Long before the novels and the films, the vampire was a village dread: the dead who would not stay dead, rising lean and pale to drink the warmth from the living and make more of their kind. Folklore piled on the defenses, garlic, running water, a stake, the rising sun, because the bargain underneath was so frightening. Live forever, but only in the dark. Never age, never die, and never again sit in the morning light or eat at a table or love a thing that will not crumble to dust while you go on.
The vampire endures because it asks the quiet question: would you take forever, if forever cost you the day?
Risen here pale against the crimson. Printed heavy on garment dyed cotton, for the ones who keep their own hours.
