The joy of a vampire story is, the reader knows all the rules already. So here’s a bit of something for Angela Goff’s #VisDare, and this one leaves you to do most of the work yourself.
It had been a month. They had taken away the horses, and their harness with them. Around the hollow, autumn had taken hold, but the leaves that swirled around the clearing never settled on the hearse, and, despite everything, the lamps still burned.
On that night there was a nondescript moon, neither full nor new nor perfectly gibbous, a moon that cast no omens and gave no excuses, and at last the village men made their way to the place, to do what they had always known must be done.
The coffin rested drunkenly just as it had fallen, and the jug made one more circuit of the group before anyone would approach it. Coffin? Crate . . . rough planking, crude corners, and below it, a trickle of soil.
They threw it open, and stared, aghast. Only soil. He had eluded them again.
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