Tourist Trade

Tourist Trade

The cobbled road led through the quaint village then proceeded along a stone wall. Grumbling could be heard from the small group as the path steepened.

“Come, come,” Constantin encouraged. “We will be stopping shortly.”

One particularly portly lady was panting heavily. Constantin slowed, dropping back to pace her. “May I be of assistance?” he asked, lightly taking her arm to steady and guide her. He took the slight blush that came to her cheeks as assent.

Finally they stopped at a spot that overlooked the lush green hills of Romania. “As you look out over the hills, the view is very much like it was 600 years ago. Those were terrible times with the great houses of Romania at war with the Ottoman Empire. We had many who were great leaders, great warriors, and,” he paused, “greatly feared.”

With a flourish, Constantin pointed to the castle overlooking the countryside. "Here is the home and final resting place of Vlad the Third, Prince of Wallachia!" He paused, watching the tourist's faces cloud with confusion.

"... also known a 'Vlad the Impaler' or 'The Son of the Dragon' ...," After a breath-long pause he delivered the punch line in a low voice "... which translates from Draculea in Romanian!"

He was rewarded with gasps and oooohs from the group as the name registered. They crowded forward to snap pictures with their digital cameras.

“The stories of the time said ‘He roasted children, whom he fed to their mothers. And cut off the breasts of women, and forced their husbands to eat them. After that, he had them all impaled.’ Of course, there were other stories as well …”

He left the thought hanging. More oooohs and ahhhhs.

Such sheep, so easy to lead! He chuckled at his little inside joke.

“Now, let us visit his lair of darkness,” he said, the eerie sound of his voice belying his grin as he lead the group toward the castle.

Leading the group up to the main doors, he detailed the gruesome history of Vlad. Entering, he continued, "You'll notice there are no mirrors inside. This is NOT," he emphasized, "because he was a vampire. We all know they are pure fiction. History recounts he was horribly scarred during an assassination attempt and he forbade them. No, ladies and gentlemen, this was not the creature of legend, eyes bugging out and foaming at the mouth. This was simply a man who loved his country."

A nice piece of fiction, he thought. He enjoyed creating the mythology that had kept him safe for ... Has it been 600 years? How the time has flown! He grinned again.

He had learned the art of survival over the years. Tourists were a source of money and if one occasionally went missing ... He let the thought trail off as he eyed the portly lady that he had helped earlier. She appeared to be alone.

"She'll do nicely," he muttered and walked over to her to offer a personal tour after sunset. Sheep, he thought, and I do love mutton! Only a small smile betrayed his inner thoughts.

The tour completed, Constantin ushered the main group out. Closing the doors, he lowered the large barricade. “Well my dear, it seems it’s just the two of us … and the ghosts of the past.” He was pleased to see a small shiver run through her. With a small chuckle, he said, “You have nothing to fear. You are in capable hands. Shall we begin … Bethany?”

“How did you know my name?”

“Why I’m sure you told me. Perhaps when I assisted you on the trail?”

A look of confusion spread across her face. “I don’t … well, maybe …” she stuttered.

Taking her hand, he led her toward a stone stairwell. She hesitated. “I didn’t notice this before,” she said, a small quaver in her voice.

“People tend to see what they expect,” he reassured her. The dark stairs seemed to glow. “L.E.D. lighting; one must keep up with times. They’re powered by solar panels. Of course, we don’t turn our backs on our roots. We still honor the old ways.”

As he followed her down, he caught the faint perfume of pheromones mixed with sweat with just a tinge of fear and excitement. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the rush of memories that it induced.

He guided her toward an alcove cut into the rock base of the mountain. “This area dates back to the original building of the castle and few ever get to see it.” The lights came up, revealing a crude cistern carved into the floor. In the center, several sharpened stakes rose like stems, each topped with a skull. “You see, the old stories were true,” he laughed.

Bethany stared, her mouth agape. “That’s horrible!” Her eyes grew large. “Wait. Some of those … seem recent,” she exclaimed, as she took in the details.

“Why yes, Bethany. As I said, we still honor the old ways. As they say, blood will tell but you won’t!” The blood rush could no longer be contained as he grabbed her, lifting her like a child. Her screams echoed off the walls as he slammed her onto a stake, the pole piercing her and leaving her like a puppet, her arms and legs dancing to death’s tune.

With slow deliberateness, he began to lick the blood that was oozing from her mouth before settling in and feasting on her carcass.

Later that night, cleaning up after dinner, he thought I must visit America! In his mind, it was a magical place – home of the tastiest tourists and, of course, the invention that had changed his life - SPF100 sunscreen.

An entry for "The Grim Reaper Contest " 
Prompt: Humorous Horror Flash Fiction
Word Limit: 1000
Word Count: 951