May 15, 1623 - Madrid

     I saw them approaching long before they reached our property, saw their torches gleaming in the night. Stupid humans, always attacking us in the dark, as though the fire makes them more threatening. It doesn’t. We waited in the trees until they crowded around our house then rushed across the yard from behind. The first man I came to died quickly as I twisted his head until it faced me. The second, not so quickly, as I slashed his throat with my claws.

     By the time the rest of the humans noticed me, a pile of bodies was forming at my feet. Their eyes grew wide, they screamed as though we were demons and they scattered like scared little children. Not all of them made it off the property before we sank our fangs into them, tore the flesh from their faces, or crushed their skulls into dust. When silence finds me again and the night grows calm, I look around at the masses of humans covered in blood lying on our yard and think: pathetic.