🚶   Whistling a merry tune Ian set out for the village square, and the weekly market...

The square was just a short fifteen minutes walk away - an invigorating fifteen minutes walk. And though Ian had got himself a bicycle soon after moving to the village -- to ride the dappled trails through woodlands, bike over rolling hills and vales, explore the countryside and nearby villages -- within Brasnov he preferred to walk.

[For after the first three days of unrestrained gorging and guzzling of scrumptious local fare, Ian had realized he needed to burn the extra calories!]

And this would be his second visit to the weekly market... and his last since he'd be leaving soon, right after the Harvest Moon.

He had missed the first market day lost in the heady scent of old paper and parchment bound in leather... buried under the fascinating tomes in the Count's library... immersed in an ancient journal that he had quite accidentally chanced upon hidden in a secret compartment behind a false panel of the ornate bookcase.

🍁 It was a beautiful early September morning, autumn just setting in... the landscape stunning with a fascinating mix of vibrant fall colors -- the whole breathtaking palette -- the shrubs still green, the trees displaying varied hues of pale to dark, glossy greens, with scintillating shades of yellow, interspersed with orange and flaming red!

The weather perfectly pleasant too - the sun mellow, yet comfortingly warm, the air just about nippy, and the night sky pristine and star studded.

It was a sheer joy to be outside at any time of the day - walking the paths and strolling the groves, or simply loitering about the farmlands, breathing in the fresh, crisp mountain air.

Though his hosts - old Andrei and Elena - had repeatedly warned him against venturing out after sundown, especially with the full moon just round the corner, crossing themselves as they murmured a silent prayer.

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✠ The saga of the Count's library, and his passion with witchcraft and occult, mysteries, myths and legends, had begun with the terrifying story of a secret diary - the private journal of his distant ancestor Viktor, the First Count of Brasnov!

A dreaded family possession, the old leather-bound journal, that no one had set eyes upon, recounted the riveting tale of Viktor's encounter with the dreadful Gévaudan Beast...

Youngest son of Jonas, Edler von Fucking, Viktor, then a young lad of eighteen, was visiting Vienna in the summer of 1764 when the news of the fearsome 'Beast of Gévaudan' broke... *

The ravening beast, a loup-garou (werewolf) by all accounts, had unleashed death and devastation in the remote and isolated south-central corner of France, brutally hunting down his lonesome victims at will, and without fear!

The reportage was absorbing, and the details grisly, making it perhaps history's first ever media sensation... and like the rest of the populace across Europe, the young Viktor too was transfixed, closely following the news.

And as the death toll mounted, he read about the local nobility and officialdom's failed efforts at extirpating the scourge that haunted the quiet countryside. He also read about the King of France, Louis XV, announce a reward, and later appoint Capt. Jean Baptiste Duhamel, an officer with Clermont Prince Dragoons to head the team set up to hunt down the horrendous beast...

By early 1765 over 1,200 wolves had been slaughtered, but the Beast still eluded everyone, and after months of futile effort, the Captain returned home in defeat...

Louis XV then appointed François Antoine in June 1765 to lead a new team, and in September that year he shot and killed an enormous wolf, proudly proclaiming that he'd killed the Beast!

The attacks stopped, or so it seemed, and there was celebration all around... then, after a two-month lull, it began anew!

The King refused to acknowledge these killings, regally adamant that Antoine had ALREADY killed the Beast. So, finally in early 1767, a local aristocrat, the Marquis d'Apcher, organized another hunt for the REAL Beast...

It was then that Viktor, the lad from Fucking, decided on leaving Vienna and going to France... to Gévaudan, to where all the action was. Be part of the Marquis' renewed effort at bagging the Beast!

On June 19, 1767 a small team of hunters led by a local farmer named Jean Chastel, that included the Fucking youth, set out in pursuit of the Beast and successfully tracked it down...

Cornered, the horrifying Beast -- a canid of unimaginable size and ferocity -- reared high, baring his fearsome fangs and let out terrifying growls as he gnashed his teeth...

Two shots rang out instantly -- the farmer's, and the future noble's -- and the Beast lay dead, his evil heart pierced by Viktor's silver bullet!

The autopsy conclusively proved it to be the 'Beast of Gévaudan' after human remains were found in its stomach, and people finally let out a collective sigh of relief.

But the French monarch refused to acknowledge, or even appreciate, the Marquis' and the team's efforts.

