly did to them in December. Another student nearly hurled when we went over mill folklore - his family used to help human millers, according to their inherited histories - and one went into a fit of rage as I described ¡°human¡± records about the leprechaun.


    Still, the lecture was eventually and finally completed - to great applause, let me add (I even received a commendation from the department for my thorough summary of fairies in ¡°human¡± building motifs) - and, now free, my colleague and I brawled our way out of the lecture hall and down to the dining hall for lunch.


    Thereupon we took a brief break, to rest and refuel, and once that was done we resumed our fight. I am sad to say it was inconclusive: our fight continued across the school grounds until night, at which point it had to be called off. After dark the trolls and the witchlights and creatures far fouler (like zygothrups, and murklugs, and the Great Glont) come out, and then the scholarship grows far weirder and altogether more uncanny.


    We were not yet clear on whose argument was superior, however, so we repaired to a restaurant specialising in our favourite cuisine - Vegetable Lamb of Tartary - where we sought to hash out the elements of our dispute over meat and mead.

 Chapter Four: If It Hadnt Been For That Bet...

    The mock-up meat went, the mead flew, and the two of us settled in for a late night of disputations.


    ¡°I understand your concerns, of course,¡± I informed her politely. ¡°Your worry is that if our principles for the investigation of perceptible phenomena are not consonant one with the other, then they risk contradicting, threatening our empirical activities.¡±


    The pixie slapped the table in enthusiasm. ¡°Precisely! We have two situations - situations involving empirical descriptions of verisimilar phenomena - and you would employ two distinct principles in the analysis of each, depending on the conclusion you desire to bring about. The discrepancy is unsustainable, its publication discreditable to that form of scholarship which is concerned with the search for truth, and not merely the retrojection of justifications for that which we believe to be true.¡±


    ¡°I resent the accusation of partiality,¡± I sniffed, not altogether upset - for this was not our first rumpus, and she had earlier justly rebuked me for exactly the same fault. ¡°Unlike the similar case - say, for something we know exists, like plants - we know that human beings do not really exist, but merely appear as if they do. Accordingly, I am justified in explaining the inexistence of humans according to arguments invented for this very purpose.¡±


    ¡°Accordingly? It has been too long since you studied logic, my friend; I suggest you reread your Lewis Carroll. You¡¯ve leapt from one statement to another, and ignored the statement which ought to connect the two ¡ª Why your principle? Why not another, entirely different one? And what about our knowledge of the inexistence of humans - knowledge whose origin we have not yet made clear - leads us to posit a psychic account of them in the first place?¡±


    ¡°Well, if we know humans don¡¯t exist, but merely appear as if they do, does it not then follow as a possibility - perhaps even a probability, in the emphatic sense of ¡®what is likely¡¯ - that this appearance exists only in our minds?¡±


    The pixie was unimpressed, though she took a bite of her Barnacle Goose dessert before speaking her mind. ¡°Well it¡¯s a possibility - it¡¯s likely that - oh, you know, it could be - maybe - and so on and suchlike and such equally facile nonsense. Do not invoke possibilities in the face of what is seen and known. No, humans are there; and if we want to explain why, precisely, that is a mistake, we ought to explain why it is a mistake with respect to their being-there. Now, you and I know the truth and are in rough agreement; the question, however, is how this truth is to be derived.¡±


    Once more we had returned to the crucial impasse - the point on which we had met, and diverged. She insisted that humans were there, and any explanations as to why this perception was illusory must first start with an acknowledgement of this fact; I, for my part, held that the appearance of humans was merely illusory in the first place, and therefore no explanation was required for humans, whether as a category or in specific instances.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    We could not revolve one around the other forever, though, and having failed to settle our disagreement in either the usual manner (with fists) or the unusual one (with words) there remained but one road for us to travel: namely, we would prove which one of us was correct by means of demonstration.


    Our quest, then, was a simple one: to discover the finest argument against the existence of human beings; or, as the undead unicorn Anselm of Canter-Bury had it, ¡°That proof than which no greater can be conceived.¡±


    ***


    ¡°So this is a story about an academic argument?¡± I inquired, grunting a little as I finished digging a hole for the corpse of the rabbit. The vampire, much to my distress, had handed me the shovel - in spite of my protestations that I was not supposed to touch it - and with an apologetic remark about ¡®he who is paid, does the work,¡¯ had returned to uselessly watching.


    ¡°No, this is a story about an adventure - an adventure occasioned by an academic argument,¡± the vampire replied. ¡°The parameters of our dispute were set, the contours dictated. We were to leave the university in which we had conducted our research in (relative) peace, and travel the land in search of the finest argument for our respective positions.¡±


    ¡°Makes sense, I guess,¡± I said, as I carefully lowered the rabbit¡¯s corpse into the hole (or, at least, the half dozen disconnected bits I¡¯d been able to find). Beside me the ghost of the rabbit put its paws together in prayer for itself.


    ¡°Precisely. So I took my invisible sword-¡±


    ¡°You mean your invincible sword.¡±


    ¡°No, I mean my invisible sword. Anyways, I took my invisible sword - after a bloody long hunt for it, let me add - and then had to bandage my hands, as I¡¯d grabbed it on the wrong end, after which I set out from the university.¡±


    ***


    Naturally, my first step was to cross the sea of dreams and return to the fields of man, for no human - save those of a pure heart - had been allowed into fairyland in nearly an age; and I knew that if I wanted to disprove humans then I ought to head straight to the source, the humans themselves.


    This was not as difficult as it may sound, for some among the spirits would go flying about at night in the skies of man; the fey of the sea still maintained the web of tunnels that lie under the waters; and the trolls claimed access to ancient and etheric nets which, they said, had once been used by so-called man to communicate across great distances.


    I, however, preferred to make my journey as quietly as possible - I do not believe it has yet come up in the story, but public belief among the fey is now against the existence of humans, so much so that even my researches into your non-existence were seen as faintly ridiculous - and settled the matter by retaining a L¨¹tzelk?ppe of my acquaintance to send me across the seas by whirlwind.


    ***


    And then the story came to an abrupt end, for an ear-splitting scream had echoed across the graveyard.

 Chapter Five: If It Hadnt Been For That Doorstepper...

    I had already circled about the graveyard before. At the time, however, I had been respecting the instructions to avoid the graveyard proper - and had been hoping to respect them still, even after being plunged into the world of the undead and their quixotic machinations. Consequently I had yet to explore any of the barrows at the far end of the graveyard, from whence the scream emerged.


    The graveyard was old, but the barrows were far older - relics of a time long before the graveyard, or even the city, ever existed. The structures were low, squat, set squarely amid the mushy earth at the edge of the lake, where the weird white worms wriggled and birds with too few feathers and an unusual number of eyes hacked and coughed raucously.


    There, bordering the barrow nearest the lake, was a dead man. He was facedown in the mud, the tips of his fashionable coat drifting in the water, and had evidently been killed recently - no more than a couple minutes prior, for his lifeblood was still leaking out from a great big hole in the middle of his chest.


    Any doubts I had as to whether this was a recent killing or a mere prank by one of the undead were swiftly settled by the vampire, who crouched down beside the corpse with a muttered imprecation, then motioned for me to come closer.


    ¡°Here; this is your job.¡±


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t it be the job of the police?¡±


    The vampire gave me a withering look, effectively communicating with a glance how terrible he thought my idea was.


    Just then a cleft opened in the side of the barrow, and the skeletal ghost of a unicorn wandered out. It looked into the starry sky for a moment, as if peacefully imbibing the sight, and then cantered slowly towards us.


    ¡°Well met, Joseph,¡± it said to the vampire, its voice a deep baritone. ¡°It has been far too long since last we spoke; and I suspect, alas, this night will prove no more opportune.¡±


    The horse turned its eyeless gaze upon me. ¡°And you, sir? You are not one I have seen before.¡±


    I tried to answer, but my voice died in my throat, my gaze fixed squarely on the smear of red decorating the ghost¡¯s horn. The vampire, Joseph, had no such compunctions, going up to the unicorn and slapping it merrily on what should be its shoulder before gesturing towards me.


    ¡°Ah, gravekeeper, this is Anselm - you remember him: I mentioned his excellent epistemic dictum earlier, back in the midst of my story. Anselm, this is the new gravekeeper.¡±


    ¡°Charmed, I¡¯m sure,¡± said the undead unicorn.


    My mouth uselessly squeaked up and down, my eyes still fixed on that smear of red, and the uncanny degree to which the horn of the unicorn matched the tear in the dead man¡¯s chest. The unicorn must have caught my stare, for his skeletal head swung from me to the corpse.


    ¡°Oh, him? You need not worry about him. I ran into him, you could say, not long after he broke through the fence.¡±


    And the unicorn gestured to the fence bordering the graveyard. It was among the best kept of the graveyard¡¯s boundary markers, the posts standing tall and proud and relatively rust-free. On one of the posts, near the edge of the lake, I could see a tuft of fabric that looked suspiciously similar to the dead man¡¯s jacket, and numerous poles which had been knocked over nearby as someone forced their way through.


    ¡°So he was a thief?¡± I asked, a trickle of relief flowing through me.


    It is difficult for a horse to shrug, but the unicorn successfully did so. ¡°Frankly, I haven¡¯t the foggiest of clues.¡±


    Silence followed this pronouncement, the barrows stilling save for the sound of the wind blowing over the downs.


    ¡°I beg your pardon?¡±


    ¡°You cannot beg a pardon, sir; a pardon is clemency, granted after and in spite of wrongs done, and it can only be delivered freely by the magnanimity of a king.¡±


    I swallowed a desire to ask just what, exactly, he was talking about, and instead returned to the far more fundamental matter. ¡°Then do you not know why he was here? Why did he so madden you?¡±If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°Why? Why? Why, he told me he was doorstepping. Doorstepping! Can you believe the nerve? Now there are many crimes I can tolerate, but doorstepping is not one of them; my governess was a vampire, and as she always taught me, one should never pass the threshold without first being invited,¡± the unicorn primly observed. The vampire nodded in agreement.


    ¡°So you gored him to death?¡±


    ¡°No. I merely put my head down and proceeded at a rapid pace in his general direction. That this course of action regrettably resulted in his untimely demise can only be seen as a secondary and implicit consequence of my actions and, therefore, is no fault of mine; after all, it was his fault for being in the same precise spot as that of my horn. Really, when you think about it, it was more like auto-annihilation.¡±


    I groaned, but before I could say anything more the vampire coughed. ¡°There was a warning sign, you know.¡±


    And he pointed to one of the toppled over fence posts, where a sign could be seen bent over, a muddy boot print atop it. Through the incipient grime the following could be discerned:


    WARNING


    This is a Graveyard


    It is a Home of the Dead


    Do NOT Trespass


    Unless You Intend to Join Them


    ¡°Go begging for trouble,¡± the vampire continued, ¡°and trouble will find you. Speaking of, you made sure to exorcise his remains?¡±


    The unicorn snorted. ¡°I certainly did, precisely to keep him from coming back. I won¡¯t tolerate any violators of the threshold rooming here.¡±


    ¡°Good, good.¡±


    ¡°So the gravekeepers know - or will know - that this happened?¡± I asked, trying desperately to steer the conversation back into normal waters.


    The vampire¡¯s burning eyes swung from side to side, considering. ¡°Sure,¡± he said, in what was clearly a lie.


    ¡°Hah,¡± said the undead unicorn, tapping its rotting hoof against the ground, ¡°reminds me of that time¡­ remember¡­ with the squirrels, and¡­?¡±


    ¡°And the submarine?¡± The vampire asked excitedly.


    ¡°Precisely,¡± Anselm concurred. ¡°I still have Jack O¡¯Lantern¡¯s most hole-filled pair of socks; he bugs me for them on occasion.¡±


    ¡°Oh! - Ah, but we were in the middle of one story, and anyways, the tale of the squirrels in the submarine is one of our more boring ones - it drags in the middle, you know, when we slug-raced up the Hill of Molasses.¡±


    ¡°Not like any of your stories don¡¯t meander,¡± I snapped, ¡°now, if we may turn our attention to the more important subject - what do we do with the body?¡±


    ¡°What? The body?¡± The vampire remarked in some confusion, having apparently forgotten that there was a doorstepper, and that he had been gored to death.


