Felis Domesticus

The vampire was a cat lady.

She hadn’t been much to look at in life, and undeath hadn’t done much to change that. Respectable-looking, that was her lane. She’d had a cat when she was alive, but she’d gradually picked up more in the decades since. It was nice, being surrounded by life;  plus, they kept the same crepuscular schedule.

She didn’t see people very often, so the cats were good company.  When she got hungry, she’d pick up some guy at a bar and bring him home and, well. Do what she needed to. Once in a very long while she’d get a visit from the cops, if the bartender could bother to remember her face. You were the last person, that sort of thing.

Yes, she always said. She’d been lonely, and she’d thought that maybe this time— but she hadn’t heard from him since. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, she’d say. None of them ever come back again.

Half a dozen pairs of eyes would shine in the dark.

It’s hard, I know, the cops would say. You just have to keep trying. You’ll find someone.

Thank you, says the vampire. I hope so. I hope you find him soon. I hope he’s okay.