Being The Posthumous Will and Testament of Ellsworth Pennington Ashton
Along with the cold and clammy flesh of the dead, I retain the cold comfort of knowing I was correct. Nothing, absolutely nothing of worth can come from the new fashioned "mind medicine" of the Vienna School. The standard practice is to pry and worry at exactly the sort of emotions best bottled up until a long vacation in New Hampshire is necessary. Unknown to me until to late is the tendency to find promising and prominent members of the medical staff from outstanding family and kill them, but giving them the blasphemous and obscene semblance of existence.
Herr Proffessor Doctor Von Effing chose me of all the members of the Harvard University Hospital medical staff, he claimed because of my inquiring mind and keen intellect. The suggestability to his domination and ready source of wealth that could set up a "foundation" he could draw upon for his "research" apparently were pleasant side effects. For eight years I had to practice at a Catholic free clinic in the back bay to avoid observation by someone who knew me. The Herr Proffessor Doctor's being recalled to the home coven in Vienna freed me somewhat, and allowed me permission to travel.
Thus far, this unhallowed semblance of life has had ups and downs. The requirement for blood is easily satisfied as a surgeon. The poor or non-existant pay is no hardship given my inherited wealth. The moral quandries are few and slight. The need for anonymity requires that I perform good works, though with scant prospect of eventual salvation. This too, has not induced a need to attend a Wellness Home in the Hampshires. The huge all seeing white bearded judgemental personage in my life was the grandfather who's overdue expiration led to myself becoming such a compelling target of murder and resesication. If the lares passes, that is the same as god is dead, n'est pas?
In the interest of fair play, I should give anyone reading this missive some information to identify me, that they might have a fighting chance to evade my rapacious and ravenous hunger for human blood and the soul of for all I know innocents. I am of medium height, standing 5'9" tall. My hair is sandy brown, somewhat receding. There are patches of gray at the temples which, I'm assured, gives me a 'distinguished' look, rather then making me appear old. I tend to wear business suits at all occassions, no matter how formal or informal, appropriate or not. My height is somewhat belied by the stoop of my shoulder, like the top of my body can't wait to arrive where my feet fear to tred. The most distinguishing feature is the black medical bag I endeavor never to be without. I rarely if ever anymore go by my given name, assuming a series of false identities for convenience sake. Unfortunately, future victim, I blend quietly into the background until the beast within moves me to preternatural speed and violence. By then it is normally to late to make a positive identification and absent one's self from the vicinity.
Fortunately for the potentially murdered, my medical training makes random blood rage attacks mostly unnecessary. Now I turn my back on my natal city, and take of for an undisclosed location. For now at least, Boston may sleep easy. There are only twenty-three, not twenty-four vampires feeding tonight.
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