Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love

by Hillary Kanter

  I set down the journal, turning in the passenger seat. “Come on, Yuri, you don’t expect me to believe there are still people who think that way, do you?”

  “Miss, believe as you wish. But I have many stories passed down from my great-grandfather to my father’s father and then to me. All I am saying is that if I were a young attractive woman such as you, I would stay close to home on this date.”

  This, I wanted to tell him, was not exactly my choice.

  “Yuri, ‘close to home’ for me is an ocean away. New York City, to be exact.”

  He paused. “Well, miss, do not be alone on these streets after dark, that is all. If you were my daughter, that’s what I would tell you.”

  My uncertainties dissolved in the evening sun as it retreated in shades of deepening orange and purple over dense woods and mountain crags. I am sensitive to many things, but my fascination with the legend of Dracula, coupled with my belief that there truly are no things-that-go-bump-in-the-night, was overriding my fears.

  In the waning light, the Golden Krone Hotel rose before us. This, I knew, was the same hotel visited by Bram Stoker’s character, Jonathan Harker.

  “You will stay here for the night,” Yuri said.

  My bravery seemed to dissipate. “Here?” I swallowed. “Uh, is it safe?”

  “Keep your door locked, miss. I will pick you up in the morning.”

  I checked in at the front desk, where I was handed a key and told my lodgings were paid for. Very strange, indeed. The room was small but clean. I set down my belongings, then struck out on foot while there was still some daylight.

  Despite my unease, I felt compelled to explore my Old World surroundings. The streets were cobblestone, the houses faded-blue, pink, and yellow, with colorful window boxes. Wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys, and I imagined families in traditional garb seated around their fires with bowls of soup. As shadows fell, I returned to the Golden Krone.

  Maybe tomorrow I would ask Yuri to take me to Sighisoara—the birthplace of Vlad Tepes, the real Dracula.

  ***

  Ariel’s Journal—

  Oct. 31

  I had odd dreams last night, but can’t recall what they were. Yuri will be here to pick me up shortly. What are the plans for today? I found a history book in my room, which I’ve been reading over breakfast—not exactly a good mix!

  Vlad Tepes was also known as “Vlad the Impaler” or “Vlad Dracul.” Dracul, can be translated “dragon” or “Satan,” which is fitting since he was not a nice man.

  Born in 1431, Vlad was an authentic Walachian prince. His reign of terror lasted from 1456-62, during which he impaled thousands of people. Men were staked through their rectums, with their own body weight causing their inner organs to be pierced gradually. Many were left to rot, thus frightening others into abiding by Vlad’s moral codes.

  Ughh. Just some nice, light, breakfast reading.

  Frequently, Vlad made women his targets for impalement, due to their loss of virginity, to their adultery, or to a widow’s lack of chastity. And when his enemies the Turks tried to invade his land, Vlad impaled as many of them as possible.

  He killed anyone who defied him, in cruel and sadistic ways. He was known to throw dinner parties in plain sight of, and with the stench in the air of, his victim’s bodies. It was said he even dipped his bread in their blood. The idea of the fictional, bloodsucking vampire all started with our buddy, Vlad Dracul.

  Disgusting as all of this sounds, I’m eager to get to Sighisoara. The fact that it’s All Hallows’ Eve makes it that much more exciting.

  I closed my journal and stood from the table at the sight of Yuri. His eyes lacked their warmth from the day before, filled now with the wariness of a scared rabbit. He gestured that it was time to go.

  ***

  Ariel’s Journal—

  Oct. 31 cont., Sighisora, Transylvania

  It’s been a good day of sightseeing, and I now have a few minutes to record some things before dinner.

  The scenery was spectacular on the drive with Yuri. As I had hoped, we went to the town of Vlad Tepes’ childhood and toured the home in which he was born—simple, and of a mustard color.

