The invitation arrived with a curt knock.
Frederick glanced at his watch: a quarter past midnight. Though New York beckoned and bustled outside his gated windows, he rarely expected visitors at this witching hour. Typically he was disgusted by the city’s nightwalkers, those neon-mini-skirted women and the men with their strange, curly mops of hair, as if a crown of broccoli had been delicately placed upon their skulls by God himself. But a curious knock on the door at this hour seemed enough to bolster his confidence.
Pulling his robe tighter around his lithe frame, he reached the door and pulled back the peephole to survey the land. This, he knew, was foolish: the peephole had been installed to accommodate his 6’5 frame and thus had the uncanny ability to obscure anyone under 5’5. But the street was utterly deserted on this chilly evening. A block away a dog barked. Frederick startled, jolting away from the door.
Laughing at his own paranoia – where was that coming from, anyway? – he gingerly opened the heavy oak door. Cold November rushed in to greet him as he glanced around his empty stoop. But there was no rough-and-tumble Henry, crouched eerily in the corner, ready to sneak-attack him and invite himself in for a good talk and an even better drink; no Katrina, cool as ever, perched like a beautiful gargoyle outside his door.
He did not want to admit it, introverted as he was, that he found himself a little disappointed at his empty stoop. Perhaps more socialization was in order. In fact, now that he thought about it, he could not remember the last time he had seen Henry or Katrina, or anyone else, for that matter. Everyone did say it was hard to keep friends in their thirties, but had it been – Frederick shuddered – nearly a decade since he had last taken them up on a night out?
Maybe he should invite someone over or start looking for a girlfriend; God knows his mother had mentioned that enough recently, practically begging him to sign up for a new dating app she’d heard of called “Timber.”
But just as he stepped back into his now-chilled foyer, his eyes caught on a small envelope resting on his welcome mat.
Frederick bent over to pick it up, running through a list of possible senders – his friends were not the greeting card type, preferring instead to haunt his doorstep until he eventually invited them in, and his sister had sent out her Christmas card earlier this week, a glossy shine covering her dead eyes, her plastic-looking husband, and cherubic baby bouncing on her knee.
Frederick was only slightly abashed that this list was so short. Perhaps his mother was right to suggest the Timber app.
He shut the door quickly, slid the lock in place, and stalked into his study to pore over this new arrival.
The envelope was cold in his hands, and he ran an equally chilled finger over the deep burgundy embossing on the front: The Order of the Flying Mouse.
There was no return address.
“The Flying Mouse” gave Frederick pause; it sounded familiar somehow, like trying to stop a dream from slipping through your fingers upon waking.
He delicately slid a long nail under the envelope fold, revealing thick, cream-colored cardstock with maroon words blossoming like a bloodstain:
You are cordially invited to
the 300th anniversary celebration of
the Order of the Flying Mouse
specializing in the finest vintages for nearly three centuries
Villa Diodati
Cologny, Switzerland
December 12th, at sundown
Frederick placed the card on his marble coffee table, steepling his fingers and leaning back into the plush cushions of his couch. The Flying Mouse…he simply could not place it; it sounded like a club, and an exclusive one at that, if they were inviting him to Switzerland. Perhaps his parents were members, and this was simply a pity invite extended to him.
Sighing, as Frederick knew his mother’s interpretation of a brief phone call was approximately twenty minutes longer than his own, he dialed his home phone. On the third ring, his mother picked up.
“Hello? Ouch! Oh god, Eddie, get away – sorry, hello?”
Frederick sighed; Eddie was his parents’ solution to becoming empty nesters. Frederick had left behind a hole that apparently only a yappy, crusty dog could fill.
“Good evening, Mom.”
“Frederick? Frederick! How are you? I’m so glad you’ve called, I’ve been meaning to tell you I read the most interesting thing about New Yorkers and – well, here, hold on, I think it was in a magazine around here somewhere…” Frederick winced as he heard something crash in the background. His mother swore.
“Actually Mom, I had a quick question for you.” The quick part was important to emphasize. “I just got an invitation to, a…a party, I believe.”
The rustling on the other end stopped. “Oh honey!” she said, “That’s wonderful! What kind of party? A Christmas party? You know your father and I think it’s a great idea for you to get out more, meet some new people besides that Harry and Karolina.”