    ¡°This body,¡± I swore, pointing at the bloody, mud soaked corpse. The vampire looked down at it in some surprise, only belatedly remembering it was there.


    ¡°Maybe we hide it in the lake?¡± Suggested the unicorn.


    ¡°You can just bury him,¡± Joseph provided helpfully. ¡°It''s not like the gravekeepers know the exact number of bodies anyways. If you need a headstone go ask John - he keeps an extra supply for every time this happens.¡±


    ¡°Oh, okay,¡± you said. ¡°That makes things easier - wait a moment, every?¡±


    ¡°But as I was saying,¡± the vampire continued, and then paused. ¡°Actually, where was I? Ah, I remember!¡±


    ***


    The moon is a dangerous place. Its tunnels, dug in aeons past by the immortals who built it, were long ago overtaken by the Jaggothim, the many-sided horrors who dwell in the depths, their paths choked in weeds and madness. They go back and forth and thereabouts and criss-cross, weaving with all the fury of a distraught Arachne, and the path to the Man in the Moon is particularly difficult - it can only be found in dreams, and upon the scent of time.


    Had it been in my hands alone, I might never have made it; I would have ended up lost, travelling the twilight gorges, or disappeared in the river¡¯s endless webs. Fortunately, I had the princess with me, and-


    ***


    ¡°Hold it, hold it just a moment,¡± I cried, forgetting the dead body on the ground in front of me in my righteous and indignant fury. ¡°The princess? What princess? Where? When¡¯d she get here? And when¡¯d you get to the moon? Also - the moon was built by immortals? Who¡¯d believe that rubbish?¡±


    Joseph shrugged. ¡°If you say. There¡¯s no sense arguing with those who won¡¯t look, as if you don¡¯t look, you won¡¯t see. But to your more important point - respecting the princess, I had to pass through the Jungle of Unk to get to the Most Westerly Point, and while doing so I thought I¡¯d stop in and-¡±


    ¡°Stop telling this story backwards,¡± I swore. ¡°Now, you had crossed the sea by whirlwind. What happened next?¡±


    The vampire blinked, a warmth filling his eyes, the flames mellowing. ¡°Ah! You are right. Let me see¡­¡±

 Chapter Six: If It Hadnt Been For That Academic...

    In retrospect, we might skip the details of my journey - they are all of them boring, uninteresting ventures, like my difficulties in acquiring a road map from a sasquatch, or how I had to arm wrestle an ogre for the sake of my much-needed train ticket. The case of the dragon, in particular, and what it had against lawn mowers, might be skipped without any injury to the narrative.


    The destination of my journey was clear, and came from the strictest of philosophical principles: to wit, that if you want to know if someone doesn¡¯t exist, the best solution is to ask him yourself. I had therefore decided to head south, not merely to a so-called human settlement but to the greatest of so-called human settlements, that I might find the best selection of respondents.


    I¡¯ll resume my tale properly with the journey¡¯s outcome, when I stepped off the train at its last stop, the sprawling, spiderous city of Galton, capital of the Northern Wastes.


    I must confess that before my arrival I had heard only stories of your far-famed capital (the vampire said to me, for I lived in the Northern Wastes, some seventy miles south of Galton in Cosy-on-the-Hill); exaggerated stories, evidently, stories which boasted of its might and grandeur, and which left me utterly unprepared for the real thing.


    I had taken the train south, glued to the edge of my seat in excitement, heedless of the strange stares and horrified glances I received as I watched the passing blur of grey and white. Mountains faded into leafless trees, and slowly I saw the capital come into being - the capital, where I might speak to any mass of men I chose, or visit one of the sundry research facilities.


    You can imagine my disappointment, then, when I got off the train and saw the same blur of grey and white, only instead of rocks and snowdrifts passing by my window it was now the overburdened and crumbling infrastructure of a dying civilisation.


    ***


    I nodded in agreement. Few things were as disappointing as one¡¯s first sight of Galton.


    ¡°It¡¯s the mouldering concrete that does it, though it has its own beauty after dark, when the streetlamps reflect off the grey walls - in winter, with the fresh snow, it can be especially lovely, the ground so many sparkling diamonds under the lamp glow.¡±


    ¡°Oh? I arrived first thing in the morning, shortly after dawn, although now that you mention it the city did look better later on, after dark. Incidentally, were we planning to finish burying the body? Not that I¡¯m in a huge rush, but the gravekeepers will be disappointed if they find another body come morning.¡±


    I started. I had once more forgotten the stiffening corpse. ¡°Blast, you¡¯re right. Where¡¯s John?¡±


    ¡°John? Check the columbarium, third resting place to the left. As I was saying, however¡­¡±


    ***


    I should have expected it. Spirit research into the organic and spontaneous generation of houses has long ago revealed that they, like the forests they so incompetently imitate, go through life cycles, both as individual houses and as members of a community. The life cycles of individual houses are still poorly understood - to all intents and purposes they look as if they are repaired regularly by human beings, although this obviously can¡¯t be the case - but we know much more about housing communities.


    My favourite work on this subject was written by the flower fairy Doctor Daylily, who argued that housing communities - cities - go through a cycle wherein they grow ever so slowly until they reach a ¡®critical mass.¡¯ At this point the city is sufficiently robust to sustain the growth of specialist species such as hospitals and judiciaries, and the overall population explodes until, having overshot its carrying capacity, the city begins to decay. Such, it seems, had happened to Galton.


    The strange stares didn¡¯t let up as I left the station, travelling through the town proper, nor did I see any creatures of the Other Side - be they fey, or undead, or even demons. This wasn¡¯t so surprising, perhaps, for we had been in retreat to the Lands Beyond and the Lands Below and even the Lands Above for the better part of an age, but to see no one was perturbing, as was the evident confusion I received when I made inquiries as to the locals¡¯ attitude towards the supernatural - most couldn¡¯t understand my query, the very question failing to penetrate some fog in their eyes.


    Those few who seemed to have some inkling of my questions merely brushed them off, casually observing that there was no such thing as the undead. Can you imagine the absurdity? Not believing in vampires!


    Nor did I penetrate much farther when I inquired from them their views on more immediate philosophical topics, such as their view on who they were as people, who others were to them, and what they thought it meant to be human. They merely stared at me, bleary eyed, stammered in stupefaction, and hurried off.


    Eventually, however, I was able to find a clue in my quest to prove that humans don¡¯t exist - namely, the address of the city¡¯s university. And so I slung my pack about my shoulders and tightened my scarf against the chill and descended deep down into the centre of town, past the factories and their pipes and smoke and the crumbling apartments, refuse and detritus littering their steps, till at last I trod the grime-ridden, blackened tiles of the university halls.


    The clocks had stopped in the university, the typewriters ran dead; and not a counting nor an accounting could be found. All was silent, mostly, for the silence was punctuated by occasional spurts of a horrible, crackling noise, cacodemonic howls bursting out of the rooms and cantering about the quiet halls.


    One cannot stop students the way one might stop restaurateurs or greengrocers. It is not enough to wave them down, and ask if they have time to chat. One has to lay in wait for them, like a tiger stalking a lame gazelle, pouncing upon them at their luncheons in a furious ambuscade.


    In the cafes, in the halls, atop the smoke-choked rooftop gardens I questioned them¡­ And here as elsewhere I found no answers, and oftentimes not even an inkling of an understanding of my questions. The students stared at me like mooncalves caught in the cabbages, eyes blank, faces white. If anything, they knew less than the grocers.


    Their professors were nominally more helpful. Upon my approaching them and enquiring into their thoughts on their own existence (or lack thereof), they stared at me in surprise, then smiled and simpered a little, and said that of course humans didn¡¯t exist, only this ought not to surprise me, for nothing else did either.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    This, as you can imagine, was a source of supreme dissatisfaction to me - to receive so categorical, so absolute, so unconditional a declaration, and yet with so little argument behind it. As a scholar (if I may so style myself), this would not satisfy me, could not satisfy me - for I needed not the conclusion they¡¯d derived, but the process by which at it they¡¯d arrived.


    And then, in the immortal words of the Poet of Maldon, ¡°I did as I should not have done¡± - I asked for their proof. Immediately the placid faces of the academics clouded, becoming stormy with rage and thunderous fury¡­ Before they cleared, assuming the peace at the eye of the storm, at which point I knew I was really in trouble - for I had entered a hurricane.


    The academics surrounded me, eyes glinting, bodies clacking and clattering in chitinous tones, and escorted me unceremoniously to the office of the university dean. Now there was an odious man - not fat, not thin; neither bony nor rounded; his skin devoid of dry or oily elements; his face unremarkable; and his hair indescribable. Truthfully, it was hard to say what he was at all, save that the sight of him left one with a bitter, vaguely revolting taste in the back of the mouth, and a flitting urge to upchuck one¡¯s dinner.


    He motioned for me to sit and, once I had done so, stood, pacing about the richly-appointed office with a frown twisting his lips. At last, after a pause too sterile to be described as pregnant, he spoke. ¡°The expert academics of my university tell me that you¡¯ve been making inquiries¡­ Inquiries, apparently, of a philosophical sort.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right, sir,¡± I said politely, keeping a respectful attitude in the face of a distant land¡¯s academic authority.


    The man blew air out his nose, the only sign of his boiling rage. ¡°We don¡¯t do that here.¡±


    ¡°Make inquiries?¡± I asked, turning about to keep him in my line of sight.


    ¡°Make philosophical inquiries,¡± he clarified. ¡°You are of course welcome to make any inquiries you so choose; only please keep wisdom out of it, for wisdom does not exist.¡±


    By this time I had grown weary of turning about and around and straining my head to keep track of the man, and ignoring his command I rose to my feet.


    He eyed me and tsked. ¡°How tiresome. My clerks tell me, Mr. Joseph, that you have come here to prove whether or not humans exist - and, to that end, to inquire from humans their thoughts on the subject itself. Do I have this correct?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that is correct,¡± I replied.


    He sighed, a deep sound, full of exhaustion at the absurdities of the world. ¡°Then you must have known how absurd your quest was at the outset. Prove whether people exist? I laugh at the very notion. My dear sir, all you have before your eyes is a cluttered field of nothings-at-all, and it¡¯s only in the caverns of your mind that you assign any meaning to that cacophonous concatenated cavalcade. Whether ¡®humans¡¯ exist - or, indeed, anything else - is something that can never be known, even if the very idea weren¡¯t a product of mad fancies, disturbed humours of a mind hungry for something outside itself. Even you, sir-¡±


    It was only now, as our conversation reached its crucial point - twitching out into the Realm of Know-How, the realm through which all facts pass - that the academic took a proper look at me. Whatever he saw, it gave him pause, and his words died in throat.


    ¡°Actually¡­ What are you?¡±


    ¡°A vampire, sir,¡± I said, ever so respectfully, for this was still before I had quit being a bloodsucking leech.


    ¡°No no, you can¡¯t be a vampire. Vampires don¡¯t exist.¡±


    ¡°Because nothing exists?¡± I hazarded tentatively, trying to follow the threads of his argument. Frankly, I thought it was a rather terrible position - so far as I am concerned, ideas are impressed into the mind, and aren¡¯t the mind¡¯s own products - but a scholar must see from within to understand.


    ¡°No,¡± the dean snapped, or perhaps he stuttered - there was a weird, jolting lilt to his voice, almost a fuzzy sound. ¡°Because vampires are an impossibility. Humans, at least, might be; but vampires? Why, next you¡¯ll be telling me you believe in fairies.¡±


    ¡°But I do believe in fairies,¡± I offered helpfully, still unsure where he was going.


    ¡°Unaccepta- hack,¡± the man said, and then he viscerally fizzed. His body leaned over, his left hand resting against the back of his chair, the other ramming into his chest.


    Concerned, I went to help him, only to freeze in surprise as the man¡¯s incessant pounding solicited an audible CLICK. All of a sudden his head leapt up and his gaze narrowed in on me, his fishlike eyes gleaming dully.