  Yuri took me to my next place of lodging, the fifteenth-century Casa Epoca Hotel. It has only eleven rooms, and mine is very comfortable. If I knew who was paying for this, I would thank them. Outside the hotel, in the Citadel Square, an old clock tower draws many tourists. Yuri acted as my personal guide, but acted terrified when I mentioned Poienari, the official name of Dracula’s castle. And he refused to take me there.

  “All Hallows’ Eve,” he reminded me. “A very bad day for this.”

  I was not going to miss it, though, not on this once-in-a-lifetime trip. When I tried to hail a taxi, Yuri wrung his hands in frustration but agreed at last to take me.

  Poienari Castle is high in the Transylvanian Alps, perched on a precipice atop a volcanic formation. It looks just the way you would expect—dark and scary, with a decrepit tower, and thousand-foot drops on all sides.

  “You are not going up there alone, miss. I cannot allow it,” Yuri said.

  I stepped around him.

  “Not today. I will go with you.” He pressed a cross into my hand.

  It matched the one around his own neck, which he clutched as we entered the castle’s steep stairwell. I thrust his gift into the pocket of my jeans and we began the long ascent. Over 1,425 stairs to the top! I am in good shape from daily workouts back home, but had to stop often due to Yuri’s huffing and puffing. The poor old fellow.

  An incredible view greeted us at the tower’s pinnacle. Billowing clouds scraped the mountaintops, and giant black crows zigzagged above the valley, their shrill cries piercing the eerie silence. It was well worth the trip, but Yuri looked scared out of his wits and kept glancing around as if expecting Dracula himself to leap out at us.

  “What river is that?” I said, pointing straight down. In the neighboring field, a figure was cutting grass with a sickle.

  “The Arges,” Yuri said. “There is a legend that Dracula’s bride threw herself from this tower after the Turks captured him.”

  “Why?”

  “She was sure they would torture and kill her.”

  “That’s gruesome,” I whispered, peering into the gorge.

  Yuri sighed. “Yes. She died.”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  He glanced at his watch. “We should go now, miss. It will be dark before long, and my wife expects me home. You should be home, too.”

  “Home is an eight-hour flight across the ocean,” I pointed out, then added with a grin: “But the Casa Epoca will do for tonight.”

  Back in Sighisoara, I thanked my driver and gave him a large tip. “Oh … and here is your cross back.”

  “No, you keep it, miss. And please, you mustn’t go out tonight. No good can come from All Hallows’ Eve.”

  Yeah, he’d made that clear already. I slipped the cross into my pocket once more.

  ***

  My hotel room boasted large picture windows that opened from the center and looked out over a forest. The room itself was small, but the bed was sumptuous, with a feather mattress and a soft, goose-down duvet. I was tired and knew I would sleep well that night, but I could not resist the temptation to go exploring before dinner.

  Obviously, I wasn’t taking Yuri’s advice.

  Across the road from the hotel, an ancient German cemetery drew my attention. Graveyards fascinate me, and I find that walking among the headstones can be quite peaceful.

  Alone, I crossed the street.

  ***

  Ariel’s Journal—

  Oct. 31 cont.

  Some very odd things happened tonight.

  I was having a fine old time checking out gravestones, when a bat appeared out of nowhere. Then another. And another. Soon, they were swarming by the hundreds, forming a black cloud above me. Shivering, I watched them snatch bugs from the air, and then … one flew directly into my head!r />
  To say it creeped me out big time would be an understatement. The only time I have ever seen anything like that was the in that movie, The Birds.

  Then the large bell tolled from the Black Church in the center of town, making it doubly creepy.

  As I raced back toward my hotel, the tall figure of a man startled me at the cemetery gate. “Miss, are you all right? I saw one of those bats fly straight at you.”

  “I’m okay, I think,” I said, still stunned.

  “Oh, the bats are known to swarm here occasionally, especially when there are insects about, but they’re usually of no harm to humans. It looks like you have a small cut there on your forehead.” He dabbed at it with a handkerchief, his hand trembling slightly. “We should find you some antiseptic and a bandage, but I don’t believe you’ll need a doctor.”

