Blog 85 - Nightshift Vampire

Blog85 - Nightshift Vampire

October 2025

Every year, as the clocks go back, I shudder a little. Most folk revel in the idea of winter—a hot mug of soup, a cozy blanket, and early nights by the fire. They break out the thick jumpers and plan their Christmas trips.
Me? I break out the industrial-sized bottles of Vitamin D supplements. Why? Because I am a writer who doesn’t get paid enough not to work the night shift. And for the next six glorious, lightless months, I will hardly ever see the sun.
I will wake up as the sun sets and crawl home before sunrise. I will become a creature of perpetual twilight, gliding through the cold countryside in my car, an unwitting subject of my own personal gothic horror novel. I am, effectively, a modern-day vampire just without the gore.
Forget the capes, the castles, and the eternal glamour. My existence is far less dramatic. I hunt trespassers, not jugulars. And my greatest enemy isn't a silver crucifix; it's Seasonal Affective Disorder.
So tonight, as we are once again in the realm of Halloween, I thought I might put a literary spin on my winter existence:
Chapter 1: The Coach Ride to Castle Dracula (Otherwise Known as My Commute)
My primary challenge is not the actual work; it’s the transition. To get to my workplace, I have to negotiate what feels like every single mile of winding, unlit country road in Staffordshire.
When the days were long and warm, this was a pleasant drive. Rolling hills, sheep, maybe a tractor or two toiling away in the fields. Idyllic. Now that winter has truly taken hold, it’s a terrifying, pitch-dark, nine-mile gauntlet. The trees along the road have shed their leaves, leaving only skeletal black branches silhouetted against a starless sky. The asphalt twists like a black serpent, and behind every bend is the death inducing rear end of a tractor. Once a distant part of the idyllic rural picture, these guillotines on wheels have now invaded the road and are crawling home because it’s become too dark for the farmer to see his hands on the steering wheel, let alone which bit of the field he was going along.
The whole journey constantly reminds me of those old, black-and-white gothic horror movies—specifically those famous vampire flicks.
You know the scene: the hastily hired coach, racing across a darkening landscape, the frantic clip-clop of hooves, the desperate passenger peering out the window, urging the driver on in a thick, worried accent. “Hurry, man! Race the setting sun! Before the Count’s power takes hold!”
That frantic energy? That desperate race against the clock? That’s me, every evening. Except I’m driving a Renault Kadja, and the horse sounds are merely the screech of wet tires, and my goal isn't to reach the safety of the village square before midnight; it's to avoid hitting a deer. (Or, worse, hitting the back end of a tractor and having to explain the resulting damage to the insurance company, if I get out of the carnage alive.)
The atmosphere is so genuinely thick with dread that I often find myself instinctively holding my breath when rounding certain corners. I half expect to see death himself standing silently by a wrought-iron gate, gesturing me to come through. It’s an environment that screams "imminent doom." And I, the unsuspecting protagonist, if I’m lucky, survive to pull into the parking lot, fumble for my ID badge, and head straight inside—toward the fluorescent lights and away from the terrifying journey through the night.
Chapter 2: The Glamour of the Ghoul-Mobile
The true agony of this lifestyle isn't the commute; it's the realization of just how little real daylight I will experience between now and early spring. I leave home after the sun has set and while the world is starting to think about sleeping soundly under the covers. I work my shift and emerge, bleary-eyed, into an environment that is still saturated in darkness. Once at home and my head hits the pillow, I am so exhausted I am usually comatose until it all begins again when the sun goes down.
I have months ahead where the closest I will get to seeing the sun, is walking under the slightly yellowish glow cast by the convenience store sign. My friends who work regular office hours discuss the weather, the gloriousness of the midday sun, or lament how quickly the light fades at 4:30 PM. I nod sagely, knowing that they will never understand that their 4:30 PM is the equivalent to my 7:00 AM breakfast.
I used to imagine being a vampire as an exciting, dramatically immortal existence. But the reality is that being a modern, light-shunning ghoul means you have to constantly adjust to nocturnal life. When you work the nightshift, everyday occurrences take on a whole new perspective;
The Postman: I have no concept of when my parcels arrive. They appear on the doorstep while I am deeply unconscious, shielding myself from the ‘evil yellow light.’
The Window Cleaner: Does he actually wash the windows (And if so, when? Because I never see him do it) or is he just a guy I pay a tenner every week to because he asks me for it?
And don’t even get me started on my Complexion: The pallor is real. Forget the romantic, aristocratic paleness of Dracula. Mine is the institutional gray of someone who exists entirely on coffee and the ambient light of a computer monitor. My skin tone is currently best described as ‘unprocessed dough.’ This is why the Vitamin D tablets are critically important. They are my fake-sun, my shield against the decay caused by a total lack of natural photoreception. They are the stake I drive into the heart of potential health decline.
Chapter 3: Silence is Golden (and Dark)
But here’s the wonderful twist, the silver lining hidden within this perpetual cloud of darkness: The night is a writer’s paradise. The hours between midnight and dawn are profoundly, beautifully silent. The world outside is paused. There are no lawnmowers, no neighbor arguments, no traffic jams, and no well-meaning delivery drivers ringing the doorbell to interrupt a crucial paragraph.
The darkness itself becomes a cloak of protection. When you are surrounded by the deep quiet of the night, your focus sharpens. The inner critic goes to sleep. The distractions dry up. It’s just you, the glowing screen, and the story you are trying to pull out of the ether.
For me, these night shifts, these months of living like a vampire, provide the perfect, uninterrupted environment for creativity. I may be chronically tired, but I am also profoundly productive.
The gothic atmosphere of my commute isn't just a fun anecdote; it genuinely feeds the muse. How can you write effectively about menace, shadow, or psychological suspense if you haven't recently been slightly terrified by a sudden gust of wind rattling the windowpane while you’re absolutely alone in the dark?
At night, I get to immerse myself in the shadowy world of literature while living within an actual shadow. It’s an immersive method of writing, just without the messy violence and the terrible dental plan of actual vampirism.
Chapter 4: Awaiting the Sunrise (and March)
So, here I stand—or rather, sit, hunched over my monitor in the small wee hours—a wanna be professional writer transformed into a nocturnal guardian. I am the driver of the ghoul-mobile, perpetually topping up my essential supplements, and patiently waiting for the sun to re-enter my life sometime around March.
Until then, I will continue to treat my drive like a scene from an expensive period drama. I will watch the dark fields flash past, imagine the lurking threats in the woods, and cherish the profound silence that only the coldest, darkest depths of winter can provide.
If you happen to see a small car speeding along a deserted country road just before the world wakes up, don't worry. It's not a fleeing victim; it's just me. I’m heading home to get some much-needed sleep.
Just, please, don’t flash your headlights. The light sensitivity is absolutely real.