Trapped!

I saw the Count in the morning, for once, and it was not a happy meeting. I was shaving by my little travel mirror when I felt a hand on my shoulder and the Count’s voice in my ear. I jumped, having not seen him in the mirror, and nicked my face. The Count was pissed! His grip on my shoulder tensed and I saw his eyes grow wide. But he brushed past the rosary still hanging about my neck and his anger seemed to immediately pass.

Oh Mina, you’ll never believe me when I tell you a crazy religious lady saved my life this day!

After the Count left I nearly went crazy. I no longer wanted to do any business with him. I missed you Mina (and still do!) and was afraid that my stay in this damned castle would be longer than I had planned for. I raced about the castle, pulling every door in my way and shrieking at the shadows in the corridors (for I thought I saw the Count’s face in every one of them). But to no avail! I’m trapped!

Sleep all day, work all night

New breakthrough! The Count likes old, big houses near insane asylums.  What a strange man…

But that’s not all.

The Count also hates to work during the day. I’ve become a nocturnal beast in this cold, dark castle. We work by candlelight into all hours of the night … and I go to sleep during the day. The Count disappears just before sunup. Still not sure what to make of this.

I few times I woke before I wanted and tried some of the doors around the castle. Those of interest did not open. I’m beginning to feel trapped here. That howling noise that came from the taxi’s stereo system seems to have followed me here. It’s getting louder, especially after sundown. I asked the Count about it and he claims the noises are coming from the mountain’s wolves. God, I hope that not be it, for it is, I can never leave this place. I’d be eaten once I stepped out of the door.

Mina, I miss you.

White mustaches

I apologize yet again Mina! I really can’t help myself.

Jon Harker’s Gallery of White Mustaches
Courtesy of Flickr.com

Don’t you want to have one too?

Count Dracula. In the kitchen. With the wrench.

“Welcome to my house! Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring!”

The Count, he’s a rather tall, rather old man Everything about him is colorless, except for the long white mustache he touts above his lips. When I first saw him, he seemed awkward - ever waiting for my own actions. It made me anxious, especially after the taxi ride. I’m the guest after all, maybe I should be the one waited on? But as soon as I stepped into his … castle, that fear quickly subsided. He rushed me away into a large, well-lit room filled with food I never thought I’d see in my lifetime. The Count didn’t eat anything. (Note: I’ve yet to see him eat at all during my stay.) But that didn’t bother me that first night. I was far too famished to give a crap.

We were finally able to get down to business. I’m hear on behalf of my great mentor Pete Hawkings. I was to answer any and all legal questions the Count may have regarding a real estate purchase in London.

What with the drab, empty and cold feeling of his remote castle, I can’t blame him for wanting to relocate.

He talks a lot. A lot of common questions about London in particular. He told me not to fear, that Transylvania is much different than London and that there would be strange things that would make me pause. I almost laughed when he said this. Haven’t I experienced enough already!?

I have to add this: long white mustaches will never be a fad, but if this man got out a little more … maybe, just maybe.

The Taxi of Doom

“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.

On the Way

“My Friend. — Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting you. Sleep well ton-night. At three tomorrow the diligence will start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo Pass my carriage will await you and will bring you to me. I trust that your journey from London has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land.

Your friend,
Dracula.”

I’m not sure what to expect when I pass through ‘Borgo Pass.’ I’m a little wary of the trip, seeing as how I can’t find this so-called ‘Borgo Pass’ on Google Maps (unless I made a wrong turn and have ended up in North Carolina, USA). I like to print out a few maps: satellite hybrids that give as much information while remaining as aesthetically pleasing as possible. Oh, and then there’s the fact that everyone freaks out whenever they hear of my destination.

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.

That … and read the letter above. The Golden Krone Hotel landlord gave it to me upon my arrival.

Who talks like that?!

But this is business. I can ignore the fainting women and unease in the heavy air. Do I have much of a choice?

Oh … the photo above is me. I took it with the aid of a mirror in the Golden Krone elevator. Forgive me, Mina.

Photo courtesy of Flickr’s ‘tnarik.’ Thanks!