DWC Short Story: The Fainting Vampire of Bramley Cross

Dorothy Bell had always fainted at the sight of blood. This was not a dramatic flourish or a habit she could reason herself out of. It was a plain physical response that arrived without warning and left her horizontal. She did not scream. She did not panic. She simply lost consciousness, usually with an apologetic expression still on her face. People described it as neat. Dorothy found this unfair.

She lived in Bramley Cross, a small English town where nothing much happened and where the same people had been doing the same things for decades without complaint. There was one high street, one pub that changed ownership every few years but never its menu, and a library that smelled of dust and carpet cleaner. Dorothy worked there four days a week and volunteered on Fridays. She knew where every book was kept and which regulars preferred which chair. She also knew exactly how far she could get through a first aid poster before she needed to sit down.

The town knew about her fainting. It was treated as one of her features, like her sensible shoes or her habit of apologising to inanimate objects. The butcher would ring a bell before cleaning the counter if Dorothy was due past the shop. The pharmacist wrapped even minor items in brown paper. At the summer fête, she was assigned to the tombola, which involved no sharp edges and very little risk.

Dorothy had made peace with this. Life, she felt, was easier when you accepted your limits and organised around them.

Which made what happened next feel like a personal insult from the universe.

It was a Tuesday evening when it began. Dorothy had stayed late at the library to help Mr Jenkins return a stack of history books he had borrowed and then forgotten about for three years. By the time she locked up, the town had gone quiet. The bakery was dark, the pub lights were low, and someone was arguing with a parking meter further down the street.

As she passed the narrow alley beside the bakery, a man stepped into her path. He was pale and looked like he had practised standing in shadows. He introduced himself without being asked and began speaking about fate, hunger, and blood.

Dorothy heard the word blood, felt the familiar rush behind her eyes, and fainted.

She came round briefly to the sensation of being carried, which she disliked, then fainted again.

When she woke properly, she was lying inside a coffin. It took her a moment to register this, as she had never been in one before and assumed at first she had fallen into some sort of display. The lid was open. There was a man sitting beside it, looking worried.

He said his name was Victor. He said he was a vampire. He said there had been a misunderstanding.

Dorothy fainted again.

By the time she regained consciousness for the third time, Victor had learned to wait. He explained things slowly, stopping whenever her breathing changed. He said he had meant to feed and leave. He said he had panicked when she fainted. He said he had never turned anyone before and certainly not someone who reacted so badly to the subject matter.

Dorothy listened, nodded, and asked for some water. When he mentioned blood again, she fainted.

The practical consequences arrived quickly. Hunger did not build politely. It arrived in waves that made it hard to think about anything else. Dorothy discovered that her senses had sharpened, which was deeply inconvenient in a town full of small injuries. She could hear Mrs Fowler’s heartbeat through the wall. She could smell blood from the chemist’s bin. She fainted outside the Co-op when a man dropped a jar of pasta sauce.

Victor tried to help. He brought blood in thermos flasks. He suggested drinking with her eyes closed. He offered straws. Dorothy fainted onto his sofa and had to be revived with smelling salts and a lecture about posture.

The local vampire council became involved after Dorothy collapsed in the florist’s shop while attempting to feed discreetly in the back room. The council met above the florist every Thursday evening. Dorothy had never noticed the stairs before and felt this was an oversight on her part.

They were polite but unsettled. They had dealt with awkward turns before, but not this. One council member suggested desensitisation. Dorothy fainted during the discussion. Another suggested animal blood. Dorothy fainted at the suggestion. Notes were taken.

Word spread in Bramley Cross, as it always did. People noticed Dorothy only came out after dark. They noticed she stopped appearing in mirrors in the library, which led to a rumour about faulty glass. They noticed she wore gloves indoors and asked for the lights dimmed at book club. Dorothy explained she had migraines. Bramley Cross accepted this explanation, as migraines covered a range of odd behaviour and were not polite to question.

There were incidents. Dorothy fainted during a council feeding rotation and took a chair with her. She fainted at the sound of a paper cut and had to be carried out of the library by the postman. She fainted while apologising to Mrs Fowler for knocking over a plant and woke up to find the woman making tea and asking careful questions.

Mrs Fowler was not easily fooled. She noticed Dorothy’s heart did not beat. She noticed she never aged. She noticed Victor coming and going at odd hours. One evening, she asked directly if Dorothy was dead.

Dorothy fainted.

After that, adjustments were made. Mrs Fowler brought opaque mugs and insisted on supervision. The butcher donated blood in sealed containers and rang ahead. The council agreed Dorothy would feed seated, with a cushion behind her head. Victor learned to brace himself.

Slowly, Bramley Cross adapted. The town had always been good at that. Dorothy resumed her routines. She worked in the library. She attended the fête. She fainted less often, though not never. People learned when to look away.

Dorothy did not become fearsome or impressive. She did not terrify the town. She became part of it, fainting and all. Immortality, she decided, did not require confidence. It required patience, good neighbours, and somewhere safe to sit down.

On Tuesdays, she still felt disappointed. Some things, she found, even eternity could not fix.