Night Horizon

From the Diary of David DeChevalier (Abridged, and edited for modern language)
March 17th, 1563
Another Wednesday come and gone. I can say with all honesty that it’s my least favourite day. Why, I cannot say, but I just can’t stand it. I’m very happy with the new residence in Orléans. The villa looks out onto the Loire River, and I can stand on my balcony for hours staring into the water, reflecting the sunlight perfectly. I’ve made a few small paintings of the river, and the city- to be sure, it’s what many artists have done before, but I wish to paint for the sake of the art here. The sight of the sunset is indescribable. There is something about this city that calls to me.

March 24th, 1563
The churches in Orléans are incredible! I entered one, for a morning prayer. The vast towering roof above me, the intricate glass windows beside me, the presence of god throughout me- one is tempted to join the priesthood, if only to experience the rapturous delight daily. Fortunately, perhaps, my art is well-appreciated by the upper class, and my portraits are becoming quite popular. Flattering, to be sure, but my passion remains in landscapes- which don’t sell as well.
I tasted a fine broth from an Inn last night. I must go there again- it was light on the palate, but strangely exotic. I should get the recipe.
As for other matters- I have heard that our King Charles IX will be paying a visit to fair Orléans within a month. A fellow artist suggested that maybe the king may ask me to paint his portrait- the thought makes me both nervous, and yet excited. It would be a grand honour, and my fame would spread tremendously. And what more could a man want then eternal fame?

June 5th, 1563
What a tiring day! Again, the whole day was spent composing a portrait for the elderly Lord Clemont. Yes, it pays well, but he’s somewhat of a bore, I fear.
Of greater importance (perhaps) was another man who approached me today. Tall and pale, he carried himself with such a noble bearing I accosted him and demanded to draw a portrait of this living Adonis. He smiled at me. “David, my dear, I would be honoured.” He said to me. His French had a slight accent- but nothing abnormal there. I assume he’s from the south. And after all, many people know me now, after my portrait of the king was so well received. The man, whose name was Alain, has offered me great rewards- though I am confused by this- as I offered to draw him, and he demanded nothing, but as St. Jerome said, “Never inspect the teeth of a gift horse.” I shall go and paint more sunsets- it keeps me calm.
June 11th, 1563
Alain is not all that he seems, or more correctly, is more than he seems. He is addicted to the colour red. And I swore he counted everything I had with me, from brushes to buttons. It’s disconcerting. His house reminds me more of a tomb than the living place of a vibrant, youthful person. Still, motivated by this grim backdrop, in all likelihood, I finished his portrait today. He told me to appear at his ‘house’ again tomorrow, so that I might receive my rewards. To be honest, the sooner I’m done with Alain, the better. The more I get to know him, the more…. inhuman he seems. I go now to bed- the sunset was a deep and violent red tonight. I hope it’s not a sign of things to come.

June 15th, 1563
I have sold my soul to the Devil.

