The Burden

My father was dead.  I carried, they told me, a terrible burden.  I had, perhaps somewhat naively, assumed this to be metaphor. 

"Here it is," the butler said, dropping the thing with a hollow, papier-mâché thud, "the family vampire."

It was withered and dry, curled in on itself until it was no larger than a toddler.  Sticklike arms and hands like dried twigs occluded the gaping holes in its face.

"A hundred milliliters of blood each day," he said.

"And if I don't?"  I watched the thing.  Malignant eyes glinted deep in the sunken sockets.

"I'd advise against it, sir."