The Dark Corner

My Lord,

I have written to you many times over these long and lonely years, page after page stained with explanations and details of our frivolous ventures and expenditures. Of how my sisters and I departed ways, and their ever-growing independence and success. But never once have I mentioned why we did what we did—to you, my love.

A treacherous vow amongst sisters.

A secret I have locked away in the deepest chamber of my heart, leaving it to fester, rot. But this year, our secret has grown in strength; it is escaping through my valves, spilling into my lungs; and although I do not need to breathe, I feel such suffocation that I cannot ignore it any longer.

It wants out and, I have decided to let it out.

Although one hundred years is but a blink of an eye in a vampire’s endless lifespan, it feels like centuries have passed since I last saw your dark eyes. I can still recall every detail of your gaze: the streaks of brown in your blackened iris, how your eyes dilated when aroused or hungry, glowing red in the gloom, and how sometimes . . . sometimes, they would soften as I caught you staring at me. Those rare glimpses of love were when you looked the most human. Less monster-like. I miss that, husband. I miss it all. The good and the bad.

And it just so happens that there was recently a change in the castle. It no longer sits dormant. So, as I await the arrival of my sweet sisters, I will finally explain it all. Please read this with an empathetic mind, husband, and remember the love we once shared, so long ago.

It began the night of your demise . . .

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Burrowed deep with the roots of your castle, far from the sizzling rays of the sun, I hid our three coffins. You always called me the clever one, but I never thought we would have to implement this plan, my Lord. Yet, through a maze of chokingly narrow passages and descending spiraled steps—a path no man with any sense dared to venture—the stone dungeon was black as a burial as we slept, vulnerable, without you. The rank smell of ancient earth stifled the quiet air. In the silence, we could almost hear the harrowing screams of the tortured prisoners of the past; the ones unfortunate enough to have lived through the battles of war long ago. Wars you fought with such bravery and skill. I could feel their souls forever in agony within those blood-splattered walls, and I knew then why you preferred the Chapel as our resting place. Even you, the King of the Dead, sought peace in sleep. But with you gone, we felt much safer tucked into the dungeon’s arms of despair.

Inside our coffins, we were prisoners of a different sort, my sisters and me. You may not think so, but that is how you treated us. Bound by blood, our shackled souls served only you—the fallen one. A Lord in life and now in death. And we, your three brides, were left alone in a fortress whose stones withstood centuries of war and provided shelter for your kin. Yet, on that horrid day, we were vulnerable. And so were you, my Lord.

You never should have left us.

Never should have imprisoned Jonathan, an Englishman! But you were so infatuated, spending hours and hours reading books, studying maps. You were so sure you could start a new life in London—without us.

Outside the confined castle walls the smoldering November sun started her descent behind the snow-capped peaks of the Carpathian. The time was nigh for us to rise and savor the freedom of the night sky, full of stars as old as we. But a danger walked uninvited amongst the halls of our dragon’s lair. One that carried stakes and daggers to mask his heavy heart. A heart that beat and beat so loud, it awakened me.

My eyelids rose, the green and translucent gemstones that beguiled you at first glance. Oh, how long ago that was. I on my death bed, and you a warrior. I read your thoughts instantly as your cold, cold hands first stroked my dying face. Your sharp jaw, mottled with blood, clenched, and I saw the intent in your hell-fire eyes: I must have her. Must change her.

I was and am your first bride. Your “Mara”. But here I am reminiscing . . . always living in the past. I will try not to drift too far from my story, my Lord. I know how much digression aggravates you. Where was I . . . waking? Yes.

My porcelain hands, fingernails sharp and wolf-like, pushed the lid from my coffin, and I ascended forward, strawberry-gold hair rippling in my wake. I peered around, wondering what caused me to rise early.

My eyes shifted from green to red, gleaming through the shadows.

A hunter. In the castle.

On instinct, my plump lips peeled back in a snarl of bone-white fangs, and my sisters awakened. The lids to their caskets clattered to the side, and your two dark-featured brides, their long black hair so different from mine, appeared like phantoms in the cold, dank dungeon. They too sensed the hunter, and their red eyes cast a fiery glow.

