The Vampire Who Lives in My Kitchen

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Abstract

The most embarrassing moment of Cathy's life was unfolding right before her eyes. Her ex had just silenced her with "Why are you still writing novels when you only make two grand a month?" Then, in the brief moment she'd escaped to the bathroom, a man had appeared out of nowhere in her rundown flat—a place with a monthly rent of 700 quid, a bathroom door that wouldn't properly close, and Wi-Fi that worked only when the gods were smiling. The stranger wore an old-fashioned three-piece suit, complete with a watch chain dangling from his waistcoat pocket, looking like he'd stepped straight out of Downton Abbey. "Cathy. His voice was deep and magnetic, with the warm crackle of an old vinyl record. “We need to talk." Cathy's chopsticks clattered to the floor. Her first instinct was to call 999; her second was to grab the nearby broom and swing it at him. Wait—hadn't she seen that face somewhere before? "Y-you," she stammered, backing away until she hit the wall. "How the hell did you get in? I definitely locked that door!" "The shadows," the man said expressionlessly, pointing to the corner of the room. "I came through the shadows over there." "…Huh?"

Catalogue·Chapter 8

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