Dacre’s Nightmare- A Short Story
On the way to Cluj, Transylvania our train broke down. The next two hours inspired this short horror story. Not for the weak-hearted... or hungry...
Dacre’s Nightmare
Short story by Katie Ruth Davies (based on experience)
The writer sat staring out the window of the hot stuffy train carriage. The young Romanian woman opposite her snuffled in her sleep. The old lady behind hacked out a cough- hope I don’t catch it!, the writer thought- and the old man next to her turned the page of the paper he was reading.
The train rumbled through fields and valleys, passed compact villages of step-roofed slanted-walled cottages tightly lining the single roads running through them. They far differed from the sprawling land-greedy style of the villages the writer knew in Georgia. Built that way as a better form of defence against invaders, the writer remembered being told.
The writer sighed, her stomach rumbling as she wished she’d had a heavier lunch before setting out on the four hour journey up to Cluj. The writer had slept, checked facebook and email and was now absorbed in Dracula The Un-Dead co-written by the great grand-nephew of Bram Stoker. The story was gripping but every now and then the writer would glance out the window, feeling guilty for not staring at the passing landscapes with more intensity so as to commit them to memory.
Looking to the right, past the man with the newspaper, the writer saw the bright colours of approaching sunset.
Sunset in Transylvania. No time like it!
The writer went to the end of the carriage and took some photos of the blue-gold-red summer sky out the window before returning to the book. The sky went dark as the evil Countess Bathory dropped the mutilated body of a young London prostitute into the River Thames to float away with dead eyes turned up to a God who had done nothing for her, just as he had done nothing for Bathory in her more than 400 years of bloodthirsty existence.
The train rolled in to yet another station.
The writer looked at the phone clock. 20 minutes to arrival in Cluj.
She thought eagerly of the food, snack, anything that awaited in the destination. The hunger was made worse as the teenager diagonally opposite opened up a bag of crisps.
19 minutes.
The writer went back to Dracula.
Time passed and the train remained in the station.
The writer’s fellow passengers shifted restlessly, impatient, waiting.
The writer read on…
“We have some technical difficulties,” the conductor announced as he entered Wagon 1 where the writer was sat. “We are trying to fix it but it may take some time.”
The passengers sighed, grumbled, began to phone relatives.
The woman opposite the writer woke up and dug out a sandwich.
30 minutes passed.
40.
Noises outside the train revealed that some sort of reparation work was being done- clunks, metallic bumps, humming. The hiss and whoosh of the air-conditioning coming back on (the writer hadn’t noticed it was off!) gave hope that the train would be ‘back on track’ soon.
50 minutes.
The air-conditioning stopped.
Some passengers went to the door and stood looking out. Some were already on the platform below, smoking.
The station was lit by just five dull orbs hanging near the station building, two platforms over. In the distance the writer could see the golden pin-points of light signifying a village or small town.
Pitch black out there otherwise.
The writer had no desire to leave the train, fearful that it would start up and leave without her.
The platform lights went out.
The writer, re-absorbed in Dracula, only noticed this fact when the whispers and questions trickled through the carriage, increasing in number and volume.
As is always the case in times of discomfort, people who up until then had ignored one another began to exchange observations, jokes and complaints at the increasing warmth in the carriage.
The writer understood nothing of what they were saying and so remained quiet.
Ladies began to fan themselves with folded newspapers.
The lights in the train went out.
Women screamed.
The volume of worried voices rose.
The writer felt for the nearby laptop bag and tucked the book away, then found the phone on the shared table in front of her.
The screen lit up as the writer slid a finger across it, searching for the flashlight function.
Other passengers did the same, until there was a string of ghostly pale faces, up-lit like the classic black and white horrors of the 1930s.
The writer took a drink of water, glancing at the reflection of those ghostly faces on the windows.
Boom!
A flash of white streaked past the window nearest the writer and solidly bumped into the next window before melting back into the night.
The man seated there cried out, a woman screamed and another began to cry.
The writer, powerless in an inability to speak Romanian, in vain asked “What was it?” in English.
There was no answer.
