On a grey and dreary October night,
Begun this tale of woe and fright,
In a quaint house of the English countryside,
The residence of the unfortunate Miss Sloane Clyde.

The winds outside howled and growled,
While the silver pines made an eerie sound,
The snow had covered the grass as far as one could see,
A shroud of grey mist like a spectre hung beneath each tree.

From a window nearest to the tallest pine,
Emanated a ray of light crooked like a spine,
Made by a hearth burning inside,
Illuminating a black-clad Sloane, reading by the window side.

The clock upon the wall read it was twelve in the night,
Proclaiming the beginning of Halloween, the day of all things devoid of light,
Looking at it made Sloane sigh,
This day would surely make her cry.

Seven months ago in April,
Abraham Stoker had passed away, leaving his admirers unstable,
Sloane Clyde being one of them,
Had felt this to be a curse, as if fate had condemned them.

Thus upon that night to pay a tribute,
To the illustrious man who had distribute,
The musings of his mind amongst the masses,
She was rereading Dracula, the best of all his works, popular amongst all classes.

Although it was a quite late hour,
The masterful thrill of the book didn't fail to allure,
Keeping Sloane wide awake,
Making her read on and on without a break.

Little did she realise that,
How soon had the time passed,
On the last page of the book she was,
When the knock on the door was heard, a barely audible tong.

With a questioning frown, Sloane rose,
To the door, she went walking on her toes,
Fear and anxiety made her heart thunder,
As she clutched the doorknob in great wonder.

And what a sight greeted her eyes,
For a translucent being in form of a man,
Stood upon her doorpost,
Who was none other than Stoker's ghost!

"I see that you have evoked me," proclaimed Stoker, entering the house and pointing at the abandoned book,
"I believe you know what this means," he said, giving her a stern look.

"Nay, sir," fumbled Sloane, closing the door behind,
"I had been just reading," she defined.

"Young lady, you know not of many things that go on in this wide world," said the apparition,
"How could you think that writing such a thing had come without a condition?"

"For I had moulded a man into something he isn't," explained Stoker, looking at Sloane's confusion,
"Condemned was I to face eternal torment after death lest I find another to pass on the curse."

"And where in this do I play a role?" Questioned Sloane, a bit distressed,
"What should I do now?" She professed.

"Upon the first hour of Halloween," begun Stoker with a grimace,
"Whosoever shall read this tale would have to die at my hands," he said, the  pupils turning a malicious red.

In a flick of an eye,
His attire changed into the blackest dye,
Whilst his face turned paler with every second,
He was turning into the vicious Count he had made, a fearful Sloane reckoned.

He pounced on her with a guttural roar,
Her wails suppressed by the air,
And on the following morning when the villagers came,
All they found were her bloodied remains.

~•~