  Here in the dark, on the edge of a cemetery, I felt uneasy.

  “Oh,” he said, “forgive my poor manners. I failed to introduce myself. My name is Dalv. Dalv Lucard.”

  “My name is Ariel,” I said.

  “You are American, no?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  In my flustered state, I had not taken a good look at him until now. He was handsome, with wavy, dark hair and sienna-colored eyes. He must have been about 6’2”, around forty-five years old, with a softly masculine face. I caught myself staring at his sensual lips.

  “What were you doing in the graveyard?” he asked. “If I’m not being too nosy.”

  “You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but I like checking out old graveyards.”

  “I do not think you are crazy at all. I find cemetery’s soothing and peaceful. Very much, in fact. And this is a particularly old one. Some of my ancestors are buried right here. But we can talk about that later. We need to treat this cut. Where are you staying?”

  I pointed down the street at Casa Epoca.

  “Ah. Good hotel,” he said. “I’ll walk you back, and I’m sure they will have some alcohol and bandages at the front desk.”

  Normally I am cautious of strangers, but he had a calming presence, and it seemed harmless to let him escort me.

  After treating my wound, he invited me to join him for a meal in the hotel restaurant, and I accepted. Over dinner, I found out Dalv has lived in Romania all his life, as has his family, dating back hundreds of years. When I asked what he did for a living—a reasonable question on a date, and staring into those unusual eyes of his, this did feel like a date—he appeared uncomfortable. He told me he works at the town hospital, not a doctor, but a medical lab researcher.

  Dalv has a sexy face that looks a lot like George Clooney’s, so naturally I was a bit flirty. He asked what I’d seen of the area so far, and mentioned he would be happy to show me around. He was disappointed when I told him I had already been to Dracula’s castle.

  My tiredness got the best of me then. He noticed my drooping eyes and suggested he let me get some rest. I thanked him for his kindness and dinner. Promising we would meet again, he kissed me goodnight—the European way, on both cheeks. It seemed intimate.

  ***

  Dalv Lucard’s Journal—

  Oct. 31

  I met an American woman today, in the strangest of ways. A bat from a gathering swarm attacked her in the German Cemetery, and when I saw this disturbing incident, I vowed to investigate. I went to her aid, as she was upset. She is an American. From New York City.

  After escorting Ariel to her hotel, to find treatment for the small cut on her forehead, I invited her to dinner. When I asked why she was alone here in Bistritz, she said she would explain later. I have to confess, I am deeply attracted to the woman.

  I have not allowed myself to indulge in such feelings for so long that there is danger in doing so. Tomorrow I am taking her sightseeing, and will see how this develops. She looks lovely, and perhaps a little lonely.

  ***

  Ariel’s Journal—

  Nov.1

  The weirdest dream woke me in the middle of the night. I was shaking so badly that I had to write it down. Here is what I saw:

  A fog swirled around me. I was traveling—though I can’t remember where to or from—on a jumbo jet larger than any that exists in this world. I flew alone, as I do most of the time in my waking life. I was tired, traipsing up and down endless aisles, trying to find a free section of seats so that I could stretch out and sleep. I kept searching, searching.

  Do dreams shadow one’s life, or does life shadow one’s dreams? How is one to know? All I know is that my lifelong sense of incompletion vanished for a moment in time, then returned again with a vengeance. I felt utterly vulnerable. And utterly alone.

  Finally I spotted an empty row on the plane, the last one in the back. I smiled, thinking now I could lie down and rest. Through the semi-darkness, I saw a man at the end of this otherwise empty row, his face turned toward the window.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I said. “Do you mind if I stretch out on these seats?”

  He turned, and I recognized him as my new Romanian friend, Dalv. But this time his handsome visage was contorted and ugly, with pointed ears, sharp fangs, and a mouth that dripped with blood.

  “Say hello to Vlad,” he said.

  I cried out, then woke in a cold sweat.

