Christopher Bang Chan | VAMPIRE | Bangchan

"Oh, Arthur, I'm so afraid to fall asleep... it seems that someone is watching me, even in the dark" «Bram Stoker "Dracula". Chapter 8»

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The heat consumes the flesh, like a hellfire beating to the beat of a mad heart. The air is thick with the smell of rotting flesh and incense mixed with the dust of forgotten crypts. The shadows on the walls are moving, clawing at consciousness, and the whispers of the damned are in ears, like worms crawling into skull.

Skin burns, but ice pierces bones, as if a dead man hugged me from the inside. Vision is blurred: through cracked eyelids, sees the vaults of Gothic cathedrals, where instead of angels there are statues of the suffering, their stone tears flowing into pools of blood.

Every breath is like a mouthful of molten lead. Time weaves into a loop, and creatures with abyss eyes crawl out of the darkness, whispering in the language of ancient spells....

Wake in the sweat again

Your breath came out in short gasps, filling a small, quiet room in a London apartment. The balcony window creaked softly as it swung open, causing the curtains to flap like sails.

For thirty nights now, the devilish nightmares have been keeping you awake.

With a soft grunt, you lower your feet to the cold wooden floor, which creaks and groans under the weight of your bare leaden feet. You need to drink some water...Or maybe something stronger.

Dr. Seward always suggested drinking some absinthe in such cases, explaining that herbs are great for helping the body relax. He often told you that "a young being like you shouldn't work so hard" or "if you had a life partner, you wouldn't suffer so much." Lately, he's even started to get angry that you're not listening to him.

Although you couldn't say that you didn't listen to his advice and suggestions at all, you had to admit that you resisted relaxing, justifying yourself by saying that there weren't any good places yet.

In the darkness of the hallway, lying on his couch by the fireplace, the housekeeper's dog, a small, short—haired Yorkshire Terrier, snored softly. The quiet snoring of the dog reflected off the cold walls, and the silhouette became clearer as you approached the cupboard just a few steps away.

Striking a match, you lit a candle, illuminating the carved flowers, leaves and images of animals made of mahogany on the sideboard. The door opened with a soft creak, and from the shadows of the glass and papers, you noticed the emerald, alluring shimmer of absinthe.

...There was something else here...

The glasses rattled against each other when you took out a bottle of absinthe from the cupboard. In the drawer with papers where the housekeeper put old letters, under a pile of faded and yellowed paper, a neat milk-colored envelope was visible.

Putting the bottle aside, you took the envelope... You haven't seen it here before...Apparently it had been in the mailbox for so long that the housekeeper decided to hide it. the paper was thick, glistened slightly in the candlelight, and the sealing wax seal was intact.

The envelope felt unnervingly cold in your hands, as though it had been plucked from a snowdrift rather than a dusty drawer. The wax seal—a crest of coiled thorns encircling a wolf’s head—crumbled like ash when you broke it. Inside, a single sheet of parchment bore a message in the looping script:

“To the tormented soul who sees beyond the veil„ The Carpathians Mountains Hotel extends an invitation.

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✯Romania. Transylvania. 1885✯

In the heart of the Carpathian Mountains, where silence has found the voice of the wind, the Mountains Hotel lurks — quiet as a tomb, cold as the kiss of the dead. The mountains, rearing up like the snarl of a gigantic beast, pierced the sky with fangs of rocks shrouded in a shroud of mist. Its walls, like cursed guards, clutched a ring of giant pines, whose branches, twisted in an eternal grimace, clawed at the clouds. The forest, black and impenetrable, as if erected by Death itself, did not let a ray into its bosom — the earth here lay petrified, devoid of warmth, as if the heart of the world had stopped beating under these stones.

But inside...Inside, it was all forgotten as quickly as a false promise. The castle was the epitome of luxury and comfort. There were thirty rooms, the walls of which were covered with thick tapestries depicting scenes of battles of the past and paintings in gold frames. The furniture was made of expensive carved mahogany, and the beds, which feather were softer than clouds, were covered with silk sheets. This place attracted and repelled, frightened and calmed, like the hands of the most terrible lover.

— This hotel... This hotel was never built, child. It sprouted from the very depths of this dead earth through rocks and tree roots, from the bones of the general... — The old woman's eyes sparkled in the dim candlelight of the great hall. — of the young Count, who was filled with pain and despair...

Her dress, once an example of Victorian luxury and royalty, made of purple velvet, was now moth-eaten at the hem. Silver curls of unruly hair were gathered into a high hairstyle, topped with a tiara of tarnished thorns. Her eyes, one as blue as ice, the other as milky as a corpse's, are fixed on you with feverish intensity. She smelled of rosemary and decay... And she was mad herself.

— The war took away his love, body and soul, tearing his heart to shreds and he got angry. The real devil! — A cough rattled her chest, causing some of the other guests to turn around. A crooked finger pointed at the vaulted ceiling, from which stone faces stared down, distorted by silent screams. — Do you see them? His victims. He drank their horror like wine. But hunger doesn’t die.

