Dracula (A Modern Telling)
Read Dracula (A Modern Telling) Online
Authors: Victor Methos
DRACULA
A MODERN TELLING
VICTOR METHOS
Copyright 2013
Victor Methos
Kindle Edition
License Statement
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy.
Please note that this is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All events in this work are purely from the imagination of the author and are not intended to signify, represent, or reenact any event in actual fact.
Jon Stanton Thrillers
Thrillers
Murder Corporation (A Crime Thriller)
Superhero (An Action Thriller)
Creature-Feature
Novels
Science
Fiction
Star Dreamer: The Early Science Fiction of Victor Methos
Humo
r
Earl Lindquist: Accountant and Zombie Killer
Philosophical Fiction
Existentialism and Death on a Paris Afternoon
To contact the author, learn about his latest adventures, get tips on starting your own adventures, or learn about upcoming releases, please visit the author’s blog at
http://methosreview.blogspot.com/
No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and dear to his heart and eye the morning can be
.
―
Bram Stoker
[email protected] to [email protected]
JonHarker.blogspot.com
May 3. 5:26 pm
(Mina, you asked that I cc you on all my blog
posts so you’re the first to read them, so here you go. I’ll try not to swear too much ;) Check out the photos I post too.
First Blog Post of the Trip
I can’t tell you guys how excited I am to be in LA! It’s my first time on the West Coast and so far I haven’t seen anything but people in shorts and sandals (makes Boston look like the Arctic).
I tried sleeping on the flight here but I kept having weird dreams. I
was standing on a hill and I heard a dog howling somewhere. But it was like I was awake in my dream hearing the howling out in the real world. I’d wake up and ask the stewardess who brought the dog on the plane and she’d look at me like I was insane.
Getting
a cab here was a hassle and two cabbies nearly got into a fight over who had seen me first. A large man with spikey green hair eventually won the argument and I climbed into his cab and we left LAX.
The cab
smelled like strong paprika and alcohol, but was clean. He asked me where I was going and I told him Carpathian Road in Holmby Hills. He gave me an odd look and asked what I was doing there.
“I’m a journalist,” I said.
“Yeah? For who?”
“Rolling Stone. Freelance. I’m here to interview Blood Burn.”
“The band? They’re kick ass. My girl’s in love with that singer. What’s his name?”
“Vlad Dracula. He calls himself the Count.”
“Yeah, she’s in love with that dude. That’s awesome, man. I wish I could be there with ya.”
We drove for what I guessed was about an hour
on the 405, heading south. The freeways were busy but there were palm trees at every turn and the temperature never dipped below 80, so it was a pleasant drive. It would have been quicker not to, but I forced him to stop at the beach so I could take a quick walk through the sand barefoot and snap some photos.
A young girl was
there sipping from a straw and some boy, who I can only assume was her older brother, ran up and knocked it out of her hand. She began to cry. I looked around but didn’t see a parent anywhere. I saw the stand she had bought the drink from: pink lemonade. I bought one and a cotton candy and brought it to her. She smiled and said “thank you” in her cute little voice and ran off.
When we were back on the road, the cabbie was swerving a bit. That’s when I noticed the smell of weed and knew he had smoked a bowl while I was on the beach. I didn’t care. The sun was bright in a clear blue sky and I was near the ocean.
We found a quaint little hotel that the Count had arranged, or more likely his assistants had arranged for me. It was called the Golden Krone Hotel but was really just a bed and breakfast. It was run by an elderly couple that met me at the door. She wore a white apron that was stained, and had a thick Eastern European accent as she invited me in. The old man immediately went to another room and came back with a letter and handed it to me. I read it before going inside.
My Friend,
Welcome to Los Angeles. I’m anxiously waiting to see you and tell you my story. Have a good sleep tonight. Tomorrow I’m sending my driver to personally escort you here. I hope you
r flight here was a happy one and that you’ll enjoy your time here in my beautiful city.
-Your Friend, Dracula
@JonathanHarker27 Love this place
6
days ago | Photo Filter: Normal
@JonathanHarker27 The Golden Krone “Hotel” where I’m staying.
6
days ago | Photo Filter: Rise
May 4
th
Another Sleepless Night, But Not as Bad
I slept more tonight than on the flight but I kept having those dreams of howling dogs. I hope I’m not getting sick or something. My guess is that it’s just fatigue and that after a few more nights of sleep I won’t feel it at all.
I did sleep some closer to morning and then the old lady came and woke me up. After a breakfast of eggs and toast, I asked the old man
, who was reading a newspaper, how he’d gotten to know Count Dracula. He pretended not to hear me at first, though I could see his hearing aids. He’d understood me just fine last night.
“We don’t know anything about him,” the woman said as she cleared the plates.
“You have to know something. He booked me here out of all the hotels in LA.”
The old man finally said, “We don’t know anything about him. Leave it at that.”
The two of them glanced to each other and I could’ve sworn they seemed frightened. But then they went back to what they were doing so I didn’t bring it up again.
They chatted about mundane matters and spoke to me about what Los Angeles had been like in the 1950s, when they were
young and just starting life. We had a pastry made of a delicious strawberry pie and heavy whipped cream with coffee to drink, and I listened to them tell their stories of places and people that no longer existed. A time that had come and gone but that was so fresh in their minds that they seemed to still live there.
I went upstairs afterwards and, a
fter a quick shower and a change of clothes, I was packing in my room when the old woman came in. She stood at the door a moment before speaking.
“Do you have to go?” she said.
“Yeah, but I’ve really enjoyed my night here. You have a lovely home.”
“Don’t you know what day it is?”
“May fourth.”
“No, but the day. It’s the eve of St. George’s Day.”
I smiled. “I’m sorry, I’m not very religious.”
“At midnight tonight is one of the most dangerous days to be out. Evil is allowed to roam freely at midnight.” She stepped into the room and
gently took my hand in hers. “Please don’t go. Just wait one night. Tomorrow you will go down and do what you must, but do not leave tonight. Please.” She took both my hands in hers, as if begging me. I could see tears in her eyes. “Don’t go, please.”
I helped her up and could see how distressed she was about the whole thing. It didn’t make me feel comfortable to be in this situation but I figured the elderly always have their superstitions. Finally, she dried her eyes and took a rosary off
her neck and put it around mine. You know me, Mina—and my dear readers—and know that I’m a rabid atheist, but I couldn’t deny an elderly lady in such a fragile state so I let her do it.
“For your mother’s sake,” she said, and then left the room.
May 4
th
-Continued
I’m writing this post
from my Mac sitting outside waiting for the driver. I don’t know if it was the rosary or the elderly woman crying or how weird they got when I mentioned the Count, but I didn’t feel comfortable in there so I came outside. It wasn’t until about one in the afternoon that the old woman informed me that the driver would only come at dark. I decided I wouldn’t spend the day sitting around watching television so I went for a long walk, came back for lunch, and then took another long walk, snapping photos the whole way.
Los Angeles has a different feel to it than the
east coast. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I imagine it’s something like ancient Rome where you can sense culture collapsing around you, but everyone is joyfully—or maybe miserably—partaking in its collapse.
