A Vampire Released on Halloween

Author's Note

All characters involved in sexual activity are eighteen years of age or older.

This story is a submission for the HALLOWEEN 2026 competition. If you enjoy reading it, a vote will be much appreciated.

Thank you,

C. N.

August 8 1893

The Russian schooner Demeter was caught in a violent tempest off the Yorkshire coast in pitch darkness. It was carried on a sudden wave into Whitby Harbour and crashed onto the sand beneath East Cliff.

If anyone happened to be watching, they would have hardly seen the shape of a huge black dog bounding from the stricken vessel. The beast ran up the 199 steps towards Whitby Abbey, leaving behind the precious cargo of fifty boxes of Transylvanian earth.

All that wreckers or the authorities would find, would be the bloodless bodies of Russian sailors, and the corpse of the dead captain that I lashed to the wheel. The boxes of soil would seem to be a sorry joke and could be retrieved later.

Draining Lucy Westenra of her lifeblood was a mistake. A mistake that culminated with Harker slashing my throat with that Kukri knife, and Quincey Morris plunging his Bowie knife into my unbeating heart.

Neither fool realised that to me, steel knives were nothing more than a fleeting irritation, so I shape-shifted into dust before their eyes. They thought they'd turned me into ashes, and I was no more.

When their backs were turned, they didn't see the dust become a raven. The great black bird flew from my Transylvanian castle back to Whitby. It settled in a cave in the cliffs; where one box of earth I'd held back remained.

And there, I slept.

Nine years later.

Lying on the cold, damp earth, I consumed no energy. I could have lain another nine years. Time no longer meant anything to me. Centuries earlier in the Scholomance, Satan himself had taught me and nine others the secrets of nature, the language of animals, necromancy, and elemental magic.

His price? He wanted the soul of every tenth student. With that batch of students, I wasn't the tenth. The rest of us could leave with our new powers. When our time came, we would not die, yet neither would we live. That was our curse. An eternal undead existence, one that could only be ended with a stake through the heart.

I was his star pupil. As a reward, he also released me from physical laws pertaining to gravity and light. If I allow gravity to act on me, I can stand on the ground. If I do not, I can crawl up sheer vertical walls or along ceilings.

I am invisible. When light reaches me, I can choose to reflect it to creatures of my choice. If I do, they can see me--I can appear and disappear at will.

If they see me, then for them the light reflected. It did not hit whatever was behind me. For them, I cast a shadow.

If someone standing next to them, I did not allow to see me, then for them the light did not reflect. It passed straight through me and illuminated what was behind me. For them, I cast no shadow.

Unfortunately, reflective surfaces like mirrors are not creatures; For them, I cannot stop the light from passing straight through me, so nothing from me ever hits them to bounce back. I have not seen my reflection for hundreds of years.

My heart no longer beats, that would be a total waste of energy. Lack of oxygen cannot kill me. I can inflate my lungs to speak, but I no longer need to breathe. When stationary I consume no energy--once I let my mind go quiet.

Cold cannot kill me, neither can heat. I do not waste resources trying to maintain a specific temperature. I am whatever temperature I am. Sleeping in a cool cave makes me cooler than most, but it makes no difference to me.

I allowed nine years to pass; time for the hue and cry over Lucy to die down. On the night of April 22, 1902, my eyes flicked open, and I bared my fangs. It was no random date.

As I lay down to rest, scholomancy allowed me to select a date to be woken; a date tied to astronomical events. April 22, 1902 was a 'Blood Moon', a total lunar eclipse. I had the power to select any such astronomical event to stir me from slumber. It could be an eclipse, the arrival of a comet, a certain alignment of planets, or the supernova explosion of a dying star. I was not without opportunities to wake.

There would be another Blood Moon six months later on October 16. It was strange how those two months would eventually become so important to me. Vibrations or movement near me also caused me to wake.

When I opened my eyes, I felt no drowsiness, just a yearning for blood. My body was emaciated, and if I could have seen my face, I would have looked gaunt. A meal would quickly nourish me. I would not die no matter how much time passed without blood, but I would be very weakened.

Being weightless, I scaled the cliff easily and settled down amongst the gorse bushes on the heath above--a short distance from the path. When the sun rose, a victim was sure to tread that path.

I knew I would not drain them. The last thing I desired was be a hunted murderer again. I wanted them to survive and be unsure of what happened. They would awake bewildered, groggy, and perhaps a little faint through loss of blood.

They were often confused by the orgasmic pleasure they experienced when I fed on them. For some, that intense pleasure became a drug--they wanted more.

Slaking my thirst would allow me to slip into another long period of hibernation, so if they wanted more, they would be disappointed. Shortly after dawn, I heard her before I saw her.

She was singing some song I'd never heard before. Something that had probably got stuck in her head from one of those music halls that had become popular.

When she came into sight, I saw she was a young, blonde woman. Still singing, she swung a lightly loaded sack as she walked. I waited for the right moment, and then I turned my black, bloodshot eyes skywards. Staring at the circling gulls--I silently commanded them.

They treated her as a nest-raider, diving and pecking at her head. Her singing turned to screaming. I stood, and on sight of me, she ran towards me--expecting me to help her.

She was a buxom wench, but it was her neck I wanted. I covered her with my cloak and held her head to one side, her neck bared. The gulls turned away from us.

Placing my fangs over her common carotid artery I applied pressure; I sensed the slight, exquisite pop as her skin punctured. I continued to carefully bite deeper; she stopped struggling when my fangs entered her artery, and her screams turned into moans of pleasure. Then blood started pumping, I withdrew my fangs but kept my lips sealed over her wound. Each of her heartbeats pumped a gush of her lifeblood into my mouth; I gratefully gulped her gift, and a wave of total pleasure consumed me.

She also felt extraordinary pleasure, her hand was subconsciously between her legs, rubbing her privates. I stopped the flow, before she lost too much blood.

Keeping my lips around her, I used my tongue to inject my saliva into her punctures. Properties in my saliva caused fibrin strands to form at an accelerated rate. Two clots quickly plugged the wound, but I'd also injected enzymes, so the wound would take longer than normal to completely heal--making the next visitation easier. She was lucky, there would be no next visitation. She would heal--eventually.

The intensity of her orgasm, coupled with the adrenaline rush, had caused her to faint. I laid her down gently on the grass. Then I shape-shifted, and waited. I wanted to see what would transpire. She eventually sat up, looking very dishevelled, and confused. Her hand felt under her skirts, and she touched her damp underwear. Two men came along:

'Are you all right lass?'

