By Andrea Dean Van Scoyoc

Chapter 1

It was a sunny day, the afternoon I was called to a beautiful old Gothic mansion on the outskirts of town. I knew when I got the call that this one was going to be different somehow. I wasn’t sure how, but you know that tingling feeling you get at the base of your spine when you know that something is going to be great and you get really excited about it?

Well, that’s what I got when I hung up the phone with Darcett Demolition. Now, why did they call me, I can’t tell you, but they did. Maybe they thought no one else, or anyone serious, would believe them?

I guess it doesn’t matter now.

Anyway, I got the tingling jitters at the base of my spine; I became as giddy as a schoolgirl and acted like I had ants in my pants, twitching about in my chair, from the thought of seeing this house.

When I got there, I pulled up under a large and stately oak out in the front. I could see that the place was in terrible disrepair, but at one time, it had really been something else. Wisteria clung to an old arbor at the side of the house, roses had taken over the front of the house, my late wife would have loved them. The roof had caved in, over what I’d found out was the dining room, once I entered the house. But the red bricks that made up the foundation were still as strong and sturdy as the day the house was built.

         It was a shame that the local historical society hadn’t stepped in and tried to save the place. But then again, they’d never really been of much use anyway and, from what I have read in Dante’s diary, they weren’t too fond of Miss Ivana, as it was.

The local Baptist church certainly didn’t like her, but they are only known for liking those who pad their offering trays, and so I’m sure they prayed for, damned and ultimately judged her soul and truth be known, had for years anyway.

I walked up to the foreman, standing on the dilapidated porch, a big, burly man with arms as big around as my legs and looking, by far, heavier than what that poor porch could support. I wiped my brow. It was a hot one.

“Good afternoon, sir. I’m Percival Parkins, from the magazine.”

He sized me up and then grunted.

“In there.”

He motioned with his head through the open doorway.

“Sal wants to see you.”

I made my way up the rickety porch steps, all the while trying to avoid the holes in the rotted wood and walked inside, not sure who this fella, Sal, was but hoping he was a lot friendlier than the big guy outside.

Trekking through dust an inch deep in the grand but faded foyer, as spider webs clung to my face, I rounded the main hallway into the kitchen and found him soon enough, barking orders to some younger crewmen about respecting “old stuff.”

“Are you, Sal?”

He looked down at me from the elevated kitchen. “Yeah. You the man from that paranormal magazine?”

 “I am, indeed, son. What can I do for you?”

The man wiped his face with his sweaty arm. It only made the dirty smudges on his face worse than they already were, but I wasn’t about to tell him that, as I precariously picked the spider webs off my own white dress shirt.

“I thought you ought to see this place before it got torn down. They don’t build ‘em like this anymore, you know? Solid, sturdy and with an elegance that has long since died in the world of architecture.”

I smiled at the young man. He was about forty or so, I’d say and lanky, but strong looking. With dark, copper colored-skin, eyes as black as a starless night and hair to match, I knew that he had to be of good old fashioned, Italian stock.

 I was right.

“My granddad, Dante Compegna knew the lady who lived here, Miss Morriander. He knew her and though he wouldn’t tell me what he meant, he always said that this place was special and that shewas special.

“When I was told by the company owner, Mr. Darcett, that it was this place that he’d been hired to tear down, I almost felt sick. It was like my granddad was tugging at my heart, telling me, ‘Boy, you make sure this place is taken care of. Don’t you let any disrespect happen to that house and don’t you let them just knock it down. You make sure that when she finally goes, she goes with fight, might and power. You make sure that when she has been gutted, after the last windowpane has been taken out, the last doorknob removed, the last shingle ripped off, that she fell with essere orgoglioso.”

I looked at him strangely. I don’t have a drop of Italian in my heritage, so I was hoping he’d indulge me. He did.

“Sorry,essere orgoglioso is Italian for ‘pride.’ So, I have done what my granddad wanted. I called an architectural salvager to come in and take every antique piece of molding, glass and everything else they could find, out of here.”

The young man looked uncomfortable for a moment and then dropped his voice, leaning over so only I would hear him. I don’t mind telling you, with all the banging going on in that place, I doubt anyone would have heard me drive my car into it. That’s when he spoke the words to me that would forever change my magazine and my outlook on those things from the shadowed side of life that I’d always had such an interest in.