Another flash and bump on the other side of the carriage. Then another, further down.
The passengers stood, moving back into the aisle and away from the windows, shining their mobiles outwards, the lights shaking. Breathing came fast. The writer could feel her heart pounding hard but had no desire to scream.
One man loudly gave out some instructions and the outer doors were pulled shut, then those of the inner carriage.
A shout outside on the platform- it was a smoker who had gone off to pee and had now returned to find the doors shut on him.
The passengers looked at one another uncertainly. Let him in or not?
His shouts and fists thumping at the door suddenly stopped.
Everyone went quiet- except for whimpering and uncontrollable crying from a few.
The seconds ticked by. The passengers eyed each other nervously.
Then the woman opposite the writer screamed and all eyes turned to the window she was staring and pointing at- seeing clearly the red splattered up the glass and dripping down. It was blood; fresh, stark, bright crimson shining wetly in the white of the lights that now focused on it.
One woman called out a despairing: “Strigoi!”
More panicked screams, a man whimpering and calling for his mother. Prayers. The muffled thump of a body as an elderly lady fainted- a rush as her granddaughter and those around her helped her into a seat and set to resuscitating her.
Someone tried to call the police and screamed out the situation to the dispatch centre.
Will they come on time? the writer wondered.
She switched off her mobile light and kept her eyes fixed to the window nearest her.
Another flash of white outside. Another bodily collision against the exterior of the carriage.
Strigoi.
Vampire.
Those closest to the doors at either end of the carriage backed up until the twelve or so passengers were pressed together in a hot, fearful huddle in the centre near the writer, their eyes rolling wildly between the windows and the doors. A claustrophobic bitter smell of fear and entrapment permeated the air.
The writer peered out the window, trying to focus and to make sense of the dark-on-dark shapes outside.
One man said something gruffly and made to leave the carriage but those beside him pulled him back, shouting at him. He fought them, his face sweaty and afraid but his eyes determined in his need to get out. He was overpowered and forced into a seat.
Nothing could be seen beyond the glass. The writer bent low and moved closer.
There! On the other platform- a figure, barely discernible in the gloom.
“What is that?” the writer whispered.
The writer placed a hand to either side of her face to block out the light from the mobiles as they flashed this way and that in panicked circles.
She peered out.
And saw dead black eyes peering back.
The train rumbled through fields and valleys, passed compact villages of step-roofed slanted-walled cottages tightly lining the single roads running through them. They far differed from the sprawling land-greedy style of the villages the writer knew in Georgia. Built that way as a better form of defence against invaders, the writer remembered being told.
The writer sighed, her stomach rumbling as she wished she’d had a heavier lunch before setting out on the four hour journey up to Cluj. The writer had slept, checked facebook and email and was now absorbed in Dracula The Un-Dead co-written by the great grand-nephew of Bram Stoker. The story was gripping but every now and then the writer would glance out the window, feeling guilty for not staring at the passing landscapes with more intensity so as to commit them to memory.
Looking to the right, past the man with the newspaper, the writer saw the bright colours of approaching sunset.
Sunset in Transylvania. No time like it!
The writer went to the end of the carriage and took some photos of the blue-gold-red summer sky out the window before returning to the book. The sky went dark as the evil Countess Bathory dropped the mutilated body of a young London prostitute into the River Thames to float away with dead eyes turned up to a God who had done nothing for her, just as he had done nothing for Bathory in her more than 400 years of bloodthirsty existence.
The train rolled in to yet another station.
The writer looked at the phone clock. 20 minutes to arrival in Cluj.
She thought eagerly of the food, snack, anything that awaited in the destination. The hunger was made worse as the teenager diagonally opposite opened up a bag of crisps.
19 minutes.
The writer went back to Dracula.
Time passed and the train remained in the station.
The writer’s fellow passengers shifted restlessly, impatient, waiting.
The writer read on…
“We have some technical difficulties,” the conductor announced as he entered Wagon 1 where the writer was sat. “We are trying to fix it but it may take some time.”
The passengers sighed, grumbled, began to phone relatives.
