CHAPTER 1
THE CURATOR
Two weeks before
They crave the warmth of life draining away – nature’s phlebotomists. They prefer the pulse of a living vein, but they’ll settle for what I bring them. But how do I casually drop into conversation to the average Joe butcher, that my weekly grocery list includes two litres of fresh blood?
I tried spinning a tale of peculiar culinary experiments.
I even tried to lean into mystery giving them a cryptic smile and said it was for a side project.
However, all it did was raise a few eyebrows and resulted in me shrugging about my unusual needs.
I didn’t have the time nor the patience to explain, so I struck a deal with one of the late-shift workers at my local abattoir; a quick blowjob in exchange for a discreet handoff of blood after dark.
The silence in the countryside is amplified as I arrive at the locked-up abattoir.
The sharp scent of disinfectant hangs heavy in the air, cutting through the metallic tang.
The late-shift worker emerges, his high-pressure hose blasting across the concrete floor, sending rivulets of red snaking towards the drains.
He waves at me with a gloved hand as I exit my car – a routine I have slowly become accustomed to as the abattoir slowly takes a breath and resets, waiting for the next day, when the cycle of culling begins all over again.
I take a deep breath as I light a cigarette, and I lean against the cold, metal car door.
The flame flickers briefly before I take a slow, deliberate drag, letting the smoke curl lazily into the fresh, night air.
The night is still, everyone has gone home, so it’s just me, the late-shift worker and the occasional hum of crickets in the fields.
As if on cue, the worker gives me a faint nod of acknowledgement, his face shadowed under the remaining light as he leaves the abattoir.
No words are exchanged – just a brief, silent transaction as he hands over the bag, its contents sloshing faintly inside the plastic containers.
I glance down at the bag, its weight a reminder of my peculiar arrangement.
I place the bag into the car’s footwell, and he already has his trousers ‘round his ankles.
I really need to get a new hobby.
The Frenchman’s belly with its gravitational pull hangs out beneath his shirt, chest hairs peeking between the strained buttons in a desperate bid for freedom.
He smiles. His magnificently curled moustache could double up as a coat hanger as it lifts towards the corners of his eyes, and the only reason I can even stomach blowing him off is because he kind of looks like Pedro Pascal if you bought him off Temu, and his voice is as buttery as croissants.
‘No holding back tonight, eh, Francois?’
Francois chuckles, his belly shaking. ‘Ah, madam Dubois, not tonight!’ he exclaims, with an exaggerated French flair. ‘You see, it’s mine and ze wife’s anniversaire. She wants me ‘ome early. Tres romantique, non?’
‘And you couldn’t have forgone your weekly suckjob just this once…because it’s your anniversaire?’
He shrugs with a grandiose wave of his hand. ‘Ze ‘eart desires un petit aperitif before ze night ends with my entrée. Besides, eef I go ‘ome too early, she’ll ask: “What’s zees man want?” Non, better to let ‘er wonder, eh?’
A quiet resignation settles over me as I drop to my knees, clasping his cock in my left hand, my cigarette in the other. Tonight, like every other week shouldn’t be any different. I know exactly how this is going to go – because this is how it always went. Thirty seconds – tops.
Let’s see if I can break that record.
I roll up my sleeve, a quick tug here, back and forth, about ten times – that’s all it takes.
My tongue flicks out like a deranged reptile adding the final touch, and just as I’m hitting my stride, taking a long lick on the end of his bellend, Francois groans.
‘Oui, oui.’ He exhales slowly, as I twist his cock to the side so he spews into the underbrush and not on my face.
It’s the kind of sigh that feels like he’s shedding a week’s worth of weight in an instant, then, a pink blush creeps across his cheeks as he adjusts his clothing and pulls up his trousers. Without a second glance, he walks away.
‘You’re welcome,’ I mumble, not that he answers, he never does. Ashamed? Embarrassed? Who knows, but when Friday rolls round next week, Francois will be back in the same spot, the same ritual unfolding with an almost comic inevitability.
The French country roads twist through the night like veins, ever so slightly illuminated by headlights carving paths into the darkness.
The trees press inwards, their bare branches clawing at the sky.
I veer off, ascending my gravel track, the gravel crunching beneath the car’s tyres.
Every bump sends ripples through the footwell, disturbing the two litres of blood that threaten to spill over.
My cottage emerges from the shadows, a structure that’s both humble and eerie, nestled deep in the forgotten French countryside.
Its windows are shuttered closed, its sloped roof slowly bowing over time.
But it wasn’t always mine. It belonged to a man whose name I don’t care to remember - the kind of man who could vanish without a trace.
And vanish he did. He wasn’t just a quiet man tucked away in a rural cottage.
He was something far darker, hiding behind the routine of his job at the zoo.
It was a chance encounter – really, it was - but something attracted me to him.
And that’s when I saw through him, the cracks in his facade: the way he looked at children.
True evil often blends seamlessly into the faces of the people we trust. I watched him for weeks, the way he lingered too long in places he shouldn’t, the way his eyes betrayed him as they feasted upon small children.
It wasn’t hard to find where he lived – and what better place than a cottage buried so deep in isolation that neither heaven nor hell would hear the screams. It was perfect.
He became predictable, almost boring. When the time came, I made my move, and he became a memory buried beneath the old oak tree.
I figured if anyone did come knocking, I’d say he’d sold the place to me and moved to Canada.
But no one did. Why would they? He didn’t want anyone knowing where he lived, and when I opened the barn, I could see why.
The barn’s rafters have been reinforced, forming a network of wooden beams. Between them, nests tuck into corners, clusters of moss-lined baskets swaying faintly as I open the barn door.
I walk towards the feeding station – a series of shallow trays on a sturdy wooden table, and I carefully pour out the blood.
I have to give it to the guy; the bat enclosure is a world unto its own.
It’s carefully constructed, surrounded by mesh panels allowing airflow while keeping the bats’ movement contained.
I couldn’t release them, even if I wanted to.
Not only would it be a death sentence, but potentially fatal for the local eco-system.
They’re outsiders, brought here by someone who never considered the consequences of their actions.
The barn hums with a movement – a faint flutter of wings, and the rhythmic lapping of blood being drunk from the shallow trays. I step back, retreating to the door.
‘Don’t worry,’ I murmur. ‘Soon! You won’t have to wait much longer.’ There’s hunger in the air that feels almost tangible, like an electric charge before the storm. ‘All right, my little monsters,’ I say with a wry smile. ‘I’ll leave you to your dinner.’
Before you start thinking I’m the appetiser.
One of the bats pauses, its eyes flicking towards me as if it heard me and thought that might have been a good idea. Slowly, I close the door. As it creaks shut, I cast a final glance, counting each sleek, furry figure perched on the trays. Every one of them is present and accounted for.
‘If it weren’t for the rabies,’ I mutter, placing a gloved hand on the weathered doorframe.
‘I’d give you all a tickle under your chins.
’ I let out a soft chuckle, and latch the door shut for the night.
Some boundaries, I suppose, are better left alone - even if some creatures feel oddly like family.