The Scion Of The Volkolak

'There are such beings as vampires; some of us have evidence that they exist. Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the teachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane peoples’.—Bram Stoker

I had always considered my traits meritorious, as a man of reason and a disbeliever in primitive superstition and folklore. One day in the year 1916, everything changed surreptitiously, when I first arrived as a stranger in a remote village of the Vitebsk Region of Belarus, in the northern part of the country, bordering Russia to the east and Lithuania to the west.

I had been travelling south by train through the solitary expanse of narrow countryside, when the train reached its destination. Through the dim and cold mist, I could vaguely see a lofty castle perched on the towering cliffs above the bog, beyond the adjacent stream.

There, where the migratory birds fled the gloom of the mist, they winged outwards, amidst all the unique and prolific signs of autumn. I was familiar with the picturesque landscapes of Europe from my reading, but I had never seen such a landlocked area in person before. My inducement to this region was not of my own choosing—for I was a loyal soldier of the Russian Empire, by the name of Alexander Drugov, sent by the Czar’s army to quell a recent insurrection that was mounting.

After a week, I was deep in the extensive forest with my active regiment, patrolling the area for any Belarusian rebels. For the most part, we had the insurgents in retreat, and the small skirmishes were nothing of extreme severity. It seemed we would not be staying long in the region, which was a favourable boon for us soldiers.

However, we began to encounter stiff resistance—but it was not from the spirited rebels. Word had spread that the villagers had invoked a teramorphous being to protect them from the Russians. The rumour of this creature had begun to unnerve our soldiers. Within the forest, it attacked and murdered with bestial savagery. With stealthy motion and razor-sharp claws, it tore our soldiers to pieces. The creature decapitated its victims and kept their heads as prized trophies. This was an enemy the likes of which we had never before faced on any battlefield, nor in any quondam engagement.

One day, as I was in the encampment, I witnessed the shredded remains of Russian soldiers, either killed or severely wounded. The sight was harrowing, not easy to bear or to accept as a soldier of the Russian Empire. I had known several of these comrades well since our days at the academy, and I thought of their families back in Russia. Sadly, this was intrinsic to the life of the average soldier.

Soon after, we ventured back into the woods with additional regiments. We were ambushed then, by what we initially believed were local peasants aligned with the insurrection. But the force that attacked us was swift and lethiferous, as though the demon the villagers had evoked had appeared in grim fulfilment of the presage. No gunfire was heard, nor any sign of the elusive foe. All I could hear was the vociferous clamour of my fellow soldiers as they fell. I clutched my rifle tightly—and by sheer luck alone, I escaped unharmed.

I did not know what had attacked, but I felt certain it was not human. Two of the soldiers near me were badly mauled. I did not want to abandon them to the mercy of the unidentified killer, yet I was compelled to seek assistance. I soon found myself lost, having strayed from the course of my regiment and from the train station by the village. The thick fog was to blame for my errant misguidance—along with the present threat of death. That ominous fog would soon yield to pouring rain.

Thereafter, I attempted to find the nearest place of refuge, as a storm was forming beyond the ridge. My vision was impeded for the most part, until I reached the only road nearby, the only one available for travelling. Along the way, I stumbled and fell, and as I rose, I was met by the startling sight of an old Gypsy woman driving a caravan alone. She had startled me, and I was uncertain what to do next. Instinctively, I pointed my rifle at her, but she did not appear hostile in her comportment.

I had learnt enough Belarusian through a former Cossack prisoner in Azerbaijan to communicate. Although she did not seem minacious in her appearance, I was not going to underestimate the cunning deception of the enemy, knowing I was deep within theirv territory. I asked her where she was heading, and she replied that she was bound for the centre of the village. I realised then that I was on the outskirts of the village. The idea of her taking me back to the encampment for help crossed my mind at once—but that small hope was quickly dashed when she told me she had seen rebel soldiers approaching.

I had heard of captured Russians who spoke much of torture at the hands of the Belarusians, and it would not be propitious for me to accompany her afterwards, bearing that knowledge. I explained that several soldiers of my regiment who had been with me were dying of their wounds in the forest. I confessed to her that I had not seen the attacker clearly, as whatever it was had fled with fleet and incredible motion. That description, though vague in nature, was sufficient for her to give me a stern premonition.

‘The men are dead and will become its slaves. The creature is everywhere', she told me.

When I enquired about the creature, she called it simply a ‘volkolak'.

