Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to participate in the art of storytelling.

Storytelling is magic, and at the end of the day, isn’t that what all art aspires to be? Magic is the truest art at the foundation of everything. It’s taking what is normal and making it extraordinary.

It could be the most common objects, and often are. A treasured coin, a deck of cards, or perhaps—in the more macabre but still possible world—an empty coffin. But ultimately, magic is about mystery, and tonight’s story is a mystery at its heart. Try and solve it if you dare. It begins on a cold Autumn night when the stillness of impending tragedy has momentarily halted the chilly wind.

It’s an old manor house, now run-down but still well-maintained in parts. The nearest houses, just up the road, have all been long since vacated by their penniless formerly wealthy residents. Before this particular manor is gathered a crowd; a crowd not quite as friendly as the one we have here tonight.

“Thief,” cries one.

“Cheat,” says another.

“Give us back our money.”

“Money.”

“Money.”

The door is flung open. A young man walks out, his complexion pale but his hands steady as he raises a gun. He points it slowly, and deliberately, at each and every one of the people gathered there, and then, swiftly, before they can even move, he puts it into his mouth and pulls the trigger.

A few weeks later, three individuals are gathered in the back room of a tea shop. They are Elias, the proprietor of said tea shop; Bert, the local sheriff; and Finch, a young man who rather enjoys the company of older men. There is a knock on the door.

“Smith. Good of you to come,” says Elias. “You’ve met Bert of course, and this is Finch, my young apprentice.”

“I’m glad you sent for me, Elias,” says Smith, with a nod to the others. “You sounded as if things were not-”

“Things are very well not. Sit down, pour yourself a cup. I’ll tell you the whole story.

“It started with four men. See, that’s why we needed four tonight. Anyway, it was William Preston, James Faulkner, Robin King — you know, Little Robin, Robert’s boy. And finally, Viktor Feldstein. The others are all men of good repute from good families, ones who have lived and died on these lands for generations. Viktor Feldstein, however—he’s the one who moved into the old Stoker house. He was definitely not from here. They say he came from somewhere in Eastern Europe, though if you ask me, there’s nothing European about him. He was a quiet enough fellow, kept to himself, had strange manners about him. He was a dentist by trade, and he had a practice set up in the house, which he could barely afford if you ask me.

“Feldstein fell in with Preston, Faulkner, and Robin, and they developed something of a friendship. In fact, if you asked me, I can’t see what they had in common except for their love for cards. And it’s the cards where it all began. They played every evening at the club. It was a daily occurrence.

“Now, it was no secret that Feldstein had debts, as one might expect, and the gambling obviously couldn’t have helped. Sure, there were nights when he made some money but by all accounts, he usually spent it immediately afterward. And one night, things were bad. He lost everything. In the end, he turned to his bosom friends for help. But none of them gave him any.

“As far as they were concerned, the money was lost in a fair game. “It’s just tough luck,” they said. Feldstein finally committed suicide, rather publicly. It must be, must be three weeks now since the funeral. We weren’t invited to the funeral, of course. They didn’t even hold it at the church. They did it in the back of the house like some, like savages, if you ask me. But you know how these foreigners can be.

“It was all alright for a while after that. There was talk of some life insurance and the family sent a lawyer down to pay off the debts and nobody thought any more of it. Then, William Preston died.

“Initially, Bert here thought it was probably a mugging gone wrong. Preston was found by the side of the road, lying in a ditch with his throat slashed. Just down one side, severing the jugular. But they didn’t take his money.”

“It happens sometimes,” Bert says defensively. “The robbers get spooked by something, run off. It’s happened before.”

“I would thank you not to interrupt me again,” Elias says firmly, resuming. “Faulkner died in bed. He was, uh, the oldest of the bunch. He was asthmatic, so he was confined to bed at the time. He was found with his throat slashed open too, and the window, always kept closed due to the condition of the patient, was thrown wide open.

“It is around this time that Bert came to me, knowing of my expertise in these matters and my past with our little Paranormal Society.”

Smith nods along and says, “Yes, you were quite right to do so. And it’s a good thing you were here, Elias. You have been one of our most decorated members for years now. But I wonder, Elias, if you might be too ill to-“

“Oh, balderdash! I am better off at this game than you ever were, Smith. I’ve been doing it since before you were in your diapers. Now, would you let me finish the story? You didn’t hear what happened to Robin, poor Robin. He survived, you understand? He survived the attack.

“He came for him at night but by then, Bert here had come to me, and I realized that, if it is what I think it is, then Robin’s life must surely be in danger. So, we rushed there, and we were just in time. He was lucky then. We burst into his bedroom, and there he was, standing over Robin, clutching him by the throat. Unmistakeable, and just as pale as the day he died. Viktor Feldstein.

“But, just then, a flash of lightning. And the next thing we know, he’s gone. No sign of him. And the window, as you might expect at this point, was open to a six-floor drop.

“Now, having realized what the situation really was, I pressed Bert to keep Robin somewhere safe. Unfortunately, the family insisted on sending him up to the sanatorium due to his condition. He couldn’t stop screaming, you see. It’s-It’s what anyone would be like if that had happened to them. But Fortune was not so kind to him the second time.

