Transylvania Towers
Transylvania Towers is an in-progress novella. Inspired by Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the story follows the journal entries of a narrator who, after being invited to stay at Transylvania Towers with his wife, has witnessed too much and now fears he is losing his mind. This is the first of six planned parts, the following of which will be published monthly.
November 10 - 17
I didn’t think I would have any use for a journal here—this was to be a vacation from work. Some vacation! But it is vitally important that what I’ve witnessed here—if I am merely losing my sanity—there should be record. There must be record. Let me start set down as logically as possible—God help, God help, there is no logic left—the events that led up to Transylvania Towers.
A week ago, I received an invitation for a free week’s vacation and investment pitch, courtesy of Transylvania Towers International. The brochures seemed unprofessional (little black bats and a red moon on white laser paper) but Leah was taken with the idea of a free vacation. She thinks that I work too much. We argued about it, like we argue about everything. I thought it was a ploy by one of my co-workers but Leah insisted and called the number. Oddly enough, a polite female voice with a clipped British-Canadian accent answered. The offer was genuine. When Leah communicated my resistance to the lady on the other end—who I now can only assume was Christa—she offered to pay us seven thousand dollars.
“In addition to the vacation package!” Leah repeated over and over again.
What could I do? Leah scribbled down all the necessary information in her day-planner.
Later that night, after turning for a few hours in my sleep, I tried booking a flight to the Towers myself. The receptionist had described its location vaguely—a small town called Styria near the border of the Yukon Territory and Alaska. Whitehorse, the nearest airport, appeared to be at least a hundred miles away. Leah wrapped her arms around me and kissed my neck repeatedly. She kept telling me not to worry, transportation had already been arranged. A private plane would be sent down to John Wayne in six days.
“Just great,” I remember muttering. “Canada.”
Leah spent the next five days arranging our absence meticulously. She secured promises from one neighbor to take in our mail, newspapers, fliers; another to feed the cats; another to house-sit every other night and take calls, in case Leah’s publisher called about her latest manuscript; still another to contact us at appointed times at the Towers to make sure there hasn’t been some emergency. I spent the time working and laying in bed sleepless.
By the departure day, I looked ragged.
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