    ¡°Supernatural creatures do not exist, sir. The very notion is illegal,¡± he said, or perhaps it wasn¡¯t him, for the voice when it came was firm and monotonous and altogether unlike the nasally, supercilious tone of the academic.


    And then the man began to change. Steam hissed, gears clanked, and the man visibly came apart, his skin cracking and emerging in unlevel blocks, revealing a web of machinery beneath. These began to swiftly shift shape and reassemble themselves, the hideous form of the academic giving way to the more stolid shape of a city policeman.


    His right hand shot up, a mechanical pistol emerging from the web of gears under his skin, and he fired. Fortunately, my education in the Humanities had prepared me well for this, and I expertly weaved out of the way. The bookshelf behind me exploded, fragments of wood and burning paper flying across the room.


    The dean raised his hand cannon for another shot; I ducked down, prompting him to adjust his aim. Once more he fired, once more I just barely avoided the shot, my training in Hermeneutics helping me determine precisely where he was planning to shoot.


    The floorboards were ripped asunder, the strength of the shot sufficient to puncture the next floor¡¯s ceiling. I, however, had stepped around the circumference of the blast. Having successfully closed the distance I grabbed a pen knife from off the desk and, while he was reloading, slammed it into his hand.


    The force of my blow was sufficient to bring it down and even pin it to the desk, shattering his pistol and jamming his gears; with a judder and a shudder the transformation stopped, the machine man frozen halfway between a university bureaucrat and an agent of the law.


    ¡°Bzzt,¡± he hissed, tugging at the pen knife. ¡°Intruder - illegal undead! Illegal undead!¡±


    And his other arm whipped up. I caught his wrist as the knife flashed for my head. There was a brief moment in which the supernatural strength of a vampire competed against mechanical muscle, before I twisted his wrist and the knife fell to the floor.


    This didn¡¯t perturb the dean in the slightest.


    ¡°Illegal undead! Illegal undead!¡± He continued to cry in that firm, monotonous voice, his fingers withdrawing into their shell and five needles taking their place.


    I was about to go in for a throw when I heard ¡°Illegal undead! Illegal undead!¡± from down the hall, a dozen voices speaking with the same dull uniformity, and realised that the academics were onto me.


    There was only one thing for a scholar to do in that situation - leap out the ninth story window. And that, in point of fact, is precisely what I did.

 Chapter Seven: If It Hadnt Been For That Ash Genie...

    ¡°So the academics were all robots?¡± I asked, half disbelieving and yet a little bit breathless.


    ¡°Oh yes. They¡¯d all been automated, you know.¡±


    I wasn¡¯t quite sure if I could believe this. I had gone to that very same university, graduating with honours only two years prior, and while I would be lying if I said the professors had struck me as fully human I had trouble accepting that I had studied under automatons.


    Truthfully, the undead¡¯s entire story was exceedingly bizarre - a claim which may not have meant much, given how bizarre the idea of an undead telling a story was in the first place. But I had been up north, and had seen neither a sea of dreams beyond the frigid ice flows, nor a southerly trainline. Additionally, though I had studied the law during my degree, I knew of no laws forbidding the existence of supernatural creatures.


    That the university had been annihilated during the stock market crash did not help matters, for it meant I could verify nothing of his tale. All I could do was take him on his word.


    The vampire must have noticed my discontent, for he looked at me companionably. ¡°What troubles you? Weight of the tombstone dragging you down?¡±


    ¡°No. I merely find your tale incredible,¡± I confessed, my tone neither apologetic nor accusatory.


    ¡°I said it would be, did I not, when first I began? ¡®Dead men tell the best tales, for only we know how hard it is to make your stories true to life.¡¯ Did you think this a mere metaphor? Life looks irrational, silly, lumpish, and a little bit fantastic, and it¡¯s  only once you look deep into the appearances that the lumps take on quite a different appearance, and you realise how fantastic it really is.¡±


    I grumbled at this reply, but elected to continue my journey, merely shifting the uncomfortably heavy tombstone on my back.


    My journey to acquire the tombstone had been filled with difficulties. I had found John¡¯s place in the columbarium easily enough, but rubbing the urn and chanting ¡°Open sesame!¡± (the rather confusing instructions from the vampire) failed to produce its occupant. Twice, thrice, four times I rubbed the lamp - err, urn - before I heard a ¡°coming, coming,¡± and a twisting twirling cloud of ash ascended from out of an urn three holes distant.


    It spun about with an ornate flourish before taking the form of a two dimensional human male, with two holes where his eyes should be and a grinning slit of a mouth. The man saw me, then took a step back, whipping a fedora off his head and spinning it about in his hands.


    ¡°Well hey howdy,¡± he drawled. ¡°What can I do you for?¡±


    ¡°Hi,¡± I said robotically, rather nonplussed. ¡°Joseph sent me - I¡¯m here for a tombstone.¡±


    The ash genie made a melodramatic motion, one hand vanishing into his forehead, the other raised in exaggerated fashion overhead. The obligatory groans and moans dealt with, John whirled about and danced off, around the edge of the columbarium. I hurried to follow, struggling to keep track with his rapid pace.


    ¡°So, you¡¯ve been speaking with Joseph?¡± John said, as he pushed through a wall of branches and briars. I nodded.


    ¡°Good on you. I used to study philosophy, you know, back when I was still kicking,¡± and the ghost danced a cancan to demonstrate. ¡°I took cause with the school of the Pyrrhonists who, as their maestro Sextus Empiricus so sagely observed, ¡®opposed to every proposition an equal proposition,¡¯ seeking, through the rejection of theories, rest. And indeed when I got sick I opposed the propositions behind one medicine to the equal propositions of another, taking neither; and I did find rest.¡±


    Having pushed through the carefully matted wall of thorns we found ourselves in an all too snug hollow, the ceiling of trees a mere six feet overhead and much of the floor covered in mounds of sticky, rotting leaves.


    ¡°Shoot, I was a brainy fellow, but I don¡¯t half know what he does,¡± the genie finished. He removed a mat of leaves - evidently woven into a net - revealing dozens of tombstones.


    ¡°So, who¡¯s the lucky winner? Gotta get all the details right - one time the old geezers who run this joint checked a suspiciously new grave bearing the name of a ninety year old man, only to find a young woman who¡¯d made the mistake of trying to rob a corpse raven. Hoo boy, you should¡¯ve seen the hullabaloo that was.¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    I groaned.


    ***


    I heaved the tombstone onto the ground beside the recently dug, and recently filled, grave.


    ¡°Now,¡± said the vampire, as merrily as you please. ¡°While you finish off what needs to be done, how about I continue the story? Where was I - oh, yes. So I had entered the Jungle of Unk and-¡±


    ¡°There you go again,¡± I snapped, not in the best of moods after my exertions. ¡°Where¡¯d the jungle come from? How¡¯d you get to a jungle - and when, and why? I thought we were in the Northern Wastes.¡±


    ¡°Ah! Yes, yes, that would be correct. So where was I?¡± The vampire murmured.


    ¡°You leapt out the window.¡±


    ¡°Absolument, monsieur! I leapt out the window¡­¡±


    ***


    Of course I couldn¡¯t stay in the capital, not after that. This was not an issue of security ¨C what scholar allows Death to interfere in his hunt for truth? No, this was because I had a mystery on my hands. Why had belief in vampires been declared illegal? Why had the staff of the university been replaced ¨C or become ¨C or indeed had always been, and only in dreams did it differ ¨C automatons? And how was I to prove that humans did not exist, if I myself could not be?


    Faced with such questions, I determined to go and consult one of the few remaining spirits who yet ventured among the fields of men ¨C namely, the Man in the Moon.


    There is only one way to reach the moon from earth, and that is to climb up the thread of moon moth silk that lies to the back of the Most Westerly Point. The Man in the Moon tied it himself, long long ago, for he comes down once a month to seek out the secret groves where scholars hold their disputes, and refresh himself; whence we say that we have a ¡®new moon.¡¯


    To reach the Most Westerly Point one must pass through the Jungle of Unk, and that is quite a different venture. Yet it was one I knew I had to make, so I purchased a can of soup from a roadside soup can salesman who wasn¡¯t looking too hard and off I went.


    It was a difficult journey, and a dangerous one. The Jungle of Unk lay due south, within and beyond the plains of Democratic Vespuccia, which as you know has lately become a land where all is awhirl with chaos, and the people live lives that will prove nasty, brutish, and short.


    There were therefore many perils of a decidedly mortal sort; but, worse yet, the journey to the Jungle of Unk required one to step intermittently into the Lands Beyond at certain key moments ¨C through rollicking hills and over haunted treetops ¨C and thus there were perils of a decidedly more than mortal sort. Combined the traveller was in dire straits, for he¡¯d vanish through a path from fairyland to land in a human street brawl; then, some thirty or forty miles later, would have to climb up a wall to reenter fairyland in the midst of a warzone, successfully making his escape only to land in a gryphon¡¯s nest on the other side.


    ***


    ¡°Why not just circumvent the area altogether, and go southwest ¨C say, through the Kingdom of Crescent Peak, or the aristocratic Merry-Go-Whirl Enclaves ¨C then double back about, thereby skipping Democratic Vespuccia altogether? Or, even better, take a boat ¨C or perhaps those underwater tunnels you mentioned earlier ¨C and go straight south with only a little curve?¡±


    The vampire looked at me askance. ¡°Curve southwest? No, I couldn¡¯t possibly: take the wrong route and I¡¯d have risked ending up in the Hollow Groves of Old Twilight, or the Merry-Go-Whirl Enclaves, or even ¨C and I shudder at the name ¨C Zargazool. And then where would I be?¡±


    ¡°In Zargazool.¡±


    ¡°Precisely. No, there are rules ¨C rites ¨C for any journey through fairyland, and only the ignorant and fools fail to respect them. He who would seek the Most Westerly Point must go due south through the plains, switching back and forth through the Lands Beyond at the appointed places. Only then shall he find what he seeks.¡±


    I shrugged, and gave the headstone one final heave, sweeping some loam and leaf mould onto the unsettled dirt in a vain attempt to make the freshly dug grave look a little older.


    ¡°If you say so. Still,¡± and here my voice faltered a little as a slight undercurrent of suspicion wound through it. ¡°I know you reached the moon ¨C you told me as such - so you must have successfully completed the journey.¡±


    ¡°Well, I wouldn¡¯t say completed¡­¡±


    ***


    There was something wrong with the wilds beyond the plains that men know. They had always been strange, full of half-formed, half-unreal things that zickered and zacked and glugged as they scuttled over the branches. The trees never quite seemed to figure out where they ought to be growing, or if they ought to be growing at all. Roots spiraled skyward and spinned in loops over the leaves carpeting the ground, and seeds six feet tall erupted out of the earth.


    They were strange still, but now they were silent. No more did strange things gleep and snaggle as they whickled like a pianist across the treetops, nor did the trees whisper eerily as they blew back and forth, though there was no breeze. They were silent with the quiet of the depths, and lifeless like the cloudless sky above.


    My journey was thus far easier than I had imagined, yet this was by no means a solace. I went cautiously over the limpid leaves, eyeing the stagnant boughs with unease, and paused at each turning in the path, cautiously peering every which way.


    My caution was rewarded. It was in the last stage of my journey, as I travelled the Far Leprous Hills, a blasted heath of putrid yellow grass and greenish soil. My heart beat a mad dance, akin to the pounding of horse hooves on the ground, and a shiver ran up my spine. Trusting my instincts I leapt backwards - just in time, for out from in front of the hill there was a burst of stardust, and a pair of many-sided moon demons swirled into being.

 Chapter Eight: If It Hadnt Been For Those Moon Demons...

    ¡°The many-sided moon demons?¡± I asked, vaguely remembering him saying something of them before. I took another bite of my carrot - all I had left for food, for I had not brought dinner, and the dead had only worms for their meals.


    ¡°Yes. The Jaggothim, the many-sided beings who live on the moon. Once upon a time the moon was the abode of the immortals -  built by their own hands, from its moon rock to its minarets - but then the moon demons arrived, and drove them from their homes. Now it is a wild place, filled with weird creatures and wicked plants, and the only ones who live there are the Man in the Moon and the rabbit Osterhase, who pounds the elixir of immortality in solitude.¡±


    ***


    One cannot, alas, negotiate with the many-sided beings who live on the moon. Legends say they can talk; and perhaps this is true, for legends always contain within themselves a kernel of truth. But if this is so, they have never been seen to exhibit this skill among the haunts of men or fey.