“Van Helsing!” I hissed. I expected him. When we failed to bring home our new sister, I knew he would attempt to put a stake through our hearts, chop off our heads like we are mere animals in a slaughterhouse. He was far too wise in our ways. That is why I hid our resting places and, why I made you another bed, husband. One whose earth lay untainted by those blessed wafers Van Helsing used to curse our kind’s coffins.

I was always thinking of you, and am thinking of you, still.

Knowing Van Helsing was near, my sisters and I flocked together, our bejeweled limbs tinkled in our swift movements. Sometimes I still hear those sounds, a cherished music box to my ears, and am just reminded my sisters are now far away. It saddens me to be away from them, but unlike you, I’d rather allow their freedom than for them to eventually despise me.

Despite the gloomy quarters fit for a cadaver, we dressed just as you liked: in flowing silks and ivory satins. Jewels and gems adorned our long necks and crowned our heads. For we were the Queens of the Dark Lord, and we dressed as such.

Arm in arm, we listened. Our undead hearing is so acute we can hear the snap of a pine needle from leagues away. Footsteps, as light as a ghost sounded from above.

“He is in the chapel,” Lilith whispered. “You were right in moving our coffins, sister.”

Claramonde squeezed my arm. “We must kill him!” she said, fangs out and ready, hunger taking over her common sense. For we were hungry and had not fed since Jonathan escaped.

“Our powers are weak, sisters,” I reminded them. “The sun has yet to set. You know he is well trained to kill our kind.”

Suddenly, the sweet, sweet choral of howls sounded from the wood. We raised our heads in recognition—mothers hearing their children’s cries. All three of our crimson lips spread in a delicious smile.

“Our Lord! He is near!” Claramonde laughed.

“Hush! We must remain quiet,” I scolded. Yet, I could not hide the joy from my face. We were so happy you were returning to us, husband. What fools we were to think your arrival made us safe. As if taken by a spell, we stood still as stone. Our bloodied eyes softened to a gauzy gaze as you held our minds and showed us your whereabouts. The Szgany carried your cart, snapping the reins to encourage the horses to go faster—faster! A chase. A band of men followed— Jonathan and his lovelorn brothers, not phased at all by the raging wind and spirals of snow. Their avalanche of anger poured over our mountains.

Nothing would stop them.

Our wolves howled again, sending prickles on my neck. It was the wolves and the wolves alone that led Van Helsing away and back to Mina. Our children saved us. I do not doubt if Van Helsing had more time, he would have discovered our secret lair. As we watched the chase through our eyes, we heard the heavy steps of Van Helsing gradually fade as he left our castle and trudged down the mountain.

I told my sisters what they already knew. “Dracula, he is in trouble.”

“That cannot be!” One of them said. I am always confusing Lilith and Claramonde with one another, so alike are they.

“It is so. As soon as the sun sets, we must be ready to fight.”

Even then, as I said those words, I thought you invincible. My immortal King. This was not your first battle in both life and death, and these grieving men seemed no different than all the rest you had tirelessly fought.

But as you neared the castle grounds, they too neared your cart, and for the first time in our immortal lives, as your brides, we sensed the fear building in your black heart. Still, the darkness fought the light and pushed the rays behind the cliffs. Our powers bloomed like spores in the darkness, ready to cause chaos.

Holding each other tight, we evaporated into fairy light: sparkling pink and gold and shimmering through cracks and crevices to get to you. We were too late.

Jonathan, the one you brought into our home, the one whose blood my sisters and I suckled every night, slit your throat! You gurgled and choked on your black blood. The Szgany fought back carelessly, too concerned with being around when you awakened with the night. Our devout wolves howled and snarled, but when the one they called Arthur plunged the stake through your dead heart, the Szgany, even our babies, faltered with a whimper.

At this sight, we abruptly became solid again, and I held my sisters back, hidden amongst the stone battlements and far from the threat of knives and daggers. There, we felt your pain. Felt your demise. It pulsed through our bodies like we too were dying . . . again. Oh, such pain! My chest felt cracked in two. Then, it was over. Or so they thought. So, my sisters thought, for I was the only one you shared your secret with.

Your body withered, turned to dust. Centuries-old dust. Although I expected it, husband, the sight of your bones, your flesh, fading to mere powder unsettled my dead soul.

