Page 53 of Dracula: Bound in Blood

Béla’s excited barks echoed ahead, spurring him onward.

Suddenly, the trees parted, revealing a small clearing. In its center stood a dilapidated wooden structure, barely more than ashack. Moss clung to its weathered planks, and the roof sagged ominously. It looked as if a strong gust of wind might topple it entirely.

Jonathan approached cautiously, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves. The dog circled the hut, sniffing intently before scratching at the warped door.

“Dracula?” Jonathan called softly, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. “Are you here?”

No response came from within the hut, but the pull in his mind intensified. Jonathan’s hand trembled as he reached for the rusted door handle. The metal was ice-cold against his palm.

With a deep breath, he pushed the door open. It creaked ominously, the sound reverberating through the clearing. Stale air rushed out, carrying the musty scent of long abandonment.

Jonathan peered into the gloom, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim interior. Dracula’s blood may not have completely left his body, but he no longer enjoyed the benefits of improved vision and hearing. Dust motes danced in the thin shafts of light filtering through cracks in the walls. Cobwebs adorned every corner, and the floorboards groaned beneath his weight.

“Dracula?” he called again, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me, Jonathan. I’ve come back.”

The silence stretched on, broken only by the pounding of Jonathan’s heart. He took a tentative step forward, the floorboard creaking loudly beneath his foot.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Jonathan entered the small hut. Darkness enveloped him, and he squinted, trying to make out shapes in the gloom. The familiar pull that had guided him here suddenly vanished, leaving him feeling untethered.

“Dracula?” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. No response came.

Béla’s nails clicked on the wooden floor as the dog moved deeper into the hut. Jonathan heard him sniffing intently, circling an area in the corner.

“What is it, boy? You found something?” Jonathan’s hand sought the comforting warmth of Béla’s fur. The dog whined softly, pawing at the floorboards.

Jonathan kneeled, running his fingers over the rough wood. His heart quickened as he felt the edge of a trapdoor. “Good boy, Béla,” he murmured, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “What would I do without you, hm?”

With a deep breath, Jonathan grasped the iron ring and pulled. The trapdoor creaked open, revealing a yawning darkness below. A musty smell wafted up, making him wrinkle his nose.

“Alright, Béla,” Jonathan said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I need you to stay up here and keep watch. Can you do that for me?” The dog’s tail thumped against the floor in response.

Jonathan swung his legs over the edge, feeling for a ladder with his feet. He lowered himself into the unknown, clinging to the edge of the trapdoor. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised Béla, whose concerned whine was the last thing he heard before dropping into the darkness below.

The basement of the abandoned hut was no better than the decaying structure above. As Jonathan descended the creaking ladder, the musty air grew thick and oppressive, carrying the damp scent of earth and decay. The space was small, barely larger than a modest bedroom, with rough-hewn stone walls that glistened with moisture in the dim light filtering from above.

Cobwebs clung to every corner, their silvery strands swaying gently in the stagnant air. The floor was packed earth, uneven, and slightly spongy underfoot. Scattered about were remnants of a life long abandoned – a rusted bucket in one corner, a moldering pile of rags in another. A ragged wooden table, its surface warped and pitted, stood against one wall, while a few broken chairs lay toppled nearby.

The air was thick with the pungent odor of mold and decaying wood, accompanied by a distinct earthy smell that hinted at years of neglect. Each breath Jonathan took felt laden with particles of dust and decay, making him want to cough and sneeze simultaneously.

Jonathan’s eyes strained against the inky blackness, desperately seeking any sign of movement. He blinked rapidly, willing his vision to adjust, but the darkness remained impenetrable. “Fine time to not have your gift,” Jonathan muttered. His hand unconsciously reached out, fingers grasping at nothing but damp air. The steady drip-drip-drip of water echoed ominously, each sound amplified in the stillness. “Where are you?”

Fumbling in the near-total darkness, Jonathan’s hands found the smooth surface of an oil lamp on the old table. Nearby, his fingers brushed against the rough edges of a matchbox. He struck a match with trembling hands, the sudden flare of light momentarily blinding him. The lamp sputtered to life, casting a warm, flickering glow that barely penetrated the gloom.

Jonathan’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, revealing a large rectangular shape in the center of the room. He moved closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. His fingers brushedagainst cold, rough stone - a lid covering what seemed to be a coffin or crypt. Jonathan’s heart pounded as he set the lamp down and pressed his palms flat against the surface, feeling the chill seep into his skin.

The lid was incredibly heavy, far more than he had expected. His muscles strained as he pushed, the stone scraping against stone with a sound that echoed through the small space. With a final, herculean effort, the lid shifted and fell to the side with a resounding thud.

Jonathan’s shoulders slumped as he stared into the hole, the lamplight flickering over the mound of dark soil. His fingers tightened on the lamp’s handle until his knuckles turned white. A strangled sound escaped his throat - half sob, half bitter laugh. He sank to his knees beside the opening, one hand reaching out to touch the earth, as if he could will Dracula into existence through sheer desperation.

“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no.”

Jonathan’s fist slammed into the dirt, sending a small cloud of dust into the air. He coughed, eyes stinging from more than just the particles. The lamp clattered to the ground as he buried his face in his hands, his body shaking with silent, frustrated tears.

“Where are you?” Jonathan whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. Had it all been a delusion? Had his longing for Dracula driven him to madness, chasing phantoms across the continent?

Suddenly, Béla’s frantic barking pierced the silence, followed by a heart-wrenching yelp. Jonathan’s blood ran cold. “Béla!” he cried out. He got up and sprinted toward the ladder. But a dark figure dropped before he could reach it.

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