Copyright © July 2017 by CiaoSteve
CiaoSteve reserves the right to be identified as the author of this work.
This story cannot be published, as a whole or in part, without the express agreement of the author other than the use of brief extracts as part of a story review.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
Author's Notes
Foreword #1 : All characters in this series are over 18
Foreword #2 : This is pure fantasy and should be read as such. It is not intended to be factual and could not happen in real life . . . . well at least I would expect it could not happen, but maybe you can prove me wrong
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We are all fascinated by tales of the unexplained. Myths and legends from long ago. Witches, wizards, demons and devils. The unknown pulls at our conscious and leaves us delving for more. Yet at the same time we all know that such are tales of fiction, of events passed down through the ages, of folklore and imagination. Ask yourself this though, what if not every tale was pure fiction. What if somewhere, just somewhere, one of these creatures of fantasy did actually exist.
This is the tale of one young woman whose interests in such myths and legends led to a chance encounter. A potentially life changing encounter . . . .
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Emma Wilkes lived her life in history. As a child she had a deep love for literature, especially those classic horror novels from the likes of Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley and Ann Radcliffe. It was almost a no brainer that she went on to study the classics at University and even more of a no brainer that she took an option in mythology and folklore as part of her final year.
Now 26, she had landed her dream job as a research assistant in the Department of Classics, Ancient History and Archaeology at a prestigious UK university. For the last four years she had spent her time researching and lecturing on the stories of lore and legend which influenced the classics. For example, where was the inspiration for Frankenstein, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, The Castle of Otranto and, her favourite, Dracula?
It was the latter that Emma had focused on most closely, engrossed in understanding how a simple story could cross so many literary genres and spawn a plethora of adaptations across literature, film and theatre. Why does the story of Count Dracula still enthuse people with a sense of dread? Why is there still such an interest in vampires if they are purely a flight of fantasy (cue the movies Interview with a Vampire, Twilight, Blade and Van Helsing to name but a few)? Could there be more to the legend than just a simple story?
Through the years Emma had spent time in Transylvania and the surroundings (a region in the central part of modern Romania), visiting the castles of Bran, Poenari and Hunyad which had all been linked with the story. She had studied the history of Vlad (the Impaler) who has long since been seen as the inspiration for Count Dracula himself, but had drawn a blank in terms of tracking down any modern day descendents willing to share their story.
On another trip, time was spent in North Yorkshire, around the Whitby area, where Dracula was meant to have landed in the UK and on a third time was spent in the Netherlands. The purpose of these trips was to look into the inspiration behind the two main protagonists in the story, Dr. Seward and Abraham van Helsing. Both were well known fictional characters but who had inspired their involvement in the story.
As she expected this was a continual saga of speculation, exaggeration and ultimate dead ends. With almost four years spent on a single journey, it was about time to place the novel back on the shelf and consider another option. Almost time that was, but there was one last clue to follow, this time much closer to home. A contact had suggested talking to a Dr. Vincent Stewart. He was a bit of a recluse, living in a semi derelict manor house in rural Wiltshire, but the local old wives tales were that he was descended from a family with close links to the vampire myths of old.
Emma had done a little research on Dr. Stewart and indeed had found that there was a Dr. Vincent Louis Abraham Deacon Stewart registered as living just outside of Malmesbury, on the edge of the Cotswolds. Luckily she managed to obtain a phone number and gave it a call.
"Hello," came a foreign sounding voice down the telephone.
"Oh, hello. Is that Dr Stewart?"
"Who's asking?" came a rather abrupt reply.
"So sorry, let me introduce myself. My name is Emma Wilkes and I am a university research assistant specialising in folklore and classic literature. I've spent the last few years looking into the inspiration behind Bram Stoker's tales of Dracula, and was told that you may be able to throw some light on the legends and myths behind the story."
"I can't!" came another terse reply. "I don't take visitors any more."
Disappointing as it was, Emma had come so far that she wasn't going to be put off. After all this was the last lead that she had.
"Please, Dr. Stewart. It would really help if you could spare me a few minutes. All I want is to listen to your anecdotes. It would really help me close out my studies."
"I said no and no,
means
no."
Emma persevered. It was almost as if he was being deliberately obstructive. Was he just a recluse or was he hiding something?
"Please, just a few minutes and I promise I won't disturb you again. It is for my research project. I promise I'm not a journalist or anything. It really would help me close out my study."
There was silence. Emma held on, waiting . . . half a minute . . . one minute . . . she was beginning to think he had hung up when suddenly his voice came down the line again.
"OK Emma, I will give you an hour, but please be warned that I don't have many visitors. Come around next Sunday at 17:30, but no cameras."
