The Tale Of Alexander: The Final Chapter

The Tale Of Alexander: The Final Chapter

A Chapter by North Dakota

As Nosferatu's reign brings down terror and bloodshed for all mortals, will anybody be saved from this unholy massacre?


It had been four months since the beast known as Nosferatu had been birthed into this world. His slaughter knew horrors only imaginable by mankind. In less than an hour, he and his disciples would turn a bustling village into a desolate, charred, blood-soaked hellscape. Miska had played into his own insanity, manically cackling in battle; he was losing himself, his eyes becoming increasingly clouded by the day. Alexander was losing his family to this monster, and, slowly, losing himself. Even Virgil’s iron will could not stand alone against this demon, he had slipped into the crimson frenzy as well. Word had spread quickly after the first attacks, from both the trembling, horrified lips of the survivors’ stories, and the stench of blood wafting through the air. Any who still held breath within their bodies now tremble in fear inside their homes, silently praying for either salvation, or a swift death.

Through the downpour and the muck, eight men clad in hooded white robes slowly ambled down the beaten path of the Carpathian mountains and into the first village of the region. Each man adorned a set of shining, steel armor over their robes, looking quite outlandishly pristine inside the bleak, demolished village which they were passing through.

“It’s sickening…” One of the armed men muttered.

“These men must be brought down.” Another rider announced. Finally, after passing through the demolished village, the leader of the pack spoke up.

“This destruction was done by no man, but in reality, a demon. A demon sent straight from the fires of hell.” The middle-aged man removed his hood to reveal his short, choppy chestnut-colored hair. “The world we live is a hopeless one. We cling to our Lord for safety, but not even the greatest shepherd can protect such a large flock. The wolves have stalked us, watching silently from the woods until we are most vulnerable, then, they strike. The attack is always swift, too quick to be prevented.” He downtroddenly shook his head, letting the rain soak his hair and shoulders. The leader’s words instantly--as they always have--grabbed the attention of his disciples, each with open ears, hoping to take heed of his sage knowledge. After a short reflection, the front rider of the pack continued his speech. “While our Lord may wish to guide us in safety, that is simply impossible. Everyday, we lose members of our flock to these treacherous wolves. But today is different, today, we hunt the wolf. He has shown himself, he has made himself known, candidly bragging about his destruction by leaving trails of it all around him. While he rejoices in his reaping of our flock, he has left himself open, the wolf has revealed a trail of blood leading right back to his den.” From its scabbard, the leader retrieved his saber, and held it to the sky. “Tonight, we avenge the honor of our Lord! For whilst he weeps in sorrow for the loss of his sheep, we will dispatch holy judgement upon those who think they can sully the honor of God himself!” These words lit a fire in each member of his militia, either stimulating a tear to form in their eyes, or their sword handles to be tightly gripped in anticipation. “We are his holy warriors, those who bring God’s wrath onto this earth, and today, we will sweep the spawn of Satan from this once holy land!” A hearty shout rang from each member of the holy militia that rung throughout the baron woods, providing somewhat of a rejuvenated feeling to the wandering souls of that area. The leader placed his saber into its idle resting place, for it was not yet time; they had a long way to go, and many more horrors to see.

“May these trembling souls follow us, may they see their murderers fall before them, and may they finally see that God is here for them.” The priest finished his speech and placed his hood back over his slightly soaked hair. “God is here, children. And he will protect you.”

In the dim candlelight of the church, each man rejoiced and wallowed in the riches they had looted from the villages. Miska kneeled at the feet of his master, who now sat atop a stolen, hand carved chair. Like a dog, the leader of The Blessed posted himself at his master’s feet, head bowed, with the same gruesome smile that had been on his face when the monster had arrived. Nosferatu sat with one leg crossed over the other and and what seemed to be a glass of red wine in his right hand. The demon took a large gulp of this crimson liquid, effortlessly emptying it in one swallow.

“Miska, I need more.” He ordered in a deep, authoritative voice. The black haired man--who incidentally had a very similar hairstyle to his master--stood and retrieved the glass.
“Yes, M’lord. Right away.” He courteously bowed in the manner of a servant, then traveled to the kitchen. Since his summoning, Nosferatu had grew stronger with each feeding. He had gone from having the brawn of an elderly man to that of ten hearty men! All by simply feeding on the mortal’s blood. Even Andrei’s strapping form was now like that of a child compared to this demon.

