The flames in the church flickered violently as the man clad in black rushed past them. In one hand, he clutched a string of prayer beads; in the other, a wooden cross.
He moved towards a massive altar carved from fine marble. The man, his body wrinkled and frail, sank to his shaky knees and began to mutter a fearful prayer under his breath. His body had seen better days—eighty-three long years had weighed heavily on him.
He remembered when he once prayed before the masses, baptizing souls with his very presence. "Prayer works wonders," he had always said. But now, in this moment, he feared prayer might not be enough.
He wasn't praying for himself, but for the man and his crusaders as they prepared for their final assault against the devil himself—the one called Dracula—and his fiendish followers.
He remembered vividly his first encounter with one.
Over twenty years ago, a man had been brought to the church. The five who carried him claimed they found him abandoned on the street and insisted he was possessed by an evil spirit. In those days, madness was often seen as possession.
The man did not look entirely mad. True, he had the unkempt hair, the filthy clothes, and the foul odor of the insane. But his eyes were different—eyes that seemed to have peered into darkness itself, and darkness had peered back.
He told the story of creatures so vile, they looked like man, spoke like man but were not man, they had pale skin and long inhuman fangs. He told of their nature of cannibalism where they partook in human flesh and drank their blood. And how they could resurrect the dead, converting them to their unholy religion He spoke of bat like creatures, demons, and other horrors that aided these monsters in slaughter.
"Please pray for this poor man, Father Castillo," the townsfolk had pleaded.
"Pray for me, pastor, so that I can take my life in peace and go to heaven," the man himself begged.
Castillo had never forgotten the sorrow in his eyes. He could not understand what spirit could plague a man so deeply.
"To take one's own life is a sin," Castillo had answered gently. "I will pray for grace, mercy, and freedom from this evil."
He began to pray, but the man cut him off with a desperate cry.
"You don't understand, Father," he said, trembling violently. He clawed at his own hair, shaking his whole body. "They come from hell! They will find me wherever I go." He knelt and grabbed at Castillo's clothes frightendly "Please, Father, pray for me—or better…"
He pulled a small blade from his pocket and pressed it into Castillo's hand.
"Take my life. If I die by your hand, surely I will enter heaven," he said with a pleading smile.
Castillo was shaken. Never had he been asked to deliver death and never had he seen one beg for it so eagerly. He recalled Scripture: "If one truly loves his life, he must be willing to lose it." Was this some test sent by the Lord?
In the end, he could not do it. He laid his hands upon the troubled man and prayed for his soul. Afterward, the stranger rose, stared at Castillo in silence, and left the town. Castillo would not see him again for six months.
When the man returned, he was transformed. He was well dressed as if he had somewhere stumbled into the house of some royal and stole his clothes. His hair was neatly parted, his skin pale but smooth, his posture elegant. Yet his eyes were unchanged—still wild, still haunted.
They met again at the church one cold midnight, as Castillo prepared for prayer. The priest rejoiced, thanking the Lord for what seemed a miraculous recovery.
"Do you seek more prayers?" Castillo asked after their greetings.
The man shook his head and, for the first time, gave his name: Marlon.
Marlon stood quietly for a while, observing the porcelain structures and beautiful glass imagery depicting several holy events that had occurred in the Bible. His eyes fell on one, an image depicting when the devil was attempting to tempt the Lord, Jesus Christ. The devil had wings, horns, and a mocking human face. The tempter was on one knee pointing towards the ground below him and Christ as they were on a cliff.
"He tried to tempt Him with the kingdoms of the world," Castillo explained, stepping beside him to preach comfort.
But Marlon interrupted softly: "That's not the devil."
Castillo froze. His eyes widened. What did he mean, that's not the devil?
Before he could ask, Marlon turned and left without another word, leaving the priest in confusion.
Two nights later, Castillo was awakened by screams. He rushed from his house beside the church, still in his nightgown, a torch in hand. But he soon realized he needed no torch—flames consumed the town.
The sight froze his blood. Chaos reigned. Fire burnt houses and people alike. People ran from people and people attacked people.
