At the edge of Transylvania, under the light of a pale full moon a shabby hamlet lay nestled at the edge of the thick dark forest part of the territory of a long forgotten and dead Count. The silhouette of his ruined castle could be seen far away. There, in the vicinity of that small settlement a poor merchant by the name, Ion Goia, with his face battered by weather and time tempered by the viciousness of the road was making his way on the path which could barely be called a road. He came from the midday, slowly guiding a weary donkey pulling a modest cartful of goods which, Lord be willing, would take him to the heart of Transylvania where he hoped to sell his haul.
The hamlet where he stopped was little more than a few huts scattered seemingly at random across the uneven ground and, encircled by a small wooden palisade. The only place where he could spend the night seemed to be the inn in the center of the village. Although it was little more than a slightly larger hut with only one room for guests, shabby and rundown. All things considered, Ion, fearful of the howls—howls he hoped were just wolves and not werewolves or something else even stranger—resounding from the thick, dark woods around him, convinced him that even this hut was better than camping out in the wilds. After all who knows what other things lay in waiting the dark shadows?
After securing his donkey in what was supposed to be a stable he made his way inside. The innkeeper, a hunched old man with hair as white as snow and teeth countable on the fingers of one hand, greeted him warmly. Judging by the way the hunched innkeeper's keen eyes studied his purse, Ion couldn't help but think, "He's more pleased by my purse than by me.". But what could he do? Better here than out there with the ghouls or whatever else lurks in the night.
"Come in, come in, my good man! For the night is harsh and the beasts are even worse." The old man welcomed him in, pulling him by his arm and closing the wooden door behind him. Inside, the air was thick with a mix of candle smoke and a scent of old clay. The inn had a single room, bitter and damp, where a rickety bed barely held its shape, and a few wobble tables stood, ready to collapse at the slightest touch. Ion sighed softly but determined not to worry too much. He took out his bag and paid what the innkeeper asked, though the price was anything but fair. He took a seat by the table and asked for a cup of wine, to warm himself up. When the old man came with the jug of wine, he too took a seat at the table near his guest, and silence fell like a thick blanket over the room.
"Where are you coming from, my good man, and where are you headed? What brings you here to this deserted land?" asked the innkeeper in a hoarse voice, like a gravelly whisper in the night. Ion raised his eyes from his cup of wine and answered curtly, "I come from the south, with goods to sell in Cluj. But my journey isn't easy, for the night is long and the forests are full of dangers."
The old man looked at him with a peculiar smile. It was something strange in his eyes, a cold glint, like steel. Softly he leaned on the table and spoke in a low tone, "Well then, my good man, take heed for the beasts aren't the only dangerous things around these parts. There are other things, spirits that roam the night, worse than any wolf or bandit. But what can I tell you? The story is long, and the night is rather short..." Ion felt a cold shiver run down his back. He raised his eyes to the old man, and for a moment, his shadow, projected on the wall, seemed to stretch into a form that appeared inhuman. He blinked, and it was gone. Just an illusion, right?
Ion felt that he should not ask further, for he might hear stuff which wouldn't be of any help to him. Even so his curiosity got the better of him, and pouring himself another cup of wine asked with a strained voice, "What spirits, old man? What tales are you telling?" The innkeeper sighted deeply and ran his rough hand over his forehead. His eyes gleamed under the pale light of the lamp, as if a heavy memory weighed on his soul, "Oh, my good man, this story isn't meant to be told to just anyone... but so be it. Since you've made your way to these parts, it must be fate you should hear it. And, to be clear, what I'm about to tell you is not a fairy tale to deceive you, but the truth, straight from the very bowels of the earth. Let me tell you about a ghost hunter, a man who bartered his soul to rid the world of evil." Ion, leaning on his elbows, listened with bated breath. The old man, cleared his throat, leaned back, and began to speak, vis voice seeming to come from another time, from another place...
"Once upon a time, not too long ago, there was a man by the name Andrei, who made his living not by hunting beasts or birds, but by hunting shadows and unholy spirits. He was known by all in the villages, for he had the gift of walking in the footsteps of the unseen. Some said he was cursed, others that he was sent by God, but the truth was known only to him.
And so, Andrei arrived, in a night with a full moon, much like this one, at the gates of a deserted castle high on top of a hill. He heard tales of a vampire haunting the place, a creature of the night that sucked the blood of any living being unfortunate enough to venture near. The castle, the villagers said, was owned by a proud count, but because of his greed, an old witch had cursed him terribly. In death, he couldn't find his rest in the grave, and so he returned to haunt the world, taking the lives of others to prolong his own shadow walking the earth." Ion felt his skin crawl with goosebumps. He rubbed his hands together, but it was as if the cold was seeping into his bones. The innkeeper continued,
"When Andrei arrived at the castle, he found no living soul. The silence was maddening, and it seemed as if the walls were whispering. The pale moonlight bathed the deserted halls, and on the cold stone floor, old, dried bloodstains could be seen. He kept going forward, and in the heart of the castle, in a big hall with a broken throne, he found it. The Vampire, lying in the coffin, neither dead nor alive, but something in between. Sensing the scent of the living, the creature awakened swiftly and circled him eager to feed on him. But to the vampire's surprise, Andrei wasn't scared, he poured a ring of salt around him, unstrapped the enormous object he carried on his back, and unveiled it. It was a thick, huge book, its dried leather covers were adorned with a pentagram with an eye in the middle, he opened it and began chanting unknown words that flowed from his mouth. The undead count pounced furiously on him, but was unable to pass through the circle of salt. Feeling itself in danger, the vampire whispered all sorts of things, trying to make him feel pity or fear, while Andrei... simply stayed silent and chanted. Their battle was not physical but one of minds and souls."
