Dawn Berkoski

The first place I searched for vampires in Sighisoara was the Church on the Hill. To reach the Biserica din Deal, which looms over the historic, UNESCO World Heritage Site in Transylvania, you have to enter a dark, wood-covered walkway built in the 1600’s.

As I climbed the 176 wood beams known as the Scholars’ Stairs, a lone guitar played somewhere above. I followed the mournful notes, trying to take deep breaths and relax my escalating heart rate. My calves ached from the salt mines in Turda, but I couldn’t give up.

“There’s a crypt,” the guitar player told me when I stopped to rest, “under the altar.” After hearing that, I would climb the original 300 steps to get there. I tossed him a few coins for his playing and continued, thinking about the Roman coins the Crusader in Alba Iulia carried under his cloak.

“Someplace deep and dark.” The fortune teller’s words from Cluj-Napoca.

“Follow the Ravens.” But they seemed to follow me, from the moment I left Corvin Castle, all the way here to Sighisoara, the supposed birthplace of Vlad the Impaler, the son of Dracul.

I had come all this way, following those clues, determined to find out if vampires were real, but my evidence was shaky at best. Here, my search would finally bear fruit. I hoped.

Reaching the top of the Pupils’ Steps, I was even more confused. Instead of a Gothic Basilica, I was greeted by an old school. To get to the church, I had to climb further. But it was worth every muscle-twitching moment. The church, deceptively simple in appearance, is nothing of the sort.

The wall paintings, dating back to the 14th century, were a Medieval fantasy turned real. I was mesmerized by the antique trunks scattered about. My fingers itched to open their lids. What secrets did these wooden chests hold? Maybe they belonged to a vampire. But I couldn’t touch them, nor the fascinating funerary stones that lined the walls depicting various guilds. So, I took a hundred photos, and then I headed to the crypt.

Descending the narrow brick stairs under the altar, I was reminded of a feeling I had in a small church in Portugal, a feeling I’ve come to equate with age, reverence, and possibly a connection to the creators who poured their souls into a space. I was aware of a sudden quietness that goes beyond quiet, a denseness that goes beyond being underground, a scent older than time itself. I stilled, tuned into death or my overactive imagination, a maze of endings to the story of my life.

For some reason, the walled up sides of the crypt called to me rather than the sarcophagi behind thick glass. I stared into the crevices, wondering what led me there. I even took a video, but the feeling dissipated as swiftly as it came. So, I went back upstairs and left the church. Something else had caught my attention, and it was coming from the graveyard across the way.

Dawn B~