    Other stories, more reliable, say they can be compelled or dispelled by those with knowledge of the appropriate rites, and unpleasant rumours swirl of manuscripts containing such rites. These, the stories say, are exchanged on the academy grounds after dark, when the scholarship grows far weirder and altogether more uncanny.


    I cannot confirm or deny whether such unpleasant rumours are true; I can, however, confirm that on that day I was able to confirm that if such manuscripts are being exchanged, they are entirely useless. Even after being chanted three times, at increasingly loud and irate volumes.


    By that point the hill that had been behind me was now a valley, and the manuscript that I didn¡¯t have was so many tatters upon the earth. The many-sided beings who lived on the moon were all about me, whirling incoherently in and out of being, while I balled my fists in defiance. At last one deigned to step forward, twisting its head to reveal the darkness behind its face. It roared, a deep, guttural sound that I felt rather than heard.


    A lesser academic would have run, for the sight of the creature portended nothing but Death - or, in my case, Re-Death. I, however, had spit in the face of Death when I was born, and am no mere academic, but a scholar. And so I girded the martial virtue required of all scholars, drew on the subtle, vital luminosity that lies within all things, and began to mutter an incantation-


    ***


    ¡°An incantation?¡± I asked. ¡°As in, the words of power used in magic?¡±


    ¡°The very same,¡± the vampire affirmed, watching a gathering group of goblins.


    ¡°¡­You know magic?¡± I said, somewhat surprised; I had guessed, from his very presence, that magic might be real, but that the somewhat pedantic, slightly pompous scholar before me knew it was another matter.


    ¡°Of course; I minored in Science. Is that so strange? It is necessary for a student to have both breadth and depth, and know a smattering of that which is not his direct field of research; and what better for a student than Science, which after all claims to harness the eldritch forces of the universe for use in technics?¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°¡­I do not believe that is what Science is.¡±


    The vampire considered this. ¡°You may be right. Some philosophers of science deny the existence of laws behind the eldritch forces, asserting that science is concerned only with specific theurgic techniques. Others say that it desires not the truth of its magical theories, but merely their ability to solve problems; and still others say it is nothing at all. But I prefer to follow the consensus on this matter.¡±


    I groaned. ¡°So let me get this straight. You fought them with magic - er, science-¡±


    ¡°Magic is a branch of science,¡± the vampire noted. ¡°One of the four, which we call STAM - Stupa-building, Theurgy, Alchemy, and Magic¡­ The secrets I was taught were in alchemy, however.¡±


    And here the vampire paused, looking about the frostbitten hills in some irritation. I followed his gaze and saw that the handful of goblins who had been listening in had multiplied to a regular night parade of goblins and ghouls and ghastlies, all gazing at us in hawkish contemplation.


    ¡°It was in caverns dark and caverns old that I learned those secrets, from an ageless alchemist whose only temporal concern was the preservation of his privacy. The immortal glowed with fire and burned with light, and he claimed to be a human being. A dubious claim, to be sure, but one he took seriously,¡± and here the vampire¡¯s voice took on a nasty bite.


    ¡°For once upon a time he smiled slightly, eyes misty, and told me that someday we may all be real boys; but he worried that too many would become donkeys upon the way. Doubtless because they were concerned only with the Land of Toys, and knew no more of diligence or respect.¡±


    The watching spirits took the hint and, with nary a hee haw, went upon their way. The woods once more became as silent as the grave, the only sound that of a lost, lone whippoorwill on some long-forsaken hill; and the vampire resumed his tale.


    ***


    I muttered an incantation and drew on that subtle, vital luminosity; there was a rupture and a tear and the front of the Jaggoth was rent apart, scattering sparks of light across the hills. The creature shrieked and swirled about, faces fading one into the other and claws circling like a storm.


    The hills shimmered and glimmered and vanished within its faces, before the demon vomited out its fell load in a storm of refracted light and shadow. Lacking the time to block the blast I did a donkey roll - not being a real boy myself - dodging an attack from the other Jaggoth as I did. Backed up into a corner, I did the only thing I could: I executed the most valued role of the alchemist.


    ***


    ¡°Making gold from lead?¡± I said in some confusion.


    ¡°What? No; no one wants alchemical gold,¡± the vampire said vaguely, waving his hand. ¡°No, the main reason you hired an alchemist in olden times was for his expertise in one very specific task ¡ª namely, the creation of cataclysmic explosions.¡±


    ***


    Grasping at the subtle, vital luminosity, I twisted and pulled, intoning a wretched curse in an ancient, forgotten tongue. There was a moment of silence, and then the hills were consumed in a blast of flame, bits of moon demon raining down from the sky.


    I burst into coughing, spitting bile as the feedback of the transmutation wracked my body. Nor was it with satisfaction that I looked upon my handiwork. The many-sided beings who lived on the moon never descended to earth; that they had chosen to do so now boded ill and, I suspected, was not unrelated to events in the Northern Wastes. Sighing, my head filled with vague dreams and foreboding premonitions, I continued to the city at the edge of the earth.

 Chapter Nine: If It Hadnt Been For That City...

    The city of Loomingdale lies west of the Far Leprous Hills; the Jungle of Unk is at its back, curving south to west, where it reaches the ends of the earth. Great stone walls protect the city, its stone towers and mansions rising high into the sky above. The entire city is perennially lit by the sunset¡¯s soft glow, and the river before the town burbles gently as it languidly passes by.


    Loomingdale is perhaps the greatest democracy of the Lands Beyonds, its mayoralty sung of in story and song¡­ Indeed, until that moment I had never seen the city, and knew of it only by reputation. Its admirable administration, its gallant governance, its correct character - all are spoken of in soaring soliloquies and recited in rapturous rhapsodies.


    I had no plans to stay in the city, merely to pass through it on my way to the Most Westerly Point. Still, I thought I might stop by the mayoral palace, which was said to be a brilliant work of architecture-


    ***


    ¡°The mayoral palace?¡± I inquired. ¡°Sounds a bit like a king¡¯s abode.¡±


    ¡°Yes. The grandiose, seven story structure in the centre of town, built as a promise of the beauty the mayor would bring to the lives of his people. The current mayor had lived there ever since he was installed, some thirty years prior.¡±


    ¡°Thirty years? That¡¯s an awfully long time between elections.¡± I said, slightly suspiciously.


    ¡°Oh, he was mayor for life - the people held that that way he might better learn their dispositions and interests, and cater to their needs.¡±


    ¡°That sounds like a king.¡±


    ¡°Ah, but he was elected - through hereditary inheritance, for only this will ensure that the leader is representative of the common man.¡±


    ¡°Again, a king.¡±


    ¡°He represented their interests from his throne room, where he ruled with suzerain authority by virtue of the authority invested in Man.¡±


    ¡°Again, that is a king.¡± I groaned. ¡°Next you¡¯re going to tell me that the state rooted its legitimacy in an ordained order.¡±


    ¡°How else would they guarantee the inviolability of human dignity?¡± The vampire asked in obvious confusion.


    ¡°You know what? Forget it.¡±


    ¡°Well of course we can forget it. It was a human city, so it¡¯s not like any of it existed anyhow.¡±


    ***


    I reached the city just after dawn, the sunset gleaming gold about me. I forded the river with ease and passed the immense sign which lay before the gates, and which intoned as firmly as the rock it was engraved upon:


    Remember to Commit the Right Crimes - It¡¯s the Law!


    ***


    This time there was no need for me to interrupt: the look on my face, apparently, was sufficient to say all that needed to be said. The vampire blinked and, as if surprised that I was unaware, remarked,


    ¡°Why, didn¡¯t you know? Mayor Samsa I, Founder of the Free City of Loomingdale, concluded that the easiest way to fight crime was not to outlaw it or punish it but to declare it permissible provided it was reciprocal, and enshrined this as the basic principle of the Constitution. So when one wants a bolt of cloth, one sneaks into the stall, cackling like a madman, and swipes the bolt from the salesman, who malignantly steals the value of the cloth in return. Then, at the end of the day, the salesman takes home his errant earnings - tiptoeing and looking about suspiciously all the while - where his wife has been making soup from rightfully stolen goods.¡±


    The vampire stretched. ¡°The sack of gold is slung onto the kitchen table; they rub their hands, chuckling evilly as they contemplate their ill-gotten goods, before he steals a bowl of soup - and a kiss - and they go to read hijacked books on their purloined couch. If it¡¯s near the end of the month, then before going to bed he carefully counts out a small purse of coins, and leaves it at the window with milk and cookies.


    ¡°That night, during the witching hour, the window slowly slides open and a man in a mask and a black and white striped suit sneaks in. The tax collector twirls his pencil moustache, snickering, as he eyes the coin purse - the salesman¡¯s tax payment - before scooping it up in his snack and departing (though not before consuming the milk and cookies). If it is Tax Rebate Season, he leaves gifts for the kids to plunder from him.


    ¡°Of course, no sooner has he reached the palace than the mayor steals all the money from him, and the tax collector must duel him on the throne room steps to pillage his paycheck.¡±


    ¡°I hate this city already.¡±


    ¡°It is often called the Backwards Borough.¡± The vampire conceded.


    ¡°Why, exactly, did Mayor Samsa I design such a ridiculous city?¡±


    And here the vampire grew misty-eyed. ¡°Ah! You don¡¯t understand his genius. He was a great man - he made it an article of law that no man should be hanged twice for the same offence. He can, however, be shot.¡±The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°Right,¡± I said perfunctorily, deciding to push forwards the narrative rather than continue to question what I could not understand. ¡°So, you visited the city.¡±


    ¡°Yes, after paying the bribe at the toll booth.¡±


    I sighed. ¡°Okay, and-¡±


    ¡°Open up!¡±


    I cocked my head. ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°Hmm? It wasn¡¯t me,¡± the vampire observed, blinking lethargically.


    ¡°Open up!¡± Came the voice again, from somewhere near the front of the graveyard. It was a sharp, staccato bark, with the expectation of being followed. ¡°This is the police!¡±


    I groaned. This night just got better and better.


    Hoping against hope that the officer¡¯s visit had nothing to do with a certain recently buried someone, I headed to the front gate. My first sight of the policeman did not inspire me with joy.


    He was in many respects a stereotypical officer of the law - burly, his uniform and peaked cap in tiptop shape, a thick moustache twitching under his sunglasses. In other respects he was perhaps too stereotypical, and there were parts of him that were¡­ wrong. His uniform was the wrong shade, the designs on his cuffs didn¡¯t match, and one of his epaulettes was the wrong colour.


    Add in the unusual decision to wear sunglasses at the crisp hour of two in the morning and it was like someone had crafted a pastiche of a policeman, putting him together from many different images. An unusual and uncanny impression, and one raised the hair on the back of my neck.


    Still, his badge was - so far as I could tell - entirely legitimate, and as I had no reason to turn him away I opened the gate, inviting him inside.


    He thanked me kindly and walked in, carefully stepping over a pile of boards that had been propping up a hole right beside the gate.


    ¡°Now, laddy, are you the manager of this here graveyard?¡± He said brusquely, surveying the quiet graves and empty hills, face impassive.


    ¡°No sir. I¡¯m the night watchman, but recently hired.¡±


    ¡°Mmm,¡± he grunted. ¡°Fair enough. Shouldn¡¯t be a problem anyways. No worries, laddy, I¡¯m not here for any malignant purpose. There¡¯ve been a lot of strange people wandering about, doing all sorts of odd and unusual things, so we¡¯ve been out checking on the good citizens. Tell me, have you seen any strange people recently?¡±


    I thanked the Heavens the vampire had decided not to join me at the gate, and confidently said ¡°No,¡± relying on my training as a bureaucrat to help me pass off the lie.