"And, what happened?" Ion asked, with trepidation in his voice. The old man looked down, speaking as if the words were a burden. "Andrei stood fast, resisting the vampire's temptations, promises of power, immortality, and whatnot. Finally, the hunter completed his spell, and the vampire was bound. Andrei drove a wooden stake through the count's heart, its body scattering to ashes, and his ghastly soul screaming in anguish, about to dissipate, freed from its long curse. But before the soul could vanish, a pair of demonic arms shot out from the book in Andrei's hands and dragged the ghostly spirit inside. The book's covers shut tight, and the eye blinked in contentment. After defeating the vampire, Andrei left the castle halls, his skin a shade paler than when he entered, for his book was a demonic artifact forged with his soul as collateral, and every use required a small piece of his lifeforce."
The old man took a sip of his wine and continued, "At least that's what they say. Others claim that Andrei fell prey to the vampire's lies and his will faltered, allowing the vampire to devour him. Since then, the castle has remained deserted, with no one daring to venture there anymore." The innkeeper looked Ion straight in the eyes, finishing his story. The light from the lamp seemed to flicker strangely across the old man's face and in that moment Ion, felt that something was out of place. Perhaps it was the shifting shadows in the room or the unusual coldness that seemed to intensify with every passing second.
The innkeeper gently leaned his head back, but his strange smile which seemed like it belonged to a dead man was still etched on his face. He kept telling tales of Andrei's adventures, of ghosts and ghouls, of forest nymphs and werewolves. All of which made Ion even more upset, but even as he felt his bones shivering he couldn't stop listening. Finally when the wine seemed to warm him up and cloud his mind, the old man finished, saying, "Well, enough about vampires and hunters... better get some rest, my good man. The road ahead is long, and the coming day won't greet you with open arms." Ion nodded his head, and with tired steps he stumbled to the rickety old bed and lay down. He blamed his drowsiness on the wine and exhaustion, but unaware of it a small piece of his memories were forgotten, nothing major or vital, but just enough. A small, imperceptible price for listening to such tales. The innkeeper took a seat at his table seemingly as if, neither tired, nor exhausted looking in his direction.
Ion tried to sleep, but always felt as if a weigh bore down on him, a restlessness stirring in his chest. He closed his eyes and dreamt, or maybe it wasn't a dream? In his fitful sleep, he could see the innkeeper standing still at the table, watching him with translucent, ghostly eyes. Finally, the old man stood up and began approaching him, and his shadow, cast upon the wall, stretched grotesquely, growing like a beast with long claws. But Ion woke up before the dream could reveal more. He looked around, the lamp was still flickering weakly, the innkeeper was still at the table, but Ion's sleep was gone.
Morning found Ion even more tired than when he arrived. He slowly got out of bed, gathered his stuff and prepared to leave. The innkeeper was already by the door, waiting. He smiled widely, but Ion flinched. For a brief moment, it seemed as though the old man had two teeth that were longer than the night before. Ion blinked, and the mirage shattered. With a pat on his shoulder and a few words of farewell, Ion found himself outside in the fresh morning air.
"Safe travels, good man," said the innkeeper. "And watch out for the shadows... for sometimes light can't keep them at bay." Ion thanked him and, leading his donkey, set out on the road. Behind him, the village was left undisturbed. The huts were there, same as the inn and the palisade. But when he traveled further and looked back, what he saw made his blood run cold in his veins. The inn, which had just moments ago seemed like an old but sturdy building, was now nothing more than a ruin. The entire hamlet was little more than a pile of rubble. The streets were empty, devoid of people or animals, and not even the smoke from chimneys could be seen. Everything was abandoned. "Could it have been a dream? Or maybe..." Ion wondered, but his mind refused to offer an answer. He urged his donkey forward, though for a brief moment, it seemed frozen, its eyes lifeless. Ion didn't notice and kept going, hoping to make it out of the forest by nightfall.
When the sun finally set, the shadows of the village began to stir again. The inn, with its cracked walls and dilapidated table, slowly rose from the ruins, and the hunched old man appeared once again in the doorway. His hideous smile lit up his lifeless face, and his voice echoed as if speaking with someone unseen, "Until next time, my good man... Until next time." The wind howled, and the village remained unchanged...