Monster Problems: Vampire Misfire

by R. L. Ullman

  “What do you think?” Crawler asks.

  “I suppose it’s nice,” I say, “for a school.”

  “Glad you like it,” Crawler says. “But it’s not just any school. Come check it out.”

  Crawler pushes the doors open with his spider legs, and my eyebrows go up. The entrance hall is simply enormous, maybe bigger than a basketball court, with a giant, iron chandelier hanging over pristine marble floors. Two intricately carved wooden staircases flank the sides, leading several stories high. Perched along the walls are massive, stone statues of creatures with wings that look like gargoyles. I count six in total.

  On the back wall hangs a large black banner with a white shield. The inside of the shield is very detailed, almost like a coat of arms, with old-looking symbols and mosaic patterns in the shape of strange creature’s heads. Dead center is the school’s name—Van Helsing Academy—in bold, gothic type. Beneath the shield is a saying, which reads:

  YOU MUST BELIEVE IN THINGS YOU CANNOT IMAGINE.

  Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?

  “This is the main building,” Crawler says. “During the day it’s filled with students going to their classes. This building also houses the cafeteria, the library, the auditorium, and the gymnasium. Oh, and a pool.”

  “You have a pool?” I say, almost too excitedly. “I mean, that’s very interesting,” I say, more matter-of-factly. Honestly, I’m impressed. I’ve never seen a school as decked out as this. I guess that’s why it’s called an academy.

  Crawler looks amused. “Our faculty wing is also on the ground floor,” he says. “Let’s head that way. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  As we walk, our footsteps echo through a series of grand, dimly lit hallways. In one, I see a grandfather clock ticking away and check the time. It’s four in the morning.

  “Are you sure someone’s up at this hour?” I ask. “It’s awfully early.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Crawler says. “He’s up.”

  He? Who’s he?

  Several minutes later we enter another wing. A plaque on the wall reads:

  FACULTY OFFICES

  We pass several closed offices with nameplates posted on the front doors. They read:

  PROFESSOR LAWRENCE SEWARD

  PROFESSOR QUINCY MORRIS IV

  PROFESSOR LUCY HOLMWOOD

  PROFESSOR DAMIAN HEXUM

  Strangely, there’s one door with several locks and chains on the outside. The nameplate reads:

  PROFESSOR CLAUDE FAUSTIUS

  But that’s not all, hanging from Faustius’ doorknob is another sign that reads:

  ENTRY FORBIDDEN

  Strange.

  We keep walking until we reach a final office at the end of the hallway. It’s different than the others, with large, black doors and a rounded archway. The nameplate on the door reads:

  HEADMASTER LOTHAR VAN HELSING,

  MD, JD, PHD, D. Th., Etc., Etc.

  Van Helsing? Hang on. Isn’t that the name of the school? Suddenly, my stomach drops. I feel like I’m about to see the principal, except this time I didn’t do anything wrong. I mean, I don’t even go here.

  So why am I so freaked out?

  My gut tells me to split, but before I can move, one of Crawler’s spindly legs RAPS on the door.

  We wait for a response, but there’s nothing.

  “Shucks,” I say. “I guess we should come back another time.”

  “No, go ahead,” Crawler says. “He’s in there.”

  “But nobody answered,” I say.

  “The door is warm,” Crawler says. “He’s in there. Good luck.”

  “Wait,” I say, “aren’t you coming with me?”

  “Uh-uh,” Crawler says. “He wants to see you alone.”

  Of course he does.

  “Oh, and get ready,” Crawler continues, “it’s toasty in there.”

  Toasty? I grab the doorknob and it’s super-warm to the touch. I guess he’s not kidding. Well, here goes nothing. I pull open the door and step inside. But instead of entering a room, I find myself standing in a dark corridor.

  What’s up? Doesn’t he pay the electric bill?

  Fortunately, my eyes don’t need to adjust, but as I turn back to question Crawler’s assertion that someone’s actually in here, the door slams shut in my face.

  Great.

  I guess there’s only one way to go.

