Misadventure

The day bent towards the end – the month did – and basically the year did too … and before slipping into the quiet, reflective and somewhat mushy Christmas season the world reared its lively, loud and colorful head for Halloween.

And it was the night – the one and only night of the year – in which Lazard could move about unnoticed. Not that he could not roam the city streets during the other nights – but when he did, he drew the looks of men and women alike, looks of hesitation, reserve, some filled with greed, others with jealousy – but never just a plain look that would simply pass him by without lingering and second thoughts.

Once upon a time he had tried to blend in – that must have been some time in the early 1900’s. He had cut his hair and worn the decade’s fashion – but to no avail… He still remained a stranger to the world and then additionally felt a stranger to himself – so he returned to the looks he felt were genuinely himself.

But on Halloween, all this didn’t count – and with a morbid joy he watched the world prepare for the festivities of which most had long lost the link to their heathen roots.

With a smile he remembered nights of Halloween hunting - when the panic stricken faces told of the knowledge of possessed souls on "all saints’ eve". Or even before then, when virgin maidens with wreaths of the last dying summer blossoms in their hair would dance on the ancient hills to the sounds of the lute during Samhain night, just to be lured away from the fires by his sweet whispers and lies.

Today, Lazard shrugged a shoulder as if anyone was listening to his silent contemplation, there was no fear anymore, there was no belief in anything science wouldn’t have declared true – and even if there were, he thought, the young women he met in his night time excursions in clubs and bars were not even remotely as much clinging to virtue or even life as were their ancestors. The hunt for sex and blood alike had become dull, lacking every challenge there might once have been.

His knowledge was limited, he knew, as the only scene he could roam somewhat freely and without rising suspicion was the Goth "underworld", but from what he heard and saw on TV and the internet during his lonely nights was not really indicating much different. The world had become a place in which there was no room for myth, wonder and lore, and were lives were cheap under the mantle of claiming world peace as the main aim of everyone.

Ah, the good old times! The creature of eternal night almost moaned, not for the first time feeling his eternal life only a lesser blessing if not even a curse!

He was just about to actually ponder dressing up for Halloween out of sheer boredom, when an ad on TV caught his attention. He could later not even tell what it had been for, but it was the jingle that all of a sudden invoked a blinding flash of memory…

"Spirits roam without being seen

Time means naught on Halloween"

Lazard felt revived – as much as it could be said of an undead creature – by this sudden revelation.

Halloween – all hallows eve - all saints eve – the night when time and space were put on hold and all was possible. When the realms of the dead and the living would intermingle and the past, present and future were one, ore some such, he thought with a boyish giggle.

His boredom replaced with new found vigor and determination he set himself to work to prepare for this - his - special Halloween.

The darkness was quiet, the night more intense and the scents decidedly different as he stepped out of his dwelling the following night. The city was gone – or rather, it had not yet been built.

Deeply he inhaled, scanning the unknown territory so to speak, feeling young again – not that he had aged physically over the years… and then he was ready for the hunt.

Alas, it was awfully dark and quiet, now that he gave his surrounding a closer look. No sign of the mummery and festive noise he had grown used to. With a tinge of disappointment he wouldn’t allow to get the better of him, he started to walk towards where the historic town centre was – well, hopefully already was. After all it was only a few blocks down the road – or across a few meadows and hills in this case, and he had spotted a path in the distance, now that his eyes had gotten used to the deep velvety darkness.

Ten minutes and a few bends later, he saw the city lights (or rather village lights) appear over a hill. With new found vigor he sped up his step, to slow down again as he reached the last dark patches before entering the torch lit streets. He was panting and sweating, for the first time aware that the years living in modern times had apparently softened him too … after all, he was more used to riding a motor bike instead of hiking through the night on foot.

The splatter of light from the torches was uneven, waving patters dotted in the dark dust of the dirt roads. Wafting by on a breeze he could hear the faint echo of drums and singing, pulling him irresistibly into the heart of the city, where he knew the market square was likely to be the centre of the festivities.

As the lone shadow who was Lazard made his way through the deserted roads, following the increasing volume of the gathered crowds, he couldn’t help noticing the debris and bad odors between the low crouching and little inviting houses. The invention of indoor toilets and sewer systems hadn’t yet reached this area, as little as any educated form of garbage disposal system.

The singing had become louder as he had proceeded, and now the one or other swaying figure could be seen in the street, and to his delight, the shrank back before the tall, dark figure with the unearthly pale face and piercing eyes, too stunned to even utter a sound. "Yes", Lazard thought, "that was more like it!"

Careful to not disrupt the ceremony, he made his way around the outskirts of the market square, keeping half hidden in the shadows, observing the comings and goings… and finally he spotted his prey.

A group of girls sat giggling on a bench, just on the outside of the square, a bit away from the main proceedings that were going on around a bonfire in the centre of the square.

Lazard’s eyes feasted on the natural beauties, their apple cheeks, their cherry lips, no make-up giving their eyes’ and mouths’ the metallic artificial look that was so modern; their blooming bosoms freely swaying with the laughter instead of being anorexic clones of some super model.

He watched them for a while, wondering how to approach them without alerting the whole city if they ran screaming… but then the unexpected happened …

The cutest one of them stepped away from the group and cam towards him, unaware of course of him being there in the shadows. She passed him and turned around a corner into a dark alley – Lazard’s heart leaped as he silently followed her, ready to start his most successful seduction when the soft noise of a gently rush of water stopped him in his tracks, confused for a moment then remembering his earlier observations – pre WC.

