Gothic Fantasy: Invitation From a Vampire

The gravel crunched beneath Sarah Chen's tires as she guided her rental car through the wrought iron gates of Blackmoor Estate. The setting sun had already surrendered to a heavy blanket of Romanian clouds, leaving her with only her headlights to illuminate the winding driveway that snaked through ancient oaks. As the features editor of Architectural Digest, she'd visited countless historic homes, but something about this one made her grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

For fifteen years, the magazine had attempted to secure permission to photograph Blackmoor. Each request had been met with polite but firm refusals from the estate's reclusive owner, Count Alexandru Blackmoor. Then, three days ago, an invitation had appeared on her desk—handwritten in elegant script on thick cream paper that felt almost alive beneath her fingers.

The castle emerged from the darkness like a revelation: a masterpiece of Gothic Revival architecture, its spires piercing the violet sky. Sarah killed the engine and sat for a moment, drinking in the sight. Gargoyles perched along the roofline, their weathered faces caught in eternal snarls. The windows—hundreds of them—were mostly dark, save for a few that gleamed like caught starlight. According to her research, the estate had been built in 1824 by an English aristocrat who'd fallen in love with the wild Carpathian landscape. The locals, however, insisted the foundations were far older.

As she gathered her camera equipment from the trunk, a peculiar stillness settled over her. The usual chorus of evening birds was absent, as if nature itself held its breath around Blackmoor. The air carried an oddly metallic scent, like copper pennies left in the rain.

The massive front door opened before she could reach for the brass knocker. "Ms. Chen, welcome to Blackmoor." The butler—she assumed he was the butler—stood ramrod straight in perfectly pressed traditional livery. His face was pale as milk, but his eyes were sharp and dark as coffee grounds. "I am Nicolae. The Count sends his deepest regrets, but urgent business prevents him from greeting you personally this evening. He looks forward to discussing the estate's architecture with you tomorrow."

Sarah followed Nicolae through a foyer larger than her entire apartment. Her heels clicked against marble floors, the sound echoing off walls hung with tapestries so old their scenes had faded to ghostly suggestions. Oil paintings of stern-faced aristocrats watched her passage, their eyes seemingly following her movement. She could have sworn one portrait—a striking woman in Victorian dress—had changed expression between her first and second glance.

"The Count has arranged a light supper in the conservatory," Nicolae announced, gesturing to a glass-enclosed space filled with night-blooming flowers. "He insists his guests maintain their strength." A silver serving cart held an array of delicacies: rare roast beef so red it glistened, dark bread, and what appeared to be some kind of wine-based soup, its surface reflecting the candlelight like a mirror.

As Sarah ate, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about the room's proportions. The shadows seemed to pool incorrectly in the corners, and despite the dozens of mirrors adorning the walls, she had trouble catching her own reflection in any of them. She blamed it on fatigue and the peculiar acoustics that made every clink of her silverware sound like distant crystal wind chimes.

"Your room has been prepared," Nicolae materialized beside her so suddenly she nearly dropped her camera. "The east wing has the best light for morning photography, though the Count prefers to conduct his business after sunset." His smile revealed teeth that seemed a touch too sharp, though Sarah told herself it was just a trick of the candlelight.

Her room was a Victorian fantasy, complete with a massive four-poster bed draped in crimson velvet. Modern amenities had been tastefully integrated: outlets hidden behind wooden panels, Wi-Fi that actually worked despite the thick stone walls. The en-suite bathroom gleamed with original fixtures restored to a mirror shine. She noticed, with mild curiosity, that the mirror above the sink was clouded almost to opacity.

As Sarah drifted toward sleep, her mind clouded by the rich food and what must have been very good wine, she could have sworn she heard singing. The melody was beautiful but wrong somehow, like a lullaby played in reverse. Her dreams, when they came, were filled with the beating of enormous wings and the sensation of falling upward into a star-filled void. The last thing she remembered thinking before consciousness slipped away entirely was that she hadn't seen a single cross in the entire castle, despite its supposedly English origins.

She didn't notice the shadow that detached itself from the corner of her room, or the way it paused to study her sleeping form with eyes that gleamed like garnets in candlelight.

By Meredith Garcia

Meredith loves writing anything dark... She has been exploring the literature of night time creatures since she was a teen and now is inspired by the remaking of Nosferatu.

She welcomes your comments on this piece...