“Once again, we were on our way to see him, this time at the asylum. We are through the gates, we’re going down the drive, we are almost at the entrance, and there is a scream, and a thud, and a body on the ground. Bert and I step out and there’s no doubt about it. It’s Robin, and, by the way he’s twisted on the ground, he’s been pushed. We look up, and there for an instant, we see, flapping against the night with wings darker than the darkest black, a bat.

“So, you understand why you had to come down. Clearly, it’s one of them.”

“You-you’re absolutely right, Elias. The situation is obvious. We must be quick. This ends here!”

And so the four men gather wooden stakes, light their lanterns, and hold their most treasured holy relics close to their hearts—a crucifix, a rosary, a blessed coin.

The manor looks like a bird of prey as they approach it. The whole world holds its breath.

They push past the gates. They walk up the stairs. The door is unlocked. They push it open, and immediately, their nostrils are filled with this faint scent. Sickly sweet, almost like jasmine and rot. They walk in and separate to cover more ground.

Elias is an old bird. He’s been around. His hands are steady. Finch, not so. He twists and turns at each and every shadow that passes. He cannot stand still. He’s there. He is there.

What’s that? Something? Something. Oh my goodness, something! Oh, it’s just a rat. Rats. It’s an old building. There will be rats — skittering, chittering running through the walls.

Rats are something you just learn to live with. What they’re hunting this night is far worse.

Having satisfied themselves that the first floor is empty, they move to the cellar. The smell gets stronger.

Smith is an active member of the society. He has come prepared. He knows the smell of death. But even so, as they push forward and go down those slippery old stone steps, the smell is increasing and increasing, until it is nauseating, even to him. It is in their heads now. It’s in their brains now. It’s like a migraine that will. Not. Go. Away.

As they finally reach the cellar they see at the very centre of the space, lit by candlelight, an empty coffin.

Movement! A cat, of course. It knocked out the candles. It’s dark now. Its domain.

Finch was the first to go. They didn’t see what happened to him. They just turned around and he wasn’t there.

Next was Bert. Once again, it was almost as if the shadows had just reached out and grabbed him out of the corner of their eyes.

Finally, it was just Smith and Eliaz; the old tiger, and the young cub. Well, young-ish.

Smith reached into his coat and drew out a specially prepared lamp, one with which it is said that one could light away the darkness of hell itself. It is no use here.

Funnily enough, it was a punch that took him. Straight on the nose, knocked him clean out. And then, into the light steps the vampire.

He’s tall. That’s something Elias had never really noticed. He’s very tall. And pale. Pale as death. And there’s something about his face, something that Elias couldn’t quite place, something different from when he was still alive.

“Old man” Viktor purrs. “Old man, I don’t want to kill you. I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you talking. I’ve seen you looking. I want to give you a gift. I can, I can almost smell it. You’re a dying man, aren’t you?”

“Stay away, Monster,” Elias cries through his terror. “You can’t tempt me.”

“Oh, but what is temptation but desire speaking to itself? I can give you my gift. I can teach you all this. You can live forever.”

“Oh, God. Oh, God!”

“Yes, say that name. Say it as much as you can. Soon, you will not be able to. Come, my child, drink.”

He reaches his hand into the shadows of his coat and, with one clawed finger, brings out a tube of red liquid. It takes Elias a second to realize it’s a vein of fresh, flowing blood. He hesitates, just for a moment. And then, he drinks. And he drinks. And he drinks.

He drinks till the bile rises in his throat, his body trying desperately to expel the foreign fluid. But he just swallows it all back again, even as consciousness departs his weathered physical form.

That is the last time anyone saw Viktor Feldstein. Elias woke up a few hours later. His friends were all lying unconscious beside him. Unconscious, but not dead. Victor was nowhere to be seen but there was a note.

“Old man,” it said. “Congratulations. It’ll take some time for the transformation to be complete, so you will have to eat some flesh along with your blood. That’s why I have left your friends with you.

Remember, the sun can kill you. Even the slightest touch, and you will burn to ash.

Goodbye. You’ll never see me. But I think, I shall see you.”

Nothing heard, nothing seen for a few days after that (four, to be exact). And then a dog goes missing. A sheep is stolen somewhere. Then a baby is taken out of his crib, not a mile away from the Stoker house. And then, a young woman, killed in the dead of the night. Finally, all the people are talking about is the monster in the manor house.

Soon, a mob forms. But they are smart this time because fear has taught them better. They fear the night, so they go during the day. They throw rocks to break the windows. They kick the door down. They go in, tearing at everything in sight, and as they reach the cellar, they see Elias curled up on the ground, the coffin now gone. His body is bathed in blood. They drag him up off the floor but… they don’t think it’s him.

It’s old Elias! He was probably taken to be the next victim. The creature has probably kept him there to kill him later, they think, and they tell him, “It’s okay, Elias. Come with us. We will take you away from here. Some fresh air will do you good. Some sun on your face.”

Elias struggles but he knows that vampires are weak during the day. And in any case, he is transfixed by hunger. Ravenous, eternal hunger. They pull him away and he fights, but he is not strong enough. He cannot stop them. Up the stairs, through the house, out the door, and into the day. And that’s when the most horrifying thing happened.

Because as he stood there, in the full light of the morning sun, old Elias did not burn.

Like I said, solve it, if you dare.

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If you do manage to solve the case, reach out to me on Instagram @rednoronha with the solution or share it on your story and tag me. Let’s see if you are as good as you think you are, shall we? Happy Halloween!