His Blood Runs Cold
I was only a young little thing when I heard the story of Vlad the Impaler. But now, he was known as Dracula, to almost all. My mother used to tell me that it was only a story, that there was no such man to ever have existed, "Like a silly old myth. A legend that was drawn out through the ages of time, twisted and mangled until it was unrecognizable." she'd say to me. Of course I would almost believe her, but when she wasn't around my father and brother's would convince me otherwise. I'd love hearing their stories, their tales of adventures with knights and kings and lost treasures. But when darkness struck over the lands and devoured everything in black we turned to myths, stories and tales to comfort and aid us in our search for peace. With the little knowledge my village contained we were exposed to dangers and open to attacks. We were weak and had nothing to turn to for guidance. But Dracula was one of those stories that we turned to for guidance. But in our search for salvation, for freedom of wicked things we found ourselves confronted with a dark force that we did not think that we would ever truly face again.
All had heard the tale of his becoming, of his creation. But not all had heard his true story, his life story of how he became to be called Dracula and be known for cruelty. Each person saw him as a danger, a threat to life and wished him dead or otherwise thought him just a story to tell children into scaring them into bed at night. I believe those wicked stories, those terrible ideas of limitless power and identity to last through the ages. Sometimes, as a girl, I would feel that he would be there watching me play with my brothers. Watching me grow up into a woman, learning, dancing, singing like someone of youth would do during work. But I was always reminded that it was silly and childish to think of a character watching me from a distance like a wild cat.
But could he be actually there?