June 16th, 1563
Death (Author note-this appears to have been written in blood.)
June 17th, 1563
Today is the last day of my life. Alain, it has turned out, is a dread being- one of the undead – a vampire. Two days ago, I went to his house, to claim my reward. He stood by the mantelpiece, the room swathed in darkness. “David” he began. “Would you like to be rich?” he asked. I nodded. “And would you like to be powerful? Able to manipulate any situation?” Again, uncertain of where this was leading, I nodded. “And would you like to live forever? Would you accept the burden of immortality?”
I smiled- “I hardly think that living forever is a burden.” I joked.
“For all these things…” he began. He looked up into my eyes- his own dark and menacing. “Would you give your very soul?”
I laughed. “I may go to church, but I don’t believe a word of it. I go for the architecture.” I said. “So of course, I would give my soul for these things.”
Alain smiled- and to my horror, from his mouth spouted two long fangs. “Then it’s a deal.” He said. Transfixed, I stood motionless, as he approached- staring deep into his flinty black eyes.
I do not recall what happened next, but I awoke a few hours later- puncture marks plain upon my neck. Delirious, I staggered home, and collapsed. I awoke this morning, to see what I had written in my journal last night. I fear the worst has happened- and I will soon become one of these loathsome creatures myself. Even now, I can feel the beginnings of the calling, the craving. Blood calls me. But I will be strong.
I will go out one last time, and enjoy the rich warm sunset one last time. The poison even now curling my stomach in pain will do the rest- I have no desire to live forever as the Devil’s pawn. I must bid adieu now. I doubt that anyone will ever read this, but if one does, know this- David DeChavalier chose death in the light to an eternity in darkness.
A single match flared in the darkness. The holder, a tall youth stood over a recumbent figure, a wicked knife grasped firmly with the other hand. It has been a long journey. Disbelief and doubt had plagued those around him. But he had remained adamant. A flash of white from his teeth, reflecting the match’s light- no long fangs here, but no less frightening for it.
The knife flashed forward- there was a sickening thump- and the man bent down, and picked up something. He held it up- it was a human head. He pulled the mouth open, and smiled. The match went out- and the lanky boy, still holding the head, quietly departed.
It was on the news the next day of course- a man decapitated and staked through the heart. The boy, reading the paper, laughed. Now he was really in business. He scrunched the paper up, and threw it in the bin as he slunk away- he had work to do.

Six young mothers by five fine sons, Four fresh fathers by three pretty daughters, Two old men by one young child, All of them dead. Dead. Gone. Dead. All of them killed by me.
(Poem found amongst David’s collection.)

The boy’s name is Conrad Gaspar. Everyone calls him Gaspar- everyone that knows him, that is. Admittedly, that number is small, and only gets smaller. He is twenty four years old- and has spent eight of these years hunting. Not deer foxes or whales. Gaspar hunts the ultimate hunter of mankind- the dread vampire. Of his parents, nothing is known. But to hunt with the passion that he does, one can only presume that bad things occurred to them…
He is a wanted man. After all, he leaves bodies staked and decapitated- the police see no vampires, only a murder. And so, he travels the globe, beholden to no man or law, letting nothing get in his way. He hunts like a man possessed- but if ever there was a man who fought for God, it would be Conrad Gaspar.

January 7th, 1622
Amazing. It’s being almost sixty years since I last wrote in this diary- to rediscover it now was a deeply nostalgic moment. The happiness and joy, the almost petty things I used to do- but these things I used to feel are long gone.
Yes, all those years ago, the poison failed to kill me. I was too late- the foul vampirism that inflicted me prevented it from killing me- but I spent weeks in agony, as the poison took its deadly toll. After this, a few facts became clear. The first was that now the curse had fully taken over- and the second was that I now appeared somewhat resistant to death. Oh, and how I tried to die. Hanging, drowning, stabbing, even leaping from our watchtower- but while the pain was there, the release was not.
Feeding was another problem. At first, with my vestiges of humanity clinging on in vain, I did not feed. But the call- it is indescribable. It is not a drunk’s want for another bottle, or anything of that ilk. It is a need- there is no way to resist. Actively or passively, the call cannot be ignored.
At first, I began with the elderly, the sick, the dying. But it wasn’t enough. The sick and elderly were mere sustenance. The taste of their life’s blood was poor, weak. As my humanity fled, I began to feed on others- I became, as it were, a connoisseur. The tang of innocence in the young maiden, the bitter-sweet taste of the wise old man- all came to appreciate all of these. Those of the female persuasion taste better, I’ve noticed. But by about 1580, all my humanity had fled- I am hollow.
I often wonder whether or not I ‘enjoy’ this un-life, but I cannot give an answer. See now, as the cock crows- I must away to bed. My only regret all these years is missing the sunsets.

