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The sudden billow of the curtain above the bed told the man that somebody had opened the door to his modest dwelling—the door that had been marked and shut, he had thought, for the final time. Despite his weakness and pain from the lumps on his neck, he mustered the strength to turn his face toward the door.
Perhaps it was his fevered imagination, but the bright column of sunlight that stretched into his house from the threshold seemed to pass right through the tall, skinny figure that stood in the doorway. The figure’s head rotated slightly, revealing the outline of a large beak under a black narrow-brimmed hat. The sick man would have thought the figure a nightmarish giant crow if he hadn’t been well acquainted with what the plague doctors wore: a mask with a beak stuffed with herbs, and protective garments shrouding them from head to toe.
But the plague doctor had only just marked the door and left an hour ago. Or last night. Or two days ago. It was difficult to tell. It was difficult to remember.
This visitor was a plague doctor, wasn’t he? The man was afraid that he would blink and find the visitor transformed into his frightened, sobbing daughter, or that he would speak and find the visitor transformed into his naively unaware little grandson. That was what happened in his dreams, when he was unlucky enough to dream in his broken sleep. He had sent them away to protect them. He wanted to think about them, but it was unbearable to do so; he wanted to not think about them, but it was unbearable to do so.
So, the man remained silent.
The visitor closed the door behind himself and noiselessly glided to the man’s bedside. Something in the way he moved told the man that this visitor was not from this world.
“Come to… take me?” the man whispered.
The visitor’s eyes were obscured behind the round glass-covered openings in the mask, but even in the dark the man could feel those eyes taking in everything and assessing his condition.
“I’ve come to…” the visitor began to say. The man was startled that the visitor could speak, and that his voice was deep, serious, and gentle. “I’ve simply come,” the visitor said.
“Human after all?” the man murmured, disappointed. “Too close. Stand back.”
“Don’t be afraid for me,” the visitor said. “It’s all right.” He took the man’s blackened fingers into his hand. “I am not your ordinary plague doctor. I visit the houses that are already marked, which no-one will touch.”
“Then you’re the angel of death.”
The visitor emitted a chuckle from behind the mask. “I’m afraid not.”
“Show me your face, angel of death,” the man said stubbornly. “Let me see it...”
The visitor simply inclined his head and patted the man’s hand.
“Let me see it,” the man repeated, “and let me die.”
“You’re ready to die?” the visitor asked in a low voice.
“Let me see it and die—even though I’m not ready to die, even though I have so much to live for, even though I’m not finished here! Far from it! Oh—Marisa, Bartolo—will I see them again? Will I cross over, and will time pass by in a blink on that other side and bring them to me after they’ve lived long and happy lives?”
“I have no knowledge of what happens after death,” the visitor said softly, even regretfully.
The man, robbed of breath by his outburst, took a while to recollect his power of speech and his thoughts. “Your face,” he finally said.
The visitor hesitated, then acquiesced and undid the mask’s straps. The man was once more disappointed upon beholding the very ordinary visage of a middle-aged man with greying hair and an aquiline nose. He grasped for words to convey his disappointment, and settled for uttering, “I’m not dead yet.”
“Ha!” The visitor couldn’t help but grin and laugh. “Well, at least you’ve established that I’m not a basilisk, since my glance hasn’t killed you.”
Something suddenly felt wrong to the man, even though it was hard to concentrate, even though anything that happened now would soon no longer matter to him. Something about the visitor was wrong. The lack of shadow, the lack of fear, the…
Sharp teeth. Very sharp teeth.
“Vampire,” the man wheezed.
“Yes,” the visitor said without a hint of embarrassment. “You’re the first to guess correctly.”
Cold fear washed over the man, but his already dead fingertips, insensible to touch, remained in the vampire’s grip. “The others that you’ve visited… they’ve all been fed upon, exsanguinated, and nobody the wiser, since they were dying anyway…?”
The vampire shook his head. “No. I do not drink. My dear, as hard as it may be to believe, I’ve simply come. To keep you company. But if you wish to be alone, I will go.”
“I don’t wish to be alone,” the man croaked, “but what has this world come to? Are there no good men left in the world, that a monster must console me?”
“Yours is a very harsh world,” the vampire said gently, “but there are good men left in it. They would come to console you if they could. Your loved ones would come if they could. But they are mortal, vulnerable. I suppose that you, like many others, sent them away because you love them and don’t wish them to come to harm. I am a monster, yes, but to the degree that I am unlike you, I cannot be harmed by what harms you. That is why I am here instead of them, even though they wish very much to be here—even though their tears shed for you would fill and flood the Yaruga seven times over... Again, if you wish to be alone, I will go. But if you wish me to stay, I will.”
The man blinked. He felt so very tired. “Stay,” he said.
“I will,” said the visitor.
“Till the end,” said the man.
“Till the very end,” said the visitor.
After a few hours, the visitor passed a hand over the man’s face in a delicate gesture of farewell. So it was that, in the end, there was no shadow darkening that face, nor was there any fear.