The growing group around the fire were cheered by the latest offering, but all too soon the deep abiding silence of the world crept in again.

"What about you?" Heather asked David. "You must have a story about misunderstandings. You're the one who brought it up "

David slowly cleaned his glasses while he thought. "Actually, Maaja's tale brought one to mind. It's a story about what happens when someone is mistaken for someone else and joins in with a group of strangers, whose motives he misunderstands. I will leave it to you to judge if it ends well for him or badly."

VENICE IN DEATH

By @DavidJThirteen

Crispin Nash was hopelessly lost and verging on sunstroke. The infernal August heat drove him to the shadows. Rushing through the narrow alleyways, he shied away from the sun and clung to the darker, cooler walls.

That morning the fog had laid low over the canals and Crispin basked in the dawn as he drank cappuccino and nibbled at his bomboloni. The hotel's patio was separated from the water by an iron fence. Few things disturbed the stillness. Only the occasional motorboats with people heading to work came down the canal and one lumbering barge stacked with cartons and packages. The air had been fresh and gave no hint of the broiling day ahead.

The guidebook he'd purchased at the airport sat on the table barely skimmed. Crispin had little interest in history and museums, no urge to purchase chandeliers or paper-mache masks. His European trip was about "absorbing the atmosphere," as he put it. This was the indistinct term he applied to breaking his rut, seeing the places he had only read about, and seeking romance and adventure. With youthful optimism, he hoped to return with a patina of worldly wisdom which others would sense and admire.

But secretly he hoped to never go back to his nine-to-five cubicle. He wished fate would set him on a more exciting path.

His first stop had been London, where he enjoyed himself by wondering in weak rain through the complex chaos of the metropolis. Crispin was supposed to go to Paris next, but he roamed further south into Italy in hopes of warmer weather.

Here he found the heat and his adventure, if you could call the futile panic rising in his gut adventure. The day had become a miserable death march through tourist crowded streets and bridges, while the sun plastered his black shirt to his back and his Doc Martins dragged across the cobblestones. The respite of his hotel seemed forever beyond his reach. The lofty dreams he had over his morning coffee were forgotten. All he wanted now was to crawl into his coffin-sized rented room and let the air-conditioning wash over him until he shed the blistering fever which crawled over his skin. Despite its utter lack of "atmosphere," the canned air would be heavenly compared to the heavy miasma sitting on the city.

Venice was proving itself to be an exotic hell—an M.C. Escher labyrinth of spiralling streets, bridges of stairs, and blind alleys. All filled with hordes of grotesque tourists in graphic T-shirts, carrying ubiquitous selfie-sticks.

Every time he found a promising route, one he felt was certain to lead back to the hotel, it would take a turn, leading him further from his goal. Or else, it would suddenly come to a dead end, often blocked by water with the continuation of the path mocking him on the other side of the canal.

Crispin cursed his decision to leave his phone at home. The fear that his vacation would become a slave to Facebook and Instagram now appeared to be childish. A satellite map might be the only thing which could salvage this wretched day. The guidebook was useless. He wasn't even able local the neighborhood he was in on its foldout map. Each person he stopped either spoke no English and gave confusing direction or was an equally lost tourist.

Squeezing past a couple with their cameras and fanny packs, Crispin exited a narrow alley and found himself in a disorienting and claustrophobic junction, where five passages met over the inky water of a slender canal. Steps rose up to the top of the bridge from three of the routes and a small church cast the square in shadow. With all the buildings so close, he felt an unnerving sensation of suddenly finding himself indoors. The sky blazed overhead, but instead of breaking the illusion, it only made it more dream-like.

Crispin hesitated at the bridge's apex to contemplate the paths in front of him. A shadowy corridor next to the church looked promising, but before he could decide, a tall man with long blond sideburns grabbed his arm. He spoke in sharp guttural noises, which at first sounded angry but after a second came into focus as German.

"I don't understand," Crispin said. "What do you want?"

"Ahh, an American," the blond man said, switching to lightly accented English. He began walking and Crispin was pulled along in the vice of his grip. "You are late. We have been all waiting for you."

"For me?" He didn't know anyone in the entire country. Who could possibly be looking for him?

"We were about to start the tour without you."

