Chapter 33: Lost in Time
As I trudge through the blizzard towards the twinkling lights of the village below, my feet heavy and my breath visible in the frigid air, I can’t shake the wolf’s enigmatic parting words: “Should you find yourself in the fire, you need only invite him in.” Who is this mysterious “him,” and what fire could they possibly be talking about? The cryptic message lingers in my mind, shrouded in
mystery.
Gradually, the scent of cooking and spices and wood smoke wafts toward me, a reassuring sign of life. I can even discern the distant sound of singing, growing steadily louder. A path through the snow becomes more distinct, leading me down the hill toward the source of light and sound. With each step, the village emerges from the blizzard’s embrace.
The singing, now unmistakable, carries on the frosty wind. It’s a hauntingly beautiful melody, echoing through the village’s cobblestone streets. As I venture deeper into the settlement, it becomes apparent that the village streets are curiously empty, though the soft glow of candlelit
windows hints at life within.
I approach the nearest house and rap my knuckles on the door. A window curtain rustles, revealing an ordinary face–a far cry from the supernatural beauty of the castle’s inhabitants. The middle–aged woman’s pockmarked skin speaks of a life untouched by the vampiric curse. Her gaze shifts to me with a mix of shock and curiosity, and children’s voices echo from inside.
“Mama, who is it?” they inquire, but before she can answer, she hastily draws the curtain shut, leaving me in the cold silence.
Undeterred, I knock again, but there’s no response. I continue down the village’s main road, the singing drawing me closer to its source. My footsteps echo in the quiet night, raising questions. about the absence of cars, electricity, or even telephone poles–this place seems entirely off the
grid.
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As I stroll further, I ponder if this is some exclusive off–the–grid ski resort or perhaps a religiouBoni 05:0 commune. At times, the village takes on an eerie, otherworldly quality.
My meandering
Ipath leads me to a chilling discovery in what must be the town square. In the centre stands a gruesome fountain, a macabre sculpture that sends shivers down my spine. A man carved out of stone and slightly larger than life–sized kneels at its centre, his throat gruesomely slit and his chest pierced with a single arrow, his wide eyes feverish as if staring into the heavens. His arms stretched up into the sky as if in supplication. A trickle of water flows from his open. mouth down into the pool below, freezing around his chin so that icy stalactites hang from his face, creating a sinister ice beard.
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My gaze lingers on this chilling display, unable to look away. Something is profoundly amiss in this place.
press onward, finally reaching the stone church from which the haunting singing emanates
The church, its ancient façade rising before me, seems like a relic from a bygone era. Its grandeur is undeniable, boasting intricate Gothic architecture that beckons me closer.
The façade is constructed from rough–hewn stone, each block aged by centuries of weathering. This imposing structure appears to have witnessed countless generations pass through its doors.
them. The walls rise high into the night, creating a sense of awe and reverence as I gaze upon
Gargoyles, those eerie sentinels of stone, perch within alcoves near the entrance. These grotesque figures seem frozen in eternal vigilance, their features twisted into menacing snarls. Carved with painstaking detail, their stony forms are marred by the ravages of time, lending them an air of ancient malevolence. Some leer outwards, while others appear to recoil, as if repulsed by the unholy forces that may seek entry into the sacred sanctuary beyond.
The pointed arches above the church’s entrance are a testament to Gothic design, lending an aura of otherworldly splendour to the structure. Each arch is adorned with intricate tracery, an ornate pattern that captures the moonlight, casting eerie, dancing shadows on the façade. This lace–like stonework seems to breathe life into the stone, infusing it with an ethereal quality.
Dimly lit sconces flank the entrance, their flickering flames offering a faint, welcoming glow. The heavy wooden doors stand ajar, inviting me to enter, yet their imposing presence hints at the gravity of what may lie within.
As I approach the entrance, the juxtaposition of the macabre and the divine, embodied by the church’s façade, fills me with both reverence and unease. This place holds secrets far older and more enigmatic than I could have ever imagined, and it beckons me to uncover them, even as my heart pounds with trepidation.
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The grand wooden doors stand open, revealing flickering candlelight within and pews filled with small congregation, and a choir dressed in long white robes near the front of the church. I step inside, and the choir falls silent, all eyes turning toward me.
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A priest, clad in a severe black garment, confronts me. His face bears the lines of unquestionably human visage. He regards me warily and utters words that strike me like a thunderbolt: “Be ye an angel or a devil?”
I can’t contain my relief as I run toward him, collapsing almost into his arms. Tears stream down my face as I gasp, “Oh my God, thank God!”
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Chapter 33: Lost in Time
Another human. I’m safe, at last.
Uncertainty clouds his face as I begin to babble, recounting my escape from the castle and the atrocities I witnessed there, how they are keeping human prisoners chained up in the dungeons.
“We need to report it to the police,” I say between sobs.
“Police?” The priest repeats the word, his face a mask of puzzlement and confusion.
“Yes, the police,” I say, fighting my rising frustration as the words flow out of me in a panic. “I know I must sound like a crazy person, but everything I’m telling you is true. There are killers up in that castle, and they are literally murdering people. My mother is their prisoner. We have to call 911 or whatever the Romanian version is. We’re in Romania, right?
His puzzlement deepens. “Romania?” he repeats, his voice slow and measured.
“Yes… this is Romania, isn’t it?” I say, taking in his puzzled expression. “This place… where exactly are we?”
My heart sinks as he clarifies, “This is the hamlet of Dracon, of course, in the Kingdom of Dacia.”
Dacon… Dacia… I’ve never heard of them.
I shake my head, lost and bewildered.
“Well, can I borrow your phone?” I ask, praying against all hope that this place has cellphonr reception.
“Phone…” he repeats the word slowly, as if it’s some mysterious anomaly, or a riddle.
Oh no. Impossible. He has no idea what a phone is.
Whispers and low hushed voices ripple through the congregation.
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“Is it true?” a woman behind me questions. I turn to see her, rake thin, middle–aged and severe, her dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Did you really come from… up there?”
She points in the direction of the castle, her face hard as stone.
“Do you mean, did I come from the castle?” I ask, and she nods.
“Yes,” I confirm, but my response elicits hisses, gasps, and crossed signs from the villagers.
As I take in the people around me, I realise that they are dressed strangely, as if plucked from a
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Chapter 33: Lost in Time
mediaeval tapestry. The women wear threadbare grey shawls and old–fashioned dresses, like moth–eaten cloth tunics tied with rope. The villagers‘ clothing is markedly archaic, like peasants from the Dark Ages. Panic wells up within me as the realisation dawns: I’ve stumbled into a village untouched by time, a place seemingly disconnected from the modern world.
“If she came from there then she is one of them,” the severe woman hisses in disgust, and her words find agreement among the villagers. They murmur their suspicions and cast fearful glances
my way.
The priest steps back, distancing himself from me, and motions for two burly men to restrain me. Panic courses through me as they grip my arms, their strength overwhelming.
“Vampire bride!” I hear a man shout behind me, and others agree, echoing his sentiment.
“No!” I cry out, struggling against two men who are pushing me down to my knees. “I’m human!” “We’ll see about that,” the priest says, regarding me with unease.
A swift blow to the back of my head sends me spiralling into unconsciousness, my last vision the unforgiving faces of those who had offered me no refuge.
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