Nosferatu rested his head on his left arm, which sat on the armrest of the lovely chair. He gazed upon his servants with a smile. His influence had taken over each one of them in its own way. Horatio, having finally given in to his urges, had the corpse of a woman crucified against the wall with her stomach cut open. Like a mad surgeon, Horatio sliced everything he could see, examining each organ or bit of muscle and bone, and scooping out everything impeding his progress throughout her body.

Andrei, having robbed and raided each of the taverns, was drinking like a glutton, sloppily pouring it on himself and his clothing. Countless bottles had been drained while he indulged in his debauchery. Just for a moment, he paused his drinking to take a large bite from a plate of seasoned chicken, which was stolen like every other item they had recently possessed, and then continued pleasing his urges.

Hassan sat atop a virtual mountain of gold and any other valuables he could pilfer from the homes of those he had murdered. The assassin giggled uncontrollably, like a child who had just received a gift. He rolled and covered himself in the riches, his greed being sickeningly fulfilled.

Virgil, the eldest--and thought to be incorruptible--one of the group was out of sight. The forty year old elder currently wrapped himself in the bed with a young girl that they had captured. Though each of his lustful actions were sowed with the seed of regret, it did not stop him. The girl had ceased her resisting long ago, realizing her fate was an unavoidable one, she simply laid there with a blank look in her eye. Virgil planted small kisses and bites along the length of her long, swan-like neck as he brushed her ebony locks aside. He continued this pattern, going lower and lower…

This only left Alexander, and where was he found? He rested on the roof of the church, staring upwards to the heavens. With a slow, weak motion, he raised his hand to the sky, as if he were trying to grab the helping hand of the Lord...but both he and God knew that nothing holy were coming to help him.

“What am I becoming?” Alexander looked to his blood-stained hand. Unfortunately, killing had once again become an easy task, but not for the reasons he wished it. Alexander could feel his empathy slipping, slowly losing compassion for those around him.

The distraught boy was a whirlwind of regret and anxiety, but at the same time...he felt an odd, satisfied glow within him. While Alexander struggled to maintain his humanity, Miska had all but abandoned it…

Down below Alexander, Miska crouched in the kitchen, roughly gripping the arm of a fairly fresh corpse. With a hasty slash of his dagger, he slit the wrist of the corpse, then drained the dead blood into a glass. Once he had refilled the cup, he dutifully carried it back to the demon. With one knee on the ground, he held the glass to his master.

“Thank you, my child.” Nosferatu took the goblet from the man, who then returned to his bowed position. “Halt, raise your head.” Miska stopped his motion, then looked into the eyes of his master, the same eyes as his own. Nosferatu cradled the back of Miska’s head, then raised the glass to his lips with the other. “Drink, my child. Drink with your master to become strong like your master.” Miska grinned, then drank in about half of the contents of the glass. Nosferatu brought the cup back to himself, then took a small sip. Miska slowly wiped the blood from his lips, savoring its flavor by lapping it around in his mouth for a moment then swallowing, relishing the flavor that danced across his tongue. The demon lowered the cup for a moment, then smirked.

“This old and dead...I require fresh blood...the blood of the living!” Nosferatu stood from his chair with an excited leer. “We must purge the unholy! If they forsake their souls, we must confiscate these creatures of their gifts of life.” Nosferatu sauntered past each man with a grin that flashed each of his ivory fangs.
“Brothers! Gather your weapons! We head for the next village!” Miska ordered as he retreated to the back room to equip his armor.

From the roof, Alexander heard the call. He shook his head, and weakly whined.

“No, no, no!” He murmured.  It terrified Alexander to the core to think of more violence, but the thing that scared him was that he wasn’t trembling in fear, but in excitement…

After a few minutes of preparation, the six men rode through the woodlands, lead by Nosferatu. The demon’s speed was a sight that still amazed Miska. Without exerting much effort, the monster could easily keep up with the pace of a horse; it almost scared him to think of what he could do if he actually sprinted. While each man had different aspirations and goals in mind for this next attack, one common thing linked them all, the murderous look in their eyes.

