You can just call me Igor.
That’s all you need to know about my name.
If you are reading this missive... then,
I have probably confronted my mortality.
Let it be known that I am a staggering 211 years old.
And, my timeless existence of undead darkness has been long and arduous.
I started my life as a human in the old country of Bavaria. I have existed so long that I have forgotten much of my life before I was turned into what I am, but pieces of memories still fall through the cracks of my mind to reminded me of what I once was.
One of the lingering memories that I have always retained is the events of the final hours before I was attacked by the random feral vampire on that All Hallows Eve night, so long ago.
The atmosphere was cold and crisp on that dark October night. It was the first full moon night of the annual Werewolf Hunt festival. As usual, the village only expected to capture one Werewolf that night. That successful hunt would be the undoing of one more monster that would not be able to terrorize our village, kill our women or children, or bite someone else to infect them with the full moon monster madness.
That particular event was my first Werewolf Hunt. Peter, my eldest son, had just turned 13 three days before, and as the rules of the hunt state… men with children are not allowed to hunt until their eldest sons are old enough to take over the household to protect their mothers and younger siblings, in case the father is killed during the Werewolf hunt.
The rules of our community are strict… and what they state is that a boy of 13 years of age must become a man in the event of the death of his father… immediately, if he is killed during one of the hunts.
Everyone involved in the hunt goes into the danger with the full knowledge that if he is bitten by the werewolf, then he will be immediately shot in the temple with a Silver Bullet of Absolution.
There is never hesitation when it comes to executing an infected human. Once bitten, the fever of lycanthropy immediately begins to affect the infected person’s mind causing him to swiftly become feral. Within minutes, the bitten is overcome by the overwhelming urge of feral self-preserve and only the swift escape into the wild gives the infected peace… until the infection completes its cycle of completion within the time of two to three days. That process, in which the infection changes the insides of the person to ready him for his first change appears to be very painful as it affects the mind, as well as the body, of the affected.
It is not a pretty sight, because of the pain involved with the process sometimes involves the infected ripping away at the flesh of his body.
I know this knowledge because my village dealt with Werewolves for thirty-two years before the elders finally decided that it was impossible to continue the futile attempts at rehabbing our brothers and sisters, our sons and daughters… those who survived the initial attacks… to try to save them when they were driven to destroy and kill under the glow of the full moon.
And, during the rest of the year... when the infected were in human form... their aggression and feral biting of their fellow villagers was simply too dangerous to allow in the community. And so, Elder Markova, like those before him, continued to created the special silver bullets to only be used in the case of absolution.
A silver bullet to the brain, special or not, is the way to make sure the Werewolf never returns to the infected. During those dark times, the nights were blacker than black and the days were as gloomy as the night. Thirty-seven of us had to die by silver bullet. Twenty-two died from the wounds inflicted by the Werewolves.
Dark times, indeed.
I have never seen a werewolf since the time of my turning. According to the monster lore, I am suppose to be mortal enemies with Lycanthropes. I have survived this harsh existence of mine by fighting against the physical elements of the planet for my very “life” and traveling around the globe, moving from old world Poland to deep down cowboy-centric Tyler, Texas.
I have always thought that this mythological war that I have heard so much about that is occurring between my kind and werewolves is ridiculous nonsense… absurd… alternate reality hokum.
I will not discount the existence of werewolves. I mean, really, I am forced to walk the night time earth in order to avoid the death rays of the sun. As absurd as my very own existence is, so then too… werewolves must exist.
But, they have to be my mortal enemy? I don‘t know about that.
Of course, if I ever meet a werewolf and he is as feral as his mythology paints him out to be… then there will obviously be a real… problem. And maybe I will gain first hand experience as to how the Vampire verses Werewolf story line began.
I guess if I can continue to hold on with my overly long existence, and avoid a painful undead death by sunlight or by sharpened wooden stake, then I will discover an answer... one day.
And now, to do what my kind must do… hunt for the blood that my human prey carries inside its warm, inviting veins before the moonlight dips below the horizon and the sun rises to burn me to dust. That is kind of like the caveat for the relationship between the moon and the werewolf. We both are cursed by our relationship with the moon… and the sun.
Where will it all end?
Maybe the end will come when this vampire, and that werewolf, finally meet. Maybe, one day, we can end the curse of each other’s cursed existence by doing each other in.
Damn... as usual, when I begin to reminisce about the origin of my own conversion from human to vampire, my mind drifts to the werewolf on my mind. Can it be that fate is preparing me for an eventful confrontation to come? Or, can it be that my mind is simply full of the dry dust on the moon.
Dust on the moon...