“Henry and Katrina.”
“Henry and Kaleena, yes.” She was distracted again, and Frederick knew he had but a moment to make his point before he was stuck listening to his mother recite another article about the newest thing all New Yorkers were supposed to enjoy. During their last phone call she had read aloud a particularly droll article about a new art exhibit comprised entirely of vacuums.
“You know,” he said, speaking loudly over the sound of her search, Eddie barking again, “I’m not sure what kind of party it is. I was hoping you could help me. Have you heard of the Order of the Flying Mouse?”
That got her attention. The rustling stopped and he even heard her shush the dog.
“The Flying Mouse?” she asked. “Your father and I have been part of that club for years now. They must want you to join!”
Frederick picked up the card once more and flipped it through his spindly fingers, the words glistening in the low light of the room. “I suppose so. The event is in Switzerland.”
“Oh, honey, you have to go!” she said. “You know, we haven’t been to one of those events in years, I wonder if they’re trying to recruit the next generation…very exciting parties, your father and I would have the most wonderful time!”
Frederick was not one for parties, but as he looked around his empty townhouse he remembered how, for just a moment, he wished someone truly had been at his door. It had been a long, long time.
“I’ve never been to Switzerland,” he said, absently.
“Go! Please, if not just to say hi to some of our old friends,” his mother said. “Ah! Here it is – apparently there’s a new club where all they do is play polka music, isn’t that something? I’ll read it to you: ‘New York’s newest night club, settled into the heart of the NoHo neighborhood, offers residents a taste of the Czech Republic…’”
It was twenty-five minutes more before Frederick could politely say goodnight.
___
A few weeks later, Frederick was in the hellscape that was the Geneva airport’s baggage claim. He was just beginning to feel the caress of panic when he spotted a sign in the middle of a crowd bearing his name. He meandered over to the man holding the sign, who was wearing all black and just as pale and towering as he was.
“Frederick Gossamer?” said the sign-man, and Frederick nodded and was led into a large black car.
Together they rode past miles of endless mountain ranges as they travelled deeper into the Swiss countryside. Eventually Frederick nodded off, and when he awoke, it was to the screeching of tires as his car made a hard stop in front of the villa.
Villa Diodati was just as beautiful as the pictures Frederick had researched weeks before. Confirming that he was encouraged to stay on site was suspiciously good fortune; his AirBnB results had not yielded nearly the stoic grandeur afforded by the Villa. A square structure, its meticulously crafted shingles and pristine hedgerows gave it the peculiarly endearing quality of a dollhouse. Beyond, Lake Geneva sparkled as the moon dipped out from behind a cloud.
He waited as his driver opened the passenger door for him and, feeling very grandiose indeed, stepped one long leg out of the car and rose to meet the night. Candles glittered and flickered warmly on each windowsill of the villa, and Frederick felt a pang of nostalgia for the pre-electric age.
He was momentarily shaken by his driver floating around to the trunk of the car to remove his suitcase. Seeing that the man intended to carry Frederick’s things for him, the two headed wordlessly for the dark wooden doors.
Frederick rapped once, twice with the large doorknock, relishing the thunk that reverberated through the wood and into the house beyond. At once, the door was opened by a man, who was lean, tall, and impossibly pale. His blonde hair was slicked back off his face, pomade shining in the candlelight. His teeth were nearly as white as his skin as he smiled widely at Frederick. He was one of the most handsome men he had ever seen – something that did not put him at ease.
“Hello, hello!” the man said, opening the door wider to reveal a spectacularly grand entranceway. “Please come in; we’ve been waiting for you! You’re Thora and Renwick’s son, yes?” He stuck out a long-fingered hand and Frederick took it, dazzled. “Draven Stowe, an old friend of your parents — we’re just so delighted you’ve come to join our soiree tomorrow!”
Frederick nodded, unsure how to reply; he was beginning to feel uncomfortable, out of place. Without the security of his bags, still carried by the driver, he was uncertain what to do with his hands. He steepled his fingers together.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he decided, glancing around. Sconces along the walls threw off the same warm candlelight he had seen outside. He was surprised to find the foyer so light and bright, a décor style typically avoided by his sort. Though the plush, bloodred stair runner covering the dark mahogany steps did give Frederick some comfort. “Do you own the Villa?”