Viktor returned to Vienna, a city that was already joyous, celebrating the miraculous recovery of their beloved Empress... and the lad from Fucking was swept up in the mood of exaltation, heartily welcomed... becoming the toast of Vienna society! *

Even the Royal Court took heed of the young Fuckinger's, son of an Edler, brave deed, and he was ennobled as the First Count of Brasnov by the Emperor himself!

Back home, in his village, the Fuckingers gave him a hero's welcome... and then he set out for Transylvania, to his fief - Brasnov!

Over the course of the three years of its reign of terror, the many attacks, the over 500 kills, with almost a 100 of those victims being partly devoured, Viktor had kept detailed and meticulous notes in his diary...

About each attack and every kill. About the bravery of the ten-year-old Jacques Portefaix, and Marie-Jeanne Valet, the famed 'Maid of Gévaudan'. About the failed attempts of earlier hunters and the King's men - Duhamel and Antoine. About his own participation in the hunt... and especially about that final day when he shot the infernal Beast!

But what he didn't note in his journal was the loup-garou's curse - the Curse of the Beast of Gévaudan.

As the animal reared, growling at the intruders, the farmer, Jean Chastel, taken affright, fired... but the bullet harmlessly grazed the Beast's right shoulder... while Viktor, with nerves of steel, aimed for the heart, saying a fervent prayer as he fired his special, hand-crafted silver bullet made with Virgin Mary's medallions... and it pierced the heart, slaying the animal as it fell dead at their feet!

But in his last dying moments the Beast had looked at Viktor, their gaze locking... and the lad from Fucking could swear that the animal 'spoke' to him - the message clear, and terrifying!

'The youngest male offspring in every generation of your line,' the eyes said before the light of life faded, 'will each turn in his 13th year, and unleash mayhem around your family home during his natural life. Killing and devouring your serfs, and turning anyone who shall read from your journal.'

And then added with his last gasp, 'As long as the dairy remain, so long shall your line exist. Destroy the diary, and you extinguish your line!'

He told no one, mentioned nothing... and then, years later, on the night of his youngest son's 13th birthday, he saw the boy turn...

Viktor locked away his journal, and no member of his family ever got to see or read it. But the terrible secret became a family legend, recounted in hushed tones, and passed down the generations.

Each last born son abandoned in a faraway abbey, or monastery soon after his birth.

But no matter how far away the abbey, no matter how remote the monastery, and no matter how arduous the journey... once the child grew up to be thirteen, he turned... the forsaken scion then finding his way back to Brasnov, returning to haunt the homestead of Viktor and his descendants.

The surroundings of Brasnov infested with fearsome wolves ever since, wolves that the locals claim are not mere wolves, but monsters!

The countryside abounding with shocking tales, and strange rumors making the rounds - about terrifying secrets and family curses...

The whispered accounts reinforced by unusual happenings and extraordinary events that no one could explain. By frightful sightings that scared the simple folks, sending them scurrying indoors at sundown!

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🏫 The village square, a cobble-stoned plaza surrounded by pastel-hued, orange-tiled old buildings -- the village school, the community hall, the historic offices of the local council and 'primarul', a few houses of wealthy villagers, an ancient barn for storing grain converted into a mini-mart (the only permanent store selling the most basic of household and food items), and the village's only bakery...

The village well stood in the center of the open space -- rustic stone and wooden beam, red-tiled octagonal roof with the traditional rope and pulley contraption -- still supplying fresh, clean water...

And the fortified church just beyond, its solemn gray towers soaring high, stern as they loomed over everything in sight - the historic presbytery, the dwellings of the parish preacher and the school teacher lining the narrow pathway leading to it...

By the time Ian arrived the whole area was already alive with crowds, carts and crates -- farmers and traders, merchants and journeymen... local and visiting... barrel makers from distant parts with their famed, hand-crafted casks so essential for brewing.

All busy setting up shop under colorful awnings: farm tools and implements, fresh farm produce, meat cuts, and cheese of various kinds... cereals, syrups, jams, and honey... home wares and clothes... traditional trinkets and assorted souvenirs...

A whole lot of ware, and some very colorful and interesting people!

It seemed like a country fare, a picnic for the villagers -- a day out with the whole family, a day of fun and frolic with some shopping thrown in.

Friends and acquaintances, neighbors and strangers, shoppers and sellers -- all cheery and smiling as they greeted and welcomed, met up and inquired... examined and appraised, bargained and haggled...

The men quaffing fiery palincă with a boisterous 'Noroc!', their glasses raised high... the women animated as they chattered and gossiped!

The children happily running all over the plaza, noisy as they played amongst the carts and crates... the quacks and clucks... not a care in the world, joyous!