Lilith and Claramonde cried out. I held them closer to me, unsure what to say, what to do. They grew angry, fangs out and ready to pierce skin. I held them back. At first, they were confused by my calmness and my lack of hate. But my main concern was to keep them from harm and, keep your remains intact. If Van Helsing believed us gone, there was no use continuing this fight. I believe he thought we sought refuge elsewhere. Still, for many years he returned to your castle, ensuring we had not returned. I felt his hatred pulse every time he stepped foot in our land.

“We must remain hidden, sisters,” I told them. “They will be gone soon.”

They looked at me with a mixture of anguish and bewilderment. But they trusted me— they still trust me, and instead of arguing like they did with you, my Lord, they buried their silky heads in my chest and cried tears of blood, staining my white gown. Deep down, they knew you loved them, adored them . . . it had just been so long, so very long since you showed us any affection. Your ancient mind had moved on to a new life in England. A new home. New brides.

We were just a memory. One that would fade and wither just like your body did with a stake to your heart. I am mentioning all this, husband, in the hopes you will understand the state of your brides.

With your death, the snowstorm ceased, the sky bruised purple, and a strange calmness took hold of the land. We waited, and I prayed to some foreign God that Van Helsing would not search again for us. I watched him look up to the castle with hate, his dark brows furrowed in contemplation and his wise gray eyes flickering. There was a moment when I was sure he saw us huddled together. The woman, Mina, went to him, taking his arm and the old man softened with her touch, allowing himself to be led to the one they mourned.

The smell of blood almost overpowered my sense of control. His scent tainted the still air; stained our snow. I almost let my sisters loose. “Feed! Feed!” I wanted to scream. Instead, I kissed their foreheads, and we waited with hundreds of years of practiced restraint. You always kept us on the edge of hunger—never allowing us to feed on our own and bringing back innocent babes as our reward. Aw, I can still taste their pure, delicious blood on my tongue! But we knew how to manage the pangs of hunger and held back.

They eventually left. Collecting their dead kin, they rode away into the night. I listened till the horses’ muted clops faded, and turned to my sisters, their beautiful faces stained with rivers of red. “This is not the end of him. Dracula can still live!”

They shook their heads.

“I don’t understand,” Lilith said.

“He is mere dust,” Claramonde agreed.

“He told me what to do, if this were to happen,” I said, gesturing below to your remains. “Lilith, go back to the castle. Collect a vase and bring it back. Claramonde, we will gather him up. Every last bit of him.”

Lilith dispersed into mist and quickly returned with a large vase. Claramonde and I scooped up your remains. You felt smooth and powdery. The scent of must clung to my lungs. We collected every grain and carried you back to your castle. Despite my strength, you felt heavy in my hands. We instinctively formed a line, a procession, all the way up to the heavy, wooden door. I heard panting, a patter, and realized a couple of wolves had returned, their breath steaming in the cold. With you gone, they thought of me as their new master, never leaving my side. You will be happy to know they are my only companions in this lonesome life of mine— their line of pups that is.

We took you back down to the frozen, draughty chamber. It is not the most pleasing resting place for a King, but in these circumstances, my Lord, it was the safest.

My sisters still looked on with sadness and confusion as I directed them to open your coffin, pouring your powder onto the earth of our land.

“Sisters—if we shed our blood onto his remains, he will return, albeit weak. Very weak,” I told them. “lowly, he will come back to his shape. His blood is our blood, sisters. And it is our blood, and our blood alone that can revive him.”

“He will return?” Claramonde asked.

“Yes!” I assured her.

I waited for their realization to set, a celebration to appear on their porcelain faces. Instead, my sisters’ expressions transformed into fear. They were afraid to bring you back, husband! Still, they agreed. Nodding their heads to proceed.

That is when I questioned my intent. Here they were, finally free of your tyranny and disdain, and my only thought was to bring you back. How could I do that to them? I have always felt responsible for their safety, for their happiness. You and I both know you only changed them to provide me with companions. That, and you could not resist twin jewels. You eyed them as babes, allowed them to grow, knowing they were the perfect prize for your Mara. When they blossomed into womanhood, skin supple and breasts swollen, you plucked them from the village and brought them home to me, to the castle.

At first, you loved them as much as I, sharing our marital bed night after night. Oh, but it wasn’t long before you grew weary of their questioning, their need to escape and see the world. They never said it out loud, but they knew you made them for me—how could they not? —and still they loved me, treating me as a true sister. That is why I felt if they were ever to be happy, I could not bring you back, my Lord. At least, not then.

