flesh and blood, folly; What else would drive a man to ruin faster than his own hungers?
Word Count: ~2092 Words
Transyvalania, Carpathian Mountains.
May 29th, 1453.
Jonathon Harker.
Dear Jonathan Harker,
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
How is it in England this time of year? I always preferred summer; long sunny days make me happy. My sweet Lady Elisabad fell pregnant, The doctor confirmed it about two weeks ago as I write this letter. I hope to introduce a healthy child to a thriving country by the start of winter. I do worry my ailments may be contagious. This worry lingers and gnaws at my thoughts, it threatens my beloved. It dampens the joy of the news for me.
The soil has degraded further this spring. I have organised an increase of imports from neighbouring principalities; I fear we can only survive on trade for so long. Reserves are dwindling. It’s been a full season since I’ve witnessed fresh meat served at the local tavern, or even sold in the market. The bread has become difficult to chew.
Another shepherd has found one of their sheep dead. Bled dry, again. The weary old man holds madness in his eyes. He whispers of the devil lurking in his fields; a drinker of blood. I am drawing up plans to relocate his flock. I hesitate; I desperately want to keep a close eye on him, maybe I could get more information about this supposed devil out of him. His late wife is buried on the property and his flock relies on the nearby forest for food. Still, it’s a risk we have to take. The predator responsible, whatever it truly is, may live within the trees.
Last night I was informed of a case of demonic possession. A man from a local village suddenly fell over in the town square, and his body convulsed. My men took him off the road and into Christ’s church. He was stuck with hallucinations; he believes he had spoken with his dead wife. However, I believe these general hallucinations are brought on by poisoned bread. He complained of his skin burning after father splattered him with holy water. My men had found bread in his hand.
My dear lady was witness to a case where an unfortunate young girl was found rigid after consuming bread she had stolen. I suspect the little crops were infected by a fungus, something that poisons the mind and the body. At closer inspection, it acts as a hallucinogenic. It is likely we are witnessing a wide spread of an untamed infection; though it resembles a demonic possession. This Is the 6th case this spring. The people fear mass possession, I fear it’s a case of ergot fungus. I’ve sent for them to bring me the bread they found. I am very interested in taking a very closer look at the quality of the soil, and then the bread. My father left me some equipment in his estate. I do not know the origin. I hope to shine light on this affliction and the land that has forsaken me.
This reeks of foul play.
A priest from you-know-what approached me. I have faint memories of a conversation, although I’m not too sure what I said in my drunken stupor. Immorality plagues them. Cursed people. They lack integrity. I do not wish to work with them. I catch myself flirting with the idea of it. I do not have long. I’m only getting sicker.
Sincerely, Vlad Dracula.
9th June, 1443.
Jonathon Harker.
Dear Jonathon Harker,
Harker, much has happened since I last wrote to you. The ritual was successful; however, I feel like I was deceived about its true nature. I fear they did not have my best interest in mind. As soon as it started, I could taste the coppery air, thick with humidity. For a second I felt the prick on my neck. For a fleeting moment, venom pumped through my veins. Leeches sunk their sharp teeth into my flesh, gnawing into my chest. They sucked the viscous blood out of me when my heart stopped, I could feel my life slipping.
Ever since, food has tasted foul. I can hardly stand the scent of it. There are days the mere sight of it makes my toes curl. Chewing it feels wrong, and I can’t bring myself to swallow it. My teeth are changing. They are growing more sensitive, I have noticed that lukewarm foods are the most comfortable. Small chips are forming near my canines. The white colour around the cracks are discoloured. I suspect this is the result of poor nutrition. I do not like this.
Something peculiar has been happening to me since. They told me this would give me time I so desperately craved. Maybe I was naive to believe they would heal my ailments. Today, I had to turn away a starving peasant. I often offer such people food and lodging within my castle for a short time, but the scent of her neck was so exquisitely decadent. So alluring. For a moment, I forgot she was a person. It felt like having a morsel of food in my mouth. I stared at her strangely, so long that she herself noticed. When, at last, she asked me what was wrong, her voice broke me out of my trance. It felt like a dream. The hazy ambience almost hid the truth from me. I did not want to feel the call of her flesh again, so I sent her away.
Ever since that awful night, I have suffered. Hunger gnaws at me. Its gnashing claws rake my stomach. It has become a constant, unrelenting presence.
Those dirty priests knew what they were doing. Food was the last thread that connected me to my mother, The last thing we did together. and they tarnished it. With every ounce of my being, I hate them. Oh how I lust to drain them of their blood.
Given all that has happened, I genuinely had a productive few months. My father experimented with adding mechanical upgrades to a horse drawn thresher. Today I moved the rusted mechanical prototype off the field. Certainly, an overdue task. Preliminary testing on the soil will be completed before summer begins. Maybe I can remedy this soon.