    The officer looked at me suspiciously but shrugged, evidently deciding it wasn¡¯t worth pursuing the matter. ¡°To tell you the truth, laddy, I had a more specific purpose in coming here - or a more specific person, really. We¡¯ve been looking for one very strange fellow - a journalist, don¡¯t you know.¡±


    My heart jumped into my throat. The policeman fiddled with his gloves for a moment, paying me no heed, before finishing his remark. ¡°According to our sources - and they are very reliable - this journalist was out questioning people about ghosts and ghoulies. A dangerous pastime, let me tell you, laddy - though surely you don¡¯t need me to, for as an upstanding citizen you must know that it¡¯s illegal to believe in the supernatural, and illegal-er still to make inquiries into it.¡±


    I froze. So there was a kernel of truth in what the vampire had been telling me. Truth be told I had thought him full of bollocks until that very moment, for his tale had started incredible and grown ever more absurd.


    The policeman contemplated me as my silence lengthened, continuing to fiddle with his gloves. He slid one off, revealing that his hand had only four fingers, then slid it back on. I gulped and said, as firmly as I could, ¡°Of course, sir. Everyone knows that.¡±


    ¡°Everyone except the journalist, it seems,¡± the policeman commented wryly. ¡°We explained to him as politely as you please that that sort of thing Just Wasn¡¯t Done, but no sooner had we forbid him from making appointments than we found out he was doorstepping. Left a note saying he was going to expose the fairies to the world, then harassed half the archivists, bankers, and hatters in town till he learned we were on his trail. After that he broke and ran; he was last seen heading into these here woods, so we thought we¡¯d step in and make some inquiries of our own.¡±


    ¡°Well, I can confidently tell you he¡¯s not currently here,¡± I said. This was true - he had been here, and now he was dead.


    ¡°Mmm. It¡¯s a big graveyard, laddy. Awfully hard for one man to survey all on his lonesome; awfully easy for one man to hide all on his lonesome. Awfully scary to be doing that survey all by yourself, when you don¡¯t know what¡¯s in the dark. Tell you what - how about I help you search? I can even call in my partner, making the search a little less nerve wracking.¡±


    Every nerve in my body was screaming at me to cut and run, an impulse which only grew stronger as I saw the policeman squeeze his hand and the hand give, depressing inwards by more than two inches.


    ¡°Oh. Thank you for the offer, but really I don¡¯t think he¡¯d be hiding here - no fairies to inquire after, after all,¡± I lied.


    The policemen considered this for a while, sightless eyes scanning the hills. Then, at last, ¡°I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t quite believe you. He has been here, hasn¡¯t he?¡±


    It took me a moment to formulate my response - one moment too long, evidently, for as I was thinking the officer reached his own conclusion. It was, unfortunately, the wrong one.


    ¡°You¡¯re in cahoots with him, aren¡¯t you?¡± The man growled, and drew his pistol. ¡°Buddy, aiding and abetting is a crime in itself.¡±


    And he fired. I threw myself to the side, landing awkwardly on the ground and scrambling away. The area where I¡¯d been standing burst into electric blue fire, the flames matching the strange ethereal light swirling around what was most assuredly not a standard-grade police pistol.


    The police officer stepped forwards, his gait jerky, and aimed his pistol at my still prone form. An object flew through the night. The officer clutched his face, cursing. The spare flashlight landed on the ground, having just hit him in the eye.


    ¡°You might want to run,¡± Joseph calmly remarked from within the trees. I needed no further invitation, climbing back to my feet and dashing into the woods as the officer removed his hand from his face. Black ichor dripped from a deep gash on his cheek, the silvery sheen of steel visible underneath his plastic flesh.


    He removed his glasses, revealing two hollow pits underneath, and scanned the woods till he located the tree Joseph was hiding behind.


    ¡°Target x1a7Yypz detected. Activating Protocol #00373,¡± he intoned, his voice now greatly more monotonous. Two bolts shot out from his gun - Joseph leapt aside at superhuman speeds, scooping me up under his arm - a pair of innocent trees bursting asunder behind us. The officer grimaced, seeing his shots had missed. ¡°Ineffective. Disassembling.¡±


    And before I could ask Joseph who the policeman was or what he was talking about, the officer dissolved.

 Chapter Ten(a): If It Hadnt Been For That Automaton...

    Flesh turned inwards as mechanisms rolled outwards, the hiss of steam and the clank of metal plates resounding as the thing transformed from a human being into a hulking, hunched hunk of pipes and steel. It lurched over, its legs bent at unnatural angles, arms holding it aloft from the ground like some sort of mechanised gorilla. A second, lower pair of arms trailed metallic whips across the earth, and its eyes were great lamps shining out of a blank face.


    ¡°I must admit, that was a valiant attempt to convince it, my friend,¡± the vampire said to me cheerily as the thing began skittering towards us at speed, arms slipping and sliding over the frost-coated loam. ¡°Unfortunately, it¡¯s incapable of thought, and thus your venture was doomed from the outset.¡±


    ¡°I beg your pardon?¡± I asked as the vampire slid to the ground. A bolt flew overhead, blasting a hole in the earth three yards before us.


    ¡°It¡¯s an automaton- it may look like it thinks and breathes and lives and feels, but it¡¯s just hollow inside; it¡¯s only a shambolic heap, rumbling forth under a life force that is not its own.¡± The vampire thought about this. ¡°A bit like how the princess described humans, really.¡±


    By now we were running again. The vampire suddenly switched directions, dashing to the side - a prescient decision, for a moment later the machine landed where he would have been, gouging a hole in the ground before scrabbling to turn about and propel itself forwards. It made no noise, merely continuing the chase in a hellish silence.


    ¡°Perhaps it¡¯s best to stay away from the graves,¡± the vampire mused, heading towards a quiet grove that had not yet been settled. ¡°That will keep us from disturbing anyone who would, shall we say, be better off asleep.¡±


    The vampire jumped, a bolt of fire passing inches under his feet, and landed in a roll. He rose perfectly back to his feet inside the clearing, propping me up against a tree and turning to face his foe. He spit on the ground and rolled up his sleeves, his fangs seeming to lengthen as he grinned wickedly. ¡°Speaking of things that don¡¯t exist - this should be fun. I enjoy a good tussle with an impossibility.¡±


    The automaton swept into the clearing. Up close it was huge - easily well over nine feet - its steel screeching hideously as it clambered forth, gazing upon the vampire in silent condemnation.


    ¡°Well met. You¡¯ll have to excuse my silence earlier - I didn¡¯t want to interfere in a policeman¡¯s duties,¡± the vampire blithely observed. ¡°After all, obstruction of justice is a major crime.¡±


    A creak, some kind of screech, and the automaton went for his head. To my surprise the vampire took him head on, grabbing the thing¡¯s arms and trying to force it into a grapple.


    ¡°Now,¡± he said casually, as he wrestled the much larger abomination into the earth. ¡°I think we can learn an important lesson from this, one which is not unrelated to my tale.¡±


    ¡°Is this really the time?¡± I snapped in a panic, hurriedly searching my body for anything that might help him in his struggle against the machine.


    ¡°Of course it¡¯s the time. I told you, dead men tell the best tales - and the best tales are those you hear when you¡¯re sad and heavy, and which lighten your hearts again. I believe it was something the princess said to me when I was on the moon¡­¡±This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°Again, stop telling your story backwards - you¡¯d only just arrived in Loomingdale.¡± I observed, the inanity escaping my lips in my anxiety over the moment.


    With a pump of his supernatural muscles the vampire forced the robot to the ground, bringing it to its knees and continuing to exert force on its arms. Nonetheless, his voice was entirely normal and even cheery as he continued. ¡°No, no, you won¡¯t get me this time - the other times I skipped, by mistake, important details, but this time I can assure you it was intentional. My journeys in Loomingdale were entirely uneventful, other than my meeting with the princess and my fight against the dread demon Kruller, who wanted to replace wholesome healthy breakfasts with donuts and bacon.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you think that might be important?¡± I had stopped digging through my pockets and turned to the ground, looking for tree branches or poles or anything else I could use.


    ¡°To me? Sure. As its own narrative? Sure. To our narrative? Not in the slightest. So, as I was saying: I believe it was something the princess said to me when I was on the moon-¡±


    ¡°Can you at least tell me who the princess was, and where she came from?¡± I begged desperately, half beside myself.


    ¡°Oh, the daughter of the mayor was the princess.¡±


    ¡°See! That¡¯s totally like a king!¡±


    The vampire didn¡¯t immediately respond; he was bending the automaton over backward, using his body like a lever to stretch its spine in directions it was never meant to go. The robot screeched and started to thrash, trying to dislodge him before he shattered its mechanical bones.


    At last the vampire remarked, ¡°Shovel.¡±


    ¡°Shovel?¡± I repeated, failing to comprehend the remark.


    ¡°The shovel,¡± the vampire repeated, nodding his head towards the shovel which, all forgotten, I still held in my hand. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen it in action, but Gertrude - ah! You¡¯ve not met her yet - the Great Dame - says that the gravekeepers had it built for precisely this kind of situation.¡±


    ¡°This happens often?¡± I said inanely, before the automaton succeeded in escaping the vampire¡¯s grasp. It spun about at its hips, dislodging him and throwing him against a nearby tree. Steel whips cracked against the earth, its upper arms breaking apart to reveal claws a foot long.


    ¡°I appreciate the alacrity,¡± Joseph wryly remarked, as he pulled himself from the wreckage of the tree. I blushed. ¡°Ah-¡±


    And then I had to duck myself as the chains flew for my head, striking the vampire instead and sending him hurtling once more into the tree.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay. As my master always said, ¡®Often, the forces of good will lose; sometimes, this is because they¡¯re led by idiots¡¯ - and I was the leader here.¡± The vampire cheerily remarked, not from within the rubble but from the thing¡¯s back. He had moved at speeds far faster than I could see, and was straddling the thing, its neck locked in between his arms.


    ¡°Now, if we could do that a little faster,¡± he cheerily observed. I dashed forwards, nearly tripping over myself in my nervousness, and uttering something that could have been a war cry and could have been a squawk I hit the robot over the head.


    Light burst from the shovel, an insidious blue glow enveloping me, its touch a warm tickle, and in the distance I heard the sound of bells.


    The thing¡¯s head fragmented, bits and bobs and cogs flying every which way, and after an agonising moment the shambolic heap stilled. Slowly, the vampire unwound his arms, letting it slump to the floor.


    ¡°I see they still haven¡¯t installed a backup generator. A bunch of cheapskates, if you ask me - imagine failing in your plans of dastardly darkness because you skimped out on safety protocols, all to save a few pennies.¡± And the vampire slapped his palms together.


    ¡°Now, for our next problem.¡±


    ¡°We have another problem?¡± I asked in confusion.


    ¡°Of course. It said it had a partner, now didn¡¯t it?¡± The vampire asked, and then he leaned backwards - his knees not even bending - as an eight-inch spike passed through where his head had been.

 Chapter Ten(b): If It Hadnt Been For That Automaton...

    ¡°We have another problem?¡± I asked in confusion.


    ¡°Of course. It said it had a partner, now didn¡¯t it?¡± The vampire asked, and then he leaned backwards - his knees not even bending - as an eight-inch spike passed through where his head had been.


    -


    Moving smoothly back to his resting position he then leaned forwards, another spike passing behind him.


    A flurry of spikes followed, the vampire smoothly slipping and sliding past each of them, eventually transitioning from his weird kneeless bend to some sort of dance.


    ¡°But as I was saying,¡± Joseph said, apparently unconcerned about the shards of death raining out of the sky. ¡°I believe it was something the princess said to me when I was on the moon. This was shortly after we¡¯d met - I¡¯d saved her from Kruller¡¯s haunted doughnuts, moments before she was roasted and turned into savoury stuffing - and we didn¡¯t yet know each other well.¡±


    The other automaton struck the clearing like thunder and lightning. It was even larger than its partner, standing over twelve feet tall. Each of its claws were two feet long, sharp hooked things that stuck out in a point from where fingers should be. Two lower hands emerged from cavities within its chest, a pair of cannons spraying the clearing with miasmic energy.