Tort, one of the last remaining villages in the region which had not been attacked, had been left in understandable terror. The village had gathered together any man strong enough to fight and formed an “army” to combat the oncoming threat. Roughly thirty seven men, all backed into a corner like rats and forced to lash out. Along with Tort's newly-found military to defend them,, the walls had been reinforced for extra protection. Any holes or weaknesses in the stone wall had been patched and built upon. Wooden supports had also been placed on the walls; most were almost hopeful enough to feel safe. The soldiers, each equipped with hastily made steel armor and short swords, patrolled through every inch of the town, watching for any hostilities.

Suddenly, a knock on the front gate that was loud enough to be heard by the entire village. A chill went down each man’s spine from the tremor of this booming sound.

“What the hell? Did somebody crash a cart into the doors?” The chief of the garrison questioned, then placed a ladder against the towering wall. The large man deftly climbed to the top, then scouted the area, not seeing any vehicles on the horizon. Suddenly, a throwing knife pierced the side of the man’s throat, causing him to gargle his own blood before dropping from the titanic wall and slamming onto the unforgiving ground. This event caused every soldier to be on guard, taking a defensive position that resembled the head of an arrow. Another thunderous knock that shook the door itself. Many of the soldiers, against their will, shook with fear. A final, deafening knock, and the ear-splitting sound of splintering wood were all that was heard before the attack commenced. Nosferatu had ripped the enormous, fifteen foot door from the iron hinges that it hung and tossed it to the side. Through the dust, the seven attackers flew, quickly intercepting the guards. Nosferatu lead the pack, bolting directly through the head of the arrow and lifting the newly-elected leader of the guards off of the ground. With one hand, he held the man five feet off of the ground, and with the other, he gripped the guard’s sword. This sight left every man in shock; the tales of the demon were true! With one swift motion, Nosferatu chomped through the man’s armor and into his jugular vein, draining the blood from him like one would to the juice of an orange. His comrades watched as their leader slowly stopped moving, then went completely limp in the demon’s hands. While he was draining his victim, The Blessed had flanked the guards, surrounding them in a circle formation with Nosferatu in the dead center of them. With vicious strength, he lifted another two off of the ground, tossing them as hard as he could into the wall and the side of a house.

Nosferatu began slashing through men as if they were rags, the armor making no difference to his brutish strength. The demon’s claws impaled one soldier, then with the same claw, pierced through the throat of another. Nosferatu licked the blood clean from his black, clawed fingers. Any man who attempted to flee was forced to engage the members of The Blessed, who easily outmatched them in combat. Slowly, but surely, the entire militia was being quickly wiped away; soon, the village would have no defense whatsoever. At least, not at the moment…

Seven of the eight men sat on horseback in front of the gothic church while waiting for their leader. The priest quickly trotted out of the church and remounted himself onto his equine steed.

“They are not here! They must be on the move! These wolves will be stopped before they can claim the lives of our flock!” The priest looked about for a moment, searching for some way to find their location. To his satisfaction, the group had left several sets of tracks in the mud, including one enormous, clawed, set of footprints.

“Good lord…” The priest commented.

“It’s feet are gargantuan!” Another of his warriors agreed.

“How large is this creature?” More murmurs and comments rattled throughout the group until the raised fist of the priest demanded silence.

“Yes, this creature may stand tall, but it stands hollow! Without the guidance of the lord, this battle has already been won, I can swear that to you.” From the inside of his shirt, he retrieved a large, silver cross that seemed to glow with a holy aura. “The Lord is blowing the winds in our favor. Tonight, we are the hand of God.”

Things had quickly gone downhill for the villagers. The entire garrison had now been ripped to bloody pieces of viscera and bone. The seven now turned to face the village, blood soaking each of them, both on their bodies, and in their souls. Both man and monster now struck out, attacking exactly where their pleasures lie. For Andrei, the tavern, for Virgil, the w***e house, for Miska...anywhere he could find a living soul to end.

As the men plunder, pilfered, and purged, eight men came galloping into the center of town, all with the look of holy men about them. The eight quickly dismounted their horses and armed themselves. Horatio was the first to notice the traveling band of warriors.

