The wind howled through the skeletal trees of the Transylvanian forest, their gnarled branches clawing at the night sky. A storm brewed overhead, thunder rumbling like the growl of a waking beast. St. Stevenson's Church stood alone on a jagged hill, its stone walls weathered by centuries of neglect. The once-proud spires now leaned precariously, their crosses rusted and twisted. Shadows danced in the flickering light of the full moon, which hung low and bloated, casting an eerie silver glow over the desolate landscape.
A lone figure trudged up the muddy path toward the church, his boots sinking into the mire with every step. The man clutched a leather suitcase tightly against his chest, his knuckles white. His breath fogged in the frigid air as he paused beneath the church's arched doorway, its oak doors creaking open with a groan that echoed into the hollow nave. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp stone and rot. Candles flickered weakly in iron sconces, their flames guttering in the draft.
The man's footsteps echoed as he climbed the spiral staircase to the bell tower, each step deliberate, as though the weight of the suitcase dragged him downward. At the top, he found Dr. Garfold—a gaunt, sharp-featured man in a tailored black coat—leaning against an open window, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Smoke curled around his face, blending with the mist that seeped through the cracked glass. Garfold's cold gray eyes fixed on the newcomer, glinting like shards of ice in the moonlight.
"Sir," the man said, his voice barely audible over the wind.
Garfold took a long drag, the ember of his cigarette flaring. "Did you get it?"
The man nodded, extending the suitcase. Garfold snatched it without a word, flipping the latches with practiced ease. Inside lay a velvet-lined compartment holding a row of glass vials, a syringe, and a leather-bound journal filled with cryptic notations. He snapped the case shut and turned toward the stairs.
Before he could descend, a voice called out from below. "Sir! It's almost open!"
Garfold descended swiftly, his coat billowing behind him like a shadow given form. The man with the suitcase followed, his throat tightening as they entered the church's subterranean chamber. The room was cramped, its walls lined with crumbling frescoes of saints whose faces had long since eroded into grotesque smudges. In the center stood a stone sarcophagus, its surface etched with faded Latin inscriptions. Four laborers—locals with sunken eyes and trembling hands—crowded around it, their picks and hammers discarded at their feet.
The coffin was unlike anything the man had ever seen. Iron chains, thick and rusted, coiled around its length, fastened with a padlock the size of a fist. A five-pointed star—a sigil of crude, ancient design—had been carved into the lid, its grooves filled with a substance that glistened black in the lamplight. Nailed above the star was a brass plaque, its letters pitted with age:
COUNT VLAD II
1390–1447
"Open it," Garfold commanded, his voice devoid of emotion.
The laborers exchanged uneasy glances but obeyed. One swung a sledgehammer at the chains, the clang of metal reverberating through the chamber. Dust rained from the ceiling as the locks shattered. The chains slithered to the floor like dead serpents. With a collective heave, the men pried open the coffin lid.
Darkness pooled outward, swallowing the feeble light of the oil lamps. The temperature plummeted. The man with the suitcase stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat. Inside the coffin lay a body—intact.
Count Vlad II's corpse was impossibly preserved. His skin, though pallid and waxy, showed no signs of decay. His face was sharp and aristocratic, framed by shoulder-length black hair streaked with silver. A jagged scar ran from his left temple to his jawline, and his lips were parted slightly, as though frozen mid-whisper. But it was his neck that drew the eye: a clean, brutal slice separated his head from his body, the gap filled with a strange, tar-like substance that seeped sluggishly from the wound.
The laborers crossed themselves, muttering prayers in Romanian. One retched into a corner.
Garfold, however, leaned closer, his expression one of clinical fascination. He donned leather gloves and retrieved the syringe from his suitcase. Without hesitation, he plunged the needle into the corpse's chest. The man with the suitcase gagged as Garfold withdrew a thick, viscous liquid—black as pitch—and decanted it into a glass vial.
"Sir…what is that?" the man whispered.
Garfold ignored him, sealing the vial and tucking it into the suitcase. "Close it. Put everything back as it was."
The laborers hurried to comply, their hands shaking as they replaced the lid and draped the chains haphazardly over the coffin. Garfold turned on his heel and strode out of the chamber, his footsteps echoing like a death knell.
Outside, a horse carriage waited. The horseman, a hulking figure with a scarred face, nodded curtly as Garfold slid into the back seat. The man with the suitcase hesitated, glancing back at the church. For a moment, he swore he saw a shadow move in the bell tower—a silhouette too tall, too angular, to be human.
The carriage sped into the night, leaving St. Stevenson's Church to its silence.