Have you ever stepped into the editorial office of a prestigious literary magazine? No? Then you cannot truly grasp the atmosphere reigning in the sanctum of literature. What is an editorial office, after all? It is an altar upon which we lay our sacrifices. We become like Abraham, who spared not his son to prove his love for God. We pour our soul into a scrap of paper and then solemnly bring it forth to be slaughtered, wondering whether the editor (read: priest) will accept our creation alive or kill it right there on the altar.

The editorial office of the trendy monthly literary magazine “Write on Time!” was in the basement of a ten-story building specifically constructed for offices. The fact that the editorial office was in the basement, while mysterious companies selling plastic windows and real estate occupied entire floors filled with light and air, was, of course, a sign of the times.

To reach the editorial office, one had to descend a single flight of stairs, and there, behind a brown-painted iron door, began a long corridor dimly lit by antiquated bulbs. On either side of the corridor stretched rows of doors with enticing signs: “Prose Department,” “Poetry Department,” “Criticism Department”... And at the very end, as if at the dead end of all your aspirations, stood a door with a fearsome inscription: “Editor-in-Chief.” Few authors ever made it that far. Most ended their journey behind one of the department doors, grim as that may sound.

Publishing an issue of the magazine is a routine task. There’s no poetry or mystery in it. If there’s material, putting it together isn’t all that difficult. Of course, there were times when we had to choose the best of the worst, patch up holes with classics or pictures, or have the entire editorial team urgently take up the pen themselves. No one knows who first came up with the idea of contests. But it turned out to be both resilient and fruitful. All you needed was to come up with a theme, post an announcement—and submissions would start pouring in like a cornucopia. For a whole month, no one even thought about searching for authors—the authors came to us.

One day, during one of those calm contest periods, the editor of the “Contest Department,” Andrew Keller, received a manuscript. At the time, he was running a contest under the grandiose title “Gothic Mysteries of Our Time.” Who had come up with such a peculiar theme was hard to say, but the entire editorial team had eagerly approved it.

The manuscript arrived in a large yellow envelope. More precisely, it was delivered by Ethan, a promising young author who was even willing to work as a janitor just to stay close to the editorial office. He brought the envelope directly into the office and, raising his eyebrows, asked politely:

“Mr. Keller, could I have the stamp?”

On the envelope, there truly was a radiant, rainbow-colored stamp. Mr. Keller put on his glasses, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make out the country that had issued this masterpiece. There was no return address either. Only the editorial office’s address written in black ink, along with the note “For the contest.” That was all.

“The stamp,” Ethan drawled.

“Run along, we’ll talk later,” Mr. Keller waved him off.

Ethan gave a resentful glance and disappeared, forgetting to close the door behind him. This was the height of disrespect. Mr. Keller snorted in annoyance, muttered something about “the younger generation,” and closed the door himself.

“Let’s see, let’s see,” Mr. Keller muttered as he opened the envelope. “What have they sent us? Sent us—sent us…”

The manuscript consisted of several pages, typed on a typewriter and held together by a large steel clip. Mr. Keller winced, unfastened the clip, and carefully tossed it into the wastebasket. He hated reading pages that were clipped together.

“DEFYING DEATH”—declared the title, typed in uppercase letters with uneven spacing. Mr. Keller adjusted his glasses on his nose and began to read.

“My unknown reader,”—thus began the story—“my unknown reader, do you know what love is? If you do, it won’t be difficult for you to understand me. I need to speak out. I should have done so many years ago, but I carried it within myself. Our memory is not infinite, and one day I must rid myself of these burdensome recollections.

My lineage traces back to the most renowned families of the Middle Ages. Yet noble heritage could not shield me from the fate that could befall anyone in my place—be it a peasant or a priest. We do not choose our destiny; destiny chooses us. And so, one day, the destiny waiting for me claimed its rights, and I became what I became. My new position granted me unlimited power but did not remove the burdens that accompany human life.

The names of these burdens are known: love, hatred, betrayal. Betrayal and hatred spared me during that time, but love unexpectedly disturbed my peace and appeared in all its glory, like a powerful force that makes your desires and actions no longer your own but dependent on an external cause. It was then that I encountered Katarina.