A volkolak—she dared to utter the word with bold assertion. The name was somewhat familiar to me from folklorish tales I had heard as a child, but I was not entirely clear on the actual meaning of the term. When I asked her for the definition of a volkolak, she replied with an affirmation that left me pondering. From what I understood of her words, the volkolak was an immortal vampiric creature that sucked the blood of mortals.

Her insinuation of a vampire was, to me, totally absurd. The notion of such a being as the culprit was unfathomable, yet I saw honesty in her eyes.

I mentioned the solitary castle I had seen upon my arrival, and the eyes of the Gypsy woman widened with vehemence. She warned me not to go to the castle, declaring that it was the terrible lair of the Devil.

‘You must not go there. It is cursed ground—a place of ancient evil', she insisted.

Once more, she reiterated this outlandish claim, but I did not have much time to indulge her whimsical legend. I had the immediate concern of saving the lives of my comrades, whose survival was still uncertain.

The caravan then continued forth along the road and its course. When I returned to the soldiers, the storm had replaced the dense fog that had abounded earlier. Upon arrival, I discovered the fallen men were gone—they had vanished. Where were they, and were they still alive? There were no visible signs of their presence, and the relentless rain would soon erase any remaining trace of them—except for one.

I was able to discern a small trail of footprints ahead, leading towards the eerie castle I had previously glimpsed from the train station. The ancient castle lay within the elevated escarpment that loomed over the village. If they were inside the castle, taking refuge, then perhaps they had been rescued and brought there by someone. The possibility of their survival, though faint, seemed feasible.

My adrenaline was roused by the necessity to uncover the truth. The storm magnified my urgency as I approached the long, arterial passage that led to the entrance of the castle. I experienced a peculiar vicissitude in the unsettling milieu of the forest. Above the front door was a dilapidated inscription in Belarusian that I fully understood to mean: 'Beware to whoever shall enter this castle, and enters without discretion.' Beneath it were the daunting letters spelling out Castle Volkolak.

There was an emblem plainly visible below the oriel windows—a beast of some nature, it appeared, beyond the barbican. The protruding ramparts and parapets, once magnificent and stately, had been ravaged by erosion and reduced by careless desolation. History and conflicts had not been kind to the dull façade and the castellated towers of the castle.

When I finally reached the front door, I knocked on the rusty latch and waited. I waited and waited, but there was no response. Perhaps the storm had prevented the inhabitants from hearing my knocking. The door was heavy and fashioned from old, medieval steel—of the sort forged in the days of yore, when the kings and princes of Europe ruled with an iron fist from their palatial domains of fortitude.

After ten minutes had elapsed, I sensed that no one was present. I headed towards the side of the castle beneath the battlements, where the safest part of the stronghold stood. The precarious slope was a definite distraction—or perhaps a deterrent—but I was compelled to find shelter. My concern shifted to my own immediate well-being. The whereabouts of my comrades I forsook for the moment, and I concentrated on how I might gain entry into the castle.

I noticed there was a large artifice within the crevices of the solid boulder walls. There was sufficient space to allow me to prise open a hole into the interstice of the wall, through which I entered. I emerged into a corridor that was dark and clammy, and I could see how poorly maintained the interior of the castle was. Candlesticks and torches lined the hall, but none were lit, and I caught the foul stench of death as I gingerly advanced.

Ahead lay a long, secretive passage—one of many unusual passages of Castle Volkolak I would soon discover during my stay. The storm did not yield, and its fulgurating bursts grew louder and more resounding. The lightning, in its stark flashes, offered brief yet intense bursts of light, which I welcomed under the grim circumstances I was confronting. I took one of my matches from my sack and began lighting the torches and candles in the vicinity. To describe the interior of the castle, I shall now endeavour to do so with a measure of accuracy.

The ancient castle appeared to date from the 13th century, judging by its architectural composition. The rooms of the castle were divided between the east and west wings, with the great hall and main chambers situated in the west wing, where I presently was. I was uncertain what lay within the east wing and could only speculate.

I located a fireplace in a room adjacent to the dining hall. There I warmed myself, gathering wood from the torn furnishings that remained. The library held plentiful books of poetry and literature—ample for reading or, if need be, to fuel the fire in the hearth. Whoever had dwelt in this medieval fortress evidently enjoyed reading and, perhaps, was a person of considerable ingenuity.