“And who might you be?” He impishly inquired as he drug a young girl from her home. She couldn't have been older than fourteen, and she was stricken too terrified to move, truly a sheep in need of protecting.

“Let. Her. Go.” The priest ordered.

“That was quite rude, I asked you a question. Now, tell me, who are--” The flamboyant man’s game was quickly ended by the intervention of the priest. In the blink of an eye, he had brashly gripped the Horatio’s hand and freed the girl. Horatio, shaken from his state of inflated egotism, was in horrified awe. The girl softly fell to the floor of her porch; the other warriors quickly evacuated her. Horatio stared towards the relaxed muscles of the priest, he was obviously not giving his full strength, but it felt as if his forearm were being crushed by the weight of an ox cart.
“Let me go!” He attempted to stab the man in the gut, but his other arm was swiftly disarmed by the priest’s sword, sending the blade flying into the dirt. The priest lifted Horatio off of the ground, then tossed him into the chimney of a nearby house, shaking the entire structure of the house. Miska, who had witnessed this action, called for Nosferatu, who came barreling to the scene.
“No mortal is that strong...what are you? An angel?” Nosferatu questioned the man who now targeted him.

“In times of hardship and terror...the holy say that it is a test of your faith, delivered by the Lord. Many do not agree, and say that it is all a lie, that God has abandoned us long ago.” The priest pointed the tip of his sword to the demon. “I will prove to them that the Lord is here with them when I run my blade through your putrid heart, demon!” Nosferatu seemed incredibly entertained by this notion.

“Tell me, human,”--Nosferatu had to hold back a laugh-- “who are you? And what makes you so confident in your ability to end my existence?” The priest took a deep breath, and began approaching the demon.

“My name is Augustus Adams, and my power comes from the Lord himself.” The holy cross began to glow underneath his shirt in proximity to Nosferatu. “It is with this power, that I will defeat you!” With one swift slash, he began his attack. Nosferatu caught the blade with a surprising amount of exertion. Augustus whipped the saber back and thrusted, which Nosferatu was barely able to dodge in time. While this fight broke out, the holy warriors and The Blessed began their respective duels.

Nosferatu dodged to the left, then attempted to impale the man directly through the chest, but his claw was caught merely inches from  Augustus’ sternum.

“Impossible!” Nosferatu shouted, then gripped the man’s leg with his other free hand. The demon swung the priest from the ground and tossed him into the front of a home, sending him barreling through the front door. All was quiet for a moment, allowing Nosferatu a smirk. He had won the battle, with a little bit of trouble, he had put down all the human race had to offer. The demon began to rejoin his comrades who were, admittedly, struggling with the seven holy warriors.

“Oi, where do ya think you’re goin’?” Augustus brushed himself off and emerged from the home, ready to battle once more.

“You still stand, mortal!?” Augustus rushed him much quicker than he could have expected, allowing the priest to get a deep slash on the demon’s stomach. With a grunt of pain, Nosferatu took a swing at the priest, who ducked the slashed and retaliated with an attempt to stab through him, but failed; the demon side stepped him then delivered a staggering punch to the entire left side of the priest’s head. Augustus was sent spiraling across the dirt, but he quickly recovered.

Just as Augustus began to stand, Nosferatu appeared behind him,  grabbed both of his arms, and lifted him into the air.

“These arms of yours...let us see how much of a threat you will be without them!” Nosferatu attempted to rip the priest’s arms from their sockets. Augustus shrieked out in pain, then, with all his might, attempted to pull his arms back, but to no avail, the demon was too strong for him. Augustus had only one plan. He tucked his chin in, and, with his teeth, grabbed the chain that his silver cross hung from. With a deft swing of the head, the cross flew through the air, and wrapped itself precariously around the demon’s right arm. After a few moments of intense, searing pain, Nosferatu was forced to let go of the priest’s right arm. Augustus swiftly wrapped his legs around the demon’s left arm then punched him directly in the face with his right arm, staggering Nosferatu and forcing him to step backwards. Augustus dropped to the ground and hastily grabbed his cross. After retrieving his relic, he tackled the demon’s enormous form to the ground. Augustus mounted his foe, then delivered several vigorous blow to the monster’s face. Nosferatu bucked the human off of him, then stood. Augustus, who was attempting to stand, received a fierce kick to the stomach from the demon that sent him into the air. The priest landed with a painful thud that knocked the air out of him. Nosferatu quickly wrapped a hand around the human’s throat. Without lifting Augustus from the ground, Nosferatu began to sprint along the ground while pushing the mortal into the dirt, causing his body to rip a trench through the ground as he was drug. After dragging him out of the village and nearly back into the woods, Nosferatu quickly stopped and tossed the man in one swift motion, throwing him at an incredible velocity towards a nearby tree.

