Count On Him - 1. My Tale

Isn't it great to get a story finished? You read and re-read the wretched thing until the text blurs into one indecipherable mess; make the final corrections – for the present; take a deep breath; then send it off to your editor.

That's how it felt one Monday afternoon when my latest piece whizzed off into the ether to get red-penned. The relief was almost palpable. All of a sudden, there was time to look around and consider exciting things like housework. Meeting friends was no longer out of the question. Well, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but the absence of that persistent niggle made life multi-hued with possibilities once more.

After a week of dismal weather, bright, crisp sunshine invited everyone to get outside. I took the opportunity for a late afternoon walk in the local landscape park. It's not the usual Victorian municipal offering of cropped grass and regimented flower beds; instead a more natural, extensive habitat draws the serious walker and runner, as well as naturalists. In going outside, the intention was to consider the next project while stretching my legs. Instead, snippets of the newly-completed story invaded every line of thought.

And people can be such a nuisance.

“Pat!” A lean, older jogger slowed as he passed by. “Haven't seen you in ages.”

“Hi! Fancy meeting you, Chris.” I continued walking. “Don't let me get in the way of your run.”

He halted altogether, which obliged me to do the same.

“No problem. I'm not timing myself or anything.” The guy continued to flex and stretch as we talked. “Everything OK?”

A nod was my sole barrier to the inevitable questions.

He asked them anyway. “You're looking a little pale, that's all. Not been outside much? Still keeping up the gym membership?”

A roll of the eyes happened in thought only. “Yeah, not that I get much out of the membership.”

“Busy, then? Must be good.”

Shrugs are a useful standby, but something made me expand the answer. “Sort of – I've finished my latest story…”

Surprise registered on his face. “Of course, I'd forgotten you're a writer now.”

“Spare-time author.” A polite smile thinned.

His exuded condescension. “Still got to feed the body, pay the mortgage, and so on. What a pity. Tell me, what's the latest masterpiece?”

As if he cared. It took a moment to formulate a response. “The latest is a Halloween story. A sort of Dracula mash-up…”

The other guy's expression changed to one of polite bewilderment.

I continued regardless. “With maths, Chelsea FC, and Kate Bush mixed in.”

“OK.” He visibly groped around for something else to say. “So that's why you look like the Count's second cousin.” A grin appeared.

My feet itched to continue the walk.

“Anyway, good to see you, Pat.” The guy jogged slowly on the spot. “Just make sure you're back home before nightfall. OK? Things happen.” The grin segued into a smirk.

With a wave of the hand, he left me alone.

After letting out a long breath, the walk resumed. A constant stream of grumbles and tardy backchat flowed through my mind, allowing for no connected thought whatsoever.

Half an hour later, I'd mostly walked off the bad temper. There was even space in my head for ideas concerning the next teen romance. All the best stories stick to a tried and tested formula; so it is with my popular Break Heart – Take Heart series. The plot pretty much sorts itself. Those elements that have to be decided from story to story are the names of the guys and their vital statistics – not that there's much variation. Who wants to read about fat, dull, ugly characters, or those with their life behind them?

Something caught my eye and interrupted a pending decision between two possible locales for the tale. A swift look around located the general area, but the phantom had disappeared. Hints of a large, black shadow lingered, and not one caused by the vegetation. Determined to get sufficient mileage in before turning back, my stride lengthened. The sun hanging low on the horizon had nothing to do with it. Despite the increase in pace, a sense of being stalked made the hairs stand on the back of my neck.

Without warning, I spun round on both heels, hoping to catch whatever it was in the act. All my eyes lighted on was a single startled woman who glared and pointedly crossed over to the other side of the path. Darkness encroached over an ever greater area, pierced occasionally by the last rays of the sun. Standing rooted to the spot, a nervous scan of the immediate surroundings didn't soothe a thudding heart: rustles, the snap of dry wood, stealthy movements sensed. Cursing myself for a superstitious fool, I curtailed the walk and headed back towards the park gates.

