The Vampire from Transilvania

My hand went to the open palm. I felt cold, but I wasn't allowed to dwell on that thought. In a moment, Vlad pulled me toward him with ease, so that I was literally flung off the bench and onto his chest. My legs were barely holding me up, and I would have slid down, unable to stand upright, if he hadn't supported me under the back. Then I was lifted slightly, forcing me off the floor. I seemed to be standing on something uneven now. Lifting my arm higher, Vlad, keeping his cold eyes on me, abruptly snapped out of the place, whirling to the music. I would have been frightened, but my lack of will ate away at me, and I just let him drag me around like a sack of potatoes. It didn't seem to make any sense, or I was so dumb that I couldn't make any sense of it, and my mind was still not working, like a heavy cart stuck in a rain-swollen rut, rocking back and forth with no hope of moving. We continued to sway to the beat in complete silence. Not immediately, but something caught my attention. The people around us, who favored each other and completely excluded others  from their attention, seemed to be watching us when we crossed the threshold of the hall. I lazily shifted my gaze from one couple to another, all of them fixed their gazes on us. Strange expressions wandered across their faces. It was hard to understand what was going on in their heads, and I could literally feel the screws turning in mine. If it wasn't about me — because it was hard to expect anything to change in me in such a short time — then it was about Vlad. Vlad. What is he even doing here?  I thought sluggishly, but again I couldn't find the strength to voice the thought. I thought I was going to ponder it, but nothing seemed to come to mind. Surprisingly, I didn't notice when we left the hall and I was surrounded by damp, moldy walls again. The sparse lamps suspended high from the ceiling flickered unpleasantly, rhythmically blinding me and making me squint. As I tried to reconstruct my surroundings, I was immediately hit by another burst of lights and lost in space again, until my head began to spin. And I didn't seem to be moving my legs at all. The world around me had a life of its own, rushing by at will. The fresh air filled my lungs, and the heaviness freed my chest a little. The walls of the church must be behind me... But how, if I didn't move at all? Gathering all my strength, I craned my neck, trying to look around. Vlad's face was looming over me from somewhere above. It took a moment, but he caught my gaze. His face was still as cold and detached as ever. Not at all the way I remembered him in the walls of his own house. ‘What's going on?’ I barely squeezed out a question, hoping I'd managed to put all my incomprehension into it. What is that Romanian doing in the basements of the Black Church? Why had our paths crossed again? Where, after all, is he going with me in his arms? And why can't I move normally? Can't think? Vlad looked at me without slowing his step. His eyes, black in the night, were dead, as if I were looking at huge dark glass orbs artificially placed in his eye sockets. ‘Sleep.’ He breathed out, and I immediately felt my hard-won thoughts fly off in petals on a sudden impulse, and with that light whirlwind I was carried deep into oblivion. *** I felt defeated and was in no hurry to open my eyes. I could hear the muffled shuffle of house slippers outside the door. The hinges of the bathroom door creaked, reminding me that I had the same necessities. And breakfast wouldn't make itself. I should have helped my aunt; I didn't want to be known as a slacker and a lazy bum. With a tremendous effort I dragged myself off the bed. It felt like I'd been unloading railroad cars all night. Not that I had any experience, but I couldn't even remember the last time I'd felt like a piece of meat that had just slid off the cutting board. ‘Good morning.’ Yashka wheezed, bumping into me in the hallway. ‘Good morning.’ I answered on automatic, not sharing the true meaning of  the simple greeting. After the morning procedures, I hurried to the kitchen. Pancakes were already smoking on the table. Honey and sour cream were waiting for their time, and the kettle didn’t wait long, whistling shrilly on the stove and causing a slight headache. After muttering good morning wishes to the rest of the family, I collapsed into the nearest chair. ‘You look lousy.’ Kostin smiled gloatingly, looking at my face. ‘Don't pay attention, Alex. He's jealous.’ Aunt Tasha threatened him with a look. ‘Of course.’ The twin immediately raised an indignant voice. ‘Why is she allowed to drink and I'm not?’ ‘She's of legal age.’ Yasha said, who seemed less concerned with the alcohol problem than with letting the pancakes cool down. ‘Not in her country.’ ‘And she’s not there at the moment.’ I shifted my gaze from Kostin to my aunt, from my aunt to Yasha. I think I missed something. ‘How much did I drink?’ ‘Just a glass.’ My uncle answered for everyone. ‘You must have a weak stomach, so don't play with alcohol anymore.’ I remembered the sweet, cloying taste on my tongue and cringed. ‘Maybe the champagne was expired.’ I wondered aloud. ‘You were drinking wine.’ Kostin muttered, putting a third spoonful of sugar into the tea. The others looked at each other, but didn't add anything. Was I really so drunk from one glass? I wondered. From the way I felt, it looked like I'd had too much alcohol. Except I didn't remember getting drunk at all. I'd tried wine, champagne and beer at home, without my parents knowing. And it was fine. ‘At least I didn't go on a rampage, I hope?’ ‘No, Alex. You just drank and fell asleep at the table. We put you to bed.’  My aunt replied condescendingly, putting her hand on top of mine. The news made my ears curl up into tubes. Falling asleep at the table after a glass of wine, which I also don't remember?! That's awful! ‘I'm sorry, it was embarrassing.’ ‘I told you, nothing happened. But Grigor's right, you'd better not drink anymore.’ I wasn't going to argue, I answered with a confident nod. After breakfast the topic was finally closed, and I, having cleared the table with my aunt, went to my room to lie down. As I lifted on the bed, I thought again about how I’d managed to get drunk on a drop of not the strongest alcohol. There were neatly folded clothes on the chair in front of me: first my jeans, then my sweater. I stared at them for what seemed like several long minutes, until I finally realized what was confusing me — I never stacked things, preferring to hang everything on the back of the chair. Maybe I'd got so drunk that I'd scattered things and my aunt had put everything away? Strange that I didn't remember that at all. Just like I didn't remember falling asleep. I didn't remember the wine I drank. I guess I really did have too much to drink, though it wasn't very clear how. After resting in my room for a while and reading a book, I found that the fog in my head had finally cleared. I pulled up my notebook of planned trips and crossed out the places I'd been to: Bran, Poenar, Brasov. I paused at the last name, lamenting once again that that meeting had been a waste and I'd got nowhere. The thought lingered in my head a little longer, though I wasn't thinking about anything in particular, sitting on the edge of the bed and listening to the uneasy sensations in my chest. Why was I suddenly agitated? Everything had gone pretty boring and there was no reason to get excited, so, brushing off the vague emotions, I moved on down the list. The next destination was Sighisoara. The town was some distance from Taliu, so I should have gone there first thing in the morning. I wouldn't be able to get back before dark today anyway, and in my condition it would be better to postpone the trip until tomorrow. It was half past midnight, and I didn't want to be in bed all day. I'd better make the most of my time and at least repay my relatives for their hospitality. ‘Well, you can help the boys clean up the yard a little. But don't grab anything heavy.’ My aunt said when I offered to help. ‘Sure. And can I go to Sighisoara tomorrow?’ I asked from the hallway, tightening the laces of my shoes. ‘Okay.’ Came from the kitchen. ‘Just come back before dark, please.’ ‘No problem.’ I threw on my jacket and walked out the door. The frost immediately bit my cheeks, and I reached into my pocket for my mittens. Something fell out of my pocket. It must have been a forgotten receipt. Picking up the card from the ground, I stared with interest at the inscription:   Curtea Johannes Honterus 2, Brașov 24.12.17 20.00   Something zinged in my head. The Black Church appeared in my mind's eye, then a crowd of dressed-up people, and I felt the sweet and luscious taste on my tongue again, only now I felt the thin stem of the glass in my hand and saw the amber color of the drink, so reminiscent of champagne. Etienne's smile, the music, the faintness. I felt dizzy and hurried to sit on the doorstep, fighting the nausea that came out of nowhere. What was that? ‘Alex, are you all right?’ Passed by an uncle with a pitchfork in his hands. ‘Yeah, my shoelace is untied.’ ‘You'd better go inside. It's cold here.’ ‘No, I'm feeling fine now. I'm sick of sitting in the house.’ I smiled wider to prove my point. I spent the next hour in the fresh air, helping to clean up. But all my thoughts were on those strange visions that came when I saw the card... ‘Ticket’, I corrected myself without knowing why, even though the card didn't have a control strip. And those strange people slowly floating in the dance, the beautiful live music, and the embarrassment I felt about my own outfit. Then this strange sensation that robbed me of my will, as if all my strength had drained out of me. As I sank deeper and deeper into my own visions, I suddenly saw myself sitting among other people. I didn't want to be among them, but I sat obediently, as if I had nothing else to do. Goosebumps ran down my spine, and I shook my head, pushing the illusion away. The image melted, giving way to a portrait of someone else. The Romanian's blank, expressionless eyes stared back at me, cold. Vlad. Why was I thinking of him? And why did this image, unlike all the previous, less intimidating ones, leave me completely calm, while the others, simple and harmless at first glance, sent shivers down my spine? By evening, my headache was back. I had been thinking so much about everything that I seemed to be lost between reality and dreaming. Assuming that everything in my head made sense, I should have gone to a party instead of a family dinner last night. There, somewhere within the walls of the Black Church, was a holiday party I was attending. Perhaps even participated. The music was blaring nicely, everyone was dancing. It seems, I didn’t come to the evening alone. The image of the smiling Frenchman looking at me half-turned, as when I had followed him through the dungeons, surfaced from the depths of consciousness beyond desire. I felt as if I owed him something. And extremely grateful that he'd given me a chance. But what kind of chance? It was probably something to do with the Seekers. What else could we possibly have in common? But if I believe that, then why don't I remember anything? And I think I spent the whole evening at home. The other side of the coin was more prosaic: I was really drunk. And the things that had been tormenting me for the last few days were finally jumbled up in my head: the seekers, the secret parties, Etienne, the dungeons, the church I'd run past so many times. The TV, which must have been on all night last night, added the other details: music and dancing couples. The second version seemed more plausible, but I was still confused by some details that didn't fit the picture of my intoxication: how could I get drunk from a single glass? There was nothing wrong with the wine, I had asked about it during the day. Homemade, personally made by my uncle. Besides, my aunt and uncle drank it too. And that card that kept burning my pocket. Where did I get it from? Plus, it had the address of the church on it. It was definitely not the work of my imagination. But the strangest thing was that, apart from the evening, I could hardly remember the whole of yesterday. The next morning I had an early breakfast and, after wishing my aunt a good day, I set out for Sighisoara. Or rather, I was going to go there right after I had clarified some things. By directing the car to Brasov, I wanted to jog my memory a little more. The car stayed close to the center as I walked briskly in a known direction. The black peaks showed up against the gray cloudy sky, troubling my chest with lingering anticipation. It was too early, and the church hadn’t yet opened for visitors. I walked over to the black bars and put my hands on them. I desperately wanted to get inside, but it was still about an hour before it opened. Was it worth wasting time? I sighed tensely, but I decided not to stand still and wait for my feet to freeze. Instead, I walked along the north wall, my mind once again in a jumble of scattered thoughts. Suppose I had indeed spent the evening at home. Then I'd got drunk from one drink... Probably because I rarely drink. The last time I drank alcohol was about two months ago for my birthday. Two glasses of red semi-sweet. And everything was just fine. Of course, the house wine could have been something specific since it only got me drunk. The logic seemed strained, to say the least, and how to explain the card? I had no memory of how it had got in my pocket, but I might have received it from the Frenchman. For some reason, my memories were starting to jumble from the Seekers' party, which I'd had such high hopes for and which had turned out to be a disappointment. I remember well how I ran into Etienne at the entrance, talking to strange guys about nothing. I remember the annoyance at the failed vampire hunters... Afterwards, everything