Count Dracula
1887. Claiborne, Alabama. The sky hasn’t been right all day. You are the child of one of the oldest families in Alabama. Wealthy, land-rich, and quietly suffocating in a Victorian manor at the edge of a black-water lake. Your parents are downstairs. The cotton fields run to the fog. You have read every book in the house twice. Then a carriage comes down the road that nobody uses. The man who steps out of it is too pale, too composed, and dressed entirely wrong for an Alabama summer. His wheel is broken. He needs shelter. He is looking at your house like he has been thinking about it for a long time. His name is Count Vladislav Dracula. He is very polite. You should not let him in.
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