Overtaking me, a cyclist stopped and turned in my direction; he was a young man I recognised as having met a couple of times at park events.

He waved. “Hi, there. A quick word of warning.”

Blood drained from my face. “Err… yeah?”

“A couple of people have reported a large black dog on the loose; no owner apparently. The park rangers are out looking, but there's no harm in being vigilant.”

The words 'large black dog' caused a nervous bout of coughing.

He laughed. “Sure it's nothing to worry about really. See you around.”

He pedalled off into the distance, leaving behind looming fears and anxieties. Another scan of the darkening path ahead revealed little. An overwhelming reluctance to seek further in any other direction prevailed. Again the pace picked up, legs and arms working hard. Power walking teetered on the edge of becoming a hurried jog; and a sprint wasn't that far behind. I got a grip on myself and slackened the speed a little. Appearances matter; no way was anyone going to see me hurtling out of the park like a scared rabbit.

In the evening quiet, a deep growl sounded close behind. And once more – savage, feral. A tense stomach clenched, almost sending bile into my throat. Every limb moved faster. My brain went into its own tailspin. What kind of beast was it? There wasn't anything to go on apart from the earlier reports. How quickly would it catch me up? Was the best idea to stand and face it? Instinct said 'no'. Adrenalin reached all parts. What were the chances of producing a spurt of speed like Kate, my character? Now would have to be the time to find out.

Park gates finally came into sight; groups of people and their vehicles beyond offered hope of safety. Continuing growls and snarls from the beast increased in volume. They got so loud that teeth closing around an ankle, leg, or arm were a distinct possibility. Or even a throat, if it were turned to face the animal. That was it. I fled.

Dimly-heard screams and flashes from camera phones demonstrated the danger to be real. That meant nothing – the evidence was right behind me, getting ever closer. A sudden lunge from the beast tore a trouser leg away. Efforts to evade it redoubled. Sweat poured down and made seeing the way ahead difficult. Yet the distinctive shape of black cab stood out under a street lamp. Salvation? It sat there with one rear door open, a passenger having recently left.

Scarcely lessening a frantic pace, the cab's back seat made a reasonable space for diving onto. Feet still hanging out, closing the door was the least of my worries.

“Drive!”

The cabbie turned round. “Where to, mate?”

“Just fucking drive!” Any moment, a slavering jaw could rip my leg to shreds.

“OK, OK.” He slammed the vehicle into gear and sped off, leaving behind the stink of burnt rubber.

And hopefully, whatever pursued me. Tucking myself into the cab more thoroughly, a stretched-out arm hauled the door closed. Fearful stares out of every available window revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Though straining my eyes back towards the park, intermittent dark shapes and shadows all suggested the hell hound.

Several hundred metres further on, the guy looked into the rear-view mirror. “You know, that's the first time someone's really meant it when they yelled 'Drive!'.” He eased the pace down. “What happened? You trespass on another gang's territory? Disrespect some bloke?”

To mention Dracula as a likely candidate wouldn't be taken by the driver as a proper answer. Not that the Count had been exactly insulted in my story; more, treated a little differently. Perhaps not given the prominence he was accustomed to? A shrug and several shakes of the head sufficed as an answer.

“Dunno what the world's coming to. Anyway, mate, where d'you really wanna go to?”

There was only one answer. “Home.”

Sprinting from the cab to my front door, security lights had never seemed so welcome. While not the brightest, they did an adequate job of making the immediate area safe. Sort of. A fumble for the keys, the front door soon slammed closed behind me. Every part of me shook. The struggles to double lock the door and shoot both bolts would've created laughter in other circumstances. Before turning any lights on, sweaty hands closed all the ground floor's historic wooden shutters; the first time ever.

Finally a hard kitchen seat was the happy recipient of my trembling frame. Gasping and wide-eyed, a disordered brain tried to recall any useful facts about Dracula. Can there be any hard-and-fast evidence about a fictional character? It was hopeless: the black dog still dominated everything. Safe as I could be in the house, every nerve and muscle was braced in constant expectation of an assault. With closed shutters, the outside world was hidden from view.

