Vampires didn't exist, did they? They couldn't exist, the undead, who could believe that nonsense taken from ancient legends? Many people thought about this, about mythicism, the whole belief that vampires couldn't go out in the sunlight, have contact with sacred things and need to feed on blood. That didn't apply here.

Historical legends passed from hand to hand, thought by thought, they were never the same as the one they came from and the rumors were hardly similar to reality. Why someone so disbelieving of abnormalities are suddenly so focused on this topic?

Truth be told, you never believed the family stories—the ones your grandparents told you to scare you a little and put you to bed early when you were a kid. Vampires, werewolves, witches… Just bullshit, until you were tempted to believe that, at least, vampires existed.

Going to church wasn't exactly your hobby, and being holy might not have been the priest's either. Being born and raised in a small town made you think you knew it, then reality set in—and knocked you on your head.

Bunches of people founded dead, without a single drop of blood in their bodies—drained. What did they all have in common? The fang marks on their necks and their faith in God. Oh, poor believers, attending church has made them a target for a bloody beast.

And what could a rookie cop do? Nothing, nothing but watch the circus burn from the front row. You should've, but your curiosity was your enemy—the more you investigated on your own, the crazier you seemed. Vampires? Who was talking about vampires? Well, you were.

But, you couldn't present that hypothesis without evidence—and even with evidence, you still had doubts that anyone would believe your theory that Father Mayhew was actually a vampire, the vampire responsible for the murders.

Breaking into the church at night, you thought you wouldn't—and couldn't be discovered. You thought wrong, so wrong. He was behind you, his cold hand already on your shoulder, squeezing it. Your gun clanged, killshot.