Darak 7- Night of Nosferatu

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Warning: Graphic Violence and Sexual Content

"I'm not going out of my way looking for devils; but I wouldn't step out of my path to let one go by."
-Robert E. Howard

Germany. The Middle Ages...

Alan packed his sack in the darkest hour of night, crickets chirped as he double checked his father's cabin. He hadn't forgotten a single thing. With his dagger in hilt and boots tied, the twenty-nine-year-old snuck out of his bedroom. He wanted the taste of freedom. Now he was going to force it. Playing nice was done.

The bedroom door creaked as he stepped out. The front door to the outside world he longed for was within a few steps from where he stood. Alan walked across the floor, careful with every step.

The man's frumpy father, Bill, slept on a couch, snoring loudly. His belly is round, and his beard long. A mug of beer sat on the floor, stolen from a tavern.

Alan opened the front door and made his way down a dirt path. He hurried his way from the cabin he knew so well.

His jacket did well to keep the chill of the breeze out, his shivers came not from weather. But came from the sheer unknown horror of what lurked outside.

On both sides of his path was a large cornfield. Which rustled with raccoons and opossums.

On a long walk away from home, while his dad was in a drunken rage, he fantasized about his future life. He knew there was a house somewhere. A cabin that he had passed on long walks. Abandoned for some unknown reason, but he knew it would be far enough away from his dad's home.

After what seemed like miles of walking, Alan sat against a tree. Any creature would be better than the abuse he suffered his entire life at the hands of his dad. Or so he thought.

"Evening." A voice called from the darkness, a whisper that caused Alan to stand up and clutch his sack tightly.

"Y... yes? Who am I speaking to?" Alan stuttered, his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark trees ahead of him.

"Someone wondering what a young man like you are doing all alone in the dead of night." His accent was Romanian. Unmistakable.

The newcomer stepped out from behind an enormous tree trunk was an emaciated figure. His eyes held dark circles, skin pale. Fingernails long, pointed, and full of dirt. Ears pointed like an elf. A black robe covered this sickly-looking body, his height much greater than Alan. He was taller than any man he had seen.

Icy wind blew. The skinny figure walked, but it was unlike any walk Alan had seen. It was more of a glide, and yet his feet remained planted to the ground.

The man yelled at the creature of the night as it leaped through the air like a demented frog. Alan fell backwards with a thud, his sack full of food flew from his hand.

The vampire clutched the man's throat and pressed his pointed nose to his cheek and inhaled deeply. "Young blood. Virgin too." He licked Alan's cheek. "The taste of innocence." Hissed the count.

"P...please. Don't kill me." Stuttered Alan, a tear fell down his cheek.

"Kill you? What a waste." The vampire chuckled, an evil chuckle that would send anyone into a nervous fit.

The count had Alan pinned to the ground. For a skinny monster, he had the strength of ten men.