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The Romanian Corpse

Mike Rader

    The cloying smell of incense filled my nostrils. The thick smoke curled from metal pots suspended from chains attached to decorative brass stands. Coals glowed in each little thurible as the incense powder burned.
    The bedchamber in the ancient castle was hushed. Our shuffling footsteps on the uneven stone floor disturbed the silence as we crossed the room under the watchful eye of Karel our guide.
    “Count Dragos,” the guide said in little more than a whisper. He reverently waved us closer to the ornate gold coffin capped with a glass lid. This is what we’d all come to see. One of the tourist drawcards of this part of Romania.
    The old aristocrat had been embalmed six hundred years ago. There he was, a cousin of Vlad the Impaler, lying in state as though he’d died just the other day.
    I stared down into the glass-topped coffin.
    The count’s head rested on a satin cushion. His eyes were closed. His face was the texture of leather, nut brown yet barely wizened. His body was swathed in linen robes. His hands were crossed on this chest. His nails caught my attention. They looked almost new, not six centuries old. His fingers seemed muscular somehow. His feet were encased in golden slippers.
    “The name Dragos,” I heard the guide say, “means dear and beloved.”
    Dear and beloved. How could a cousin of Vlad the Impaler live up to such a name? Vlad was a ruler who loved to impale his enemies on long stakes and display their grisly remains as a warning to others. Kind of like human kebabs!
    Of course I knew what Dragos meant in Romanian. My name is Alexander Grace, born in New York City, but two centuries ago my ancestors had migrated to the States from Dragos’s village. Not that I let on to Karel that I shared the Count’s heritage.
    I beamed my gaze over the ancient corpse. I asked, “Did Count Dragos do any impaling?”
    The guide shrugged, turned away uncomfortably. “This I do not know. Please, let us move to the next chamber and inspect the family treasures.”
    I ignored the sound of feet shuffling into the next stone chamber. I wanted to spend more time with Dragos’s corpse.
    For one thing, I’d never seen a body that had been embalmed six hundred years ago. I was fascinated. It was the husk of a human, completely and utterly dead. And yet it was so — real, so — alive, as though merely sleeping.
    I was staring down into the lifeless face —
    And suddenly saw —
    Through disbelieving eyes —
    A small patch of moisture forming on the surface of the glass.
    I reached out.
    Ran my finger across it.
    The moisture was on the underside of the glass.
    I leaned in closer. Saw the little circle of mist growing wider.
    That’s when I noticed Dragos’s eyes were open. Staring back, straight into mine. I raised a hand, saw his gaze follow my movement.
    No way a six-hundred-year old corpse could still be alive! And yet — his breath was misting the glass, his gaze was fixed on me. And in his eyes, something moved. There was a look, an emotion, a sign that the count’s brain still functioned.
    I couldn’t believe my luck — Dragos must have sensed the presence of family!
    My gaze darted to the side of the coffin, saw the golden key in the lock. As I turned it — CLICK! — the Count’s hands unclasped as the coffin lid swung open silently on golden hinges. I was frozen in place. Here I was, beside the man who had once ruled my village. An ancient hand reached up and brushed against my flesh. The old man’s skin was as rough as a snake’s.
    He muttered in the language my parents had taught me. “Tell me your name, boy.”
    “Alexandru Grosu,” I whispered, using my true Romanian name.
    “Grosu,” he wheezed. “Your family was loyal to me.”
    “And will be again, Master, you have my word,” I swore. “That is why I am here.” I loosened my collar, baring the flesh of my neck. “Master, I beseech you, make me one of yours!”
    His head gave a stiff nod. Pleasure suffused his gaze.
    His body rose up from the golden coffin. Closer, closer.
    It were as though he’d hypnotized me. I was incapable of movement. My legs were jelly. My heart was beating like bat’s wings. Chill gripped my stomach.
    What would my vampirization feel like?
    His breath, six hundred years old, flooded across my face. His ancient mouth opened to reveal his fangs. Dragos was going to become my master.
    My brain seemed to explode.
    I rebelled.
    I heard my voice screaming to save myself! I was young, I was American, what had possessed me to become a Romanian vampire?
    My hand shot across to one of the brass stands. I ripped down the pot of burning incense, hurled it into the count’s thirsting face. Hot coals set his flesh alight, plunged deep down his dry throat. I ran from the chamber, his screams echoing behind me.

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