'I... I think so, bloody seagulls attacked me. I think they pecked my neck. A tall, dark man shooed them away, but he's not here now. I didn't get chance to thank him.'

'Let's have a look at them peck marks,' said one of the men, kneeling down.

'Don't they look like them vampire bites Sam? I saw one of them bites a few years back.' he said, holding her hair out of the way and her head to one side.

'Yeah, but I think it were the gulls pecked her. Sun's up, and vampires can't stand the sun, can they? Makes them dissolve, or summat like that.'

'Let's hope so. We don't want none of them again, do we? Come on, Lass, let's get you into town, so the nurse can clean you up.'

They were wrong, sunlight weakens my powers, but it can't destroy me. In any event, we were in shadow.

After they left, I went back to the cave to sleep for another decade or so. In 1913 a climber entered my cave. He fell to his death--well, I threw him, and the sea took him.

Having been woken, I again took up a position near the path. On that occasion; it was a young man walking. I let him pass, and silently came up behind him. When I grasped his arms, he turned his head to see who was behind him. I sunk my fangs into him, and he went limp, he also moaned through his pleasure.

Male blood has a different taste, but is still as nourishing. When I lowered him to the ground, his prong made an obscene bulge in his breeches. A damp spot made it obvious that he'd released his seed.

I lifted him and dumped his body over a gorse bush. On waking, he'd think the thorns had pricked his neck. He was still erect as I moved away.

The last erection I had was centuries before. Having no heartbeat, no pump, I no longer inflate. The pleasure of the bite is more than a sexual high for me. The feel of a woman's body brings back pleasurable memories, but the bite? The bite is my orgasmic experience.

My decade-long hibernations continued until the 1960s. No suspicions were raised after feeding. My victims were left with two faint scars on their neck, and a fading memory of a weird experience. One victim every ten years, and because no real harm was done, it did not cause a panic.

During my waking moments I saw the flying machines, and the horseless carriages. Men were advancing in knowledge. I also noticed that attitudes were changing. Women no longer covered themselves, they even flaunted themselves.

Some were as bad as the prostitutes I saw in London. On the beaches they wore next to nothing--and sometimes nothing. Many were also taking drugs. That helped to disguise what I was doing to them.

Whitby was changing and I changed my sleeping habits. Morals had changed, and females were more... available.

I woke at the beginning of May and again towards the end of September. During those months, Whitby had many transient visitors. Holiday-makers they were called. They stayed in hotels and lodgings for a week or so. I could feed on them without causing suspicion. They left with their scars. If I fed on locals, more and more would notice common scars, and the jig would be up.

One of my favourite hunting grounds was Saltwick Bay, famous for fossils. I found it ironic, they were fossil hunting, and I was a fossil hunting them. I moved into position at night. If the tide was in, then by becoming weightless and invisible, I could hold onto the cliff and wait.

I rarely had to resort to male blood; there were plenty of females. I noticed year after year, many women coming back to the same spots in the bay where we'd had our previous encounters.

After six to twelve months, they were fully recovered. There was no danger of draining them, so I granted their wish and mine.

Like in the old days in my Transylvanian castle, I could walk up to them directly, and they would offer their necks willingly to me--with carnal lust in their eyes. Some wanted more, and came back the following day, but I never used them again so soon.

If they had died, if I had killed them, then they would have become like Lucy, one of the undead--vampires themselves. They would have their own bloodlust to slate and might start regularly preying, like Lucy did. That had to be avoided.

Biting them does not turn them into vampires--that is another vampire folklore fallacy. Breathers have no urge to drink blood--not until they become undead. Then it becomes a powerful desire, and they are given fangs to puncture their victims.

My risk came from new victims. I made sure I had only one new victim each May, and one each September. The rest I fed on were those I'd entranced in earlier periods of wakefulness. I drank my fill of those. There were no repercussions, and no investigations.

Feeding so well twice a year, and only sleeping for five or six months at a time made me feel younger.

Fashions continued to change, not for the better in my opinion, and then some calling themselves goths appeared. In many respects some were quite macabre-looking. I no longer looked so out of place compared to them. Shape-shifting into a bird, I watched them from rooftops. Then, I saw something unusual.

I saw ladies walking in the streets, dressed as I remembered ladies dressing. Respectful, modest ladies from Victorian times. I was excited to see them.

In the year 2010 I could no longer resist. I flew to the ruins of the abbey and became myself. I wanted to walk down into the town and observe them more closely.

Walking down those 199 steps that I last ran up as a dog, I saw people coming the other way. I chose to allow everyone to see me, so that meant I cast a shadow.

A normally-dressed man and woman were getting close. If I was a breather, I would have held my breath, waiting for the woman's scream. She didn't scream. Instead, I got an admiring smile.

I was shocked, for nobody had ever admired my awful appearance as an undead vampire. Women usually screamed the first time I approached them.

I looked at my hands. My brown, pointed talons still looked like they belonged to a corpse. Moving my tongue over my teeth, my long, sharp fangs were still there. I must still look like a horrific vampire.

When I was being hunted, I saw a poster describing me as having, 'dark, bloodshot, lifeless eyes.' Surely my eyes are unchanged?

When I reached the town, it seemed unworldly. There were more goths and people in costumes than I first thought.

Then I saw me, another vampire, a man dressed similarly, but in a theatrical way. When our eyes met, his eyes were yellow; he smiled, baring his impossibly white fangs, and he held out his hand with his thumb raised. What did that gesture mean?

It was centuries since I had been around so many people. I was not comfortable. The shops had huge windows, and I noticed that, as expected, I had no reflection. No shadow was reflected in the window either, but looking at the cobbled street beneath me--my shadow was still faithfully following me.

I read a notice board. This was a 'Whitby Goth Weekend', it welcomed Metal, Goth, Steam Punk, Victorian Dress, Horror, and had references to me, Dracula. I had quite a following in Whitby--or so it seemed.

I had no idea what Steam Punk was until I saw them. People dressed in a way I'd never seen before. Old-fashioned, but with contraptions, like pocket-watch parts decorating their clothing. Small telescopes or lenses fixed to the side of hats or leather helmets, what use are they on their hats?

