Undead Bio

Escaping The Family Business

MICHAEL J. MALLEN was born in Transylvania, nestled deep within the jagged Carpathian Mountains, the third son of the infamous Count Dracula. While his older brothers were busy sharpening their fangs and learning the finer points of turning into bats, Michael was often found in the castle library, reading poetry and complaining about the draft. 

Strange as it may seem, he has absolutely no taste for human blood. In fact, the very sight of it makes him slightly woozy, a trait that was a source of endless embarrassment for his father at family gatherings.

“It’s an acquired taste, Michael,” the Count would insist, swirling a goblet of Type O Negative like a fine Merlot. “You just haven’t found the right donor yet.” But Michael knew the truth. He was the black sheep of the undead family, a vampire with a conscience and a delicate stomach.

One of the reasons he finally decided to leave the family estate concerned the mysterious and rather messy illness of Lucy Westenra. The castle had become a hive of chaotic energy, with Van Helsing’s mad pursuit of his father turning their home into a fortress under siege. 

Michael watched the escalation with growing dread. He saw the garlic wreaths piling up, the wooden stakes being sharpened, and the angry villagers gathering with pitchforks. He could see where things were headed with that whole nasty vampire business, and he wanted no part of the inevitable dusting.

So, when he was thirteen—a mere child in vampire years, but old enough to know when to fold ’em—Michael packed a small satchel, stole a coach, and ran away under the cover of a moonless night. 

He didn’t look back at the looming silhouette of Castle Dracula; he was too busy looking forward to a life where his dietary restrictions wouldn’t be the main topic of dinner conversation.

A Parisian Education

HE MADE HIS way across Europe, eventually settling in the bustling, gas-lit streets of Paris. It was the mid-19th century, a time of revolution, romance, and art. Michael fit right in. He enjoyed the company of artists, poets, and revolutionaries, finding their passion for life far more intoxicating than the blood lust of his kin. 

He claimed to be an eccentric orphan with a skin condition that required him to avoid direct sunlight, a story the Parisians found tragically romantic.

During this time, he befriended a grumpy but brilliant writer named Victor Hugo. Michael, with his centuries of family history and an old soul’s perspective, became something of a muse and assistant to the literary giant. 

He assisted Victor Hugo in the writing of Les Misérables, often debating the moral complexities of Jean Valjean’s plight over bottles of heavy red wine—which Michael drank happily, much to his father’s hypothetical horror. 

Rumor has it that Michael was the one who suggested the sewers of Paris as a setting for the climax, drawing upon his childhood memories of the dank catacombs beneath his father’s castle.

But even the City of Lights couldn’t hold a restless immortal forever. As the decades passed and his friends began to age while he remained eternally youthful, Michael knew it was time to move on before questions were asked. He set his sights on the New World, boarding a steamer destined for the shores of America.

The Circus And The Ticker

HE THEN SAILED to America, arriving with nothing but his wits and a lingering European accent that Americans found charmingly exotic. 

Needing employment that suited his unique nocturnal habits and physical durability, he joined the circus. It was the perfect cover. In the circus, being a freak was a job requirement, not a social stigma.

Michael developed a unique set of skills that dazzled audiences from New York to San Francisco. He became a renowned sword swallower—a trick that is considerably less dangerous when one’s internal organs are already technically undead—and a fearless tightrope walker. 

He performed without a net, dancing across the high wire with a grace that seemed supernatural because, frankly, it was.

But Michael was more than just a performer; he was a student of human nature and economics. While his fellow performers spent their earnings on drink and cards, Michael saved every penny. 

In a few years, he had saved a good deal of money and began observing the nascent American stock market. He realized that the market, much like a vampire, was driven by fear and greed. Having mastered both emotions in his youth, he invested heavily.

He played the market with the patience of someone who has eternity to wait for a return on investment. He bought when blood was in the streets (metaphorically speaking) and sold when the euphoria was high. 

By the turn of the century, Michael had amassed a small fortune, trading the sawdust of the circus ring for the marble floors of high finance.

The Mechanics Of Forever

THE ONE BENEFIT Michael received from his father, aside from a dramatic flair for capes, was the gift of immortality. He does not age, he does not get sick, and he has excellent night vision. 

However, unlike his undead dad, he doesn’t need to consume the blood of humans to stay alive. That primitive biological engine was replaced by something far more American.

Michael runs on a unique fuel blend: only love and a .45 automatic.

It is a strange metaphysics, one he doesn’t fully understand himself. The love keeps his soul tethered to humanity, preventing him from sliding into the cold indifference that consumed his father. It can be the love of a good woman, the love of a loyal dog, or even the love of a well-crafted story. 

The .45 automatic, usually a vintage M1911 kept close to his chest, provides the iron and steel grounding, a talisman of protection and power that acts as a battery for his physical form. He doesn’t shoot it often, but its presence is vital. It is the yin and yang of his existence—tenderness and firepower.

The Hollywood Oracle

MICHAEL CURRENTLY RESIDES in Beverly Hills, in a sprawling mansion that is modern yet reminiscent of the Gothic architecture of his childhood home—though with significantly better plumbing and Wi-Fi. He has reinvented himself yet again, this time as a shadow power broker in the entertainment industry.

He advises the heads of major movie studios on what stories to invest in to ensure box office success. His office, accessible only by a private elevator and an NDA signed in blood (ink, actually, but Michael likes the joke), is where careers are made. He sits in a high-backed leather chair, the .45 resting on the mahogany desk, and listens to pitches.

Because he has lived through so much history, he knows that there are no new stories, only new ways to tell them. He can smell a flop from a mile away—it smells like garlic to him. 

Most of his predictions have come true, making him highly sought after as well as enormously wealthy. He guided studios away from disastrous musicals in the 80s and toward superhero franchises in the 2000s.

Without a doubt, Michael J. Mallen is the best kept secret in Hollywood. He walks the red carpets in spirit, the man behind the curtain, the immortal son of Dracula who traded a coffin for a convertible and blood for box office gold.

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About the Author

Michael J. Mallen writes psychological thrillers by night and satire by day. He is the author of the Nadine Singh Thrillers and a firm believer that if you can’t laugh at the darkness, it wins.

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