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The Man in the Coffin

Autor: Magdeleina Thomson
last update Última atualização: 2025-10-31 02:42:42

I needed tools.

A crowbar.

Courage.

And maybe a priest who charged by the hour.

Instead, I had Brenda, a flashlight with commitment issues, and half a bottle of 1834 Bordeaux whispering, go on, girl, make poor decisions.

The stairs creaked beneath me like I’d just announced I was bringing emotional baggage to the afterlife.

Each plank groaned, turn back, but I’d already committed—and nothing sobers a woman faster than pride.

The air grew colder as I descended. It smelled like dust, iron, and unresolved trauma.

Somewhere above, Varyn House moaned in a long, judgy sigh—as if she were the old aunt at a wedding muttering, “this won’t end well.”

“Noted,” I muttered, flashlight shaking. “I’ll add that to my Yelp review.”

Halfway down, a cobweb tried to mug me.

I walked straight through it, squealed, then did the world’s least dignified tap dance.

“Fantastic,” I gasped. “Ambushed by interior design.”

---

The basement opened around me like a secret the earth had been hoarding.

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  • The House Beneath the Blood Moon   Ring Around the Coffin

    By the time night fell, I’d accepted three things. 1. The Varyn House had a mood. 2. My crowbar, Brenda Classic, was my closest friend. 3. I was officially cohabiting with a vampire. Honestly? I’d had worse roommates. The lights above the kitchen table flickered lazily. The bulbs hummed even when the switch was off — like Brenda herself was breathing through the wires. I was surrounded by three coffee mugs, one bleeding pen, and a notebook labeled Operation Anti-Crispy. “Alright,” I muttered, tapping my page. “Goal: find one sunlight-proof vampire accessory, return it to His Royal Broodiness, and maybe stop the house from flirting with me.” “Flirting?” a voice echoed smoothly behind me. I jumped hard enough to spill coffee. Lucien Varyn stepped from the pantry shadows like a full-course gothic hallucination — black coat, perfect posture, and an expression halfway between curiosity and condescension. “You move like a cat burglar,” I hissed. “Do you have to appear out of nowh

  • The House Beneath the Blood Moon   Hangovers, Hot Vampires & Brenda’s Boundaries

    I woke up to the distinct smell of dust, despair, and possible homicide.For three seconds, my brain floated in blissful blankness.Then memory punched me square in the frontal lobe.Coffins.A heartbeat.A man in said coffin.A vampire.“Oh my God,” I whispered. “He’s real.”Every cell in my body turned into a tiny screaming emoji.I froze on the couch, cocooned in my blanket like a terrified burrito. My gaze darted to the kitchen doorway — shadows. Too many shadows.“Okay,” I breathed. “Let’s think this through. He didn’t kill me last night. Which statistically suggests he’s either friendly, vegetarian, or waiting for marination.”Brenda, the house, creaked gently above me — a sound halfway between you’re fine, sweetheart and run while you still can.Then, from the kitchen, came the low, unmistakable sound of a man moving.Measured. Graceful. Predatory.I peeked around the doorway and immediately regretted every life decision that had led me to this point.There he was — Lucien Vary

  • The House Beneath the Blood Moon   The Vampire King Awakens

    (From Lucien’s point of view — dark, sardonic, and suddenly starving) --- Death had been quiet. Faithful. Predictable. For two centuries, silence was my only companion—velvet and infinite. When I finally woke, I expected thunder. The tremor of magic. Perhaps even a song from the abyss. Instead, I awoke to snoring. Human snoring. Something warm and soft was sprawled across my chest, breathing loudly, drooling slightly, and—worse—smelling faintly of my 1834 Château de Montclair. I blinked. Slowly. The absurdity of my resurrection sank in. I had not been awakened by destiny or ritual— but by a drunk woman wearing mismatched socks and the scent of stolen wine. She muttered in her sleep, “Five more minutes, Dracula.” …Dracula. Who in God’s forgotten name was Dracula? I moved. She stirred. Her lashes fluttered, and she blinked blearily up at me. Our eyes met. Her pupils dilated. Her body went still. She whispered, “Oh my God.” “Yes,” I rasped. “

  • The House Beneath the Blood Moon   The Man in the Coffin

    I needed tools. A crowbar. Courage. And maybe a priest who charged by the hour. Instead, I had Brenda, a flashlight with commitment issues, and half a bottle of 1834 Bordeaux whispering, go on, girl, make poor decisions. The stairs creaked beneath me like I’d just announced I was bringing emotional baggage to the afterlife. Each plank groaned, turn back, but I’d already committed—and nothing sobers a woman faster than pride. The air grew colder as I descended. It smelled like dust, iron, and unresolved trauma. Somewhere above, Varyn House moaned in a long, judgy sigh—as if she were the old aunt at a wedding muttering, “this won’t end well.” “Noted,” I muttered, flashlight shaking. “I’ll add that to my Yelp review.” Halfway down, a cobweb tried to mug me. I walked straight through it, squealed, then did the world’s least dignified tap dance. “Fantastic,” I gasped. “Ambushed by interior design.” --- The basement opened around me like a secret the earth had been hoarding.

  • The House Beneath the Blood Moon   wine & woe

    Morning arrived like a debt collector with a bullhorn and a grudge.Light barged through the warped kitchen window and stabbed my eyeballs with all the subtlety of a toddler with a plastic sword.My tongue felt like it had been wrapped in carpet.My hair had evolved into a sentient tumbleweed.And somewhere in the Varyn House, a pipe wheezed like a dying dragon rehearsing its final breath.I lay on the couch, cocooned in a moth-eaten blanket that was definitely crocheted during a historical plague, and tried to remember if I’d slept at all.Spoiler: I had not.Not after the breathing I heard beneath the floorboards.Not after my survival instinct politely suggested I stop exploring the murder basement.Something slid under the front door with a genteel shfftt.Mail.I stared at it the way one stares at a spider—if I didn’t move, maybe it would reconsider existing.It didn’t.Fine. I crawled across the floor like a stunned crab.Ivory envelope. Gold edges.The kind of paper that smelle

  • The House Beneath the Blood Moon   Welcome to Willow Creek

    When you’ve hit rock bottom, even small-town gossip sounds like background music. Three days of eating canned pears and pretending to be emotionally stable had convinced me of one thing: I needed a job, coffee, and ideally, food that didn’t come from a tree. So, I brushed my hair into something vaguely legal, grabbed the keys to my dying car, and headed toward civilization. The fog was thick enough to taste. Pines hunched over the narrow road, whispering secrets I didn’t care to hear. Finally, a weather-beaten sign emerged from the mist: > WILLOW CREEK — POPULATION: 1,203 (Give or Take a Tragedy) Cute. The diner squatted at the edge of town, its neon OPEN sign flickering like it had trust issues. Inside smelled like bacon, burnt toast, and second chances. The bell above the door jingled, and every head turned. Small towns: where personal space and privacy come to die. A waitress with teased hair, kind eyes, and a name tag that said MARGIE waved me over. “Well,

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