“Mind the gap” boomed a voice through the tannoy, distorted by the years of age it had endured. Gaspar, dressed in a nondescript full length grey coat, stepped on the metro, glancing about the carriage as he did so. It was the same as always- silent business men staring at the floor, the homeless guy sleeping, head against the window.
Gaspar smiled bemusedly. All the same, as always. How he hated them all! He noticed a young woman in the back corner reading ‘Twilight’. He frowned, and mentally marked down her face. What would she understand? Wealth, power, and immortality. That was all they saw on the surface- how good on the surface they were- all the materialistic wants and needs of the modern world solved. Soulless beings? Atheism was at an all time high. Evil? Of course, people wanted to try and see it from their perspective- the vampire was more seen as ‘misunderstood’ than ‘evil’.
But how wrong they were. The vampire, no matter who they were in their life, not matter their intentions, must feed on humankind. By definition, they are evil. Failure to understand this was fatal- and attempting to change the facts was criminal.
Of course, it was a week before the young woman’s body was found. It wasn’t a pleasant scene. Gaspar had, in a holy rage, mutilated the collaborator. And by the time the body was identified, Gaspar was long gone- the hint of a coven in Serbia calling him. The hunt was first and last. It was his all. And mercy is the first step to damnation.

21 January 1793
I am not a political person. I may be many things, but politically motivated is not one of them. Yes, I have my contacts, made over my now almost two-hundred and thirty year ‘un-life’. I have titles beyond counting, wealth accumulated over generations. But what is happening now sickens even me. I have ever loved my country- our king, and our culture. But as of July last year, things have begun to shake in France. Revolution sweeps the streets. Thousands are taken and put in the guillotine. Indeed, I myself have been guillotined three times already. You think they’d get the message.
Today, I received news that our king, Louis XVI, has been executed. I’m… shocked. I love France, my homeland. I feel as if we have betrayed it. And our own king has done little better- luring foreign nations into our land.
I will take a long trip of the world; see what else is out there. Who knows? I hear of Vampires cooperating with people in the Balkans- I wish to see what they’re doing. And at the end of it all, I shall return to this place- and consider my long future. Because at the moment, I am ashamed of France. The materialistic wants of the people- they want what I have? Should I offer what they want for what I want? Most would accept. They really shouldn’t. In this ‘un-life’ of mine- I will always miss the sunsets. Never again will I feel the sun shining on my skin- and to think that people would kill for this life. It almost sickens me.

Gaspar approached a small house dug into the side of a hill, located square in the centre of desolate Serbia. He looked again at his GPS, and smiled. The house, while looking small, was really quite large on the inside. And apparently, the home of around ten vampires.
He stopped before their door, and removed his hat, holding it in one hand. He held his other behind his back, as he rang the doorbell. An elderly man answered the door. “Yes? What do you want?” he asked irritably.

Gaspar smiled. “I’m here about your recent tax-claims.” He said, waving around a piece of paper. The old man frowned. “…Alright. Better come inside.” He said, unhappily, opening the door. Gaspar stepped inside, and whipped his other hand around- revealing a gun with a very large barrel. A short hiss, and a stake shot out, taking the old man in the chest. Laughing, Gaspar jumped over the collapsing vampire, and began the slaughter.
The vampires, unprepared for this brazen assault on their stronghold, fell quickly under the onslaught. A few minutes later Gaspar stood in the main room, his coat drenched in blood. He looked about the room, counting the bodies. Ten, yes. All headless now, staked and covered in oil, ready for the final destruction. He looked about the room, and saw a desk. He reached over, and picked up a letter on the desk. It read:

To the dearest Casmir family, December 15th, 1838
Thanks again for your wonderful hospitality last time I was there. I know vampires are famous for their hospitality, but you were something else- I have told my American friends of you. Your fame is spreading amongst those to whom it matters.
Ah, and those plans- I’ve spent some time researching them. While some of us can feed on animals, it appears Vampires have several subsets- some of whom can only feed on humans. Regrettably, I am one of them- but this shouldn’t stop your plan, even a little bit. The idea of working with humans is genius- providing protection to one village in return for them providing meals to you. Admittedly, as you can eat animals, it’s easier, but if I can find some more pragmatic humans, I think it could work. One a month is a small price to pay for the protection an unkillable man could offer- and a family! What possibilities.
Raphael and Alphonse are doing well. We fought together in the Spanish Civil war, and what terrors we were! The day was carried for France. I’m sure you know my feelings of war. It brings out the best and the worst in men. It’s also easy to feed unnoticed. I fight for France, such is my patriotism. I was one of Napoleon’s finest men, as I’ve told you (too many) times. Yes, what a nationalistic vampire I am!
Anyway, come drop by my house sometime soon- within the next half-century will do. I’ll entertain you over dinner.
David DeChavalier