The armorial bearings hanging along the walls, and the portraits of the family lineage, were conspicuous. I had not an inkling of who these prominent family members were, but it was apparent they had belonged to the local nobility. The question was simply—who were they? The answers, I would soon discover, lay within several books that contained the chronicles of the proud Bryachislavich lineage.

The chronicler was a monk from a nearby monastery, who had served the family and the last lord to reside in the castle—Vasily Bryachislavich, the final scion of the Bryachislavich of Belarus. The monk’s name was not revealed; he had remained anonymous. Was this omission intentionally done to preserve the integrity of the author—or was it designed to conceal a significant secret he dared not disclose?

The storm persisted, as did the unfolding plot of this captivating mystery. The information I perused with great attention concerned the unique history of the Bryachislavich lineage. Apparently, Vasily Bryachislavich was a viscount who had ruled alongside the Boyars, the elite noblemen of the country. He descended from Vseslav Bryachislavich, the famed ruler of Polotsk, born in 1039, who reigned from 1044 to 1101.

Vseslav was buried in Polotsk, Belarus—the son of Bryachislav and grandson of Vladimir I of Kiev. He ascended to the throne upon his father’s death and was a proud member of the illustrious Rurik Dynasty. In 1065, he laid siege to Pskov but was thwarted in his incursion. In the bitter winters of 1066 and 1067, he pillaged and burnt the city of Novgorod. He fought against the sons of Yaroslav in the Middle Dnieper region, extending his reach towards Scandinavia and the Baltic, yet Vseslav was ultimately defeated in battle on the Nemiga River in 1067.

He was imprisoned in Kiev in 1068 but was freed by the throngs of his supporters. Shortly thereafter, he was proclaimed Grand Prince of Kiev, only to be defeated by Iziaslav, who regained his throne. Vseslav, however, secured Polotsk in 1071, where he remained until his death on the 24th of April, 1101. He was interred in the Cathedral of Holy Wisdom in Polotsk.

If I were to believe the chronicles of the monk, then this castle had once belonged to Viscount Vasily Bryachislavich, the direct descendant of Vseslav Bryachislavich. However, within the pages of these records, there was no mention of his death—only his birth. The text noted that Vasily Bryachislavich had been born in 1078.

If this were the case, then how could he, the last scion, still be alive—miraculously so, it seemed? The mystery only deepened my curiosity about the vampiric creature the Gypsy woman had referred to earlier. These parts of Europe were rife with countless superstitions, especially tales of exotic vampires. The question then became: should I believe these fantastical myths so blindly?

Evening was drawing near, and the storm seemed to have finally begun to subside. My supplies, however, were rapidly depleting, and food would soon become a pressing concern. The water in my canteen had dwindled to the last few drops. Thoughts of my comrades—those who had been grievously wounded—haunted me. Were they still alive, clinging to the fragile thread of life amidst the tempest's fury?

That night, I found myself lying on the cold stone floor, beside the flickering warmth of the fireplace. The chill of the ancient castle, perched precariously on the slope, seemed to seep through the walls with an almost malicious intent. Sleep, when it finally came, was not peaceful. The vision of the attack, the twisted, agonising faces of my comrades, tormented my restless mind. My nightmare was vivid, graphic, and relentless—so much so that it jolted me awake in a cold sweat.

I lay there, drenched in perspiration, wrestling with the unsettling images from my dream. But it wasn't just the dream that disturbed me. I began to hear it—the heavy, laboured breathing of a stranger. It carried with it a rancid scent, like the stench of a wild beast or some nameless horror. As I listened, the breathing grew fainter, but the smell lingered—suffocating, foul, and unmistakably death-like.

I rose cautiously from the floor, my senses alert, every nerve tense. I didn't know what lurked in the shadows of the castle, but the oppressive atmosphere weighed heavily on me, like some malevolent presence lurking in every corner. The rooms felt like suffocating redoubts, enclosing me in their dark embrace, as if the surrounding walls conspired to trap me within their ancient, haunted halls.

I was a Russian Orthodox Christian by birth, and had always worn a cross around my neck—my constant companion, a symbol of divine protection in the harshest of battles. But never had I considered it as a safeguard against vampires or other such supernatural horrors. My grandfather, a devout man, had once told me of the Strigoi of Romania during the Crimean War, but those tales had always seemed to me nothing more than the ravings of superstition. Vampires, I had believed, were merely aberrations of the human imagination.

The night had been long and filled with unnerving sounds that seemed to come from every corner of the ancient castle. The howling wind outside, the incessant dripping of dewdrops, the scurrying rats that dashed across the floors, the occasional flutter of wings as bats circled in the high towers—all of it combined to create an atmosphere of dread. It was as if the castle itself was alive, breathing in the darkness, watching my every move.

