“My dear child,” he began again, “was deteriorating rapidly. Despite the efforts of her attending physician, her condition worsened without any improvement. Seeing my concern, the doctor suggested consulting a more experienced colleague from Shultz. It took several days for this new physician to arrive, during which time my anxiety grew.

When the two doctors finally met my daughter, they retreated to my library for a discussion. From where I waited anxiously in the adjacent room, I could hear their voices escalating into a heated debate. Curious and worried, I knocked and entered to find them at odds, one defending his theory passionately while the other resorted to mockery and laughter. Their disagreement simmered down as I intervened.

“My esteemed colleague here,” the first physician said, “seems to believe we need a magician, not a doctor.”

“My apologies,” the Shultz physician replied with a hint of displeasure, “I will present my findings in a more appropriate manner later. Unfortunately, Monsieur le General, my expertise offers no solution in this case. However, before I depart, I have a suggestion to offer.”

He then sat down to write, leaving me deeply disappointed and confused. As I prepared to leave, the other doctor gestured towards his colleague, implying doubt about his mental state.

This consultation left me no wiser. I wandered outside, overwhelmed by despair. Soon after, the doctor from Shultz caught up with me, expressing his reluctance to leave without sharing further insights. He painted a grim picture, explaining that my daughter’s condition, resembling no known illness, was nearing its fatal end. There might be a slim chance of recovery if we acted swiftly and skillfully, but time was slipping away.

“What kind of illness are you referring to?” I implored.

“I’ve detailed everything in this note,” he replied, handing me a sealed letter. “But before you read it, promise me to summon a clergyman and open it only in his presence. It’s a matter of life and death. If the clergyman is unavailable, then you may read it.”

Before departing, he also recommended inviting an expert on the subject mentioned in his letter. With a heavy heart, I waited for the clergyman, but he was delayed. Left with no choice, I opened the letter alone. Under different circumstances, I might have dismissed its contents as absurd, but desperate times call for desperate measures, especially when a loved one’s life hangs in the balance.”

It was beyond belief to think of confining him to a psychiatric facility over such claims. He insisted that the patient was tormented by a vampire! According to him, the marks near her throat were the result of fangs unique to vampires, and the distinct livid spot left by the creature’s lips was unmistakable. Every symptom matched the recorded accounts of similar supernatural encounters.

Personally, I was highly skeptical about vampires or any such supernatural beings. The doctor’s supernatural diagnosis seemed like an educated mind tainted by a singular obsession. Despite my doubts, I felt so desperate that I decided to follow the instructions in the letter.

I hid in the dimly lit dressing room adjacent to the patient’s room, armed with my sword as instructed. Peering through a crack in the door, I waited until she fell asleep. Around one in the morning, I witnessed a dark shape creeping over the foot of her bed, swiftly enveloping her throat. Without hesitation, I lunged forward with my sword, only to see the dark mass retract and morph into Maribelle standing near the door, unharmed.

Shocked and bewildered, I swung my sword again, but she vanished, leaving me with shattered disbelief and a ruined blade against the door.

The night was a nightmare I struggle to put into words. Chaos gripped the house as we realized Maribelle had vanished into thin air, leaving behind a fading victim whose life ebbed away before the break of day.

The old General, clearly shaken, found solace in a quiet corner. My father, seeking distraction, wandered amidst the tombstones, absorbed in deciphering the faded inscriptions. His curiosity led him to a side chapel, delving deeper into his exploration.

Meanwhile, I stood near the General, watching his silent sorrow, when the comforting sounds of Victoria and Madame reached us. Their approach eased the tense atmosphere momentarily before fading into the distant background noise.

Alone in that eerie setting, with the weight of the chilling tale still fresh in my mind, surrounded by ancient monuments and nature’s imposing silence, a sense of dread crept over me. The shadows seemed to deepen, amplifying the ominous aura that enveloped us.

The General’s gaze remained fixed on the ground, lost in his thoughts, while my eyes caught sight of Victoria’s graceful entrance through a narrow, arching doorway adorned with grotesque carvings typical of Gothic art. Relief washed over me at the sight of her familiar face.

As I prepared to greet her, a sudden cry shattered the moment. The old man beside me seized a woodman’s hatchet and lunged forward. Victoria’s expression twisted into something monstrous at the sight of him. In a flash, she evaded his strike, effortlessly overpowering him with a swift and unexpected move. The hatchet fell to the ground as she vanished into the shadows, leaving us stunned and bewildered by the surreal turn of events.

The old General’s world seemed to crumble around him. His once-steady demeanor shattered as he leaned heavily against the wall, his hair disheveled, and a sheen of sweat betraying his inner turmoil.

The shock of the moment lingered as Madame, visibly distressed, pressed for answers. Her repeated question echoed in the tense air, demanding to know the whereabouts of Mademoiselle Victoria.

Struggling to collect my thoughts amidst the chaos, I finally managed to reply, “I don’t know. She was here just a moment ago, but now... she’s gone.” My gesture towards the door she had entered through conveyed my uncertainty.

Madame’s confusion only deepened as she explained, “I’ve been right here, watching the passage. She never returned.”

Frantic calls for Victoria echoed through the halls, but silence greeted us in return, amplifying the sense of unease that gripped us all.

“That was her name? Victoria?” the General’s voice quivered with a mix of fear and realization.

“Yes, Victoria,” I confirmed.

The General’s next words carried a weight of dread, “Maribelle. That’s who you saw. She was once known as Sienna, Countess Rosewood. Leave this place immediately. Go to the clergyman’s house and stay there until we arrive. Hurry! Victoria is no more here; you won’t find her.”