The restaurant kept one table empty every night, tucked into the darkest corner beneath a cracked painting of Venice. No one knew why. New servers were simply told not to seat anyone there and, if a plate of spaghetti appeared after closing, to leave it alone.
Naturally, someone eventually ate it.
The sauce was excellent. Rich, garlicky, slightly metallic. The server finished half the plate before noticing the noodles moving independently of the fork.
By then, the kitchen lights had begun flickering, and something pale unfolded from beneath the table.
It was tall, thin, and draped in a black coat far too formal for a neighborhood Italian place. Its fingers were long enough to reach the bread basket without leaning. Its eyes fixed not on the frightened server, but on the half-eaten spaghetti.
“That,” the creature said with immense sadness, “was mine.”
Apologies followed. Then bargaining. Then a frantic offer to make another plate.
The vampire considered this.
The cook, awakened by shouting, produced spaghetti within twelve minutes. The vampire tasted it, grimaced, and pushed the plate away.
“Too much basil.”
Another attempt failed for insufficient salt. The third lacked acidity. The fourth was dismissed because the pasta had “no despair.”
By dawn, everyone was exhausted.
The server finally snapped and dumped a ladle of sauce over cold leftover noodles.
The vampire tasted it.
Silence.
Then came a small, approving nod.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“That is impossible.”
The vampire ate every strand.
After that, the arrangement became permanent. Each night, one plate was left beneath the cracked painting. No substitutions. No garnish. No questions.
Business improved dramatically.
Customers claimed the restaurant had developed an atmosphere impossible to imitate. Critics praised the sauce for its dark complexity.
The staff never corrected them.
They simply made sure the garlic stayed in the bread.
©2012 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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