After getting out of the Uber, from the corner of my eye, I noticed something scrambling toward my legs. When I turned around, it was a piglet. A piglet with a wet and pink snout and all. And not just one but a dozen. They roamed freely across the land with chickens and cats as their companions. “Now, that is a welcome I didn’t expect,” I thought. The restaurant resembled more of an old-timey tavern. In the restaurant’s foyer, the walls were made of rough wood logs while the décor took my breath away: shelves filled with dried garlic garlands, corn cobs, and large jars of marinated vegetables, on the floor rested massive, weaved baskets full of apples, an old wooden sleigh plopped in the corner, and goats. Real life, lazily chewing hay goats. I proceeded to tiptoe around them not to disturb their meals and hopefully avoid a physical confrontation with them.

  The next door I entered led to a large two-story dining room. The décor continued the rustic theme with a centerpiece of three bears on a pedestal and a chandelier made of deer antlers. Still flabbergasted by my surroundings, I missed the server’s question, asking how many would be attending. “Just me,” I answered in Romanian. He smiled and accompanied me to my table, and presented the menu. Only then I noticed that each server wore Romanian ethnic garbs consisting of a white linen shirt and trousers with a fabric belt cross-stitched in a traditional pattern. “I should try to stitch something like that on a shirt,” I thought. I didn’t want to waste time looking through the menu, so I said: “I would like today’s special.”

  The waiter looked at me perplexed, be it from my “excellent” Romanian or food choice.

  “Sure, it will be ready in about ten minutes. Would you like to drink something, miss?”

  “Just water, please,” I said. “You’re on vacation, Petra.” I hissed at myself. “And a glass of wine.”

  “Very well,” he said as he poured water into my glass.

  Excitement filled my nostrils when I saw him carrying a bowl of soup and freshly baked bread. The smell made my stomach grumble as he placed it in front of me. When I began eating, I completely forgot about the server who still hovered over me. The delectable dish disappeared slowly with every spoon dip, leaving small rings around the bowl.

  When I calmed my hunger, I took a minute to look around, and only then I noticed the server returning with the chef.

  “Was the dish to your liking, miss?” the chef asked.

  “Very much so.”

  “We’re so happy you enjoyed it. Many foreign visitors usually refuse to even try it.”

  “What is this dish?” I asked curiously.

  “It’s called ciorbă de burtă.”

  “It doesn’t ring a bell. What is it made of?”

  “Well, its main ingredient is cow stomach,” the chef proudly said.

  “What?” The baffling realization that I ate tripe soup descended upon me. “But I didn’t taste anything unusual.”

  “It’s our chef’s masterful cooking skills,” the server said, feeling more boastful than the chef.

  “You must be a true Romanian at heart, miss,” said the chef.

  I didn’t quite know how to react. In a way, the soup tasted divine. Then again, cow stomach? Blech. I thanked them both, paid for the food, and hurried to call an Uber. Tomorrow’s stop: The Royal Court of Târgoviște, the real Dracula Castle.

  ∞∞∞

  The two-and-a-half-hour ride to Târgoviște differed in many ways from the one in Brașov. The bus, much larger than the previous one, carried various people on board. Grandmas with large bags and chicken pens, moms with toddlers trying to get closer to the exit, and teenage girls with eyes glued to their phones, oblivious of the surrounding chaos. After paying the driver, I dragged myself through the crowd and stood next to the girls. They hadn’t noticed me, and I felt grateful to avoid the big ruckus in front. Even though the roads were perfectly asphalted, in the crammed bus, I felt every tiny bump like a crammed rollercoaster. And with every jolt, I was reminded of the artifact I kept hidden in the bag.