The priest ripped clean through the tree, skidding and rolling along the ground several yards away. Nosferatu began approaching him, crunching twigs and leaves beneath his clawed feet as he closed the distance. Augustus, who was struggling to even stand, fell to one knee. Once again, he retrieved the cross from underneath his shirt, and began to gather up all the strength he had left in his body. He wrapped the chain of the cross around his hand with the cross itself clenched tightly within his fist.
“Lord, guide my hand!” He spoke in a whisper as he turned to face the demon that approached him. With every ounce of strength and courage that remained in his body  focused into his right arm, he released the strongest hay maker mankind had ever seen. The punch ripped into the demon’s gut, nearly breaking Augustus’ hand in the process. The priest opened his hand to allow the cross to make full contact with the demon’s innards. Nosferatu wailed in intense anguish, and attempted to pull away, but with all of his strength, Augustus wrapped his other arm around the demon to hold him in place.

After a couple of minutes--which felt like an eternity--Nosferatu was finally able to pull away from the priest and push him to the ground.. The demon felt incredibly drained, he could barely lift his arms, and to breath was a straining task. He felt only slightly stronger than when he had entered this world. Augustus felt quite drained himself, but battled his own body until he could stand and walk.

“Your life will end today, demon! No longer will you plague this flock! The reaper has came, and you are left to stand alone against the judgement of the Lord!” Augustus’ hand, which was soaked in the demon’s black blood, curled into a fist as he approached Nosferatu. The demon, knowing his battle had been lost, turned and fled with significantly reduced speed.

The monster reentered the village, searching for his comrades. He found Miska, with the anger of a man possessed, still battling the four remaining warriors. Horatio laid where he had been knocked unconscious against the chimney, Virgil sat on one knee, bleeding profusely, Hassan still fought, but blood streaming from an open gash on his head blinded him in one eye, Alexander weakly fought alongside the two, but his efforts were nothing impressive, and Andrei sat propped against the wall of a home, holding the stump of his severed left arm.

“Servants! We’re retreating!” Nosferatu ordered, gathering their attentions instantly.

“But, we never flee!” Miska retorted as he blocked an oncoming strike.

“Do not argue! We are leaving!” Nosferatu ordered the men, who, when they got the opportunity to, broke away from the battle, and struggled to mount their steeds. With some assistance from Nosferatu warding off the warriors, they were able to get all the injured onto their horses and ride away with Nosferatu tailing them. After a brief period of checking the wounded and deceased, Augustus came slowly hobbling up the hill.

“Quickly, we must ride after them! The demon is bleeding, we must kill it now, while we have the chance!” The warriors nodded in agreement and mounted a chase.

The Blessed had made it back to the church with all of the brothers. The men barred the front doors with a large board that spanned across the entire front entrance. Miska stood on the ready and prepared to fight alongside Hassan and Alexander, who was struggling to stay standing. Horatio was laid down across a pew, and Virgil was tending to Andrei’s severed arm by attempting to cut off the blood flow. Nosferatu’s pain only increased as time went on; the hole in his stomach seemed to be growing larger, but perhaps it was all in his mind. After a few brief minutes of rest, a knocking came at their door. After several breathless moments, a large explosion from the base of the door blew it inwards and destroyed the board barring it. As the smoke cleared, one of the warriors came leaping through it, impaling Miska through his left thigh and posting him to the ground. The leader’s shriek of pain was overshadowed by his cry of rage as he attempted to fight, but was simply passed by and ignored after one of the warriors disarmed him. Hassan was quickly knocked aside onto one of the pews, then impaled, by the stomach, through it. Alexander, after a brief moment, attempted to raise his sword, but couldn’t. One of the priests looked him directly in the eye for just a moment, staring right through him into his soul, then nodded and moved past him. Nosferatu quickly fled to the backroom of the priest’s bedroom as the attack happened. Virgil, who made a protective shield around Andrei as the warriors approached, was spared any more pain as they pursued the demon.

