Chapter 3

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The sun has already risen above the peaks of the Carpathians when Paul woke up in the heat of the blankets. The room was still dark; the small window and the heavy curtains were blocking the light. Paul yawned, wanting to fall asleep again, but he remembered where he was and jumped off the bed. The room was empty; Ash wasn't there, but the plateau he brought last night disappeared. He must've taken it after he fell asleep.

Paul stood up and walked to the window, parting the curtains slowly. The castle was surrounded by mountains covered with thick conifer forests. Above them were roaming lots of flying Pokémon: Pidgeotto, Fearow, Staraptor, in search for food. He ran his fingers through his thick, mauve hair, combing it and looked at the door. He didn't know what to do: wait for Ash to come or go and look for him. Maybe Ash thought he was still sleeping and he wouldn't want to wake him up. He led to the door, his fingers tightening around the cold handle. He should go and look for him.

The door opened with a creak and Paul slipped outside his room. He shivered; it was cold on the hall, his room was really warm. He approached the hole in the wall and looked through the secret passage which connects the first floor to the third. No sign of Ash. Paul returned on the hall, looking along it. Nobody is sight.

The floor was covered with a red carpet with flowers and leaves embroidered on it and the windows were bigger, allowing the sun to light the walls with its rays. However, it was still cold. The walls were covered with paintings. Paul wanted to leave without looking at them, but they were tempting him, and the temptation was too powerful for Paul to handle.

He approached a big portrait which showed a woman. But she was much more different than the woman he has seen last night. She had an authoritative, powerful, proud air which was intensified by the beautiful crown she was wearing on her head, surrounded by black curls of hair. Her blue eyes were determined, yet kind and she was not smiling. She was wearing a silk gown with three golden stars on the right side of her chest, like military decorations. Pearl necklaces were adorning her delicate neck, and she also had a pearl ring on her finger and pearl earrings. Her skin was pale, so pale that it seemed that it was made of pearl too. Under the wooden frame was an inscription: Marie of Edinburgh – Queen Consort of Romania.

Paul looked at her, charmed by her powerful attitude. He stretched his hand to touch the sail, but he was stopped by a faint hiss running through the hall. He drew his hand back quickly. Whispers. The same whispers that he heard when he looked at the girl's portrait. He closed his eyes, listening to them. He couldn't understand what they were saying, but he felt like they were soothing him, healing him.

A small creak made him open his eyes. A door was opening. He hasn't seen that door before. He walked to it and pushed it slowly. It was room, a bit bigger than his room. There was a bookcase filled with old books, carved tables and a fireplace. The walls were full of paintings. They were only portraits, except for a big painting near one of the windows which looked like a genealogical tree. There were many people, from young girls to soldiers, but one picture caught his attention. It was bigger than the others and was placed above the fireplace. It showed the image of a relative short man with eager eyes. His sharp face features and determined look showed an incredible fierceness. He had long, black curly hair falling on his shoulders and an ebony moustache under his sharp nose, covering his top lip. On top of his head was a red hat. A hat which the impressive, proud man was wearing like a crown. A golden eight pointed star was placed on it right in the middle of his forehead and in the middle of the star, a square ruby. Above it, five platinum circles.

Underneath the oak wood frame was an inscription, just like under the queen's portrait: Vlad the Impaler - 1431 – 1476 – Prince of Wallachia. Just like the others; it seemed alive. It seemed to breathe; his piercing eyes were sparkling. Paul looked under the inscription and froze: seven letters painted on the bricks with what looked like dry blood. Seven reddish-brown letters: DRACULA. He felt shivers run through his body like thousands of spiders crawling beneath his skin. He forced himself to quit looking into those cruel eyes and turned towards the bookcase. There were a lot of books written in a language Paul couldn't understand and the other ones had titles like "The Uprising" or "Descriptio Moldaviae". However, a title caught his attention: "The legend of Transylvania." He extracted the book with difficulty, carefully and opened it.

The pages were yellowed by the time. The introduction was short.

