Vampire Wedding in North Cornwall

The rock face had a sheen to it, filtering the moon so the rough sea sparkled.

High in the hills we left our otherworld for the wedding of an actor long-since dead.

Miss Carstairs arrived in her horse-drawn carriage and mingled uncertainly, an ivory crucifix secreted between her breasts.

The groom introduced his bride to Mr Crowley of Tregerthen - snarled when he tried to seduce her with a love-apple.

I was nervous and you soothed my fevered brow, whispered: ‘It's an unforgiving situation.’

Reverend Ghost, sucking a cantaloupe, said: ‘The bride, you know – I had her once. She’s to die for.’

The wedding cake was a monster – a marzipan castle set in a Transylvanian forest, a sugary quatrain written in the frozen water of the moat.

After the ceremony we made our way to the Red Corpuscle Bar where Igor fixed us gangrene on the rocks. The ocean raged and we raised a toast of vodka and quince – danced through the night to the Bongo Pass Trio.

I flirted with an acolyte of the Dark Count, asked you to forgive me this temporary sin.

I could feel the tension as the not-so-happy couple cut the cake. The bride licked her buttery fangs and smeared fresh ruby lipstick along the folds of her black dress.

At twilight a horse drawn hearse clattered the newly-weds along winding dusky roads to Madam Trevelyan’s honeymoon crypt.

The fields were frosted and we covered our eyes; splinters of morningtide encroached like a fateful deceit.

Miss Carstairs emerged from the shadows, surrounded by her baying hunters. Father Tremayne led the procession of light, singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers.’ They pointed their hawthorn stakes at us with contempt, held their crucifixes high, emptied chamber after chamber of silver bullets – their wedding gift at dawn.