When Count Dracula Calls

Dear ME...before I became YOU.

"Come to me". I hear the voice as clear as finely polished crystal.

Dracula, the Vampire Lord himself, stoic, assured, proud...stands on a rain-slicked cobblestone street in a gothic city. How does he know where I live?

Oh, but he looks so grand, standing there- so dark and tortured, beautifully brooding. Who can resist him.

He wears a Cloak of Midnight Velvet...

A sweeping floor-length thing, black as a moonless night, lined with deep crimson satin. The fabric dances subtly like bat wings catching candlelight. The collar rises dramatically behind his head, stiff and sculptural, framing his dusky face like a dark halo.

He surveys the night market, where neon signs of graffiti art clash with ancient architecture. The dramatic visual style of chiaroscuro lighting evokes a sense of dark grandeur and urban decay.

I am aware that I am dreaming, yet I am paralysed...not with fear, but with a kind of awe-filled desire, somewhere between horror and fascination. The visually compelling elements of the lighting cast him in a stunning display of light and shadow.

I can see him clearly, as if he stands in glaring bright lights. His handsome, tortured face filled with the desire for blood...beckoning...calling me. I try to awaken, to free myself from his cursed hold on my weakened will ...I need to escape before he gets any closer...to me...to my sanctuary.

Sadly...I cannot.

"You called me...remember".

What, when? My mind silently asks...for he can somehow hear me as clearly as I can hear him.

"In your story, I can quote it if you like".

What I need is a nice handsome Dracula type to sink his teeth into my neck, Vampiring me...so I can become immune to life and its damnable frailties. Mask begone...I could finally embrace the night, always and forever unmasked in blood.

"Oh my God...you took my words literally". I now remember the specific story I had written.

Now he hovers outside my window. The moon's glow worshiping and mourning all at once.

"Let me in, I thirst for the taste of your warm neck, to sink my teeth into your flesh and drink your bloody nectar".

He sure has the sweet lyrics which a gal wants to hear. "Stop it". I silently yell to my stupid, idiotic vampire'd senses.

My eyes fly open and I behold his shining glory.

He exudes Ancestral Power. Splendorous Cloak...waistcoat of blood-red brocade, embroidered with arcane markings and Transylvanian/African heraldry in gold thread. He pulses with ancient lineage, bloodied by hands long buried.

His shirt is high-collared, ruffled, made of silk so fine it seems woven by celestial spiders. The cuffs spill from his sleeves like ghostly lace, and a ruby brooch - shaped like a drop of blood - pins the collar at his throat.

He is tailored magnificence from head to toe. Deadly - irresistible.

"Let me in". He commands. He does not ask...he orders.

"Feck it...I surrender".

Signed:

ME...floating to the window...

Opening it willingly.

..................................................................