A History Mystery: Day One / Part One

From the memoirs of Jean Baptiste Morgane

Friday, October 24th

I saw her again tonight.

This can be no simple happenstance. My first encounter with Morgan Beauchamp, Ph.D, Professor of Archeology and History, had been to settle my own personal curiosity. When I saw the announcement of her lecture concerning the Pirates of New Orleans, my first inclination had been to ignore it as I had the countless others seeming to spring up at the drop of a hat. Something impelled me to fight off the sluggishness of my existence and I found myself in the crowded lecture hall in spite of my misgivings. Call it a mild case of boredom gone wrong or whatever you wish.

My lethargy abruptly ended the moment she stepped up to the podium. Never before had I seen a woman more entrancing. Not even Diabolique could compare to her. I know I swore to never mention that despicable creature’s name, but the sight of this vision wiped the memory of the witch’s infamy from my brain. Long flowing curls the color of ebony fell against a face that defied the perfection of a Botticelli or Michelangelo. My skin grew warm as her verdant green eyes swam over me. I know well in that crowded room, her gaze took no more notice of me than if I were a fly upon the wall. Still, I could not fight the delusional wish that she saw me, took some small notice of me as something other than a body held under her thrall.

For as she spoke, an age long dead came alive for me. I could once again feel the gentle spray of salt against my flesh, the warmth of the sun beating down on my brow as the flapping canvas sang its siren call above me. All the sensations I had long ago buried came flooding over me. If the ability to weep had been left to me, I am quite sure I would have done so, so strong were the emotions she had invoked.

When her lecture came to an end, I quietly made my way from the room. The urge to approach her had been so strong, I knew if I had stayed, the outcome would be abhorrent to me. I have grown so cold, even the simplest of human contact would be best denied to me. Only too well do I know attachments of a personal nature never end in anything but tragedy. Instead of tempting fate, I merged with the shadows that have become my life and fled like some wayward urchin into the night.

Even so, this newest encounter left me shaken. Since that first night, I have made it a point to avoid all thoughts of Morgan Beauchamp and the feelings she awakened within me, an arduous task that served as a fitting tribulation for my sins. Upon leaving my home, I had no intention of seeking her out. Whatever infatuation she holds for me, I know in my heart no future exists for either of us if I continue to seek her out. Only damnation waits down that path.

My lonely travels brought me to a bustling night club on the outskirts of the French Quarter. Don’t ask me to record here the exact location, for the haze of seeing her erased all coherent thoughts from my brain. What insanity drove me to enter the abode eludes me. The rhythmic pounding of the music, too loud to be civilized, filled the shadow strewn street like a dense fog. Perhaps some outbreak of melancholy afflicted me. For whatever reason, I entered the den of iniquity knowing full well I would regret the experience.

The crush of bodies filled me with a certain amount of revulsion. Even in life, I had never been one to relish the press of humanity around me. Perhaps that was the cause of me seeking out the sea so young in life. The impulse to flee overcame me. If not for a chance glimpse of her, I would have disappeared to normal haunts.

Yet, once sighted, the vision of her held me rooted. The twinkling of her laughter wafted to me from the bar. She seemed so full of life. I ached to be numbered among those surrounding her, hanging on her every word, twittering to some comment spoken in jest. It became too much. How could I bear being this close and not know even those most human of actions?

I turned to go but her eyes lighted upon me. She saw me clearly, no chance look. I could feel her gaze bore into me. Her mouth opened as if she wanted to speak to me across the distance. I hesitated, waiting like some foolish fop for her to acknowledge me with more than a glance. My feet propelled me toward the bar. I imagined the taste of her rich upon my lips. Against my better judgment, I saw the possibility of us together. It frightened and thrilled me at the same time.

The unspoken want of her overruled whatever common sense left to me. Moving toward her, I broke my way through the writhing bodies littering the dance floor like flies dancing above a corpse. I breached the crowd only to see her in the arms of another man. My heart boiled with more anger than I’d felt since that whore Diabolique cursed me with her dying breath, my hands tight about her throat.

The happiness on her face sent me flying from the club. I’d be a fool to even consider the folly of allowing the chance of loving her into my brain. Coming here had been a mistake.
I had long ago purged the excesses of such establishments from my life for a very good reason. The need to interact with my food had perished along with my need to adhere to the pretence of being alive. As one of the glorious dead, I see no reason to play the charade many of my younger brethren revel in. If I continue to cling to the false hope of a humanity I no longer have, Morgan Beauchamp will suffer for my weakness.

I am vampyre. Death on two legs, pure and simple.