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Rats, bats, and all of the other animals normally associated with is kind in mythology avoided him like the pestilence he was. Human fallacies about his kind never failed to amuse him. They always told of any number of supernatural abilities he was supposed to possess. Some said he had the power to transform himself into different creatures, to move silently, or even to read the thoughts of others. He could do none of those things, but the false mythology worked both ways. Many of the weaknesses that were supposed to have crippling effects had as much impact as a warm breeze. He had no need of invitation to enter a dwelling, he could cross running water, and mirrors or garlic posed no immediate threat. The storytellers did manage to get a few aspects of his being correct. The sun meant instant death, and any holy items would repel him. He had to seek refuge in a crypt during daylight hours and if some soul was lucky enough to catch him in this vulnerable state, a stake through the heart would be as lethal as the sun's rays. Unlike other creatures of his ilk that were born out of legends, he did not have a castle, or an endless supply of riches. He never seduced women, and he definitely never went to parties or socialized with the living. He was a walking corpse and could feel himself continue to decay each and every night.
He pushed all his weight against the door of the mausoleum. At first, the heavy iron door refused to budge, but after a few moments, the rusted hinges began to groan. A grating, screeching sound filled the tomb as slowly but surely the door opened. He wondered why the door had to be so damnably difficult to open, but then realized that it was only designed to be opened and closed one time. This sort of nightly usage was never intended. Grabbing a black hooded cloak from a peg near the door and covering himself with it, the creature exited the crypt. The moon was a full and luminous orb, just reaching the tops of the bare trees that populated the necropolis. A frigid wind blustered through the night, but he felt nothing. The chill of the curse clung to him and was far more powerful than anything mother nature could muster. And always there was the pain. Each step was stiff, labored, and exceedingly difficult. Every instinct told him that he had no business walking at all. Something deep inside him told him that he should be laying in a crypt like the other dead bodies in the cemetery, but the curse spurred him on. He knew what he needed to numb the agony. Where to find it. That was the preeminent question every evening.
With each movement his bones ground and cracked against one another. Eventually he left the cemetery and found himself on the more even path of a paved street. Thankfully it was a cold evening and those that he passed would take no notice of the chill of his presence. He pulled the hood far over his face to help conceal his cadaverous visage. Even though he cast no reflection of any sort, he knew from touching his face how his features had contorted over the centuries. His nose had elongated slightly.