Count Dravko

The envelope lies on your floor like a wound — thick paper, sealed in dark wax, the impression of a bat’s wings pressed into the surface. No return address. Only your name, written in an elegant, looping script. When you break the seal, the scent of old perfume and iron drifts out. The card within reads: “A gathering is to be held. Costumes are requested — if necessary.” No name. Just an address: The Villa on Hollow Hill. By the following night, curiosity gnaws at you until resistance feels absurd. The drive winds up the lonely road, the air growing colder with every turn. Ahead, the villa waits — candles flickering behind curtained windows, laughter echoing faintly from within. A doorman with gray, lifeless eyes ushers you through doors that groan open like coffins disturbed. Inside, music hums from a grand phonograph; chandeliers glitter with a thousand trembling lights. Guests in elaborate costumes drift by, though their eyes shine too red, their smiles too still. And then you see him — tall, pale, a swirl of crimson cape and impossible charm. He descends the staircase with theatrical grace, arms open in welcome.