Two minutes have passed and it is by your side. The coachman, an ugly fellow as broad as tall, gets down and opens the door. With an incomprehensible grumble he lets you know that you have to get in. A few steps in the ice cause your bare feet to howl in pain.

But once in the coach, a thick fur coat and top quality leather boots give you their warm comfort. You put them on in a jiffy.

Without a noise the sleigh flies past the pine trees, then the rocks and thin spruces. The sleigh is sliding up.

Straight ahead of you, a furrow at the bottom of a small valley seems to hide an ancient track. A thick layer of snow insulates a silence without an echo.

For if your ears perceive the North wind hissing, that is only on their painful shell. As no sound passes any further.
Yet the noise of a little bell appears at the bend of a hill. Far away, on the path, a black sleigh pulled by a stocky horse is slowly getting closer.

It now rides along breathtaking gorges. But the cliff edge is rounded by a swelling of white down. And soon you are taken above castle trenches. A Hungarian castle with arched battlements that you can see as you lean out at the door.

The gate heavily shuts down at the back of the sleigh. You are set down in front of some stairs. You walk up them and enter a narrow corridor with bad lighting. On each side, the portraits of the landlord's ancestors are the only fantasy of this monotonous place.

Cold faces, skinny or fat, with a realism that reveals everyone's small defects : three nostrils, two eyes of different colour, too big a tongue to fit its natural sheath, a foaming mouth, six fingers or just a glossy skin. Maybe these are just mistakes from the artist...

The place is disturbing indeed. But you know what to expect ; in a doorframe, a Dracula's relative is waiting for God knows what ; he is staring in your direction. But is it you he is looking at or is it behind you ? You can not tell.

Then, in an inhuman yawn, he reveals his great wolfish fangs. He turns round and slides imperceptibly towards the back of the room. His large cape conceals his steps and gives the impression that he is flying. The spell is working : he thinks you are one of his kind.

A confabulation of vampires is taking place in a large study room. The discussions, that your arrival does not disrupt, are quite tense. They seem to be about what strategy to choose in order to take over the world.

The chairman of the session tries with silent movements of his left hand to calm down the attendance's barking.

" We don't scare people anymore. We must strike a decisive blow ! " a big crank yells.

– The epicentre location must be changed if we want to optimise the contagion ! Transylvania, it is protecting ourselves behind peasants' fears, a vague reputation.

– Well said ! Let's choose a capital...

– But that would be heading for 100% failure ! Just imagine the logistic problems this would cause. Where would we find adequate quantities of native soil ?

– On the contrary, we have there a ready set background ! Satanist sects, cannibal clubs, Marylin Manson...

The communication administrator speaks :

– I propose a scenario that puts forward a media approach. To make it less alarming indeed, to gain some respectability. This is what goes today.

" We'll serve the good as we feed on criminals, prostitutes and their pimp's blood. "

Immediately howling rises, teeth grind and fangs knock together.

Discussions resume more agitated than ever and you find it more and more boring. What's up with those vampires who make plans, who construct settlement strategies, marketing and communication, who read trend line graphs?

Good old animal greed attached with efficiency considerations. Ancient cruelty dressed up with all the arguments of the hateful spirit of enterprise and planning. Bah !

Lucifer giving up his cloven hoofs for a pair of Berlutti shoes and a suit, that is the worst that could really happen to this hell !

To make it look like our so trivial everyday life, too human in a word...
You are sure that the Nun would share your disgust. But you have no more made up this nostalgic thought than one of the vampires sat at the table and whose back was turned on you turns over.

But the surprise is not only for you : all the dumbfounded vampires are staring at you. She sure has unmasked you. The charm no longer works. It is time to take your leave, you reckon, and fast !

Out of breath, you come out onto the lower yard. The sleigh is still there. You grab the reins and gallop up to the gate that you imperiously point out to the hunchbacked servant.

Phew ! You can still bluff him.
Without wasting any second you cross the drawbridge. But the vampires, converted to their instinctive brutality, follow hard behind. They run like starving wolves.

Whatever it may be, it has left you shocked. And without seeing the time pass you reach the side of the mountain that opens a passage to the Abbess's underground.
You did not realise that there were actually two openings quite difficult to tell the one from the other.

You crack the whip above the horse's ears.
Fortunately you outdistance them quickly. And soon you only hear faraway frustration groaning.

You will probably never know if their anger was provoked by your inopportune intrusion as an observer likely to foil their thoughtful plot or if it was caused by the warm blood flow of which you were the container.
You neither understand why the Nun was there. Maybe you have uncovered one of her many faces ? Or it might just have been a ghost ?