“Yeah,” he said, disinterestedly. “I bet. All those centuries accumulating knowledge and wisdom, huh?”

He knew the routine: this guy must have read all his books (like millions of other people) - he was almost quoting dialogue from … from … fuck it, he couldn’t remember which one? November Twilight? Eyes of Fear? Maybe Symphony of Blood? Who cared? The point was that the guy’s case was collapsing in front of Stafford, who knew him now to be some nut, some fanatic who was acting out the role of one of the characters of the Gray Hunter series, perhaps even Erasmus himself. It was just too coincidental.

The vampire seemed to consider, a frown crossing his gaunt face. It looked like it belonged there.

“Wisdom?” he repeated, and shook his head doubtfully. “I know nothing of that, mortal. But knowledge? Ah!” His eyes flashed like twin fires, causing Stafford, despite himself and his resolution not to be cowed by this impostor, to take a step back again.

“The things I have seen, Mister Stafford! The people I have met, the minds I have communed with, the company I have kept. Truly, if knowledge is power, as they say, then I must be considered mighty indeed!”

After an awkward silence, Stafford grunted a noncommittal “Yeah” and then jerked his head backwards towards the low table that stood off to one side of his living room. Time to put his plan into action, be the hero of his own novel. “So I guess you how to play chess, then?”

The vampire snorted, but his eyes lit in a way that showed Stafford he had his attention. “Know how to play it?” he scoffed. “It was I who invented it!”

Under his breath, the author swore quietly. One lie too many, pal. One lie too many. But aloud he said “Well I’m not too bad at it myself. Tell you what: they say chess is the ultimate test of intelligence (he didn’t know if they actually said that or not, but gambled this so-called vampire wouldn’t challenge the quote, which he may have made up): you fancy testing your superior intelligence against me, Mister Vampire?” He deliberately failed to keep the contempt out of his voice, knowing it would needle his visitor.

The vampire seemed to consider this, looking across at the table, back to the door and then to Stafford. Eventually he said “Such a match seems hardly fair, mortal. I have won before even accepting the challenge.”

Arrogant fucker! thought Stafford, though again he kept his face carefully neutral, and like anyone else in his position, used bargain-basement reverse psychology, and thought himself clever in doing so.

“Well, of course, I understand if you’re afraid…”

Which was how he now came to be facing the vampire across the battlefield of the chessboard, two generals desperately vying for control, playing stratagems, sacrificing pieces and trying each to make the all-important breakthrough. Stafford had not been lying when he had claimed to know how to play: he had been county champion six times, state champ four, and only missed out on being crowned national champion due to suddenly falling ill and having to withdraw and forfeit at the last moment, a blot on his record that still darkened his mind today, even though that had been long in the past, before he had found fame as a horror writer. But some wounds just don’t heal, and some clouds, though they may have seemed to move away, are always hovering nearby.

Hovering like the vampire over him right now, he remarked sourly to himself, crowing internally over his impending triumph, no doubt. The line of white pieces ranged to the right of his opponent was significantly longer than his small gathering, and there were more important ones that he had surrendered to the vampire: two rooks, a knight, two bishops. Hard to defend your king with such a reduced army. Whoever he was, this guy certainly knew how to play.

Playing for time as he considered his move, he reached into his desk drawer and removed a flat packet, thumbing it open and popping a cigarette into his mouth. He thought better when he smoked. As he flicked his lighter to the tip of the cigarette and leaned back, expelling a thick cloud of grey smoke from his mouth, the vampire seemed to grimace, an expression he had not seen before on that impassive, almost carven face, and he waved his hand irritably at the smoke.

“Disgusting habit!” he growled. “Can’t you take that outside?”

