You are Invited

The day had started off in a regular kind of way. Blue sky with a dusting of clouds and a light breeze rustling through the leaves of the old oak tree that Cressy had perched herself under. Sitting on an old milking stool, paintbrush in her left hand, she looked at the blank canvas balanced on the easel in front of her. For the fifth day in a row, she stared at the whiteness, hoping for inspiration. None came, so she picked at her already ratty fingernails instead, paintbrush abandoned on the grass.

Cressy dropped off the stool onto the ground and lay back, hands beneath her head, gazing up at the sky. She could feel her eyes closing and allowed herself a few moments to feel at one with the earth, whatever that meant. She had no idea how long she had been lying there, indulging her laziness, when she was disturbed by a polite cough. Cressy squinted at the figure standing beside her, his shadow covering her body. He was a tall, thin man, dressed completely in black. Death perhaps?

Picking up the paintbrush and pointing it in his direction, Cressy yelled, "Don't come any closer. I'm armed, and I know how to use it."

The man looked pointedly at the empty canvas. "This tells another story, miss. One of procrastination and blocked abilities, perhaps."

Cressy scrabbled to her feet. "The house is just through those trees. If I scream, someone will hear me. Who the hell are you?"

"I am John Sawyer, and my boss, Monsieur Bellecourt, has moved into the old manor. He has asked me to deliver this invitation to you. In fact, he has invited all the spinsters of the parish under the age of thirty to join him tonight for a simple soiree," Sawyer bowed deeply and flourished a card at Cressy.

"What is this. Have I been transported to the 1800s? Parish? Soiree? And you can't just creep your way into people's private gardens and frighten the shit out of them. You can keep the invitation. I won't be going."

Sawyer nodded as though it wasn't the first time he'd heard that today. "But there will be many delicacies to eat, fine wines, dancing and every young lady who attends will be gifted a puppy. Anyone who doesn't come along? Well, let's just say it would be frightfully bad luck for their puppy."

Cressy gasped. "That's blackmail." She sniffed the air. "And you. You're a vampire." She tried not to imagine him sinking pointy teeth into the neck of a helpless pup.

"Correct on both counts," Sawyer replied. "We heard you are good."

"You have no idea," Cressy countered, snatching the invitation from his hand and stalking off.