  Well, Crawler was right about one thing, it’s like a sauna in here! Sweat starts dripping from my body so I pull off my hoodie. I feel a bit cooler in my t-shirt, but I’m still sweating like a pig. Unfortunately, it looks like humidity isn’t the only obstacle I’ll have to deal with.

  That’s because this place is a pack rat’s dream.

  Everywhere I look are books—on shelves, on surfaces, even on the floor. In fact, I’ve never seen so many books stuffed in one place before. There are thick ones, thin ones, old ones, and really old ones. Well, I can say this about Van Helsing, he’s certainly well-read. There’s a narrow pathway cutting through the center, just wide enough to squeeze through.

  Lucky me.

  I make my way forward until the corridor ends in a small room that looks like a mad scientist’s lair. Test tubes of various colors line the walls. Microscopes, Bunsen burners, and other scientific equipment cover every square inch of table space. There are all sorts of unfinished inventions scattered about, including a broom attached to some kind of a rocket.

  That room then connects to another narrow hallway littered with medieval weaponry. There are swords, and axes, and spears, and all sorts of ancient armor you’d find in a museum or something. I move cautiously, trying not to get diced like an onion.

  Finally, I enter a chamber that’s considerably more open than the rest. Strangely, it’s also way more organized. I see books neatly arranged on shelves, mugs hanging handle-side up, color-coordinated arrows resting in quivers, a raging fire, and…

  My heart skips a beat.

  A man with piercing blue eyes is staring at me.

  His gaze is so intense all I can do is freeze and stare right back. He’s bald, with long gray hair falling along the sides and back. While his face is wrinkled and weathered, his body is stocky and strong, with a barrel chest and thick arms. Despite the oppressive warmth, he’s sitting by the warm fire, bundled up in a sweater, gloves, and a scarf. Yet, he’s not sweating at all.

  “Welcome, Bram,” he says. “Welcome to the Van Helsing Academy.”

  I freeze.

  “How do you know my name?” I ask.

  “All will be explained in due time,” he says. “But first, it would only be polite to introduce myself. I am Headmaster Lothar Van Helsing.”

  I was right. This is his school. But I can’t place his accent. It’s not French. Maybe German? Or Dutch?

  “Please, join me,” he says, beckoning me inside. “We have much to discuss. Including your recent werewolf encounter.”

  “What do you know about that?” I ask anxiously. “Do you know why they were after me?”

  “Indeed, I do,” he says. “And I am afraid this is just the beginning. You see, the werewolves are merely pawns of a far greater danger.”

  A chill runs down my spine. I mean, what could possibly be more dangerous than werewolves?

  “But I do not wish to alarm you so soon,” he says, offering a chair in the corner. “Please, have a seat. Let us get acquainted.”

  Okay, everything about this guy has me fairly creeped out, but I need to get answers and he seems like my best bet. So, I sit down across from him.

  “Would you care for a beverage?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “That would be great.” My throat is really dry. I could really use some water.

  He leans towards the fire and scoops a ladle into a cauldron, pouring a steaming red liquid into a teacup. Then, he passes it to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “Frog tea,” he says. “It is steeped in the skin of the northern red-legged frog
who makes his habitat from British Columbia to Northern California. I made it especially for you.”

  Did he just say red-legged frog skin? Gross!

  “Thanks,” I say, putting the cup on the floor. “I think I’ll let it cool down first.”

  “As you wish,” he says, taking a sip from his own cup. “Ah, delicious. I am sure you have many questions. But first, perhaps you will allow me to begin with a brief history lesson, and then we will discuss how it relates to you.”

  “Um, sure,” I say. Truthfully, history was never my best subject, but I’m willing to see where this goes.

  “Excellent,” he says. “My tale begins way back in the fifteenth century, where a boy named Vlad Dracul was born to a powerful lord in the ancient land of Sighisoara. Unfortunately, the boy’s life was cursed from the start, as his father gave him away as a hostage to appease the Sultan of the Turks who ruled all of the lands.”

