Hatred

The blood is everywhere, reeking of death. It trails to that door one drop, one drag at time.

“Everything was perfect.”

The voices fumble around me as I am pushed and twirled around, a soft hum ringing. Chatter starts its rhythm, my only sign that the world has started once again. Some days, I crash and collide without stop, the tables and chairs dizzying. Other days, I am quiet, abandoned in my lonely corner. Unknown and unseen. 

I am a Doorbell. This is my Keep. 

Strangers, even regulars, walk into this cafe, thinking, “oh what a lovely place this is”. The lights are warmly lit, pots and pots of flowers scattered along. The servers carry a gentle smile while musicians subtly tilt their heads. But I have been here far too long to be fooled. Underneath the covers, behind the masks, I have seen it all.

BEAWARE. Lingering too long may result in an untimely accident. 

The Conductor sits idly by, sipping a cup of tea with smooth, practiced motions. Today, he is quite agitated, it seems. His other hand taps anxiously below the table while the clock ticks, each second echoing louder. And then, all of a sudden, the operator and mastermind behind this Keep is standing up, smoothing out the wrinkles of his suit. He dips his, dare I say, magician’s hat.The receiver is a young man from what I can tell, fingers wrapped with gloves and a minimal tie. 

Bystanders will deem the scene as a greeting between old friends. But, I will tell you, DO NOT COME CLOSER. Looking too intently may result in an unfortunate outcome. For you of course. 

This is a bargain of sorts. A deal you do not want to be involved in. Because at night, this is no longer a cafe, this is a den of vampires. The city, the world, believes them to be a myth. But, poke around too much, and you’ll find out just how real they are. 

Just a sleight of hand, and a letter appears on command. I observe as the Conductor’s eye meets the seal. His usually rock neutral expression is shifted into disbelief, then panic. Only a fraction of a second, but I already registered his furrowed brows. Fingers curling, his right hand freezes up before reaching to unravel the envelope. A crisp sheet of paper is pulled out. His gaze travels left, and then right. Left. Right. Left. Right. And when the Conductor tilts his head up, he is no longer the same person. Because, this time, the player is the one with surprises. 

“Out.”

“EVERYONE, OUT!” 

A plate clatters. And then another. The formerly prized customers register the gleaming, red eyes. They take in the fangs, the malice, soon scrambling for the door, pushing and weaving. 

I crash against the doorframe, ringing back and forth, and back and forth..

“Vera, Roy, prepare for… evacuation.”

The two dip their heads in a curt nod, tightening their black gloves. But it’s too late. Too, too late. Oh, what a shame. 

The agents no longer knock. They come without a warning. 

Tables are flipped. Chairs are thrown. It's not just the owners fighting, but waiters and musicians as well, all of them guilty. Rosalyn gets hit just above the stomach first. She goes down, lungs spasming, velvet hair trailing behind. Vera takes the hatted man by his coat, aiming for the back of his head. But he ducks around, sending a kick to her nose. Vera eyes water uncontrollably while blood trickles down. She clutches her face with one hand and attempts to limp away. Roy knocks into another one’s side, throwing off their balance, but is unaware of the person sneaking up from behind. 

“WATCH OUT!”

They smash the glass bottle right into his skull, pieces splintering everywhere. Blood gushes from the back of his head while his eyes fight to stay conscious. The Conductor pulls out his revolvers just as the government’s reinforcements arrive. Gun shots fire, raining down on all. 

The pianist and trumpeter huddle behind the front desk, knowing their deeds have finally caught up. 

“There’s no way. There’s no way.”

“Everything was perfect.”

“How? HOW?” They question. The two curl up in terror, hands covering their ears. 

How, you ask? It’s simple. There is a mole among you. One that knows all your cards. 

That’s right. Nobody suspected a thing. Just a plain, normal cafe. No saw the bodies. No one heard the screaming. For a good while, at least. I think it was two weeks ago…

Lights are off, closed sign dangling outside. Except, the staff room is as full as can be. The blood is everywhere, reeking of death. It trails to that door one drop, one drag at time. Waiters no longer have that unworldly posture and crisp handkerchief. They instead wear masks and ragged aprons. I watch it unfold in my little corner. They arrive perfectly on time, the same every Thursday. Those desperate and needy murderers. Here, where vampire nobles and commonmen alike gather. Rosalyn and Vera are no longer the two cute servers. They smile ear to ear, ripping the limbs apart. The humans never suspect their local politician or doctor to be anything but normal. Townspeople never see their friendly neighbor partaking in certain… auctions. But I do. I’ve seen faces come and go. There’s always screaming in there. In that room. I only know of a faint muffle from all the sound blockers, but it’s there alright. 

The support team arrives. They kick down the door altogether, and me along with it. Vera is chained and shoved aside, an agent gripping her arm. Roy reaches out but is headlocked in return. He twists and squirms, fingernails digging into their arms. Do you know what it feels like now? To be caged, knowing certain death awaits? 

Footsteps approach my door. Must be the officiates. They always scout the area when it gets late. After all, you wouldn’t want anything suspicious going on in your most densely populated area. Except today, I’m feeling a little different. I try to brush it off, reminding myself of my one job. To ring when the door opens. To ring when I’m needed. That is my sole purpose, my reason for existence. “Just do your job”, the voices echo. The steps start to quiet down. Each one is a fleeting thought. But, it’s so, so cruel. 

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. 

I’ve been here too long. Seen far too much. I don’t want to be chained to this bloody excuse for a cover. If only it could be erased. I haul myself up. I pull my weight to the side. Almost forgot I could.  

All of them are chained, every action revealed. Serves you right. The staff and workers, they’re left utterly speechless, the Conductor fuming. His knuckles are turned white, his eyes piercing through anyone and everyone. Because somebody is a traitor. Who could have done it? Who could have told?

I roll down the tiled floor, ringing the same sound as when the officiates first crept in. Oh right, it’s me. I’m the mole.