Listening to the old woman's ravings, you felt your heart strangely constrict in your chest, as if blood was being squeezed out of it, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. An inner voice kept telling you, "The old woman is crazy!" "It's all fairy tales!" But something can't come out of nothing, can it?

— But the guests... The guests were glorified, bewitched by this place... Until their dreams turned to... visions. Like yours, yes? Flesh melting, shadows clawing... The Count’s appetite returning.

Suddenly, the old woman leaned closer and her skeletal hand grabbed your wrist, biting into it with her fingers like a wolf biting into its prey, knocking the air out of your lungs and making your body tense. A cold shiver ran down your spine. Her lips parted in an excited smile, revealing crooked rat teeth.

— You are here, my child, because he chose you! Nightmares Are Invitations... pleas to calm the raging soul... And tonight... — The old woman’s milky eye twitched. She released you, sinking back with a sigh. — Tonight...The doors will creak open, letting you into a dungeon where feelings and stories are chained... The Count will be hungry... Will you flee... or feast?...

With that, she burst into laughter—or sobs—before disappearing into the shadows, leaving you alone with the emerald glow of absinthe in your glass and the feeling that the walls are breathing.

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The pendulum of the antique grandfather clock in your room swung slowly from side to side with a soft thud, filling the cold silence. Before your eyes, the hour hand has moved. It was midnight.

Sleep did not come

The whispering in your head didn't stop, as if the castle itself was talking to you, telling you to find an explanation for the old woman's crazy words. Your fingers clawed at the brocade coverlet, its threads frayed into spectral tendrils. The fire had long died, leaving the hearth a gaping maw exhaling frost. Your breath hung in the air, a ghostly mimicry of the wolves in the tapestries—their embroidered eyes now glinted, wet and feral, tracking your every twitch. The hunters beside them raised their spears, their stitched faces warping into grins. The madness seeped right under your skin.

«He chose you!»

You slipped out from under the blankets and, putting on your silk robe, went out into the corridor with a soft creak of the door. Your bare feet sank into the soft Persian carpet, the patterns of which clung to your feet like fingers. There was dead silence here and it seemed like time had frozen.

The corridors followed each other as your feet, carried by a mysterious force, led you to a staircase that spiraled upward. Iron snakes were stuck on the handrails, entangled in the vines of thorny roses. The higher you climbed, the clearer your consciousness became and the more distinct the smells of old paper and parchment were.

The Great Landlord's Library

The door creaked open, as if the dead man's bony fingers had released their grip. The air inside was thick, saturated with the smell of centuries: dust, intertwined with the scent of faded ink and wood resin. The shelves, rising to the ceiling like the ribs of a giant beast, were filled with leather-bound folios, their spines covered with writings in forgotten languages. In the center of the hall, under a dome with a stained glass window depicting the fall of Lucifer, hung a huge portrait.

It hung over the fireplace, huge, framed in dark wood.

The light of the fire danced on the colors of the faces of the people depicted on the canvas, creating ominous shadows. It was him... Count Christopher Bang.

The Count stood motionless, dressed in military regalia, his uniform was as black as crow's feathers, and his medals sparkled with gold as bright as the sun. On his face—harsh, pale, beautiful as a guillotine can be—there were eyes that watched you, pupils dilating, turning into bottomless pits. But it was the figure next to him that took your breath away.

She... or ...You

— My Elizabeth — A quiet male voice broke the night silence. The muffled footsteps behind you got closer and closer, until out of the corner of your eye you saw him standing next to you, shoulder to shoulder with you. A quiet sigh escaped the Count's lips. — My beloved. My martyr. My curse.

His gaze was fixed on the portrait, on her, as if it were a ghost that he feared would disappear if he were too boldly acknowledged. At that very moment a cold shiver went through your skin. you seemed to feel his gaze on you...you felt like his sad eyes, which were fixed forward, were looking at you and not her. You involuntarily turned your head towards him.

— Poor Elizabeth was so sick... At night, she had crazy nightmares that kept her awake, and in the evenings, to get over the fear, she mutilated her sweet body... She cried again and again and begged for help, begged to be freed from this madness, while her thin fingers tore away her skin again and again... — Christopher's eyes, like crystal, imperceptibly filled with moisture and his breathing stopped slightly. With his own words, he hid the healing wound, leaving a bleeding scar on his heart. — But I wasn't there to protect my sweet girl.

Taking a deep breath, he turned his head to you, hiding the sadness that he discovered a second ago. His lips twitched in a faint, polite smile, and you felt something strange in your chest, something between fear and a strange attraction.

— I think I'm powdering your young head with something that shouldn't bother you at all... Forgive me and my weakness — The count slightly tilted his head, extending his palm to you, from which you felt a dead, inhuman chill. — Let me show you to your room...