It has been six months since I have been travelling with this group of gypsies. I am a true artist, not a member of this wandering troupe, versed in the arts of literature, although no one seems to take them into account nowadays. During the last few days, we have camped in a desolate area, and my only means of escaping lethargy is to busy myself with a pen, paper and a withered copy of Dracula. I became quite enticed with it, and one day, while searching through the old coffers of the gypsies, I stumbled upon a treasure: paper, yellowish and battered, but more than that, Notes! Bram Stoker’s Notes!
And so I found my third entertainment during our stay in that barren wasteland, and here I present what I was able to reconstruct from Stoker’s notes, to whoever is interested, to whoever finds this abandoned diary, lying in the tundra…



Reynard Dracula’s Diary

3 October. I don’t know why am I writing this. I am Count Reynard Dracula, Son of Count Vlad Dracula, Son of Pruett Dracula. Why am I writing this diary? My fiancée suggested it. She proposed this as soon as I returned from my campaign in the Holy Land, the objective being to rid myself of the foul reputation my father had passed unto me.

Tonight there is a party in the Castle, pesky nobles are a plague in these so-called high society gatherings. I myself am tired of the bickering of politics, living amongst warmongers and usurpers. The one thing that gives me comfort is Lynne’s figure lying on the bed, her lovely contours, fair blonde hair, and her angelic face. I cannot write anymore, the claws of sleep call me to Lynne’s side.

4 October. I raise now the pen to avoid the sword; for I fear rage will now take me to my doom. Why has God placed this fate unto me? Why? My fair Lynne, when the hunters found you this morning… pale, immobile, cold. This atrocity shall not go unpunished. I now leave the pen, and hold my sabre, which has tasted the crimson blood of the Arabs. It will now drink deep in the blood of your murderer.

5 October. I cannot bear these past events, my hand trembles as I write. The creature that took Lynne’s life, a man clad in black awaited me in the shadows of the woods. I fought him. His power was immense, the wounds pain me still, I will not hold out for much longer. He knew me, he said I was to pay for my father’s sins, and there was one word that echoes in my skull, Wampyr. I managed to kill him, but the memories of the battle, confusing, yet terrible, haunt my every thought. But more terrifying still, is what happened when I returned. I came back to the castle; it was dark and gloomy, as if haunted. When I stepped into the study, there was darkness in every corner, blood on the wall, and not a servant to be seen.


And then I saw her, standing there, fair and cold, a hissing sound coming from her full red lips. Her eyes were hollow and empty, though enticing and seductive. I could not resist Lynne’s sensual figure standing in the shadows. Dying, as I was, I approached her, she spoke sweet words into my ear…and bit my neck.

I feel this lust, taking over me as I watch her stiffened body on the floor, my sword across her heart, and her eyes staring blankly. There is a yearning for blood, violence. It is terrifying how these passionate instincts invade me. I feel strong, powerful, bloated with murderous rage, while dying. I write this with the last of my sanity…please… if you find this diary…flee from this castle. I have fallen to animal desires…and I like it.