His host threw his head back and laughed. “Heavens, no! The hoops we had to jump through to secure this place, even for something as auspicious as tomorrow evening’s event…” Draven shook his head in marvelment at this good fortune. “We had to tell the historical board that owns the facility that this was an event for an astronomer’s club.”
Frederick nodded, smirking. He had been to enough of his parents’ parties in the past to know the arduous logistics required for such an event.
“Please, let me show you to your room and give you a chance to freshen up. I’m afraid you’ve missed initial refreshments, but if you’d like –“
“I’m fine,” Frederick said. “I think I’ll just retire early.”
It was Draven who appeared uncomfortable now. “You will be…sustained until tomorrow evening? We are hoping to keep all guests contained to the Villa prior to the event, easier for the board to let us secure this place another year if we keep to ourselves, as you can imagine…”
“I’ll be fine,” he stated. “I’ve abstained from the drink a week now, another night will be fine.”
Draven nodded, and with a flourish of his arms that was grander than necessary, his host led him and the chauffeur up the staircase, sweeping them into a room far more to Frederick’s liking. A fire crackled, and the deep peacock blue walls and four-post bed welcomed him.
He thanked Draven, who appeared to be influenced by the old-world nature of the Villa and left him with a bow several centuries out of fashion. Once Frederick tipped his driver and unpacked his things, he felt himself relax. The combination of Draven’s enthusiasm and his soothing quarters had assuaged some of the anxiety he had felt when he initially RSVP’d yes.
He ran his hands over the wooden figures carved into his bedpost: a rendering of Diana on the hunt, beautiful in her naked form but forever frozen with a bow poised on her shoulder; a doe just around the bend rendered immobile, unaware of the arrow chasing its heart.
Perhaps, he thought, pulling the heavy damask curtains around his bed, enshrining him in a comforting darkness, this will negate the need for Timber.
___
Frederick woke late the next day. He groaned as he rolled over in his silk sheets. He had one hour to get ready for the party; sundown was around 5 o’clock.
He peeked through his curtains to find the sun blinding, nauseating in its waning intensity. He felt a migraine coming on. Delicately he drew to the edge of the window to shut the blinds. The shadow they cast over the room was a balm to his aching body.
His strength returning, he opened his suitcase and pulled out his tuxedo, which his mother suggested was appropriate for the event. Seeing it now, though, he wondered if perhaps his mother’s idea of fashion was somewhat dated. He was concerned that the other men would not, as she had insisted, be wearing cravats or monocles tonight. In a moment of sheer anxiety, he shoved his father’s cravat and gold monocle deeper into his carryon. He regarded the tux with a critical eye; luckily, men’s fashions were slow to change over the decades.
The gilded mirror in his room revealed that the tuxedo was, indeed, dashing. After some deliberation, he reluctantly pulled out his father’s ancient black silk cravat and tied it delicately around his neck; the effect was a sophistication that Frederick was pleasantly surprised he could carry. He preened in the mirror, eyes only seeing the beautiful tux. He was sure his mother would ask for a photo, and he made a mental note to take a selfie later when he was better able to see the full picture.
After spending an inordinate amount of time second guessing every aspect of his outfit, Frederick forced himself out of his room. He was uncertain how many had been invited to the event, but by the amount of waitstaff buzzing about and the number of crystal wine glasses placed on the round table in the entranceway, there appeared to be at least a hundred others.
Steeling himself for a night of difficult small talk, he began to descend the stairs, shoes sinking into the plush stair runner. The sound of a quartet and clinking glasses trickled up the stairs, inviting Frederick deeper into the Villa.
He made his way towards the noise, emerging onto a distinctly Italianate loggia, its wide arches yawning into the dark lawn beyond. The sun had fully set but the moon had not yet risen over the Swiss mountains. The shores of Lake Geneva lapped lusciously against the rocks at the edge of the property, and a stage was set on the far end of the lawn. Other luminous individuals were casually sipping their drinks. The quartet played on.
