When Vlad Died, Dracula Awoke

In the shadowed hills where the wolves would roam,
A young Vlad Tepes walked far from the safety of home.
Born of a lineage wrapped in iron and flame,
He learned early the weight of a feared, ancient name.

He trained with steel under merciless skies,
A prince with resolve burning deep in his eyes.
Captive at court, he swallowed his pride,
While hatred grew quiet and cold inside.

When freedom returned to his blood stained land,
He ruled with a harsh, unrelenting hand.
The forests whispered of stakes that rose,
A warning to tyrants and treacherous foes.

Transylvania trembled when he took command;
Justice to some, but a terror to his land.
His vengeance was ruthless, his judgment severe,
A reign forged in fury, sharpened by fear.

But fate is a wolf that circles the night,
Hungry for rulers drunk on might.
Vlad fell at last to a traitor's blade,
Yet the world learned quickly, his death only played.

For beneath the moon, in a crypt grown cold,
His body stirred as legends foretold.
Blood called to blood, a forgotten pact,
A curse sealed in shadows began to act.

His heart stopped beating, yet never stilled;
His veins ran empty, yet slowly filled.
From dust he rose with a whisper thin,
Darkness breathed...and invited him in.

No longer a prince of mortal breath,
He stepped beyond the grasp of death.
Fangs gleamed sharp in a silent snare,
A predator born from midnight air.

Dracula rose where Vlad once stood,
A nightmare cloaked in ancient blood.
Master of darkness, ruler of night,
Lord of the vampires, unseen in flight.

And still the winds through the Carpathians cry,
Warning all beneath their sky,
"Kings may fall, but evil waits,
And returns reborn...with hunger that never abates."

But as I penned the final line,
A chill crawled up this spine of mine.
For something stirred beyond my door,
A brushing sound across the floor.

The candles trembled, every flame,
As though they whispered Dracula's name.
The ink went cold beneath my hand,
Like frost from some forbidden land.

A presence loomed, unseen yet near,
A creeping weight of dread and fear.
The window groaned, a mournful sound,
As shadows thickened, gathering round.

My breath grew shallow; the night grew deep,
As if the darkness wished to keep
My trembling soul within its keep,
Forever bound in deathless sleep.

I wrote of him.....and so he came,
Drawn by blood, by verse, by name.
A pact unspoken, old as sin,
Call the devil, he steps in.

Footsteps echoed, slow and light,
Measured horrors threading night.
I dared not move, I dared not call,
The moon itself seemed to crawl.

A voice then whispered, smooth as wine,
A curling chill along my spine:
"Your words have stirred my ancient fate...
Now poet, open. We must converse late."

The handle turned with gentle grace,
And pale moonlight revealed a face.
Eyes like embers, red and sly,
A predator beneath the sky.

My heartbeat thundered loud and quick,
The room grew heavy, close, and thick.
His silhouette elegant, and vile,
Stepped through my doorway with a smile.

He read the poem I had writ,
His lips curled slowly, bit by bit.
"A fine retelling," he softly purred,
"But tell me, has the truth occurred?"

He leaned in close, inches away,
My strength unraveled into clay.
The air grew thin; the night grew tight;
I felt the draining of all light.

My quill fell down, his hand reached out...
A touch of frost, a hiss, a doubt.
I staggered back, breath weak and thin,
He blocked the path, with wicked grin.

Then silence tore the room in two.
The candles went out....one.....then two.
Darkness swallowed the final spark,
Leaving us both in perfect dark.

I felt his breath against my ear,
I felt his hunger drawing near...
And here the tale must pause its thread,
For dawn has not revealed who's dead.

Did I escape into the breaking day?
Or did the Count take me away?
No mortal soul is left to tell,
What happened in that midnight hell.....

All that remains is this final plea,
If footsteps echo, do not think it's me...