In The Castles' Shadow
People Of The Cross
The Confrontation
Dark Release
The Accursed Hunt

In The Castle's Shadow

A village lies in silence,
  Oppression near at hand.
Black darkness and foreboding,
  In that black castle's land.
Owned by one Count Dracula,
  The fortress looms above.
The death of hope and freedom,
  Quenching the gift of love.
The people of this village
  Are wrapped in constant fear,
Victims of the great dark Count
  Who dwells so very near.
In that black castles' shadow
  Despair is each days' rule,
As peasants are subjected
  To hunger heartless, cruel.
Held fast within this hamlet
  By his relentless will, 
Their loved ones are his fodder,
  He'll nightly drink hi fill.
"Oh, for unseen salvation
  To save us from this plight!"
Is their unfulfilled hearts' cry,
  Who live in constant night.



People Of The Cross


Candle light illuminates
Four faces
Spare and bleak.
Steel resolve shines in their eyes.
"Kill undeath", 
This they seek.
Thus their mission while they live:
Find cursed,
Take and slay.
Searching not in the time of night,
But hunting in the day.
They've walked the land with crosses,
Warding off
Unclean hands
And teeth of razor sharpness,
Traveled through
Many lands.
They're in the Castles' shadow,
Biding time,
Gaining strength.
Until they feel quite ready
To face Him
At long length.
Dracula, the evil one,
Fearsome, dark,
Dire and black.
Soon the time will be at hand
When they'll rise
To attack.
Candle-light Illuminates
Four faces
Spare and bleak.
People of the cross the are.
"Kill undeath",
This they seek.



The Confrontation 
 

Amid this mountained land
 A hamlet greets the dawn,
The promised fateful day
Which hopes are pinned upon.
Although the sun has come,
Cold fog still roams the streets.
In furtiveness it moves
Like some pale unclean beast.

The portent scene unfolds
 In Eighteen Seventy Nine,
Where frightened townsmen wait
 And evil, calm, reclines.
A confrontation comes
Requiring bravery
From three within a shack.
Will they stand fast or flee?

Inside the shack they wait,
The People Of The Cross.
They're three in number here,
Prepared to suffer loss.
Moving in readiness
Each member dons a pack
Filled with strange implements
To wage a bold attack.

Above, the Castle waits,
A looming darkened spire.
The dreaded Count's abode.
They're chilled before the fire.
Prepared as they can be,
They start to move at last
To face the icy cold...
And His black frigid blast.

The leader is Tom Parks,
He's blue-eyed, sure and strong.
Jack Oakes, a bookish man
Is next to come along.
Zoe Cliff is the third,
Intelligent and fast.
The trio are well-matched
And hopefully will last.

Walking from the village,
Their painful climb's begun
Trudging through the ground-fog
Beneath the heatless sun.
They've reached the rocky slope
On which the castle rests.
They'll need all their resolve
To face the coming test.

Their struggle to the top
Across the icy ground
Is filled with stumbling falls
On this unholy mound.
A grappling hook's produced,
Thrown hard atop the wall.
The points first slide...then catch!
It will not let them fall.

They slowly climb the rope
And stand upon the top.
The sight that meets their eyes
Brings all three to a stop.
Below, in the courtyard,
Far as the eye can see
Are corpses old and new.
Such horror cannot be!

This three, Tom, Jack and Zoe
     Have dealt much with the dead,
But horror fills the place
     Where that foul Count has fed! 
They're stunned, making their way
Past mounds of bloodless flesh.
Some corpses, old and dried,
And some are all too fresh.

Locating stairs which lead
Into the black below,
Each takes a lighted torch
And steps down sure and slow.
The winding stair descends
Deep in the bowels of earth.
The darkness is complete,
Our trio's without mirth.

"You know," Zoe whispers low,
"Although it's day outside,
The Count could be astir.
In daytime he can hide."
It's not a pleasant thought,
To find the Count awake.
They'd hoped for daytime sleep,
Still do, for all their sake.

In tension they press on
As stairs end in a hall
Both long and blackly dank.
They slow down to a crawl.
Along each side alcoves
Are lined, both dark and deep.
Some hold long-dead bodies,
In some are rubbish heaps.

As the hall sharply turns,
Tom crashes to the ground!
He's wrestling with something
That's making not a sound!
"Hold on!" Jack sharply speaks,
And quickly stops the fray.
The thing's a long dead corpse
That fell into Tom's way.

In shakiness Tom stands,
Takes up his torch again.
Their nerves are all but shot
 As they press on to win.
Ahead, the hallway ends
At a large dead-end room
Could this be the dread place
That they will find His tomb?

