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There was something almost melodious about hearing the screams of despair ripping through the dead of night. At least, that's what Drifter thought to himself as he forced his way through the door of a quiet suburban New York residence. The foolish man he'd chased here thought he could escape by locking himself inside, his ignorance fueling the belief that Drifter was as domesticated as… those of his own kind.
The sequence of the door bursting against the wall, people rushing to run from their attacker and, what a delicious symphony, even the sounds of gunshots that didn't even come close to hitting Drifter and a culmination of combined screams from his victims begging for help and, finally, the last whispers of the couple's vows of love as the life drained from their bodies and satiated the vampire's enormous hunger.
Ah, what a wonderful evening… A dinner worth remembering, at least in his opinion.
After his fill, Drifter paused at the partially destroyed front door as a strange melody reached his ears. It wasn't some sickly interpretation of pained gasps or the sounds of flesh tearing and bones breaking… No, Drifter heard music, its tone slightly scratchy. Drifter couldn't quite tell if the sound was electricity or something else, but it piqued his curiosity.
With a resigned sigh, he pushed the door shut and followed the sound through the residence, identifying the distinct sound of violins, percussion, strings harmoniously nudging his memory, but he couldn't quite place what composition it was.
This was a new development, if he could be honest with himself. Even though Drifter was repulsed by those disgusting people who considered themselves too pure and pristine to engage with their most primal instincts, he wasn't an uneducated brute either. On the contrary, he considered himself far more cultured than they were. Possessed of a keen critical mind, capable of identifying his true nature and criticizing the hypocrisy of those who were as monstrous as he was, yet lied to themselves and others about their innermost selves.
They hid their strongest carnal desires, while Drifter understood them and knew it was useless to hold on to a false sense of superiority — a fragile notion held by ignorant fools.
That's what he believed, at least.
It didn't take long for him to find the source of the music, a gramophone. The scratchy sound over the instruments came from the needle carefully dancing between the vinyl grooves of the record. The woman had probably been listening when her companion burst through the door in despair just minutes before their deaths.
Drifter picked up the album cover and studied it, finding the right song, his lips curling into a sarcastic smile, accompanied by a mocking chuckle. It was so ironic it was laughable.
Danse Macabre, by French composer Camille Saint-Saëns.
Drifter was no stranger to the concept of Danse Macabre, the inspiration not only for the melody — which he was now beginning to recall with the help of its name — but also for countless works of art and literature. A late medieval artistic genre of allegory about the universality of death, it was produced as a "memento mori," to remind people of the fragility of their lives and the vanity of earthly glory.
His laughter became a cackle of pride at such a coincidence, a song so meaningful that it framed the hunt with an ambitious tone. It was so well-placed that it felt like some form of divine intervention, a reminder that Drifter was as certain and inevitable as death. Once he decided he would feast on innocent blood, nothing could stop him.
He threw away the record sleeve and turned up the volume on the gramophone, captivated by the melody and the context in which he heard it. If anyone was bothered, he would make sure they never were again.
He sat in one of the living room's armchairs, stretching with a laziness he hadn't felt in a long time. It wasn't often that he allowed himself to revel in such leisurely moments as this, to stop and simply appreciate a good symphony… It was much more common in his younger years.
His smile faded at those bittersweet memories, prompting him to bring one of his bloodied hands to his lips as a self-soothing gesture. The taste of blood helped him stay in the present moment instead of losing himself in old, disgusting memories of times when his clothes were well-kept, his hair precisely cut, and the places he frequented were of the highest standard.
Lost times… Times he wouldn't return to even if it were to save his own life. As unlucky as he was, he knew his current life as a traveler was far more satisfying than the miserable hell he lived in those satin robes and on the ivory floors he once walked, thinking it was a dignified way to live.
Now he knew it wasn't. He was certain of his choices, and not for a second did Drifter regret them.
But if he could be honest with himself, there were still parts of his former life that he… missed. The ability to appreciate good art was one of them; visiting galleries, reading books that filled him with pleasure, and being able to close his eyes in a theater and lose himself in a symphony well-orchestrated by a master were some of the pleasures he had to give up for the sake of his dignity as a vampire. Necessary sacrifices, but sacrifices nonetheless.
He didn't envy them, but still... there was a part of him that felt a form of mourning for the things he'd lost. But what could he do, after all? He'd rather lose those privileges than sit with those... "civilized" vampires who had access to such forms of pleasure.
He would deal with the consequences of his choices. But for tonight, just for a moment, he would close his eyes and enjoy the music while he still could before returning to the streets and wandering the night.