Nov 10, Romania, countryside of what was once Wallachia
I and my team of archaeologists have come here, to what we believe to be one of the castles of Vlad Tepes, to dig up the remains.
This castle is unlike Bran Castle, and unlike the others of the region, in its early collapse and abandonment – it was left to nature almost as soon as it was built, on account of a shaky foundation and what writers of the time described as a ‘willingness to fall.’ A source from a contemporary chronicler speaks of a ‘rebellious keystone’ in the central tower that, in its hatred for the lord who laid its first stones, shook of its own accord and brought down the castle alone.
It’s likely an anthropomorphisation of a fundamental structural flaw – the story is reminiscent of some Slavic fairytale, and it’s hardly surprising that such a legend would spring up around the man who became Count Dracula. Some of our contacts in the area asked the locals about the story, and it’s still believed by some of the older villagers in the region. It seems disgust and fear of the old voivode both run deep in this land, even after two hundred years.
Our task is not merely to locate this keystone, however, but to look for anything of note in the ruins: for this reason I have brought a large team with me, and plan to camp out at the site for as long as supplies allow. The team includes my long-time friend Evan Arthur, who was struck by a fever at the outset but seems to be recovering.
Nov 15, Romania, “Collapsed Castle Dracula”
We have arrived, at last. Arthur has recovered. My subordinates have begun the work, and I have settled down among our supplies to take stock. The sun sets now on Castle Dracula, and the mountains cast long, comfortable shadows here-jagged shadows, it’s true, but nice and cool-and the castle itself lies ahead in the ruins like a dog sitting on its haunches, waiting to be thrown a chunk of bloody meat.
I have tasked myself with looking for the tower’s keystone alone, leaving the more conventionally interesting glories to everyone else. Arthur and I spoke today extensively about what we expected to find inside the structure. It’s likely that the Count left some valuable accoutrements here, and if not, at least some telling boons that might reveal to us his remaining secrets.
The men are enjoying themselves. We employed an accordionist to play for us, he struck up some local piece, and we’ve all been struggling to dance along with it – these frantic Hungarian dances have always been too much for me.
The true dig begins tomorrow.
Nov 16, the same
I am tired.
There is a central hallway still standing, and ragged faded curtains just out of the sunlight’s reach. The front gate is long gone-we camped inside it-but the front hall is as imposing as if it were built yesterday, even lacking a door. Beyond this room, the castle is fragmented, and diverts into a near infinite number of labyrinthine hallways, most of which are collapsed. Some are long twisted trails that cut in on each other and occasionally pass through the skeletons of a true castle’s rooms: dining halls and studies and dance halls and solars and kitchens and bedrooms, great confusions cluttered together and covered in dust.
I have a good idea of which tower the keystone should be in – it’s finding the tower that’s the problem! None remain standing from the outside.
“Alright, Gil?” Arthur asks, and the men wave, friendly, as I emerge from below, with the moon above. I barely saw the sun today, except in the five minutes of preparation I undertook before I entered the castle. My skin is white and covered in dust.
I was able to answer them in the affirmative. “Don’t tire yourself out,” Arthur says. It seems the others have come across a library, a room of documents, and will spend the next three days carefully removing everything.
I did a little dancing tonight as well.
Nov 17, the same
Little progress today. V. tired. Arthur in good stead. “You seem rather in a black mood, Gil,” he said to me.
Nov 19, the same
I found it in the ruins of the tower, the keystone. Grooved, small, and light, it seems to fit right in my hands.
In a frenzied agony of triumph I carried it back outside, and found the rest of the camp tired, irritable, and angry. The documents they discovered are mostly common books of the time, it seems, and are useless to us.
There was no dancing tonight, but I am happy. I will assist in the general dig from now on.
Arthur said nothing to me tonight.
Nov 23, the same
I have spent days hardly paying attention to the dig – I feel as if my find has made the rest of the excavation rather pointless. We came here to find the keystone, after all – everyone else seems to have lost sight of that point. Despite that, I am quite content, for now. I come back from the castle refreshed and toy with my find in the evenings, inspecting its jagged, strange surface.
I have tried to show it to Arthur, but he’s become taciturn and angry.
I once mused aloud that it was as if the grooves were made to be held, and proffered Arthur the stone, but he shook his head.
“Don’t want it. Leave me alone.”
Even now, I feel as if I could toss it from hand to hand – if I weren’t afraid to break it. I asked him what was wrong.
“Gilbert, you should go.”
His tent was dark, and the torches lit grooves under his eyes.
“Everything alright, Arthur?”
“Get out of here.”
“Why?”
“You’ve changed. You’re all morose, angry lately. Obsessed with that thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We want you to leave, all of us.” Arthur said.
“What do you mean?”
“That bloody rock has changed you. Do you even know where you are?”
“Of course I know where I am. What a stupid question!”
“Get out of my bloody tent!”
I left the tent and the men stared at me from the darkness, narrow-eyed and grim. The shadows of Dracula’s ruined castle quickly hid them.
I couldn’t understand what had made him turn against me. Jealousy? Couldn’t have been. We’d worked together for years. I’d made discoveries and so had Arthur – we’d never envied one another, and it wasn’t as if this particular find was that important in comparison.
