“Statement of Trevor Herbert, regarding his life as a self-proclaimed vampire hunter. Original statement given July 10th, 2010. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.”
Trevor Herbert began his tale with the air of a man burdened by the weight of a lifetime of secrets. "Been almost fifty years I’ve been meaning to pay you people a visit and get this down on paper," he said, his voice gravelly and strained. "But I finally got here." He introduced himself as Trevor Herbert, better known to the streets of Manchester as "Trevor the Tramp," a local fixture with an uncanny knack for guessing people’s ages. Yet, his claim to fame wasn’t why he had come.
"No, I’m here because I have also dedicated my life to finding and killing vampires," Trevor stated bluntly.
He described how his first encounter occurred in 1959, following a troubled childhood marred by abuse and tragedy. After his father killed his mother in a drunken rage and escaped justice, Trevor and his brother Nigel found themselves living on the streets. That autumn, they were taken in by a woman named Sylvia McDonald.
Trevor recounted Sylvia’s eerie silence and unnatural presence. She communicated without speaking, an ability Trevor could only describe as hypnotic. He believed Sylvia was a vampire and detailed her predatory behavior—never breathing, avoiding sunlight, and feeding on blood.
The tale turned grim as Trevor described witnessing Sylvia kill his brother, Nigel. Hiding under a bed, Trevor watched in horror as Sylvia revealed rows of shark-like teeth and a long, tubular tongue to drain Nigel of his blood. Overwhelmed by terror and rage, Trevor attacked the creature with his brother's knife and set it on fire. "It caught like dry tinder," he said, describing the fire that consumed the vampire.
Trevor fled into the night, carrying the trauma of that encounter for years. It was nearly a decade before he encountered another vampire, this time in Manchester. He tracked the predator, Robert Arden, to its lair and killed it with a wooden stake and fire. Trevor survived, but not without injury.
He confessed to killing six others over the years, though he admitted uncertainty about two of them and regret over one who was later proven human. "I don’t have proof," he admitted, "except for the vampire teeth I’ll leave with this statement."
Diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, Trevor made his confession without fear of consequence. "Don’t feel bad about reporting me," he added. "I won’t be living much longer anyway."
Jon leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. "Right. So, a vampire hunter dying of lung cancer leaves us his trophies." He gestured toward the bag of teeth Trevor Herbert had left behind. "How poetic."
He flipped through Martin's notes, his voice measured. "Martin said Trevor fell asleep in the break room after giving this statement... and never woke up." Jon paused, letting the words linger. "Given the man’s determination to finish his tale, it’s hard not to admire his conviction—though whether that lends his story more or less credibility is up for debate."
The file’s loose pages rustled as Jon turned them. "A fire on Loom Street in 1959—claimed the life of an 18-year-old boy," he read aloud. "No mention of Sylvia McDonald. Manchester police records from 1968 confirm Robert Arden’s disappearance amid reports of violence and fire damage. But no bodies." He let out a slow breath. "And Alard Dupont, burned to death in 1982." He tapped the report.
Jon’s eyes drifted back to the bag of teeth. "The Zoology Department at King’s College couldn’t match them to any known species," he murmured. "But they’re gone now. Missing from the archives, along with the originals of this statement. And apparently, government and law enforcement inquiries suggest someone’s taking this seriously." His frown deepened.