The vampire stumbled from the boarded-up house with trepidation, looking about him with confusion. Carriages of a strange make trundled past the gate, while men and women in clothing he didn't recognize walked down footpaths made of a strange, smooth stone, almost as if someone had poured the streets. The women wore pants, their hair left out and long, while their faces were done in bright colors and dark lines drawn on in kohl, while the men seemed hyper-groomed, though their clothing was looser than before. The vampire looked down upon his own garb, finding he was wearing a doublet, cravat, starched shirt, pantaloons, and boots.
He raced back into the old house before he could be spotted, dashing up the stairs. In a plush room left to disrepair, he tore through a bookcase, flinging books every which way, before finally finding what he was looking for - a chronometer. Too many times he had found himself transported to strange and unfamiliar lands, due to pranks from his rivals. He racked his brains for the last time he'd read the chronometer, and he dimly recalled it set to the date 1818.
It now read 2018 instead.
"Charles, you right bastard," he spat, setting the chronometer down hard, before running off to grab quill and pen to write a long, harshly worded letter.
