The Journal Entries of Roseanne Van Helsing

The Journal of Roseanne Van Helsing

Vampire hunter. Loyal friend. Fierce protectress. Dutiful adopted granddaughter.

1. 14 March

Grandfather says a journal is a weapon.

Not in the way a stake is a weapon, or a blade, or even a prayer whispered through bloodied lips. He says memory itself can kill—or save—depending on how faithfully it is kept. Write it down, he told me, pressing this leather-bound book into my hands. The truth rots when it is left only in the mind.

So here I am, ink-stained fingers, candle burning too low, trying to write what I am.

My name is Roseanne Van Helsing. I am not his blood. He made sure I knew that from the beginning, not cruelly, but carefully, as if honesty were a fragile relic. He adopted me when I was eight years old, after the fire, after the screams, after the thing with the red eyes that I still see when I close my own.

I am his granddaughter because he chose me.

And I hunt vampires because someone must.

2. 2 April

We buried Mrs. Calder today.

The town thinks she died in her sleep. Peaceful. Old age. A blessing. They do not see the puncture marks beneath the lace collar, or the way the roses on her windowsill have been drained of color, petals pale as bone. They do not hear the way her house screamed the night before she died.

I did.

Grandfather let me take the lead this time. He stood in the doorway, hands folded over his cane, watching as I checked every corner, every shadow. When we found the nest beneath the floorboards, it was empty—cold ashes, the faint stink of old blood.

“They move faster now,” I said.

He nodded. “So must you.”

He did not say we. He hasn’t, lately.

3. Letter to Grandfather (Never Sent)

You used to hold my hand when we walked into dark places.

I know you still can. I know your mind is sharp and your faith unbroken. But you step back now, give me the torch, the blade, the burden.

I want you to know I am not afraid.

That’s a lie.

I am afraid every day—but I am not alone. You made sure of that. You trained me. You fed me stories when I was small, myths wrapped in moral lessons, heroes who did not win because they were strong, but because they were kind and stubborn and unwilling to surrender the innocent.

You told me monsters thrive on secrecy. That the first victory is naming them.

So here it is, written plainly:

I love you.

4. 19 May

I killed my first vampire alone tonight.

He called himself Lucien. He wore a silk waistcoat and spoke like a poet. He tried to convince me that the world had moved on, that monsters were misunderstood now, that he fed ethically, that consent made him civilized.

Then he lunged.

The fight was fast and ugly. I broke my wrist when he threw me against the wall. I remember the sound more than the pain—a crack like snapping branches. I remember the smell of dust and blood. I remember thinking, So this is how it ends.

But it didn’t.

I drove the stake through his heart with my left hand. Poor form, Grandfather would say. But effective.

When it was over, I sat on the floor and cried until dawn.

Not because I felt guilty.

Because I felt relieved.

5. 7 June

There is a difference between killing a monster and becoming numb to it.

I remind myself of that every morning.

I clean my weapons meticulously. I say prayers I half-remember from childhood, words Grandfather taught me before I knew what they meant. I keep a pressed daisy in my pocket—the last flower my mother gave me.

I still don’t know her name.

The fire took so much. Records. Faces. History. Grandfather never pushed me to remember. He said trauma locks doors for a reason. But sometimes I wish I knew where I came from, who I was before the darkness.

Then again, maybe this is enough.

6. 22 July

We traveled east this week. A monastery abandoned after the monks vanished one by one. No bodies. No blood.

That alone should have been the warning.

Inside, the walls were carved with scripture and claw marks in equal measure. Something old had made its home there—not a fledgling, not even a lord, but something ancient enough to be patient.

Grandfather collapsed halfway up the stone steps.

I had never seen him fall before.

His breath came shallow, his hand cold in mine. For one terrible moment, I thought the vampires had finally claimed him—not with fangs, but with time.

“Roseanne,” he whispered. “Listen to me.”

I did.