The attackers were crazed and violent. They came at people's throats with nothing but their teeth digging deep into their necks and feasting on their flesh, worst of all they seemed to enjoy it.
He saw with his own eyes women getting violated in ways he could have never imagined, he saw mother rise against son and daughter against father.
He knew them, he knew the assailants and their victims, they were all the people of the very town that was burning. The people he saw every Sunday, the people who brought their worries to him and trusted him and the Lord with their fears.
He saw young Theresa the girl who had just turned eighteen a few months ago, excited to finally reach adulthood, dig her fingers into the eyes of another girl, Mary who had celebrated said birthday with her and as she pulled out her eyes from the sockets, she threw her head back and laughed.
Castillo could not move. His mind screamed that this must be a dream, but his heart knew the truth. This was real.
Through the madness, a figure emerged. Marlon. His mouth dripped crimson.
Castillo stumbled backward.
"I told you, Father… to kill me," Marlon said, his voice trembling. "I begged you. Now it's too late. He found me. He killed me. He violated me. Then he turned me."
He clawed at his face, blood streaking with his tears. "I didn't't want to do it," he said tears streaking from his face then mixing with blood on his skin and continued to run down his cheeks. "But I hear him, I dream of him, he wants blood Father, he wants death"
He spread his arms wide, revealing the carnage. "This is what he wanted! This is what the devil wants!"
Castillo fled. He ran past the fires, past the slaughter, past corpses that began to stir, rising again with empty eyes. He did not dare look back. But Marlon followed—swift as a predator.
Just before Castillo reached the forest's edge, Marlon caught him. The priest fell hard upon the rocky road. Pale hands seized him, forcing him to face his captor.
Marlon's eyes gleamed with an unholy light. His pale skin glowed beneath the moon. He brought his mouth close, baring long, bloodstained fangs.
Castillo prayed—not for salvation, but for a swift death, and for heaven's embrace.
Marlon opened wide. The end was certain.
But death did not come for Castillo.
A sudden shing! rang out, followed by a wet woosh. Cold liquid splattered across Castillo's face. A sword, glowing with strange energy, was lodged in Marlon's skull.
The wielder stood tall—a man clad in shining silver armor, a red robe flowing behind him, an emblem upon his breastplate. In the moonlight, he looked like an angel of war.
Marlon shrieked, tearing the blade from his head. Half his face was destroyed—one eye gone, his nose ripped away, his lips shredded. Still, he staggered forward, blinded by frenzy.
But he did not see the others. An army of armored men swept past. In a single strike, they cut Marlon down.
About twenty of them stormed the town, slaying the blood-crazed townsfolk with swift precision. One warrior remained with Castillo, checking his neck for bite marks.
"You're lucky we arrived in time," he said grimly. "The rest weren't so fortunate."
By morning, the fires died. The screams faded. The attackers were gone. But the town was no more. Of sixty souls, only five remained.
The warriors offered to take the survivors to their stronghold far to the west—a safe haven for those who endured vampire attacks.
"Vampires," one of them explained during the journey. They told Castillo of wars fought against them, battles won and lost.
"How have I never heard of this?" Castillo asked.
"Because they've only walked this earth for a decade," the warrior replied. "And we've known of them for just seven years. This commission exists to hunt them and uncover their origins."
Theories abounded: some said plague, others black magic. Some thought they were demons in stolen skin. But one gloomy soldier's words struck Castillo deepest:
"It is the devil. He has begun his kingdom on earth. God has abandoned us. This is penance for our sins."
And somewhere in his heart, Castillo feared he was right.
Since then, Castillo had lived in the stronghold among the warriors. He did not fight, but he listened. Their victories gave him hope, their defeats sorrow. He prayed for their souls, especially those turned into monsters.
Now, those same warriors were preparing their final assault—against the vampires in their dark fortress: Castle Black.
And so, Father Castillo prayed. For their victory. For salvation. For the end of the devil's reign.
For it was all the old priest could do. Pray.