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Transylvania, 1923
The engine of the weathered BSA motorcycle roared
like a wounded beast as it crossed
the muddy trails of the Carpathians.
Viktor Aldrich adjusted his aviator goggles
and pressed the brass throttle,
feeling the vibrations of the four-stroke engine
coursing through his weary bones.
"Damn it," he growled through gritted teeth,
observing the deep tracks in the mud.
The horse had galloped with desperation,
leaving marks that any tracker
would recognize as those of a terrified beast.
Viktor had arrived at this remote village
three days ago, following whispers
that traveled through the taverns of Bucharest:
missing children, livestock found drained of blood,
shadows dancing where there should be none.
The locals spoke in archaic Romanian,
crossing themselves when mentioning "strigoi".
"One hour head start, bastard,"
Viktor muttered, mentally calculating the distance
while the icy October wind
lashed his face, weathered by years
of pursuing the impossible.
His grandfather had taught him that no horse,
however strong, could maintain
a frenzied gallop for more than a few kilometers.
"After an hour, it'll be trotting
like a tired old man," he remembered the words
of the old hunter while adjusting
the carburetor of his BSA.
At 80 kilometers per hour,
the ancient English motorcycle
trembled dangerously over the cobblestones,
but Viktor had modified the engine
with parts from Great War aircraft.
Every passing minute,
he shortened the distance to his prey.
In the inner pocket of his leather coat,
familiar instruments brushed against his chest:
ash wood stakes carved by Orthodox monks,
holy water in crystal vials,
and the silver cross that had belonged
to his great-grandfather, another shadow hunter.
At exactly fourteen minutes
—Viktor always timed his hunts—,
the silhouette of the horse appeared
through the mist rising
from the Mureș river valley.
The beast had stopped
on a rocky hill,
the vapor of its labored breathing
mixing with the nocturnal fog.
Viktor reduced the engine revolutions,
the mechanical roar giving way
to the supernatural silence of the forest.
Not an owl, not a cricket.
Only the wind whistling through the pines.
Then, under the yellowish light
of the October full moon,
happened what Viktor both feared and expected.
The horse reared on its hind legs,
but its form began to twist
like red-hot metal.
The muscles elongated grotesquely,
the skin became translucent and pale,
and the eyes ignited
with the deep red of fresh blood.
Bones that cracked like dry branches,
flesh that molded following
an impossible anatomy.
From the four-legged beast
emerged something that walked upright,
something that had been human
long, long ago.
Viktor smiled with that grimace he had inherited
from three generations of hunters.
A smile without humor, without joy,
only the cold satisfaction
of the predator confirming
he had found his prey.
"Strigoi," he murmured in Romanian,
the word familiar on his tongue
like a prayer known by heart.
The creature let out a howl
that echoed throughout the valley,
a sound that seemed to emerge
from the depths of the earth itself.
Viktor didn't flinch.
He had heard that cry before,
in Moldavia, in the forests of Wallachia,
in the tunnels beneath Prague.
He turned off the BSA engine
and dismounted with calculated movements,
his leather boots crunching
over the dead leaves.
From inside his coat he extracted
an ash wood stake
—carved by the monks of Putna—
and the silver cross that had gleamed
in his great-grandfather's hands
during the Wallachia massacre.
"So you finally abandon the disguise,"
Viktor said in archaic Romanian,
slowly advancing toward the abomination.
"The village children can rest in peace."
The strigoi lunged with the speed
of desperation and ancestral hunger,
its claws extended like rusted blades
and fangs gleaming
under the spectral moonlight.
Viktor had awaited this moment
his entire adult life.
He dodged the attack with the agility
of one who has danced this mortal dance
dozens of times, spinning his body
while the stake found
the putrid flesh of the creature's side.
The creature's howl of pain
awakened all the ravens in the forest,
but Viktor already had the cross raised high.
The sacred light emanating from the symbol
—blessed at the Snagov monastery—
made the monster recoil
as if it had touched white-hot iron.
The combat lasted exactly
three minutes and forty-seven seconds.
Viktor knew because he always
timed his confrontations.
With a surgeon's precision
and the determination of one who
carries hunter's blood
in his veins, he finally drove
the stake into the black heart.
The creature collapsed
with a sigh that sounded
almost... grateful.
Its form slowly disintegrated,
becoming ashes
that the autumn wind
scattered among the trees.
Viktor remained motionless on the hill,
breathing the cold mountain air
while storing his tools
in the worn pockets of his coat.
The children of Sighișoara
could sleep peacefully tonight.
One less threat
lurked in the shadows of Transylvania.
He started the BSA with a kick
to the starter pedal.
The engine coughed before roaring again,
like an old soldier
awakening for another battle.
The road back to Brașov
would be long and lonely,
but Viktor knew that somewhere,
in some lost village
among the folds of the Carpathians,
another creature of the ancient night
would be awakening with thirst.
And he would be waiting.
As his father had done,
his grandfather, and his grandfather's father.
Because the Aldrichs
were not simply hunters.
They were the last line of defense
between the world of the living
and the nightmares that crawled
from the times
when Romans
feared to cross the Danube.
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THE END
*Viktor Aldrich would return in "The Monastery of the Dead"*
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