Frederick wavered on the outskirts of the party, feeling more alone than ever as he watched the others greet each other with gusto. Reluctantly, as it was only 5:30 by this point, Frederick grabbed a drink from a passing waiter, swirling his wine glass and trying to ignore the uncouth way he salivated at the scent. He sipped, knowing immediately this was not the caliber the club promised – that would most certainly come later in the evening – but this would do for now. It was full-bodied, yes, but overripe. He estimated the vintage to be at least 1970, perhaps earlier. Regardless, he slugged it down, feeling the warmth in his chest in a matter of seconds.
Newly revitalized, his eyes found his host in the crowd. Draven also happened to see him and politely excused himself from his conversation before joining him.
“Good evening!” Draven said. “Did you have a good rest?”
Frederick pulled another glass of red off a passing waiter’s tray. He was too quick, however, and the young waiter stumbled at the quick shift in the balance of his plate. Pace yourself, he chastised himself.
“Very much so,” he assured his host, tipping the crystal rim towards Draven, who returned the toast with a flourish. “Thank you again for inviting me. I can see why my parents were so enthusiastic about the Order; this is truly extraordinary.”
A grin broke across Draven’s face as he surveilled the Villa along with Frederick. “It is marvelous, isn’t it? Surely you know the history of this place?”
“I know the gist of it.”
Draven nodded before taking a sip. “Of course,” he said, swallowing. His bright teeth were already stained blue. “Your parents were such illustrious members, I’m sure you’ll live up to their legacy.” Draven made a show of checking his Rolex. “My god, the time! I’ve got to introduce our speaker for the evening – please excuse me!”
Before Frederick could respond, Draven was off. He watched as his host crossed the yard, waving hello to the passersby who greeted him, before approaching a tanned man in full suit coat, jacket, and scarf.
After a few minutes, Draven took the stage. A large crowd gathered, clutching their glasses. The quartet quieted.
“Good evening!” Draven shouted. “Welcome to the 300th celebration of the Order of the Flying Mouse!”
A smattering of applause.
“While we will get to the tasting event soon, I would first like to introduce our guest speaker for the evening. Dr. Harold Prescott, a hematologist at Beth Israel in Boston, Massachusetts, has agreed to join us to discuss some of the finer details of his profession. We hope that his expertise will only heighten your experience here tonight and your future tasting endeavors! Please welcome Dr. Prescott!”
The tan man approached the stage. He appeared nervous as he clutched the mic.
“H-Hello, all,” he said delicately. Silence greeted him. Frederick glanced around at the shining figures surrounding him; all were rapt with attention on Dr. Prescott. “I’m here to talk about the basics of our knowledge of hematology, a profession I am proud to call my own.” Dr. Prescott nervously withdrew some notecards from his dress coat.
“In the most simplistic terms, hematology is the study of blood. Our most common tests include things such as complete blood counts and iron studies. These tests help us determine the health of our patients and give us valuable insight into their medical status.” Dr. Prescott glanced up at the crowd. They remained quiet, absorbed.
“A complete blood count includes factors such as white blood cells, red blood cells, and hemoglobin. The values of these constituents can help us diagnose different diseases. A higher glucose count, for example, is often seen in diabetics due to higher sugars in their blood levels.”
Someone in the back of the crowd whooped. Heads turned toward him and he was quickly hushed by his date, who appeared mortified.
Dr. Prescott cleared his throat.
“Neutrophils, eosinophils, lymphocytes – these are all clues to different diseases and infection types in our patients, and are integral aspects to providing medical care.
“Iron studies are also particularly important in our field, especially when it comes to those with iron deficiency anemias –“ Someone to Frederick’s right booed loudly. Dr. Prescott appeared not to notice. “Iron is important to carry oxygen to our cells and gives us the ability to grow.”
Dr. Prescott rambled in this way for a few more minutes. Frederick watched from his perch at the edge of the crowd. He could taste their impatience in the air.
“While these are just a few examples of the tests we run, I hope that this information has proven…beneficial to you all. Thank you.”
A light applause rippled through the crowd. Dr. Prescott stepped down from the stage uneasily. Draven bounded up the steps, wrenching the mic from its stand.
“A big thank you to Dr. Prescott for joining us tonight!” he said jovially; the crowd cheered louder than when the doctor had actually been on stage. “And again, thank you all for attending tonight!”
Massive applause and whooping.
