The week I returned to school after the death of my parents, I felt completely out of place. Every look, every condolence, and every instance of special treatment only made the grief sting more. Yet, when I entered Professor Corvin's room, everything felt normal. It had always been a sanctuary for me, and today was no different.
Sunlight filtered through the tall, arched windows, casting a warm glow over the old amphitheater-style classroom. The seats, arranged in a semicircular formation that ascended towards the back, creaked faintly as students shuffled in, their chatter a low hum. From my spot at the back, I watched as Professor Corvin stood at the front, waiting for the lecture to begin.
I felt his gaze on me before I saw him. When I glanced down, I was expecting sympathy, but his eyes held a curious, guarded expression instead. I managed a sheepish smile before shifting my attention to the classmate beside me. Trevor Hailey—undeniably handsome, with dark, messy hair, an athletic build, and piercing, catlike eyes—flashed me a grin that made my cheeks heat up.
"Hey, gorgeous," he said, his tone playful, his gaze mischievous.
"Oh, um, hey, Trevor," I replied, fumbling over my words as my face burned.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice softer now.
"Not really, but I'm trying." I offered a weak smile before focusing back on Professor Corvin.
Professor Corvin always dressed like he raided a bargain bin of '70s professor fashion. Today, he wore a carrot-orange button-up shirt paired with a brown-and-orange polka-dot tie. His beige wool overcoat hung from the old science skeleton that served as his coat rack. To complete the retro ensemble, he wore gray slacks—always slacks, as he was quick to correct.
"Good morning, class," Professor Corvin began, his voice resonating through the room. "Today, we're going to explore the fascinating history and lore of the Hunter Society."
I had planned to put my earbuds in and ignore the lecture, as usual, but the mention of the Society piqued my interest. Leaning forward, I let my fingers brush against the mark of the Hunter Society on my wrist—a mark that bound me to the organization in ways only death could sever.
"The Hunter Society," Professor Corvin continued, pacing in front of the blackboard, "is a prime example of how historical events and mythical stories intertwine to create a rich tapestry of culture and belief. Founded in the late 17th century, this clandestine organization was initially formed to protect villages from rogue supernatural entities."
I raised my hand, drawing his attention. "Do you think there was any truth to the Society?" I asked.
"Good question, Miss Page." He beamed, his enthusiasm genuine. "While there are records of their existence, much of what we know comes from oral traditions and folklore. These stories often depict the Hunters as both saviors and shadows, confronting threats that ordinary people could scarcely comprehend."
I nodded, pretending to take notes while actually jotting down a reminder to avoid drawing too much attention to this topic if it ever came up in a term paper.
"One of the most intriguing aspects of the Hunter Society," he said, "is their use of ancient rituals and symbols, many rooted in pre-Christian pagan practices. These rituals were believed to enhance their abilities and protect them from the creatures they hunted."
He turned to the blackboard and sketched an intricate symbol. "This, for instance, is the Sigil of Aegis, used by Hunters to ward off malevolent spirits. It's said the very sight of this symbol could send a lesser demon fleeing."
I narrowed my eyes, recognizing the symbol from my family's texts. He wasn't wrong about its use, but he left out the crucial detail: it had to be drawn in the Hunter's own blood to be effective.
"As we delve deeper into the Hunter Society," Professor Corvin continued, "we'll examine some of their most famous members and the legendary hunts they undertook. We'll also consider how their legacy has influenced modern perceptions of the supernatural."
Famous members, I mouthed to myself. Something about his knowledge sent a chill down my spine.
"The Page family," he added with a pointed look in my direction, "is one such family, rumored to be descended from the original five founders of the Society." His smile was sharp, his eyes gleaming with a devious twinkle. "So, prepare yourselves. The journey into the past is about to get a lot more thrilling."
I glanced around, hoping his comment about my family didn't draw any more attention to me.
"Are you a Hunter?" Trevor whispered, leaning closer. I shot him a sharp look, a very clear leave it alone expression.
Feeling uneasy under Corvin's scrutiny, I put in my earbuds and opened the book I carried, a Society-issued manual disguised as a worn copy of Dracula. Immersed in its pages, I didn't notice the class ending or Professor Corvin approaching until he snatched the book from my hands and snapped it shut. Then, with a swift motion, he tossed it into the trashcan behind me.
"Hey!" I exclaimed, spinning around to retrieve the book from the trash. I dusted it off and, with my anger bubbling beneath the surface, turned back to face him.
"Please refrain from reading that material in my class moving forward, Elizabeth," Professor Corvin said, his tone stern.
"Do you have a problem with Dracula?" I asked, my voice measured with both anger and annoyance, before turning away to place the book in my backpack.
"I'm truly sorry you had to find them that way," he said softly, his words carrying genuine sorrow. His expression mirrored the sadness I often saw in my own reflection.
"Th… thank you," I stuttered.
