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The Journals of Raymond Brooks 15
there. The fallen hero drew his gun and checked the magazine
for ammunition. He holstered his gun again and made sure

the leather holster was supple enough and ready for a quick
draw. He then made sure his Kevlar vest was securely fastened,
and that his grenades were all where they should be – within
easy arm’s reach. Ski-mask on, he carefully made way to the
seemingly abandoned house.
The house was slightly larger than the rest and as the sniper
approached; his trained eye spotted hidden cameras nesting
amongst the trees surrounding the house. They were all made
useless as he sabotaged the power-supply prior to making his

assault. There could be no mistakes as far as Detective Straus
was concerned. He was a mere mortal, and I, an ancient and
powerful monster. He knew without a doubt that even the
tiniest of mistakes would lead to his inevitable demise. Part of
him longed for that outcome. Part of him longed to be free of
the hatred, the pain, worry and sorrow that his chosen lifestyle
had brought to his life. Secretly he yearned to die, but not

before he took as many of us with him to the grave as possible.
Entry through the door seemed impossible — it was too sturdy
and the lock too advanced. Cold nitrogen proved an efficient
tool in breaking the window bars. He was inside the house
within moments, silent like a trained assassin. He carefully drew
his gun and prepared for what might come: I would awaken; I
am already awake; I would sense him. Luckily for him the worst
had yet to happen.
The mortal man strained to hear something — anything,

but the living room was as silent as a grave. The furniture was
hand-carved, not that prefabricated junk everybody seems to
fancy nowadays. Everything appeared to be orderly and clean,
and it was hard for anyone to believe century-old monsters