14 April 2027
Wednesday. The house has taken my pocket watch. It was collected at the door along with every guest’s telephone, wristwatch and camera, and placed in a locker that costs nothing and opens with a little key.
The reasoning, they tell me, is that nothing in my crypt should ring, flash or record. I see the sense. A blood moon is not improved by somebody’s alarm going off halfway up the sky. This is also why guests are asked to come a quarter of an hour early: the ceremony of the lockers takes time, and so do my warnings.
The house also turned away, quite politely, a party who arrived glowing from the establishments further down Lake Street. Nobody plays in my graveyard after drinking, it says. I find this a little rich, coming from a building with a vampire in it.
Without my watch I have no idea of the time. The guests have no idea either. Only the moon knows, and the moon is on my side.
— D.