I did find something interesting I wanted to share with you. I examined the soil my men collected after escorting the Shepard temporary accommodation. It was ravaged by crystalline structures, Salt. Now I know someone tampered with my lands. I may know who did it. I have sent men to tail them. I have a plan for them.
I have sent men to survey farmland from across my county. I plan to analyse the information they have gathered. However I have tasked them with weeding out their tainted degeneracy; those depraved heathens will not be able to hide. Not from me. I will rid my lands of them.
Sincerely, Vlad Dracula.
6th May 1443
Jonathon Harker
Dear Harker,
Hello Harker, Recently, I have fallen further into illness. I do not know what affliction invades me. Just now, I caught a fleeting glimpse of my hollow face in the flicker of candle light. My muscles hurt too much to crank my father’s light machine. I discovered soil sprinkled in my bedding when I awoke. I don’t know where it could have come from.
I’m considering moving most of my father’s strange contraptions down into the family vault, though I do wish to keep the preserver up in the dining hall. I do enjoy the rather odd little device, and the taste of chilled red wine after a meal.
I do hope that my carriage returns in a timely manner. It is hard to see at night. Its black inky colour conceals it, so that the only signs of its presence are its gold highlights and the rattle it makes as it starts and stops.
Tonight, It carries lady Eloise Elisabad. I hope the mechanical nature of the carriage does not startle her as it did the first time she rode it, all those years ago. There is no driver, you see. No horses. No obvious signs of locomotion. It’s quite a fascinating machine, and a convenient one. The markets would be a nightmare without it. My father had hoped to study it. Had he been able to, perhaps he would have made a mechanical apparatus to recreate its locomotion.
I received a report on the lands. They are healing, to some extent, but that’s less comforting as it should be. I have analysed the progression of the fungus. Its spread is too calculated and precise to be natural. Someone is tampering with my domain.
I will learn who, and they will be dealt with.
Over the last few weeks, my fingers have grown numb, as I’ve scribbled notes, and ground herbs, forever burning, replacing, and testing, always testing. Nothing I try cures the blight. I’ve examined the fungi using another contraption, an advanced version of a flea glass, which uses three lenses in front of one another to magnify anything I wish. Somehow, nothing works. Methods of management have been sent out to the farmers.
There’s only one more thing to do.
Sincerely, Vlad Dracula.
6th may 1444
Jonathon Harker.
Dear Harker.
My friend, since I last wrote to you, great difficulty overcame me, Not long after the turning of the year, she became frail. I knew something was wrong when she didn’t respond to that mechanism that signals the morning, I vividly remember her setting it. Yet she stirred as it floated over her head, blaring and shining light into her eyes.
The birth of our son took a lot out of her. She was terribly changed. The roses in her cheeks are fading, and she is weak and languid. I already see the pallor of death creeping over her, despite the doctor's efforts. He told me not to worry; that he would handle it. I told myself; a doctor's confidence is sacred.
She died. He lied. Though my soft kiss briefly breathed life into her eyes, like a soft breeze onto dying embers, it wasn’t enough. She perished, and he died with her.
A momentary lapse in judgement. I drank his blood. I waited for him to die before I stopped. It took mere moments for me to regret it, but the deed was done.Ever since the day I first tasted that indescribably exquisite nectar , I have been caught in a brutal cycle of temptation, sin, and remorse. Each time this cycle repeats, I grow more accustomed to murder. I cannot explain how divinely luxurious it tastes. Each time I feed, it fills me with ecstasy.
A few months back, I received a report. One of my men spent time within the ranks of those heathens after they tracked them down. They hid in the southernmost village of my domain. How could they truly believe they could hide from me? Dracula? No. I bided my time. Last night we struck. I tried to enter the home in which they hid, but an unseen force blocked me. They cackled behind an open door, but they did not laugh long. They did not laugh when I sent in my men to drag them out, or when I slaughtered them in the street.Two heathens remained. I could smell their wretched scent. They were hiding in a closet. They had locked themselves behind a metal reinforced door while we were killing their comrades. I remained unable to enter.
So what did I do? The bald heathen almost coughed up a lung when he realized I’d found a way in. The sweet allure of fear in his neck was palpable. It excited me. It made my stomach rumble. I pressed my nose up to the closet and sniffed so loudly he heard, and screamed. You should have seen the look on the imbicile's face when the man who hid with him gave me permission to enter. I’m sure my man hated pretending to be such a nasty little pest. Not a drop of blood remained in that room when I was done, ignoring my men. I have rid my lands of those sick creatures.
On a brighter note, I recently dug into my fathers diagrams. I used them to build irrigation across all of my farmlands. I have spent months flooding salt out of my domain. It was a costly affair, but certainly worth it. The people have no more excuses to avoid paying their taxes. They owe me that much for all my hard work
Sincerely, Dracula.