This is my entry to the 2014 Literotica Halloween Story Contest. It's my first stab at Erotic Horror and (I think) it ended up more gothic horror than modern horror. It also turned out longer than I'd originally intended, so I appreciate the patience of anyone who sticks through to the end. Votes and comments are, of course, also greatly appreciated.
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Welcome to Transylvania! Vampires, Werewolves, Witches and Ghosts -- do
you
believe?
I still remember the poster with those exact words written on it, printed in ghoulish green letters on an ominous black background. The poster was the first thing I noticed as I exited the plane and set foot on Transylvanian soil for the first time.
Did I believe? Well, I certainly didn't believe in vampires or werewolves. And witches? I guess I wouldn't have flown thirteen hours across the Atlantic on a last-minute flight to the other side of the world if I didn't at least believe in their possibility. But ghosts? I've always believed in ghosts.
I was two years old when my father died. My mother, haunted by the memory of him, decided that she could no longer stay in the home they'd shared, so she took my older sister and me with her to live in an old two-story house that she'd rented on the outskirts of town.
She'd went there hoping to come to terms with her sorrow, but with two children that she now had to raise on her own she had little time to mourn. She had her hands full getting my sister ready for first grade and, of course, taking care of me.
I was too young to remember, but she told me that I never stopped talking; even after she'd put me to bed I wouldn't shut up. She'd sit downstairs in the living room, drinking her evening tea, and smile as she listened to the baby monitor and heard me babbling away, having long, animated conversations with myself, all alone in the darkness of my upstairs bedroom.
She never thought anything of it until I started going to playschool. The teacher had told us to draw a picture of our family and I drew my mother, my sister, myself and a boy with bright red hair.
When my mother came to pick me up and saw the drawing on the classroom wall, she asked me if that was supposed to be my father, who'd had black hair. I told her no, it was my best friend. Assuming I meant someone in my class, she smiled as she looked around at the other boys and asked me which one he was. But I told her my friend didn't go to school -- he lived in my bedroom.
My teacher told her not to be worried; it was common for children to have imaginary friends. But my mother told me later the drawing had sent a chill down her spine. She'd always felt an unease about the upstairs room, and didn't like going up there alone, but had tried to convince herself it was only her imagination.
That evening she let me sleep downstairs in her bed with her, but when she woke up in the dead of night I was gone. And then she heard me in the upstairs bedroom -- laughing as if I was playing with someone.
The next night she made me sleep in her bed again and told me that I was not, under any circumstances, to go to the upstairs bedroom. When she woke in the middle of the night she was relieved to find me still sleeping beside her. But then she noticed something else -- smoke.
By the time the fire engines arrived the house was engulfed in flames. My mother, my sister and I had all got out in time and were huddled together across the street in our nightclothes as we watched the firemen throwing out hoses to battle the blaze that was devouring our home. As we watched the hungry flames lick out of the doorway and shattered windows, a fireman came frantically running toward us.
His eyes wide with alarm, he cried, "How many more children are in the house?!"
My mother blinked in surprise and said none; all of us had safely escaped.
He glanced back at the dying house, and then said, "But what about the boy?
The boy with the red hair in the upstairs window!"
When the sun rose the next morning there was nothing left of the house but charred timbers, blackened bones of the home that had once been there. We went to live in a small, two-bedroom apartment, but my mother couldn't stop thinking of the house, couldn't stop thinking of that upstairs bedroom.
A family friend told her she should see a psychic and my mother, desperate for peace of mind, finally agreed. And the psychic, who knew nothing of the fire, took one look at my mother's palm and told her that a restless spirit was searching for her -- a spirit in the form of a boy.
My mother was terrified. She'd never believed in psychics before, but now she was begging this one to tell her what to do. And she told my mother that she had to flee, and that only a large body of water could prevent the ghost from following us. So my mother picked the largest body of water she knew and took us across the Atlantic Ocean to our new home, America.
She didn't tell me that story until I was a teenager. I don't remember the red-haired boy. I barely even remember the house. But listening to her tell that story, hearing the tremble in her voice and seeing the fear in her eyes...I guess that's why I've always believed in ghosts.
Oh, and there's one other reason how I know ghosts are real. I don't want to ruin the end of this story, but let me give you a little hint. By the time this story is over,
I will have already died.
But enough about that, let's go back to the beginning of this story, the beginning of the end. After getting off the plane at Sibiu International Airport in late October, I traveled to the city of Brasov by rail.
The train was packed with tourists on their annual pilgrimage to Brasov and a site sacred to all horror film fans and Halloween aficionados -- Dracula's castle.
Of course, the castle didn't really belong to Dracula. Its true name is Bran Castle and it's a national monument and landmark in Romania. However, it's marketed as having once been the famous fictional vampire's home. There's no evidence that Bram Stoker knew anything about the castle when he researched his story (without ever having left England), but that hasn't stopped more than half a million fans from around the world from flocking to it every year.
But I wasn't headed to Brasov to find a vampire; I was going there to find a witch. My problem, though, was that I had no idea where to start looking. The gypsy woman had told me the witch's name, but other than that I had nothing and, honestly, like I said before, I wasn't sure if I even believed in witches. But now, with my wife's very life at stake, I knew I had no choice other than to believe.
I stepped off the train and stared around the station as a flood of tourists washed past me, murmuring with excitement at the realization that they were about to spend Halloween in Transylvania.
And the city was ready for them. Romanians had come to rely on tourism for money after the fall of communism, and the people of Brasov were no exception. The station was full of vendors hawking Dracula-related merchandise and sightseeing companies pushing Halloween parties and tours.
I passed by them, ignoring their sales pitches and brochures. I had no interest in Halloween; I needed to find a witch. But as I hurried through the crowded station, a voice rose above the din.
"Come see the real Transylvania! Journey through the dark woods and across the mystical mountains that have inspired the legends! Starting in the scenic village of Magura -- "
The name cut through the clamor like a knife. I pushed my way past a girl carrying a backpack two sizes too large for her and found the man I'd heard.
"Excuse me," I said. "Did you say your tour starts in Magura?"