Ian walking around, camera in hand... observing and noting... chatting up with a few more familiar faces... clicking whatever caught his fancy - a person, a loaded cart, a colorful stall, or just some random object - recording the vibrant scene for posterity.

And yes, eyeing Cristian as the teen helped out his grandfather Mihai at his stall... clicking sly pictures of the sweet boy!

🎪   It was late afternoon, with distant traders already packed and ready to depart, when Ian felt a weird sensation along the nape of his neck, a powerful tingling.

'Was it an insect, some nasty little crawly come out of one of the crates?' he wondered as he reached up to brush away whatever it was... his fingers touching skin, but no bug.

And yet, the tingling just seemed to grow in intensity, the hair on his neck bristling... and there was that sudden, uncanny sense of being observed... not just being watched, but closely observed!

He had had that feeling all afternoon -- an odd, unnerving sense of being followed, being stalked -- as he sat eating his lunch, and later, while walking around the plaza, his sights set on Cristian, clicking more pictures.

Yet, whenever he turned around, or looked behind, he could spot no one, see nothing unusual... just the milling crowd, and the children screaming gleefully as they tore around the plaza.

In fact, come to think of it, he had had that uneasy sense of being watched ever since his third visit to the University... after his meeting with Prof. Cezar Săbău when he became aware of that weird feeling...

Or, was it the next evening, after his interview with Ananias Kobzari?

🧙 Ananias Kobzari, over 90, was a wizen old man steeped in the ancient knowledge of his people -- their history and legends, their superstitions and taboos -- his grandson Onas acting as interpreter.

Ananias had audibly gasped the moment Ian entered the tiny, poorly lit room, darker behind the heavy drapes... cluttered with plush couches, ornate cabinets, wooden trunks and heavy chests of drawers...

"You seek the secrets of darkness," the man had stated as Ian took his seat, "you seek to interpret the unknown..." suddenly pausing, taking a deep breath, before continuing, eyes closed, swaying gently.

"This is a very ancient land, with many hidden secrets, secrets that are best left undisturbed... such quests only attracts unwanted and grievous attention to yourself... draws out the malefic, awaken and unleash sinister forces."

"I do not seek to disturb, or upset anyone, nor unlock any secret," Ian had interrupted, almost smirking in the darkness, "I just have a few questions."

Ian was fascinated by the subject, had always been, spellbound by the stories. But to him they were just that - stories!

Good read, no doubt; entertaining, for sure; but still fiction - the fanciful flight of fantasy, the demented drivel of a dark and ignorant society rife with silly notions and stupid superstitions. And he didn't believe in any of those fantastical tales!

After all Ian was a rational man, given to logic and reason.

He was genuinely curious to know more, learn and understand... but he didn't believe in any of those mumbo-jumbo and insane crap.

The old man opened his eyes and looked at Ian, nodding while Onas translated.

"You doubt..." he finally gave a wan smile, then added after a brief pause, "Ask."

It was almost 45 minutes when Ian thanked the old man and switched off the recorder, standing up to leave.

"You have already intrigued, and kindled interest... dark shadows hover around you," the man said looking up at him.

Ian almost laughed out, sure that the old man would reach into some drawer, or an old box, and pull out an amulet or a beaded cord, offer it to him as protection against evil, and then demand a fee!

"And if you decide to remain here for long," the man continued after a short pause, "beware of the Harvest Moon."

This time Ian couldn't control it, giving a wide grin as he looked down at the old man...

What are mysteries, folklore and legends without dark, thundery nights, lonely woods and full moons casting pale glow over eerie landscapes? They are such an integral part of all folktales and horror stories!

Ian desperately wanted to experience it first hand, spend a full moon night in some remote, spooky corner of Transylvania, in the shadows of the Carpathians!

And lucky him, the way things panned out, his trip happening during August-September with a full moon set for early September - the Harvest Moon no less - Ian was thrilled, planning the details accordingly.

Now this old fool was asking him to avoid full-moons, hah!

"Be very careful of young strangers..." the old man called out as Ian was leaving - offering nothing, and demanding no fee either, "Stay alert, be safe."

🧿   That weird feeling, of being shadowed, had remained... only increasing once he reached the village.

Becoming a powerful sense of foreboding, especially after reading Viktor's journal... blissfully unaware of the family's curse, or the frightful fate to befall all readers of said dairy that the First Count of Brasnov had failed to include in his writings!

And as Ian looked around, his hand still rubbing the nape of his tingling neck, he finally spotted the pair of sharp eyes looking at him...