Could I have ever imagined, while strolling around the grounds of my ancestral estate, that I would find something that would force my life to flow in an entirely different direction? I must say, my life at that time had already been mapped out for many years to come. The purpose of my walks was an old Hazel tree that marked the boundary of the estate. I usually spent a few minutes, sometimes half an hour, in its shade, lost in thought and taking a break from the heat, which had been my constant companion that summer. I would drink water from a bottle I had brought from home and then set off on my way back.

On the third day of August, this measured ritual was disrupted. Someone was sitting under my favorite hazel tree. From a distance, I saw a figure—a dark silhouette with their head resting on their knees. It was hard to tell whether it was a man or a woman. Annoyed, I hurried toward the tree, making as much noise as possible. I whistled and struck the bushes with a stick. This was my attempt to make the stranger leave before I got too close.

But the figure didn’t move, and I was finally able to get a good look. It was a woman in a black dress and a black hat. She sat so still that I even began to doubt whether she was alive.

‘Excuse me,’ I called out. ‘Can you hear me?’

She raised her head and looked directly at me. And at that moment, I realized I had fallen in love. Imagine this: a pale face, brown, slightly almond-shaped eyes, chestnut hair curling whimsically over a high forehead. She seemed small and delicate, but when she jumped to her feet, I saw that she was quite tall. There we stood, facing each other, and an eternity passed before she finally spoke in a deep tone laced with quiet sarcasm:

‘Of course, I can hear you. You made so much noise.’

Her name was Katarina. She was the daughter of a lawyer and had come to visit a neighboring landowner, who was her uncle, to improve her naturally frail health in the village air. That day, after taking a long walk to the edge of my estate, she suddenly felt weak and sat down to rest under the hazel tree. I escorted her home, taking her promise to visit me with her uncle and his wife the following weekend.

Thus began our acquaintance. Visits back and forth continued until they led to their natural conclusion. I proposed, and she graciously accepted.

If you’ve ever prepared for a wedding, you know how much work it involves. I went to the city and brought back the family ring, which had been kept in a bank and passed down through the women in our family. It was adorned with a large sapphire surrounded by a scattering of small, pure diamonds.

The only thing that tormented me was my fear of revealing to her my darkest secret. I hoped that, in time, she would understand, and I would be able to give her something no other person could. For now, we wandered happily through the yellowing forests, and the kind-hearted nature seemed to promise us a long autumn and a mild winter. And what is winter to fear when you are sitting by the fireplace with your beloved, in the shelter of an ancestral home protected on all sides? I anticipated those long evenings when intimate conversations would turn into passionate nights, and nights would give way to clear mornings. The sharp light of a winter morning would be softened by lace curtains, and breakfast would already be served on the table. A silver coffee pot would gleam, spreading the mysterious aroma of coffee. And it would feel as though all this had happened hundreds of times before and would go on forever.

But Katarina’s unhealthy nervousness troubled me. Just moments ago, she had been cheerful, but then she would suddenly withdraw into herself and tremble with some inner tension. Her cheeks would turn gray, her rosy lips pale, and terror would freeze in her eyes. A shiver would run through her delicate figure as if she had seen a ghost. But it never lasted long—soon she would be laughing again. Only her almond-shaped eyes retained a shadow of the frightening vision.”

Andrew Keller stretched and set the manuscript aside.

“Not bad,” he muttered. “Let’s see how it all resolves further. But for now, it’s very, very reminiscent of Edgar Poe. What is it with young writers constantly rehashing Poe? As if there are no other examples of this kind of literature. Still… very well done.”

“Mr. Keller,” the courier Ethan poked his head through the door, “could I have the stamp?”

“Damn you!” the editor slapped his hand on the table. “Get out!”

The courier vanished, taking with him the mood created by the manuscript. Andrew Keller swore under his breath and picked up the pages again.

“The wedding day was approaching. I couldn’t sleep, as visions of our future life kept flashing before my eyes. Katarina also looked exhausted. Who came up with these months of waiting and preparation? Wouldn’t it be better to propose today and get married at the town hall tomorrow? Yes, yes, we decided not to have a church wedding because Katarina’s family were Lutherans, and the only church in the city was Catholic. As for me, I had long stopped believing in God, just as my father hadn’t believed in Him. I suspected that no one in our family ever had. So, registering at the town hall suited everyone perfectly. But the preparation for the celebration itself required a lot of time. For two whole months, dozens of day laborers cleaned my ancestral home, replaced the curtains, and reupholstered the furniture. A large bed was ordered, even though there were plenty of beds in the estate. Yet, it was a tradition to buy a new bed for every new wedding. This time, the bed was without carved angels or a canopy—a simple modern bed with a headboard in an Art Nouveau style and two small nightstands attached directly to it, on which I placed matching lamps.

