litlinks 2025

The Vampyre Influencer

by Tessa Kelley, St John Paul II College

Lord Ruthven awoke from a centuries-long slumber, stiff like something that had forgotten how to move. His eyelids creaked open like old doors in an abandoned chapel, revealing eyes as pale as marble, hazy but pulsing with an old craving. Around him, the crypt reeked of damp earth and decaying foliage, the remains of a world that no longer existed.

Ruthven rose slowly, brushing cobwebs from his coat; he somehow expected the world to remain centred around nobility like it once did. How naïve he was. Things revolved around influencers leading the algorithm, not aristocrats leading society. He pushed the crypt door open and stepped into a world he didn’t recognise. No candlelight, no horses or carriages. Instead, glowing screens lit up the night like one thousand moons. The city glowed with neon lights, strange noises and flashing pictures.

For a moment, Ruthven was horrified. What had society become?  Then, a smile crept onto his face. A billboard glowed above him: Download Instagram. Join the trend. The absurdity gave him chills, uncanny in its seductive power. The vampire chuckled. The game hadn’t changed, only the board.

He chose the handle @LordofLove because @vampyre67 was taken by someone who posted blurry selfies captioned: #omgjustateaguy – tragically unpoetic. Ruthven’s debut post was an alluring selfie, a grainy filter covering his pasty, white face with dripping blood. His caption?  gaslight, gatekeep. it’s gothic, not toxic.

He hit post. After waiting for thirty seconds, an eternity in this era, the likes began to flood in. By nightfall, his name was trending. His aesthetic was reborn on Instagram as #DarkAcadamia, with candlelit halls and cracked leather journals staged beside half-drunk matcha foam lattes, framed within a carefully curated moody light. Soon, Ruthven’s chalky fair skin became a filter; his low voice paired with top songs to create overused TikTok thirst-trap sounds. He moved through the digital world with the same nonchalant grace he had in the physical one.

Ruthven began posting masterclasses: How to find eternal love. Modules included tips on subtly isolating a partner, drip-feeding affection, and creating devotion through measured neglect. The instructions were menacing, yet oddly charming, and followers clung to his every word, mistaking manipulation for romance. They commented on his advice with heart emojis like holy scripture.

Byron, Ruthven thought smugly, could never compete. He had been charming, scandalous and utterly self-absorbed, but could never rival a vampire influencer who controlled both hearts and the algorithm. Byronic hero? Darling, I am the blueprint for problematic man.

And Polidori? Poor pathetic Polidori, pushed to the margins of literary history, now sighing in the afterlife as his creation became a social media guru, teaching modern romantics the fine art of toxic love with pastel infographics: Step 3: Disappear for a week to deepen obsession. #ToxicButBeautiful. Followers called it dark poetry; Ruthven called it survival.

Among the most devoted was Delilah. She was twenty, although her Instagram bio read: a soul from another century.  Her bedroom was a cathedral to all things #DarkAcademia, with shelves of books covered in dust, melted black candles, and scattered notebooks annotated with notes on The Vampyre. She didn’t just read the text, she worshipped it. When Ruthven appeared in her feed, she gasped audibly, as though history itself had resurrected her favourite character, Aubrey, in a blood-soaked filter selfie. History itself seemed to have swiped right.

She slid into his DMs: you remind me of aubrey. do you believe love should destroy us?

Ruthven tilted his head, a slow smiling spreading across his pale face. He enjoyed her oblivious devotion. of course.

They agreed to meet, not at a café but someplace more fitting, more authentic in Delilah’s hopeful words: an abandoned castle perched theatrically on a cliff. Its turrets reached at the clouds like hashtags clawing for engagement, and the cracked walls seemed to seductively whisper #ContentOpportunity. Delilah arrived in a thrifted long black coat, chunky boots crunching on gravel. She clutched her beloved annotated copy of The Vampyre close to her chest, her fingers tracing the lines she had so passionately memorised. Her film camera dangled at her side, for the aesthetic, though her iPhone peeked out from under her glove.

Ruthven emerged from the shadows of a broken stained-glass window, the light slicing across his cheekbones at the perfect angle for a story highlight.

“You came,” he murmured.

“Of course,” she whispered, eyes wide. “You’re… real.”

“More than anything online,” he replied, ignoring the pulsing electronic notifications in his pocket.

They posed for what felt like an eternity – or five minutes, arranging themselves against the ruin like props in a set. Every crack, every fallen stone seemed to have been intricately placed for their shot. Hashtags brewed like storm clouds: #CastleCore #ToxicButBeautiful #ImmortalLove. Delilah leaned closer to be in the view of the camera, gripping The Vampyre as if it was an extension of herself. Ruthven studied her, wide-eyed, devoted, desperate to belong to something eternal.  He smiled, slow and deliberate.

“It’s perfect,” he murmured, as if admiring a final shot. “Perfect enough… for a post that will go viral.”

With that, he moved with the same calm precision he had perfected over centuries, sinking his teeth – not for blood, but for content. Delilah theatrically collapsed gracefully against the cold throne, her body limp and pale, exactly as she had planned. Every detail was flawless, the pose, the expression, the gothic drama. Ruthven lifted his iPhone, ring light casting an eerie halo over her body, and posted: Pretend decease, perfect frame, #GothicContent #ImmortalAesthetic #ToxicLove.

The likes bled in, the algorithm feeding. And somewhere in the afterlife, Polidori threw his quill across heaven, screaming into a pillow, and Byron groaned at the audacity of being outdone.

Delilah’s eyes fluttered open, a triumphant smirk on her lips. She had staged it perfectly, hopeful to earn a laugh or gasp from the vampire.

Ruthven, however, did not smile in return. His expression sharpened, unbothered. Before she could move, he lunged precisely. This time there was no performance.  One swift bite, and the victory in her eyes froze. Delilah’s smirk turned to horror. She truly collapsed, her body limp for real, her annotated copy of The Vampyre tumbling from her hands.

Ruthven raised his iPhone once more, posting again with a new caption: Some performances turn into reality… and reality bites. Haters will say it’s murder. #VampireVibes #EternalLove #ToxicBeauty.

The notifications exploded. Comments poured in: hearts, fire emojis, and laughing-crying faces. Worshippers of gothic aesthetic and toxic romance marvelled at the perfection. Ruthven leaned back against the throne, scrolling through the chaos, fangs gleaming in satisfaction. Undefeated, he had conquered hearts and minds, and now the algorithm.