As they enter the place,
The torch light flickers low.
They can see through the gloom
The coffin of their foe.
Comprised of iron, brick,
And wood, it's age is clear.
The lid's closed tight, they see,
In caution drawing near

Two crowbars are produced
To lever up the lid.
Tom and Jack, working hard,
Uncover what is hid.
As the top is opened,
Zoe's poised to strike the blow
With mallet and a stake...
It's empty there below!

"Oh, damn." She whispers soft
While they stare down in fear,
As if by looking hard
They could make Him appear.
"Let's get the hell out of..."
Jack starts, but Tom's jerked back!
Neck snapping loud, he falls
Dead to the Count's attack!

A cross is in Jack's hand
As he and Zoe retreat
In haste before the Count
Astir on leaden feet.
His eyes glow red as fire,
Mad bloodlust fills his face.
He's moving for the kill,
Dark menace fills the place.

Reluctantly he stops
Before Jack's shaking cross.
Zoe reaches in her pack...
Such pow'r they've never crossed.
A bottle is produced
With liquid, blessed, inside.
She quickly pops the lid
To stay His wicked tide.

As Dracula pulls back,
Dark fury fills his face.
He's ancient, and his strength
Transcends both time and space.
They've never faced a foe
As deadly and as strong!
The sheer force of His will
They can't resist for long.

In wild desperation
They press Him back a step
With holy water drops.
At bay He's safely kept.
He's forced into the coffin
And barely held away.
They'll never stake His heart!
He'd surely make them pay!

Jack does the only thing
He can to end the fight.
He quickly slams the lid
Shutting the Count in tight
"Hurry, Zoe..." He mutters,
"...dig those damn chains out quick!"
She grabs the rattling links
And padlock, feeling sick.

The lid begins to lift
A fraction of an inch
Though Jack lays full across
The top, without a flinch.
Hands sweating, she spreads chains
From side to bolted side.
At last the lock clicks home,
Relief they just can't hide!

The Count, in fury, roars
And crashes loud within.
Their hearts are blocks of ice,
In fear that He may win.
It's clear, though, that the chains
Will hold despite His rage
Imprisoning Him here
From age to coming age!

With mixed emotions they
Take up their fallen friend.
They'll both go to their homes
And try their best to mend.
The vampire-hunting days
Are over for this pair.
They just don't have the heart
To search out one more lair.


Jack and Zoe carry Tom
Back up the way they came.
There's one thing that's for sure,
They'll never be the same!
The sounds of the mad Count
Grow fainter as they go
Until they hear no more
The raging of their foe.

Amid the mountained land,
The castle, dark and bleak,
Deserted stands aloof
Upon it's lofty peak.
On many windy nights
You can just barely hear
The raging echoed Count
Which clamps the heart with fear.



Dark Release 


The brooding castle stands,
Deserted, crumbling pile.
Destitute of all life
Ominous, dark and vile.

O'erhead a plane flies by,
The distant roar is faint
And quite incongruous.
Time here feels out of joint.

Nearby the castle stands
A village, quaint and small.
In this last hundred years
It's barely changed at all.

The evil ruins are shunned
By all within the town.
A curse is said to dwell
Within that blackish mound.

A climber can be seen
By haunted, frightened eyes
Ascending that dread place
Where death most surely lies.

The climber is a man,
A treasure-hunting fool
Who's heard the folklore here.
To him it's just a tool.

It's clear to him as day,
Men often used a "curse"
To hide a treasure trove,
Their closely guarded purse.

He scoffs at tales of death,
Of bloodless undead eyes.
It's sure that ghostly tales
Are children's stories, lies.

The day is foggy, cool
And chill is in the air.
The noontime sun is high,
Blue skies are clear and fair.

Cold sweat upon his brow
Resulting from this climb,
He's reaching for the top
Is up, has made good time.

A cluttered courtyard lies
Before him in the mist,
Scattered with rocks and bones.
He's hard upon his quest.

Slowly making his way
Down through the shadowed halls,
He's shaken by the sight
Of skulls along the walls.

"Man! Someone really tried
To make a scary seen
For fright'ning yokels off!
This really is obscene."

Before him lies a well
Of stairs, both dark and steep,
Littered with fallen rock
Through which he starts to creep.

His flashlight is turned on
Cutting a feeble swath
Through the blackest darkness.
He barely finds a path.

"Huh, batteries must be weak",
Muttering absently,
"This place gives me the creeps."
He fights the urge to flee.

Small alcoves line the walls
Filled with remains of men,
Cold ancient-socket stares
Make him turn cold within.