Shrugging, Stafford unfolded his long legs from under the desk and stretched them. As he approached the door he had half a mind to leg it down the street, but reasoned that he would probably be playing right into this weirdo’s hands. He could just see tomorrow’s headline: Famous Author Spooked by Intruder, Runs Away. Yeah, that would play really well with his fanbase, wouldn’t it? And he just getting back into their good books, no pun intended, after that fiasco with the actor. No, whatever the end game was here, he had to remain to see it through. Besides, the guy had had plenty of opportunities to kill him if he wanted to. He was curious as to what the so-called vampire wanted, he had to admit.

Let’s see how this plays out.

The sudden shock of cold air that assaulted his face when he opened the door reminded him that it was November, and late; how late, for some reason, he couldn’t remember, but it was dark. The smoke from his cigarette blew into his face, and he coughed, turning slightly so as to aim it away from him. Odd, he found himself thinking, how smokers will willingly draw in smoke to their lungs, but dislike it coming back into their face.

A thick fog had descended, obscuring most of the road and much of the street which ran parallel to his house. The distant sounds of traffic passing through and over the island drifted back to his ears, making him feel strangely alone, as if these sounds came from another place, a place he could not go, somewhere completely separate to where he was.

Another world.

Lounging against the frame of the doorway, he took the opportunity to scan the road, but of the few lights that emerged out of the gloom, none were blue and none were flashing. Four cars, one a taxi, and a heavy rig passed him by, and still no sign of the cops. Could the intruder, this vampire, have disabled his alarm, he wondered, a slight note of panic rising into his breast.

Footsteps sounded in the dark, and checking behind to see if his unwelcome guest was watching him - he wasn’t; he was back in the living room and the door connecting that to the main hall was closed - he walked out into the street, just in time to encounter a young man who emerged out of the mist, his head down, muffled against the cold. Stafford waved at him.

“Hey buddy! You seen a cop car heading this way?”

The man kept his head down, did not answer. He gave no indication of having seen the questioner, and Stafford became aware of the guy’s headphones, large ones that covered the ear completely, and realised why he had not been heard. Carefully, he stepped in front of the guy and waved his arms. When that didn't work, he lifted one of the cups, repeated the question. But though the man could surely now hear him - might even react with annoyance at being interrupted in his listening, but at least should react - he did not answer. He did not even look at Stafford. Or, to be more accurate, seemed to look through him.

As if he wasn’t there.

“Hey!” Deciding that even the risk of getting into a fight with the guy was better than being ignored, he unceremoniously slapped the headphones off the man’s head. The guy stopped, looked bewildered, took a look up and down the street, frowned and then bent to pick up the fallen headphones, from which a tinny noise issued. Replacing the phones carefully on his head, and again looking around with a confused look, the man resumed his walk, occasionally sneaking a look behind him, as if he feared he was being followed. The fog soon swallowed him up, and Stafford was alone again.

He stood in the middle of the street, his arms at his side, his palms up. “What the hell?” he raged. “You ignorant fuck! I just wanted to ask - Excuse me? Miss?” He changed tack and dropped the anger out of his voice immediately as he noticed a young girl coming along the street, her figure detaching itself from the fog as if she had just materialised in front of him.

“Miss? Sorry, I just wanted to ask - no, don’t be scared,” he assured her, as she continued to walk, head down, looking at the screen of her mobile phone as if its pale ghostly light was all she had to rely on to provide her illumination, which, the streetlights near his home being mostly vandalised, it more or less was. She ignored him, but to be honest that wasn’t too surprising. Any woman walking in fog was unlikely to pay attention to a man who called to her, a man she didn’t know, didn’t want to know. He sighed as the fog again enveloped her.

“Bitch,” he couldn’t help muttering under his breath, then “Oh, sorry guys, did you happen to see -?” But the crowd of youths, four of them, and somewhat the worse for wear, pushed past him without even sparing him a glance. For a moment, he worried for the girl on her own only a few paces ahead of them, then a savage grin spread over his features, and he almost hoped they caught up with her. Serve the little high and mighty slut right. He was standing watching the gang vanish into the thick fog bank, the thought of what they might do to that young woman almost cheering him, when something bumped into him.