'WALTER DDOLLNEAZZ! GET OUT OF THE BASEMENT THIS INSTANT!'
A big, angry-looking woman stood in the doorway. She looked down on a scrawny little boy with green eyes, dark hair and the cook's favourite pan draped on his head like a helmet.
'You shall not defeat me, evil demon of the night! I am the invincible sir Walter, and with my mallet of doom I shall put an end to your evil ways!' As he was saying this, the young boy lifted a candle as big as him to ward of the "demon".
The woman laughed.
'Well, honourable sir Walter, I need my pan to cook dinner in. Don't you want to eat after such an ordeal? Facing demons and all!' The honourable sir Walter thought about this a while, then agreed and handed cook her pan. She bowed.
'Thank you. Now go and play outside with Heinrich. And try not to make such a fuss!'
The boy bowed in compliance, and ran outside to look for his friend. He passed his mother on the way out. He looked at lot like her; the same raven-black hair and green eyes. She even had the same way of looking at people she didn't trust. It was a short head-movement they both did, and usually simultaneously. Walter's father had often laughed at them for it, because it looked a bit odd.
There was another thing that they had in common, but that one was rarely noticed and hardly ever, or never, mentioned. They were both fast. Really fast. So fast, it was unnatural, though it came natural to them. It only happened when something was urgent and they had no other choice.
That evening, his mother had taken Walter to the attic. It took an entire floor, and was filled with all kinds of objects. Paintings, chairs, boxes and crates of every shape and size. And books, lots of books. Some of them recent, others a few centuries old. The Ddollneazz family were known throughout the land for their extensive library, and there was not enough space to house all the books properly and give them the respect they deserve. They were kept dry and safe, though, and that was as good as anything.
Walter and his mother had visited this place frequently. They went there often, because Walter liked to play with the little soldiers that were stashed there in a small cardboard box. He would put them in a row, and try and tip them over using a wooden bead the size of a ping-pong ball. He would play with his mother or Heinrich. The first person to tip over all the soldiers of the other player would be the winner. Though, of course, they would often accuse each other of cheating, which would lead to some small skirmishes and the cook yelling at them to "please stop all the damn racket!"
This time was different, though. His mother would take Walter with her to a small space in the attic, separated from the rest of the attic by a wall. Walter had always been forbidden to open the trunk that was standing there. His mother had never told him why, but Walter suspected it had something to do with her past. She never talked about it much, if at all only a few incoherent words. As they were standing before the trunk, his mother looked at him.
'Walter, I have never allowed you to open this trunk, because its content would've made mo sense to you. But you are older and wiser now, I can see that. You must promise me one thing, though. Will you do that?'
The boy nodded. His mother looked at him. This would be important. She hoped he would understand. She had too little time to explain things fully.
'What lies in this trunk must never be used for personal gain of any kind. Now swear you will never use it as such!'
The boy took a deep breath.
'I promise I will never use what is in that trunk for personal gain.'
Now, it was his mother's turn to breath deeply. She took off the necklace that she always wore. As Walter looked at it, he saw there was some kind of bar dangling from it. A very special one, though, with odd trenches here and there. His mother stuck it the lock, turned it and opened the trunk. As Walter looked inside it, he saw a lot of books. No, not books, more like journals. Walter picked one from the trunk, blew off some of the dust, sneezed, and opened it. Inside it were odd letters he couldn't decipher. Odd markings. He looked at his mother.
'What do they say, mother?'
'These are journals of your and my ancestors, Walter. They had, you could say, very interesting careers. They hunted vampires…'
She held her breath, and looked at the boy to see how he would take this strange news.
'…Interesting.' The boy answered.' Were you one?'
This threw her off balance a bit, but she continued.
'For a short while, yes. Then I married your father and I had you. I stopped hunting them because I had a family to look after.'
Walter seemed somewhat disappointed at this. His mother started putting journals aside, and taking some out as if looking for something. After the dust had settled down, Walter saw his mother holding a small journal. Part of it seemed to be covered with a red substance. Blood! Walter thought to himself. His mother saw the look in his eyes.
'Yes, it's blood. One of our ancestors carried this with him while escorting a crate to its destination. They were ordered to defend the crate until sundown. Then, the count could take care of himself.'
'Sounds like that story, where the gypsies try to protect count Dracula from his hunters.' Walter commented. His mother looked him in the eyes.
'Exactly.'
Walter's mouth hung open in awe.
'You mean... that's not just a story?'
His mother shook her head.
'No, it isn't. In fact, the truth is different. The story was altered, the ending drastically changed. In fact, the count survived…'
'…No, he couldn't have…He was stabbed in the heart!'
'No. Our ancestor writes here he was stabbed above it, in his left-shoulder. He killed his opponents, but took some heavy blows while doing so. When van Hellsing finally reached the castle, his friends were dead. As the count lay there, half unconscious, van Hellsing bound him to his family. It was dangerous, but the only alternative he had, opposite killing Dracula. He didn't want to kill the count, monster or not. It wasn't in his nature to kill. He was a doctor, after all, and his interests lay in study. The count was his new material and he treated him as such. What happened after van Hellsing took the count with him is unknown to us. Our ancestor is the only one of the gypsies that survived the battle. They found his body in the woods some days later. The wolves had found him first, killed him and partly eaten him. They found this journal among the remains…'
Walter looked at his mother with utter amazement. She took some time regaining her wits, then continued…
'…Our ancestors have lived in Romania for years. My great-grandmother, my grandmother, my mother and I were born there. We were natural fighters. It runs through our vanes and gives us strength. Some of us were born with a gift, like your grandmother, my mother. The unnatural speed we have comes from her. As for another gift…'
She had now finished unpacking the trunk, and removed a loose panel from the bottom. Underneath lay a pair of strange gloves. They had no tips on them, but some strange metal surrounded the bases of the fingers. Where those…wires? Walter looked at them in wonder, as his mother carefully picked them up and put them on. She seemed to be full of new energy as she looked at the gloves that were now on her hands. She gave Walter a mischievous smile.
'I'll show you what they can do…'
Walter looked on in amazement as a porcelain doll at the other end of the attic was shattered to pieces. He gave a small scream of delight and astonishment, as his mother took the gloves off again and put them back in their hideout. She put all the journals back into the trunk, and closed it.
'There. Now let's get something to eat, I'm starving!' She said, as she took Walter by the hand.
' Will I ever learn to do that, mum? Will you teach me?'
'Certainly dear. We'll start tomorrow.'
Walter couldn't wait.