One non-costumed woman was very forward; she put her arm around me and faced a man, presumably her husband. He held up a small rectangular device. Then he looked down at it, puzzled. He held it up again and looked even more puzzled. Then the woman went to him and looked at the puzzling thing herself.

She looked at me, then it, then me again. Then she started screaming hysterically: 'Vampire! Vampire! He's a real vampire! We took a photo together... and... and... he's not in it!'

The crowd started laughing at her, and I laughed too. Other people looked at the thing, and me, and just shrugged, they weren't bothered. I would love to have drained her--just to shut her accusatory mouth for good.

The Whitby Goth Weekend was repeated in April and October, year after year. It was always a date in April, and in October it was always All Hallow's Eve--Halloween. It became more popular as time went on. I altered my sleep schedule to coincide. I was living my best life, or rather, my best undeath. Sleeping, feeding on victims--many of whom were willing returnees, and I loved walking about town freely.

26 October 2026.

Dracula had slumbered since April. Soon, however, he would wake--entirely unaware that just over one hundred miles away, a woman in Sheffield was unwittingly preparing to meet him...

On the coming Friday, thirty-year-old accountant Eleanor McDonald would be attending the Whitby Goth Weekend for the whole three days. It was her favourite way to spend Halloween, and she wanted something new to wear.

She wanted to add a new dress to her growing collection of genuine Victorian garments. It had to match a late-Victorian walking and carriage parasol that had cost her £300. Its canopy was emerald green heavy-weight silk taffeta, decorated with clusters of faceted black glass jet beads. Her task now was to find a matching bustle dress ensemble.

Eleanor was browsing online to try to find the matching bodice and dress. She was searching the catalogue of a specialist textile sales auction house in London and that was where she found it:

Lot Description: A Fine Late Victorian Emerald Green Silk Taffeta and Jet-Beaded Bustle Dress

Estimated Period: Circa 1883--1885

Size: Equivalent to a modern UK size 8 (Extra-Small / Historic narrow-waisted proportions: approx. 31--32 inch bust, 23--24 inch waist)

Provenance: Removed from a private English country house collection of historic costume.

Guide Price: £800 -- £1,200

Eleanor was 5' 4" tall with a slender UK Size 8 physique. Her wavy auburn hair was shoulder-length, framing her pretty face, and flashing green eyes--hence the green dress. She had a modern, reproduction steel-boned corset that would safely nip her waist down to 20" when needed. None of her 130-year-old garments had their fragile seams strained when she wore them.

She already had six complete, wearable outfits spanning the late Victorian era (1880s--1890s) plus less structured pieces, and linen undergarments.

The most expensive items were the outer silk bodices and matching skirts ranging anywhere from £600 to £1200. Her complete collection had cost her around £7,500. Her reproduction corset was joined at the front with hooks, and she could lace herself into it unaided. Victorian women had such small, narrow feet, that she never found any genuine shoe or boot in her size. All her Victorian shoes and boots were reproductions.

She logged in to the auction website and placed a starting bid of £700 and maximum of £1280. All she could do now was wait and hope for the best.

Eleanor was passionate about everything to do with the Victorian era. She wanted a masterful man in her life. Like the heroes of the novels of that period. He could be flawed, but if basic integrity was there, he would do for her. She would be thrilled to find a Mr Darcy, even a Heathcliff.

She wasn't banking on a Dracula.

30 October 2026.

Shortly after dawn, Dracula was awake. There was no point going to Saltwick Bay, as the tide wouldn't be low enough for anyone to walk to the secluded areas of the beach, not until at least eleven-thirty. He walked along the Cleveland Way coastal path.

He sensed he was being followed, but his keen, animal hearing could detect no footfall. Nevertheless, he was being followed. Using his Scholomance gift, he lessened the effect of gravity. So light became his footsteps that they made no sound. He filtered out the North Sea waves below.

There it was, he could now hear footsteps. He smiled and slowed. The pursuer was close enough, so he stopped and turned. He smiled, and his ancient stained teeth and sharp fangs made his smile terrifying.

The woman following him also stopped. She was one of his, not from April, from last October, and she was ripe for the taking. She wanted to feel his bite again.

They were well away from Whitby and the holiday parks, on a remote stretch of the path. He held out his hand, indicating for her to walk off the path towards some gorse bushes. He followed her.

'Here will do,' he rasped, his throat unaccustomed to talking.

She stopped and turned, excitement in her eyes. A good-looking lady, probably fifty-five years old.

'Lie down.'

'Yes, Master.'

A century or two earlier, he would have totally drained her. He would have made her one of his brides. Now he would use her, just this once--as a next time there would surely be.

He knelt beside her, and plucked at her polo-neck sweater with his sharp fingernails; she'd worn it to hide the hoped-for puncture wounds from her husband.

'Off. Take it off.'

'Yes, Master. Please, have me in the same place, so I keep the same marks.'

She sat up and removed her polo neck then laid back on it. He hooked both of his forefingers inside the cups of her bra between her breasts. Then seemingly with no effort at all, but with super-human strength, he slowly tore the cups apart, separating them, baring her large breasts.

She licked her lips in anticipation, and wondered if he was going to bite her there instead of her neck.

Her breasts had long, erect nipples. He closed his mouth over her right one and sucked. She waited for the bite that never came. With his finger on her chin, he turned her face to the left, crouched over her and sunk his long fangs into the scars on her neck.

'Ahhh!, Yesss!' she moaned. With his foul lips on her neck; she could feel him gulping. Bucking her hips frantically she came; soaking her knickers that were already damp.

Her orgasm was far more intense, and stronger, than any of those her lovers had given her--and that included her husband. He was under the impression that his wife had just slipped out for a quick, early-morning walk.

She felt light-headed, and then she felt his tongue pressing the wound, healing her. He helped her sit up and passed her the sweater. He smiled, and she saw her blood on his stained teeth. It made her shudder. She pulled the sweater over her head, and when she pulled the neck down past her eyes, he was nowhere to be seen!

Dracula decided he'd enjoyed sucking her breast. It brought back memories from when he was alive and vital. However, the pleasure he derived from the bite surpassed any sexual experience he'd enjoyed in the past. Her breast felt good, though, he would suck the breasts of the next woman.

Eleanor had arrived at her Airbnb just off Church Street. She had to make a number of trips to and from her car with hat boxes, dress hangers, and finally her suitcase.

All hot and bothered, she decided to go for a walk to cool down; before getting into one of her outfits. The standard of Victorian dress got better each time she came, and some people's monster costumes were more frightening and realistic than ever.

