August 2nd, 1789. The moon had turned a bloody red and the heavens poured viscous droplets of crimson that were hotter than boiling water. People took to their shelters, their skin semi-scalded by the heat. It was an inexplicable series of events.

  The Georgian sailors hailing from Batumi reported that halfway across the Black Sea, there was a line of demarcation spotted before the sundown. Upon the use of a telescope, they observed a line where the darkened, green waters of the sea had visibly turned a vibrant crimson. To add to it, the bloody rain had only begun when they crossed that point of no return. It scalded and burned the crew, prompting all hands in the holds of the ships. Many crews turned back, cutting their losses. For they believed they had angered the gods in some way or another.

  Other merchants braved the storm, refusing to cut their losses, assured by their trades awaiting them at the port of Constanta. The rains only seemed to worsen, the bloody moon beckoning to them like an abusive parent. As though silently giving them a warning they refused to heed.

  The peasants spent their time under any cover they could, their humble domiciles now a much needed refuge. Those who had the greatest faith in their lord would stretch their hands to the sky, as if to ask- Why lord?

  It was a necessary question, for what other than God… Or rather, do the Gods themselves achieve such a violent action? For what did the blood signify? For what did it all mean?

  Mothers held crying children close, attempting to blow away scalding burns with their soothing breath, but it did little to soothe the pain of the young ones. Fathers and mothers alike took to making the sign of the cross, placing their palms together and interlocking their fingers. For surely, God must hear them.

  Little did they know, God would not hear them tonight. For this was only the first stage of the spell, for the true violence was yet to come, the true bloodshed. Where creatures of the night would be made of innocent people. Until naught but monsters remained.

  For the cause of their problem was not very far from where they resided. Just northwards of the city of Bucharest, resided a castle of stone, nestled amidst the hills.

  The castle would be the kind that architects of the time would dream of, but could never quite hope to create with the technology of their time. It was beautiful, the bloody moon serving as a backdrop to the wonderful stone walls and the intricate designs. The gargoyles, while menacing, were not required to ward off anyone foolish enough to approach the structure.

  It sat atop the valley of the Carpathian mountains at an impossible angle. It had no moat, nor any traditional defense, for the valley itself provided the defense needed for it. The trees nestled amongst it seemed to indicate that it was the cause.

  While the peasants toiled in turmoil, a huge, lumbering figure sat within the solitary castle, burning with rage that could not be quelled. He gripped on a glass of crimson, holding the stalk of the metal cup. He swirled the liquid around distastefully, for he didn’t have much of an appetite. He hungered for vengeance and as he saw the crimson pour downwards, his lips quivered into an involuntary smile.

  He had doctored this spell as punishment, drawing from his knowledge of the ancient texts that he had spent hours poring over. This was only the beginning, the rain, while bloody, was not true blood. For when the creatures of darkness descend into the land of Transylvania, Wallachia and Moldavia. That was when everything would come to a rightful end.

  A purge, a rightful purge for the vermin of the land that did not deserve the kindness of his sweet Alina. His dear Alina, who had done no wrong, but had only been wronged by everyone.

  He downed the metallic liquid, the tang oh-so-pleasant on his tongue. The count wore a robe that covered him and kept him cozy on this rainy afternoon, but he presumed with the humidity outside, he wouldn’t have needed it in the first place.

  Banging on the doors. They were no ordinary doors, weighted and a height of 20 feet. Inoperable by the typical human, save for the servants of this household. The man with the sharp beard and the long mane of black hair arose from his plush seat, his skin white and sickly like a ghost. Satisfied with his drink and his thirst for suffering, he knew who to expect.

  The door burst open, thrown open by seemingly supernatural strength. Stepped in were his first progeny. Two tall sons that bore a striking resemblance to him.

  The first one, the oldest, stood off to his left, wielding a longsword of silver in one hand as though it weighed nothing in his grip, his hair too was long, but his face was with a clean shave. His poise regal and his royal clothes, a cloak and some fine trousers with a loose tunic. His eyes were reddened with anger and injustice.