“You are ready,” he said. “Whatever happens next.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream. Instead, I nodded.

Because he taught me that courage sometimes looks like silence.

7. 23 July

I faced the ancient one alone.

She called herself Magda. She looked like a woman carved from moonlight, hair white as frost, eyes dark with centuries. She did not rush me. She did not sneer.

She smiled like a grandmother.

“You carry his name,” she said. “Do you know how many of my kind he has slain?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Not enough.”

She laughed. It sounded like wind through a graveyard.

We fought until the monastery burned. I used every trick I knew, every lesson drilled into muscle and bone. When I finally struck her down, it was not the stake that killed her—it was sunlight, flooding through the shattered roof.

As she burned, she reached for me.

“Child,” she said, “we are not so different.”

I walked away.

8. 1 August

Grandfather is recovering slowly.

He pretends the collapse was nothing. A misstep. Fatigue. He still sharpens blades, still lectures me on folklore and faith and the danger of arrogance.

But at night, I hear him coughing.

I sit outside his door until it stops.

He once told me that legacy is not blood, but responsibility passed from hand to hand like a candle flame.

I am beginning to understand.

9. Letter to My Mother (Name Unknown)

I don’t know who you were, but I know what you gave me.

You gave me stubbornness. Compassion. A refusal to look away when something is wrong.

I hope you would be proud of who I’ve become—even knowing what I do now. Even knowing how much darkness I carry.

Your daughter protects people.

Your daughter refuses to let monsters win.

10. 17 September

I saved a child tonight.

A little boy, pale and shaking, locked in a cellar beneath a butcher’s shop. The vampire had been keeping him alive—feeding just enough to savor the fear.

When I carried him into the light, he clung to me like I was the last solid thing in the world.

I stayed with him until his parents came. I told him the scars would fade. I told him he was safe.

I meant it.

Afterward, I scrubbed my hands raw.

Some things never wash away.

11. 3 October

Grandfather showed me his will.

I pretended not to care.

Everything goes to me—the books, the weapons, the house with its hidden rooms and salt-lined walls. His journals, too. Centuries of notes, observations, regrets.

“You don’t have to continue,” he said quietly. “You owe me nothing.”

I closed the book.

“I owe the world,” I said.

He smiled then. Tired. Proud.

12. 31 October

Halloween.

The irony is not lost on me.

Monsters wearing masks, pretending to be harmless. Children knocking on doors, trusting strangers to give them sweets.

I patrol anyway.

Tonight, I fight three fledglings behind a pub. Loud music, loud talks, and loud laughter mask their screams. No one notices when they turn to ash.

That’s the strange thing about this life.

The better I do my job, the less anyone knows I exist.

13. 12 December

Grandfather died this morning.

Peacefully, they say.

I was holding his hand.

His last words were not instructions or warnings. They were my name.

Roseanne.

I buried him beside the chapel, under an old oak tree. I carved his name myself. My hands did not shake.

Not until I was alone.

14. 25 December

The house is too quiet.

I light candles in every room, just to feel less alone. I read his journals late into the night, learning things he never told me—friends lost, loves buried, mistakes that haunted him.

He was not perfect.

That makes loving him easier.

15. 1 January

A new year.

I sharpen my blades. I restock my supplies. I write letters to contacts across the country—hunters, priests, scholars, people who know the truth.

I sign each letter the same way.

Roseanne Van Helsing.

Not because of the name.

Because of the promise it carries.

16. 14 February

Love is not just romance.

Love is standing watch so others can sleep.

Love is choosing mercy when vengeance would be easier.

Love is staying human in a world full of monsters.

I loved my grandfather.

I love the people I protect, even when they never know my name.

That will be enough.

17. Final Entry (For Now)

If someone finds this journal, know this:

I am not fearless. I am not invincible. I am not special because of my blood.

I am special because someone chose me, trained me, and trusted me to carry the light forward.

The night is long.

But I am longer.

— Roseanne Van Helsing