And so, as they say in the creepiest horror movies, it begins... with the first episode of my epic tale inspired by an urban legend of my native southside of Glasgow, an uncompromisingly Glaswegian vampire tale, told in an unapologetically Glaswegian voice (for my feelings on the importance of this, check out the separate introduction I posted yesterday). Yes, back in the 1950s, before I was born, there was a mass panic centred around the city's rambling Southern Necropolis graveyard: local kids in this most impoverished part of the great city had got the idea in their heads that a vampire with iron teeth was running loose in the graveyard, attacking children. Every night they went into the graveyard, armed with wooden stakes, to stalk the vampire - at least until the "polis" came along and chased them away. Spoiler alert: no actual iron-toothed vampire showed up. But my story responds to this anti-climax by imagining... what if there really was such a creature haunting the graveyard? And what if, a generation later, a local boy, intrigued by the legend, fell foul of just such a creature?
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