  “Wow, that sounds rough,” I say.

  “It was,” Van Helsing says. “Poor Vlad grew up as a prisoner, and I will spare you the details, but let us say the Sultan did not treat him well. Around the time Vlad became a young man, the Sultan turned on Vlad’s father, eradicating his kingdom and leaving Vlad an orphan. From that day forward, Vlad swore he would avenge his family, but it was only a fantasy, as Vlad remained a prisoner for another decade. That is, until one night…”

  For some reason, Van Helsing trails off.

  “Until one night, what?” I ask, surprising myself by how much I’m into the story.

  “Until one night,” Van Helsing continues, “a band of his father’s loyalists snuck into the Sultan’s palace and set Vlad free. They escaped to a land called Wallachia, where Vlad became their ruler. There they built a fortress that became known throughout the land as Castle Dracula.”

  Castle… Dracula?

  “Sorry,” I interrupt. “But you just said ‘Dracula.’ Are you talking about the Dracula? Like, you’re saying there was a real Dracula or something?”

  “Yes, I am speaking of the Count Dracula,” Van Helsing says. “And he was as real as the werewolves you encountered today.”

  I’m speechless. Is he serious? But then again, if I hadn’t seen those werewolves with my own eyes, I’d think he was a crackpot.

  “Unfortunately,” Van Helsing continues, “Vlad Dracul never got his revenge, because he was killed on the battlefield fighting against the Turks. Rumors of his death, however, seemed greatly exaggerated, because when his grave was exhumed months later, his coffin was found empty.”

  Empty? Suddenly, my mind races back to that newspaper headline about that grave robbery.

  “Stories began to circulate,” Van Helsing continues, “that Vlad’s followers had used an enchanted artifact known as the Blood Grail to bring Vlad’s body back to life, returning him once again to the land of the living, but not as a living being. Instead, Vlad Dracul returned as something else entirely—a vampire—and he took a new name, Count Dracula, the King of Darkness, Lord of the Undead.”

  Well, okaaay. This has certainly turned gloomy.

  “What do you mean by ‘undead?’’ I ask.

  “The undead are beings who were once deceased,” he says, “but are brought back to life.”

  “Seriously?” I say. “You’re saying this is all real?”

  “As real as you and me,” Van Helsing says.

  Van Helsing pauses, not for dramatic effect, but because I probably look like a deer in headlights. I’m also feeling lightheaded.

  “Are you okay?” Van Helsing asks. “Perhaps you need some nourishment?”

  “Yeah, good idea,” I say, picking up the teacup with a shaky hand. I don’t want to drink it, but it’s my only option. Plus, it’s red. That’s weird. Does Van Helsing know about my red-food thing, or is it just a coincidence?

  I take a sip. Surprisingly, it’s good.

  “Wow, this doesn’t stink.”

  “Thank you,” Van Helsing says with a wink. He raises his cup. “Cheers. Shall I continue?”

  “Yes, please,” I say, drinking the rest.

  “Very well,” he continues. “Soon, strange things began happening across the land. People started disappearing in the night, only to return as vampires themselves—servants of Dracula’s ever-expanding army of the undead. He was unstoppable, rumored to possess remarkable powers: shapeshifting, mind control, super strength, super speed, the power to control vermin, and an unrelenting thirst for blood. But even with all of this, his most dangerous asset remained his mind.”

  Van Helsing stops momentarily and takes another sip. I’m on the edge of my seat waiting for him to continue.

  “You see,” Van Helsing says finally, “Count Dracula was as ambitious in death as he was in life. He was a conqueror by nature, and his desire for power was unrelenting. But he also learned his new form had weaknesses. He could not operate in daylight or pass over bodies of water. He was vulnerable to religious artifacts and certain household items like garlic. But most of all, he was afraid of dying again.”

  Can’t blame him there. I’m not a fan of dying myself.

  “Not willing to risk himself,” Van Helsing continues, “he operated only in the night. But with rapid changes in science and technology, he needed allies to help him conquer the world and keep his operation moving during the day. So, he amassed a cult of human followers to assist him. He promised them riches, land, and power. They called themselves the Dark Ones.”