“I found something that I think you ought to look at.”

He motioned me to follow him and I did so, to the back room. The windows were gone and Wisteria threatened to take the whole place over, but in its own, forlorn way, it was beautiful, naturally beautiful as if nature had simply decided to move back in.

Sitting on an old dresser was a book, far older than I’d seen or held before. Bound in leather, with gold print on the front, that print was simply one word, JOURNAL.

The young man handed me the book and stood silent as I gingerly opened the cover.

Inside was inscribed, “This journal is the memoir of Miss Ivana Morriander.    Human, Vampire and Lover of Life.”

   “I found it in that wall over there.”

                  He jerked his head toward a sizeable hole in the wall that exposed quite a bit of wood, and bricks.

                  “I have to wonder how many more she had or if these were the only two?”

“Only two,” I stammered, almost too giddy to speak.

              “Yes sir. My granddad left me a journal and I read a few pages and then put it away.”

               I looked at the young man again, completely puzzled.

            “The journal was Ivana’s and my granddad’s and it appears that they both wrote about their first meeting and how their friendship lasted over decades, until she died. I’ve had the journal for a few years now and while I’ll crack it open now and then and read it, I never put any stock in it because, well, who believes in Vampires?”

I smiled.

             “Apparently your granddad did.”

               The young man scratched his head.

“Apparently so and it appears that granddad’s journal entries weren’t just old fables he made up. You see sir, superstition and old wives’ tales make up a lot of what people from the old country are raised with. I can’t relate to any of that because I was born in another time and almost another life away from what my granddad was raised with. He grew up hearing about all the old stories, about the living dead that walked the country sides at night, feasting on whoever might be hapless enough to not heed the warnings of the old witches. To people of even my age, we find those stories good campfire tales and a good way to get our kids to mind, with threats of spooks, ghosts, goblins and creepy crawlies. We certainly don’t think any of them true!”

             I simply turned the book over and over in my hands,

caressing the leather and drinking in every wrinkle, every fold, the scent of molded wood and dank rot.

It was a beautiful sight to me.

“Sir?”

The words snapped me out of my fairytale stupor and back to my surroundings.

“I apologize, son. It’s that I have never seen something so magnificent as this book. Do you still have your grandfather’s journal?”

“Yes, sir and I’ll let you look at them both. I’m keeping the journals,

both because I’m afraid my granddad might come back and get me if I don’t”

I scarcely heard him. I was crestfallen. I’d so hoped that he’d give me at least this journal, but I really have no right to ask for either of them. It appears that his granddad was quite fond of Miss Morriander and it simply would not be right of me to pry them from him.

“Son, may I ask you a personal question?”

 “Sure.”

I shifted nervously. How was I supposed to put into words what I was thinking? I’d try to be delicate, but in my zeal and child-like excitement, I couldn’t make any promises.

“Are you planning to leave these journals to your children upon your death?”

Much to my delight, rather than berate me for such a crude question, the young man simply shrugged.

“No sir. My kids have no interest in any of this stuff. I wish they did, it’s their heritage too, but they don’t. Would you like them?”

I almost choked I was so excited.

Was I that easy to read or did the young man simply know what it was like to appreciate history?

“I most certainly would, son. I can promise you and your granddad, that both journals will be treasured in the magazine’s own personal library, which upon my death will be willed to the Maxwell Metropolitan Museum in New York City.

“Of course I expect to pass on long before you do, but when you do pass on, if you will leave them to my estate, which the museum has already agreed to handle,” I dropped my voice low, to repay the secretive respect he’d shown me earlier, and he leaned toward me to hear, “it pays to have connections, I can promise you that they will be treasured.”

I couldn’t lean heavily enough on that word. It was true. My niece’s daughter is working summers there and plans to make a career with the museum. They’ve already offered her a full-time job when she turns eighteen, help with college and many perks. She’s excited and I’m overjoyed. I have no doubt that she will do a fine job. I’m grateful that she seems to have somehow inherited my love of all things historical.

He shrugged again and once again, wiped his face with a dirty arm.

“Then that works for me. I’ll get you the other journal too and you can look them over for as long as you need, but not too long. I think granddad will be looking for them. I swear I can feel him around sometimes.” I smiled as I remembered my own grandfather

Currently available in paperback on kindle and aubible soon to be

released in hardback https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DZ347B5C