  Beside him stood the younger one with short, tousled hair and an air of confidence about him, wielding an atypical weapon, a chain and a sickle, one he had acquired on many journeys eastward. He wore much more atypical pieces of clothing, not common of the locality, a coat with tails that seemed to reach its knees.

  Both their blades were caked with blood, a sign that the servants and the guards that lorded over this castle were no more, leaving only the master himself to protect himself.

  The man in the cloak wiped his lips with the pads of his index before asking with amusement and underlying rage, “You’ve come to stop me, haven’t you?”

  “We’ll bury you for good, father,” the oldest said with venom.

  The man let out a full bellied laugh, his nails descending into full-bellied claws as he prepared to confront his own descendants. The sons too held their weapon at ready, anticipating no less than deadly intent.

  “You lot are the dullest fools I’ve met! Do you not see why I do this!? That they deserve it!?,” he questioned with madness.

  The youngest spoke curtly, with a certainty and wisdom that belied his age, “Mother would've never agreed to this, no matter what you say.”

  “And you claim to know what your mother desires, Vincent…?,” the man spoke in a quiet, deadly tone before bursting out, “You’re no more than a bastard son of mine!”

  Vincent remained unflinching at the narration and the wild gesticulations, his chain and sickle held poised. It wasn’t the first time he had heard that from his own sire, and he presumed it would not be the last, lest tonight change history.

  “You’re too cruel to Vincent,” the oldest intercepted, “You’re not my father. He was a man of superior science, a man of reason and logic. And he would never dare to call his children bastards. Vlad Tepes is no more… All that remains is-”

  “Dracula!,” the huge man yelled to the heavens in confirmation, his long hair flailing wildly as he grabbed the table and knocked it over.

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  The wood clattered on the floor, a few drops of blood spilling on the floor as the chalice that he had drunk it from clunked to the floor, “For what these accursed Wallachians have done to me!”

  The man was a picture of an angered dog. As if possessed by rabies, he had begun to lash out on his surroundings, breaking furniture of the home that all three men had once cherished. Everything had changed the night a week before, when everything had gone wrong.

  The passing of Alina Tepes had driven the count to nothing short of madness, forcing the still-grieving sons to take up responsibility for the father’s vengeful magic.

  “Call it off,” Alucard, the oldest son, pleaded, attempting to find the rational man who had raised him so lovingly, “We can still fix this.”

  The rain continued to beat against the window, a reminder of the urgency of the situation as the men stood in silence, awaiting a response. The count’s face stilled in a mix of complex emotions, trying to process with it, before twisting his expression into a scowl that would impress the devil.

  “Never! Never! They are all to blame! They are rotten to the core! The church! The people! They cheered as they-”

  “ENOUGH! YOU KNOW NOTHING!”

  Vincent’s chest heaved as he interrupted his father, he could not hold back any longer. His voice echoed through the earthy stone halls.

  “Mother was a woman of the church!,” Vincent yelled, incapable of holding back his emotions.

  Alucard figured that their father was beyond reason, the only way to end this was to dispatch him from the mortal realm. He held his blade up in front of him, chanting a prayer, for mercy for his father’s soul. For Dracula himself was hellbound.

  “Vincent, on me.”

  Vincent nodded, he knew how to work with his brother, he spun the sickle on the chain, the silver glinting malevolently in the light. His movements crude but powerful, his frame short and stocky.

  Alucard moved with lightning speed towards his maddened father, aiming to pierce the man’s gut. The count moved with the grace of an acrobat, deftly sidestepping and reaching forward with long sinewy limbs to hold the hilt of his older son’s blade.

  There was a struggle to gain control over the blade, in that moment, there was the sound of the clattering chain whizzing through the air, the sickle flying towards the long-haired count. The man stepped back, but barely made it. He felt the blade graze his left cheek and the sensation burned.

  The count’s eyes burned with renewed hatred as he lifted his fingers to stem the floor of blood. He brought the bloodied fingers to his lips and licked it off. He stared at his younger son with a hatred that no father would ever have.

  “You were always a pain! Your mere existence has affected my ties with Styria! Curse befall you!”