"Would you consider staying after school to catch up on your assignments?" he asked. His tone was casual, but his eyes betrayed an eagerness that made it feel more like a request than a question.
"Sure," I replied, grateful for an excuse to avoid my aunt and uncle.
"You might want to consider better reading material," he said, smirking.
"Do you have a problem with Dracula?" I countered, raising an eyebrow.
"If it were Dracula, I wouldn't have tossed it in the trash so easily," he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. Then, his expression shifted. "Hunters live such short lives," he added cryptically. "Keep that in mind."
Before I could respond, he placed a thick, leather-bound book in front of me, he pulled up a chair and sat down.
"What's this?" I asked, flipping it open.
"Almost as good as asking him in person," he said with a smirk, though his tone hinted at something deeper.
As I turned the pages, I realized it was a journal. "A journal?" I asked.
"Authored by a true vampire," he replied. "Or so they say."
As I turned each page, I was pulled in deeper, the world around me fading until all my focus was on the handwritten passages before me. The first page recounted the writer's first day as a vampire and his final memory as a human.
April 7th, 1676
Last night marked the final night of my humanity. Master did profess that if I followed him from the glow of the street lanterns into the shadowed dark, I could become something far beyond the grasp of mortal understanding. Yet, it is the unrelenting pain that lingers in my memory most vividly. His bite, like the very fangs of winter, was sharp and merciless, the cold seeping through my veins with a swiftness I could scarce fathom. It was a shock to my very soul, and I could not resist, my body rendered still, incapable of motion. As I grew weaker, the agony of the event did intensify. I would have pleaded for him to cease such torment, had I but the breath to speak; alas, I had only enough to cling to life. I was suspended betwixt the realm of death's dreamscape and the frailty of life itself, in what seemed an eternity's span. Master held me within this moment, slowing his consumption when my heart did slow, and quickening his pace when it raced. The instant my resistance faltered, he ceased his grim act. Had his arm not kept me upright, I would have surely crumpled to the street below.
Master bade me drink, holding his wrist to my mouth. I did not question him in that moment; it was as though his words ignited a fire within me, compelling me to obey every command he uttered. My lips grasped his wrist, and I drank deeply. His blood, unlike any vintage I had tasted before, was a strange elixir. It began with a coppery spice, but soon enveloped me with dark, compelling notes of desire, until taste itself mattered no longer. I craved more—more of what he offered, more of what I could not yet understand.
When he withdrew his wrist, I clawed for it like a famished child, desperate to hold on. He released me from his grasp, and I tumbled to the stone below. Then, a sharpness seized my heart, wrenching the breath from my lungs. I gasped, clutching at my chest as burning, icy pain coursed through me, an unyielding agony that would only cease when my fight as a human was finally lost.
Then came the desire, as my heart began to beat a new rhythm within me—one born of a hunger for more of life's blood. He taught me to control this longing, to wait until it found its mark. To bide my time until no witnesses remained, until no one could interrupt the dance I would now partake in with death itself. I would take her hand, and in return, she would grant me a moment of her power. Then the flesh I had drained would grow cold and still. Death would claim a soul, and I would have my life forever, thanks to our pact.
Blood, oh, how it excites me. Even the mere act of writing about it stirs within me a burning desire, a primal instinct to seek my next victim. I know now that I shall never be free of this dance, this eternal hunger that calls to me with each passing moment.
And as the blood coursed through me, I felt not just my body change, but my very soul. How could I not understand the price I had paid until the moment I saw the truth? The monster I was becoming, the hunger that would never be sated.
Oh, what have I done? This weight now catches me in an embrace of fleeting regret. This desire, once thrilling, now breaks me. I realize, in this moment, that I have become what many now call me, a monster. It feels like an accusation, a truth I can no longer deny.
-A.C.
"Monster," I whispered.
"Do not lose yourself in his journey," Professor Corvin warned, closing the book with a decisive thud. "I know you're going through a difficult time, Lizzie, but I hope I can ease your sadness, even just a little."
His sincerity struck a chord, but then I caught it, a flicker of something in his eyes. Regret? Anguish?
"Remember to see me after school," he said, his voice heavy with an urgency that made my heart race.
As he walked away, his shoulders hunched, his movements stiff, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was weighing him down. Then, he stopped mid-stride and turned back to me, his expression shadowed.
"The Society," he said, his voice low and intense, "is built on the blood of humans who followed its lies to the bitter end." His gaze locked with mine, unflinching. "An end that came far too early."
The air between us felt charged, his words lingering like an unspoken challenge. "Did you know my parents?" I asked, barely above a whisper.
"I know why they died," he said with a smirk before turning and walking out.
I stood frozen, his words reverberating in my mind. They felt like the key to a locked door, one I wasn't sure I was ready to open. Shaking myself free of the moment, I hurried to my next class, as new determination burned within me.