    I leapt behind one of the trees; Joseph knelt under the corpse of the first automaton, using it as a shield. He pulled a pistol out of his coat pocket. The glow of his eyes shifted to umber, his pistol crackling with the same light. It fired, the crack of the gun followed by a boom, as the robot¡¯s knee was reduced to shrapnel.


    The automaton tumbled forwards and kept tumbling, hitting the ground and starting to roll as its body reshaped itself into a great spiked ball.


    ¡°Time to run,¡± Joseph said cheerily. And then run we did, dashing as fast as our legs would carrying us down the hill and across the graveyard, the mechanical malignancy in chase.


    ¡°I was telling her about my quest,¡± the vampire shouted, somehow deciding that now was the appropriate time to continue his narrative. ¡°And how I was looking for evidence of the inexistence of humans among themselves. She found this greatly amusing, as I understood it, laughing so hard she fell back into the moon moss that coated the abandoned tunnels.¡±


    The spinning robot of death hit a tilted tombstone and flew off, transforming in midair back into its humanoid form. It descended from the sky like a comet, slamming into the vampire and pounding him into the earth.


    ¡°I asked her for her thoughts, as we walked those ancient halls. She thought deeply on the matter - she had the time, for we had fallen into the nest of a murklug, and one must always speak carefully in their dens.¡± The vampire glibly remarked from under the automaton. Putting his hands down on the ground he pushed upwards, shrugging the thing off and casting it aside.


    The bot raised its left hand, its claws transforming into a great spiked mace, and tried to turn the vampire into undead paste upon the floor.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    ¡°I merely remained silent. Now that I had made my aims known to her, it was sufficient for me to listen, while I sought to end the vile beast that had us in its clutches.¡± The mace slammed into the vampire, the creature not even bothering to dodge, tanking the blow as he was driven to his knees in the dirt.


    ¡°A bit like this vile beast?¡± I asked, wishing I hadn¡¯t dropped my shovel in our mad dash. I still had my truncheon, but something told me the length of wood would be entirely ineffective in harming the thing.


    ¡°No; a murklug is a monster of the old era, whose ancestors once dwelt under the beds of children in peace - fulfilling their noble duty to scare kids in the dark - until one day they fell under that most dread of spells: postmodern literary criticism. It ate away at their souls and turned them from cheerful fellows into morbid and murderous demons, whose only skill was tearing apart the threads of language - and, once they were done with that, your body.¡±


    The vampire¡¯s own claws raked the automaton¡¯s mace, ripping through the weapon; hooking his foot under the thing¡¯s own he unbalanced it, sending it hurtling back. ¡°This one had undone my spells by observing that ¡®spell¡¯ can mean both magical workings and the act of articulating letters, and had then deconstructed my pistol through techniques too evil to mention.¡±


    The robot slammed the vampire with its shattered arm, sending him flying into the midst of the graveyard proper. The vampire stood up outside a mausoleum, dusting himself off, and spit black bile onto the ground.


    Twice the automaton stomped its feet, metal cables slinking out from under its plates and knitting its knee back together. before preparing its final charge. Joseph braced himself to receive it.


    ¡°And then it was that she said those fateful words to me - the words that would echo through my mind again and again, and again when I saw the officer.¡±


    The automaton launched into its final charge. Joseph braced to receive it.


    And then the doors of the mausoleum opened. Fog billowed it, so thick I found myself quite incapable of seeing anything. A great pair of lamps, far larger than those of the automaton, flickered briefly from out of the dark of the doorway, and then there was a sucking sound. A moment later the fog cleared, revealing a still braced Joseph¡­ And no robot to be found.


    ¡°A-hum,¡± humphed a voice from inside the mausoleum. It was all that was dignified and ladylike, and I felt myself straightening up a little as its almost visceral displeasure washed over me.


    ¡°Sorry, Gertrude,¡± the vampire said sheepishly. ¡°It won¡¯t happen again.¡±


    ¡°See that it doesn¡¯t,¡± humphed the voice, before the mausoleum doors closed with a crash.


    Silence fell. It was broken only after several minutes by the ever loquacious vampire who, still embarrassed, remarked, ¡°We should leave. It will take her a while to return to sleep, and we wouldn¡¯t want her to think we were unduly disturbing her rest. Besides, we need to dispose of the other body.¡±


    ¡°There is one thing I¡¯m curious about,¡± I said after we had strolled over the next hill, and were far away from Gertrude. ¡°What did the princess say to you? You told that immense story - ignoring several rather conspicuous gaps in the telling - yet you never actually revealed what it was she said.¡±


    The vampire looked up into the Heavens and smiled.


    ***


    ¡°So, the problem is how to prove that human beings are things that live and breathe and think and feel, and not just shambolic heaps that look as if they live and breathe and think and feel, but in fact possess only the semblance of life. Hmm,¡± the princess said, thinking deeply upon the matter. ¡°This is quite the conundrum. But tell me, wouldn''t these shambolic heaps be identical in every respect to human beings from a purely external perspective?¡±


    ¡°Yepperonees,¡± I agreed.


    She tilted her head. ¡°But wouldn¡¯t that you mean you need to believe in humans, to see that they¡¯re there?¡±

 Chapter Eleven: If It Hadnt Been For Those Literary Critics...

    Unfortunately I found myself incapable of answering her question, and not merely because I was incapable of formulating a reply. At the very moment that she¡¯d said ¡®believe¡¯ the murklugs had struck, taking advantage of the word¡¯s lexical ambiguity to momentarily shatter my inner world, disorienting me.


    One of the beasts rammed me; I fell over and tumbled back, off the edge of a cliff bordering the path. At the last moment I narrowly caught hold of a moon moss root, swinging about under the cliff edge. Down below the murklug¡¯s fellows snapped their teeth, yammering insanely about how the increase of speed had unravelled time, and it was time my time came to an end.


    So there I was - hanging from a cliff, armed only with a hairbrush, and surrounded by demons hellbent on converting me to the cause of postmodern literary criticism.


    ***


    I sighed, and planted another fence pole, trying to ignore the undead regaling me with tales of his glory days. After a moment, however, it occurred to me that something was off.


    ¡°Wait, a hairbrush? Where¡¯d the hairbrush come from?¡±


    The vampire broke off explaining what exactly he¡¯d done with the chandelier and said, ¡°What, the hairbrush? Didn¡¯t I tell you - I got it in Loomingdale.¡±


    ¡°No, you didn¡¯t,¡± I complained. ¡°You told me nothing of your journeys in Loomingdale.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± the vampire said.


    ***


    It was during my rescue of the princess, who if you recall had been taken captive by the dread demon Kruller to help further his plot of bringing unhealthy food to the world. (Why, exactly, he had decided to roast a princess and use her for savoury stuffing I could never quite determine: perhaps he thought a royal would have a rich taste.)


    I had not been planning to do any adventuring during my sojourn in the city, and would have passed through without ever learning of her kidnapping or the demon¡¯s plot had not my tour of the statuary in the mayor¡¯s palace occurred at the same time as that illustrious figure was pacing about in obvious despair.


    No sooner had he seen me than he rushed over, excited, and begged me as a creature of the Other Side to go and rescue her. I was a little disoriented at the request but, not being in anything of a rush, I took on the task.


    Knowing the antipathy Kruller had towards all things green and wholesome, I decided to stalk him with a stock of stalks - leeks, to be precise. In retrospect, this was a terrible idea.


    I ran out of vegetable weaponry midway through my rescue of the princess. I could, perhaps, have predicted this - though I like to maintain that some things are outside of a scholar¡¯s grasp (chiefly, my opponents allege, those bearing on the blindingly obvious) - but I didn¡¯t, and it happened.


    The dread demon Kruller had his lair deep in the sewers of the city of Loomingdale, which he held to be excellent symbolism for the aims of his project. It was defended by haunted doughnuts, cacodemonic confectionaries animated through dark magics known long lost from the daylight. They mindlessly went about their malicious work, stopping on the service ramps any who would seek to break into his lair.


    There were many of them, and between one thing and another my stock of stalks stalled, then ran out, leaving me adrift in the midst of the city sewers. I did not, of course, despair, but I must confess that my prospects looked gloomy, and that I was greatly relieved when I saw a tower in the darkness.


    How Samsa I had made the sewers of Loomingdale was lost to time; that he neglected the rules of space in doing so was common knowledge, and consequently I was not altogether confused to see a tower in the midst of the underground.


    The sole occupant of that tower was a sapient lettuce spirit, who at that moment was busy testing out her new hairbrush. (A largely unnecessary venture, given that she was, as has been said, made of lettuce. But who am I to rebuke a lady¡¯s sense of fashion?)


    ¡°Rapunzel Rapunzel,¡± I called from the base of the tower. ¡°Let down a weapon with which I may fight the dread demon Kruller, pretty please.¡±


    The sapient lettuce spirit gazed out the tower window, considered me, and nodded. After a moment an old, shabby hairbrush landed on the tiles by my feet.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Here. My old hairbrush - you can have it.¡±


    I thanked her profusely and continued on my way, finally fighting into the inner sanctum of the dread demon Kruller, where he prepared his bacon and fried his doughnuts. There, tied down to a conveyor belt, was the princess, the dread demon Kruller and a dozen of his finest doughnuts watching as she slowly travelled to her doom.


    ***


    ¡°And then I rescued her,¡± the vampire finished simply. ¡°And she was so grateful for my daring rescue - and so intrigued by my intrepid venture - that she asked to journey alongside me, a request to which I easily assented.¡±


    ¡°But what was special about the hairbrush?¡± I asked, still confused.


    ¡°Ah,¡± the vampire said cheerily. ¡°It was really, really, sturdy.¡±


    ***


    So there I was - hanging from a cliff, armed only with a hairbrush, and surrounded by demons hellbent on converting me to the cause of postmodern literary criticism. Beneath me was a great hall, built by the immortals way back when they crafted the moon, and full of their signature touch ¡ª Chairs and tables, carved out of stone in beautiful patterns, the tables long enough to seat a hundred people and fancy enough for all of them to be dignitaries. Old suits of armour, lovingly sewn tapestries - ah, it was a beautiful place, even in its ruination.


    It had been slapped rather haphazardly alongside the tunnel through which we¡¯d been walking. Whether this was due to the whimsical decisions of those long-gone immortals, or to an act of the monsters who had since settled this place, I knew not; but I did know it was precisely what I most needed¡­ A chandelier.


    Biffing away one of the murklugs with my all-important hairbrush - and making sure it was a biff, for ¡®biff¡¯ has but one meaning - I braced my feet against the side of the cliff and, using it as a springboard, leapt for the chandelier.


    I nearly turned into a thin smear of vampire on the distant floor, only just barely catching hold of the chandelier¡¯s edge. It rocked wildly, nearly dislodging me. The murklugs hooted inanely down below and in the tunnel (where they¡¯d pushed the princess up against the wall), and tried to shift the meaning of ¡®wild¡¯ to its typical sense as a noun.


    Taking advantage of the chandelier¡¯s swing I pushed back during the pendulum¡¯s return swing, careening into the tunnel. I tossed aside three murklugs, narrowly holding down my lunch as they deconstructed and psychoanalyzed ¡®toss,¡¯ and caught the princess.


    We swung back, out from the claws of the screeching murklugs; and then they were successful in changing the sense of ¡®swung wildly,¡¯ and my chandelier transformed into a nest of brambles and adders.


    Our momentum continued to carry us forwards, away from the tunnel and across the hall, until we landed at the far end. I, of course, plowed face first into the earth, surviving only thanks to my undying bones; the princess landed gracefully, as princesses ought.


    The murklugs in the tunnel began to climb down the walls, their sticky limbs clinging easily to its side. Their compatriots down below were already chasing us, such that no sooner was I on my feet than we were once more running, out the immense double doors of the hall and down a steep, winding path.


    There was a disconnect between the doors of the hall and the path outside, a disconnect that perhaps testified that the immortals had not been quite so whimsical as to build the hall in that fashion. Though the double doors were huge - more than sufficient for giants to pass through - the path outside was not.


    It was small, and winding, and stuck to a cliff, with many tiny offshoots and branchings and overhangs that were far too narrow for one to pass under comfortably. We dashed down the path, slipping occasionally, the murklugs in manic pursuit - until, wanting to shake off our pursuers, the princess dragged me down a side passage.


