A few years ago, I was sitting in the pub, in a city full of vampires. We got to talking about monsters. My friends described all kinds of ravening, terrifying beasts. Here is the monster I gave them.
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There are worse things than death. Working at an old-fashioned accountancy practice is just one of them.
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For the first time in years, Wilbur Drinkwater felt excitement. He had finally escaped from that awful job at Haynes, Hytner, Hubbard and Partners. He had felt dread going to Mr Hubbard’s office to hand his notice in. But the man in the grey suit hadn’t even looked up, just taken the hand written letter and said, “Very well, you’ll receive your final salary cheque on the fifteenth of next month. We expect you to work until then, and for your desk to be clear by the end of that date.”
Wilbur had accepted a new job. He’d seen it advertised in the local newspaper, the Ravenblack Herald. It came through the door every week, a free rag that usually went straight in the bin. But last week, it had fallen through the letterbox and landed open at the jobs page. One had caught his eye. It read:
Wanted: Experienced book-keeper for evening position. Excellent remuneration for the right person. Discretion essential. Flexible hours. Interesting and unusual working environment. To apply, write to Mr D, Venn Pharmaceutical, Ravenblack City.
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He’d received a letter telling him he had got the job, without even an interview. Obviously, he thought to himself, his CV demonstrated that he had the right qualities, qualities HHH&P had overlooked for fifteen years.
Arriving at his new place of work, he found it to be one of those offices that was situated in a converted Edwardian house. Very discreet, no big sign outside, just a small brass plaque on the door with “Venn Pharmaceutical” engraved in cursive script. Trying the handle, he found it open, and he stepped inside.
He was slightly surprised to see a man standing on the other side of the door, as if he’d been waiting. An inch taller than Wilbur, solidly built but without an inch of fat on him, and with the palest skin he’d ever seen.
“Aaah, you’d be Wilbur, yes ? Welcome to Venn Pharmaceuticals. I’m Mr D. All our other employees have gone home for the day. I find it so much easier if our book-keeper can work without interruption from chattering secretaries. Come in, I’ll show you around.”
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Wilbur slipped into his new job with ease. He rather liked working on his own, and although the hours were slightly odd, it left his days free, and Mr D was right, he got a lot of work done without any interruption beyond an occasional break to make a cup of tea.
Mr D himself was always around, but rarely got in Wilbur’s way. He’d occasionally drop some paperwork on his desk, bank statements, invoices and the like.
But that was something he found odd. The company only used one bank, and it was one he hadn’t heard of before. Omnibank. After a few weeks, he started to notice that all the invoices appeared to come from suppliers, rather than being invoices to customers sent out by Venn Pharmaceutical. In the back of his mind, a little voice started to nag him. “Where was the money coming from ?” All the bank statements had deposits on, but they seemed to always be in cash, and never consistent amounts.
But he was happy in his work, so he put these things out of his mind.
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One evening, a few weeks later, Mr D stopped by his desk. “Wilbur, I think I should speak to you about something. We’re an ethical company at Venn Pharmaceutical. I’ve heard that you are spending some of your free time at the pub with friends. We really can’t have it known that our employees are drinkers, or take the risk that you might inadvertently say something which would let slip our commercial secrets. But I’m fair. In return for stopping this, you’ll receive a salary increase. Would £5000 a year be enough ?”
Wilbur didn’t even have to think about it. The money would come in useful paying his rent and bills, and he’d found Mr D always kindly and concerned for his well being. He nodded. “Yes, Mr D, thank you Mr D.”
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Weeks turned into months, months turned into years. Every day, Wilbur went to work. It wasn’t hard work, but he always seemed to struggle to get out of bed in the mornings. He didn’t go to the pub any more: Mr D had made clear that he’d find out if he did. He hardly noticed that all he did was go to work, come home, sleep, and go to work again. But he was happy in his lot. He didn’t notice his friends drifting away as they never heard from him. He turned up to family Christmas parties, and didn’t notice that people just let him sit in the room as events wafted past him. But every evening, he put his suit on, and went to work.
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Poor Wilbur. I don’t think I’m a monster, but I have to feed. It’s a simple matter of hypnotic influence to blank the human’s mind after taking a pint or two, to obliterate just a minute or two of time. I’ve made sure he has no friends to point his pallor out to him, to make him think once more. Every day, he comes to work, and every day after he has finished his (very competent) book-keeping duties, I drain a little more of his life away. But I haven’t killed him, left him a drained corpse in some alleyway. I’m not a monster.... am I ?
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There are worse things than death. Working for the vampire Jean DeVenn is just one of them.
(Word Count: 992)