It was a cool January night in California. Heathcliff quietly observed the tree branches in his front yard sway in the breeze from his easy chair, his copy of the Testament shut. The headaches came more frequent now and possessed a greater malevolence toward their owner than before. When the solitary Bishop could stand no more, he sought solace in liquor and aspirin, but their relief was only temporary. When the Blood ran out, the head-splitting pain would return in force until exhaustion forced his eyes shut and his cold, dead body back to sleep. But while the Blood flowed, the pain was…not mitigated, but manageable.

He swirls the cognac in the glass, his mind drifting lazily over memories of his wife and child. Weekends at the beach. Sundays in bed. Intimacy, love, questions, pleas. How she stood in the door frame as he lugged his large suitcase out to the Volvo. Fights, lawyers, paperwork. The Embrace…watching Rachel and Beth watching television together from his bushes as a monster, a pariah. Too many memories. He picks up the remote to channel-surf when his convalescence was disturbed by a knock at the door. Alarmed, he looks at his phone. The hour is late and no one has called. No one comes to his house, certainly not at this time of night. His clammy hand reaches for his knife. Whoever had the audacity to threaten him in his home would leave in more pieces than they arrived, he promised himself silently as he went to the door, careful to make as little noise as possible.

The peephole reveals nothing. Reluctantly, the bolts are undone and the door cautiously opened. Still nothing. Confused and paranoid, he shuts the door, locks the bolts in place, and walks away to investigate the rest of the house…when he hears a knock at the door. He jumps back to it, searches the porch through the door’s glass eye, and sees nothing. The door is unlocked and flung open. There is nothing, no one there. He puts on the Cloak and walks the perimeter to be sure, but there is only the damp, chill air to greet him. He goes back inside, shuts the door, and waits. Sure enough, a moment later there is a knock-knock-knock…but its not coming from the door.

Its coming from the hallway mirror.

Heathcliff stalks toward it. Knock knock knock... He looks around it, past it, behind him. Knock knock knock. He looks into it…and he sees…himself. In his old house. With Beth and Rachel…but they don’t see him…Beth tucks Rachel into bed and retires to the couch to watch television…he walks behind her…sees his hands outstretched…feels the Vigor in his dead veins…Heathcliff shuts his eyes, but he still sees everything, oh, God, everything-

“I promise, they didn’t suffer much,” says a callous voice behind him, a voice that clearly doesn’t care whether they did or not, but could tell Heathcliff did. “Not like they would have had your enemies found them,” it says pointedly. The Bishop turns to look himself in the eye. Heathcliff’s Curse had given him the appearance of cataracts, but the Staley in front of him had the sort that are usually found on either side of a toothy grin swimming in the ocean around small Northeastern towns. Heathcliff’s mouth drops. “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring you an explanatory pamphlet,” the other one tells him, then winks. “They were fresh out of ‘So You’ve Developed Multiple Personality Disorder To Deal With The Harsh Realities of Living Undeath and Your Alter-Ego Has Murdered Your Family To Save Someone Else the Time And Them Untold Agony.’” Heathcliff continues to stare. “You’re supposed to say ‘Thank you,’” the other prompts, speaking slow and condescending, as if Heathcliff possessed a cognitive impairment.

“Thank you?!?” he manages, finally.

“You’re welcome,” says the mirror-image, preening. “Now, if you don’t mind,” the mirror emphasizes the pun and laughs at its own cleverness. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a small corner of consciousness for you to sulk and cry and come to terms with all this. I,” it leers at him, “have a date.” Too fast to evade, it pushes him, and Heathcliff falls, maybe forever, into a darkness deeper than shadow.