DRACULA'S ISLAND Author's Note: Every great writer leaves behind an unfinished story; this is mine.

In the latter part of the Nineteenth century Count Dracula was banished to a small island within Lake Snagov, deep in the remote wildernesses of Romania. There he was free to roam within the boundries set by the still, black waters of the lake. Escape was impossible, for a vampire cannot cross an open body of water on his own, even conveyed in such as a boat or barge. The old vampire spent his cursed existence reading, writing dark, disturbing verse and endeavoring to catch such small animals as he could and drink ther blood.
It was a lonely existence. Even for one of the undead.

In the beginning, his nights were leavened by groups of tourists who, having heard of the Prince of Evil's captivity, would pay an exorbitant fee to be chauffeured through the dark waters of Lake Snagov in a sputtering old boat, courtesy of a local fisherman. Not that he particularly enjoyed the gaggles of gawking tourists; sitting in his study he could smell the fresh blood even before he heard the putt-putting of the boat--the temptation was enough to drive an old vampire mad. He almost preferred the solitude.

One especially gloomy night, while the melancholy moaning of the loon interspersed with the quizzical hooting of the owl wafted to and fro on the damp chill air, Count Dracula sat by a window overlooking the lake, composing a particularly dark piece of verse.
It began:

Blood of Life and
Drink of Death
lake of black and
formless depth
drink deeply down to quench my thirst
I would drown in both but
which one first?

Slipping gradually from his nocturnal reverie he became aware of the distinct scent of blood, HUMAN blood, carried on the thick autumn air. FRESH human blood he almost said out loud, though there was no one to hear. Scanning the dim outline of the lakeshore with his hyper-acute vision he observed a lone figure in a rowboat slowly approaching. It had been years since any tourists had come, the novelty of a captive vampire had apparently worn off. he was, as far as he knew, forgotten by the world.
"Any soul so foolhardy to row out here alone in the middle of the night must desire the privilege of my acquaintance dearly," he said aloud, though as before, there was no one to hear. "I shall open my home to him and make him most welcome indeed, resisting the unnatural impulse which stirs in my long unbeating heart."
The dark Count thereupon donned his cape, polished his amulet (for even the undead can be prideful of their appearance) , and sat down to wait upon his midnight caller.
It wasn't long before there was a rapping at his ancient chamber's door. Dracula opened it and announced with great satisfaction: "I am Dracula, I bid you welcome."



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