The Westenra Family Crypt

The crypt was quiet, save for the faint hiss of candles guttering in their sconces. The air was damp, cloying with the scent of cold stone and roses left to wither.

Inside her coffin, Lucy Westenra stirred.

Her pale hands, folded so gently by mourning friends, twitched first — then flexed, claws beginning to push through once-delicate nails. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes now bright and burning with unholy light.

She sat up slowly, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. The white burial gown shimmered in the gloom, its lace catching the candlelight like spider silk. The collar framed her throat, where twin scars stood like a mark of ownership.

She rose from the coffin with unnatural grace, her bare feet soundless on the stone floor.

"The crypt door stood closed — but she did not try it. Instead, she turned her face toward the tiny slit of moonlight that filtered through a crack, breathing in the night as if it were wine.*

Then she smiled.

Her fangs caught the light, glistening. She raised her hands, palms open, in a gesture of invitation — or perhaps prayer — and let out a soft, delighted laugh, almost sing-song

“The night is so hungry…”

From somewhere above, a child cried out faintly — a thin, lonely sound carried on the wind. Lucy’s expression changed instantly.

She became still, predatory, every muscle taut.

Lucy whispering, with unnatural sweetness

“Hush, little one. I am coming.”

With a swish of her white gown, she vanished into the shadows — not running, not walking, but gliding like a wraith toward the crypt door. When the latch groaned open on its own, no hand touching it, she stepped into the graveyard, bathed in silver moonlight.

The Lucy who had once written to Mina about suitors and weddings was gone. What remained was the Bloofer Lady, her beauty sharpened into something terrible, her innocence devoured by hunger.