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Some would call it narcissistic. Others egomaniacal. Myself, I didn't really know what to think. As the door of the mansion creaked open, and my eyes adjusted to the lugubrious darkness of the hallway, the first thing I saw was the life-sized statue of her. My eyes shifted between the statue and the lady herself, who was holding the door open with the same pose of elegant detachment as the marble sculpture behind her.
And then, as I entered the building - with, I must add, some hesitation - I found myself being glared at by the dozens of paintings that hung on every available wall. And every one of them was of her. My head panned slowly around as I took in the assembled multitude with growing unease. In every one of them, her eyes seemed to fix on the cubbys where spiders wandered by day, but now were highlighted in the shadows cast by sporadic lightning.
The door groaned to a close behind me, shutting out the night and the storm. I turned to face her, but she was no longer there. Instead, I found myself staring face-to-face at the largest of the paintings. Her portrait, merely beautiful by day, took life from the night and all her features sprang from cold to warm, and, when you looked into the eyes, almost firey.
A sound to my left startled me, and when I looked, she was there, by another door, her gaze drawing me towards her. It was at that moment I think that I noticed for the first time the tiniest protrusions of white at the corners of her lips as she smiled; her teeth must have caught the light for a moment, and in that instant I understood. And where I had been apprehensive before, I was suddenly mortally afraid.
The door through which I had so foolishly entered was firmly locked, but it was framed on either side with full-height gothic windows, on which the storm was still drumming furiously. I glanced back at my erstwhile hostess, before making my descision and diving head first through the ornate glass panels.
I ran as fast as I could across the barren front yard of the house, leaving a trail of blood from the glass as I went - if it was blood she wanted, then she could at least have that much. I just count myself lucky that the first vampire I met was a novice.
Spudley Strikes Again