The woman opposite the writer woke up and dug out a sandwich.
30 minutes passed.
40.
Noises outside the train revealed that some sort of reparation work was being done- clunks, metallic bumps, humming. The hiss and whoosh of the air-conditioning coming back on (the writer hadn’t noticed it was off!) gave hope that the train would be ‘back on track’ soon.
50 minutes.
The air-conditioning stopped.
Some passengers went to the door and stood looking out. Some were already on the platform below, smoking.
The station was lit by just five dull orbs hanging near the station building, two platforms over. In the distance the writer could see the golden pin-points of light signifying a village or small town.
Pitch black out there otherwise.
The writer had no desire to leave the train, fearful that it would start up and leave without her.
The platform lights went out.
The writer, re-absorbed in Dracula, only noticed this fact when the whispers and questions trickled through the carriage, increasing in number and volume.
As is always the case in times of discomfort, people who up until then had ignored one another began to exchange observations, jokes and complaints at the increasing warmth in the carriage.
The writer understood nothing of what they were saying and so remained quiet.
Ladies began to fan themselves with folded newspapers.
The lights in the train went out.
Women screamed.
The volume of worried voices rose.
The writer felt for the nearby laptop bag and tucked the book away, then found the phone on the shared table in front of her.
The screen lit up as the writer slid a finger across it, searching for the flashlight function.
Other passengers did the same, until there was a string of ghostly pale faces, up-lit like the classic black and white horrors of the 1930s.
The writer took a drink of water, glancing at the reflection of those ghostly faces on the windows.
Boom!
A flash of white streaked past the window nearest the writer and solidly bumped into the next window before melting back into the night.
The man seated there cried out, a woman screamed and another began to cry.
The writer, powerless in an inability to speak Romanian, in vain asked “What was it?” in English.
There was no answer.
Another flash and bump on the other side of the carriage. Then another, further down.
The passengers stood, moving back into the aisle and away from the windows, shining their mobiles outwards, the lights shaking. Breathing came fast. The writer could feel her heart pounding hard but had no desire to scream.
One man loudly gave out some instructions and the outer doors were pulled shut, then those of the inner carriage.
A shout outside on the platform- it was a smoker who had gone off to pee and had now returned to find the doors shut on him.
The passengers looked at one another uncertainly. Let him in or not?
His shouts and fists thumping at the door suddenly stopped.
Everyone went quiet- except for whimpering and uncontrollable crying from a few.
The seconds ticked by. The passengers eyed each other nervously.
Then the woman opposite the writer screamed and all eyes turned to the window she was staring and pointing at- seeing clearly the red splattered up the glass and dripping down. It was blood; fresh, stark, bright crimson shining wetly in the white of the lights that now focused on it.
One woman called out a despairing: “Strigoi!”
More panicked screams, a man whimpering and calling for his mother. Prayers. The muffled thump of a body as an elderly lady fainted- a rush as her granddaughter and those around her helped her into a seat and set to resuscitating her.
Someone tried to call the police and screamed out the situation to the dispatch centre.
Will they come on time? the writer wondered.
She switched off her mobile light and kept her eyes fixed to the window nearest her.
Another flash of white outside. Another bodily collision against the exterior of the carriage.
Strigoi.
Vampire.
Those closest to the doors at either end of the carriage backed up until the twelve or so passengers were pressed together in a hot, fearful huddle in the centre near the writer, their eyes rolling wildly between the windows and the doors. A claustrophobic bitter smell of fear and entrapment permeated the air.
The writer peered out the window, trying to focus and to make sense of the dark-on-dark shapes outside.
One man said something gruffly and made to leave the carriage but those beside him pulled him back, shouting at him. He fought them, his face sweaty and afraid but his eyes determined in his need to get out. He was overpowered and forced into a seat.
Nothing could be seen beyond the glass. The writer bent low and moved closer.
There! On the other platform- a figure, barely discernible in the gloom.
“What is that?” the writer whispered.
The writer placed a hand to either side of her face to block out the light from the mobiles as they flashed this way and that in panicked circles.
She peered out.
And saw dead black eyes peering back.
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