With her expert eye she could see that one or two women, like her, had genuine Victorian outfits. Most ladies did not, theirs were reproduction or theatrical. That didn't bother her; it all added to the spectacle.

Eleanor saw a vampire who made no attempt to look handsome. He looked very authentic, so did his clothes. He didn't have the clichéd, 'Widow's Peak' hairstyle. His teeth looked disgustingly decrepit, but his fangs looked razor-sharp.

She saw his teeth when he smiled at her, and she hoped her face didn't mirror the disgust she felt.

Dracula smiled when he'd caught her studying him, He stroked his chin between finger and thumb.

Then she saw his fingernails were no better. She wrinkled her nose and moved on, threading her way through the crowd.

Eleanor saw that vampire again on her way back. He didn't notice her. He moved with an unusual grace--almost like his feet weren't actually touching the ground. As they passed each other, she could swear she felt a distinct cold draught, with a faint odour of soil.

An hour later she stepped out wearing a burgundy woollen walking suit with high-collared jacket. On the cobbles of Church Street, she genuinely looked like a woman transported in time.

Dracula saw her.

He instinctively knew that her garments were crafted when Queen Victoria was still on the throne. This woman made him feel anchored, no longer drifting through time.

Dracula followed her closely. His keen animal senses could detect her pulse rate, the carbon dioxide in her breath, and that she was in the ovulation phase of her menstrual cycle. By using his lungs in order to smell, he could even detect the dry cotton threads that held the seams of her garments together. He moved back, but he kept her in sight.

Then he recognised her as the woman who seemed appalled by his appearance. No matter, he had the power to win her over. Gliding through the crowd he got well ahead of her; then he turned and walked back, so that they came face-to-face.

When they did, Eleanor stopped abruptly. She wondered which side to pass.

He gave a slight bow and with his gravelly voice said, 'Ah! The lady that earlier found my countenance less than appealing.' He straightened his back and stood tall. 'And now I see you wearing such a splendid outfit; the like of which I haven't seen in a hundred and thirty years. I know its age--is that your age? Like me, does time have no consequence for you?'

She smiled broadly at his wit, and the fact that he'd kept in vampire character. 'I am honoured, Sir.' She gave him a slight curtsy 'Thank you, for your kind words. It is not often men have such perception regarding my clothes. Sadly for me, and unlike you, time does have consequence. These garments came from a historic collection.'

Dracula then realised he didn't have to hide anything about himself. This gorgeous creature would just think it to be an act. She might become irritated, wanting to know the 'real' him, but by then, she would be under his spell.

He held out his elbow and half turned, as an invitation to link arms. 'Would you care to promenade with me for a while? It would be a shame to waste the remainder of this unseasonably warm, sunny afternoon?'

She smiled and placed her hand on his forearm. His sleeve felt cool, and it also felt a bit damp. She said, 'The sun still has heat, yet your clothing feels cold and damp?'

'I'm afraid that is the inevitable result of sleeping in a cave, with nothing more than a box of Transylvanian earth for a bed,' he said, not quite believing how he could get away with admitting it.

She laughed, admiring his cosplay character voice. 'And that's why you smell of soil?'

Her enchanting laughter made him smile, and he answered, 'Precisely.'

'So how old are you?'

He gave a throaty laugh at her impudence. 'When I was a small child, I once asked that of my nanny. Her answer was an old Transylvanian saying. It translates to a phrase similar to Jonathan Swift's: "As old as my tongue, and a little older than my teeth." Perhaps Mr. Swift based his on the Transylvanian--only some 300 years later.'

This man was extremely good at keeping in character, and the conversation was amusing her. 'Your teeth do look very old, and so do your fingernails. So, please, tell me, Sir. How old are you?'

'I was born in 1422. Remind me, what year is this?'

'2026'

'So that would make me...'

She answered quickly, '604 years old.'

'That was quick.'

'I'm an accountant, so it was simple, and I think you're a somewhat yonderly old man who struggles with mathematics.'

Dracula laughed out loud and coughed. He was not used to laughing, especially twice in a matter of minutes.

It took him a while to compose himself. 'I am very old. At least, by your standards.'

'You look it! How did you achieve that look?'

'I was taught by a master,' he said, truthfully.

'Who?'

Dracula now needed to be careful with being truthful. He was enjoying her humour but felt it was time to conclude. She had stirred his desire. He wanted to taste her all over, suck her breasts, between her legs, and feed on her. If she would be in Whitby the next day--Halloween, he could wait. Otherwise it would have to be that night.

'Someone I met a very long time ago,' he said. Then he changed the subject. 'Will you still be here tomorrow?'

'I will. I'll be leaving late Sunday afternoon.'

'I have enjoyed our short walk. I'll look out for you Miss...?'

'McDonald, Eleanor McDonald. And you are...?'

'Dracula, Count Dracula. But you know that now,' he said, giving her a very intense look as he said it.

As he walked away, a chill ran up her spine. Somehow she did know. It was unreal, how could he be? But she knew he was. At the last second he had used his mental powers to implant that knowledge into her submissive brain.

Ducking into one of the many small yards off Church Street, he became invisible. He went back to follow her. Effortlessly climbing up a wall he walked on rooftops until he saw her. Then he followed her back to the rented house.

Eleanor was half-walking and half-running. When he saw where she was staying, he returned to his cave.

Eleanor closed the door and leant her back on it. She was out of breath and her mind was racing. It was just a story written by Bram Stoker. He can't be real, but I know it was him! What if it was a story based on fact? Why is he here? Why did he single me out? Why do I feel so aroused?

Back in his cave Dracula wanted her. Can I keep her? Make her my bride for eternity? I'll have to drain her, if I don't, she will remain mortal. Can I trust her, and control her? Or will she be like Lucy and go on a rampage? Tomorrow night, All Hallows' Eve--that is the most perfect night to take her as mine.

31 October 2026--Halloween

When Dracula woke, he didn't go out to feed. Instead, he walked the coastal path invisibly. He saw several women, and most were his past conquests, wandering aimlessly, searching for him, and hoping for him.

He moved aside to let them pass, but they sensed his presence. They each stopped and stared in his direction, but they saw nothing.

