His screams broke through the tense air as he emerged into the cold 
room, 
gasping his first-and last-breath. The people, their faces first 
shining 
with delight, sank to sheer horror at the mere sight of him, all except 
for 
one; the beautiful face of a young woman. She held him close as he 
drank his 
first meal, trying to quench his dieing thirst. He listened with 
contempt as 
he heard loud voices screaming at one another. Being too young, he 
could not 
understand a word they were saying, he was clever enough, however, to 
tell 
by the pointing fingers that it was about him. A man continuously 
shouted 
and hit the kind woman repeatedly, screaming as tears streamed down her 
face. Suddenly, the man picked up a thick rod and stood menacingly over 
his 
crib, raising it over his head, when blood shot from behind his head as 
a 
bullet shot clear through it. A brilliantly red liquid splashed onto 
his 
face; oh, how sweet it tasted! The woman’s meals never satisfied him 
like 
this! He licked his cheeks with his long, purple tongue as he looked 
over 
the side of his crib, watching the woman grieve over the dead man.

	Orlock’s eyes shot open, drool silently dripping down the side of his 
cheek. “Ah, what a lovely memory,” he said to himself as he slid out of 
his 
casket. How long had it been since he last woke up he questioned as he 
gazed 
at the bright midnight sun. Orlock realized it had been too long since 
he 
had blood of any kind; it was time to feed. He smiled as he started to 
drool 
again. Once more, memories began to flood his mind. “This happens every 
time 
I dream of her…”

	Orlock giggled as he ran into the arms of his mother, snuggling close 
to 
her chest. They walked hand in hand into the cornfield, searching for 
what 
he would be feasting on tonight. They would always have to go at night 
of 
course; the sun only hurt Orlock’s skin. He gazed fiercely at the small 
village below, spiting all of the hideous brown people who slept in 
their 
ratty beds in their disgusting huts. They were never nice to him or 
Mother, 
even though she was one of them. Sure, her skin was almost as pale as 
his 
was, but she was not like him at all. They used to be wretched to her; 
well, 
at least until he made sure they knew better. The bodies hanging from 
their 
trees must have been convincing enough. 	Mother pointed towards the 
full 
moon, “Would you look at that, Orlock? The moon hasn’t been that bright 
since you were born…” A spear penetrated her heart before she could 
finish, 
cutting directly through the skin from her chest to her back. He held 
her up 
as best as he could as she plummeted to the ground. Orlock screamed 
bloody 
murder as the villagers who were supposed to be asleep emerged from the 
corn, pitchforks and torches in hand. He held tightly to his mother’s 
cold 
hand as tears gently dripped down his soft face, “Mother…mother, please 
get 
up, you must get up, or the villagers will get you!”
	She smiled painfully as she attempted to stroke his wet cheek. “I-it 
is too 
late for me, my son. You must go; you must go and live on for me. It is 
not 
your time to die.”
	Orlock sniffed, “It isn’t your time either, mother! You need to be 
with me, 
we need to be together forever.”
	She coughed up her sweet blood. “I was supposed to leave this earth 
long 
ago.” With those final words, her eyes stared into the full moon one 
last 
time, her last breath warming the cold midnight air.
	Orlock, held tightly onto her hand as the men and women came closer 
and 
closer. They started to charge, but stopped when his cold, heartless 
gaze 
froze them into their places. Not long after, Orlock dragged his 
mother’s 
body under their favorite tree, digging a nice, long hole underneath 
it. 
Before burying her, he dug out her eyes as a memorial; he never wanted 
to 
forget their piercing yet gentle gaze they still held. He stood at her 
grave 
for a moment longer, and then pulled the newly severed heads of some of 
his 
fellow townsfolk by the hair, licking his fingers as he disappeared in 
the 
cornfield.

	A demon appeared beside him, disturbing his thoughts. Orlock placed 
his 
hand on its small black head, rubbing back and forth. As he continued 
thinking about Mother’s death, however, he pressed harder ad harder 
until - 
“Oh dear, his head ripped off.” He laughed as its dark green blood 
poured 
from its eye sockets and neck. “Their blood is much too bitter,” he 
thought, 
tossing the remains to the stray sirelings chained in the back of his 
room. 
Those distant memories reminded him of yet another one long forgotten. 
He 
reached into a dark, morbid chest at the corner of the room, and pulled 
out 
a gold-trimmed red box. When he opened it, a long ruined ballerina spun 
with 
the broken music behind a small tarnished skull. He carefully pulled it 
out 
of its display, long chestnut hair billowing from the small box. He 
cradled 
it carefully as he gazed into its empty eyes.

	She was always such a spunky girl, and she was more than happy to 
become 
his sireling. It almost seemed like she was the one stalking him. Alice 
might have been much, much younger than he was, but it did not matter; 
she 
was perfect. She would constantly toss back her flowing locks as she 
sliced 
someone’s head off, those eyes of hers reminding him of his 
long-decroded 
memorial. It was delightful, her eyes would pierce his very heart as 
she 
moaned in his arms; she didn’t even mind when he would slice arms to 
taste 
her candy-sweet blood. Funny how her fate ended much like mothers, he 
even 
had more toys to play with in the dungeon. He only wished he had more 
time 
to spend with her…

	Orlock carefully set Alice’s skull back into her velvet box, wiping 
the 
demon’s blood off of her cheek bone. Sliding the section of the wall 
back 
into place, he stood in the large window by his casket, the same place 
he 
stood every single night. Suddenly, through his peripheral vision, he 
laughed at his favorite play toy: Jack Price. Jack was running around 
with 
that new vampire, Jill. He started to salivate at the thought of her. 
How 
ironic that silly little Jack had led him to two more of mother’s sharp 
eyes. He glower as their faces turned towards his mighty castle, 
Orlock’s 
laughter of anticipation filling the cold, windy night….