Gaspar crushed the letter in his fist, and swore. What an abomination this was! For humans to actively work with vampires! He turned to leave, and remembered something. He lit a match, and threw it on the corpses he’d stacked up before. Then he turned and stalked out, without looking back at the chaotic scene he’d created.
He looked at his map, and found the nearest town. He didn’t note the name. It wasn’t important.
About ten minutes later, he stood in the middle of the small town. It was old, but looked untouched by the many wars that had ravaged the Balkans. A plaque in the centre of the square proudly proclaimed that the town had never been attacked- thanks to the ‘Casmir’s’. Gaspar snorted. They were damning their souls. It was his duty to save them. He looked around, and saw no-one. He pushed a small briefcase into a shrub behind the plaque- and walked away.
“Sir! A voice accosted him from behind. Gaspar turned, wary. “Sir!” repeated the voice. A small child appeared, holding the briefcase with both hands. “Sir, you left this behind!” piped the voice.
Gaspar bent down to the child’s eye level, and smiled. “Why, thank you, dear child!” he boomed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you! Here, I insist you take a reward!”
Gaspar pressed a few notes into the child’s hand. “Blimey! Thanks, mister!” said the child. He turned and ran away, to tell his friends.
Gaspar smiled at the child, and waved as he left then stashed the briefcase back into the shrubbery. He turned, and left.
Now he stood on a small hill overlooking the town, bathed in the orange glow of the sunset. He pulled out a small remote, with a green and a red button on it. Conrad Gaspar looked at the town once, and pressed the red button with great aplomb.
A boom, and a giant fireball exploded out of the town’s centre- incinerating the small hamlet in an instant. Gaspar turned away from the pyrotechnics, and threw the remote away. His mind was not filled with the thoughts of what he’d just done- but rather, the hunt. He would find David, and kill him. It was his duty. After all, he thought, regarding the town’s blazing ruins one last time; he was one of God’s angels. It was his duty.

July 18th, 1963
Four hundred years now, I’ve been a vampire. I thought I’d take this opportunity to look back, reflect. After all, this is the trendy sixties! All the things I’ve seen, all the change I’ve witnessed. All the wars, death and destruction I’ve seen, and caused.
I myself have claimed one victim a month for the past four hundred years. By this account, I now have four-thousand eight hundred victims, for my food alone. This doesn’t count those I’ve killed in war. I would have felt bad, but I think it’s necessary. I can’t be called a monster, if I do it to survive, can I? Is not the most basic instinct to survive? Those who say I am evil must look to themselves first- and find themselves sinless.
I have my good days and my bad days. I’ve protected France, our mother nation, through countless wars. I have medals and titles beyond count (Count, count? Funny, no?), and, though I hide it well, am the seventh richest person on the globe. (Compound interest is a wonderful thing in the long game.)
But I’m also a mass-murderer. I’ve committed many major crimes in my lifetime. I’ve attempted to kill myself many times, during my worse times. I went insane for a while.
I’ve watched as a woman I loved died in my arms. I think of Amelie every day… and of those who killed her.
And of course, I’ve watched the world develop around me. Even now, the threat of war between Russia and the US continues. A war in Vietnam, once our proud colony, continues daily. Men are going into space. We have weapons that can destroy a whole city in one go.
Oh, of course, and I have followed the genre of vampires quite closely. Bram Stoker’s wonderfully macabre work had me afraid of myself for weeks, and Bela Lugosi is a better vampire than I’ve ever been. But I don’t like the fact we are portrayed as clear-cut evil. If you have no chance to be good, can you really be evil?
I feel terribly old. All these things could not have been dreamed of in my old life. It is an honour to be living like this, to see all the change. But sometimes, I just wish for release.