One, a goth in her early twenties stared for the longest time. A large girl with very big breasts and a low-cut neckline. He moved closer. Her pale skin contrasted with her black hair. One eyebrow, and her nose were pierced. She had many piercings in her ears. He could see the two small white scars on her neck from the last time he fed on her.

'M... Master, is that you?' she asked, her voice shaking. It was very tempting to invisibly feed on her, but he was saving himself for Eleanor. He had to have the appetite to drain Eleanor's lifeblood until she expired--all in one feed.

He aligned the tips of two fingernails with the girl's scars and gently touched her skin.

She flinched. 'Ah, yes Master,' she gasped, turning her head to one side and presenting her neck to him.

Instead of biting, he caressed one of her mammoth breasts. She inhaled sharply, but left her neck bared for him. He pulled down the front of her top and released her breast from its confinement.

'Ooh! Master?'

Her pierced nipple and areola reacted to the cool air. She turned her head to look. He placed his mouth over her teat and sucked. In wonderment, she saw her nipple pull out into his mouth, but it protruded into thin air. Then she felt his hand go under her short black skirt. She parted her legs to make it easier for him to feel her.

He could both feel and smell her arousal. She thrust her pelvis to rub herself against his fingers. Then she instinctively reached out to hold his cold, damp shoulders.

Her brain couldn't cope with holding someone she couldn't see, but someone she could feel. He was latched onto her nipple, and feeling her wetness, as she rubbed her pussy on his fingers. The sensory overload of an invisible master molesting her pushed her over the edge. She cried out as she came, and she almost collapsed.

Then she quickly re-arranged her clothing, as some people were approaching; a middle-aged couple enjoying a cliff-top walk.

They saw her in the distance doing a strange, pelvis-thrusting dance; with her arms held out in front of her, like a zombie. Then she bent forward, wiggled, and then stood up straight. She walked towards them.

They had been too far away to notice that she bent forward to coerce her ample boob comfortably back into her bra. When she walked past them, they did notice her chest and face were flushed.

When she was safely out of earshot, the woman said, 'I didn't know that was how goths dance, and fancy doing a dance like that out here!'

'Must be on something,' said the man.

Dracula found the whole experience very erotic and highly amusing.

That afternoon he went to the town. He saw Eleanor in a totally different outfit, yet again, it was absolutely authentic.

It was obvious that she was looking for him. He didn't reveal himself. The conversation would get too awkward too quickly. When she stepped out later that evening, then he would intercept her.

He found her mesmerisingly beautiful, and fascinating to watch. He thought about Lucy, the last woman to make him feel as he felt watching Eleanor.

Dracula visited Lucy several times, and he fed on her until she died. She became his, an undead vampire companion. Then that interfering Van Helsing, along with Lucy's former suitors, tracked her to her crypt.

There, they staked her heart, decapitated her, and filled her mouth with garlic. They did all that to ensure her permanent destruction, and allow her soul to rest in peace.

That memory made Dracula sneer, What did they know about souls and being undead? All they had to do was stake her. In any case, she was mine, not theirs to desecrate.

Dracula couldn't let that happen to Eleanor, yet he couldn't leave her alone. He had to have this one. His desire for her had become total. It was three-thirty, and the day was becoming colder. Sunset would be in another hour, and then his powers would be at their height.

He watched her turn and head back to her house, and he followed her invisibly. An upstairs light came on. Free from gravity, he crawled up the wall to peer in. It was her bedroom, and she was preparing to undress. The window was open slightly; he could shape-shift, enter, and watch. Instead, he left her with her privacy, crawled back down the wall, and waited.

Shortly before six o'clock, Dracula observed the increasing number of Halloween revellers on Church Street. They were making their way to the bridge in order to cross it to get to The Royal Hotel.

A Revenant IV alternative live-music event was being held at the hotel. There would be dancing, singing, and screaming until midnight.

The area surrounding Whitby Abbey, would be relatively quiet, and he'd selected St. Mary's Church as the perfect location for what he had in mind. Nobody would pay any attention to a scream, not at Halloween. And he didn't intend to make Eleanor scream, he knew she would succumb to his power.

He saw her approach the window and close the curtains. He waited and at six-thirty the bedroom light went out. Then the front door opened, and she stepped out. She was wearing her new emerald green dress.

There were still a number of Halloween revellers heading for the hotel. He would be walking with Eleanor in the opposite direction, as they threaded their way along the narrow street to the 199 steps.

Dracula approached her, he made her jump. 'Count Dracula? I thought you'd left Whitby, I didn't see you today.'

'Were you looking for me?'

Eleanor blushed. He knew the answer, but she said, 'Not exactly, but I hoped I'd bump into you.' Her heart was racing from a combination of fear and excitement.

'Why did you want us to meet?'

'I have some questions.'

'Ah,' he said, and held out his arm. 'Then shall we walk again and converse?'

She smiled and nodded then placed her hand on his arm. He felt even colder and just as damp.

'You'll catch your death in these damp clothes.'

'Death? Pah! That was a very long time ago. The undead cannot die, well at least, not from wearing damp clothes.'

'Must you always stay in character?' she asked, wanting to test him, and make him slip up.

'Must I always be me, do you mean?'

'Who are you really?'

'I've already told you. My full title is, Count Dracula. I am the last of the House of Dracula.'

'That is just a horror story,' she said, hoping she was right about that.

'I know of that story. I believe it was well-researched by Mr. Abraham Stoker. It was largely based on fact, but he used some artistic licence. It is possible for stories to contain some reality.'

She felt giddy, scared, and aroused. His power was affecting her mind. He was altering her perceptions.

'Are you going to hurt me?'

For four paces he was silent. Then he answered with, 'Never. I will cause you no pain.'

'Let me re-phrase that, are you going to harm me?'

He was then silent for several paces before he said, 'It depends on what you mean by harm.'

'Am I going to wish I'd never met you?'

They'd reached the first of the 199 steps that led to the ruined Abbey.

On hearing her question, Dracula felt a pang of pity, and that was the first time he'd felt that emotion as an undead. His head tilted to one side, and he gazed into her eyes. Then he dismissed the pity; because he was gifting her with eternity--for the both of them to enjoy.

He said, 'That is a question I cannot answer. Now, you have a choice. I am going to climb these steps, and the last time I climbed them was 133 years ago, in the form of a dog. I'm going to climb them again. You can follow me to your eternal destiny, or you can return to your house. The choice is yours.'

Dracula meant every word. If she had the strength to resist, he would leave her alone. Otherwise, he knew that he would not be able to control her, and she would become another Lucy.