Crispin almost asked, what tour? But he could already see the answer up ahead. The gap between two ancient buildings framed a small group of people. A man in an elaborate top hat held a sign reading: "Venice in Death Tours."

Each of the young participants standing around the piazza were dressed head to foot in black, much as Crispin was. Except their clothes looked as though they had been chosen for a funeral rather than fashion.

"Bene!" the guide said seeing them approach. "We were beginning to get worried. I am Antonio and you are late."

Blondie released him and Crispin massaged his arm. The thought of joining them on their cheesy death tour never crossed his mind, but with all these people watching, he couldn't simply walk off without some kind of explanation. He was about to tell them they had the wrong person when he caught sight of an exceptionally attractive young woman. Her remarkable almond shaped eyes were a radiant brown, seeming at once dark and bottomless, gold and sparkling. She stood in the deep shade and he could only get a general impression of the lace dress she wore and the olive hue of her bare arms. She slowed his synapsis until his thoughts were a syrupy trickle.

"I was lost," were the only words he could manage.

"It is very easy to happen in Venice. But no harm done." Antonio handed Crispin a black umbrella and said, "Take this. The sun is strong. This will protect you."

Crispin's feeble explanation had been accepted as an excuse and he found himself no longer bothered by the mistake of identity. If it were cleared up, he might never have a chance to meet this beauty.

The others picked themselves up from their relaxed pose and opened up their parasols. The guide thrust his umbrella out rapier-like and pointed at an alleyway no wider than two men abreast. "Allora," he said before launching into a spiel in an indecipherable, fast Italian. Crispin didn't bother trying to pick apart the guide's words, instead he focused his attention wholly on getting closer to the object of his desire.

This proved to be no easy task. The guide dragged them through narrow lanes where they had to pass single file and somehow Crispin always found himself near the back of the pack while she was up front. When they made a stop, the German, whose name was Wolfgang, appeared at his side and delayed him with small talk. Then just as he was extracting himself, one of the party would address the group with a speech in their native language.

It didn't matter what it was—Italian, Spanish, Japanese, Arabic, or some dialect Crispin had never heard—everyone but Crispin seemed to understand. They'd nod and make appreciative sounds and even ask questions in the same language.

The guide remained relatively mum at these stops making the tour unlike anything Crispin had ever experienced or heard of. To add to the oddness, they skipped the popular sites like St. Mark's Square, the Doge's palace, and the Rialto, in favor of small churches and dusty squares empty of tourist with only a few locals about.

The parasol proved to be a reliable weapon against the heat of the day and as the tour went on, Crispin grew as adept as the others at angling it to block the sunlight even before he encountered a patch.

At one point, he managed to shake Wolfgang and position himself next to the beauty as they walked to the next location. Their umbrellas brushed against each other in a pathetic mockery of intimacy. Crispin introduced himself and she replied with a laugh, "What a name! You must be new to this."

He would have asked what she meant but her laughter had shaken him. It stung his pride and deflated his confidence.

However, one wink from those long lashes was all it took to forget about the offence. A blink of one eye and there was a new understanding between them, an understanding Crispin didn't entirely understand.

"Well, Mr. Gnash, pleased to meet you." She stopped and held out her delicate hand to him. "I am known as Doña Julia De Sevilla."

Her name is Donna, he said to himself securing it in his memory. Donna Hoolia Disevia.

Crispin took her slender fingers. The way the palm faced down gave him the strange idea he should kiss it like in some corny, old movie. But who did that in the twenty-first century? She would think him completely ridiculous. So he gave her cool fingers an awkward shake and held on too long, fearing that once he let go, the spell would be broken and she'd vanish—evaporate in a cloud.

The guide's booming voice called for attention and Donna's hand left his grip almost as though it really had become ephemeral. She hurried to rejoin the group with Crispin following after her.

Everyone stood in front of a white stone church. It wasn't in a square but along a street and Crispin needed to press his back against the opposite building and crane his neck to see the steeple.

A burly man with shaggy hair, introduced as Green, came forward to speak. He was dressed simply in a black shirt and pants like many of the other men but his clothes had a rougher look to them and his shirt sleeves were rolled up revealing hairy arms. If everyone else was attired to attend a funeral, he was dressed to dig the grave.

