“Denn die Todten reiten schnell” —
(”Because the Todten rides fast,” according to Babel Fish’s translation from German to English.)
(At least, I think that’s German.)
There was never a darker, stranger journey than the one I just experienced.
The Golden Krone doorman hailed me a taxi (the coach, I guess, that the Count was referring to in his letter). When it pulled up it did do slowly. The crooked-nosed man peered out across the passenger seat and sullenly rapped his fingers against the steering wheel. I stood there for a while, anxious … partly because the doorman had fled inside the hotel as soon as he spotted the driver, and partly because I was expecting the taxi driver to do his damned job and pack my luggage in the trunk.
Didn’t take too long before I gave in and threw the luggage in the back. The driver said nothing, even as I asked for the quickest route to the Count’s. I did find a small handle of rum in the backseat cup holder, and sneaking glances up at the driver through the rearview mirror, I didn’t feel at all rotten for sneaking a few sips.
The rum, however, must’ve gone to my head, as just as I was about to complain to the driver regarding his frequent stops along the highway and the loud howling from the taxi’s stereo system … there was black.
Yes, it was night. Yes, I was drinking. But I’m not a college student anymore. I KNOW that I can handle a few sips of rum … even while nursing a sour mood. So what happened next simply made no sense.
(I snapped a quick photo of the street behind us before losing all motor functions. I’m sorry again, Mina. You’re going to marry such a lush.)
I saw blue flames in the woods along the side of the road. I cleared my throat to try to get the driver’s attention, but it seemed as though he had already seen them as the taxi slowed and yet again he disappeared along the tree line. Despite the rum’s warmth, I felt an overcoming coldness seep in through my cracked window. The driver had left his door wide open and it was so dark by then that I couldn’t help but imagine something getting inside.
Of course nothing happened. The howling in the stereo grew louder. The temperature dropped to the point where my butt was frozen to the cushion, but the taxi driver returned - the warmth and silence with him. Again, perhaps I was too out of it to notice him turn on the heater … but I swear he didn’t. And now that I think about it … it couldn’t have heated up that quickly anyway.
I’m not a particularly religious person, but their superstitions have begun to wipe off on me. God knows why I’m still wearing that rosary about my neck. Perhaps it’s the desperation of the woman who secured it there that stays my hand.
