Written by Michael F. Havelin – The white delivery van screeched to a halt in the circular driveway in front of the big stone house. Gravel shotgunned from under the van’s tires. It was the final stop on his route. Randy, the dry-cleaner’s 28-year old delivery boy, slid the van’s side panel open, riffled through the bagged clothes hanging inside, chose several items, and headed for the house.

Randy had been to the house before for after-hours pick-ups and deliveries. The place always gave him the willies. It was like Halloween here all through the year what with dark towers looming beyond the steep roof’s odd angles, the lack of a courtesy light by the door. The night’s sliver of moon didn’t relieve the gloom. He had never seen a lighted window here. What did they do in there anyway?

And there was no doorbell. Instead, a rusty chain hung just out of reach. Randy gave a short unenthusiastic leap to grab it, then let gravity do the work of ringing the soundless bell somewhere in the depths of the building.

After a long moment, the summons was answered in the clank and click of latches and bolts being thrown open. He counted them: one, two, three… After six, the door inched open with a creak. A darker shadow materialized in the already dark entranceway.

“Hi. I’m from Squeaky Cleaners. Are you the butler? I’ve got your suits. That’ll be $55.30,  check or cash.”

“I am not the butler,” said the shadow. No hello, no thanks, no civility. Just a European accent dry as a shed snakeskin. “I am the master of the house. They are tuxedos, not suits. Put them on my bill.”

“There’s a note attached.” Randy fingered the 3×5 slip of yellow paper stapled to a plastic garment bag’s shoulder. He twisted around to read it in the weak moonlight and the van’s headlights. It tore loose from the staple. The evening breeze flapped it in his hand like a wounded butterfly. “Do you want me to read it?”

There was no answer from the sepulchral figure standing in the cave-like doorway, its arm extended rigidly to retrieve the freshly cleaned tuxedos and stiffly starched dress shirts.

Randy shuffled his feet. He preferred to be hollered at and know what was wrong rather than being studied silently. He plowed on, arranging his body to allow for more light from the van.

“It says, ‘Sorry, but we couldn’t get the stains out of your shirt.’ They didn’t charge you for that one.”

“It’s a simple stain,” said the voice from the darkness. “Blood.”

“Oh,” Randy said, not knowing what else to say. “Rough party, eh?” He tried to chuckle, but the sound died in his throat.

“There was no party. It was a dinner engagement.” The voice again, like scratching sandpaper to Randy’s ears.

The shadowy figure’s hand reached out and took the hangers, brushing Randy’s hand as it did so, white in the darkness and cold to the touch. Randy shivered. He couldn’t help himself.

“I have more soiled clothes. Wait here.”

Hangered and bagged clothes held out at arm’s length, the shadow turned and melted into the interior darkness. The door remained open, but it was impossible to make out anything inside, the furnishings, the size of the room beyond.

Randy felt a sudden chill inside himself despite the summer evening. Something strange was here that went well beyond the scope of his delivery job. He doubted he’d get a tip from this character. Obviously a foreigner, he probably didn’t understand American customs.

The shadow reappeared in the doorway with a bulging black sack.

“Your work is incomplete. Where is my cape?”

Randy gulped. “Oh, sorry. I forgot. I’ll get it for you.” He turned and scurried back to the van, rummaged around, then reluctantly returned to the house holding another flowing plastic garment bag. It tangled in his legs and tumbled him to the gravel driveway. He stood again, his scratched palms dripping blood onto the bag, regained his balance if not his composure, and approached the darkened doorway.

“There was a problem with this, too. It was damaged a bit. It’s very fragile.”

“Yes,” said the shade. “It has been passed down through my family for a long time. Many, many years.”

“Well, you might go shopping for a new one. This one isn’t going to last through many more cleanings. I’ll bet you can find a nice one on eBay. Any color you want, too.”

“You don’t understand. This cape has been a tradition in my family for generations. It is important to my personal identity.”

The shade was correct; Randy didn’t understand. “You’re right. I don’t get it. But that’s okay with me. Whatever you think best.” He held the blood-spotted garment bag out to his customer.

“If you care to come in for some refreshment, a drink perhaps, I can explain my situation in great detail. I could tell you the history of my family.”

Randy checked his watch. “Well, this is my last stop.” His curiosity was greater than his sense of caution. “Sure. But just for a few minutes.”

“Welcome to my home,” Dracula said with a slow flourish of his tuxedoed arm. “If you’ll follow me.” He turned and disappeared into the gloom.

Randy stepped over the threshold.

Michael has been a writer all his life. He has authored two how-to photography books, eight “mysterical adventures,” a book on how to write believable mysteries (Mystery Mastery), and published two national magazines. He has worked as a musician, photographer, dive master, attorney, layout artist, editor and magazine publisher. Michael is an active member of Mensa, and has run WNCMysterians.org (Asheville’s mystery writers’ critique group) since 2009.