Blood Rule


Blood Rule

Bloodsucker II by Andrew J. Muller

The zinging buzz went by his ear again and sleepily he swatted the air where the insect had previously been. Tired eyes prised themselves open and Bob stared into the darkness, irritated, awoken for the umpteenth time that long night. Faint bluish light came in through the curtainless window. Somewhere out there in the sultry Romanian night a shutter was banging in the breeze coming down out of the mountains. A long sigh came from Bob’s lips and he inwardly cursed the whole idea of researching his novel about Vlad the Impaler by coming to the place where the events had occurred. This damned place hardly seemed to have progressed since old Vlad had cut his bloody swathe through the Carpathians.

The mosquito buzzed past his ear again and Bob swatted angrily, the mosquitoes just seemed to keep coming day and night. He had been down by the River earlier in the day amidst clouds of the bloody things, huge great leggy things which made the midges of his native Scotland seem of no consequence. He felt something land on his leg and sink it’s proboscis into his skin. With a resounding slap he brought his open palm down onto it and felt it satisfactorily squish beneath his hand. He flicked it off onto the floor and closed his eyes again determined to sleep.

But he was wide awake now, and seeing patterns in the damp patch on the ceiling which spread, somewhat alarmingly from the light fitting. Or at least it would have been alarmingly if there had been any electricity to switch on the dusty and blackened light bulb. Someone with an over-active imagination shouldn’t stay in a semi-medieval guesthouse within sight of "Dracula’s" Castle was a conclusion that Bob had reached a few days ago when sleep began to be invaded by imagined visits from bloodsucking creatures from Bram Stoker’s fevered imaginations. Stoker had never come here, why on Earth had Bob considered it necessary? Then again a buzzing somewhere above his head reminded him of the other bloodsuckers that had been keeping him awake since his arrival inBrasov with cedilla

Again he felt the thing land on him, this time on his arm, again he swatted it angrily and felt it squash beneath his hand. He brushed the mess off onto the bed and then flicked it onto the floor. Odd he couldn’t remember finding any squashed insect bodies in the mornings when he woke, guess some other creepy-crawly must’ve eaten the remains, he thought as he determined to try and get some sleep tonight. He had a long day tomorrow, up into the mountains to try and find the pass where Dracula had met his end in the book. So he closed his eyes again and tried to clear his mind.

Meanwhile, by the side of the bed, the squashed mosquito slowly unravelled itself from the ball it had been squashed into, it’s limbs straightened out and it’s flattened body slowly reinflated, crushed and broken wings smoothed out their gossamer thin lines. With a quick spring it landed back on the bed and approached Bob’s slumbering form to drink blood once more as it had done many moons ago from a being much less worldly than the sleeping author.

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