He reckoned he would not improve his chances stepping in on a lady in this intimate moment, so he waited for her return, which a rustle of her skirts announced shortly thereafter.

Pretending to just accidentally coming along the way from the festivities, Lazard bumped into her, and apologizing with his innate charms she soon was prey to his alluring words and hypnotizing gaze. Only two minutes later they departed, he with a wolfish smile, she with a trembling heart and lie for her friends on her lips so she could meet with him shortly.

"That was easy", Lazard though as he leant in a dark doorway, awaiting his little cutie. "Seems charming them is like riding a bicycle, once you know how you do it you don’t forget again." For some non-distinct, unclear to him reason he felt though a bit deprived of what he had dreamt to be the sweetness of a victory. "Well, we are not in the hay yet, maybe the real challenge is yet to come!", and reminiscing faded memories he spent the time until the soft rustle of the skirts announced his more immanent task at hand.

As the two disappeared in the shadows to find the hay loft she had mentioned, he felt a strange sense of having read too much Shakespeare’s Faust. "Get a grip, man", Lezard forced his thoughts "after all you wanted that adventure to happen so stop the giddies now!"

She was young and innocent, and his luring words didn’t cease to hit the target. He was well spoken and versed with words, lies, gestures and everything in-between. And an enchanted night like this, in a time filled with odd believes into the world of ghosts, spirits and sprites, made it easy for him to lure this naïve mind with promises of eternal youth and riches beyond imagination – anything to flee from the hardships of field labor and an unwanted marriage. The body, he knew, would just follow suite.

From the now less frequently lit streets, they turned round a last corner and Alisa indicated the black square shape ahead to be the stables they were looking for.

Lazard opened the stable doors and the smell of horses was thick in the air … combined with a side flavor of goat. He felt actually a wave of nausea wash about him as he entered the warm thick air, but then he remembered his boredom of modern times and more determined than lusting he lead his prey up the shaky ladder and into the hay.

She put on a cute show of hesitation as he kissed her sweet innocent lips - once, then repelled by the lack of tooth hygiene he had gotten used to in his modern times mates he resorted to nuzzle her ear lobes. Not long after though the smells had worn off in their immanent effects, and with renewed vigor he returned to his seduction attempts – after all he had wanted this, and he was damn well going to enjoy it now!

She half-heartedly pleaded and begged when he started to undo her corsage, her complaints turning into soft moans as he started to nibble her full heavy breasts and sucked on the nipples, feeling his own desire now rising again as the fresh uninhibited scent of woman filled his nostrils, the slightly salty taste of sweat reminding him of the times when a bath was a once-a-week affair if at all.

Further he dared explore, the protest of Alisa only formal and lacking any conviction. The next target he had set himself in his conquest was the dark hidden treasure chest beneath the voluminous skirts. Slowly he slid his body down alongside hers, holding her pinned down with his non-human strength. Slowly he inched up her skirts, bit by bit revealing her slender calves, shin, knee, thighs. He couldn’t resist temptation – too long had it been he had had a virgin, and the mental images he had been haunted by all last night had displayed before him tight, smooth sheets for his manly dagger. He had to see – feel – smell – taste this sweet innocence just once more. And with a delighted moan he dived beneath the layers of cloth…

… to reappear just as quickly as he had gone down there.

Gasping for air he did a quick "reality check"; somehow his memories of those conquests must have been badly blurred over time. Under her skirts the air was rich with a musky scent, to a point where "breathtaking" became a completely new meaning. Could he really have forgotten what it had been like? Pre deodorant, when bathing was a lucky coincidence every second Saturday if at all?

Well, Lezard braced himself, this had to be done now! After all, wasn’t that what he had come for? The good old days?

This time intending to leave him some more breathing space, he flipped back the skirts, revealing the his victim’s legs to the thighs. "What the f…!", he couldn’t suppress a hissed curse upon the sight that greeted him – he hadn’t seen that hairy legs since … since he had walked in on this guy couple in the men’s bathroom in a club with one bloke having his pants round his ankles.

His already strongly diminished enthusiasm about the adventure though found its culmination as his hands then reached the centre of desire .. and got entangled in wiery bush instead of smooth velvety folds.

With a yelp he withdrew his hands, unable to let go of his mental image now of the hairy armpits that for sure must come with the rest of the body hair. He could hardly suppress his urge to just get up and run, but a last measure of chivalry prevented him from just getting out of the stable without any further word.

In the meantime, not helped by his hesitation and complete lack of further encouragement, the young lady seemed to be having second thoughts about her actions, restlessly now wiggling under him. With a grunt he decided upon the further action, and to at least get some entertainment out of his little excursion into he past.

He concentrated a minute, and transformed into what he really was – an undead bloodsucker – fangs, yellow eyes, dark circles underneath them in a skull-white face … and then he flipped back the girl’s skirts that had been obscuring her view of him.

As expected, with a terrified scream she was back on her feet in a flash and out of the barn even faster if at all possible. Lazard couldn’t help but break into a hysterical laughter as he saw her bulging skirts disappear in the darkness of the empty street.

That was not the adventure at all he had envisaged – and with a sight he too left the hay and horses and slid out into the darkness, this time glad about it, glad that this was Samhain, celebrating the end of summer and thus the Celtic year, glad that a cold breeze was cooling his flushed face.