The demon stood face-to-face with five men, including Augustus. One warrior who approached was kicked back by Nosferatu, but unharmed. He quickly stood back up and joined the throng of warriors that now rushed the demon, who could barely fight back. At the end of the short struggle, four of the men held each of Nosferatu’s limbs to the wall, trapping him.

“Demon, it is your time to be cleansed from this earth! In the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ, I do this!” From a satchel--the same satchel he held the explosive powder that demolished the front door--he retrieved a nail made entirely out of silver and a hammer. With some strain, he lined the nail up against the demon’s left hand, and nailed it through into the wall of the church. Nosferatu screamed out in incredible pain, but could do nothing about it as the silver itself weakened him. Augustus continued to put a nail in his other hand, both legs, and one directly through his heart. Nosferatu’s head limply hung as he took his final breaths...the beast...was slain.

“Tonight, the sheep have risen up and beaten back the wolves that have hounded us for too long. Our flock has been successfully protected.” Augustus let loose a relieved sigh and a smile. “Let us return home.” Augustus and his warriors slowly exited the home of the unholy, with a victorious smile on their faces and the Lord in their hearts.

Nearly twenty minutes had passed since the attack, and Miska had finally rested enough to stand again.

“Gaaah!” With a shout of pain, he ripped the sword that pierced him from his leg and tossed it aside. “Mercy!? How dare they!” Miska indignantly shouted as he went to gather his brothers. He limped towards Hassan, and freed him as well. The assassin began to bleed profusely from his stomach, but Miska insured him that it would only be a minor problem. The leader then yanked him to his feet and more than forced him to stand and walk with him. “They took pity on us, as if we were not worth finishing off!? Get up!” Miska shouted to Horatio, who had just recently gained consciousness. “We must see our Master!” Virgil, Andrei, and Alexander followed in suit, watching the blood drip from each individual wound. The six entered the room to find their master crucified against the wall, exactly like the portrait of Jesus Christ that would hang in a normal church.
“!” Miska rushed to his side, and attempted to free him, but he was simply not strong enough. The leader wrapped both hands around the silver nails, but it would take much more strength than he possessed to rip the nails from the stone walls of the church.

“Miska...stop.” The weak voice of Nosferatu reached his ears. “My physical body...I cannot survive in is going to die.”

“No, please, you cannot leave me!” Miska, with tears in his eyes, continued to try to pry the nails from Nosferatu’s body, but once again failed. “Not after all this time!” Large, hot tears began flowing from Miska’s eyes and onto the blood soaked floor. “I cannot be without you, my lord!” For a few minutes, Miska’s pathetic sounds of strains and sobs were the only sound to fill the room, until the demon once again spoke.

“Miska, I will leave you with…” Miska brought his eyes upwards to his master’s.

“What? What is it?” Miska leaned forward to hear his Master’s final, dying words.

“I want you to drink from feed on my blood...It will bestow upon you many gifts... my strength...and my being will each gain a fraction of my power...Use it wisely, my son…” Miska nodded on each word, memorizing each syllable, as they would be the last his master ever spoke to him in this realm. Nosferatu weakly clenched his hand, causing a large reservoir of blood to begin dripping from the open wound. Miska, with a grimaced nod, raised a cup that rested on the writing desk of the room to the Nosferatu’s hand, slowly filling it with the dark liquid.

“The rest of as your leader does…” Miska, with an incredibly heavy heart, gave his orders. The other five, due to their injuries, slowly ambled around the room until they could find something to fill. All but Horatio could find a glass; the flamboyant brother simply used a bucket. After the six had each gathered a generous amount of the black blood, Nosferatu spoke his final words.

“I will see the next children…” With a final breath that released his soul itself, Nosferatu was no more.

Miska, with clenched fists and gritted teeth, attempted to maintain his emotions.