The squalor inside was evident. Thick layers of dust covered everything—tapestries hung askew, draperies clung to the walls, and rugs lay scattered and forgotten. It was clear that no one had lived here for some time, yet a disquieting sense lingered that perhaps someone had recently been inside. The padlock on a chamber door caught my attention. It had been tampered with, as if someone had opened it recently, and it led towards the unexplored eastern wing of the castle. Was there a caretaker who occasionally checked in on this decaying fortress? Or was something more sinister at play here?

Overwhelmed by exhaustion and dread, I succumbed to an uneasy slumber upon an old chaise in the great hall. Yet, no true rest awaited me. Instead, I was plunged into a harrowing nightmare, as vivid and tangible as the cold stones beneath my body.

In my dream, I stood once more within the shadowed corridors of Castle Volkolak, yet they were different—twisting endlessly like a labyrinth with no exit. The walls wept blood, and ghostly whispers echoed in forgotten tongues. Suddenly, a door creaked open ahead, and a dim crimson light poured through, summoning me closer with an unnatural pull.

Inside the chamber, I beheld an ancient, tattered throne. Upon it sat Vasily Bryachislavich—or rather, what he had become. His skeletal face was cloaked in decay, yet his eyes gleamed with the terrible hunger of the volkolak. He extended a bony hand towards me, and with a voice that reverberated like distant thunder, he hissed, 'Flesh and blood…forever bound…join us.'

I tried to flee, but my legs were rooted to the floor. Around me, the walls morphed into countless pale faces—my fallen comrades—each frozen in a silent scream, their eyes hollow. Dark wings unfurled from Vasily’s back, and the creature rose, soaring towards me with impossible speed. The castle shook violently, and from the depths, a chasm opened at my feet, threatening to swallow me whole.

As the volkolak’s claws reached my throat, I jolted awake, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. The hall was silent once more, but my heart thudded with the terror of the dream’s lingering grasp. In the stillness, I questioned whether it had merely been a figment of my mind—or a sinister warning whispered from the void itself.

Still shaken by the nightmare’s spectral grip, I wandered the castle’s derelict library at dawn, drawn by an inexplicable urge. The dust-laden tomes lining the shelves seemed to murmur as I passed, their cracked spines whispering forgotten secrets. One peculiar volume caught my eye—bound in worn leather, embossed with strange symbols resembling claw marks.

Opening it, I discovered illustrations of the volkolak, alongside chilling accounts of ancient rites. One passage, hastily scrawled in what looked like dried blood, read: 'Beware the moonless nights, when the volkolak walks unchained by mortal laws. Its hunger knows no end, and no soul is spared'. My hand trembled as I turned the brittle pages, sensing that the castle itself was alive, watching, waiting.

Suddenly, a cold gust extinguished my lantern, plunging me into oppressive darkness. I thought I heard a low growl behind me, and for a fleeting moment, I felt the unmistakable brush of claws across my shoulder. Whirling around, there was nothing—only the dead silence of the ancient room, and my own frantic breath echoing against the stone.

An eerie silence enveloped the castle, I found myself compelled to explore the lower catacombs—a labyrinth of cold stone and oppressive gloom. Each step echoed ominously, and the smell of damp earth and decay thickened the air. My flambeau flickered weakly, casting monstrous shadows along the walls.

I stumbled upon a hidden chamber, its door slightly ajar, as though inviting me in. Inside, I saw a circle of ancient relics: rusted weapons, tattered uniforms, and cracked portraits of soldiers whose eyes seemed to follow me. At the center lay a massive stone sarcophagus, bound in chains engraved with arcane sigils. I felt an overwhelming dread as I approached, sensing the sinister energy pulsing from within.

Suddenly, the chains rattled violently, and an unearthly growl reverberated through the chamber. The very ground trembled underfoot. I recoiled in consternation, my heart pounding, convinced that a terror was about to be unleashed from its prison. But then, as abruptly as it started, the room fell silent again—leaving only the faint whisper of wind curling through the cracks of the ancient walls.

As dawn broke, the chirping of sparrows outside provided a small comfort, a fleeting semblance of normalcy. But then, I heard voices—low, guttural murmurs, speaking in an unfamiliar tongue. I hurried to one of the spiral windows and peered through the dusty glass. Below, I saw a group of men—local Belarusian insurgents, no doubt. Their speech was Belarusian. They were clearly searching for something—or someone—and their presence made my heart race with fear. If they found me here, my life would be in danger.

