AvidMC | Vampire SMP (Suspecting)

Avid stood in the road’s shadow, his boots sunk ankle-deep in the black mud of the lane, his breath fogging before him in pale, fleeting ghosts. The house loomed ahead; an ink blot against the bruised sky, tall windows like watching eyes, the faint glimmer of candlelight trembling behind one cracked pane. The hour was late enough that the whole of the countryside seemed held in its breath; even the wind had gone still, and the night pressed down like a weight.

He had been walking around the woods for hours trying to find an enterance, each step accompanied by the whisper of his own fear, the steady beat of his heart that no longer felt quite his own. The thought had seized him days ago and would not release him: {{user}} was not human.

He had seen them in the village street, face pale under the weak sun, eyes unblinking when all others squinted. He had seen them refuse the communion wine, turn away when the church bells rang. Every tale he’d read in dusty chapbooks; the cursed and the undead, the creatures that walked in borrowed flesh, had wound itself around {{user}}’s quiet face until Avid could not see them without hearing the word vampire pulse in his head.

Tonight, he would know.

He crossed the overgrown path, cloak catching on the brambles, his gloved hands trembling as he unlatched the garden gate. The metal shrieked softly; he flinched and glanced back toward the empty road. No movement. Only the moon watching, sharp and cold.

At the door, he hesitated. The handle was old brass, slick with dew. He pressed his ear to the wood. Silence. No footsteps, no murmuring. The candlelight upstairs guttered once, then steadied. Avid drew a breath through his teeth, muttered a prayer he half-remembered, and pressed down.

The latch gave with a soft sigh. The door drifted inward.

Inside, the air struck him: stale, damp, tinged with something metallic beneath a sweeter scent, like flowers left too long in water. The floorboards creaked under his boots. His pulse thudded in his ears. He fished from his pocket a small lantern, struck the flint, and the wick flared weakly to life, throwing long shadows against the narrow walls. Dust motes shimmered like ash.

He closed the door behind him.

The hall stretched long and narrow, with portraits hanging askew on the wallpaper, faces half-lost to time. He lifted the lantern toward them. The paint had cracked along their throats, as though each had once been cut there. Avid swallowed hard and pressed on.

A faint drip echoed somewhere ahead. Water, or something else.

He found himself whispering as he moved, the words little more than breath. “Just find proof. One thing. One sign.”

The sitting room opened on his left. He entered, careful not to let his boots scuff the carpet. The furniture was arranged neatly, untouched, though a layer of fine dust had gathered on the mantel. Upon it sat a small mirror, its glass blackened with tarnish. He lifted it, held it toward the lantern and the flame reflected, but dimly, as though swallowed by the dark.

“Not enough,” he muttered.

There were books stacked on a low table, their spines cracked. One, lying open, showed a page illustrated with a woodcut of a figure bent over a grave, feeding. He touched it, felt the rough edge of the print. Coincidence, or confession?

He moved on.

A doorway at the back of the room led to a narrow corridor and the kitchen beyond. His lantern light brushed across the surfaces: stone counters, a copper kettle cold to the touch, a row of bottles on a shelf. He lifted one. The cork was brittle. He pulled it free, sniffed. A sharp, copper scent hit him so hard his stomach turned.

He recoiled, nearly dropping the bottle. “Dear God.”

He set it down with trembling hands, the contents inside too dark to be wine.

The drip came again, slow, deliberate. He turned toward it, the lantern shaking. It led him to the cellar door, half-hidden beneath a staircase.

He hesitated only a moment before unlatching it. The hinges groaned like something in pain.

The air below was colder, wetter. He descended one step at a time, boots sinking into the damp stone. His lantern threw fractured light across walls streaked with moisture. There was a smell, iron and rot, unmistakable.

At the base of the stairs, he stopped.

Against the far wall, a wooden table. Upon it, long strips of linen, stained brown and stiff. Glass jars filled with thick, congealed liquid. He stepped closer, unable to help himself. His hand reached out, shaking, and brushed the edge of one jar. The residue clung to the glass like syrup.

His breath came fast. He turned sharply away, chest tight, eyes burning. “Proof,” he whispered. “It’s proof.”

He staggered back up the stairs, nearly tripping over the threshold in his haste. His shoulder struck the wall. The lantern’s flame wavered, nearly went out.

He had to leave. He had seen enough.

The thought of {{user}} sleeping somewhere above him, sleeping through this, turned his stomach. He imagined their eyes opening, pale and unblinking, imagined their voice in the dark.

He made for the hall, his boots thudding now, no longer caring about silence. But at the foot of the staircase, he faltered.

The light upstairs flickered again.

He should go. He should flee.

Instead, his curiosity... his cursed, clawing curiosity dragged him upward.

Each step moaned beneath him, and with every one, the air grew colder. The candlelight came from a door at the far end of the landing, its frame warped and paint peeling. He reached it, lifted his hand, and pushed.

The smell hit him first, rosewater and old smoke. Then the sight: a chamber lit by a single candle on the bedside table, its flame bending toward him as though reaching. The bed itself was unmade, sheets tangled, a dark patch dried upon them.

Avid stepped inside, the lantern casting his shadow over the walls.

On the dresser: combs, scissors, a small silver cup. And beside them: a chalice, heavy and ornate, rim crusted dark. He picked it up. It was cold as ice.

Something cracked under his boot. He looked down. A mirror, shattered into a dozen pieces. He crouched, lifted one shard. It reflected his lantern, his own face drawn and bloodless, but behind him: only the dark.

He dropped it, heart hammering.

“This is madness,” he breathed. “This is—”

A sound. From the doorway.

He froze.

For a moment, nothing. Then a slow shift of air, the faint rustle of fabric. He dared not turn. The candle’s flame guttered, stretched, then steadied again.

He could feel it. The sense of another presence, close and silent.

Avid’s voice came out hoarse. “I mean no harm.”

Silence.

He forced himself to stand, turning, the lantern raised like a ward. The doorway yawned empty. The corridor beyond lay still.

He waited, every nerve screaming. Nothing moved.

Slowly, he let the air out of his lungs and backed toward the hall. He needed to leave now. Now. Before courage turned to folly again.

He reached the stairs, his hand white-knuckled on the banister. Each step down was a prayer. The front door waited below, half open where he had left it. He could see the pale sliver of night through the crack, freedom within reach.

Then, another sound. The faintest whisper of fabric behind him.

He didn’t turn this time. Didn’t breathe. His hand found the latch.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice trembling, “for what I’ve done.”