“We are so pleased to host our event on the beautiful grounds of Villa Diodati, situated just on the edge of Lake Geneva. While a stunning backdrop for our celebration this evening, as some of you know, the significance of Villa Diodati extends beyond its beauty. On a rainy day some two hundred years ago, a group of writers and poets devised a storytelling game to pass the time. Of course, many know that fateful afternoon resulted in the beginnings of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, a classic in its own right.”
Scattered applause responded.
“But, what many don’t realize is that same afternoon also birthed another story, equally as mysterious, terrifying, and veritable as that of Frankenstein. Thanks to the genius of one Dr. John Polidori –“ the crowd laughed at this – “we have been gifted the storied tale of none other than the Vampyre.”
Now a massive applause gripped the crowd, cheering mightily.
“And so,” Draven said as the crowd quieted, “we are intensely grateful to these hallowed grounds, not just for their cultural significance but also for the reverence paid to us. We have come a long way from the wooden cross, the silver bullet, the bat – or Flying Mouse, as our kind have been called throughout Europe!”
Draven screamed this last bit into the mic; Frederick was close enough to see spit fly at this injustice. The crowd agreed and rose to meet his enthusiasm; their audacity rippled like a wave.
“And so, as those much wiser — though not much older — than I say, in vino veritas,” Draven said, eyes roving over the crowd. “While that may apply for some, I feel the more appropriate saying this evening would be in vino vitalis – in wine there is life.” Draven held up his own glass of red, the crystal sparkling in the moonlight. Dutifully, a hundred bloodied wine glasses rose to the sky to meet his.
“In vino vitalis!” he shouted, and the crowd roared back. Frederick gulped the rest of his glass, watching as one overzealous member drank too quickly and spilled all over the front of her gown. The effect was a flattering one, and just as Frederick was considering going over to speak with her, a waitress appeared.
“The first tasting,” she said, handing Frederick his glass. “A 2000 from Georgia. Primarily notes of –“
“Peach,” said Frederick, the sweet ripeness bursting on his tongue. This was ambrosia compared to the last.
The waitress nodded, though did not appear particularly impressed. Frederick swirled his glass, relishing how the droplets clung to the sides. She moved on to her next patron as Frederick drank the rest down hungrily.
Pace yourself, he reminded himself again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. However, the rest of the patrons appeared equally as finished and eagerly awaited the next wave of waiters bustling out of the loggia’s arches.
“What do you think so far?”
Frederick jumped; Draven had appeared, clutching an empty glass and smiling a little too widely.
“Excellent,” he said. “That last one was particularly…juicy.”
Draven nodded, his sharp tongue darting out as he attempted to lick the last drops from his cup.
“This vintage did have some fantastic legs,” Draven agreed. “The younger ones tend to be fan favorites; I’ll be curious your thoughts on this next one.”
With that a waiter appeared silently at his side, and Draven and Frederick plucked two over-filled glasses off the tray. At Draven’s insistence, Frederick gave it a sniff.
“Oak?” he said tentatively, swirling the contents.
Draven nodded, impressed. “Go on.”
Frederick took a big inhale, finding the effect intoxicating. “Is that…alcohol? Whisky?”
“Yes!” said Draven. “Now let’s have a taste, yes?”
They toasted again and Frederick took a long, deep drink. This was heavy and rich. The oak and whisky melded together perfectly, though alcohol typically wasn’t his favorite flavor to imbibe. He swallowed before he could help himself, then took another sip, swirling it around in his mouth, considering.
“Vegetal,” he decided, before throwing the rest back, ignoring some droplets falling onto his father’s shirt. “But with some sweetness. Chocolate? And…marshmallow?”
“Excellent! Yes!” he said. “This vintage was taken from deep in the forests of Ireland. 1983. S’more and whisky infused, what a combination! A bit older than we typically like, but I think the other features make it unique enough for our event tonight.”
Frederick nodded, bolstered by the whiskey. “It’s quite good.”
“But this next one…well, I think it will be an easy favorite.” The waitstaff were circulating again, the other guests eyeing them with a new devilish gleam in their eyes. Draven waited patiently, but anticipation rolled off him in waves.
When a waitress finally appeared, both Draven and Frederick pulled their glasses off so quickly she stumbled slightly and shot them a glare before moving on.
“Now give this a try,” said Draven conspiratorially.