It was an extravagant house. It hinted at many generations of hard work, and a family that was wealthy still. Gaspar shook his head. It was also quite obviously the home of the person he hunted. Style was a good thing, but Vampires could be spotted by how ostentatious their house was, almost always. Hat in one hand, he knocked on the door.
The door swung open at once. A tall man in his peak twenties stood before him. Gaspar swung his other hand around, and fired. The man, who was of course David, blinked, and caught the stake as flew through the air. He looked at it, then to Gaspar.
A long, toothy grin. “Why don’t you come inside?” asked David, bowing as he said this. Gaspar frowned, and raised the weapon again. David caught his wrist, and tore the long pistol from him. “Please. I insist.” David said, tongue as smooth as the silk shirt he wore.
Gaspar smiled back, and extended a hand. “Conrad Gaspar.” He introduced himself. David reached forward to take his hand- but as he did a cross appeared in Gaspar’s hand. David grabbed it, and screamed. He held it before him, the hand holding the cross on fire. David, with great willpower, managed to fling the cross away. The silver crucifix was melting.
David sighed. “Must we go through this?” he asked, pointedly. He stepped back into his house. Gaspar stepped inside as well.
Stepping back to a stereo, David reached over and pressed a button. Within moments, familiar organ music began to reverberate through the room.
Gaspar looked at David, hatred in his eyes. “You’re a murderer, and an abomination to God.” He stated, flatly. “You must die.”
“I’ve heard the name Conrad Gaspar before.” Stated David. “How many have you killed?”
“Hundreds of your kind, and many more of those who work for you.” Sneered Gaspar.
“And how many of them do you remember?” asked David. Gaspar frowned. “None, of course? Why should I?”
David turned, and picked up a photograph on the mantelpiece. “I remember. I remember all of them. As of yesterday, I have killed… Five thousand, three hundred and fifty-two.” He paused for effect. “And I remember the name of each one. Do you? Do the voices of those you killed call to you?”
Gaspar snarled. “I serve God. I do as he tells me and nothing less.”
David peered into Gaspar’s eyes. “Of course you do.”
He began to pace along the length of the room. “I met another like you, once. He was called by God. He came here. He killed my only love.”
Gaspar, suspicious, asked “What happened to him?”
David flashed his long fangs, and picked up a skull on a side table. “Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio.” He quoted, and smiled again. “He died painfully.”
Eyes flashing, Gaspar stepped forward now, a long stake held in his hand. David saw him, and smiled. “We shall meet again. It’s traditional, you see?” He pulled down on certain book of his mantelpiece, and disappeared, saying “The old classics are always best!”
Cursing sulphurously, Gaspar went over to the bookshelf, and began to look for the trigger-lever. His hands grasped Dracula, the Stoker classic. “Predicable as always.” Gaspar noted. He pulled it back, and disappeared- the chase was on.

2nd August, 2009
This I feel, will be my last journal entry. Not much left to say, really. I’m being hunted by this Conrad Gaspar now. Doubtless, he will be followed by others. I’ve been compromised, my race is over.
My whole life is in this diary. I can only hope someone worth finds it. I may now put a spin on what I said last time I died. I was born into light, and fell into darkness. But my heart was never black. I had no choice to be good. The greatest good and evil come from the simple men. This solider of god who hunts me is as much a monster as I am. He hides it on the inside, however.
One way of another, it will end tomorrow. This is my final call. Au Revoir.
David DeChavalier

And so it was that I, your humble author, encountered the pair alone in the street, their life’s blood seeping out of them. I didn’t know either of them, of course. It was only later that I found out about them both. Even now, I don’t know how they both managed to put the fatal stroke into each other at the same time. Both men had their good and their bad qualities. As they lay dying, though, I don’t think that mattered anymore.
But the last thing that happened was most important. One of them, seeing me approach, beckoned me to him. He croaked at me. I didn’t understand. He pressed an ancient diary into my hands, and told me to ‘Live well, or not at all. Oh, and enjoy the sunset.”He smiled at me, and gave me my final gift. Then without a word more, he died.
I have sold my soul to the Devil…