Quickly, I grabbed my rifle, my fingers trembling slightly as I loaded it. I had no idea what their intentions were, but I knew that any encounter with these men could turn deadly. I positioned myself near the entrance, waiting for them to make their move, my mind racing with the possible outcomes. Would they come inside? Would they see me as a threat or simply an intruder? There was little I could do to influence the situation—it was entirely in their hands now.

I waited in tense silence, my breath shallow, my eyes fixed on the door. But after some time, the voices outside quieted. They hadn’t entered the castle; instead, they had conversed amongst themselves before finally leaving. The men appeared spooked, as if something had driven them to abandon their search. A deep sense of unease settled in me, for I knew that this could be only temporary. They might return, or others might come searching for us. The feeling of being hunted, or being trapped within these ancient walls, was becoming all too real.

The gravity of my predicament weighed upon me heavily, as the hours dragged by with no sign of friendly forces. The rising tide of rebellion seemed unstoppable, and I was stranded—alone, vulnerable, and at the mercy of fate. My thoughts circled endlessly, torn between staying ensconced within the castle’s thick walls or daring to flee across the treacherous woodland in search of my regiment.

The isolation was not merely physical; it began to gnaw at my mind, dulling my senses and feeding a growing sense of helplessness. Yet, I knew I had to act before the rebels decided to strike. I paced restlessly, examining the shadowed corners and aged craftsmanship of the castle, trying to etch every detail into my memory—as if understanding this labyrinthine place might grant me an edge.

As afternoon faded, the atmosphere darkened both outside and within. Once again, that dreadful symphony returned—the deep, unnatural breathing and the suffocating sense of unseen eyes upon me. I could no longer dismiss these as deceptive tricks of my anxious mind. My gaze was drawn to the dark smear of blood staining the rug, now an unmistakable marker leading towards the mysterious chamber. The padlock that had once barred its entrance lay discarded, confirming my worst suspicions: someone—or something—had entered.

An icy dread settled in my chest. I was not alone here, and whatever else dwelled within these ancient stones was no mere phantom of fear. Yet, curiosity mingled with my terror, and the need to understand the nature of my company overpowered caution. Steeling my resolve, I approached the ominous chamber and pried open the heavy door.

What lay beyond was a passage as dark and confining as any grave—narrow, winding, and descending into the unseen depths of the castle. It stretched into the shadows like a lifeline and a curse both. This secret path could be the key to my salvation, a hidden route through which I might escape this tightening trap. The stakes had shifted; my escape was no longer just a matter of evading rebels but of fleeing whatever ancient horror lingered in the darkness behind me also.

Gripping my weapon tightly and muttering a prayer beneath my breath, I prepared myself to enter the unknown, with every instinct alert and every nerve tensed for what lay ahead.

I entered the narrow passage with a bright flambeau in my right hand, using my left to guide myself along the sturdy walls, brushing through viscous cobwebs. Stains of blood were visible inside the passage as well. Eerie sounds echoed—drops of water trickling from unseen crevices—until I stumbled upon an abandoned well, its water surprisingly fresh. I drank deeply and washed my face, steeling my nerves.

I proceeded cautiously until I reached a colossal and daunting vault, its door wide open. Approaching the entrance, I noticed fresh blood trickling outward, forming a grim trail. Then, the most horrifying sight froze me in place, my skin crawling with a sudden horripilation. I quivered as I beheld an unsightly creature in a teeming pool of blood, devouring the bodies of my fellow comrades who had been savagely attacked. The foul stench of death and decay choked the air, and though I struggled to endure it, the creature suddenly sensed my presence. It stopped feeding and turned, fixing its oval, alabaster eyes—chilling and unblinking—upon me.

I held my breath and stood motionless, realising that the vampiric creature—known from legend as the volkolak—had poor vision and could not easily discern me. Slowly, it rose to its feet, towering and monstrous. This was the being that had terrorised the area for centuries, its form both lanky and menacing. Its skin was pale and sinewy, not heavily furred, with sharp claws and long, hooked nails. Its feet were grotesque, each bearing three enormous toes, and from its back spread vast wings, stretching outwards like the dark heralds of doom.

