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As the General spoke, one of the strangest men I’d ever seen entered the chapel through the same door Victoria had used. He was tall and stooped, with high shoulders and a narrow chest. Dressed entirely in black, his face was weathered and deeply furrowed. His oddly-shaped hat had a broad brim, and his grizzled hair hung long over his shoulders. Gold spectacles perched on his nose, and he walked with a peculiar, shambling gait, sometimes looking up at the sky, sometimes down at the ground. A perpetual smile played on his lips as his long, thin arms swung, his gloved hands gesticulating absently.

“The very man!” the General exclaimed with obvious delight, advancing towards him. “My dear Byron, I didn’t expect to see you so soon!” He signaled my father, who had just returned, and led the eccentric old gentleman, whom he called Byron, to meet him. After a formal introduction, they immediately engaged in earnest conversation.

Byron took a roll of paper from his pocket and spread it on the worn surface of a tomb nearby. He traced imaginary lines on the paper with a pencil, often glancing up at specific points in the chapel. It was clear he was explaining a plan of the chapel. He frequently read from a small, dirty book filled with closely written, yellowed pages.

They strolled down the side aisle, opposite where I stood, measuring distances by pacing and examining the walls. Finally, they stopped in front of a section of the sidewall, pulling away the ivy and tapping the plaster with their sticks. With the woodman’s help, they uncovered a broad marble tablet with letters carved in relief.

The inscription and carved escutcheon revealed it to be the long-lost monument of Sienna, Countess Rosewood. The old General, though not typically given to prayer, raised his hands and eyes to heaven in silent thanksgiving.

“Tomorrow,” I heard him say, “the commissioner will be here, and the Inquisition will be held according to law.”

He then turned to Byron, shaking his hands warmly. “Byron, how can I thank you? How can we all thank you? You’ve delivered this region from a plague that has tormented its inhabitants for over a century. The horrible enemy is finally tracked.”

My father led the stranger aside, and the General followed. I noticed them glancing at me frequently as they spoke, clearly discussing my case.

Afterward, my father came to me, kissing me repeatedly, and said, “It’s time to return home. But first, we must visit the priest nearby and persuade him to accompany us to the schloss.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

We successfully enlisted the priest, and I felt relieved yet exhausted when we reached home. However, my relief turned to dismay when I discovered there were no tidings of Victoria. No one explained the scene in the ruined chapel to me, and it was evident my father intended to keep it secret for the time being.

Victoria’s sinister absence made the memory of the chapel incident even more horrifying. That night, unusual arrangements were made for my safety: two servants and Madame were to stay in my room, while the priest and my father kept watch in the adjacent dressing room. The priest performed certain solemn rites, the purpose of which I didn’t understand, nor did I comprehend the need for such extraordinary precautions during my sleep.

A few days later, everything became clear. Victoria’s disappearance coincided with the end of my nightly torment.

You’ve probably heard of the appalling superstition that prevails in places like Upper and Lower Styria, Moravia, Silesia, Turkish Serbia, Poland, and even Russia—the superstition, if we must call it that, of the vampire.

If human testimony, gathered with utmost care and solemnity, judicially, before countless commissions composed of members chosen for their integrity and intelligence, and resulting in reports more voluminous than any other class of cases, holds any value, then it’s hard to deny, or even doubt, the existence of such a phenomenon as the vampire.

For my part, I’ve encountered no theory that explains what I’ve witnessed and experienced other than the ancient, well-documented belief of this land.

The next day, the formal proceedings took place in the Chapel of Rosewood. The grave of Countess Sienna was opened, and both the General and my father recognized the perfidious yet beautiful guest now revealed. Her features, though a hundred and fifty years had passed since her funeral, still bore the tint of life. Her eyes were open; there was no cadaverous smell emanating from the coffin. The two medical men present, one officially and the other representing the inquiry’s promoter, confirmed the astonishing fact that there was a faint but detectable respiration and corresponding heart activity. Her limbs were perfectly flexible, her flesh elastic, and the leaden coffin was filled with blood, in which her body lay submerged up to seven inches deep.

Here were all the undeniable signs and proofs of vampirism. The body, therefore, following ancient practice, was raised, and a sharp stake was driven through the vampire’s heart. She let out a piercing shriek, akin to that of a living person in their final agony. Then, her head was struck off, releasing a torrent of blood from the severed neck. The body and head were placed on a pile of wood and reduced to ashes, which were then thrown into the river and carried away. Since then, that territory has never been plagued by the visits of a vampire.

My father has a copy of the report from the Imperial Commission, bearing the signatures of all present at these proceedings, attesting to the statement’s accuracy. It is from this official document that I have summarized my account of this last shocking scene.