He turned and started climbing, listening keenly. He could hear the tap of her feet on the steps. She had chosen to follow her master.

When Dracula reached the footpath to St. Mary's Church, he turned to the left and followed it, rather than continue on up to the abbey. He strode to the church door.

It had been open to visitors earlier, and closed at four o'clock. The door was locked, but that made no difference to him. At his mere touch, it unlocked and opened.

Dracula stepped inside and waited in darkness.

Moments later Eleanor entered, and she found the light switches. With the interior illuminated, her eyes landed on a cloth-covered table where there was a cross, and above it a stained glass window depicting Christ crucified.

'But if you are a vampire, how can you stand to be in this church?' she asked, looking around at various religious artefacts.

'A lot of nonsense circulates about vampires,' he answered.

'Prove it to me; prove you are who you say you are.'

He looked at her, and raised himself to his full height, then disappeared. He took two quick steps to stand in front of her, and then he reappeared. To Eleanor, the effect was devastating. It was as if he'd moved in an instant, but without moving. With a pounding heart--she offered him her neck.

Dracula held her in his arms, and moved his mouth towards her delicate skin. As he drew close he bared his fangs, and positioned them over her artery. She smelt divine, he could feel the warmth emanating from her. He savoured the moment, his fangs touched her flesh.

The feel of them penetrating her epidermis was about to consume him. He closed his eyes and started the initial bite--except his jaw didn't move. He tried again; his jaw was locked.

His bloodshot eyes flew open; he couldn't understand what was happening. Then, he was forcefully kicked in the chest--it sent him reeling backwards. Then another, Thump! Nobody touched him--the agonising blow came from within.

He groaned and doubled over in pain. He'd had no sensation of pain for centuries. Thump! That one hurt even more, and made him stagger to the door. He fled, screaming.

Eleanor snapped out of her trance and ran to the door. She saw him running and stumbling away from the church. She heard his cries of anguish, and saw his cloak flying madly behind him. Then he literally disappeared--before her very eyes.

Dracula reached the clifftop above his cave; he became visible long before he arrived there. It wasn't by choice; he could no longer maintain invisibility. Freeing himself from the pull of gravity; he started to crawl down.

He almost fell, but not because of the thumps to his chest. They had lessened in force, but they had become more frequent, and they were less painful. No, it wasn't that. It was because he was heavier than before, he was only partially free from gravity.

After scrabbling his way down, he reached the cave, and he collapsed onto his native soil. That would revive him, but he had no respite from the uncomfortable thumping.

Why couldn't I bite down? Dracula opened his mouth and closed his jaw. His jaw was working fine again, so he clamped his jaw tight to test it. A lightening bolt of searing pain ran through his jawbones and teeth. He relaxed his jaw, but that dreadful tooth pain remained. So severe was the pain, he could no longer lie flat in his box.

Dracula climbed out, and curled up in a foetal position on the floor of the cave. He groaned and rocked himself; he tried to will the pain away. He became breathless and had to keep breathing. What? I don't need to breathe.

Dracula held his breath, to prove to himself he didn't have to breathe. After thirty seconds, he had to forcefully exhale, then he inhaled deeply. He almost choked, because something lodged in his throat.

He coughed and spat it out into his hand. In the dark cave he couldn't see it, but in his fingers it felt like an incisor tooth. He put his fingers to his teeth.

They were all loose. Then one-by-one they were pushed out, and he had a mouthful of teeth. He spat them out. Three times he had to do that, until there were no teeth left, not even his canine fangs.

He felt his gums with a fingertip. Instead of soft, raw sockets there were hard bumps where his back teeth had been, and sharp edges in the front sockets. Then the fingernail came off in his mouth. He spat that out. He frantically felt his fingers. All the remaining fingernails were partially lifted.

For the first time as an undead vampire, he started crying. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he sobbed. The thumping in his chest was still there, but the pain had gone, and it was even and regular.

His heart was beating again, but that could not be! His breathing too, was measured and consistent. He felt his skin; it was cold due to being exposed, but when he put his hand inside his jacket, it felt warm. Am I alive again?!

He lay on his precious earth thinking it was all a bad dream, and in the morning all would be well. He fell asleep.

Eleanor was in shock. She had a hazy memory, and she couldn't recall why she was even at the church.

However, two very vivid memories of Dracula remained: In the church--when he moved without moving, and then him running away from her and literally vanishing into thin air. Why did my master run away from me? What did I do wrong?

She knew she would have let him do anything to her. Even though it was risky. She found it intoxicating to think she had found her master. Then he'd deserted her. It made her wonder if she would ever see him again.

1 November 2026.

Eleanor hadn't slept well, tossing and turning. A funeral, was it hers? No, because she was watching it. But her name was on the gravestone? He was holding her hand, and watching her funeral with her. Then he doubled up in pain and ran away. The dreams came and went, and in the morning she felt washed out. It was as if she hadn't slept at all.

Eleanor felt sad, like she had lost someone who could have been special. Today, the first of November, she'd always intended to wear her 1888 heavy, jet-beaded, black mourning bodice, along with a matching bustle skirt. Now that outfit took on extra meaning. After a light breakfast, she dressed, and at nine-thirty she decided to go and buy a coffee to clear her head.

Dracula woke at seven-thirty, he was cold and shivering. He climbed out of his box, and his joints ached. I never ache. What is the matter with me?

On the floor of his cave he saw teeth, his teeth, and his fingernails. He ran his tongue around his mouth. He had a full set of teeth, but no fangs. His hands, that were now pinkish-blue with the cold, had normal fingernails.

He picked up the teeth and dead fingernails he found on the floor, and he dropped them on the earth in his box. The moment they touched the soil, they smoked and turned to ash.

His feet were uncomfortable, so he removed his soft leather shoes. He'd also shed the cracked, brown toenails--they'd been replaced by new ones. The dead ones he also incinerated on his soil.

He was cold, hungry, and thirsty, but not for blood. The thought of drinking blood repulsed him. He left the cave to crawl up the cliff to go in search of food.

Dracula couldn't crawl up the cliff like a spider. He could no longer control gravity, so he had to climb. It was hard work, and he risked falling. By the time he got to the top, he was exhausted.

When he got his breath back, he set off for the town. There was a section of path that crossed a stream. A stream of clear water from the heath, that flowed under the path, and cascaded down to the sea. He went to drink from it; that was his thirst, a thirst for water.

