Dracula (A Modern Telling)

by Victor Methos

  I recognized the drummer, the bassist, the two guitarists and the keyboardist, but there were two other men as well and I guessed they were roadies.

  The room looked like it had been torn apart; Cristal bottles were strewn about like empty Coke cans. Massive amounts of cocaine were lined up on the tables and I could see some of the girls on a couch were cooking up heroin.

  Behind all this was a large wooden chair almost like a throne, elaborately carved, with a red satin pillow on the seat. The Count sat there like a king objectively looking down upon his subjects.

  The bassist took a long line of coke and looked up to me. “You the reporter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Welcome to hell,” he said as he laughed. He threw me the straw he was using and I took it and placed it back down on the table.

  “You should do a few lines. Keep up your strength.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Charlene came up from behind me and put her arms around my neck as if protecting me. It sent a chill up my back and I noticed for the first time how cold her skin was. She playfully bit my ear and tried to get me to go into a side room with her but instead I pulled up a stool next to the Count.

  And that’s how we sat, with the band getting so loaded they could hardly walk and me sitting next to the Count who appeared like a statue on his weird wooden throne. A few of the band members tried to have sex with the girls they were with but they were so high they couldn’t do it.

  “I like the energy,” the Count said, leaning close to me. “Youth gives off an energy that is lost with age. That’s why I come here.” He looked to me, his eyes gray as steel. “You should relax and unwind, my friend. Charlene is trained in the arts of pleasure. You will never experience anything quite like her.”

  I glanced down and saw Charlene on her knees in front of me. Her hands were caressing my thighs and they moved up to my belt. I pulled away and in an instant she was sitting on one of the couches on the other side of the room, hiking up her skirt. The drink the Count gave me must’ve made me start hallucinating because I didn’t even see her move.

  “I’m not feeling well,” I said.

  “No, you’re fine. Enjoy yourself. Do a line of cocaine. I’ve heard it’s pleasurable in the sense of power it gives you.”

  I felt weak and my will was draining. Charlene was behind me now and she tilted my head back and kissed me hard on the mouth. She pulled away and licked my neck and it sent chills up my back. She must’ve hit nerves that have not been hit before because waves of pleasure went through me and I shuddered as her teeth lightly touched my skin.

  “El este al meu!” the Count bellowed. Charlene squealed as if she were a child and immediately let go of me and was gone.

  “I don’t feel good, Count.”

  “Just the effects of the drink. I have many more questions for you. Perhaps they will distract your mind.”

  He asked me all sorts of varied questions. He would begin on one subject and then immediately go to another. He was like a sponge. He asked about various bands and how they grew so successful and where I thought the music industry was heading. He asked about the United States and its founding and culture and told me more about his home in Romania.

  Before long, I felt the chill that came with dawn when you’ve stayed up all night. I always figured this is something akin to the turn of the tide. I thought of my grandmother who had once told me that when people die they generally die at dawn or at the turn of the tide.

  “It’s morning!” the Count proclaimed suddenly. “I’m sorry I’ve kept you up so long. You’ll have to try and be less interesting,” he said with a courtly smile. He stood and in an instant was gone.

  I sat looking around the room at the band members who were passed out by now, some of them with bloodied noses or arms that dripped down onto the plush carpets. A woman in a tight black leather dress came through the velvet curtains.

  “The Count has asked that I drive you back to his home. Come with me.”

  We drove in silence in a large black SUV and the woman drove as if we were on fire. She blew through red lights and stop signs, and on the freeway she cut off at least three different cars and then slammed on her brakes to make them swerve. She would laugh when they started honking and then speed off again.

  When we arrived at the castle, she pulled up to the front door and said, “Would you like to fuck me?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, would you like to fuck me?”

  The way she said it was so mechanical, so matter-of-fact, that it didn’t seem sexual in any way. It was as if she had been ordered to say it. “Um … not tonight. Thank you.”

  She shrugged and sped away as I was left in front of the mansion.

  May 8th

  I Wish I Had Someone Else Here With Me

  When I started writing this blog I thought that maybe I had gone into too much detail, that my readers wouldn’t want to read about the contents of the various rooms here in the mansion. But now I’m glad I went into such detail. There’s something so odd about this place that I really wish I didn’t come. If I had someone, anyone, here to talk to about it I think it’d be fine. But the only person here I can speak with is the Count. Charlene, even, has seemingly disappeared.

  This morning I couldn’t sleep and woke at around four while it was still dark. I went to shave with a mirror I had bought the other night when the Count had taken me to a restaurant. On the way back, I’d asked the driver to stop at a pharmacy. I was staring into the mirror when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It startled me so badly I cut myself and I turned and saw the Count standing behind me. He said “Good Morning,” and I nodded hello. The cut was starting to bleed and the blood trickled down over my chin.

