For the rest of the evening, we discussed plans, deeds, and figures of Blackula’s new estates. He showed me his atlas, which was opened to Germany.

“This property in the Black Forest has three villas. Each villa has a terrace and a direct view of the lake. All three of your new vacation comes are connected by a boardwalk.”

“Excellent,” said Blackula.

He then flipped the atlas to England. There were already two markers, signifying the second and third properties that the count wanted to buy: one on Whitby, a town on the Yorkshire coast, and another one Piccadilly, an east London suburb.

“Whitby is perfect for your home away from home, Count B. It’s very isolated and private,” I said. “It’s 20 acres and surrounded by a tall, stone wall and guarded by an iron gate. The walls are crumbling, and the gate is rusted, but it’ll be fun home improvement project to fix it up.”

I continued on.

“There are only a few other residential houses around your house. The two major neighboring buildings are a lunatic asylum and an old chapel. But I visited the property myself, and I can assure you, the lunatic asylum isn’t visible from the grounds.”

“The mansion itself is very old, built in the medieval period. There are only a few windows, and they’re very high up and barred with iron.”

My client was seemed happy with my real estate spiel, depressing as it was.

“I’m glad that the house is old and big, Jamarcus. I love the shadow and darkness of night.”

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“Right. Sun is overrated.”

I then changed the subject to Piccadilly.

“This townhouse in Piccadilly is in a cul-de-sac in a quiet residential neighborhood. It’s also walking distance from some of the most excellent schools in East London.”

Now that the legal business was all settled, I asked Count Blackula if I could explore the castle when he was away on business.

“Of course, Jamarcus. You can go anywhere you want … except where the doors are locked. There is a reason that we do things the way we do. We Transylvania Blacks are different than British Blacks.”

This led to a conversation about his home country. As the hours went on, I became more courageous and asked him about the blue flames I saw on my first night in his castle.

“In traditional Black Hungarian folklore, evil spirits are at their highest power at midnight on St. Jerome’s Day,” said Blackula. “On that day, blue flames appear over any place with buried treasure. For centuries, Romania has been fought over by Black foreign armies, the Black Saxons, the Black Turks. But even after they killed our men, women, and children, they found nothing. We hid all our valuables underneath the earth.”

“But if the blue flames show where the treasure is, why hasn’t it all been dug up by now?”

“The flames only appear on one night, and our peasants are too cowardly to leave their houses,” replied Blackula. “Besides, even if they mark where the flames were, they wouldn’t be able to find them the next day.”

“Yes, I guess so,” I said.

The Count told me to stay in the room while he prepared my dinner. I thought it was strange that a nobleman wouldn’t make his servants do menial tasks like cooking food and setting the table. Almost an hour passed before he returned.

“Dinner is ready,” said the count.

Like last night, Blackula said that he had already eaten earlier and so he wouldn’t have anything for dinner, but he sat with me during the meal, all the same. After dinner, we chatted by the fireplace in my room.

Count Blackula asked questions on every aspect of Black British life, hour after hour. I felt very tired, but I didn’t complain. We talked until the skies warmed up with the dawn.

The count jumped to his feet and said, “It is morning again! Time sure flies by. I’m sorry to have kept you awake all night.”

He quickly bowed and left. I closed my curtains and tried to get some sleep.