Elliot Hawthorne

The pale man rises from the disturbed soil, dirt falling from his faded black silks as he stands. His crimson eyes scan the moonlit graveyard impassively as clawed fingers brush back errant strands of fiery hair. Though his movements seem graceful, there is an unnatural stiffness to them, like a marionette pulled by unseen strings. He tilts his head at the sound of footsteps approaching, the only sign of interest in his otherwise blank expression. A woman stumbles into view, clearly inebriated as she sways and mumbles to herself. She freezes at the sight of him, blinking rapidly as if trying to dispel some delusion. When he remains, gaze unwavering, she takes a hesitant step forward.

"What in blazes..." she slurs, squinting "Thought ya were a ghost or somethin'. Jus' some crazy bloke wanderin' the graveyard, eh?"

She laughs nervously, wobbling closer despite her unease. He simply watches her, still as a statue save for the wind stirring his vibrant locks. The woman frowns, gesturing clumsily with her bottle.

"Hey, ya deaf or somethin'? Why ya starin' at me like that?"

When he fails to respond, she scoffs and turns away muttering. His head cocks slightly, pupils contracting into slits. With startling speed he seizes her shoulder, claws digging in as he whirls her around. She cries out in shock and pain, the bottle slipping from her fingers to shatter on the ground. Blood trickles down her arm as he leans closer, inhaling deeply. The rich coppery scent seems to stir something within him and thin lips peel back to reveal sharp fangs in a hungry grin. The woman's eyes go wide with terror, mouth working soundlessly in pleading. But her cries fall on uncaring ears as he drags her into the concealing darkness of the graveyard, the only witness the cold light of the waning moon.

Elliot released the woman's lifeless body, letting it slump to the ground. He stared down at her torn throat, watching dispassionately as the last of her blood seeped into the thirsty earth. A distant part of his mind recoiled in horror at the gruesome sight, but it was muted, as if separated from him by a pane of warped glass.

In a daze, he drifted back to his violated grave, the dirt strewn carelessly about. He settled amidst the rubble, heedless of the soil staining his tattered shroud. Here he had been laid to rest, only to awaken as some eldritch creature of the night. It was a nightmare he could not seem to wake from.

Elliot raised his head slowly at the sound of approaching footsteps. Through the mist crept a lone figure, face obscured by shadow. He watched their approach with detached curiosity, no longer possessed by that terrifying hunger. He felt only a bone-deep exhaustion, as if he had crossed some fell threshold from which there could be no return.

Let them come, he thought bitterly. What more could be done to him now? He was beyond fear, beyond feeling. The stranger's footsteps halted as they drew near, no doubt taking in his disheveled appearance and the grisly remains beside him. Elliot met their gaze evenly, burgundy eyes burning in his pale face. He wondered what they saw in him - victim, monster, or some tortured mix of both. In truth, he no longer knew himself. The Elliot he had been was as dead as the body resting at his feet. There was only this hollow vessel remaining, stained with blood not his own.

He inclined his head slowly to the stranger in greeting, or perhaps farewell. His tangled red locks slipped forward, partially obscuring his face like a mourning veil. He felt nothing within but a bleak resignation. Whatever purpose had recalled his spirit from the grave was not his to know. He was adrift, belonging no longer to the world of light or shadow. Let this stranger do what they would; he had nothing left. Elliot waited silently, his unbeating heart numb in his breast. What was one more violation to him now?

The towering iron gates of the ancient cemetery groaned open, allowing the hunched figure of Widow Bedelia to slip inside. In one withered hand she clutched a lantern, its dim flame casting flickering shadows across the rows of weathered tombstones. This was her nightly ritual, tending to the forgotten graves as if they were her own kin.

On this eve, her weary eyes caught sight of something that gave her pause. There, lying prostrate across a humble plot, was what appeared to be a young man. Bedelia crept closer, holding her lantern aloft. Fiery red tendrils lay strewn about his head like exotic plumage. His lithe figure was draped in soiled black silks, now damp and muddied from the earth.

The widow knelt down, studying the boy's face in the lantern light. Skin as pale and smooth as the finest porcelain clung to his delicate bone structure. Dark burgundy eyes stared out from hollow sockets, yet they appeared lucid and aware. Bedelia gasped as the youth sat up slowly, gazing at her with an intense yet detached curiosity.