So, husband, instead of spilling our blood onto your ashes, I closed the lid to your coffin, locked it with the key I still wear around my neck—the brass almost as cold as my skin— and vowed to keep you locked away until the time presented itself to bring you forth into the world. And that, my Lord, is the dark secret we have kept for a hundred years. A treacherous act, I know, but one that I had to do.

We stayed within the castle for some time while I thought of a plan. We studied your precious maps, gathered all the jewels and valuables we could find, and eventually, left. The Szgany took us to a faraway village, one whose people had not seen us before, and from there we traveled by train.

As I have mentioned before, we gallivanted around as wealthy traveling princesses. We wore crimson and midnight blue instead of white, hair fashioned for the appropriate times. We were discreet with our feedings and never drew too much attention to our nocturnal ways. Lilith and Claramonde enjoyed taking many lovers and learned to taste rather than kill (although we had our fair share of accidents). All was fine for many years, but eventually, my beloved Carpathians called to me.

You called to me, my Lord.

Just as you would interrupt our thoughts long ago—your noble, boisterous cadence demanding this and that, always ordering us about—once again penetrated the slumber of my day and echoed throughout the waking of my night. “Mara,” you said. “Mara, wake me, my wife, my first bride . . . wake me.” A heavy shadow fell upon my consciousness. I knew I must be closer to your remains.

Claramonde and Lilith refused to return, too damaged by the memories of the village they once lived in, the family you took them away from, the prison-like walls of your castle nestled high above the land.

We sadly parted ways—the hardest decision I have ever had to make—with a promise to always return to each other once a year on the anniversary of your demise.

And so, I built my own fortress, hidden in the same mountains. Close enough to keep watch of your remains, far enough to be safe from curious souls.

As I mentioned, your castle is changing. Scholars are infesting its halls and dissecting our chambers. I was afraid they would find you and take you away from me.

One night, I flew to the castle (my powers have strengthened with time) and soared above the frosted valleys and rivers still flowing underneath panes of ice. The wolves sensed my presence—their melancholic howls could be heard from miles and miles away.

They have a guard at the castle now, but it was easy to slip past him and enter the chambers that only I have seen in this last century. Not even those clever scholars found our hidden prison. here, I scooped up your remains and brought you back with me.

Now you are in my castle, husband. I have laid you out upon the bed; the ancient earth smells of death, reminding me that in death, we are reborn.

You have lived many lives, my Lord. Lives filled with such sorrow, such pain. But tonight, we shall bring you back. And I hope in this life, you will be happy and content. It is a new world out there, one you will never understand without my guidance, my patience, and my love. For my love for you has never left. It has pierced my heart like the weapon that pierced yours, tainting the very marrow in my bones with your poison. I am weak for you! he only antidote is to have you physically in my arms; to share our blood in between kisses, just as we used to do, all those years ago.

Claramonde and Lilith will visit from time to time, but we must let them be. They know that what I need is you. It was always meant to be us, together, as husband and wife. In death do us part does not exist in our immortal matrimony.

I hear my sisters approach now.

The wolves lying near my feet grow restless with their arrival.

When you read this, it will mean you are back as flesh and blood, husband. I only ask that you forgive our treacherous hearts. Can you, will you, please forgive us? Forgive me? I truly hope you can. Keep in mind, my Lord, that you are weak. Your brides have grown much stronger than you can ever imagine, and if need be, have a plan in place if you are to cause us trouble. My dead heart is no longer merciful. You may simply rest again as ash in a vase upon my shelf. At least then, you will always be near. So, I ask again, husband: will you forgive me, as I have forgiven you?

Love eternally,

Your Mara

Jasmine De La Paz is a Gothic horror author based in Bishop, CA. With lush landscapes, historical settings, and sinister characters, her stories explore the strange, the macabre, and the beauty within the darkness. Many anthologies and literary magazines feature her work, including Love Letters To Poe Vol. 3, Tenebrous Antiquities, Haunted Words Press, and more. She spends her spare time teaching yoga, scaring her husband, and spinning tales to her son, who, like his mother, loves the tradition of sharing spooky stories. She is currently writing a novella.  You can find Jasmine online: www.jasminedelapaz.com