The Smile of Dracula

The Smile of Dracula ~ Way to Forbidden Woods.

Beyond the last human village of Dankels State, where even crows refused to fly and snakes recoiled from the soil, stretched the Forbidden Woods.  
No map recorded it. No GPS marked its existence.  
One truth alone was certain—  
no traveler had ever returned.  



The trees were older than memory, their roots coiled like serpents, drinking not water but whispers buried deep in the soil. At the forest’s heart rose a castle.  

Its towers pierced the fog like black fangs, and its walls seemed to breathe with age. This was the Castle of Count Dracula.  

By day, the fortress slept—silent, lifeless, deceptive. But when the sun drowned behind the mountains, the stones awoke. Windows glowed crimson. Bats spilled from the spires like ink across the moonlit sky.  

Inside, Count Dracula rose from his coffin.  
Tall, pale, and impossibly still, he moved like a shadow detached from time. His eyes burned with centuries of betrayal, his hunger unquenched by kingdoms conquered or queens buried. The thirst remained eternal.  

The villagers whispered that the woods did not curse him—  
they protected him.  

One night, a traveler named Elis ignored every warning. Drawn by an unseen call, she crossed the forest’s boundary. The air thickened. Her torch dimmed. The trees leaned closer, listening.  

She noticed something unnatural: not a single insect stirred, not a moth brushed her flame, not a cricket sang. The silence was alive, pressing against her ears.  

With every step came whispers:  
Turn back… turn back…  

But it was too late.  
The castle gates opened without a sound.  

Dracula welcomed her with a smile—ancient, patient, inevitable.  
“Welcome,” he whispered.  
“Few are chosen by the woods.”  

Elis trembled but stood her ground. As he drew closer, his breath cold as grave dust, she revealed the garlic necklace hidden beneath her shirt. The Count recoiled, his smile twisting into something darker—half rage, half hunger denied.  

For the first time in centuries, Dracula hesitated. His hand, pale as marble, hovered inches from her throat but did not touch. The castle itself seemed to shudder, its stones groaning in protest.  

Elis’s torch flared once, then died. Darkness swallowed her.  

A scream echoed—whether hers or his, no one could tell.  

By dawn, the forest was silent once more.  
No footsteps led out.  
Only fresh mist drifted through the trees.  

And from that morning onward, the whispers of lost travelers grew louder—  
woven forever into the roots of the Forbidden Woods.  

From that day onward, the Forbidden Woods were no longer just cursed—they were alive. The trees no longer whispered warnings; they chose their prey. Roots shifted beneath the soil like veins, pulsing with memory. The mist grew thicker, hungrier. Elis’s defiance had stirred something ancient, something waiting. And though Dracula still smiled from his crimson-lit castle, it was the forest that now watched, listened, and hunted. The woods had awakened—and they would never sleep again.

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Additional information ~

🦇 Garlic and Dracula.

- Eastern European roots: In 19th‑century Romanian and Bulgarian folklore, garlic was used against strigoi (restless spirits), not specifically vampires.  
- Stoker’s influence: Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel Dracula cemented garlic as a vampire deterrent in popular imagination, turning a regional superstition into a global horror trope.