  The previous night, nothing unusual happened. I had my dinner at McDonald’s, just in case the tripe soup planned to send me on a reoccurring trip to the toilet. No windows were opened in the morning. Maybe the latch was broken, and they fixed it. Everything was normal except for the fragrance emanating from the pendant. I inspected it multiple times. It was impossible for the flat surface of the jewelry to hide a vial of essential oil. But its strong potency spread across the room, waking me up every time I tried to fall asleep. Only fear stopped me from opening the window. So, I accepted my fate for the night and kept my eyes glued to the ceiling the whole time. While wide awake, I realized the smell reminded me of the beginning of a storm when all the raised dust would mix with the humidity of the air. What could all this mean?

  There was no time to find answers as the driver’s loud announcement of the next bus station drew my attention back to my surroundings. Suddenly, a pandemonium ensued. Everyone had to get off the bus. The teens next to me pushed me to the side, and I fell on top of the chicken pen. The terrified chickens clucked fervently in response till a woman with a brown pixie haircut helped me get up and snatched the pen underneath me. When I finally sat in an open seat, I could observe the situation in relative safety, out of the locals and their livestock’s way. The moms and their toddlers were long gone. The flutter of wings and the rattling pen were almost out, but the ignorant girls refused to let them pass through first. They simply jumped out, skipping half the steps. Last was an elderly man who thanked the driver for the ride and told him to say hello to his wife. And then silence. Oh, how I enjoyed the silence. Only three people were left, but I assumed they preferred quietude as much as me. Shifting to the adjacent seat closer to the window, I clutched the bag close to my body. A thief of thieves couldn’t risk being robbed again. My newly formed thief pride wouldn’t let me. I would’ve rambled about new carrier paths longer, but the view took my breath away.

  Driving through Romania’s countryside, one could encounter lands of corn, flocks of sheep roaming against an uneven, undulating woodsy backdrop, and chains of mountains enveloped in fog connecting them to the sky. A panorama of mountains, rivers, and serpentine roads, all part of a massive Romanian natural patrimony and all in one trip. My mind could feast on such imagery forever. But the steep serpentine turns had a rocking effect lulling me to sleep and unexpectedly reminding me how tired I was. As the bus kept leaning gracefully from one side to another, I drifted off into a deep slumber. I dreamt of a castle, a mountain, and a princess from medieval times. Her beloved prince gifted her the four-leaf clover pendant, but slowly he turned into a demon with red eyes and fangs longer than his chin. What in the Dracula nightmare was this? It woke me up abruptly, right in time for the driver’s announcement of the final bus stop. I rushed to the exit, thanked the driver in Romanian, and got off.

  The GPS showed the walk from the bus station to the palace took around ten minutes. Happy I had the time to enjoy discovering the city, I strolled the streets of Târgoviște in a relaxed fashion. Târgoviște was smaller than Brașov, with more single-story houses. In a way, the distinction between Transylvanian and Wallachian history can be seen even today. Nevertheless, each had a charm of its own. For the most part, silence dominated the town on a weekday afternoon, with an occasional car passing by. So, I let myself enjoy the songs of the birds and the ruffle of leaves. Then I heard someone walking behind me. I turned around to see who it could be, but the streets were empty. However, the moment I walked again, the footsteps commenced. Nefarious thoughts began cluttering my brain about foreign kidnappings and human organs sold on black markets until I felt someone’s breath blowing at the nape of my neck. Scared beyond comprehension, I darted toward the palace ruins hoping to escape the threat I couldn’t see.

  Chapter 5

  The arched entrance of the Royal Palace of Târgoviște stood gloriously in front of me, but unfortunately, I couldn’t enjoy it to the fullest. I rushed to buy tickets at the booth. The lady, surprised by my frantic state, hurried to hand me one. After, I rushed to hide from the unidentified stalker behind the castle gates. I waited underneath the arch for several minutes to see if anyone would follow me inside. “After, I’ll probably get an Uber to drive me back to the bus station,” I thought. “But, for now, there’s no point in fretting over something I couldn’t even see. Let’s enjoy this part of the journey. You’ve waited to visit this place forever.” I dusted off my white maxi dress, drank some water from my favorite UW water bottle, and turned to witness the palace where my hero once ruled.

