6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

T he sun hung low on the horizon, painting the Transylvanian sky in deep orange and blood-red hues as Jonathan Harker’s carriage rattled to a stop in a small, nameless village. The cobblestone streets were already emptying, shopkeepers hurriedly pulling down shutters and extinguishing lamps. An air of palpable fear seemed to permeate the very stones of the buildings.

Jonathan stepped out of the carriage, his legs stiff from the long journey. The driver and his attendants hastily unloaded his luggage, their movements quick and nervous. Their eyes darted to the darkening sky.

“Excuse me,” Jonathan called out, his voice unnaturally loud in the eerie quiet. “Can you take me to Count Dracula’s castle?”

The men froze, their faces blanching at the mention of the Count’s name. Without a word, they finished setting Jonathan’s bags on the side of the road and scrambled back into the carriage, whipping the horses into a frantic gallop as they fled the village.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Jonathan stood bewildered, watching as doors slammed shut and windows barred around him. ‘Why on earth is everyone retiring so early?’ he wondered, a sense of unease settling in his stomach.

Lucy’s teasing voice echoed in his mind: “This trip may be just what you need to finally sate your... desires.” Jonathan felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. ‘So much for sating my desires in this place,’ he thought ruefully. ‘Although, I suppose I should be grateful for the experience in Paris if it weren’t just a fever dream.’

The memory of those phantom hands caressing his body in that dark tent made him shiver, equal parts desire and shame coursing through him. ‘Get ahold of yourself, Harker,’ he chided internally. ‘You’re here to meet a client, not indulge in lustful fantasies.’ Jonathan fiddled with the spot on his wrist that still throbbed, though the wound he was sure was there was gone the morning he awakened. What happened that night seemed like a terrible and seductive dream that the solicitor was all too ready to leave behind.

As Jonathan watched, villagers hung garlic wreaths on their doors and straightened crosses above their lintels, their movements frantic and fearful. The words of Lucy’s servant, Bistra, came back to him: “In my homeland, we fear the Vampyr.” He clutched at the crucifix beneath his shirt, its weight oddly comforting against his skin.

‘Surely it’s all superstition,’ Jonathan reasoned, but he couldn’t ignore the eerie shivers that ran through him. ‘There must be a rational explanation for all of this.’

Before Jonathan could ponder further, the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones caught his attention. A sleek, black carriage emerged from the gathering darkness, its polished surface gleaming like obsidian. Intricate carvings adorned its sides, depicting scenes of hunt and chase that seemed to move in the flickering lamplight. The windows were shrouded in heavy, dark curtains, offering no interior glimpse.

A figure, cloaked in shadow, descended from the driver’s seat. Without a word, it began loading Jonathan’s luggage onto the carriage.

“Are you from Count Dracula’s castle?” Jonathan inquired. The figure nodded silently, gesturing for Jonathan to enter the carriage.

As they set off the winding mountain path, Jonathan was mesmerized by the landscape unfolding before him. Jagged peaks rose against the night sky, their snow-capped summits gleaming silver in the moonlight. Ancient forests cloaked the lower slopes, their gnarled branches reaching out like grasping fingers.

The air grew colder and thinner as they climbed, carrying with it the scent of pine and something else - something wild and untamed. In the distance, wolves began to howl, their mournful cries echoing through the valleys.

Jonathan’s ears pricked at an odd sound - the pattern of feet keeping pace with the carriage, accompanied by low, guttural growls. He peered into the darkness but could see nothing beyond the pooling shadows. Whatever followed them seemed to match the carriage’s speed with unnatural ease.

As the last remnants of daylight faded from the sky, the carriage finally arrived at the imposing gates of Count Dracula’s estate. Jonathan’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight before him.

The castle loomed against the night sky, a behemoth of dark stone and sharp angles. Towering spires reached heavenward, their peaks lost in the low-hanging clouds—gargoyles perched along the battlements, their twisted faces frozen in eternal snarls. The walls were thick and ancient, scarred by centuries of wind and weather yet still standing defiant against the passage of time.

A mighty iron gate barred the entrance, its bars twisting into intricate patterns that seemed to writhe and move in the moonlight. As the carriage approached, the gate swung open with a low, ominous creak that sent shivers down Jonathan’s spine.

The courtyard beyond was a study in neglect. Once-manicured gardens had run wild, thorny vines creeping up the castle walls like grasping fingers. A dry fountain stood at the center, filled with dead leaves and the remnants of stagnant water.

As Jonathan hesitantly stepped out of the carriage, the sound of padding feet and low growls intensified. Whatever beast had followed them had made it through the gates yet remained frustratingly invisible. Jonathan’s eyes darted about, trying to catch a glimpse of the creature to gauge its threat.

The shadowy driver shooed Jonathan away from the carriage, gesturing insistently towards the castle’s massive front doors. A thick mist began to rise from the ground, curling around Jonathan’s ankles and casting eerie, shifting shadows across the ancient stonework.

With each step towards the looming archway, Jonathan’s apprehension grew. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional mournful howl of the unseen creature and the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

As he reached the bottom of the stone steps leading to the entrance, Jonathan paused, looking back at the gate through which they had entered. It now stood firmly closed, cutting off the path back to the village.

Taking a deep breath, Jonathan turned back to face the castle. The massive oak doors stood before him, studded with iron and carved with scenes that Jonathan’s mind shied away from fully comprehending. As he raised his hand to knock, a gust of wind swept through the courtyard, carrying the scent of decay and something old, powerful, and hungry.

At that moment, Jonathan Harker felt isolated standing on the threshold of Count Dracula’s domain. He was a world away from the safety and familiarity of London. As his knuckles connected with the ancient wood, the sound echoing ominously in the stillness, Jonathan couldn’t shake the feeling that he was knocking on the gates of hell itself.