  There was no going back to sleep. A terrible thunderstorm howled at my window, and I opened the curtains to peer outside. Trees bent beneath the strain of the wind, and lightning lit the sky. Standing beneath my window, a man was smoking a cigarette.

  I blinked, waiting for another burst of lightning so I could get a sharper look, but when the sky lit up again he was gone.

  That was around 3:00 a.m. After tossing and turning for half an hour, I decided a warm bath might help. I put the stopper in the tub, and turned on the faucet. Nothing came out. I tried the handles both directions, producing squeaks and groans from the pipes, until water appeared with a brownish, rusty tint. It flowed darker and darker, till it poured the color of blood.

  I fled the bathroom, ready to dial the front desk for help—and this time I really woke up.

  It had been a nightmare within a nightmare.

  What an ordeal. I am exhausted.

  Dalv will be here soon, and judging by the pink tinge of sunrise, it looks to be a beautiful day.

  ***

  Ariel’s journal—

  Nov. 2

  Dalv and I roamed the Transylvanian countryside today, hiking into the Carpathian Mountains with a bottle of wine and a picnic. Dalv knows so much about this region’s history, and I enjoyed hearing about it.

  I am also learning more about my friend. He’s forty-four years old—my guess was pretty close—and he’s never been married, which is a surprise. Then again, there are plenty of bachelors in New York City who are in their forties. And you know the warning about that.

  Dalv is old-fashioned and proper, much different from the men back home. He hasn’t even tried kissing me yet—except on the cheek. He is sensitive and seems to know what I want without my asking, almost as though he can read my mind. He asked about my life in New York City, what it is like living there. How can one explain it? He says he dreams of going there someday, but his research at the hospital is so important that he can’t leave—even for a few weeks.

  When I asked more about his family, he told me his mother and father died in a car crash five years ago. His one brother, a twin named Rion, lives in Brasov, a town we visited briefly this afternoon. With its quaint cobbled streets, it is much like Sighisoara, lined with houses in faded colors of pink, green, and ocher.

  Dalv held my hand as we walked through Brasov. I feel drawn to him more and more. Oh—and I told him of last night’s nightmare.

  He cast if off with a laugh. “I imagine the trauma you suffered in the graveyard and visiting Dracula’s castle could give anyone some strange dreams.”

  We shared dinner again. He took my hand across the table and asked how long before I went back to New York. I told him I was not sure.


  ***

  Dalv Lucard’s Journal—

  Nov. 2

  It’s Sunday, and the fascinating American girl and I shared another enjoyable day together. What a fiercely independent woman she is. She looks younger than her age by a decade, and has a quirky sense of humor. It especially comes out when she talks of the bizarre men she has dated back home. She appeals to me, being so different from the serious Romanian girls.

  I sense that she likes me, by the look in her eyes. I only wonder how much about myself I should reveal. I have a deep desire to tell her things I have never told anyone, but I mustn’t move too fast. Her length of stay here is uncertain, and for now the operative word is “caution.” She asks many questions about my past, and I have given her whatever information I can, without saying too much.

  ***

  THE TRANSYLVANIAN TIMES

  Blood Missing from Local Hospital

  Nov. 2, Bistritz—The mystery continues regarding vials missing from the blood bank at St. Agnes Hospital. This supply had been tested for infectious diseases, and awaited delivery to needy recipients. Yesterday, a health official reported a second batch of missing blood. Authorities remain puzzled, as no fingerprints were found at the scene.

  ***

  Dalv Lucard’s Journal—

  Nov. 6

  Yesterday I met with my brother. I told him about Ariel, and of course he already knew of her—just as I figured. It was he who flew into her head that night in the German Cemetery. He is a troublemaker and likes to show off his powers by doing stupid things for sport. There was no reason for this, and I told him so.

  Yes, he and I are different, with unique gifts. But this does not mean we should use them in inappropriate manners.

  Rion was less than enthusiastic about my having met Ariel. He has always been jealous of anyone who gets close to me, and change of any kind upsets him. He got so angry during our talk that he once again took the form of a bat and darted out the window.