The Vampyre King- A short Story

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The country is cold. A cold winter scene surrounded by the glow of a marmoreal sky illuminated by winter faeries. Of course they are not real, beauty doesn’t truly exist in this magical wasteland. It’s just the winter light playing tricks on your eyes. The light lulls you into a false sense of being and you soon forget the dangers that are lurking in the thickening forests. Some passing travelers say that even the people here are a figment of your imagination. A ghost town followed by another, they live to exist yet are forgotten by our ignorance.

Such a pitiful existence… to be forgotten so easily.

The town squares are alone and empty, cobbled streets echo the footfalls of lost ghosts of the past and present. A dreary existence even for the dead. Even in death you cannot escape the encroaching coldness in this country.

Legend has it… that’s the line whispered on every pair of gossiping lips that speak of this particular cold country.

Even the sun’s powerful rays cannot melt the perpetual coldness that lingers like death’s fingers around a skinny starving throat- a throat silently choking crying for help from the frost.

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A castle on a hill nestles silently in the dark forest. The castle is made of light stone the only sight of purity within the dark landscapes. It is a hidden treasure amongst the earthy mud and dirt of the forest. No one ventures to this forest- apart of course from the countless brave and poor curious souls. It cannot be truly said that none have survived either. How else would the superstitious villagers have their stories?

The castle corridors and rooms are as opulent as any living court. Colours of royals and sacred jewels invade the scenes, riches beyond imagination, paintings and gold draping on the walls. The carpets are velvet and as red as the blood spilt fighting in wars over this country’s land. Not even a spark of dust is allowed to live on the precious surfaces. However for all his riches, the king of this castle is as lonely, sad and cruel as a tyrant.

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He used to wander across the castle moping for his lost bride. The castle stands still in time as if it’s still the day of that wedding. The witches’ curse however hangs like a heavy pendant on his neck. ‘To be free, you never shall be, unless of course you can let the heart see.’ Those words the last words uttered before he had begun living and breathing in his own hell.

The halls are silent, the servants have learnt to scurry behind the castle walls, and you would think that no one lives here apart from the lost king. All within the castle are cursed…doomed. None of the court philosophers have worked out the answer. All and any can come and go from the court apart from the broken king himself. If that’s even possible, he’s more cursed than all who are forced to live within those walls. They can leave, but must be back within 48 hours or they die. But not him, he seems to be stuck here forever.

Legend has it that the king lives off the blood of passing travelers Accursed to be Dracula’s unwilling descendant for eternity, unless of course the curse can be unpuzzled. He doesn’t want to do it. Honest. What can you do when life deals you with its cast of cards.

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