  For some reason, I shudder. Why would humans help Dracula? At first, I can’t think of any logical reasons, but then I remember all of the power-hungry people I’ve met in my life, like Glume and Snide, and I realize maybe it’s not so far-fetched after all.

  “But there were always forces to oppose them,” Van Helsing says. “My ancestors were at the forefront of those battles, fighting for the lives of the living over the undead. And, as recently as a hundred years ago, they believed they had finally defeated Count Dracula and his minions once and for all. But they were wrong.”

  Van Helsing looks into the fire.

  “The Dark Ones are on the rise again,” he says. “But no longer just in Europe. Now they are emerging here, in the United States. And they are building strength rapidly.”

  Hold on. The Dark Ones are here in America? That doesn’t sound good, but there’s something I still don’t understand, so I just blurt it out.

  “Look, this is an incredibly disturbing story, but I still don’t understand what it has to do with me?”

  “Is it not obvious, Bram?” Van Helsing says, leaning towards me, the fire crackling in his eyes.

  “You are the last vampire.”

  THIS MUST BE A JOKE

  “Um, do you mind going over that last part again?” I ask. “Because I think you just mistakenly called me a vampire.”

  Now I’ve been called plenty of things in my life, but ‘vampire’ has never been one of them. At this point, I’m totally doubting Van Helsing’s sanity, but he just leans back in his chair and smiles. There’s a twinkle in his eye, like he was expecting me to react like this.

  What’s his problem?

  “I understand why you are surprised,” he says. “After all, vampires are horrible creatures. But trust me when I tell you there is no mistake. You are a vampire. Would you like me to prove it to you?”

  Prove it? I don’t know what kind of ‘proof’ he’s got, so this should be entertaining. I nod my approval.

  “Very well,” he says. “Let us begin with your physical characteristics. They are not as pronounced as other vampires I have seen before you, but all of the key markers are there, though more subtly. For example, you possess the trademark dark hair and dark eyes of a vampire, but one could argue those features are commonplace among the general population. However, if I go a level deeper, the upper helix of your ear has a pronounced point, but not so much as to seem unusual to the untrained eye. Similarly, the canine teeth of your upper jaw are ever-so-slightly elongated, but again this would not ap
pear as meaningful to the unsuspecting.”

  I pinch the point on my right ear and suddenly feel self-conscious. Yeah, I’d noticed that stuff about me too, but I didn’t think it qualified me as a vampire.

  “Then there is the matter of your skin tone,” he continues, “which is as pale as bone. This complexion is quite rare amongst the general population, but a telling feature amongst vampires. Of course, this paleness has an unfortunate side effect. You burn easily when directly exposed to sunlight.”

  Now I realize I’m rubbing my left arm. Okay, he nailed that one. This Van Helsing guy is crazy observant.

  “Let us move on to your behavioral characteristics,” he says, “which I believe will be far more revealing. For the sake of expediency, I will summarize them. You have more energy at night than during the day, at times you can move at remarkable speed, you can see perfectly in the dark, and you only crave foods that are red in color. That last one is novel even for me, but it still fits the overall pattern.”

  “Which is?” I ask.

  “Vampires feed on blood,” Van Helsing says. “And as you know, blood is red.”

  Whoa! Is that why I only eat red things? Because I’m … a vampire?

  I feel the sudden urge to throw up.

  “In addition,” he continues, “we have recently learned you can communicate with rats, yet another telltale characteristic of a vampire. By the way, those rats you conversed with in the group home dungeon are the very reason you were identified by Dracula’s minions in the first place.”

  “Wait, you mean those rats were real?”

  “Quite real,” he says. “You should note that rats are generally a disloyal lot. Those two sold their information directly to the Dark Ones and were handsomely rewarded. Have I succeeded in convincing you yet?”

  Unfortunately, I can’t argue with anything he’s told me. Then, a strange thought crosses my mind.