Count Rothchild

by Michael W. Huard

  She was in luck, as a woolen hat wearing chap noticed her waving up above and after she dropped the letter below, he picked the notice up and went about placing it under his cap. He looked up to her and nodded, and then went about his business.

  The men took and delivered long wooden boxes to and from the courtyard’s lower door sections for nearly an hour. These looked an awful lot like coffins.

  Gaylen took a breath, concerned as she ran a hand through her golden locks and tried to center herself. She found herself needing to sit down from fear of fainting. Her thoughts were scattered. Maybe the wine was poisoned, she debated, or the food?

  Everything was overwhelming, to say the least.

  She sat upon her four-post bed. All of the guest chambers, it seemed - well, those she had seen - contained these types of beds with canopy toppings, as well as the tall wrought iron candlestick holders beside them. That very item gave her a sudden idea.

  Taking up the candlestick, she pounded on the bars of her window. She was able to get such to bend enough as to make an opening; soon she was easing her way outside and slowly lowering down to a nearby tower ledge.

  She could go no further down, risking a long fall, but that ledge led her to a shuttered window that which was not locked; she immediately climbed into a room below.

  This particular room was apparently a guest room also, covered with drapery over its furniture, but a small doorway was within. She opened it and went through. It led to a stairwell leading upward, that which she followed high into the castle. It was like a secret passage of some sort, and soon enough she was emerging into a small chapel.

  Inside were old wooden pews and a raised dais of gray stone at the far end.

  The raised platform held those long wooden boxes she had seen outside, tossed about and leaning on the wall as well. Next to such, a big pile of earthen dirt with a shovel sticking out was piled on the stone floor. This gave her an instant chill. She also noticed mounds and mounds of gold pieces to the left.

  She moved closer nervously and saw within one of the boxes, one that was open, the count himself. She almost threw up. He lay there with his hands placed over one another upon his chest; her eyes grew wide at such a sight. What in the world was he doing?

  Suddenly the count’s eyes flew open, looking directly at her; she did not hesitate, now grabbing the shovel and crazily yelling out, and smashing its end into the face of Count Rothchild.

  “Die, you monster, die!”

  The blow did not seem to bother him. It dented his head and a white puss splattered on her own face. She turned to run away, to escape, as he hissed out at her now fully awake. She ran across the chapel to the small door and bolted down the thin stairway back to the bedroom. She then placed her back against the door, praying he did not follow.

  Everything went silent. She breathed a sigh of relief. It appeared he was not chasing after her. It was then her neck wound became inflamed and she recalled the bite of the night before.

  Now what? I have to break free of this cursed place.

  She waited a while before climbing her way outside, back up to her own room.

  What have I done, what have I done? I took a chance, and it was a wrong one. The thrill of the story, a tale unknown, has gotten the better of me. I only want my fiancé now, to have a normal life.

  Gaylen stayed in her room for some time, crying and debating on how to stay alive.

  That evening she dared not leave her quarters at first. Her neck wound, however, was festering and she needed to deal with it soon. A sickness was beginning to take her over as well; she had to act. She had to stay within herself. She even still prideful put on a nice dress - the yellow and white color of such looked splendid on her - and her rosary necklace, thus doing herself up as to look clean and fresh as much she could muster in these circumstances.

  Gaylen Van Warden then made way down the hall and stairway to the dining area.

  The count sat in his high back chair and saluted her with a wine goblet as she entered.

  “Come in,” he said. “Eat and sit with me. We have much to discuss. I first must say your attire is most lovely.”

  He was acting as if nothing had happened prior. He began to talk as she sat across the long table from him.

  “As to my second love, the most beautiful Caroline, In truth it was one day when the two of us were out on a picnic in a most lovely evergreen area, via the Kingdom, a place we sometimes went on vacation, that a loud noise drew my attention and my longbow, thinking perhaps a creature had wandered into our most private rendezvous.”

  Gaylen looked closer at his face. When striking him prior it was cut, she was sure of it. Yet no injury was upon such; he was already fully healed. She felt a big lump in her throat.

  He went on. “I ran into the woodland area to check and perhaps grab a kill for a supper feast, but the deer as it appeared was too quick and had dashed off. Upon return to our picnic basket and blanket, Caroline was gone. Then I heard more movement and, spinning about thinking the deer was close again, I fired my arrow true. I felt a severe pain in my chest when I realized I had shot my beloved. How could I have been so stupid?”

  The count swallowed at his own words, now looking at Gaylen, his head hanging low. “I ran desperately to her and pulled the arrow from her chest. The shot had reached her lung. She could hardly breathe and was crying out to me.”

  The count seemed unsettled; he grabbed his face in a straining grip. He rose from his seat a few moments later and, reaching for a nearby chest sitting on a shelf, he removed bandages and cleaning ointment. He then made his way to Gaylen and dressed her wound without saying a word.

  She was thankful, yet nervous, for it was hurting.