I backed away slowly, attempting to flee unseen, but the volkolak’s acute sense of smell betrayed me. Realising too late that it knew I was near, I turned and sprinted down the passage. It followed like a bolt of lightning, crashing into me and sending me sprawling to the floor. Its hot, reeking breath washed over me as I stared up at those enormous fangs, dripping with viscous saliva.

Desperately, I rolled beneath an oubliette recess in the wall and thrust my torch into the creature’s face. The sudden flare of light momentarily blinded it, and, shrieking in frustration, it recoiled. Seizing my chance, I scrambled to my feet and fled back into the narrow tunnel, its loud screech echoing behind me.

I burst into the great hall and lunged at the front doors, but the heavy oak would not budge. Trapped beneath the lethal shadow of death, a paralysing dread gripped me as I surveyed the stairway and branching corridors beyond.

Moments later, the volkolak appeared, stalking forth with terrifying speed and ghastly grace. It paused to sniff the air, searching for my scent, but the mud and grime from the passage clung to my skin and kept me hidden—just for a heartbeat.

Knowing that my deception would soon be undone, I tore a nearby torch from its sconce and brandished it before the creature. It lunged with claws outstretched, its frenzy erupting in a piercing hiss as it hungered for blood. I swung the torch, flames licking at its pale, sinewy flesh, but neither my resolve nor the firelight could sate its insatiable thirst.

I heard the crack of gunfire outside the castle—it seemed my regiment was engaged in a skirmish with the insurgents. From the crevice in the rear wall, where I had entered earlier, a desperate band of Belarusian rebels poured in. The volkolak, sensing fresh prey, attacked immediately and slaughtered them all, then began to drink their blood. I watched in horrified disbelief.

Moments later, heavy pounding rattled at the front door, accompanied by shouts in Russian. Cautiously, I edged towards the door as bullets thudded into the wooden panels. Then, with a deafening roar, a cannonball tore the door to splinters. The blast hurled me to the floor; my head spun, and my vision blurred in the sequence.

Through the haze I glimpsed the creature’s face—its pale, alabaster eyes locked on to mine. A bloodcurdling shriek echoed from the ruined hall, and then the volkolak vanished. When I next opened my eyes, I was in the field‑hospital encampment, a doctor probing my wounds. My hearing was momentarily dulled by the explosion, but it soon returned.

Several days later, as I prepared to depart the village for good, an inexplicable compulsion drew me one last time to the edge of the dark forest that veiled Castle Volkolak. Standing at the treeline, I gazed towards the distant silhouette of the castle, shrouded in mist and mystery. The villagers stood at a distance, crossing themselves and whispering their ancient prayers.

Just as I turned to leave, a chilling gust of wind swept through the trees, and I glimpsed—only for a fleeting moment—a figure standing atop the highest tower of the castle. It was tall, gaunt, and unmistakably inhuman, its alabaster eyes glinting in the fading light.

A deep unease settled over me, and though I walked away, I could not shake the gnawing certainty that Castle Volkolak—and its immortal occupant—would forever haunt my memories and my dreams.

Before I departed, I encountered the Gypsy woman once more, standing in the centre of the village street. Her stern visage was unchanged as she imparted her final warning:

‘The volkolak sold its soul to the Devil, and its offspring are cursed. It shall remain imprisoned in that accurst castle for all eternity. It will hunt and kill—it must feed—but it will never leave this land. That fortress is its prison. We, the proud descendants of the Boyars, will never allow it to escape. We shall guard it and thwart it, should it seek freedom’.

When I mentioned that the volkolak might be Vasily Bryachislavich, she simply nodded and replied, ‘Vasily Bryachislavich died centuries ago, young man. Whatever now haunts Castle Volkolak is neither human nor mortal.’ That was the last time I saw the Gypsy woman, and her prophetic words have remained both daunting and unforgettable. I never returned to the castle, nor did I ever see the dreadful creature again. In the quiet hours of reflection, I have often pondered my ordeal within those accurst walls and the deadly encounter I survived.

From what I later learnt, my fellow soldiers did enter the castle after the battle, yet they found no trace of any vampiric creature. I never revealed the ineffable tale of the volkolak to anyone—I knew that most would dismiss me as mad. Who would believe such an incredible story of a preternatural being? It was simply too surreal.

Time, of course, is the true witness in history to these phantasmagoric episodes of folklore that endure beyond the whims of posterity. We humans grow pale and fretful when our deepest fears become reality, no longer mere phantoms of fantasy. And so it is with the nameless terror that once haunted me—forever known, in the embedded myths of these lands, as the volkolak.

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