It's my first stab at Erotic Horror and
(I think) it ended up more gothic horror than modern horror. It also turned out longer than I'd originally intended, so I appreciate the patience of anyone who sticks through to the end. Votes and comments are, of course, also greatly appreciated.
- Seh69
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Welcome to Transylvania! Vampires, Werewolves, Witches and Ghosts -- do you believe?
I still remember the poster with those exact words written on it, printed in ghoulish green letters on an ominous black background. The poster was the first thing I noticed as I exited the plane and set foot on Transylvanian soil for the first time.
Did I believe? Well, I certainly didn't believe in vampires or werewolves. And witches? I guess I wouldn't have flown thirteen hours across the Atlantic on a last-minute flight to the other side of the world if I didn't at least believe in their possibility. But ghosts? I've always believed in ghosts.
I was two years old when my father died. My mother, haunted by the memory of him, decided that she could no longer stay in the home they'd shared, so she took my older sister and me with her to live in an old two-story house that she'd rented on the outskirts of town.
She'd went there hoping to come to terms with her sorrow, but with two children that she now had to raise on her own she had little time to mourn. She had her hands full getting my sister ready for first grade and, of course, taking care of me.
I was too young to remember, but she told me that I never stopped talking; even after she'd put me to bed I wouldn't shut up. She'd sit downstairs in the living room, drinking her evening tea, and smile as she listened to the baby monitor and heard me babbling away, having long, animated conversations with myself, all alone in the darkness of my upstairs bedroom.
She never thought anything of it until I started going to playschool. The teacher had told us to draw a picture of our family and I drew my mother, my sister, myself and a boy with bright red hair.
When my mother came to pick me up and saw the drawing on the classroom wall, she asked me if that was supposed to be my father, who'd had black hair. I told her no, it was my best friend. Assuming I meant someone in my class, she smiled as she looked around at the other boys and asked me which one he was. But I told her my friend didn't go to school -- he lived in my bedroom.
My teacher told her not to be worried; it was common for children to have imaginary friends. But my mother told me later the drawing had sent a chill down her spine. She'd always felt an unease about the upstairs room, and didn't like going up there alone, but had tried to convince herself it was only her imagination.
That evening she let me sleep downstairs in her bed with her, but when she woke up in the dead of night I was gone. And then she heard me in the upstairs bedroom -- laughing as if I was playing with someone.
The next night she made me sleep in her bed again and told me that I was not, under any circumstances, to go to the upstairs bedroom. When she woke in the middle of the night she was relieved to find me still sleeping beside her. But then she noticed something else -- smoke.
By the time the fire engines arrived the house was engulfed in flames. My mother, my sister and I had all got out in time and were huddled together across the street in our nightclothes as we watched the firemen throwing out hoses to battle the blaze that was devouring our home. As we watched the hungry flames lick out of the doorway and shattered windows, a fireman came frantically running toward us.
His eyes wide with alarm, he cried, "How many more children are in the house?!"
My mother blinked in surprise and said none; all of us had safely escaped.
