Dawn Berkoski

It was a birthday celebration, a Romanian ritual, that’s what I was told as I was led through an inner courtyard like the one I’d seen at Bran Castle. Ivy cascaded down stone walls, and low lighting gave the restaurant a romantic feel. Medieval armor, dark corners, empty tables… I wasn’t sure if this was a restaurant or a castle. There didn’t appear to be anyone dining at this hour.

But, after ascending a set of worn stairs, and entering the special dining room, I was too happy to care. I felt like I was in the home of Vlad! I was instantly enamored by a wall-length mural of men on horseback. The 15th century Chindia Tower, built by Vlad Tepes and climbed by me in Targoviste, was shown in the distance. And the warm colors and art style reminded me of a painting at the Casa Vlad Dracul in Sighisoara. All around me were vestiges of Vlad. A statue in the corner, his visage carved into the dark wood dining chairs, lined with red velvet. Gold plates and chalices graced the table. And by my plate-a party favor, of sorts. An After-Life Insurance Card with my name written in red cursive.

I took my birthday seat at the head of the table. The opposite end remained empty as everyone favored the sides, so I had a full view of the walls as I dined. Champagne flowed. Flavorful fish was served for dinner, light and crisp with a glass of wine. Afterwards, a delicious cake to top it off.

But the best part, the young Romanians promised, was yet to come.

And, down we went, back through the courtyard to a different set of stairs that wound up to a separate floor. It felt older than the other parts; years of memories infused in creaking floorboards, low, beamed ceilings, and antique muntin windows of frosted glass. There were no lights, only hundreds of little candles hinting at the dark interior.

Robed figures appeared, along with a table holding a body covered by a sheet. The Ritual of the Living Dead had begun. (Video below) It was all in good fun. So, I thought.

Based on Romanian folklore, this burial rite existed long before Bram Stoker wrote Dracula. When something strange happened in a village, it was believed that someone had turned into a strigoi. This play wasn’t play at all, I realized with a quickening heart. It was an incantation, an order for the spirit to move on from the mortal realm, while stabbing the container of their soul.

Afterwards, as I contemplated life, death, and everything between, upbeat music came through the speakers. The atmosphere turned lively; the mood grew more festive. I was offered a special Romanian drink, stronger than anything prior. A shot of blood-red liquor, gamesomely served in a test tube.

“Down it!” Someone cried.

And I did. It was bitter-sweet and syrupy, like a thick port or sherry, and it went straight to my head. Bodies shifted before me; a dance called mingling began as questions were asked. How old was I ? What did I think of Romania?

As the conversation flowed, the smoke from the scented candles seemed to thicken. I started to feel woozy. I remember laughter, Cheshire Cat smiles, and swaying wicks that flickered as if a strong wind blew. Things grew foggy. I could have sworn I heard the caw of a raven, a warning or a last goodbye as I was dropped off at a hotel near the airport. I started to feel ill, too much drinking, I thought, and closed my eyes. The next thing I knew, I was on a plane home.

Now, months later, I have restless dreams. Images of castles with windows so high I can’t escape, of maze-like tunnels and crypts that stretch for miles beneath the earth, of clock towers where time runs backwards, of cackling fortune tellers shuffling cards upside-down, of strange animals gathered in lush green mountains, watching me with fathomless eyes, churches set aflame, and men in black hats with glistening sabers raised above their heads. Most of all, I have a deep yearning to return, as if I left my heart in Transylvania like Princess Marie.

I can’t say whether Vlad became a vampire, but he left his eternal mark on history, and me. As for the evidence that vampires exist, I can only offer this, my testimonial, a map, and a parting quote from Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

“I want you to believe…to believe in things that you cannot.”

Dawn B~