“Our master…” Miska released a small, choked up cough in an attempt to keep himself from crying. “Our gone...stricken down in the prime of his glory…” Miska bowed his head for a moment, then raised it once again, the fire in his eyes never burning so brightly. “But we...will avenge him! We will be the vessels that carry his power into the new age! While his life has been extinguished, we will each carry a piece of it within ourselves, and with that...he will never die.” Miska downheartedly spoke, then raised the glass. “We shall each drink from him, truly making him apart of ourselves.” At the same moment, each man raised their drink, and gulped down the black blood. Alexander hesitated for a moment, but followed the actions of his brothers.

Miska was the first to feel it, the transformation that would change his life for eternity. The leader dropped the glass to the ground, allowing it to shatter.

“Ahh!” Miska wailed in agony as he held his head in his hands. The leader’s body began trembling, and his eyes were forcibly shut against his will. Andrei was the next to follow suit  in the painful pantomime, then the rest followed in their own individual times. Wails of pain shook the very foundation of the church as each man now experienced something that was never meant for mortal bodies or minds. Miska was also the first to make it through the painful episode.

“I feel...power…” Miska breathily spoke as he lifted his head and opened his eyes. The leader’s eyes that had once occasionally glowed with a faint crimson, now permanently burned bright enough to be seen through the darkness of the midnight. The others slowly, in their own times, recovered from the pain, each with identical sets of glowing red eyes.

“My arms...I feel as if I could topple a mountain itself!” Andrei shouted with a vigorous glee.
“Yes, this is unlike anything I have ever felt before! This is spectacular!” Hassan exclaimed. “A son of a b*****d I am no more! I toss aside the name you’ve given me father! It was the only you ever left me with, after all!” Hassan defiantly shouted to the heavens, feeling a strong high off of his new found power. “With this power, I am no longer a mere mortal, strapped down to the bonds of this earth! I am a demon! I am no longer Hassan of the Dracul clan, I am apart of no man’s family, I am my own man! I am...Vlad! Vladimir Dracula! And my power knows no limits! Hahaha!” Hassan--or Vlad if you prefer--had denounced his mortal existence, for he had rebirthed as no man, but a demon, a monster...a vampire.

To each man’s amazement, the power didn’t stop there. Andrei’s once though fatal wound now began to heal.

“Oh my lord…” Andrei whispered in shock as the stump of his left arm now began to grow. It healed itself, creating entirely new bone and flesh until it was as if his arm had never been separated from him in the first place. Similarly, the other’s wounds began healing themselves as well until each man was in perfect health once more. Alexander clenched and relaxed his hands, feeling his new-found strength was something mythical.

Miska strutted past the men, tears still in his eyes, but a plan of revenge in his heart.

“Don’t you see!? His gifts have given us a power much like his own! But our protection was not the only reason he has given these abilities to us…” Miska proceeded to the front doors of the church. One of the heavy wooden doors still loosely hung from its rusty iron hinges. With a satisfied grin, he easily kicked the wooden door down and onto the grass outside. “No, this was not for us...but for him! He has given us these powers so that we might avenge his death!” Miska’s brothers gathered around him at the entrance of their home, the beauty of the full moon illuminating and shining down on them. “My brothers...from the shadows, we will live...from the shadows...we will become stronger with each feeding...from the shadows...we will have our revenge...but tonight, we show no mercy, we show no cowardice...tonight...we feed!” Like a whisper carried on the wind, Miska flew forward, nearly instantaneously leaving the church behind. The others, including Alexander, followed suit.

That night, as he gorged himself on the blood of the survivors of the earlier attack and any who crossed his path, a single tear fell from Alexander’s eyes.
“Lord...when I was born, did you know that you would be giving a monster?”

© 2016 North Dakota

Author's Note

North Dakota
Incredibly sorry for the tardiness of this chapter, but some things came up last week that forced it to be postponed! As a side note, I'm placing a request, I'd like to hear your opinions on the characters, what do you think of them? What do you hope to see from them? Anything. As always, thank you for reading, and feel free to comment!

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Added on May 21, 2016
Last Updated on May 21, 2016


North Dakota
North Dakota


I'm an amateur author who enjoys writing more than anything. I hope to improve my writing style and etiquette through the criticism of others. So, any review or criticism would be greatly appreciated,.. more..