He spoke with an Australian accent. "Like my mate Antonio just said, this fellow here was carved by Zoran Sedej." Green threw a thumb back over his shoulder at a carving of a wild haired man with long fangs. "Old Zoran was an artisan brought in to work on the new facade and apse in 1709. As you may recall, many of the churches were getting updates at that time and local laborers were hard to come by. Craftsmen were brought in from all over the republic. Even Venetian Slovenia, as was the case with Zoran.

"He may not have been the first choice for the work but he was a master. Take a look at the intricacy of the stone work and the close resemblance to the model. But like most artists, he had his vices and could often be found at the Cantina Do Mori, where he came across all sorts of unsavory characters. Including this particularly gruesome fellow." Green flicked his eyes to the stone face above his head and the crowd laughed. Crispin didn't really get the joke. Was it because Green was acting as though the foul creature was real?

Had all their speeches been like this? Instead of talking about the actual places, were they simply fabricating outlandish stories?

Good Lord, had Crispin fallen in with a group of actors? Or worse...writers!

Mr. Green told the tale of how the artist and the fiend met over a game of dice and despite their different backgrounds became fast friends. One drunken evening, they were set upon by a group of ruffians. The creature, who called himself Verdo, transformed to his true nature and slayed the bandits. Sedej's shock was soon replaced by fascination and instead of being afraid, he actually drew closer to the monster. They spent all spring and summer that year carousing through the taverns of Venice.

"But... " Green said dramatically. "All that ended when Zoran's work was finally unveiled. Can you imagine old Verdo's surprise when he saw himself up on a church? He'd already be immortalized once, as it were, and was pretty pissed to find out he was on display for all of Venice to see. That night, Verdo pretended to be pleased with the sculpture and plied Zoran with grappa in celebration. Then in a dark and forgotten lane, he ripped the scoundrel's throat out. Sedej paid a heavy price for his impertinence. Today, one might call it a licensing fee."

The burly man gave a bow of his head to signal the story was over and everyone smiled and clapped. Crispin joined in to be polite despite not enjoying the story. Was he the only one who felt bad for how things ended with the sculptor?

The group began to move, with Antonio calling out the destination in garbled Italian. Wolfgang pulled up alongside Crispin and stretched his arm across his shoulders like they were old pals. "He says it's time for some refreshments. Long overdue, I say. I could drink St. Mark's Square dry."

Crispin wasn't sure if his capacity for alcohol equaled his German friend's but he said, "This heat has made me very thirsty."

"Then we shall drink deep," Wolfgang said with an air of triumph. "Our time of satiation is nigh!"

Crispin smiled. A cold beer would be just the thing to quench his thirst and in the relaxed setting, he might be able to draw Donna away from the others and speak to her at length.

Antonio passed by many perfectly good taverns and cafes taking a determined route to some particular place he had his mind set on. No doubt, it was an establishment which let him drink for free, if he brought his tours there as a captive audience.

They were led down a tight alleyway with only a low rail preventing a misstep from send a body into the canal. Antonio unlocked a wooden door and entered. Each of the group passed single file, lowering their umbrellas and ducking into the building. As Crispin neared the entrance, nothing but pitch blackness could be seen. Something about it urged him to flee. But Donna was already inside and Wolfgang was behind him blocking retreat.

The room he entered was cool and dank. The shift in temperature should have been a relief but it was too much like the chill of sickness. The only illumination came from the door behind him and a flickering flame up ahead, where Antonio stood with an oil lantern.

He beckoned Crispin with the light. Was this part of the experience? A creepy, blind walk through a derelict building? Or was he taking them to the worst bar in Venice?

The hall was sloped and with each turn they descended deeper into the ancient building. The floor became slippery. Without better light the slime coating the stone was unidentifiable. How much further could they go before the canal waters began to seep in?

The mood of the solemn journey lifted as they approached a roughhewn chamber. The tour members in the front rushed in. If this was the bar, there was no music and no conversation. Only muffled grunts and sighs. In the flickering light, figures swooped across the wall creating a grotesque shadow play.

Nothing about this was normal. The compulsion to flee came back stronger than before. Crispin's whole being begged him to run away. But the others were surging forward. Wolfgang pressed against him anxious to get in.