  The brick arch I stood underneath had a marble plaque attached. On it were the names of all the Wallachian rulers who lived on the premise. I found Vlad the Impaler’s name in the first line. He was one of the first and one of the bravest. I looked around and saw the patterns on the brick walls interlaced with cement reminding me of byzantine mosaics. Everything here was built with care. Once I entered, I realized the palace was only a part of a massive complex of buildings. Besides the main castle, which was in ruins, there was a church, a tower, and the servants’ quarters. And even though, over time, several rulers built additional parts to the palace, the foundation of the original buildings remained.

  I walked a few feet ahead, and an enormous church presented itself before my eyes. It glued my gaze to its multiple towers and narrow windows. Inside it were multiple paintings of prominent rulers of Wallachia. I couldn’t read their names as they were written in an old-style font, but their images of grandeur did not escape my appreciation. Then there was another element that drew my attention, the smell. The same fragrance I noticed when the windows were open. To my luck, I saw a tourist guide passing by. “Excuse me. There is a notable fragrance in the church. Would you happen to know what it is?” I asked in Romanian.

  “How interesting, you can still feel the smell even though this church hasn’t had a service in hundreds of years,” said the guide. “It’s frankincense, young lady. It’s usually burnt during church processions.”

  I thanked the guide, still a bit confused as to why frankincense persisted on the streets and through open windows, but I feared my questions would confuse him. Instead, I chose to focus on my visit.

  After I got out of the church, I took a turn toward the palace’s ruins. The path led me straight to whatever was left of the once magnificent castle: the vast cellar comprised of brick arches. One could grasp the opulence of the olden days only by their size of them. The brick walls were twice my height. I had to keep my head up to view the entire building. It imposed a contrast between the serene, blue sky above and the heavy history of the place. I walked down the massive stairs, partially covered by a transparent roof while several tourists came out of another room. I felt an inexplicable pull to go there. Its surrounding arches were more defined and spectacular. The closer I got to the walls of history, the more I noticed the dusty, stormy scent reminding me of the pendant. Could this place be connected to the jewel in some way? As my thoughts were preoccupied with its origins, my feet took me further and further away from other tourists to a more secluded corner of the cellar. It would’ve been entirely dark there if it weren’t for the natural light illuminating from above. After admiring the structure, I was ready to turn back when I noticed something twinkling between the bricks on the wall a few feet away from me.

  Curiosity took hold of me and brought me where a ray hit directly on what seemed like a precious stone. I tried to pry it open with my hands but to no avail. I took the army pocketknife my dad gifted me during a camping trip. I opened the knife and dug up the stone. It had a thick layer of dirt on it, making it hard to clean. A cloth I usually wiped my sunglasses with and some water did the trick. The stone turned from a brown color to a sparkling, oval-shaped, red gem with a golden streak running across its middle. It reminded me of a cat’s eye stone, but much larger. For a moment, I thought it had fluid inside because it changed its colors in the light. “Could this stone be part of some kind of ancient jewel? Wait a minute. What if I tried to insert it in the pendant I found earlier?”

  Given my previous experience, I glanced around for any prowling tourists. The coast was clear, so I took the pendant out of the bag. After failing to push it between the prongs, I took the handle of the pocketknife and pressed on the gem’s corners, each at a time, till all four prongs fit perfectly in the once empty place.

  “At last,” I exclaimed. I looked at the masterpiece from a distance. The pendant indeed sparkled just like a medieval queen’s jewelry. I took another look around. When I couldn’t see anyone, not even the museum staff, I put on the pendant. Once it dangled around my neck, an inexplicable need came upon me. I felt the need to recite an incantation. The Glinting Book was still in my bag. I took it out with trembling hands, suddenly aware of a certain atmospheric pressure surrounding me. It opened it at the place where one of the papers was ripped, so naturally, I read the following one:

  Magnus omnipotens stella cadens,

  Largire munus tuum super servum tuum

  Fata resignantur, mea numina celant

  Recludam librum temporis in quattuordecim centenis.

