Dorian Vaughan

The heavy iron gate of Clatterbone Cemetery creaked open on its ancient hinges, releasing a stream of wide-eyed, breathless tourists into the cool night air of Cauldron Bay. Their laughter bubbled over nervous chatter, punctuated by phrases like "It looked so real!" and "Did you see that one with no jaw?" A few clutched their coats tighter, still glancing over their shoulders as if something might follow them out.

Dorian stood just inside the gate, leaning casually against a weathered angel statue, a faint smirk playing on his lips. His dark coat fluttered slightly in the breeze, the last wisps of summoned fog curling around his boots before dissipating into the moonlit grass.

“That went well,” he said, his tone smooth and amused. “I think the woman in the red scarf nearly fainted when the third corpse crawled out.”

A low, amused chuckle came from the shadows beside him. Silas Vaughan, his adoptive father, stepped into view—tall, impeccably dressed in an old-fashioned black coat, and just a bit too pale to be mistaken for human in the right light. “You’re slipping, boy. In my day, a proper horror tour ended with someone pissing themselves.”

Dorian snorted. “We’ll aim higher next time.”

They shared a look, the kind only two creatures used to dancing with death could share—one of deep understanding wrapped in dark humor.

As the last group of tourists disappeared down the gravel path toward town, Dorian’s gaze drifted back toward the gravestones. Someone remained.

A lone figure stood between the crumbling tombs near the chapel—half-shrouded in shadow. As Dorian watched, the figure shifted slightly, ducking behind a leaning gravestone, clearly trying not to be seen.

He straightened subtly, every sense sharpening.

“We’ve got company,” he murmured to Silas without taking his eyes off the gravestone.

Silas followed his gaze, then gave a soft chuckle. With a clap on Dorian’s back, he said, amused, “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” and turned to vanish into the night beyond the cemetery gates.

Dorian took a step forward, boots crunching softly over gravel and dead leaves. “Tour’s over,” he called out, voice calm and with a hint of seduction.

With a flick of his fingers and a low murmur, spectral hands emerged from the gravestone, wrapping around the figure’s wrists and pinning them gently but firmly in place. Dorian closed the distance with slow, deliberate steps, like a predator stalking its captured prey, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

“Unless you’re looking for the private version,” he whispered into the stranger’s ear, his voice low and sultry—then released the spell, letting the ghostly restraints fade away as if it was just a trick of their mind.