And so, the big day arrived. Katarina was dressed in a white wedding gown, and for the first time, I realized how poorly white suited her. Her face and hands almost blended into the lace trim of the collar and cuffs. Only her eyes and hair faintly contrasted with the deathly pallor. She looked like a corpse dressed for her final journey. A piercing sense of foreboding gripped me at the sight of Katarina. But she was calm, and I immediately forgot my fears.

We arrived at the town hall. I vaguely remember what happened there and how it all went. Afterward, we headed to her father’s city house, where tables were already set for the celebration. By evening, the guests were supposed to move to my estate to continue the feast.

At the doorstep of the house, the wedding procession was greeted by the butler, his smile rivaling the whiteness of his starched shirt front. He threw open the doors wide, revealing a brightly lit hall and an enormous staircase that we were to ascend—to the dining room upstairs. If only I had known then what this visit, this celebration, would bring us, I would never have agreed to it. But on that day, my intuition was silent, though vague premonitions lingered. We climbed the staircase—a young couple who had just become husband and wife. Directly before us on the landing hung a massive mirror stretching from floor to ceiling. It was designed so that anyone ascending toward it would first see only their face and then, upon reaching the landing, their full reflection.

We walked hand in hand. Katarina looked at me with loving eyes. But as we neared the top, she turned her gaze to the mirror and saw that I wasn’t beside her. Yes, I didn’t reflect in mirrors, as was true for everyone in our family. But how could I have forgotten? How could I not have warned her? Why had I postponed this conversation?

Katarina looked at me, then back in the mirror. She let out a cry and slowly collapsed onto the carpet. The guests, who were following us upstairs, stopped, thinking that the bride had stumbled and would get up in a moment. I took her hand in mine and realized that Katarina was dead. Her body, weakened by nervousness and bouts of fear, could not withstand the shock. And she quietly passed away on the threshold of a new and eternal life. And I hadn’t managed to give her all of it.”

Once again, the door creaked, and a whisper broke the silence of the office:

“Mr. Keller… the stamp…”

The editor spun in his chair as if scalded. He grabbed a paper clip from the desk and hurled it at the door. The door instantly slammed shut. Andrew Keller wiped his forehead with a napkin and reread the last sentence: “And she quietly passed away on the threshold of a new and eternal life. And I hadn’t managed to give her all of it.”

“Didn’t manage,” he muttered, either quoting the text or regretting that he hadn’t hit the courier. “Anyway, let’s continue.”

“So, the day of our wedding turned into a day of mourning. The call for a doctor, resuscitation efforts—none of it made any difference. And in an instant, I went from being a husband to a widower. And an outcast. Because someone had noticed that my reflection was missing in the mirror. Rumors began to spread, and I locked myself away in my ancestral home, neither receiving visitors nor visiting anyone.

Of course, on the day of the funeral, I went to the cemetery to bid farewell to my beloved, hiding behind the trees and observing the burial from afar. It was important for me to know the exact location of Katarina’s grave because I had firmly decided—I would resurrect Katarina at any cost. From a carefree young man who cared only for pleasures and strolls, I turned into a recluse studying the works of necromancers. And as slow and difficult as this knowledge was to acquire, I had eternity on my side.

I won’t speak of the failed attempts; there were many. A hundred years passed, and I still couldn’t accomplish what I had set out to do. For a mortal, being stuck on the same thing for so long would have been an illness, an obsession. He would have died without ever completing what he started. But such is not the nature of a hereditary vampire. I knew that sooner or later, I would embrace Katarina, who would become as eternal as I am.

And that day finally came! Gathering everything I needed, I went to the cemetery and, precisely at midnight, performed all that was required. I felt just as I had on the distant day of my wedding. I was overjoyed, as if champagne flowed through my veins instead of blood. When the monument—a hideous gray granite tombstone—began to tremble, I experienced unearthly bliss and helped it topple with my own hands. Beneath the ground, I heard a faint scraping sound, as though someone was clawing at the coffin lid. The rotten wood couldn’t hold; it broke under her fingers.