  He sat back down and continued talking. “With my new wife home and bed-ridden, hardly able to stay alive, my brother came to me. Count Dracula had a solution, be it a dreadful one. He said unto me, ‘There is only one way to save your beloved, for the arrow hit her heart; you must make a pact with death itself not much unlike your father and myself have made. You think of yourself better and above such a calling, but in truth when it comes to saving the one you truly love, you will be as we are, brother.’”

  Rothchild’s face grew ugly; it was almost as if he aged years and years. Gaylen raised an eyebrow at such an appearance. She was terrified once more.

  I should run, run anywhere to get away from this monster. But where will I run to?

  She had no answer.

  There was nothing she could do but keep listening. She wondered what his brother Dracula had meant.

  The count explained more. “I went to Caroline and brushed her long and thick dark hair, for that very evening she was worse. I had to make a decision swiftly. For everything I believed in, be it the virtues of a true warrior, such now would have to be thrown away. I would have to transfer my soul to the same devil that consumed my father and then my brother.”

  Tears now formed below the count’s eyes, tears of blood. Gaylen was again taken aback, but could not move from her tall leather chair.

  Maybe I’m dreaming, she thought.

  “That evening I permitted my brother inside. He then injected the venom of the Nosferatu, the undead curse of my family, into me; then I to Caroline.”

  The young scribe was beyond anxious now; she was not only a prisoner in this far-off ancient castle, but she resided within with a creature, not a man.

  Lost for words, she wanted to cry, to scream in terror, yet held on. She wanted to recite her brave woman mantra, but was too freaked out to even think it to herself. Nervously she remained as calm as possible; she was sweating. Perhaps her letter would reach Jonathan soon and he would come as her rescuer.

  The count commended her suddenly. “You’re a strong woman, Gaylen Van Warden.”

  Drakko then moved close to her and checked her neck. He withdrew a handkerchief and, with a salve, tended to her bite again.

  “This will help even more,” he stated gently, placing the bandage b
ack over such.

  Gaylen wanted to tell him to let her go, beg her host to open the double doors of the castle, to put down the drawbridge and let her leave through the courtyard, yet she knew she would not get her way. His voice was so charming and he truly was as handsome as the devil himself.

  She sighed. How could such an animal be so kind at times?

  He noticed her becoming uneasy. “You should not be afraid of me,” he insisted, “though I cannot help myself in mentioning that you are truly alluring.”

  She was again flush and scared at the same time as he reached out to touch her face, and then as it appeared perhaps kiss her. She put a hand up as if to stop him.

  He smiled. “As to your wound, you must redress this constantly, and then I will give unto you the full remedy in time.” He held out to her a vial, stating, “Take this draught to ease your pain when needed; it shall aid the healing process also. Only a little at a time, mind you.”

  Gaylen decided to keep him talking; he was lingering around her face too much.

  “I do not understand what you are implying with Caroline’s death. What do you mean by immortality; why am I locked in here; why did I see you in a casket; who were those men touching and biting me? This is all so confusing. What are you, Count Rothchild?”

  She was lost in a fit of insanity now, and who would blame her.

  He held out his open hand to her. “I want to show you something, dear; come with me.”

  She did not want to go with him; she desired to run by him and find an exit. However, she found herself standing and reaching out to him. She took his hand and he led her to a great ballroom.

  There, in this cathedral ceiling chamber, large paintings of his ancestors were all about and a massive chandelier hung down from above, filled with diamonds and light blue sapphires. The entire space was lavish. The floor had been set with marble squares of black opal and white pearl inlay.

  From the left, a piano began playing, yet no one sat in a chair before it.

  He bowed to her. “I am not what I appear,” he proclaimed.

  The count then took Gaylen as his partner and the couple danced to a haunting song of love and loss. They glided and flew across the floor as he spun her petite form about and dipped her when the music finally ended. She could not resist his sudden charm.

  He smelled her essence, thus being so close, sensing the throbbing veins and carotid artery of her smooth neckline. The open wound called to him. He yearned for it; it was time.

  His fangs elongated, sprouting forth in all their glory; he gritted his teeth to stop. Then he pulled back.

  “I cannot,” he announced.

  He turned away from her, easing his teeth back to normal.

  Gaylen was so confused, charmed yet cohesive.

  She said, “I, too, cannot. I am to be married to Jonathan; you have to let me go from this dreadful castle. Please, let me go!”

  The count let her hand slip from his now.

  She ran from the ballroom before hearing his answer.

  She breathed heavily, not knowing what the truth was. She went upstairs and sat upon her bed, leaning against one of the posts. It was then she felt the hands of someone touching her from behind. She turned and it was the count already in bed with her.

  He began to massage her neck and back. She felt her dress slip from her shoulders at the caressing of his touch; her soft breasts now exposed.

  She tried to pull away, yet his soothing words slowed her escape. “My darling Gaylen, it is just you and I now. Let me wipe away your apprehension and ease your concerns.”

  She felt herself not wanting to leave as he eased her back onto the canopy bed. Her dress was then sliding off and gently he placed her on her stomach.

  The count ran his hands all about the contours of her body, her neck, shoulders, and down to her round buttocks, thighs and ankles.