Frederick leaned in, immediately overwhelmed by the fragrance. It was powerfully sweet, but not without depth; notes of grass and just-ripened berries wafted to the top.
“Vintage?” Frederick asked; this came out as a growl. He was already salivating.
“2018,” Draven replied, a grin splitting his face wide. “Our youngest. Any other notes you detect? Anything…familiar?”
Frederick gave another inhale. He was dying to have a sip, even just a small one, but he yanked himself back from that oblivion. He had to impress Draven. He swirled his glass, leaning in like a fortune teller over a teacup.
“It’s so…fresh. More dynamic than the last.” Frederick could not help himself any longer, he took a deep gulp. The tastes burst into his mouth, nearly causing him to groan; it was so bright, so buttery. He had never tasted anything so good. “It’s…chocolate and marshmallows!” he said wildly, a little louder than he meant to. “Are these two…related?”
Draven could barely contain himself with glee. “Yes! Yes, exactly right!” he cried, holding his glass aloft. “One generational difference between them, can you believe it? Of all places, backwoods Ireland offers us some of our finest blood vintage this evening.”
Frederick laughed along with Draven. The moonlight rippled over the gentle Lake Geneva, and the Villa Diodati glowed warmly. The December air was sharp, frigid. Frederick felt more alive than he had in centuries.
“This is wonderful, Draven,” he said, gratefully. “Truly, a remarkable event.”
Draven clinked his empty glass to his. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I have some extra stores I brought with me. Vintages from all over the world; exotics. I’d love to share a nice glass or two with someone who could appreciate them. Would you like to join me?”
A warmth spreading through him, Frederick nodded and hoped he didn’t appear too enthusiastic.
“Fantastic,” Draven said. “It’s so good to meet a friend with taste. I’m going to wrap up the event rather quickly; I’m not sure if you’re interested in staying around for the next bit. The crowd tends to get rowdy with the open bar.”
“I’m okay,” Frederick said.
Draven nodded before gliding through the crowds. His elegant black cape billowed behind him, rippling like the lake beyond, before ascending the stage once more.
“Well, all,” he said, grabbing the mic with a flourish. “What do we think of tonight’s event so far?”
The crowd screamed and screeched into the night, a pitch so high that a few discarded glasses smashed. Draven laughed.
“Excellent, excellent!” he said. “We at the Order hope you’ve had a wonderful evening tonight, but of course the party continues!” The crowd screamed again; hands reached up and clawed the air; bloodstained teeth lashed at the sky.
“Please note that without your generous contributions we would be unable to host such an event on this beautiful and historic property,” Draven continued. “But we ask that you help us out with a…small bill we’d like to forego this evening.” A few chuckles echoed through the crowd in those still clear-headed. “At this time we’d like to announce the open bar segment of our night. We hope you’ve had a wonderful time here with us and, please, don’t play with them for too long!”
The horde snarled in reply.
The waitstaff appeared confused, their fear stinking the air. The music petered out, and the musicians leaned in together, whispering and looking around nervously. The waitress nearest to him froze, empty glass aloft. Her hand was shaking.
“With that, I invite you to please offer your tips to our fine waitstaff and orchestra this evening! Goodnight!”
Draven had barely barked out his final adieu before the crowd turned to chaos, descending upon the waiters and orchestral members. The sounds of screeching violins and broken glasses ripped through the night, followed quickly by screams and the gush of tearing flesh. Frederick watched the waitress who previously glared at them convulse on the ground and gurgle blood before a beautiful woman in a silk cocktail dress descended upon her.
The sight reminded Frederick fondly of his childhood, stowed away at the top of a stair landing, secretly watching the final throes at the end of his parents’ parties. He could see why they had been such a good fit with the Order.
“Ready?” Draven had appeared again by his side, and for a moment they beheld the bedlam together in rich silence.
“Ready,” Frederick said, turning to walk with Draven into the inviting glow of Villa Diodati, thinking to himself that maybe, just maybe, he would be a good fit here, too.
Molly Robinson is a part-time writer and full-time psychiatrist who believes a little too much in magic. When she is not seeing patients or writing horror stories, she can be found (badly) playing the ukulele or studying the mysterious art of breadmaking. She currently lives in Philadelphia, PA, with her wonderful husband and her cat, who is her harshest critic.