Is it because he placed so much hope in the manuscripts, and they came to nothing? I wonder. But this stone…it’s shaped in such an odd way you’d never suspect it could support any sort of tower. It’s almost like it was carved naturally over time and Dracula’s men just picked it from the ground.
Perhaps that was what gave rise to the legend of its rebellion.
Nov 28, Romanian wilderness
I have been chased from the camp, and run for days across the mountains. In that time, I haven’t met another soul.
The keystone stays with me, and it’s as light as it ever was. Even in my situation, the keystone gives me an air of lightness, of mirth that doesn’t seem like it belongs in these desperate highlands.
My last hope is to come to some small village where I may rest and regain strength.
Arthur and the others betrayed me, exiled me from my own dig. They placed all their faith in the documents, and none in the stone – questioning whether it was even the real keystone, or whether I had gone mad. They said my find was a mere chunk of rock, and historically useless. They said I was a time-wasting wastrel and a cad who flaunted a false superiority over them.
I never insulted anyone – I just wanted them to look at the keystone, the thing they’d followed me to find. Forget the silly manuscripts, rotting and useless. We’d found an architectural marvel and they’d scoffed at it without understanding it, and driven it and me away.
I don’t understand their behaviour.
Was it because it had been a part of Dracula’s castle? Oddly superstitious of my team, I think. As for it having changed me…I feel no different. Rather, I’m still shocked at the strength of their hatred.
It’s very cold at night. I was allowed to bring some supplies with me, but unless I’m very lucky they’ll be depleted before I find civilisation.
Dec 3, nameless Romanian village
Saved! Collapsed in the mountains, a kindly woman found my body. She took me to her little village. Her name is Alina.
This place is completely obscure – it’s not even on any of my maps. It’s nameless and has only a few scattered homes, a church, and a general store…on the outskirts, there’s a dirt crossroads with a giant oak tree across from an empty lot.
Alina’s rooms are on the second floor of a rickety, tall boarding house. I have taken advantage of her hospitality since my arrival. The lady’s husband has been missing for three days, and her child, a boy of four, has quite taken to me. There’s little concern for the father – most of the people hate him, and he apparently disappears for days at a time. Others in this place have visited me – an elder, the swarthy owner of the single store…I’ve been greeted warmly.
The people here are tired and slouched, but they’re polite enough when they learn I speak Romanian and I am a fellow Christian. Life in this place is slow, and sometimes too sad for words. The little graveyard behind the church is a farm of headstones for once-sick children.
I keep the keystone in my bag. Best not to let these people know I’ve come from Dracula’s castle.
Dec 9, the same
Alina’s husband has returned. I recognise in him the evil eye and the turgid gaze of the criminal. He doesn’t explain where he’s been. He smells of dried blood. I suspect he’s a bandit of some sort. And his son is afraid of him, as well.
She wears a brave face, but the woman is deeply frightened of him. In the nights, with my candle snuffed, lying in the darkness under the thin sheets, I hear her crying quietly in the next room after he leaves her. Usually, he doesn’t return till the early morning.
He doesn’t seem to care that I exist or that I live with his wife. I suspect that keeping the keystone hidden is more important than ever.
The village’s old priest has died, and he has been buried alongside the children.
Dec 19, the same
Much has happened, little of it good.
Arthur came looking for me with a few of the men. I’m even now impressed that he managed to find me – I suppose archaeological skills go hand-in-hand with tracking, or perhaps he merely has an enthusiasm for hunting.
They came across Alina’s husband in the village, and spoke to him in broad daylight-the overcast, dead grey daylight of the Romanian mountains-and mentioned they were looking for me. I hid in my room and looked down upon them all in the street, afraid. But when one of the men mentioned Dracula’s castle, he punched him so hard that the man fell back and cracked his skull.
There was an uproar and much shouting, for of course the village was perfectly aware of what was going on.
They restrained Alina’s husband and tried to heal the man he’d attacked, to no avail; my man died, and it was decided that the bandit be hanged. I believe the people were simply looking for an excuse to be rid of the brute, and the dead man provided one.
It was done on the old oak tree, across from the empty lot. He struggled, but the village’s strongest men restrained him and knocked him bloody until he was limping and unresistant. Arthur and my other men watched solemnly. They’d buried their man after the perfunctory trial, right next to the priest, and were waiting for justice.
Up the tree he went, and kicked, and spat at them all and cursed, until the noose went round his neck.
Then there was violence, a struggle with the devil, and nothing.
Arthur didn’t look for me any further – my old compatriots left the village after the hanging. I still have the keystone from Castle Dracula in my possession.
Jan 28, Home
I married Alina, and I built a new home for us in the empty lot across from the oak tree. Her son became mine and I shouldered her troubles.
I cut the tree down. It was dead, imposing; like Dracula’s castle, nothing but an unpleasant reminder.
I haven’t heard from Arthur, and expect I won’t hear from him again.
Our house was built using the keystone. It’s above my hearth, and though Alina and the boy sometimes wonder at its strange shape, its otherworldly whiteness, only I know its secret.
Yesterday, the boy wanted to plant a new tree behind our house, on our side of the crossroads. I helped him dig a hole, and he tossed the seed in proudly.
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