'Some may say that Transylvania is one of the most beautiful regions in this world, gifted with spectacular mountains, thick forests, a big variety of Pokémon and, especially, the Bran Castle, the most impressive and beautiful castle in Transylvania. But, beside all these things, there is also another reason why Transylvania is famous in this world. Many people say that it's because of the Pokémon, some of them say it's haunted, but only a few know the real reason why people go to the castle and never get back. Night creatures with an enormous thirst of blood. Vampires have been roaming through the castle for centuries, since their ruler, the ruler of the Wallachia region, Vlad the Impaler, son of Vlad Dracul, have been killed. It's said that he had created them while he was ruling Wallachia, most of them being poor peasants. People tried to fight them, but without success. They are still among us and this is the history of a man who created a dynasty.'

Paul let the book slip off his hands. It landed on the floor with a loud thud, but he didn't bother to grab it. He was shocked. Vampires. Everything made sense now: Ash was scared of his cross and refused to eat with him. And all those whispers coming from the paintings…the paintings, they had been vampires. People tried to fight them…they had been killed or chased away by peasants. And Ash was the one who stayed.

"Do you have fun?" a soft voice said and Paul turned around sharply. He froze when he saw Ash standing in the door frame, looking at the book which was lying on the floor. He didn't seem angry or anything, and Paul was encouraged by this. Also, the cross was still hanging above his chest; Ash couldn't do anything to him as long as he had it with him.

"I know what you are." He said. Ash didn't say anything. He walked in front of the picture of the ruler. Seeing that he doesn't say anything, Paul continued.

"He created you, right?" Another pause. Ash gazed thoughtfully at the fireplace before answering.

"Not directly." He said. "But he is the father of us. You already know that." He beckoned towards the book, then turned his head towards the inscription, looking at it with hunger dancing into his black eyes before bowing his head in respect. Even though, to Paul, it looked like a mock respect. His eyes went wide when he heard a noise like a harsh breath coming from the paintings. Or was it just the wind blowing at the windows?

"It's quite funny how naïve human beings are. The letters were just some traps." He let out a low chuckle. Paul tried hard to ignore the murmur of the portraits and concentrate on what Ash was saying.

"So you have lured lots of people to the castle." He said. Ash turned towards him, the hunger in his eyes reviving. Paul took a step backwards, frightened by the intense stare that Ash was giving him.

"Yes." He said nonchalantly. "But you, my dear," he accentuated the words, pleasure lingering in his soft voice, "are something…special. I can feel that." The whispers became louder, more intense. A smirk spread across Ash's full lips. He enjoyed the sounds they were making. He enjoyed hearing them fret. He knew they were furious, but harmless. He sneered at the portrait of the Prince. Even him, the greatest of all, was harmless.

"What do you mean?" Paul asked, but the answer never came. Ash preferred to watch the portraits with a triumphant smile on his face. The whistles grew even louder. Paul could distinguish words.

'Human…it's such a shame…to be killed…in eternity.' Paul backed off towards the windows. He was feeling safe in the light, but even the sun itself seemed to shine less. Ash saw him.

"Don't be afraid of them." He said, taking a step towards him. "They cannot hurt you. They are just memories. They are not here." Paul looked at all those pale faces of the vampires in the paintings.

"But you're still here. You chose to stay." Suddenly, Ash went stiff, gritting his teeth.

"No." he said, his voice rougher than before. "I did not choose that. I've been trapped here, alone. There may still be somebody like me. Maybe one of them," he pointed to the paintings, "is still somewhere outside. I don't know." Ash sighed.

"Why have you been trapped?" Paul asked, but once again Ash did not answer.

"And you, Paul," Paul shivered at the way Ash pronounced his name, "can help me get out."

Suddenly, one of the windows burst open with a deafening sound. The wind ripped off the red curtain, lifting it towards the ceiling. Ash watched it float. He had never seen them so furious. Paul was stoned. Ash smirked at his frozen face.

"I told you, you shouldn't be afraid of them." But Paul wasn't listening. He backed off more, his elbow hitting the big frame of the genealogical tree of the Basarabs, which fell with a loud bang, the glass shattering in contact with the stone floor. The wind stopped as suddenly as it began. Ash watched the curtain fall and the shards scattered all over the floor.

Yes, they still didn't want him outside.

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