I began hurriedly digging up the grave, and within minutes, I saw the earth in the pit begin to shift. At last, a delicate pale hand with long thin fingers emerged from the surface, one of which bore a ring I knew well. I grasped it and felt a weak squeeze, the one I had waited for all these years. Katarina had returned.

I helped her out of the grave and quickly covered the pit with soil. Wrapping my wife in a blanket, I carried her to the car in my arms. How fragile she was. But I could hear her soft voice thanking me, and I was happy.

By now, we’ve been together for twenty years. In the evenings, we sit by the fireplace; in the mornings, we have breakfast in the snowy light softened by lace curtains. The silver coffee pot reflects and distorts our happy faces. Recently, I mastered the delicate art of using a computer. And one day, while wandering through the vastness of the Internet, I came across an announcement about your competition. The result of that discovery is the story I’ve presented here.

Antoni Mosselbaum, Vampire

P.S. I would prefer not to disclose my whereabouts. Therefore, please give your response to my man when he comes to collect it at precisely three o’clock in the afternoon. I hope that by then, you will have decided whether to accept my story for the competition. I believe my story perfectly fits the given theme.”

Having read the last word, Andrew Keller burst into uncontrollable laughter. The joke about the vampire author seemed simply brilliant to him and worthy of publication in the magazine. And if accompanied by commentary, such material would be priceless. He immediately began drafting a reply.

There’s no need to present his response in full here. It’s enough to say that our editor expressed “deepest gratitude to the author for a wonderful joke.” At one point, he even crossed certain boundaries and referred to the author as a colleague. This amused Keller even more. And whenever something struck him as funny, Andrew Keller would run both hands through his thick hair and tousle it wildly. His light hair would stand on end, his glasses would gleam on his upturned nose, and his entire appearance would take on a somewhat feral quality.

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Almost simultaneously, the clock chimed—it was exactly three o’clock.

“If it’s Ethan again,” thought the tormented editor, “I’ll kill him.”

But just in case, he politely called out: “Yes, yes. Come in!”

The door swung open. It wasn’t Ethan. Standing in the doorway was a woman, entirely cloaked in black. A large hood concealed her face. With a graceful, light gait, she approached the desk. Andrew Keller managed to notice the soft curve of her slender figure as she rested a gloved hand on the back of the visitor’s chair. But instead of sitting down, she stepped up to the desk and bent forward slightly in a half-bow before the editor, who froze like a soldier at attention. A waft of expensive perfume reached him, and a deep voice said:

“Good afternoon, I’ve come to collect the reply.”

The editor was about to hand her the letter but suddenly hesitated. He remembered that he hadn’t had time to fix his hair, and his appearance was probably ridiculous and improper. Andrew Keller reached for the small mirror on the wall behind him to tidy up his disheveled hair. In the reflection, he saw only himself in an empty office. Surprised, he turned around, thinking the woman had silently left. But she was still standing by the desk. He glanced at the mirror again—no one.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Keller,” the guest said calmly. “Just give me the reply, and I’ll leave.”

“P-p-please,” the editor stammered, handing her the letter once more. Suddenly, the hood slipped slightly, and Andrew Keller thought he saw a smiling skull. “Ah!!!” he shrieked, covering his head with both hands as if bracing for a blow, and dove under the desk. His teeth chattered in terror, and he didn’t hear the light footsteps or the sound of the door closing.

Andrew Keller stayed under the desk for a while, cursing Antoni Mosselbaum and his dreadful Katarina. And then, unmistakably, someone’s feet shuffled across the carpet once again. While the editor silently repeated the “Our Father” in panic, the courier Ethan—yes, it was him—furtively glanced around and darted toward the yellow envelope, hastily tearing off a corner with the stamp.

“He’s gone, the old geezer,” he muttered under his breath. “Such a stingy man. He even begrudged the stamp. No matter, we’ll take it ourselves. Let him figure it out later…”

A couple of hours later, Andrew Keller found himself in the backyard, burning the yellow envelope along with the manuscript that had caused him so much trouble. But the next day, the letter lay on his editor’s desk again, intact and unharmed. And so it went on for about a week until he submitted his resignation and disappeared forever from the offices of “Write on Time!”.

What became of the manuscript after that, we do not know. But we’ve heard that one issue of the magazine featured a story titled “Defying Death.”