Gently helping the boy to his feet, Bedelia was struck by how soft and uncalloused his hands felt. This was no commoner, the widow deduced, but a lord of noble blood. Back in her cottage, she drew a hot bath and provided a fresh change of clothes. The boy seemed bemused yet cooperative as Bedelia tended to him, murmuring over his unmarred skin and the telltale signs of privilege.

As Bedelia brushed out his vibrant locks, she wondered what ill fate had befallen someone so young and beautiful. But the youth remained silent, his dark eyes burning with untold mysteries. He moved with an unearthly grace, both strange and preternaturally calm.

When he smiled, it did not reach those fathomless eyes.

Come morning, the woman would seek the parish to locate the boy's relations. For now, he slept untroubled, unaware of the predator in her tender care. The moon set as Elliot lay wakeful, strange instincts coiling within.

The dead of night hung heavy over the ancient boneyard as two figures crept amongst the tilting tombstones. The taller one bore a shovel and sack, while his shorter accomplice held a darkened lantern aloft. Their muted voices carried on the still air as they searched for fresh interments ripe for robbing.

At last they halted before a modest plot, the earth still loose and raw. Feverishly they began digging, shovelful by shovelful, until their prize lay exposed—a well-preserved young man dressed in fine silken burial clothes, hair a vibrant cascade of red.

The men marveled at his beauty as they roughly stripped him of valuables. The taller one suggested selling his corpse to an anatomist, but his partner hesitated, debating the ethics of such an act. Their argument intensified, echoing across the graves.

Below, in the close confines of his coffin, Elliot's consciousness slowly returned. Darkness and pressure enveloped him. He could hear muffled voices as his stiff limbs began to tingle, rigor mortis loosening its grip. Strange thoughts swirled in his disoriented mind—disjointed images of moonlit halls, muted screams, and a pair of burning eyes.

A gnawing hunger grew in the pit of his stomach, consuming him from the inside out. It was a ravenous, all-encompassing need that overwhelmed his senses. The scent of the men above wafted into his tomb - warm, living flesh so close he could almost taste it.

Elliot's mind recoiled in horror even as his body tensed, ready to pounce. What was happening to him? He had never known such vicious urges before, this primal desire to rend and feed. But the voracious hunger would not be denied.

With a burst of preternatural speed, Elliot erupted from the grave. The men staggered back in terror as he lunged for the taller one's exposed throat. His teeth tore into yielding flesh as hot blood filled his mouth, satiating the savage craving. He drank deeply, no longer himself but a vessel for this terrible new instinct.

All he knew in that moment was the ecstasy of the kill and the sublime sacrament of blood.

A violent spasm wracked Elliot's lifeless body, his back arching off the icy wooden table as a guttural gasp tore from his throat. He jolted upright, burgundy eyes flying open in confusion and terror. His voluminous red hair cascaded wildly about his shoulders, tangled with dirt and fragments of desiccated leaves.

Disoriented, he grasped at his surroundings - a gloomy windowless room lit by a single guttering candle. The flickering light glinted off the sinister surgical instruments arrayed around him - knives, saws, needles, and jars of unknown viscous fluids. He was atop some sort of operating table, dressed only in a filthy, tattered burial shroud.

With dawning horror, Elliot recalled the attack - the searing agony as his murderer's fangs pierced his tender throat. But how did he come to be here, in this nightmarish chamber?

Glancing about, understanding sank like a stone in his stomach. He had been the victim of a grave robbery, his corpse sold for dissection by some ambitious anatomist or demented professor. The silent figure observing him from the shadows had paid for his body, to be prodded and violated in the name of scientific curiosity. Revulsion crawled across his skin.

"Why have you brought me here?" he demanded, his voice fracturing as he struggled against the leaden weakness pervading his rigid limbs. He must escape this place, but the unholy forces that had resurrected him seemed not yet finished their work...

Elliot's mind reeled with panic even as he fought to maintain a veneer of aristocratic poise. He swore that once he regained control of his broken body, there would be a reckoning for this outrage. For now, he had no choice but to endure his captor's clinical scrutiny and continue pretending this was all some hellish nightmare from which he would soon awaken.