The dead-ends finally yield
A small room to his sight
Wherein a coffin sits!
Chain-bound, it's closed up tight.

"A coffin, treasure filled!"
He's shaking off his fear,
Taking out a crowbar.
The wealth is oh-so-near!

The rusted locks and chains
Are quickly snapped away
Which kept the world locked out,
The curious at bay.

The treasure hunter stops,
Softly dropping the bar.
He lifts the creaking lid
For which he's traveled far.

Deep disappointment wells
Within him as he sights
No treasure, but a corpse.
His chest feels coldly tight.

But suddenly the corpse
Snaps open fiery eyes!
Like lightning, parchment hands
Hold his throat as their prize!

Relentlessly he's pulled
Down where sharp fangs await
To take his warm life's blood
And thereby seal his fate.

Before his fading sight
He sees the creature change,
Into a healthy man
But still unearthly...strange.

The Count, called Dracula,
Has gained a dark release.
The people of the world
Can know no lasting peace.

Beneath an eldrich moon
A flying shape is seen
Leaving the castle's ruins,
Batlike, somehow obscene.



The Accursed Hunt

The eerie street lies silent
On this moonless eve,
Lit by a few yellowed globes.
We should just turn and leave.
Pressing on amidst the gloom
Our feet ensheathed in mist,
Soon we’ll witness fearfully
The hunter’s dreadful tryst.

The flitting shape of a bat,
Huge, vile, somehow unclean
Circles to the ground afar.
By others it’s unseen.
Unbelievingly we watch,
It seems to grow, unfold
Until it’s roughly man-sized,
An evil darkly old.

Like crimson lamps his eyes glow
In search of bloody prey.
His razored fangs brightly glint,
He’ll find someone to flay.  
Dracula, the count of old,
Hunts both for blood and sport.
Once again he’s master, lord
Over a helpless court.

As Vlad he killed, tortured, maimed
The subjects that he chose.
Before he was afflicted,
Before the curse arose.
After he became undead,
The Cursed, Nosferatu,
His savagery increased by bounds
To rend and tear anew.

Now this hellish spawn is loosed
Upon the quiet street
Seeking for a victims’ flesh
And blood both warm and sweet.
Suddenly his head snaps round
And heightened senses hear
Clumsy footfalls of a man
Approaching all too near.

Up he leaps with serpent speed
Into a nearby tree
As the man comes into view,
And doesn’t know to flee.
The man is watched and studied:
“He’s strong, a goodly sight!”
Satisfied, the waiting count
Will take hot blood tonight.

The man, stopping, cocks his head
In manner like a hound
Which scents a danger odor
Unseen upon the ground.
Warily, the count observes
The hunteds’ careful search
Of surroundings cold and dark
Which miss the counts’ high perch.

“How could he feel me near him?”
The count thinks silently.
He’s never been detected,
Thought that it could not be!
Yet now a lowly mortal
Has seemed to sense him near
And even worse, in his mind,
Shows not a sign of fear!

Uncertainty rears its’ head
As he regroups his mind.
Carefully the prey has turned
Thus leaving him behind.
Rage at his own foolishness
Propels him from the tree,
As the moon begins to rise
For all about to see. 

The man, whirling as he strikes
Seeks to defend himself.
Where does his prey get such speed?
His fangs sink firm and well.
This humans’ blood tastes quite odd,
Sharp tang, not sickly sweet.
Drained of blood, his victim falls
Inert before his feet.

Yet the man is still alive,
Although he’ll surely die.
To the counts’ astonishment
He heaves a grateful sigh.
“You’ve done me such a favor,”
His victim softly speaks,
“Released me from my own curse.”
From throat-wounds life blood leaks.

“Just in time, before the moon
Has risen fully up.
You see, I am a werewolf,
Am glad my time is up.
I don’t know how my blood-curse
May react with your own...”
The man continues speaking,
Then life is quickly gone.

Dracula, within himself
Reacting to the moon
Feels the wolf-blood start to boil.
And nearly does he swoon.
There is no change to a beast,
His form’s immutable.
But in agony he falls,
His harsh throes terrible.

Wolf-curse strikes against his own.
The conflict will not cease
Long as full moon reigns supreme.
He cannot gain release.
Painfully he raises up,
In agony he flies
Back to his mansioned coffin
Unto his earthly ties.

Forever more he will dread
The full-moons’ awful rise,
Will cower in his coffin
And will not dare to fly.
Always will the agony
Remain, brought by the wolf
Which the human has escaped
By bridging deaths’ black gulf.