Tristan Robert Lange

Devilishly Dreadful: Vesuvian Vampire

Life flowed through her veins, coursed from her heart to her brain—her life, her blood.

Lids open, her blank irises a grey fog upon pearl white eyes.

This is, right here, the exact problem I face—this is my damn curse—

To wander eternally as a monster—a hunter at night,

A beast of horrific fright, who then takes flight away from the pain

I caused—a pitiful demon with a soul, not living—not quite death.

Not true of this poor lady, some young bloke’s wife, who lies in bed—death.

She would not be dead but for my own bloody head gulping her blood—

My fangs penetrating her silky flesh, tender to my sharp pain.

But, there the wretched woman lay on bed, undressed—even her eyes—

Nipples soft’ning as her life’s flow—no longer wild—enters its night.

O, woe is me! What a wretched wraith—nay, a ghoul!—a walking curse.

Could I have ever imagined this, in any lifetime, this harsh curse—

My decomposing body—a jackal burned, no fur—walking death?

So I flew on foot—unlike a good gentleman should—in the night.

Me, a moral man,—chased tolike a villain—because I thirst for blood.

I did not ask for this, but look!—there are the lynchers! Yes!—my eyes

See them raging, coming my way—Christians—coming to inflict pain.

But they!—they who fear their own shadows—can’t catch me! That is their pain—

Their nightmare, their weakness, their foible to face—that is their own curse.

I move on to a young bloke I make my escape on by—lit eyes,

Gilttering like fireworks, hypnotizing my next prey into death.

Then I sup, I have a fantastic feast—I gorge on his hot blood—

As fog rolls in and hides me away from those hunting me this night.

This is forever useless, a hopeless cause, to deny the night.

All it does is cause me, and every creature around me, pain.

Maybe I should keep it up, be the monster obsessed with their blood.

People, heaven must know it, have been my truest, long-lasting curse.

I have every right to hunt them down—steal their lifeforce—bring death.

Those hypocrites and their torches, hunting me with hate in their eyes.

Nay!—I cannot allow their inferiority shift my eyes

From seeing the truth of the wretched beast I am night after night,

Seeking to gorge and devour my pray—to stop I must meet death.

Though I know that this terrible demise equals fiery pain,

I can no longer carry on in this goddamned state, living under God’s curse,

Grieving the lives lost, their putrid rot while my tongue laps up more blood.

Deep beyond my own two eyes, my third eye sees the fires of my pain,

Vesuvius, which lights the night, will be the hot end to this curse.

Then I will meet my own death, the end of my fiendish reign of blood.

First published on tristanrobertlange.com, September 29, 2025.

Tittu