There was nothing furtive, nothing surreptitious about the gaze... it was an open, direct stare.

Intense and piercing.

Not just looking at him, but seeming to peer in... right within his very soul. Communicating with his very being!

It left Ian unnerved and reeling, arousing a whole series of utterly strange emotions. Setting peculiar thoughts and weird feelings swell and surge through his mind and body... making his heart pound as his pulse raced!

The man - or, was it a boy? - was a stranger, Ian had never seen him before, and yet, seemed oddly familiar, like Ian had met him... had known him.

But no amount of brain-racking produced a single clue as to where or when... Ian simply unable to place the guy.

Youngish, probably in his late teens, the youth was powerfully built, yet lithe and limber... strikingly handsome, with a mane of glossy black hair slicked back. The gait sinuous and graceful, almost fluid, as he walked along the opposite edge of the piazza, his eyes fixed on Ian - unwavering - like a predator stalking his prey!

Even from across the square the most distinctive feature were those mesmerizing eyes -- almond shaped, and gently slanted... the iris, even from that distance, a weird shade of pale greenish-yellow, iridescent... seeming to glow in the shadows.

Ensnared by the bewitching glance, Ian went on staring back, his steps faltering... the colorful sights suddenly forgotten, even Cristian forgotten!

And suddenly the eyes were gone - Ian lost sight of the stranger, the youth seeming to simply disappear into the late afternoon rush of the departing crowd!

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🪟   Ian stood at the window of his upper floor bedroom, looking out...

The manor house stood beyond the village, at the foot of the rock outcrop on which sat the Count's castle, right on the edge of the forest... and the view from the window was magnificent!

The green baize of the flat, open ground stretched wide on all sides... the narrow strip of cobblestone path winding towards the village... the bright roof of the dwellings, with the distant church tower clearly visible from his vantage... and the groves, the woods and hills!

The sole other structure in the vicinity was the little cottage of old man Mihai, and his grandson Cristian, right next door.

Night was surely falling, the cerement of dusk being rapidly drawn across the landscape. And though the western sky was still ablaze with the brilliant streaks of the dying day, the darkened horizon in the east was already aglow with the light of the rising moon, though the lunar orb was still hidden behind the wooded hills.

It was the evening before the full moon, the night before the Harvest Moon... the moon would be up early, soon after sundown, almost as full and as bright... pondering on how beautiful everything would look under the soothing glow...

But the breathtaking vista couldn't keep Ian engaged that evening, weirdly restless and distracted as his mind repeatedly drifted back to that unusual encounter with those eldritch eyes at the market square that afternoon...

Still in the thrall of that witching gaze, as if unable to break free of the spell they had cast on him.

It wasn't just the thoughts of that stranger... or simply those eyes, and the medley of amorous cerebrations that the gaze had awakened...

Rather, it was the intensity of his desire, the maddening, almost animal lust that he felt - his body, his mind, fevered... his soul aflame with concupiscence!

Ian simply couldn't think of anything else, not even Cristian and his awesome buttocks... his mind focused solely on thoughts of that unknown stranger!

🌕   The almost full disc of the moon had just scrambled up over the distant treetops when a sudden howl startled Ian out of his aimless mental obambulation...

It was loud, very loud... and it was close, very near.

Ian peered out of the window, trying to see in the faint light - right and left, and down below - but there was nothing to be seen.

The grounds empty... and across the hedge, a tiny little bulb burned in one of Cristian's windows, the drapes drawn, the cottage cowering in the shadows of the fading day.

Just then another howl came floating up... the sustained, loud call filling the night air.

It was quickly followed by a third, and then a fourth... each louder, more urgent, drawing ever closer... frighteningly close.

Beckoning... Making every single strand of hair on Ian's body bristle.

And as the lunar orb rose higher, casting it's magical glow across the manor grounds, there came a succession of doleful howls in reply... some near, some far away.

Once the final call had died down Ian heard a weird noise - a low rumbling, a fierce vibrating growl... slowly rising in pitch... becoming a dreadful, bloodcurdling howl!

Everything instantly fell silent -- those distant howls, the shrill stridulation of insects, and the trilling and rustle of roosting birds -- as if frozen into silence.

And that's when he spotted those eyes -- a pair of glowing charcoals hidden behind the far hedge -- glowering up at the window where Ian stood...

Looking at him, no doubt about it... peering into him... beckoning him!

It turned his blood cold, and Ian quickly drew back, away from the window, pressing himself against the wall... suddenly petrified, his heart thumping wildly as he heard the animal let out another howl...

... to be continued     ♻