  After saying the words, nothing happened, proving that the Glinting Book was nothing more than a gimmick. The fun lasted while we were kids, but I had to put on my big girl pants and accept the truth. All this was nothing more than pretend play, and it should stay so. Disappointed, I placed the booklet and pocketknife back in my bag, then tried to take off the necklace before anyone saw me.

  Suddenly, everything turned dark. As if someone turned off the sky’s light. The walls around me began to shift. Massive gusts of wind began blowing in my face like I was free-falling, but nothing on my body moved except for my hair. As if invisible pages of a book made of strong currents blew through me, leaving me incapable of acting on whatever happened to me. The gusts’ speed increased with every turning page, taking my breath away. Then it would slow down for a bit, and afterward, it would commence again, repeating the cycle repeatedly in a rhythmical tempo. It was impossible to determine how long it lasted as my brain blurred after several minutes. When I least expected it, everything halted. I fell to my knees. Still unable to grasp what had just happened, I fell asleep.

  When I woke up, for the longest time, I couldn’t remember what had happened. The darkness in the room was so impenetrable I couldn’t even discern my limbs. I sat with my arms around my knees, trying to recollect myself from the stupor. Then I remembered my phone and noticed the strap of my bag still attached to my shoulder. I opened the bag, took my phone, and used its flashlight to shine through the premise. Though at first, my surroundings didn’t clue me on where I could be.

  I touched my face and noticed the pendant still attached to my neck. Fearing it could be risky to have something so expensive on me, I placed the pendant in the bag and used my phone’s flashlight to find my way out of the place. But nothing could have prepared me to see an enclosed cellar. From the ceiling, water trickled along its walls, assuring the perpetual dampness and mildew of the cellar, which, in this case, intertwined with the dusty smell I experienced in droves. “Did I lose consciousness and was brought here, away from the heat? Could it be a hospital of some sort?”

  I walked through the cellar using the beam of light as a guide until I stumbled upon a wall of wooden barrels. I went to investigate closer. I put my finger under the dripper and examined the liquid’s dark red color realizing it was wine. An unusual feature for a museum to keep wine in its cellar. I brought the drop to my lips. The tangy taste and floral scent reminded me of one of the best glasses of wine I had recently at the restaurant. I walked a few more steps trying to figure out a way out, but nothing pointed to stairs or another source of light, just brick arches. They were the exact same as the ones in the ruin but newer. Every additional opening in the wall revealed another set of barrels. I didn’t dare to check on those as I already felt like a trespasser in a different country. I wouldn’t want to risk and find out what the repercussions were and what fine awaited me for even being here in the first place. After walking a few more feet, I heard voices not far, but no light I could follow. I attempted to run toward the sounds when I tripped on something heavy. My phone fell a few feet away, with its light upward still providing enough light to move around. I rushed to get my phone and directed my flashlight to the object I tripped on. I saw a large chain spreading across the entire place. Morbid curiosity took my legs further to see what was tied to the

  chain. To my horror, I saw a skeleton in ripped clothes resting next to a wall. Some museums took it a step further, but this had to be a gruesome prank. What if a child was to run around here? The jolt of terror propelled me to escape the encounter, and to my dismay, I stumbled on the same chain again and fell. My bag and phone flew far in opposite directions. This time the flashlight turned down, plunging me into complete darkness. Another wave of sounds startled me. I turned toward its direction when I saw a tiny light shining from a flight of stairs.

  “Finally, I can get out of here. I don’t even know how I got here in the first place, but I definitely don’t want to stay longer,” I said.

  I climbed the stairs with a spring in my step. As I got to the upper side, I looked around, but the place didn’t resemble anything I’d visited. “Is there another fully renovated castle in town I didn’t know about? Because this one looks as close to a real palace as one might imagine?”

 

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