Secrets of The Shadows

          My story is a short one for my life did not last as long as most; my untimely death came only thirty years after my incidental birth. Though my life was short lived it was full and joyous, one many people would kill to have. My name is Sarah Peterson and I am writing from beyond the grave; I feel my story should be told because of its meaning and the mysteries I left behind.
          I was born on New Years Eve in 1975 to Emily and David Peterson who were very loving and kept avid watch over me as I grew. I had no siblings and enjoyed having it that way because I never had to worry about things like sibling rivalry. I did not go to public school, my parents felt as though you could not get a real education there, so I was home schooled. My life was fairly normal though, I had friends and I belonged to various clubs so that I would be well socialized.
          After Graduating from High School I went on to study journalism at Harvard University from which I graduated as valedictorian. I worked hard to get my degree and to keep my grades up, I guess you could say that I am a perfectionist. My parents were proud of me for such accomplishments, as was I, Nothing could compare to that moment in my life. Soon after college I began working as a journalist for the New York Times, something else that I took pride in. My articles were said to flow with imagination and creativity, and could easily captivate the reader, especially the piece I wrote about the underground vampire community in New York.
          My article was released in March of 2004, and brought on a lot of unexpected attention, while much of it was good a lot of it was not. Many people had never even entertained the existence of such creatures, let alone that they may live among us in New York, and were surprised by the information. Others, on the other hand, were outraged by the article and demanded I write a retraction stating that it was only fiction. A few months passed and I still had not written a retraction to the article, I felt that people needed to know what hid in the shadows of our city. I began getting phone calls while I was at work, calls where there was no one on the other side, and my answering machine at home was filled with threats. I was slightly shaken by these calls, but told no one; they would call them pranks and tell me to move on as if it really were nothing.
          By August the phone calls and messages had stopped leaving me at peace until New Years Eve, the day of my birth. I went out with a couple of friends just knowing that this next year would have great things in store for me, but the entire night I felt like I was being watched. We were in a crowded club so I pushed away the thought of being watched by someone, there were a lot of people there after all. We stayed until closing time and shared a cab on the way home, my apartment was the first stop and I was looking forward to getting some much needed rest. Upon arriving at my door I realized that there was a little bundle on the floor, it was a black rose and a note that said “your time is coming soon” signed BC.
          Again I said nothing of the strange happenings to anyone; I assumed it was someone trying to scare me by pulling a prank. As time went on I received more phone calls, one black rose a week, and someone had begun to follow me. The last rose came on March thirtieth, the day of my death, and it was hand delivered by the man who wanted me dead. It had been another long day at work; I was tired and I simply wanted to go home and go to bed, instead I found a man in front of my door. The man had dark mystical features with sharp eyes and soft full lips; on his right hand he wore an ancient looking ring and held between his fingers a black rose.
          I wasn’t sure what to say; I was enthralled by his beauty and something else that made no sense to me at all. I was suddenly swept away by two black figures that I had not seen before that moment without knowing where I was going or what was even happening. Once I stopped spinning I was in a room filled with chains and other torturous vices; I had no idea what was going on. My mind was stuck in a dark haze, like a trance, I felt like I was flying, and there was a sense of calm about me that was almost terrifying. A sudden flare of pain across the left side of my head brought me out of the haze and allowed me to see the entire room. There were more people in the room than I had known, laughing and staring at me with anger and disdain.
          One of the men spoke in a deep, slightly accented voice that sent chills along my skin and up and down my spine. “I am the black conjurer and you time has come,” he paused for affect and silence fell over the room, “your time has come, to die.” I felt lashing pain across my back, the pain of a whip, I now knew who they were and why I was with them. They were the vampires I had written about, I had invited people into their world and now they were going to kill me.
          After a tiresome beating I was laid on the floor and chained down with my back facing the ceiling so everyone could see the blood running from my back. One by one the vampires came to me and ran their slick tongues along the dripping gashes in my back, eating away at my life source and biting along my already stinging skin. At last they had finished getting their taste of my blood except for the master of the clan of vampires, the Black Conjurer.
          His tongue ran along the skin of my back, stinging and arousing me at the same time while his fingers caressed the curves of my body. His power ran over me in tingling waves leaving a sense of comfort and peace as my pain slowly drifted away. He rose from my back and whispered something in my ear, a language I didn’t know, and then shock of fangs broke a scream from my mouth. He began to drain my body of blood and I felt myself slipping into darkness, he was slowly draining me  and I could do nothing but slip into death.