  The Count saw the blood and there was an instant change. His eyes filled with a demonic fury and he tried to grab my throat. I pulled back and instead he grabbed the crucifix that was around my neck. He held it in his hand and the change I had seen was gone just as quickly and he said, “Careful how you shave. Cuts are more dangerous than many people think.”

  But I couldn’t completely understand what he was saying because I was staring into the mirror. In it, I could see the whole room around me. Everything but the Count. I thought that perhaps it was an optical illusion but as I stepped closer I knew it wasn’t. He just wasn’t there.

  “And this thing,” the Count said, angrily taking up the mirror, “is a testament to men’s vanity.” He threw it out the open window and it shattered onto the courtyard below.

  The Count left my room without a word and I sat wondering how it was he expected me to shave.

  I tried to repress the general uneasiness I felt by reminding myself that rock stars are weirdos. Every single one, even the ones I thought would be normal. So I went out to breakfast hoping to talk to the Count a little more, but I didn’t see him. Down the stairs into the main area I found a dining room and a breakfast spread out unlike any I had seen. Everything looked imported and fancy and had been arranged so well I hated to ruin it.

  There was no one around so I waited a few minutes and then just dug in. As I ate, I pondered how odd it was that I had never seen the Count eat or drink anything. Even when he mixed a drink for me in the limo he never took one himself.

  After I ate, I decided to explore a little. I climbed to the lower floors and the upper floors and all I found were doors and doors and more doors. There must’ve been a hundred of them. All locked except one that looked out over the valley. I sat at the windowsill in the room and looked down. There were no screens on any of the windows and I could sit right outside. The view was magnificent. I peered down and saw that I was at least five hundred feet straight up. The mansion had been built on a cliff and the backside was right up to the edge, preventing anyone from getting out.

  The layout of the mansion suddenly made sense: it was a prison.

  May 8th, Continued

  When I realized I was being held in a prison, a wildness came
over me. I ran up and down the stairs and checked every door. I was shouting for help and I even flipped over the table I had breakfast at. I shouted for Charlene. How much I would have appreciated her icy embrace just then. But there was no one.

  I collapsed against the wall and sat quietly a long time. Looking back on it, I must’ve gone temporarily crazy. I must’ve looked like a wild chimpanzee running around in this place. But once I calmed down, I thought it through and realized that the thing I definitely shouldn’t do is tell the Count how I felt. He was the one holding me prisoner and if I told him how I felt he’d just lie to me. And then make sure there was no way to escape. No, I had to keep this to myself.

  I heard a door upstairs and knew that the Count was up. I walked quietly up the stairs and stood in the hallway and watched as he made the bed and straightened up. It just confirmed what I already knew: there wasn’t any hired help in the house. No maids or butlers. It was just him. And I think he was the driver that brought me up here too. Charlene and the other girl were the only other people I had seen.

  The one thing I keep thinking about is how grateful I am for that old woman who tried to convince me not to come here. I wear that crucifix around my neck and don’t take it off even to shower. I hold it sometimes and it comforts me. It’s funny, I was raised to think religion is a crutch for the weak and that you couldn’t be a true thinker if you believed in fairy tales, but how much you cling to those fairy tales when there’s no one else there to comfort you.

  I think my only chance of getting out of here is to talk to the Count and get him to reveal something to me. I wish I’d made a run for it at that club but somehow I didn’t even have the urge. Looking back on it, that’s probably what the drink was for: to put me out of myself.

  Midnight

  I spoke to the Count at some length tonight. He must’ve been high on something because he was in a particularly good mood. I asked him about his childhood in Romania and he talked about battles and castles and villages as if he had seen them all himself. His recollection of detail was truly amazing, much better than I’ve seen in other musicians who are usually so self-centered they don’t focus attention to their surroundings.

  “People thought the Mongols were werewolves,” he told me. “They used to cook raw meat on the backs of horses. Or I should say warm the meat, as they preferred it raw with blood. When that was not available, they happily ate the dead. But what witch or werewolf could match the ferocity of a Genghis Khan?” He held up his arms, revealing marble-white forearms, “And that’s the blood that flows through these veins. A Dracula was there with the great Khan, and with Attila before him. A Dracula was there for bloody battle after bloody battle. That is the legacy I was born into. Born into blood.”

  He stared off in the distance after saying this and we sat quietly a while.

  “Morning’s coming,” he said. “I can … taste it. You should sleep now, Jonathan. A good sleep is a rare thing for an adult. For some reason, that sweetness can only truly be tasted in childhood. Maybe because you don’t have the worries and conflicts gnawing away at your insides when you’re a child.” He rose. “But you’ll find good rest here.”

  He saw the screensaver on my Mac. It was Mina. He stood still for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Who is she?”

  “My fiancé, Mina.”

  “She could be … she is identical to someone I once knew. More than identical … do you believe in fate, Jonathan?”

  “No.”

  “Because you wish to be in control. When you let go of that control is when you truly find your freedom.”

  With that, he left and shut the door behind him. I heard it lock from the outside.