    ¡°This way,¡± she hissed. ¡°They will not find us here.¡±


    ¡°Oh? How do you know?¡± I asked in genuine curiosity, for the path looked like all the others and, therefore, might be just as easily found.


    ¡°It¡¯s simple. Once the princess is saved from peril, she cannot immediately be recaptured,¡± she said, with absolute faith.


    I frankly doubted this adage, doubts which were rewarded half a minute later as one of the murklugs could be heard to distantly howl, after which we heard the slapping sound of their feet upon the floor.


    ¡°Drat,¡± murmured the princess. ¡°They were supposed to rush off vainly down the main route while we took the side passage.¡±


    Hurriedly, I looked about. We had passed through narrow tunnels a moment prior, but the tunnel had now opened up. Before us the path began to circle downwards, down with carven steps into a gigantic pit, from which a pale emerald light glimmered invitingly.


    There was only one way for us to go - whether we took the stairs or leapt - and that was down.


    So down we want, the murklugs clambering after, neither of us talking for fear lest the murklugs should mangle our words. This was perhaps their intent, for though the murklug is a creature that obsesses over words it yet hates them, and hates in particular their ability to bind together; still, we had our senses of touch, and as we were together that was enough.


    Eventually the stairway levelled out, revealing what looked, oddly, like a library, or perhaps a sitting room. Bookshelves were carefully placed at intervals about the circular floor, their shelves stuffed full with ancient tomes. Near one wall was a fireplace - the source of the pale emerald light - and a rocking chair before it, atop a lush carpet, in which a man was sitting and reading a book.


    As we finished climbing the steps the man put his book down on a nearby side table, stood up, and turned to face us.


    ¡°Hello,¡± said the Man in the Moon, as the murklugs bore down on us. ¡°How are you today?¡±

 Chapter Twelve: If It Hadnt Been For The Man In the Moon...

    The princess said nothing, entirely breathless after the chase. I, who do not breathe, was slightly more verbose, pointing up the stairs after us and asking the Man in the Moon for aid in dislodging the murklugs.


    The murklugs were still descending the stairs in a great crowd, pushing and shoving, each trying to get in front of the other. They cursed and swore, and clawed and snapped, and occasionally ripped apart each other¡¯s language; one plunged from the stairway down onto the floor, having made the mistake of remarking that he was dead tired. His body hit with a meaty thud, and lay still.


    The Man in the Moon looked at the creatures and sighed, pulling a staff from out of thin air.


    ¡°I care not for semantic trickery,¡± he idly remarked, banging his staff on the ground once. ¡°Begone from my sight, and return only once you know what ¡®sight¡¯ is.¡±


    And the murklugs disappeared, even the one on the floor evaporating in a fine mist.


    ¡°Now,¡± said the Man in the Moon cheerily, his movements betraying his real annoyance. ¡°We can have a proper chat, and you can answer my question.¡±


    And he turned to face us.


    The Man in the Moon is a strange fellow to gaze upon. A little rough about the edges, his clothes old and worn, with bits of straw unaccountably hanging out from his overalls. His skin glows softly, flickering into darkness in waves across his body, and his face is hidden under his farmer¡¯s hat.


    ¡°So, my question - How are you today? And, perhaps, another question - Can I offer you refreshments?¡±


    I shook my head - a vampire needs sustenance but rarely, and he was unlikely to have what I needed - but thanked him kindly; the princess took him up on his offer.


    As the Man in the Moon prepared cakes and tea we told him our story - from the most immediate troubles with the murklugs, back through to my journey to the Northern Wastes, and even earlier than that, to the very start of my journey.


    I am still unsure if I made a mistake here, for I did not ask him about the initial object of my journey - namely, to prove the inexistence of humans. This object came up again and again during the telling of my story, even guiding its contours, but I made no move to ask for his own thoughts upon the matter.


    This was not because I was uninterested - quite to the contrary - nor because I thought the Man in the Moon incapable of contributing to my search - again, quite to the contrary. Rather, the question did not come up because there was a far worse question tickling at the back of my mind.


    It had been bothering me since my train stopped in Galton, had grown in intensity after my experiences in that town¡¯s university, and had voluminously swelled during my journey through the Far Leprous Hills and the Jungle of Unk.


    Something was not right with the world. I couldn¡¯t put my finger on it - perhaps it was the many-sided beings, who live on the moon and ought not be seen on earth. Or perhaps it was the demon Kruller, who had created homunculi using spellforms not seen even in the university at night, when the scholarship grows far weirder and altogether more uncanny. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Or perhaps it was the automatons, who had accosted me in Galton and whose origin I had yet to uncover. In any event, certain questions stood out in my mind - why had belief in vampires been declared illegal? And, more importantly, why was the staff at the university of Galton replaced by automatons? And - if I could verge slightly into the conspiratorial - were there any threads that tied these events to the others I had experienced, or was this merely a result of the unstable times?


    As the Man in the Moon was said to be famously wise I decided to ask these questions of him. He pursed his lips and sat down in his rocking chair, motioning for us to likewise sit.


    After a protracted moment of us scanning the room, searching for other chairs, he waved a hand, and two more rocking chairs sprung into being.


    ¡°You asked the right questions, and unfortunately I can offer you an answer. Your troubles do have one cause, tying back to the first man who recognised you for a vampire - the dean. Or, rather, the one who built him.


    ¡°He came here a year ago, climbing the thread of moon moth silk at the back of the Most Westerly Point. He never gave me a name, and I doubt he had one - he was one of those faceless fellows who stalk round the margins of history, wreaking destruction wherever he goes. But his purpose was clear: he wanted to replicate the many-sided beings who live on the moon.


    ¡°I told him this couldn¡¯t be done. None now live who know where the many-sided beings who live on the moon came from, nevermind who know how they came into being. Still, he was not to be dissuaded. He told me that he would replicate the many-sided beings, master their ever-changing essence, and use it to make his nation altogether more¡­ He didn¡¯t have a word for it.¡±


    The Man in the Moon took a sip of his tea, clearly lost in thought. The light coming from his skin shook stormily, as if being covered by clouds.


    ¡°When he left I thought the matter was done, and indeed it looked all but finished - till slightly over half a year later, when the many-sided beings began to behave funnily. They went haywire, behaving in all sorts of jagged and discomfitting patterns, and some even descended down the thread of moon moth silk to the back of the Most Westerly Point. Worse yet, when I descended the thread myself for my regular new moon outing, I found that much of fairyland was the same - wild, and full of a nameless terror that gnawed at the heart.


    ¡°I tracked down the trail of the many-sided beings, through the Far Leprous Hills and up north, towards Galton. As I went the pit of dread in the depths of my stomach grew deeper and deeper, for I knew but one person from the Northern Wastes, and he was the one I wanted to be least involved in this mess. Unfortunately reality rarely follows our desires, and upon my arrival in the city I was able to swiftly confirm my worst suspicions.


    ¡°He had engineered, through magical arts that remain known only to himself, control over the many-sided beings - and indeed over a great many other creatures of the Other Side - and while he had failed in his quest to replicate them he had done something much worse. He had replicated, in a hellish form, their lack of essence, building from this discovery mechanical nightmares with no gaze and no thoughts, no touch and no hopes, who existed in a processive series of transformations devoid of any meaning.¡±


    Another sip of tea. This time the Man in the Moon remained lost in thought, brooding. At last I could take the silence no longer and, all breathless with anticipation, inquired, ¡°But how did he do it?¡±


    The reply was simple.


    ¡°He is old and he is cold, and he has stolen a sliver of the moon.¡±


    No more detail did the Man in the Moon give us. After the end of a long, long silence, he merely remarked, ¡°And I would like you to get it back.¡±

 Chapter Thirteen: If It Hadnt Been For Those Hot Dogs...

    ¡°So did you?¡± I asked, breathless myself for the first time in the vampire''s telling.


    ¡°Oy,¡± said the vampire, miffed. ¡°No skipping ahead in the story.¡±


    I stared at him, my face the very picture of a lack of amusement, and plopped the last fence post in the ground. After burying the broken automaton (with the vampire¡¯s help) I had gone about to some of the more recently messed up fence posts, fixing them, in a bid to make the graveyard look like I hadn¡¯t neglected every directive given to me.


    ¡°What do you think?¡± I asked. ¡°It looks okay, eh? They won¡¯t know anything untowards happened, eh?¡±


    The vampire scanned the hills, where numerous destroyed trees could be seen littering the ground, scorch marks still clear on their trunks. ¡°Uh huh. Sure.¡±


    I groaned.


    ¡°Say,¡± the vampire idly observed, ¡°you¡¯re not being charged for damages, are you?¡±


    I froze fearfully. I hadn¡¯t considered this.


    ¡°Enh,¡± the vampire said airily, having successfully induced anxiety throughout my entire person. ¡°It¡¯s probably fine.¡±


    I just stared at the graves, and wished I could slowly sink into the earth to join their inhabitants, rather than confess to the gravekeepers that I had systematically failed at following their instructions.


    ¡°In any event,¡± the vampire cheerily remarked. ¡°I can¡¯t yet tell you whether I did get the moon back, but I can tell you that both of us were willing to take the quest on, albeit with trepidation. The brief threads the Man in the Moon had traced out for us indicated a conspiracy stretching across the better part of half a continent, which was hardly the sort of thing that two creatures who inhabited the margins of civilisation might be expected to track down.


    ¡°Nevertheless, he was insistent, and after some further discussion managed to seed sufficient thoughts in us that the princess saw it as her duty to intervene as a future lawfully-if-hereditarily-elected mayor, and I considered it, if not strictly necessary to my own investigations, than certainly highly beneficial. The only question was the how.¡±


    ¡°So, how did you track the man down?¡±


    The vampire looked mistily into the night.


    ***


    I had arrived in the graveyard for the first time, seeking a night¡¯s rest on my way into the city. This the gravekeepers were happy to give me, for the purpose of a graveyard is to bring rest to the dead (and also I had lots of money).


    The princess was not with me. We split up when we descended the thread of moon moth silk that lay to the back of the Most Westerly Point, each of us with our dedicated tasks, and after a long journey (largely unworthy of remark) I had arrived back in the Northern Wastes, alone.


    I assumed it would be a quiet night, spent meditating in peace before I continued my journey to Galton on the morrow. I was wrong.


    First there was that young thief. I don¡¯t know what that woman wanted or what she was expecting to get, but find something she did, when she disturbed the nest of the graveyard¡¯s resident corpse raven, Crusty.


    Crusty of course felt very sorry for what he had done, but by that time it was already too late, and so we had to work fast to erase the evidence - very fast, for at that time they did not have you as their night watchman, but still did the work themselves, and thus it was only a matter of time until one of them tripped over us.


    We had buried the woman and erected a gravestone - John, perhaps unwisely, had supplied us one at random from his supply - and after that we all dispersed, so as not to look as if we had anything to do with the grave.


    I returned to my meditation, determined to look as harmless and unprepossessing as I could. Yet again I failed in my venture, but this time it was I who caught wind of the disturbance.


    It was the sound of shovels, impacting the earth. It could not be the gravekeepers, who after all did not dig after dark, and while they allowed the undead to do so I had only just returned the shovels to the office, and knew that nobody else was using them.


    Accordingly I groaned to myself and went to check out the disturbance, hoping it would just be some ghoul out adding an extension to his grave, or remodeling his subterranean swimming pool. Once more I was wrong.


    This time it was an entire gang of thieves. They were digging up - can you believe this - the very body we had just buried, dragging the poor woman out of the redug hole and tossing her onto a cart filled with exhumed bodies in varying stages of decomposition.


    They were muttering and murmuring to themselves, motioning every which way, clearly on edge. And why wouldn¡¯t they be, when they were desecrating the dead?


    I should have run for the gravekeeper. If not them, then at least the other denizens of the graveyard, who had lived there for years and were just as much its masters as the gravekeepers.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    I did neither. At the sight of them removing that body white hot rage filled me - irrational, I know, not only to feel such emotion but to feel such emotion about a human being, who after all is nothing at all - but it filled me all the same, and before I knew it I had leapt for the nearest of the men.


