Vampi's Dark Mansion...

It was the comic book habit that got you up in the morning and out on the Pest Control truck every day. Heck, and the comic books weren't even any good anymore. You had to admit it--they hadn't been since around maybe 1972.
But the Bug Gig got you out of the house--and into other people's houses. That made you feel mighty strange--going into apartments and homes where there was not one single book to be seen, let alone "comic".
Lunch meant blowing a buck for a cold drink and eating a baloney sandwich in the truck, usually parked on a quiet, shady lane somewhere. Today, Thursday, you read the paper, a free "entertainment" thing like most towns have. At some point you spotted a personals column titled "Amorous Adventuring" and read on.
It seemed there were lots of women out there looking for flings--or were there? Were they actually prostitutes, or maybe even undercover cops? "Man wanted for discreet affair, age, height, weight and blood type unimportant". You peeked at yourself in the rear-view mirror; that fit you perfectly.
And in fact, that phone number was right nearby, according to the area code. The more you thought about that "discreet affair" the more nervous you got. Absolutely ridiculous images of available women, laying about half-clothed and pre-moistened, trotted through your mind's eye.
And when you called the number, an older man's voice answered. "You callin' 'bout the NEWSPAPER AD?" it croaked. "Then come right over, an' hurry!" He got the address, an older place in a rather run-down area, and wondered what the "hurry" could be.
Soon he was standing in front of a sprawling and paintless old mansion, or almost one. Was he making a huge mistake? The door creaked open and hung there in the breeze. He mounted the splintering wooden steps toward it, taking a single look back at the truck safely parked on the street.
Turning back to the door a shuffling figure had appeared--a youngish fellow in stained painter's overalls and blue caboose cap who looked pale and wobbled slightly as he passes you and moves across the brown, sunburnt yard. You follow his zagging trail until a voice awakes you.
"You the guy answerin' the AD?"
You face a woman, black-haired and violently chewing gum at you. Her eyes pass over your body from knee to hairline and then back again, and you shudder red with embarrassment and want to regain the truck.
Was this a mistake, arranging midday trysts with unknown persons? Probably.
"Who was that other guy?" you query her.
"Oh him, he's a "regular". He drops by a-couple-times a week. It gets to be a little draining, if you really wanna know".
Your eyes meet hers, green and sparkling, and you know you must obey them.
"We need some new blood around here anyway" she purred hoarsely, "In ya go". And you step over the sunny threshold and into shadow.