I must apologise for my absence. Ergo was placed in a museum for the weekend and I’ve been trying to help him get back to normal. I didn’t think you could be traumatized as a zombie, but it appears I am mistaken.

Let me explain –

After my time clubbing, I decided that I should modernise the castle somewhat. I went on the eyepad and hired some local workers to come and assist me. It was difficult due to me only wanting them around during night-time hours and finding somewhere to put the wolves for the night was a problem. The local Zoo seemed appropriate. I fed them before I took them of course, but should they get hungry I’m sure the modern man is fit and healthy enough to run away from a pack of wild dogs. And if not, it will save me feeding them again when they return.

The removal men arrived at 2 am sharp as requested. I greeted them and offered them some Port, but they kindly declined. The leader ‘Gazza,’ (I think that’s how you say it) was smoking cigarettes the entire time he was in my home. I would have lectured him on how smoking will kill him, however coming from a Vampire I considered this slightly hypocritical. Plus, with the size of his gut, I was perplexed as to why he was doing this kind of work given he must be exceptionally wealthy to afford so much food. Still, I drank the Port myself and directed them to where the items that were to be removed were located.

They took the old grandfather clock from the study – I didn’t care for it anyway. I had removed the ticking mechanism aeons ago and never had the heart to replace it. They took the contents of the pantry. The severed heads that I used for alchemy went down a treat. One of the workers offered to buy one and use it as a Halloween decoration in their child’s bedroom. Of course, I was happy to sell. I didn’t tell him that come the full moon they would awaken and whisper satanic hymns during the night. I’m not a complete idiot. I did however offer him a book of exorcisms as a precaution, but he disregarded that. So be it, I thought. See whose door he is knocking on when his child begins skinning the family cat and speaking Abyssal Latin.

They also took the rack and the stocks too that were in the basement and by the sound of it, one of the removal men was rather happy with the find, telling me that he would ‘screw his bird’ on it. If he was screwing birds to it, he was doing it completely wrong.

I informed them that it was a historic torture device first used in the Tower of London in 1420, and that it had been used to extract confessions from heretics and traitors. They drew a blank, however, but then I told them it was great for correcting bad posture and they laughed.

“We’ll give it to the museum,” Gazza said. I was ecstatic of course. I was happy to pass on a piece of history. I had stolen it anyway.

Gazza lurched forward to take hold of the item, but when he did, I saw a silver cross fall from his neck and dangle towards me. I shrieked from the sight of the monstrous holy totem and retreated to my study, calling Ergo to assist them with the rest of the move. He obliged.

Now, he was dusting in the basement, getting the iron maiden cleaned for its departure. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t move too quickly and one of the workers wasn’t watching where he was going and knocked Ergo inside the contraption, and it closed in on him. Thankfully, he doesn’t feel much these days, but the workers not knowing he was in there, carried him on a small trolley filled with mice (I presume so. I couldn’t see anything from my chamber but I heard a lot of squeaking), and they departed, leaving me the bill on my table.

The following night, I emerged from my chamber and sighted the bill. I don’t know if fifteen hundred pounds is expensive in today’s currency, so I packaged up a pile of gold coins and called for Ergo to summon the royal soldier of the queen’s mail and have him deliver it to the destination inscribed on the parchment.

But Ergo was nowhere to be found. I searched high and low for him. I searched the grounds, at the front gate, the cellar, the dungeon, the dungeons cellar, the dungeons cellars broom closet, and his quiet reading room in the dungeon’s cellars broom closet.

He wasn’t anywhere to be found. I was rather perplexed.

A candle lit in my mind, and I put the pieces together like a mismatched puzzle.

“Poppycock!” I bellowed. Normally I don’t use such language, but I was incredulously vexed. It meant I would not only have to go and retrieve him, but I would have to take the gold to the merchants myself, and no doubt gut them in the process for their mistake.

Mindless murder was not in my diary for the night. I did have a spare hour between reciting King Lear and standing outside in the grounds practising my ‘tweeting’ (I’ve heard that’s what the cattle do these days. Apparently, it can make you ‘viral,’ whatever that means. So far though, I have only had the attention of three squirrels and a pigeon that tried to mate with my shoulder, so I’ll keep trying).

But this inconvenience really put me in a bad mood. I didn’t like killing when it wasn’t for food, not to mention I was wearing my favourite crovatte. So, I got a napkin to cover my clothing, should things get a little ‘squirty.’

I will write to you again in the near future dear reader. I’m sorry to cut this so short, but Ergo is screaming again. Something about ‘face painting’ and ‘penguins.’

The modern world is really a strange place.

Until next time –

R.W