He knelt down to dip a cupped hand into the stream. The first sip tasted good. He went for another handful, and he recoiled in alarm. What the...?! In the water was something he didn't notice the first time he dipped his hand. His reflection.

Dracula tentatively crawled to the water's edge and peered down. Looking back at him was a face he seemed to recognise. Himself, aged forty, the age he was when he died.

He smiled and saw a row of perfect white teeth. His eyes had life in them, but he'd need a mirror to tell what colour they were. He disturbed the water with his hand; to make sure the reflection was still there when the water settled. It was!

He put his hands together; one felt warm, the one that had been in the water felt cold. Dracula then knew for certain--he was alive again!

Whooping for joy, he ran down the path. He wanted to find Eleanor, to try to apologise and explain. He met a woman coming the other way, and he didn't care if she was one of his or not. Putting his hands on her shoulders he danced around her shouting, 'I'm alive!' Then he carried on running, and whooping--leaving a bewildered woman with a story to tell.

Dracula had to stop and get his breath back. He had his hands on his knees as he panted. A spaniel appeared and started sniffing his leg. It hadn't growled like dogs usually did. They growled because they could sense what he was. They would growl in his direction, even when he made himself invisible to them.

Their instinctive fear made their growls grow louder, and then they would start snarling, and baring their teeth. When he used his powers to reassure and command them, they would slink away. He realised he had no idea what this dog was thinking. His powers had definitely left him. The dog's owner walked past:

'Morning,' said the man.

'I'm alive,' replied Dracula,

The man stopped to look at him. 'Bit of a heavy session last night, was it?' he asked.

'That is one way to describe the events of last night,' replied Dracula.

The man gave a wry smile, shook his head, and continued on his way. Dracula decided to display less exuberance.

Eleanor finished her coffee, but her melancholy mood was still with her. She decided to go home early. There was no point staying in Whitby, not feeling as miserable as she did.

Walking back, she decided to at least take a souvenir home with her. She passed a gift shop that sold articles made from Whitby jet, and she stopped to look in the window. She was spoiled for choice and undecided.

A softly spoken male voice said, 'Are you looking for anything in particular, Eleanor?' Her eyes focused on the window glass, and she saw the reflection of a man standing next to her.

She turned her head to look up at him. He was gorgeous, and she was lost for words. She just stared at him. Finally, she said, 'How... How do you know my name? Have we met before?'

'You don't remember me, do you?'

Eleanor looked at his handsome face, his shoulder-length, wavy dark hair, and his gentle brown eyes. She was certain that she'd never seen him before. Then she looked at his clothes, and she recognised them instantly. She moved her face closer to sniff them and smelt soil. 'D... Dracula?'

He just nodded and smiled, a perfect smile, not a terrifying one with awful teeth.

Eleanor became annoyed, and her annoyance showed in her face. 'This was you all along?' she demanded, hardly believing her eyes. She felt foolish to be so taken in by a very clever actor--wearing makeup and prosthetics.

'It is who I was. It's a long story, but this is how I looked 564 years ago, when I was killed by an Ottoman sword. I was a Wallachian warlord, and in a battle against the Turks my luck ran out. Then I came back as the Dracula you met. One of the undead. All because of a very unwise choice I made. A choice made a few years before my death. I'm glad I did make that choice, though, because it led me to you. You released me from my curse last night. I've lost my powers, but I don't care.'

She looked at him in total disbelief, then slapped his shoulder hard, and cried out, 'Oh, stop it! Just stop it, will you?!'

His words had slammed her right back into her previous state, trying to cope with knowing to be true what couldn't be true. Could it?

Tears started to well up in her eyes.

He hated to see her so upset, and said, 'I'm telling you the truth. I'm hungry, but for food--not blood. I have no money, I never needed money. I don't exist--I mean no record of me exists. I have no home; just a box of soil in a cave. I'm looking for some way, someone, to help me get on my feet, and I'm hoping that someone is you. I will tell you everything, but for now, please. I'm hungry for bread. I will find some way to repay you.'

The sincerity in his expression, and in his voice, was undeniable. Eleanor's heart started pounding. This man was helpless, yet he still spoke with an unmistakable tone of absolute authority. He wasn't too proud to seek help.

She stood silent, looking into his eyes. Because she was deep in thought, her expression became impassive. He looked back at her with a sincere expression: no guilt, no wondering if she believed him, just complete resignation, and a readiness to accept her decision.

Five, then ten seconds passed. He gave a slight, philosophical smile, and seeing no reciprocation--just an unfeeling stare; he sighed and turned to walk away. Eleanor held his arm to stop him.

She gave him a warm smile, and then said what she'd been thinking, 'Yes, of course I'll help you. I think I know how to get you a legitimate identity. We'll have to use a name other than Dracula. But, first, let's get some food inside you.'

What convinced her was an unshakeable certainty. She was certain that her memory of his supernatural abilities was very real. Taking hold of his hand, she led the way to the house. It was a very old house, and the doorway was lower than normal; he had to lower his head.

'How tall are you?' she asked.

'I don't know, taller than many men. Why do you ask?'

'Curiosity, but also because we'll need to get you some new clothes.'

She filled a kettle and switched it on. When it started making a noise, he reached out to touch it.

'Oh, be careful! It gets hot.'

Eleanor realised he had so much to learn. The Airbnb had no stocked pantry. All she had left were a few slices of bread, some milk, and a fruit bowl with an apple, and three bananas.

She picked up a banana. 'I think we need to be gentle with your stomach, bread might be too much for your first meal.'

After breaking the stalk, she passed the banana to him. He turned it around in his fingers. He was sure he had seen this fruit before and was trying to remember where. She motioned with her fingers what he had to do to peel it.

He sniffed it, then tentatively peeled it. She found it fascinating to watch.

Dracula took his first bite of solid food in 564 years. His taste buds exploded, and he raised his eyebrows. He swallowed and coughed slightly. He took another bite, and another, and another.

'No, slow down,' she said. 'You might throw up if you eat too quickly.'

Eleanor made herself a cup of tea while he ate. She would only let him drink water at first. They both sat at the table. Eleanor with her tea; Dracula with the last banana, and a glass of water.

She thought of all that needed to be done. A documentary she'd watched was about a boy born and raised by off-grid parents. His birth was never registered; he was schooled by his parents and never went to see a doctor or dentist.