slowly blurred. I think I ran into the Frenchman again on the way out and it was a big deal. I was excited and I think I needed something from him. Stopping, I once again dragged the black cardboard out into the white light. Surely, surely I must have got it from Etienne. What interesting thing was supposed to take place on Christmas Eve under the roof of the Church? I tensely looked at the inscription, as if it might open a veil of mystery. Strange intoxication, card and memory disorder... What if I had actually been in the Black Church the night before? Would that explain how I felt and the strange memory lapses? The ends didn't want to fit together, causing an attack of deafening irritation. As I walked around the church again, I froze. Suppose I decided to leave home late one night on Christmas Eve. Given my recent adventure, only a single reason could have lured me outside on the eve of the holiday. The Gothic building idly watched my efforts to remember the forgotten as it gazed out at the throngs of tiny ants, crowded with their little fears over the past centuries. Sliding my aimless gaze along the powerful walls, I noticed a narrow, tall door hidden in a shallow alcove. With an inexplicable urge, I leisurely approached the door and held out my hand. Surely it must be closed. It probably hadn't been used in decades. Yet my hand touched the ring. It was locked tight. No, I'm not getting answers here. I need someone who can confirm my hunches, answer my questions. But who? It was impossible to find Etienne. Apart from his name and a few general facts about him, I didn't know much. But maybe I could find those who were close to him. Like the guys from the Seekers’ meeting. Some of them must have been on friendly terms with him, if they hadn't even asked him for the password. Not wanting to waste any more time, I hurried to a familiar address. I went down to the basement level and banged on the door. No matter how much I hammered with my fist, nobody answered. ‘What’s up, girl?’ An elderly man leaned out of a ground-floor window. ‘Excuse me, I need to get inside.’ ‘Do you want to take pictures?’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘The cellars.’ He pointed his index finger down somewhere. ‘They're for rent. Here's the phone number.’ The man handed me a business card through the window. There was a name and a phone number on the card. ‘Only for the holidays everything is already taken.’ He nodded affirmatively, as if adding weight to his words and at the same time saying that I had no chance. ‘Thank you.’ The man, having considered his duty done, ducked back into the apartment. So the place was for rent. Most likely the Seekers had rented it that night. I stared at the card again. Well, I could call and try to ask the landlord who he'd rented the basement to that night. The idea seemed feasible, so I dialed the number. After the sixth ring, the receiver was picked up. After a quick explanation of the situation, I covered myself by saying that I’d lost my phone at the party and now I was looking for the organizers in case they’d found it while cleaning up afterwards. The man on the other end didn’t express any suspicion and promised to reset the number. Encouraged by my first victory, I paced back and forth in impatience, but when I saw that I was being watched from the window, I decided to walk back to the Church. I got the number quickly and called immediately. When I heard that I was looking for someone, the young guy (judging by his voice) didn't even wait for a name and just dropped the call. I called back a couple more times, but without much success. I wrote a message in which I told him that one of the people I met at the party gave me his driver's license so that it wouldn’t loose it while drinking, and then simply forgot it. I was advised to take the document to the police. Disappointed that everything was going so smoothly and then failed, I tucked my phone into my pocket — I couldn't find Etienne. In the meantime, the grate of the church opened, letting in the first tourists. Not knowing what to do, I decided to go in too. A solemn silence greeted me at the threshold. The meager light of the gray winter morning filtered through the side windows, illuminating the decoration of the lutheran church. A wide aisle between two rows of wooden benches with backs led along the nave. Stepping on turkish carpets, which ate up any trace of foreign presence, I leisurely traveled more than halfway down the aisle. The organ, one of the main attractions of the church, left me indifferent, I hadn’t come to enjoy the sight of historical antiquities. Instead of moving on, I decided to