Shivers

Dracula The Untold Story That Inspired The Legend

In the dark heart of 18th Century Transylvania, in a small village obscured by the dense woods and jagged mountains, there existed a secret so terrible that it was only whispered of in hushed tones. The village, a place of dread and superstition, was shrouded in shadows and cloaked in fear. But it was not the natural landscape that inspired such dread; rather, it was the macabre tales passed down through generations, of a creature so vile, so terrible, that even the bravest dared not speak her name.

Piotor and Rafael, two grave robbers down on their luck, found themselves in this forsaken village, drawn by the promise of riches and treasures long forgotten in the village's dilapidated cemetery. They arrived under the cover of darkness, for it was said that the dead were restless, and the village folk believed that the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead was thinnest at night.

As they made their way through the overgrown graveyard, their lanterns cast eerie shadows that seemed to twist and dance among the crumbling headstones. The wind moaned through the ancient trees, creating an unsettling symphony of whispers and creaks.

"I don't like this place, Piotor," said Rafael, his voice trembling with fear. "Something feels...wrong."

"Silence your cowardly tongue," Piotor hissed. "We have work to do."

They came upon a crypt, half-hidden by ivy, its heavy stone door cracked and weathered. The inscription above the entrance had long since faded, but Piotor could just make out the words: "Here lies the cursed one. Disturb her slumber at your peril."

Without a moment's hesitation, Piotor shoved the stone door aside, and the two men descended into the crypt. The air grew colder with each step they took, and the stench of death and decay grew stronger.

At the bottom of the crypt lay a coffin, ornate and ancient, inlaid with silver and decorated with intricately carved roses. At the sight of it, greed flared in Piotor's eyes, and he motioned for Rafael to help him open the lid.

As the heavy lid was lifted, they beheld the remains of a woman, her beauty undimmed by the passage of time. Her skin was as white as snow, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders like a raven's wing. A silver stake had been driven through her heart, pinning her to the bottom of the coffin.

"What manner of devilry is this?" whispered Rafael, his voice barely audible.

Piotor, his eyes fixed on the silver stake, replied, "No matter. We've found our treasure."

He reached for the stake, ignoring Rafael's pleas to leave it be, and with a great heave, he pulled it free. The moment the silver stake was removed, the woman's eyes snapped open, revealing irises as red as blood.

A great gust of wind swept through the crypt, extinguishing their lanterns and plunging them into darkness. Rafael screamed, his voice echoing through the crypt, as the woman's form seemed to melt into the shadows.

"Run, Rafael! RUN!" Piotor shouted, as they scrambled up the stairs and into the moonlit graveyard.

The woman, now a monstrous creature with fangs bared and eyes blazing, pursued them relentlessly. She glided through the darkness, her feet barely touching the ground, her laughter a chilling symphony of malice and hunger.

As they fled, the two men found themselves separated, each left to face the creature alone. Rafael stumbled through the overgrown graves, his breath ragged and his heart pounding. He heard the rustle of leaves behind him, and he turned just in time to see the creature descending upon him, her fangs glistening in the moonlight.

Meanwhile, Piotor found himself cornered against the crumbling wall of the crypt. Sweat poured down his face, his eyes darting about for any means of escape. The creature approached, her lips twisted into a cruel smile. "You have awakened me from my slumber," she hissed, her voice like the hiss of a serpent. "Now you shall serve as my first meal in centuries."

In that moment, Piotor remembered the silver stake clutched in his trembling hand. He lunged forward, but the creature was too fast. She seized him by the throat, her grip like iron, and sank her fangs into his neck. Piotor's final scream echoed through the graveyard as his life's blood drained away.

Rafael, hearing his companion's scream, mustered his remaining courage and raced toward the sound. He found the creature hunched over Piotor's lifeless body, her mouth smeared with blood. With a cry of rage and grief, Rafael charged, driving the silver stake deep into the vampire's heart.

The creature screeched in agony, her form dissolving into ash before his eyes. As the wind carried away the remnants of her evil, Rafael fell to his knees, his body wracked with sobs.

Years later, Rafael had taken refuge in a monastery, seeking solace and redemption for the horrors he had witnessed. One day, a tall man with piercing eyes and a deep voice arrived, claiming to be a writer researching local legends.

"You must tell me your story," the man implored, his eyes gleaming with fascination. "The world must know the truth of what happened here."

Rafael, hesitant at first, eventually agreed, and the two spent long hours discussing the night of terror he had endured. When the time came for the writer to leave, Rafael asked, "What is your name, sir?"

The man smiled enigmatically, tipping his hat as he replied, "Stoker. Bram Stoker."

And so, the tale of the vampire's curse and the two men who had faced her evil was immortalized, etched into the annals of history, a warning to all who would dare disturb the slumber of the damned.