Doubt.Chorror.

 

Some people think sleeping in a coffin is some macabre offshoot of extravagance. True, I knew a certain extravagant and I can say nothing but superlatives about him, but that's not the point. That was ages ago.

And coming back... Yes, I've been doing it. Continuously for over two hundred years. Before settling down majestically in the satin interior, I reverently light four scented candles. Aesthete? Unfortunately. Disappointing. It's about mosquitoes. These candles, otherwise innocent-looking, are incredibly powerful—no insect can resist them. And I have a particular aversion to mosquitoes. I

once contracted malaria from one such local swarm. Since then, I've been wary of creatures with similar tastes to mine. Bats? I'm indifferent to them, although I've heard they like to get tangled in hair. Maybe that's why I always wear a short, flattering hairstyle. You don't need to use tons of gel to keep it in place, and there's no need for laborious hours in front of the mirror. It's hard to comb someone you can't see, right? And I have a particularly poorly trained imagination. Excuse me? And a coffin? A coffin, sir, is a compromise, an emergency solution. A firm sleeping surface guarantees proper spine alignment. Of course, I'd prefer duck down or plain hay. But at my age, you have to take care of everything and be safe than sorry. You laugh knowingly. Cold... Well, yes. You probably think I'm some insensitive fabricator of corpses. That's not the case. My business doesn't involve mindlessly gnawing through human arteries. That requires, so to speak, a thorough knowledge of anatomy and physiology. It's no small feat to rip open someone's neck and leave the unfortunate person bleeding. The whole thing involves two precise punctures. If I feel like it, I do it in sets of four, so that someone can measure the distances between them with a ruler. Why do I do this? My life lacks another celebration.

You asked if I'm friends with all the people I've bitten. It's a bit complicated, and certainly embarrassing. After the fact, when the initial shock wears off, I somehow lack the right words to express how sorry I am, or perhaps let's stay together, it's more comfortable for the two of us. This person usually feels guilty, wants to leave as quickly as possible and take out their feelings of helplessness on someone else. I'd love to say: bite me twice before you do that, but you understand: after two hundred years, I'd look like a sieve.

I wonder, by the way, how you ended up here. The area isn't very touristy, and not particularly charming. I mean, there are spells, indeed, but they're cast. There was even talk of using spells; the air was so charged with them that you couldn't listen to the radio or watch a game. Always just incantations and incantations. A charm for the dog, if only it were funny. But no. Always just dry wells and mangy cattle. You could go wild. Or become a painter. I got malaria. Such is karma.

Those castle battlements are a bit scary, aren't they? Chiaroscuro, some ravens' nests. The stairs to the crypt, on the other hand, can be a real slippery slope, as I and a ghost hunter who was chasing me once experienced. Imagine, he made it a point of honor to kill me. Fine, I say, if you catch me. And I ran. The guy went completely crazy; he probably thought I'd jump down his throat or, at best, break his cervical spine. I had no intention of doing so; I was stalling, because the hunter reeked of interest, certainly not bank interest. I was right to fear that if I tasted his blood, I might fall into an alcoholic coma. So we ran along merrily, me in front, him behind, waving a crucifix and yelling frantically, until we reached those fateful stairs, and here's your fate—I stepped on my coat, flew forward, and, starting from the third step, plunged headfirst, meticulously bumping into each step. At the foot of the stairs, I fell flat, tripping the slayer's legs. I only broke my collarbone; the guy was less fortunate, breaking his neck. I felt a little sorry for him; after all, I'd tricked him unfairly. So, to avoid being remembered as a drunk tripping over his own feet, I bit him gently on the neck, carefully coughing up blood.

Unfortunately, I didn't receive the proper gratitude. After a moment, the slayer got up and left, completely ignoring the fact that he could have done worse. But honestly, by climbing over the wall (he carefully avoided the stairs), he'd given himself a serious bump. Judging by the curses and complaints.

It used to be, as you can see, quite cheerful. But three-quarters of the year it rains, the sky is covered with leaden clouds, the wind is blowing, ravens are stealing into the courtyard, there's nothing but the urge to hang yourself. Of course, someone wittily remarked that our landscape is... as he put it... shilling. shilling, oh. That it's terrifying, mysterious, Gothic. Well, fine. When it rains for one afternoon, it can be atmospheric. But when it rains all night and the next day, and then the next, and the next, it stops being atmospheric and becomes microbial. Runny noses, coughs, sinus pains, rheumatism, commonly known as gout... Actually, if you look at it all from a different perspective, it's always better to have a gout without any guests, but you understand.

Please forgive my rudeness; of course, you're the guest now. You deserve all the honors and distinctions; you've come this far. Unfortunately, it's with great regret that I must inform you of one crucial detail. I hate to do this, but if I must, I must. You've confused an aspen with a poplar. I don't know how, but maybe it's because of the fog. In our valley, the fogs are most beautiful in the morning, when the rising sun illuminates them... Unfortunately, I didn't get to see it, but I did read one poem. The poet, of course, committed suicide here. By jumping from the tower directly into the courtyard. A terrible sight.

And besides, is that an onion on your neck? Yes, an onion, I recognize it. Sad. You must have confused it in your haste. Or perhaps you were hoping I wouldn't notice? Either way, since I'm your bread and salt, and you're mine, poplar and onion, it's a shame it all went to waste. I know a pretty good recipe for a cake. You're surprised, you're incredulous. Of course, it's one of two recipes I've sucked together with the blood of a certain chef. Please don't ask about the other one. Blood soup.