sit down on one of the pews. Rare tourists scattered around in the morning, looking at icons and frescoes. Someone tried to capture the beauty on an electronic medium, which to me was a rather useless activity. How can a photo convey the atmosphere of a monument with its mystical antiquity, where the life of many generations has passed? A camera would have been much more useful in my hands on Christmas Eve, but the habit of taking pictures of myself at every corner hadn’t developed. I covered my eyes, giving the memory another chance. A huge space, chandeliers, and walls like faded candles. Light melodic music, the quiet rustling of dresses and the clinking of heels. The reluctance to move. A heaviness, as if every cell in my body is under control beyond reason. There are people next to me. Lots of them. A red dress. A beautiful woman in a red dress comes closer and closer. Walks around to the back and bends down. Whispers something to one of us. Others do the same, time after time coming from the back, bowing for a moment, and then moving away, still barely audible. When I opened my eyes, I felt a distinct certainty that everything I’d seen had happened for real. I was there, listening with my own ears and watching with my own eyes. All this could only have happened on one single evening. An evening that persistently slipped from my memory, no matter how hard I tried to bring it back. But what happened to me? Why were my thoughts confused and my aunt and her family convinced that I'd spent the evening at home? Straightening up and taking a deep breath, I concentrated as if my whole life depended on it. I'd met Etienne at the party. I remembered the party clearly enough to swear that nothing serious had happened there. My memory has been fading since I left the Seekers' dungeons. And I remotely remembered running into the Frenchman again on the way out. It was important. Our conversation mattered to me, I told myself, and my chest responded pleasantly. It was always like that when I acted in good conscience or told the truth. Suppose it was about the card. I got it from a Frenchman because there was no one else. The next day in the evening I went to the Black Church. It was a little strange to be out of the house so late on Christmas Eve, and after my recent adventures, but it could happen if I had a good reason. And the only thing I cared about in Romania was them. What if I could have got more answers at that meeting? If that was the case, there was no question that I had found a way to slip out from under my aunt's tutelage. And all those strange images: the dancing, the woman in the red dress, the benches filled with people. What exactly did they mean? Why was I barely moving or speaking in my hazy visions? Who were the people sitting next to me? And those around me? What secrets were they whispering about? And why did I forget everything the next day? Suddenly it dawned on me: how come I hadn't realized it before?! The realization made me jump up and dig my hands into the back of the next bench. I had something to drink at that party. That was the reason for the memory lapse and headache. Of course, I've heard that all kinds of drugs can cause all kinds of reactions. And I don't think the memory problem is the most serious of them. At that moment, my memory brought up a new detail: Etienne took a glass with a golden liquid off the tray and handed it to me. I had indeed been drugged. But why? I'm alive and well and I'm not missing anything. Perhaps it was to relieve me of some unnecessary memories. I must have learned something I shouldn't have. And since the reason I was at that party was probably because of them, what I forgot must be directly related... A lot of things fell into place. I still couldn't explain how they, whoever they were, had managed to drugged my aunt's family, but I was sure now that I couldn't have got intoxicated from a single glass of wine or champagne, and even if I had, it wouldn't explain why the whole twenty-four hours had fallen out of my memory. But the drugs and the card... The ticket. I stumbled. Of course, the card was some sort of invitation to a private party. As I looked around, I realized that I had no idea what had happened here the day before, but the narrow door that I hadn't been able to enter an hour ago suddenly popped up out of nowhere. Etienne was standing in front of me. He put his hand on the ring, just as I had done minutes earlier, but the door suddenly slid open. It wasn't in the church, but under it, and it hit me like a bolt of lightning. I jumped up and hurried out. ‘Pardon me.’ I turned to a senior woman who had sold me an entrance ticket. ‘Yes.’ The lady in the dark brown coat smiled at me. ‘Do you happen to know if there are dungeons under the church?’ ‘Naturally, my dear. Like many medieval buildings, the Black Church has a decent number of corridors, casemates and other rooms for household purposes.’ ‘Is there a hall?’ ‘A hall?’ She wondered, looking over her glasses. ‘Yes. Some huge room, say, suitable for ball dancing.’ ‘I doubt it.’ She said, a bit confused. ‘Why would there be a dance hall under a church?’ Her words confused me back a little. She took off her glasses and wiped them, thinking aloud. ‘Most of the dungeons have been closed for over a hundred years. They say it's for security reasons. The passages have dilapidated and could collapse on your head at any moment. Only a small part of them, descending no more than twenty meters, is open to employees.’ The glasses took their place of honor on the bridge of her nose and the lady gave two tickets to the tourists who entered. Then, after looking around to make sure no one was around, she bent over the table. ‘Although my father, who worked as a superintendent in these walls all his life, said that the Church hides many secrets.’ ‘Why did he say that?’ ‘Who knows.’ My companion shrugged her shoulders. ‘Sometimes he claimed that in the evenings, when he was below the first level, he could hear voices. But at that time no one was supposed to be there, and those levels, as far as he could remember, were always closed. Sometimes he was puzzled when he saw the supply lists for the church. Why, for example, would the church need ordinary furniture? Where to put it? And the refreshments?’ As if she remembered. ‘Delicacies several times a year and in such quantities that the local lutheran congregation would eat them for a year. What's all this for?’ Her tone sounded accusatory. ‘I have no idea.’ I felt like I had to say something. ‘No one did.’ ‘Are things getting weird now, too?’ ‘Naturally, my dear.’ She said, a condescending smile distorting the smooth lines of his wrinkles. ‘Only last week I was short four tickets in my stack. Where did they go, I wonder?’ Shrugging, I took a step back — it seemed that everything I could learn, I'd already learned. Thanking the lady, I stepped out into the fresh air. The weather had cleared up a bit, the sky was decorated with thick breaks in the clouds, and the winter sun was shining through. Had I learned anything useful? Probably. First of all: it's hard to verify how deep the church basements are, and Wikipedia is unlikely to give an exact answer. But ancient buildings did indeed for the most part have an extensive network of tunnels and structures of all kinds. Plus, the church belonged to public spaces and that increased the chances of more serious architecture. As far as I know, in the olden days it was fashionable to build all sorts of sanctuaries, secret rooms and the like for various ‘dark’ deeds. How much you should trust the memories of an elderly ticket lady is a question. All these oddities could really happen, but most of them could have the most ordinary explanations. For example, the monks had a generous patron, and everyone likes to eat and sleep in comfort. The main point was that the hall could well have been somewhere in the back. I stopped a few meters in front of the church. Suppose I really did get into a private party and there I was drugged so I wouldn't remember anything. Should I find out exactly what it was that they wanted to erase from my memory? If I don't want to look for trouble, I'd better forget about everything and continue traveling through Transylvania as I planned. But would that make sense if the whole point of my trip was for one specific purpose. The Seekers, whom I had hoped to meet, turned out to be just another club for lovers of all things mysterious, and I could only count on a fun trip of typical tourist attractions. I didn't want that. But then I should have got to the truth. After all, no one had hurt me, and perhaps I shouldn't be in any unnecessary danger. So, Alex, you have a secret on your hands, which, perhaps, will give new clues and help to find what is hidden.  I spoke to myself, feeling a pleasant excitement, as when I crossed the borders of Romania. If we're going to dig, we have to dig here. There was no way to find Etienne, which left only one person who could possibly shed the mystery of the night's adventures. Vlad's face, cold and unfriendly, was as blurred as the rest of the vague details I was trying desperately to piece together. It was this simple fact that convinced me that he had been present that evening. And where the Romanian lived, I knew perfectly well.