    My fangs sank into his shoulder, my claws scrabbled against his back. He cried out and fell back, alerting his fellows.


    To their credit they gave no hue nor cry, preserving their secrecy. Three men fanned out about me while two of them sought to push away the cart at speed. I could not see their faces, only crazed eyes spinning madly under their masks, and each of them carried a short sword.


    It was three men, but what sort of vampire would I be if three men were enough even to slow me down? In two leaps and a bound they were dead on the ground, necks snapped, bodies eviscerated, and I was chasing after the men with the cart.


    To their credit, they managed to evade me for thirty seconds, running at speeds far faster than any human was capable of, were they unaided by magic. Still, they were but human, and eventually I closed the distance after propelling myself from the earth in a jump, dismembering one of the men upon my landing.


    The other reached in a panic for the sword at his belt, but I had already shattered his arm. He wheeled back, finally bursting into a scream, only to fall silent as I gently rapped him on the head.


    I bound him with a length of rope I had and went for assistance, contracting Crusty and Anselm, (an old acquaintance of mine who I¡¯d been delighted to find in the graveyard) to help me rebury the bodies.


    We had only got around to reburying the woman when the gravekeeper, attracted by the noise, came upon us. It took him no more than a moment to take in the sight - the cart of corpses, the corpse thieves dead upon the earth, and us with our shovels standing above a recently disturbed grave.


    We dissembled, saying it was an old grave and only recently disturbed; a lie that was all too easily discovered when the gravekeeper himself took a shovel to the grave, and swiftly discovered that the young woman buried there by no means matched the ninety year old man whose name was on the tombstone. Then he saw the signs of the corpse raven¡¯s presence.


    You should have heard the hiding he gave Crusty. It would have been quite embarrassing - to be rebuked in that manner, like a child, when one is a scholar at a university - but I stolidly waited it out, face assiduously neutral as his storm of criticism raged. I even said nothing when the gravekeeper, after chewing out Crusty for the better part of half an hour, told him to find out the woman¡¯s last wishes and deal with her body appropriately, thank you kindly.


    Yes, I¡¯m a patient soul that way.


    The initial unpleasantries dealt with, I borrowed a mausoleum from Gertrude for the further unpleasantries, hoping to talk to the man somewhere where no one could hear him scream.


    I was somewhat worried about getting him to talk - all I had with me was an old hairbrush - but it appeared such worries were unnecessary. Moments after waking up and gazing upon me, bleary eyed, he suddenly straightened and shouted ¡°I¡¯ll talk! I¡¯ll talk!¡±


    And talk he did, at length, to the point that I nearly nodded off amidst his incessant drone. He gave me every detail about his life and his doings, and what had brought him to that point. It was a long story and a winding one, and generally uninteresting enough as to be unworthy of recounting.


    The only part of the story that was relevant to our tale - and the reason I brought it up in the first place - was his reason for being there, reasons that proved fortuitously tied to my own ventures.


    He explained that he was in charge of the company that provided cafeterias to such varied institutions as the university, the mayor¡¯s office, the stock market, and several famous newspapers, and that his company specialised in hot dogs. You should be able to see where this story was going already.


    There was an old adage about hot dogs - let me see if I can remember it - ah! It goes, if I¡¯m not mistaken, something like the following.


    When the gentlemen of Albion were coming up with names for all the words in the English language, they decided to give meat distinct names from the animals from which they derived. Said the eldest gentleman, ¡°And we will call the meat of the cow, beef.¡±


    And the second eldest gentleman, ¡°And we will call the meat of the pig, pork.¡±


    And the third eldest gentleman, ¡°And we will call the meat of the sheep, mutton.¡±


    And the fourth eldest gentleman, ¡°But of the chicken? What should we call that?¡±


    The gentlemen thought for a while and then the eldest said, ¡°the chicken we can preserve, and call chicken.¡±


    ¡°And hot dogs? What about them?¡±


    The gentlemen shrugged. ¡°No one knows where they come from anyways.¡±


    Well - now I knew, and very much did I wish I didn¡¯t. The man was utterly unrepentant for his part in the whole business, insisting that it was a prescient cost-cutting measure, which substantially reduced costs for both clients and customers while preserving a delicious and nutritious taste. Even better, he said, it was a form of recycling, and therefore was excellent for the environment.


    My revulsion alone was sufficient to dismiss this line of reasoning - as that other old adage said, ¡®the greatest crimes are those born of logic¡¯ - but I was intrigued by a subtle hint, dropped like a gleaming diamond in the midst of a sea of filth.


    The man mentioned that his hot dog business catered to the university, the mayor¡¯s office, the stock market, and sundry papers. When asked about the nature of his contract, however, he informed me with an uncomfortable twitch that in spite of the plurality of locations, he had but one employer.


    Said employer had never given the man a name - said he didn¡¯t need it, that it didn¡¯t refer to anything - but he paid well, so the man remembered everything about him. He had wanted a contract for a large quantity of hot dogs to be delivered to ¡®his¡¯ various establishments, and for a kind of oil - a lubricant - to be made out of any extra¡­ bits the man had once he was finished with processing.


    To make two sales with one product? Who would refuse? Certainly no sane person, or at least that¡¯s how the man put it to me. He gave me one or two other details, enough for me to find my target; and then, done with him, I gave him another body for his stock. (Alas, the gift was never received.)


    Of course we felt so sorry about the whole mess that, even though she had been a thief, we didn¡¯t exorcise the woman¡¯s ghost - you know how it is, to have to watch while thieves steal your corpse to make hot dogs. If you ever stop by the columbarium again, ask to meet Ashley. She¡¯s a sweet girl, really.


    Once she had been given a proper home and I had paid the deposit on a grave for the next several weeks - for I had no clue how long my journey would take, and I might need somewhere to sleep - I continued on my way, to the area indicated by my lead¡­ Back, back to Galton.

 Chapter Fourteen: If It Hadnt Been For That Stock Market...

    The vampire patiently waited for me to finish vomiting - I had never eaten a hot dog (my father had forbidden it), and certainly never at the university, but still, the implications. Once I was done looking nominally more presentable he slapped me on the shoulder and said, ¡°Don''t worry. I was later able to confirm that, far from being a unique aberration, the corpse thief I encountered was considered remarkably reserved in his choice of hot dog ingredients - most other makers cut costs further by adding roadkill and mine tailings.¡±


    And then I vomited again.


    The vampire sighed and gave me a moment, taking the opportunity to down a swig of a mysterious liquid from out of a flask. I didn¡¯t ask what it was - not blood, for he had told me he quit being a vampire, but an undead was unlikely to be drinking tea - and waited till he was done, at which point he continued his story.


    ***


    Galton was as depressing the second time I saw it as it was upon my initial encounter. A series of Bleak Houses and Hard Times, with no Great Expectations or Twists for poor Oliver to liven it up. Even an Old Curiosity Shop would have sufficed, or the Chimes ringing up above. But alas, there was no more than the occasional Cricket on the Hearth, chirping sadly as the people scurried about.


    I still did not know who I was looking for, but I knew where I would find him. No, not the university - he was a researcher, yes, but he preferred an environment more conducive to intellectual endeavour than an educational institution.


    So I went to the stock market.


    As you told me you¡¯ve been to the capital many a time I suspect you¡¯ve already seen the stock market, so I¡¯ll confine my remarks to general impressions. Even then the outcome may contain overmuch in the way of description, for which you¡¯ll have to forgive me - for all I may make a bitter smile at the notion of humans, I can never help but be impressed at the sight of the structures which grow about you, and which the naive attribute to your agency.


    That the stock market was capable of moving is one such example. A beautiful colossus done in the old style of architecture, its silver body a masterwork of art deco with ornate windows and gilded moulding, the vaguely insectoid heap of piled luxuries scuttled back and forth across the streets of Galton on great mechanical legs, glibly stepping over cars and tenement housing. It followed a set route on its journeys, starting at the city hall and proceeding from there to the university, with stops at various newspapers and major corporations as needed.


    I had heard it was a new creation - designed but three months ago, and built only a month after, a truly impressive feat given the perennially late nature of the human builder. It certainly looked new, its limbs pristine, its surface shiny, without any dents or damages.


    I had good reason for wanting to gain access to the building. Abductive reasoning - that is, inference to the best explanation - had indicated that the nameless employer of the hot dog salesman and the mysterious thief of the Man in the Moon were one and the same person, and said reasoning would have favoured this individual being likewise responsible for the automatons even if I had not uncovered sundry articles speaking of the stock market¡¯s designer as a benefactor of the university.


    Said articles had not, alas, given me his name - the reporters had been as unsuccessful as anyone else in getting it, which was hardly surprising given how easily they could be bought - but they had indicated that he did his work in a private wing of the stock market rented to major financial firm Smithers, Inc.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    ***


    And here the vampire cut off his exposition and gazed at me in some surprise. ¡°Your facial expression tells me you know of it, and have less than rosy impressions of the company. May I take it that they took your money?¡±


    I grimaced. ¡°You could say that. I used to work there; when they exploded shortly after the stock market crash, I lost my income, taking all of my money to-be.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡± The vampire brightened. ¡°You¡¯ll like this, then.¡±


    ***


    Of course I could not simply walk into the stock market. It was closed to all except the wealthiest of individuals, its sole door - a retractable wall of iron bars - locked strictly to any lacking express invitation. That I was a vampire, and thus by nature illegal, did not help my case.


    Nor did I know where my target was in that grand building. The stock market was huge - an immense beetle, walking across the city streets - and my preliminary investigations had revealed it was full of shifting hallways and locked rooms, offices galore and meeting rooms whose doors were subjects of legend.


    There was only one thing to do, then: break in illegally (my entire presence being illegal ab initio), and stalk the halls in quiet, seeking out my target with my deadly hairbrush.


    I made my ascent at night, using the cover of night to mask my ascent; I scaled the leg of the beetle, up to its shell above, and then used a rooftop vent to penetrate into the belly of the beast.


    Inside it was all darkness and noise, the lights having been turned off for the night, and the only sound was the chug, chug, rumble, rumble of the engines and the shaking of the legs. Still, I needed no light, my superior senses more than sufficient to see in the pitch dark.


    I descended into its halls, looking for the man with no name.


    I had no inkling of where in the beetle he might be, but I figured it was as a good a guess as any that he was deep in bowels, at the beast¡¯s very heart. Six hours of groping about in the darkness was more than enough to dispel this idea.


    I had reached the deepest depths of the stock market - the huge engines, half the length of a football field, that powered its legs, and which controlled the screens on the ground floor up above, screens that would entertain the crowd of wealthy business owners and speculators who met daily to gamble.


    Stalking about the depths revealed merely more infrastructure, and ascending to the ground floor was no help either - it was an immense marble hall, the length of the insect, containing more than enough space for the stock brokers to break stocks and restaurants at which they might break bread.


    Above that was the twisting halls of offices and meeting rooms, twisting halls which I thought about exploring with a bitter expression, for it would take me many days of careful searching to find anything, days that might easily prove fruitless.


    It was as I was debating what to do that I heard grumbling from one of the vents, grumbling that was very familiar. I ripped the vent off its hinges, scattering nails across the floor, and crawled inside.


    Following the sound took me up and across the beetle, through boardrooms and meeting rooms and dart rooms and relaxation rooms and a room featuring an unaccountable number of gelatinous objects and strange chairs. At last I popped the cover off and crawled out, into a corporate boardroom up in the proverbial oesophagus of the beast, near its roof.


    The corporate boardroom was in a poor state. The spinning chairs required in all offices were in disarray, piled in the corner or tossed against the wall, and the round table had been shattered and used for kindling, to build a great bonfire right smack in the middle of the room, atop the plush carpet.


    Several surprising individuals stood at key points about the pile of kindling, surprising because I recognised them - they were the academics I had met earlier, when I visited the university so long ago.


    Even more surprising was that I recognised the individual tied to a pole in the midst of the pile of kindling, an individual who was looking remarkably chill given the high likelihood of her being burnt at the stake not three minutes later.


    ¡°Yo,¡± said the princess. ¡°How¡¯s it going?¡±