Letter from Count Fang to The Button Club

Castle Dracula, The Carpathians

8th October, 2007

Dear Fellow Vampires, Facebook Werewolves, Ghouls, Witches, and Potential Victims,

Garlic, crucifixes, the wild rose or mountain ash will not keep me away from Old Finsbury Town Hall, on Saturday 27th October. Indeed, I am ready to burst forth from my coffin to join The Button Club’s thrill-seekers for the ‘The BloodLust Ball’.

The party’s hostess, Countess Carmilla Karnstein, tells me there is a ring of secrecy and intrigue surrounding this exclusive, blood pumping night. “The evening promises to be a magical experience,” she informs me, before warning, “The BloodLust Ball is not for the faint-hearted”. Indeed, my cousin, Prince Vlad III ‘The Impaler’, or Count Dracula, as he is more commonly referred to, will meet all those guests who dare step over the threshold into a world of werewolves, victims and vampires.

Last night at Castle Dracula, as we supped on an unfortunate gypsy, Prince Vlad licked his bony, blood-encrusted fingers, grinned his scarlet-toothed smile, and with the wild ruby red eyes of a seasoned bloodsucker joked, “Enter all those who dare.” He smoothed a lock of raven black hair from his pale face, and with a blood-soaked thumb and forefinger, twiddled the ends of his pencil thin moustache. Dracula is caddish to the extreme, and whenever I see him, I can’t help but think he looks hundreds of years younger than he is. Dressed in a crimson velvet smoking jacket, complimented by a white ruffled shirt with lace sleeves, the dashing rogue cuts a dastardly figure in the candlelit confines of the dusty old castle. Many a young maiden has been lured onto the dinner plate as a result of being invited back to his place for coffee and a doughnut.

After dinner, as we sat by the fireside impaling rats on cocktails sticks, he rocked backwards and forwards in his threadbare armchair like a wild demon from the depths of Hell. I shuddered as he laughed his most blood-curdling laugh, which echoed throughout the musty, bloody corridors of Castle Dracula. The Button Club is in for a rare treat.

I am ready to sink my sharpened fangs into victims, virgins and other creatures, at this exciting, highly exclusive party. My calèche awaits to take me on the first leg of my journey to England. I am delighted to be invited to dance the night away by a bubbling ruby red fountain overflowing with delicious, gooey blood.

In just one hour, I leave the tatty (it could do with a splash of Dulux on the walls to cover all the blood stains) confines of Castle Dracula, where I will travel by coach along the Borgo Pass and onto Bistritz. The mountains along the Pass are quite beautiful, and at night, when the moon shines through the thunderous clouds and the treacherous wolves howl, I can emerge to feast upon the blood of a weary, lost traveller.

As many fellow vampires are aware, journeys of this nature are particularly tricky, not least because we must travel in a box for fear of being killed by sunlight. This leaves us at the mercy of curious goods handlers at seaports. I will miss the comfort of my crimson, satin lined coffin, but a simple cargo box will not arouse suspicion, and is easy to stow on board a ship.

In a few days time, I will be travelling with Count Dracula from the Port of Vanya to Whitby in England, as my dear, deceased predecessor once did. I say ‘deceased’, since although vampires are deemed ‘immortal’, sadly, you can kill one by exposing him or her to sunlight or by pushing a nasty stake through the heart. His death was a terrible business, at the hands of a group of vampire slayers from London and Whitby, who had followed him back from London to Transylvania. Details can be found in Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’.

However, my friends, let us join together, and let us not dwell on past misery. I look forward to seeing English soil again, and can’t wait to sink my love fangs into a few virgins – if indeed there are any living and working in Clerkenwell!

Dracula has sent a consignment of some twenty boxes ahead of us. They contain my bride, Lady Stabteeth, and our blood relatives. I am due to join them in Whitby in one week, where we will be transferred by removal van to London – to the dimly lit, dank ventilation corridor in The House of Detention in Clerkenwell. From this haunting prison filled with the ghoulish, blood-curdling screams of past prisoners, we will feast, make merry, and prepare for The BloodLust Ball. Countess Carmilla Karnstein waits for us.

The BloodLust Ball is nearly upon us. I bid you adieu for now. My horseman is fidgeting with his reins, and I must make haste before sunrise.

Your Friend, COUNT FANG