  Her entire world was changing and her anxiety was finally going adrift.

  He slowly rolled her around and fondled her neckline, leading to kissing her cheeks, her neck, and then all the way down to her nipples. This man was so powerful; his presence like that of a god, Gaylen could hardly breathe now.

  Then suddenly she snapped out of her trance, placing both her hands on his forehead, pushing him away from her. She was running on sheer willpower, resisting his provocative charm spell.

  “You must stop. What you are doing, why are you are doing this; this is not right,” she blurted out, sitting up and trying to make him back off.

  Her host, this Count Rothchild, or whatever he was, had lost control of his own carnal urges.

  “Stop touching me!” she yelled.

  Her anger altered his demeanor. The count backed away, furious; he was excited, passion was overtaking him, and now this. He grew a flame inside at such a rebuttal and walked over to the burning fireplace to the right of the bed.

  He pulled out a letter, her letter, and tossed it into the burning fire. She rushed from the bed trying to save it, but it was too late. Her disappointment was obvious.

  The count grabbed her luggage and tossed all her envelopes and papers and even her rite of passage notes into the fire as well. He then turned about and left the room.

  “You’re an animal!” she called out at him; “A beast with no soul!”

  Gaylen had no choice now; she had to escape even if it meant dying, be it trying to jump from her windowsill. She knew when the gypsies came and where they placed their canvas-covered wagons in the courtyard directly below her.

  She went about devising her plan.

  She knew in time she would escape.

  She had to.

  Chapter 6

  The count had simply had enough for the time being, so he left on business or, better yet, vacation, be it for weeks to the same place he and Caroline had always traveled to on the mainland long ago.

  He was caught in a massive storm en route. The ship and its gypsy handlers were rocked about, for it was the proverbial storm of the century, and eventually the ship became untended and unmanned.

  Below in his casket, the very black mahogany one swirling and twirling about, the count felt the ship finally land in the sand. He emerged to see that all had perished on board, yet the surroundings were familiar, and the ship had come ashore on dry land. A lighthouse was nearby and the place around it was the very place where he had planned arrival at.

  The ship ran aground directly before a familiar vacation home.

  He thought to himself, I guess even I can be lucky at times.

  In that same location, lived Gaylen’s close friend, Lucy. Lucy was a reddish-brown-haired lass soon-to-be married to her trusted companion Alfredo. She had not seen Gaylen for some time and was concerned about her. She missed her childhood companion dearly.

  Lucy was a sleepwalker and such a storm mattered little to her when en route in such an endeavor. She was out and about this very evening, storm walking, be it in the sand heading towards a nearby lighthouse.

  Many days earlier, back at Rothchild’s Castle, Gaylen watched and studied the nature of the gypsies visit with said wooden boxes, those of which the count used as his resting coffin.

  The bars to her window remained bent open and this time, upon emerging to the ledge outside, she made a choice as to try and leap to a canvas wagon top and to her freedom.

  She steadied herself and, offering prayer that she could make the jump successfully, she leaped. Some of gypsy men came around to see what had occurred, as she landed on a wagon with decent accuracy.

  A couple of them grabbed her and took her to one of the boxes, placing her in such and putting her on one of their wagons.

  She was still conscious - the fall did not hurt her - and she was already asking, “Where are you taking me?” the moment these men hoisted her up.

  She could not understand their language, but was thankful; it seemed they were insinuating that they would help her leave the area.

  They did help her.

  She was so happy to
ride across the countryside eventually to an open field where, as night came, a blue mist led her to an old cemetery. They then, with but a single wagon, made way south heading to the shoreline of Teevas Isle.

  Gaylen Van Warden had escaped and was heading home after boarding a ship. A moment earlier, one of the men talked briefly to the ship’s captain and no questions were asked.

  She hugged her journal and what was left of her baggage close, watching the isle disappear as she sailed away.

  Before the storm came about, her first destination was to see her close friend Lucy. After meeting Lucy, by carriage they made way along a riverbank through a deep green valley en route to Lucy’s harbor-side estate. It was a place many used for vacation by the sea.

  All the while the two reminisced about the wonderful times they had when in their youth together. Gaylen needed such and had truly missed her most loyal friend.

  Alfredo was coming to see them, as Lucy’s marriage was now within a few weeks. Both women were getting married soon and life had come full circle for both. Gaylen looked forward to having a normal life once again.

  The two chatted more while traveling. Gaylen kept her own secrets in for now. Lucy was full of life, and it was her words of a bright future for both of them, be it families, children, happiness and comfort, well, they lifted Gaylen’s own spirits.

  The love of her friend and her impending marriage made Gaylen a bit heartsick as well, knowing that she had not seen Jonathan for over a month. He, too, was coming to see them and she held all inside, be it excitement and anxiety.

  Upon arrival, the women explored some around the vacation estate’s property; they chased one another about, and it was like old times playing hide and seek around the buildings.

  Gaylen needed this; she needed to forget for a bit, forget the craziness.

  A rugged storm came in later that night and Gaylen was awoken by thunder and lightning.