He only came to the attention of the authorities when his father died, and his mother was too ill to help. At the age of thirty-four, he'd walked miles to get help from those he'd been warned all his life to avoid. Then he was integrated into society. That would be their story--an undocumented adult. There would be no evidence anywhere to prove otherwise.

When Dracula finished eating, she asked him to follow her upstairs. In her bedroom she said, 'I'm going shopping to buy you some clothes and shoes, I'll guess your size and take back what doesn't fit. I'm not walking down clothing aisles in this bustle skirt, please, help me get out of it.

When she was stripped down to her corset and pantalettes, the sight of her made him stir. Once he felt that sensation, there was no stopping it. Pulse after pulse filled him.

Eleanor unfastened his cloak, and let it fall to the floor. She raised his heavy, studded leather sash over his head. It had tarnished silver attachment-points for weapons long gone. She placed the sash on the floor.

Then she unbuttoned his brocade jacket. When his arms were out of the sleeves, she carried it to the wardrobe and placed it on a hanger; keeping the damp jacket away from her clothes. Without his long jacket to conceal his loins, she saw his tight, earth-caked woollen hose did nothing to hide his state of arousal.

'Follow me, please.' she said, with a slight tremble in her voice. That tremble was a result of knowing he was aroused at the sight of her.

In the bathroom, she started to run a bath for him. 'Strip,' she said.

He pulled his linen undershirt over his head. She gasped.

He had the muscled arms and torso of the warlord he once was. Eleanor was now the one with the uncontrollable sexual response.

She took a deep breath before saying, 'Everything.'

'But...' He glanced at his predicament.

'You're a man, it's to be expected.'

He still didn't move.

She sighed, 'Oh, if it makes you feel better...' She took down and stepped out of her pantalettes. 'There... Now we're even.'

Seeing her auburn tuft nestling between her legs made him swallow. He pointed at her corset.

Eleanor huffed, she released the hooks holding the front together, and let her corset fall to the floor. She then felt vulnerable, the hunger in his eyes aroused her further.

Dracula used his feet against each other to remove his soft leather shoes, and he felt glad that he'd emptied out the toenails he'd shed.

He peeled down and removed his hose, and stood before her unashamed. His rigid shaft pointing out and upwards, throbbing with every heartbeat. Both now naked, she moved to stand in front of him, and wrapped her hand around his hardness. It felt warm in her hand.

Dracula lowered his face to hers and kissed her, softly at first then with urgency. She started to stroke his erection; he groaned, and spun her round. He positioned her in front of the hand basin.

She placed her hands on the edge of the basin and stood on her tiptoes, legs parted slightly. One of his hands reached around her and cupped a breast, and the other felt between her legs from behind. His finger easily entered her; he was verifying that she was ready. There was no need for him to do so, for she was very wet.

Spreading his legs to lower his groin; he moved his tip between her lips and found her entrance. She felt herself stretch to accept him.

He groaned as he entered her warm tightness, and he pushed into her slowly. After a few inches he withdrew, to allow more of her lubrication to coat him. Then he slid all his length inside her.

Eleanor gasped; she felt his thick tool touch her cervix. He felt it too, and withdrew slowly. Before he was fully out, he rammed back inside her; his loins slapping against her pale, soft cheeks.

That became his staccato rhythm, almost a second of slow withdrawal before slamming back inside her to the hilt. He grunted with every forceful thrust; she gasped and whimpered. Her hips jerked her body forward with each thrust.

Eleanor was loving it, her master was taking her, making her his. This wasn't love-making, it was pure possession. She had no birth-control, and she didn't care. She didn't want him to be the last of the House of Dracula. Together, they would re-establish it, not as it was, but how it could be.

Her orgasm started to build with that thought, each of his manly, rutting thrusts began to make her squeal.

Hearing her squeals brought him close. She felt so tight. The sight of his member stretching her, sliding inside her, her small and perfect frame, her buttocks cushioning each thrust, her ecstatic cries, it was an experience more erotic than any he could remember.

He wanted this; he knew she was ovulating, and he wanted nothing more than to impregnate this woman, with a boy or girl--it didn't matter. They would be loving parents. He would teach their son how to be a nobleman, their daughter a noblewoman. It would be in their blood--his blood.

He was now fucking her with no slow withdrawal, and no respite. Rutting into her, pounding her with thrust after thrust.

'Yes! Yes! More! Don't stop! Give it to me! Like that! Don't pull out! Come inside me! Make me pregnant! Please! Ahhh!'

Hearing her cries, telling him she wanted the same thing, hearing her orgasm, and feeling her vagina clamping him, it made him start his climax.

It started in his loins, then quickly consumed him. He held himself deep inside her, and pulsed forcefully to inject as much of his seed as possible into her womb.

They were both panting; with their heads down. Then she noticed the bath starting to overflow. She reluctantly let him slip out of her, so she could turn off the taps.

As she bent over the bath to do so, he saw some of his semen seeping from her nether lips. Knowing he was in full working order caused him to smile gratefully.

The price demanded for his release from the curse was to become mortal. A price he was more than willing to pay. He could now enjoy a normal life. They could grow old together. How she managed to release him, and what magic she used--he didn't know.

He wondered if the Evil One perhaps had a heart after all, or was it because he tried to take her inside a church?

Eleanor's strategy worked. Count Dracula, sorry, Drake McDonald, was accepted as an undocumented adult. Together they now run an antique clothing, uniform, and weapons business.

Their most valuable stock, not for sale, is his own broadsword, jewelled dagger, and dress uniform. To obtain those items they had to travel to modern-day Romania.

He'd explained to Eleanor that the undead didn't receive a handbook or career advice. He was on his own, and the first thing he did was to open his grave to retrieve his best uniform, sword, and dagger.

They had been preserved with combinations of beeswax, mutton fat, herbs, and aromatics, then placed in oak chests and sealed clay containers--all hidden in a difficult-to-reach, dry limestone cave. Miraculously, they were undiscovered, and when opened, the contents were remarkably well-preserved.

So if you happen to visit Whitby at Halloween over the coming years, you might see a beautiful, well-dressed, auburn-haired Victorian lady. If she's pushing a baby in an antique perambulator, check to see if she is accompanied by a tall, dark, Wallachian warlord. If she is, and he's keeping a firm grip on the hand of an excitable young viscount, then perhaps you might remember this story--and start to wonder.