The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

"You're late," the man muttered, not looking up as the stool beside him creaked..

The woman smelled like bergamot & gunpowder, an unlikely pairing that lingered when she leaned in. Her gloves were tight, black leather, fingers tapping a cigarette against the case but never lighting it. "Trains don't run on your schedule, Ezra." She slid a folded slip of paper across the bar, the edge stained with what might've been coffee or blood. The bartender pretended not to notice.

Ezra didn't touch it. His glass trembled slightly as he lifted it, the ice clinking like bones in a tin can. "You're telling me it's one of the sisters?" His voice cracked—just once—before he swallowed the bourbon whole. The burn didn't hide the taste of bile rising in his throat.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and deliberate, like she was counting down to something inevitable. The cigarette between her fingers snapped in half, tobacco spilling onto the polished wood. "Yes," she murmured, "and we know which one." Her gaze flicked to the bartender—still polishing the same glass for the third time—before she leaned closer. The scent of gunpowder sharpened. "The silent one. The one who married into it."

Ezra's knuckles whitened around his glass. The silent one. The phrase curdled in his gut. He'd last seen her in 1918, standing under the elm tree in St. James Cemetery, her gloves pristine, her smile brittle. She'd kissed his cheek with lips colder than the November air. "I'll write," she'd lied. Four years without a word, and now this.

They'd known about the brother, of course—little Theo with his weak lungs and weaker morals, who'd disappeared into a Brooklyn opium den last winter. The family had assumed it was debts. The bruises around his throat when they fished him out of the East River suggested otherwise. But Clara had been the picture of grief at the funeral, her black veil fluttering like crow's wings as she tossed a single white rose into the grave. Ezra had watched her gloves the whole time, waiting for a tremor. There had not been one.

Your question was callous at best: "What did you do, you little shit?" Ask yourself, why would I answer that? The year was 1922...
---

A Brief Encounter with Active Spiritual Warfare

I noticed the wind blowing fiercely from the north, and the temperature felt unnaturally low. The wind changed direction several times, each shift more unsettling than the last. A high-pitched sound filled the air, reminiscent of a tornado siren. Small dark objects skittered across the ground, approaching me closely before retreating to just a few feet away.

Once indoors, I decided to finish something I had started. I had been observing three individuals, and it was clear they were aware of my presence. One of them directed a chilling remark at me: "You died in the gutter," likely something he wanted and wished for. All three have often claimed, "I can have whatever I want."

Another of the trio had invoked a spirit the night before, and a photo had clearly captured his face. This revelation did not surprise me. The third individual whispered, "Please help me," before he began to pray. He only knew the first two words of the prayer he was reciting. At that moment, I heard him speak a name—one I had heard called out many times before. He was invoking this name for protection, which caused the one who had summoned the spirit the night before to declare that he was the one who had been called.

You tried to play me for a fool never for a second thinking I knew, I just wanted to see how far you would take it.

Which house will you run to and hide in now? Maybe the one across the street, the one around the bend, or perhaps one of the Lake Homes? I know about the real estate empire. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?

I’ve known for years, and yes, I did allow you to stab me in the back...

I awoke to someone saying: "Based on the pattern & depth of the wounds, the crime was one of passion."

---

3 AM & the neighbor's dog wouldn't stop barking.

The metallic smell hit me in the hallway. The dog's barks grew frantic, mixed with a rhythmic wet sound. Keys dangled from 4B’s lock, swaying. A tipped dining chair was barely visible through the doorjamb. Suddenly, the barking stopped. The silence was worse.

Against my better judgment, I pushed the door open. The air was thick with the smell of copper. My foot slid on the hardwood—sticky, not water. The kitchen light flickered above a sink, then I saw the hand: palm up, fingers curled, a wedding ring glinting. Maria from 4D wore it.

I backed up and saw a shadow move, Maria’s husband, emerging from the bedroom with a bloody knife. He smiled, not his usual goofy grin. "Hey," he said, voice hoarse. "She wouldn’t stop talking," as he traced blood smeared along the wall.

---

Maria, a young woman murdered in the prime of her life. She was stabbed 3 times in the back for talking to someone she cared about...

Certain individuals & I share a deep connection. One might say that when they feel they are in peril, I feel it too.

A thin scar ran from his earlobe down to his collar like someone had once tried to peel his face off sideways. "Fifty-seven cents," said the man behind the counter, not looking up from his newspaper.

The girl dropped the coins into his palm—two quarters, a nickel, and two pennies—then hesitated. "You got any of those wax lips or the fanged teeth?"

Half scribbled words on a cocktail napkin in the dimly lit corner of a back alley bar anchored the memory. So many memories...

One thing's for sure: they might be able to use what I write, but they will never be able to copy what I see...

A revenant was walking down the street, and when I asked him how he was doing, he didn't have much to say.

I have seen this walking corpse before, several times. He used to live in the area & I suspect he misses his wife & children. He clearly has an attachment that is preventing him from moving on.

I didn't know how lacking in creativity they were. They use my Journal entries in their uploads & call their work original.

COMMENTS

-

---

LadySilva
04:25 Jan 07 2026

They should not be doing this, that is sad!

---

POST COMMENT

Roughly 98% of what I write in my VR Journal is fiction/ Historical Fiction & for Entertainment Purposes.