Emma was over the moon. Perseverance had paid off and she had a meeting with the one last person who may throw some light on her studies. Emma Googled the journey and reckoned it would take just over an hour from her place in Andover to Malmesbury. So that was that, all that was left was to wait for Sunday to arrive.
And so the big day did arrive. Emma had chosen to dress rather conservatively, not knowing what to expect from Dr. Stewart and wanting to look as professional as she could. She had tied her ginger locks into loose pigtails, held in place by small black bows just below the ears. Up top she wore a rather tight fitting black halter neck over which she had a loose fitting cream sweater. As happened quite often, and being of the smaller bust, Emma had foregone a bra in favour of feel of the figure hugging material over her breasts. Down below she wore a dark khaki green mid-thigh length skirt, buttoned up at the front, and black opaque tights. An autumnal look for a cool Autumn evening.
The drive to Malmesbury was uneventful but given the short days at this time of year it was almost dusk by the time Emma reached the town. Now all she had to do was find Dr. Stewart's house, the strangely named Prymave Manor. Twenty minutes of following the SATNAV into what seemed to be the middle of nowhere seemed to take an eternity . . . take the next left, after 200 metres turn right, take the third left and, finally, with the last embers of sunlight drifting away, you have reached your destination.
Emma slowed down, conscious of the fact that she was in the middle of nowhere, no house in sight but just a driveway through a large wooded area. Then she spotted it, a rather weathered nameplate at the side of the entrance. Written in gothic letters was the name "Prymave Manor" and underneath the words "Private, Keep Out". For sure Dr. Stewart was right when he said he didn't want visitors.
She turned into the driveway and drove slowly down the road. It was taking her through an area of dense woodland, obviously a way of keeping the house hidden from the road. The driveway ended in a small parking area but still no sign of the house. From the parking area the driveway seemed to continue as a narrow gravel path. It was obvious that the journey would have to be on foot from now.
Climbing out of her car Emma took a look around. By now the sun had just about faded over the horizon and the area was rather dimly lit with a combination of the last rays of sunlight being replaced with the silvery glint of the moon. There was now an eerie spookiness about her surroundings. The woods that she had driven through suddenly looked to have come to life as silvery shadows danced and played in front of her. She scanned the path to see where it led. It appeared to run a little further through the woods before opening into a clearing, at the end of which was the warming glow of lights. Emma was now reassured that she had the house in sight.
It was barely a few minutes walk but in the dimness of the moonlight Emma's mind started to play tricks on her. Every noise made her hair stand on end. The crack of a twig in the trees, the hoot of an owl, the scurrying footsteps of a squirrel in the branches above. With every sound Emma was drawn into the darkness of some of the books she was meant to be researching. She had suddenly become a character playing out one of the stories.
Another owl, this time close by, caused Emma to stop in her tracks and take a good look around. "Don't be stupid," she thought to herself "it's just the sound of the country." Plucking up courage Emma marched on at double speed, paying as little attention to her surroundings as she could. Then, without warning, something grabbed at her, pulling her arm back. Emma screamed. Breathing fast and deep, she looked around to see who was there. Who? No, not who . . . what. It was nothing more than a low branch that had snagged her sweater. What was she thinking of. There was nothing out there, nothing to be scared of, after all this was twenty-first century England.
Finally, and not a minute too soon, the woodland thinned out to a clearing, revealing the house. It was not at all what she expected. First of all was the house itself, somewhere between a Gothic Church and a small Castle. It was made of stone, very similar in style to that used for many of the ancient abbeys. A large porch joined on to a central vaulted hall, with wings spreading out to each side, finally ending in octagonal three story high towers at each of the four corners. The second thing that Emma noticed was the state of the house. For sure it was in need of a little tender love and care, crumbling stonework adorning many of walls. One time decorative carvings had now become strangely disfigured gargoyles, each one seemingly watching Emma's every move. Again her mind was playing tricks on her. How could stone figures be watching her?
She walked slowly across the clearing, towards the front door. Emma didn't notice a fallen branch across the edge of the clearing. She stepped on the middle of it, the wood snapping with a loud crack, loud enough to cause a flurry of activity as birds and bats flew upwards into the night sky from every direction. She could take no more and practically sprinted towards the front door. Now doubting her decision, maybe this had been a mistake after all.
Pleased to have made the relative safety of the house, Emma examined the entrance looking for an obvious knocker or bell. There wasn't one, just a large wooden door. The door itself was a heavy and looked untroubled by the years of neglect that the house had obviously suffered. Emma tentatively knocked and waited. There was no answer. She knocked a little firmer and noticed that the door opened slightly.