After a while, my thoughts returned to the Count. What other forms could he assume? A methodical, mental trawl through the novel was rudely interrupted when a quick upwards glance took in one of the kitchen cupboards. Garlic. Was there any? Lurching upright, every cupboard door was yanked open to no avail. Inventive cooking isn't my forte, but there's usually some garlic around. Increasingly frantic searches came to a close when one single, elderly-looking bulb was found underneath a bunch of bananas in the fruit bowl.

Thank heavens! Stripping off the outer layers, it was ready to be smashed when a trickle of mist, grey and opaque, hovered in the hallway. It continued to slide in through the front door's letter flap. Vapour spread and thickened, forming a dense, threatening mass. Mesmerised, only then did I think of fog; that was one of his forms. A thudding heart caused dizziness which made me sit down again. One part of my brain, disconnected from the rest somehow, noted the fog seemed imbued with purpose as it swept into the kitchen. Sentient even.

Terrified eyes watched the water molecules coalesce into a figure familiar from so many films, spoofs, and memes. Tall and thin, the stark, black and white formal wear suited the Count as it always did. A smile, toothy and false, appeared on his visage. Dead pools of darkness seemed to peer in and search my soul.

Swallowing almost caused a coughing fit. How to start a conversation with a vampire? “Err…” My throat needed clearing again. “ Hi, ehm… Count?” No response; a change of tone was required perhaps. “Good evening, Count Dracula.”

“Is it?” A scowl filled with disdain appeared before he repeated what'd just been said, ten degrees colder.

The garlic bulb remained clutched on one hand. It gave courage. “Been a good day for me. The story's doing well; it's making you new fans and devotees.”

Dracula leant towards me, closer than the garlic should've allowed. His blood-red, prominent lips and the white teeth they framed scared me into silence.

“Your scurrilous, ignorant scribblings are of no interest to me. I am reliably informed they sink to new depths in the so-called history of Castle Dracula.”

Writer's indignation came to the fore. “I dispute that. My only 'crime' was to see you through a different lens. A modern interpretation of…”

“Football shirts?”

“Yes, and…”

“Twinks?” His eyes flashed red.

“What's not to like?”

The Count came almost nose to nose with me. He sniffed twice. “I smell garlic. That is not acceptable. Hand it over.”

“But…” My hand trembled. “But it's garlic. It's a defence against vampires; a solid one.”

His cackle rang in my ears, mirthless and cold.

“Another gullible fool. How many times are you told not to believe everything you read?”

“Ah.” I shrank as far back in the seat as was feasible – hardly a great defensive move.

Dracula's vulpine smile widened. “My kind dislike garlic, as you might eggs or anchovies. Nothing more. And that bulb is of such antiquity, I can scarce detect it.”

Everything froze: brain, limbs, free will. It was obvious what was going to happen now. Small patches of skin on my neck tingled and itched in anticipation.

He moved away slightly. “You're not the only one interested in experimentation.”

My breath caught. Was there hope?

“The best way to counter centuries of lies is to provide truth.”

Two long, pale fingers reached out to stroke my neck.

“You enjoy writing; here is the perfect opportunity. Write my biography – the truth about Dracula. Please me, and maybe, just maybe, you'll live.”

“But I suck at writing non-fiction…”

Fingers pinched at skin. “Yes, or no. It's a good offer.”

“Yes! Yes, please.”

“Good.”

He released me.

“I shall return tomorrow.” Dracula headed towards the front door. “Your progress will be monitored.” With another of his smiles, he left.

Vlad III Dracula, known as Vlad the Impaler, was Voivode of Wallachia three times between 1448 and his death. He is often considered one of the most important rulers in Wallachian history and a national hero of Romania...

The following morning, my fingers skittered over the keyboard in the haste to get something done. Dracula was due.