Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love (10 page)

“Please lie down, Miss Richards.”

“Yes. Okay. I’m sorry.”

As I lay back, my blood pressure pumped up another two hundred points. She started the first vial. I winced. She started the second, then loosened the tourniquet. Assuming the procedure was over, I ventured a peek.

Big mistake.

The needle was still in my arm, in all its bloody glory. And that was the last thing I remembered …

***

A huge board of arrivals and departures flashed the names of cities from around the world. I stood, bewildered, in an airport. Signs on the walls advertised the wonders of Romania, and I realized I was in Bucharest.

What was I doing here? This had to be another of my mind-bending travels, but why this place, why now? I certainly had not gone back that far into the past this time. A newspaper lay crumpled on the floor and it said it was 1984.

I wandered through the terminal, pleased to realize I could read the local signs. I carried a small travel-all. I felt no jetlag, only a mounting curiosity tinged with fear.

In the arrivals hall, a man was holding up my name on a card. How many
Ariels
could there be in this airport, or in Romania for that matter? I stood back, considering my options, but he caught sight of me, waved, and stepped forward as though he knew me. He was a short, affable, older man, wearing a dark blue cap. He told me that his name was Yuri and he was to take me to Bistritz.

His Romanian charm eased my worries. I was a stranger in a strange land, and I knew no one else. What options did I have? He took my travel-all, and I followed him to a dented, gray sedan.

Yuri babbled in broken English as I gazed out my window. We weaved north of the capital city, where I saw many horse-drawn carts. My driver informed me these were still a common form of transportation in this area.

Again I wondered what I was doing here. I reached into the pocket of my luggage, hoping for a clue. When I came across a travel diary, I realized the opportunity it represented, and decided to write.

***

Ariel’s Journal—

Oct. 30, Bistritz

I am committed to writing in this journal for the duration of my trip. What an adventure!

The land’s lush, dark greenness is the first thing that strikes me. Beyond rolling hills covered with fir trees and swift rivers, the Carpathian Mountains rise from the mist. They circle from Hungary to Slovakia, extending east into Romania and south into the former Yugoslavia.

Yuri, my driver, says much of Bram Stoker’s book,
Dracula
, took place near these parts. Wonderful. He says little has changed in this dark and mysterious land since the 1800s, but I wonder if he is only playing into my tourist expectations.

He informs me that tomorrow is Oct. 31, and he is to take me to Transylvania. Although I have no fear of such things, he explains that the Transylvanian people are still laden with superstition, and believe themselves surrounded on all sides by a legion of evil spirits. According to history, witches and vampires are particularly active on All Hallows’ Eve.

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!

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.