It is November of 1893. You have just killed a vampire. Exhausted and worn, you close your eyes and rest.
You wake up. It is May of 1893. You are on a train en route to Transylvania. Your diary says you have had queer dreams lately.
You try to believe it.
(An old woman puts a rosary in your hands. You accept it without question.)
You are a guest in a castle you have never been in before (you recognize every hallway and know without trying that every door is locked). Your host is a man you have never met before (you killed him you killed him you killed him he had turned to dust and there was blood on the snow).
One morning you cut yourself while shaving.
There is nobody behind you in the pocket mirror’s reflection.
You turn fast, and the razor is like a Kukri knife in your hand.
