It took a hero.
That was the thing outsiders never understood. That, and how the dead would rise from their graves to feed upon their relatives. This was true thing. It was only a matter of time before his brother-in-law’s animated corpse fed upon his children again.
Gheorghe tipped the bottle and took another deep pull of the ţuică. He looked up at the Moon. It would take courage to see his dead uncle’s face, to drive the sickle into his heart, to burn his corpse and make the tea from his rotting Heart. He swayed against his shovel at the thought and took another swill.
When he woke up, the moon was replaced by the amber skies of dawn. He slapped a hand to his neck, feeling for a wound. Had the dead been at him? He sat up, annoyed with himself. He had to do this. Perhaps tomorrow.
I apologize for my absence as of late. I’ve been battling insomnia. But, I got nine hours last night and feel like a new person. Or at least like an old person who has gotten nine hours of sleep.
This story was inspired by this well-written and worth-reading piece: Romanian villagers decry police investigation into vampire slaying. If you read it, you’ll see my story isn’t fiction at all.
After reading it, I plopped my Pegman down on the map in the general location described by the article and was stunned to find myself right in front of a freshly dug pit. There are more up and down the length of this street. I’m sure there’s an explanation…right?