Hotel Transylvania

Shamir Malik, 2T4 PB

Warning: Not the Kids Movie

It was a dark and stormy night. Tree branches lurched in response to the harsh wind that blew throughout the land. A jet-black hearse navigated the landscape with an intuitive ease, and barrelled towards the towering silhouette of the distant castle. Only death lay ahead. 

At least, that was how it was supposed to be. Much to Vlad’s disappointment, the weather and labor in Transylvania could be so unreliable.

Vladimir the III, grandson of Vladislav the Impaler and heir to a long dynasty of vampiric overlords, had always been a difficult child. Unlike his father and grandfather, Vlad was not born with any of the insidious gifts and abilities most vampires possess. He could not control bats, let alone turn into one. His grasp of telekinesis and mind control was amateur at best. And perhaps most problematic was his inability to stand the sight or smell of blood. He also went by Vlad­—he thought that Vladimir the III was a bit pretentious and that the nickname made him more approachable. 

Unfortunately for Vlad, much of the Transylvanian economy was dependent on its vast stores of blood. The country was known to many as the world’s blood bank, an international leader in transfusion technology and research. A vampire’s bite, while deadly, was admittedly quite efficient. Blood was also a form of currency for Transylvania’s elite. The ghoul lords and skeleton kings that occupied the nation’s crypts had yet to learn about credit or debit. 

Vlad, who was petrified of human blood, knew at an early age that he was hopelessly unqualified to manage Transylvania’s ever-expanding blood industry. He was a true millennial in all senses of the word. He was a thousand years old, disdained his parents’ work ethic and loved avocado toast.

Instead, Vlad decided to try his hand at hotel management. 

Seeing the popularity of supernatural horror movies and shows, he figured his ancestral home was a gold mine. All he needed was a few good Yelp reviews. But the weather was clearly not doing him any favors. 

“The sky is blue! Have you ever seen a horror movie with crystal clear skies and white cotton-puff clouds? What are we, Disneyland?” Vlad continued his rant, undeterred by Caligula’s obvious indifference. 

“My name is Caligula. And I was busy last night,” she spoke, eyes fixed on the iPhone in front of her. 

Vlad’s younger sister, Caligula, was a vampire of unparalleled strength. Unfortunately for the royal house of Transylvania, she was only two hundred years old—far too young to become monarch. Vlad accepted that eventually his sister would replace him. Gender equality came naturally to Transylvanian royalty. Men and women tasted the same, after all.  

“Cali, enough! Our great uncle, whose name you inherited, is famed for his brutality. I can assure you that his achievements have little to do with Candy Crush!” scolded Vlad. 

“Whatever, I have a streak going. Shouldn’t you be at check-in? Your reviewer has arrived,” Caligula stated, retreating into the shadows of her room. 

Vlad’s face paled immediately—an impressive feat considering a vampire’s naturally pallid complexion. 

“I’ll be bac—wrong franchise!” Vlad swore under his breath, eager to meet his new guests. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Fudge’s taxi ride from the airport was nothing like advertised. The driver talked incessantly about his family and how excited he was about his upcoming vacation to Cancun. Mr. Fudge didn’t care for the driver’s life story. Mr. Fudge was a connoisseur of finer experiences. He had paid to be scared. 

He frowned at the large wooden door now ahead of him, unappreciative of its millennia-old embroidery. 

“Come to Transylvania for the scare of your life,” he thought to himself, confident that he had been scammed.

As if on cue, the door swung open. Mr. Fudge stared into the darkness within and saw nothing. The door appeared to be moving on its own, its slow but consistent creaking echoing off the castle walls. Mr. Fudge wandered the halls of the castle. Growing impatient, Mr. Fudge barely noticed an entity lurking in the shadows. A pale white hand, with nails as sharp as claws, extended from the shadows towards Mr. Fudge’s neck. 

“Welcome to Transylvania. My name is Craig. May I take your coat?” the entity spoke, its voice cracking every other syllable. 

Mr. Fudge turned around sharply. The boy in front of him was unimpressive. Mr. Fudge barely made out his face through the darkness but estimated at least five pimples. He had been scared by a pubescent teenager. 

“Craig! I told you to use the accent! People like the accent!” Vlad chided his nephew.

 “Ah yes—Velcome to Transylvvvania. May I take your coat?” Craig repeated to Mr. Fudge, lowering his voice an octave and adopting a thick Slavic accent. 

“Better!” Vlad encouraged.

Mr. Fudge was confused by the man he saw in front of him. He was truly terrifying—he was over seven feet tall, his blood-shot eyes gleaming in the dark. And yet, his voice was welcoming and polite. 

“Sir, I must inform you that your costume department is quite lacking. What are you supposed to be exactly? A freakishly tall zombie?” Mr. Fudge asked. Mr. Fudge, like most of humanity, did not believe in the existence of the undead. 

“No, Mr. Fudge. I am a vampire. Do you know of any zombie with a fashion-sense like mine? I bought these off Amazon recently.” Vlad answered, showing off his red silk cape and infinity scarf.  In Vlad’s defense, he had answered honestly—zombies cared very little for their physical appearance. 

“A vampire! Prove it then!” Mr. Fudge exclaimed, pulling a worn copy of Twilight out from his bag. “Vampires sparkle in the sunlight!” he continued, shoving the book in Vlad’s face, standing proudly. 

Vlad’s welcoming smile quickly faded. Mr. Fudge, much to Vlad’s disappointment, was a fan of the Twilight series. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Fudge.” Vlad turned, leaving Mr. Fudge to his inevitable demise.