  He lunged at Vincent. He had been blind with rage, projecting his failures onto the younger man. He had no goal but to dispatch his younger son, an act he believes he should have done years ago. But in that moment, Alucard quickly regained his footing, his blade whirring through the air, the silver flashed blindingly and it was accompanied by the squelching of flesh as the metal tore its way through the count’s abdomen and out through the back of his cloak.

  Dracula sputtered out a few meaningless babbles, the pads of his palms clawing at the sharp blood as blood gathered at the corner of his lips. He looked on at Alucard in betrayal, the bloody rain outside the window panes had seemed to stop, as though reflecting the twilight of the centuries old vampire.

  “Y-You… How dare… You…? Neither of you…,” he spoke between ragged, breathy curses.

  “I know, father.”

  Alucard, despite himself, felt a few droplets of traitorous tears gather in his eyes, this was the man who had raised him to adulthood and to take his life with his very own hands proved to be a daunting, but necessary task. He blinked them away before twisting the blade deeper. Vincent simply stood from afar as he walked forward to speak his final words.

  “Goodbye, father, mother would be sad," he whispered into the ears of his sire.

  “K-heh… You are disrespectful, uncouth… This is not the end… I assure you… This is NOT-!”

  In a sudden surge of strength, he pushed Alucard off him, extricating himself of the longsword before vanishing into the darkness in the blink of an eye. Alucard had fallen back, his heavy and tall frame knocking into Vincent, blowing them both over in a tangle of limbs.

  The hall fell eerily silent, as if there were no third life just a few moments ago. The brothers had to take a few seconds to recover and untangle themselves.

  They scrambled to their feet, looking for a trail of blood to follow, but alas, a cold trail. But the rain did not resume, the terror over Wallachia, Moldavia and Transylvania was no more. It provided a brief respite from the nerve wracking urgency of the situation.

  “We have to finish him!,” Alucard said whilst rushing to his feet, sensing that he had made a grave mistake by not going straight for the heart.

  Vincent grunted in response, grabbing his weapons as they split up to search for their sire, but alas, the castle was abandoned. An empty vessel. For where was Dracula? With wounds that were fatal, he could not recover any time soon, nor could he move too fast.

  The rain had faltered altogether, the moon had returned to its yellow hue. The peasants and the merchants stepped out in confusion and amazement. Perhaps the Gods had heard their prayers, but only two people knew what had happened. And bearing witness to this was the portrait of Vincent’s mother, Alina, whose face now had been sprayed in blood from the violent encounter. Her smile seemed to mock the broken family, her death having caused complications beyond what she herself would have envisioned in her time alive.

  “He’s gone!,” Vincent said in an exasperated, breathless tone, having finished his search.

  Desperation and despair was apparent in Vincent’s tone as he continued, “He’s really gone! We had him!”

  “I know… But he won’t be coming back hastily. He needs a long time to heal,” Alucard said while taking a seat, his limbs aching from the encounter and the ones preceding it.

  “He’ll be back, I know it,” Vincent said bitterly, while crossing his arms.

  “Then we’ll have to be ready for when he returns.”

  Alucard spoke with the responsibility of the oldest and pureborn son. He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  “What of the castle?,” Vincent asked while glancing around.

  “What of it? Let it remain. I have a few ideas for the future.”

  That marked the end of the bloodiest night in Romanian history.

  Traders, peasants and royalty described it in vivid detail from different perspectives. Written and preserved.

  The church chalked it up to the immense sins of the people, that God had shown his hand and that the people must pay. This sparked great debate amongst even the most skeptical of the lot. Many who had been neglecting their religious duties had gone to see it.

  The sailors from neighboring countries too reported similar tales, chalking it up to their Gods and their wrath.

  But despite all the stories told, it was still perceived in the modern day as nothing more than legend. For people didn't know about the true reason. And ultimately, it became a story for Romanian mothers to scare their children into bed.

  Go to sleep or God will make the sky rain blood.

  If you liked the way that this chapter was written, or if you find anything at all, please do leave a review or a comment, or anything. I'm open for discussion and criticism.

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