Bloodbound

The French Quarter pressed in—a raw, electric autumn evening with The Witching Night drawing near. Jack-o’-lanterns grinned from rusted balconies, their light flickering like dying embers. Revelers drifted through puddles tinged gold by gaslight, their laughter jagged and restless, echoing long after their shadows had faded. The city was all masks and secrets, every alley humming with a strange, ancient energy.

I sought refuge from the chaos, slipping beneath the faded “Ammons Antiquarian Books” sign. The bell chimed, a sound muffled by the wind—a signal that the night had carried something to my door. Inside, a sweet decay clung to the stacks; the air tasted of dust, aging paper, and distant rain. From a hidden corner, the radio crackled old jazz, a lonely saxophone underscored by the soft, rasping breath of the proprietor.

My hand, as if guided, brushed against an ancient tome. A chill radiated from it, making the skin on my arm tighten. The leather cover was split and branded with symbols half-worn to bone. It seemed to pulse beneath my fingertips, a faint, rhythmic vibration, as if hungry for attention. There was delight in that shiver—a private thrill. As a writer, I’d spent years chasing the supernatural through hollow folklore, and here, at last, was a relic that pushed back.

“Ten bucks,” the owner grunted, his eyes never meeting mine.

I barely heard the price. I paid. The journal came home with me.

Back in my apartment, I dropped the book onto a cluttered table, Halloween candy wrappers and stale popcorn crushed beneath its weight. The storm outside pulsed in time with my heart. I sat, breath shallow, letting the city’s distant jubilation fall away. My lamp flickered as I opened the cover. The first page was brittle, the ink faded to a ghostly brown.

October 19, 1886

Another has been taken. The mist from the river grows thick these nights, and They move within it. We hear whispers in the alleys, a melody that promises warmth but delivers only cold. They wear the faces of friends, of lovers, of the recently departed. You will know Them by Their hunger, a hollowness in Their eyes that no mortal joy can fill. Do not trust the laughter. It is a lure.

I paused, the words irrationally alive, crawling under my skin. This was not fear—at least, not yet. It was a surge of weird, illicit joy. The journal beckoned, the sentences curling in the lamplight, urging me deeper. I couldn’t tell if I was turning the pages or if they were turning themselves. Strange drawings bled across the margins—faces distorted in torchlight, eyes deep-set and wild, figures slipping through city fog.

October 25, 1886

He spoke the name aloud. A foolish, boastful boy, drunk on wine and the season’s revelry. He read from the book he found, thinking it folly. Now Their gaze is upon him. They have marked him. They do not hunt with haste; They savor the chase, letting the terror build like pressure behind a dam. The trap is not the book itself, but the curiosity of those who cannot look away.

The writing grew frenzied, with warnings of “nests” hidden in the city’s crumbling crypts and voices that itched under the skin. I tried banishing my fascination with skepticism, scribbling “mass delusion” and “urban hysteria” in the margins, but the ink of my own pen felt thin, the explanations hollow. Each page held me tighter. Sometimes, I swore the words reordered themselves when I blinked.

A scraping noise outside became my companion, rough and persistent, creeping closer with every nightfall. I told myself it was the wind, a loose shutter, a parade banner caught on the wrought-iron railings. Still, I slept less and read more, my hand resting on a heavy letter opener as I turned the pages.

October 31, 1886

All Hallows’ Eve. The veil is thin. They walk among the masked crowds, their own faces the most terrifying costume of all. I have barred the door and stuffed the keyholes with salt and crushed herbs. It is not enough. I hear them now, scratching at the wood, whispering my name. If you read this, know that the story has chosen you. It is already too late.

Outside, the city’s revelry softened, the night growing heavier. Costumes lingered in the dim light, laughter fading into murmurs. The shadows gathering in the puddles and the gaps behind stained glass seemed longer, darker. My dreams twisted: faceless figures with hollow eyes drifted past, always watching, always beckoning. I woke with the chilling certainty of unseen eyes having watched me sleep.

After a string of sleepless nights, I tried to burn the journal. It resisted. The flames quivered, licked the branded leather, then died, leaving not a single scorch mark. I threw it out in the storm, but by morning it was waiting on my dresser, dry and impossibly unchanged.

The city itself turned unfamiliar. I saw figures lingering in doorways, their faces turned away in the afternoon haze. The journal had fastened itself to me, and I realized with a sickening lurch—its hunger was not for just any reader. It sought the ones who wanted to believe.

On Halloween night, the whispers grew sharp and distinct, like breath against my ear, taunting me to uncover the truths no mask could hide. The journal pulsed with fierce intent, a living thing binding me to an ancient, deadly game. Fear sharpened into purpose. I was being herded toward a revelation—and survival meant hunting back.

I gathered what weapons I could—garlic, a shard of mirror, salt, charms snatched from myth and tourist shops. I set out into the night. The more I resisted the journal, the deeper I fell into its web, following clues that led only to more questions, always feeling the cold weight of a predator’s gaze.

When the last of Halloween unraveled, November’s chill smothered the city. The journal vanished. For a moment, I felt almost free, lighter without its physical weight. But the relief was a lie. The whispers didn’t stop. They grew louder, more insistent, threading through my thoughts like a needle through flesh. The city itself seemed to shift, its streets narrowing, its shadows deepening, as if the French Quarter had become a labyrinth designed to keep me in.

I passed Ammons again, drawn by a force I couldn’t resist. Through the fogged front window, I saw it: the glint of cracked leather perched among display tomes. A single, brightly colored candy wrapper marked its first page, waiting for another set of eager hands. But the journal wasn’t alone. Behind the counter, the proprietor’s eyes met mine for the first time. They were hollow, black pits, glinting with a hunger that mirrored the journal’s. His lips curled into a grin that wasn’t human.

I stumbled back into the street, but the city had changed. The gaslights flickered, their glow dim and sickly. The revelers were gone, replaced by figures that didn’t move, didn’t breathe. They stood in doorways and alleys, their faces obscured by masks that seemed to shift and writhe in the corner of my vision. The air was thick with whispers, a chorus of voices that spoke my name, each syllable a hook sinking deeper into my mind.

I ran, but the streets twisted beneath my feet, leading me in circles. The journal’s absence was a trick; its presence was everywhere. The symbols from its pages bled into the walls, the pavement, the sky. I felt their gaze, cold and unrelenting, pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t escape. My torment wasn’t over. It had only just begun.

Days later, I found myself back at Ammons, though I didn’t remember walking there. The door was ajar, the bell silent. Inside, the air was thick with decay, the sweet, cloying scent of something long dead. The journal sat on the counter, its cover glistening as if freshly oiled. My hand moved on its own, reaching for it, but before my fingers could graze the leather, the proprietor’s voice cut through the silence.

“You’re not done yet,” he said, his grin widening to reveal teeth too sharp, too many. “They’re not bored of you… yet.”

The journal pulsed, its symbols glowing faintly in the dim light, alive with intent.

I realize now that I’m not the hunter. I never was. I’m the entertainment, a pawn in a game I can’t win. The vampires don’t need to chase me; they only need to watch, to savor the slow unraveling of my mind. And when they tire of me, when the game loses its thrill, they will take me.

The city listens. The city watches. And I am its plaything, a shadow stitched into the French Quarter’s endless parade. But now I see the truth with terrifying clarity.

There is no escape. Only the game.