Transylvanian
Mauro Wynter’s carriage arrived slowly to the entrance of the castle on a cold and rainy night. Transylvania was a terribly old and backward part of the crumbling Ottoman Empire. Or was it now part of Romania? The power politics of the great powers were a nuisance for scholars such as Mauro Wynter who was there on a mission to study the traditional folklore and the troubling cases that were being told of back in London. Wealthy minor nobles had made their way to the heart of London now that some liberties were allowed easing the flow of people and capital from the old backwaters to world capitals. And Wynter wanted to see for himself if the old folklore had any merit.
The aged count was known to be somewhat of a recluse. This was at odds with the suave and urbane Count Dracula that he had met in London last season. It was at the height of society season, before the gentry returned to their country seats. Naturally, Wynter did not come from one of the landed and ancient families of polite London society, he was a newly made man of letters that still had to make his mark and keep the patronage of his betters. What more refined way of coming back to society with stories of the primitive lands of Transylvania and Wallachia and the newly ‘freed’ Eastern Christians from the yoke of the Ottomans. What better yet than to come back with gossip on the Count that had stolen the fascination of London? What better way than to expose the man as a fraud and a charlatan.
The footman greated the carriage’s driver and stroke the main of the lead horse as he took the reins. The driver spoke to the footman in hushed tones as Wynter adjusted his riding clothes. His linens were terribly drafty and cold in the hinterland of the mountainous Carpathians. This was truly the land of the damned and ancient horrors, thought Wynter. He allowed the footman to help him down and grab his traveling bags. Before Wynter knew it his carriage was already gone. A chill rain down Wynter’s spine as he approached the castle’s doorway.
It was a monstrous castle, as old as the mountains themselves overlooking the castle. Pillars seemed to rise to the heavens made of crumbling stone. At the doorway the footman opened the terribly large and heavy door to reveal the host. It was the Count alright, but not as Wynter had remembered him. He was weathered, aged, and looked more like a corpse than a man. “Welcome to my home Mr. Wynter. I never imaged to see you so far away from Fleet Street. I must say I wasn’t expecting you but things are never what they seem here in Transylvania. Do you care to join me for a late supper?”
Wynter nodded slowly as he was escorted through a cavernous hall. Wynter sat with the Count as a small cadre of servants brought in serving bowls and many beakers and goblets. “Well then, shall we begin?”