  May 12th

  A Longer Stay

  It seems I’m going to be staying in LA. The Count came to me yesterday and asked me a few questions about shipping something across the country back to Boston. He also asked why I didn’t have a Boston accent and I explained to him that it was something I could control and had worked to remove. He then spoke about my biography that he’d read on the Rolling Stone site that talked about my upbringing in London, the place of my birth. Where my family lives now.

  I told him it would be much cheaper and quicker to do it by plane but he insisted that he wanted to ship something by sea, so we talked about it and I told him the little I knew, but suggested we talk to a travel agent or research a website that specialized in this sort of thing. He assigned the task to me.

  Then, he said something I didn’t expect him to say: “You will be staying a bit longer.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Our interview’s not complete. I want to give you the full story, and for that you’ll have to stay longer.”

  “Why don’t we just finish now?”

  “No, my head must be in it. This is something I am leaving for posterity. I want it perfect. For that, you need inspiration and I don’t feel inspired right now. You’ll just have to stay longer.”

  I have to say I really felt like I didn’t have a choice. I could’ve protested and told him to call me a cab right away but I was frightened about what he was going to do. I truly felt like he could lock me in one of these rooms and no one would ever find me.

  So I agreed to stay longer.

  What choice did I have?

  “And your blogs and emails,” he said. “I’m a private man and don’t like things discussed in public that don’t need to be. I would ask your discretion in the things you see and do here.”

  I nodded and he left the room.

  It was later that night that I couldn’t sleep. I kept the crucifix over my bed now and felt silly for doing so. But then this heavy dread would grip my gut like a fist and I would be glad that it was there for me to see and touch.

  I rose from bed and went out into the hallway. Candles were lit on one side and it was enough illumination for me to make my way around. The mansion was completely quiet. I couldn’t even hear the wind coming through the windows that I knew were open. I walked down, glancing at each candle. Every single one was unique, as if handcrafted specifically for this place. I stood in the hallway like an idiot and stared at one for several minutes, the way the wax melted just right and rolled down like a tear.

  I walked into the next room and the window was open. I went over to the sill and stared out over the expanse before me. The cliff leading down appeared even more dangerous at night and at the very bottom I saw the glimmer of water, like a river or stream.

  As I stared down, I saw a window. Sticking out of it was the Count’s head. I couldn’t see his face but I knew it was him from the back of his head and his movements. And then he did something that will haunt me as long as I live.

  He crawled out of the window, and began creeping down the side of the mansion headfirst, like some grotesque bug. He was wearing a crimson robe and it flapped in the wind like wings as his toes and fingers caught the exterior bricks of the mansion. I thought it was some effect of shadow or of the moon, but it wasn’t. It was him.

  I locked the door to my bedroom, and sat with utter terror on the floor. My phone, inexplicably, doesn’t get service. I post on this blog offline and I have no idea if it gets posted throughout the day. If it does, I’m asking whoever is reading this to please contact the police. I’m a prisoner here now, and I’m surrounded by terror.

  May 15th

  The Walls Keep Closing

  I saw the Count go out again in his lizard-like crawl. He’s a terrifying figure and not just because of what I’ve seen. His moods are unpredictable. One second he will be totally normal and the next he will explode with such fury at the most trivial thing that I’m constantly on edge around him because I don’t know what will set him off.

  Last night, when he was crawling around, I took a candle from the hallway and checked all the doors. They were all locked again but the locks now appeared new.

  I went about exploring more and more, to parts of the mansion I hadn’t been. I went to the front doo
r and saw that you need a key from both sides. A key! That at least gives me hope. I’m willing to bet the key is in the Count’s room. I have to keep my senses about me. If I can find that key, I can get out of this hell.

  May 16th

  Blog

  I feel like I’m going insane. There are things in this place that I can’t explain. Voices. Things moving in the night without anyone nearby. Strange lights that come out of closets and underneath the doors of rooms when no one is there. The Count is now my only comfort. He’s who I look to for safety.

  I asked him tonight if he could take me to that club again and he just smiled and said, “I don’t think so, my friend.”

  I’ve started the habit of praying at night and it helps calm me down. The only other thing I have right now is this blog. I have no internet connection anymore but I still post here every night. I put the posts on a queue and if I can connect for just a few minutes … maybe someone will see them.

  Putting things down accurately occupies my mind. I never understood how important it was for your mind not to focus on the things that are terrifying you.

  The Count had told me to never fall asleep in any place in the mansion other than my room. But I couldn’t be in there tonight. I needed a sense that I was somewhere else. I went to the room with the open window near mine and pulled a couch up and lay on it. Though I fear him, there’s something in disobeying him that gives me a slight thrill. I’ve thought about fighting him. But he moves … unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I tried to touch him once just to see if I could and he instantly appeared on the other side of the room. And his strength is far more disturbing. So I don’t fight. Instead I walk around at night like a ghost and plan an escape that I’m not sure will ever come.