Up ahead a woman screamed in terror.

Donna?

Crispin forgot all thoughts of his own safety and threw himself into the torch lit room hoping to protect her.

He found her hunched forward on the ground. Perhaps hurt. Perhaps in pain. His knees skidded through the muck as he grabbed hold of her arm.

Things became clearer to his eyes but not to his mind. Donna was leaning over a prone woman. Her features were hard to make out but from her short dress, it looked as though she had just come from a club. Her hands and feet were bound. A cloth gag had worked free from her mouth and she howled again in pain and horror. Her neck stretched taut. It was covered in blood. The same blood that was on Donna's lips—lips Crispin had fantasized kissing a thousand times in the short time he'd known her. Her whole face had deformed into a demonic leer. Her tongue snaked from her mouth and licked a drop of blood off of a vicious incisor.

She casually placed the rag back in the woman's mouth, then said to Crispin, "There is plenty. Would you like to share?" The shyness in her question hinting at romantic interest that was disturbingly out of place. Crispin felt his world slipping away like the edges of a dream upon waking.

"What the hell are you?" he shouted pushing himself away from her.

The activity around him halted. The whole room held its breath. Then it was moving again. In a blur, Green rushed at Crispin and gripped him by the neck. His powerful arm lifted Crispin in the air and pinned him to the wall. "He's a mortal. I can feel the blood rushing in his veins."

Crispin could feel it too. Beneath the hand as cold and as hard as stone, his blood was pounding like a bass drum. Green was no longer the shaggy haired Australian but a living copy of that terrible sculpture from the church.

Antonio was yelling in Italian at Wolfgang. The single word "idiota" made it clear he was berating him for bringing Crispin on the tour.

"You are not a vampire?" Donna asked with horrible disappointment. "It cannot be." Then to Green she said, "What are you going to do?"

"We can't let him live. Not after he's seen us. I made that mistake once."

Donna sighed, wiping her hair back with a bloody hand. "You are right. But let me do it."

Verdo shrugged and let Crispin fall to the ground. Donna placed her delicate fingers on his cheek. "Shhh. Do not fight it. It will only hurt more." Then she buried her teeth in his throat.

In the haze of predawn, Crispin Nash's dead body floated down the Grand Canal. The sky was lost in the mist rising off the water. The only light came from windows and street lamps reflecting in the water's ripples. He floated past the Basilica di Santa Maria into the lagoon and further out, past the Lido, and into the great vastness of the Adriatic.

The deck chair beneath him was buoyed by gentle, rolling waves. Crispin turned from the scene of Venice fading into the distance to watch Doña Julia step out of the yacht's cabin. She carried two champagne flutes.

"It is all settled," she said. "The course is set to Spain. We will be at my villa for dusk."

She handed him a glass.

"And then what?" he asked. The wound where she'd bitten him still itched but he pretended to ignore it. Julia had told him it would heal quickly now he was no longer alive.

"We have all of eternity to decide that." She settled into the seat next to him and took his hand.

Crispin sipped at the dark ichor in the glass. There were worse fates he could think of.

After his story was over, David shrank a bit. The confidence he showed while spinning the tale deserted him. He stammered, "It's silly, I know. But there it is."

Eyelids were heavy and some heads were nodding. Probably everyone had been up since first light. The food and the whiskey was gone. The sleeping bags and bedrolls came out. Everyone set up with a cautious distance to those around them.

David fell asleep that night to the soft crackling of the fire. His dreams were many and they possessed a radiant life, which they rarely had since his long travels had begun.

When the strands of dawn cast pink shadows on the banks of snow outside, he gathered up his things, quiet so as not to wake anyone. Checking on the prize of blank paper he'd scavenged.

The room had emptied out while he slept and only a few stragglers remained. At the door, David hesitated a moment to fix the stories he'd heard and the people he'd met firmly in his memory, before setting out on his own into the vast chill of the future.

Host's Note: These have been the ten stories of Misunderstanding. How did the team do? To show your support, vote on these ten chapters (4.1-4.10) between now and Wednesday 8:00 am EST. That gives you 24 hours. All votes in this day will count toward a special "reader's choice" award for the team with the most star clicks. So tell your friends to check them out and good luck team Misunderstanding!