The Red Tower, aka Castle Arges or Castle Dracula, stands at the top of a mountain. While I scavenged the mini-bar for any remaining edible snacks (I found an out-of-date cereal bar and a packet of ginger-nut biscuits), assuming supper would be the last thing on Henry’s mind, Mr Antonescu took us about halfway up – as far as he said the road was navigable. Then he pointed to where a narrow track snaked off amid the trees. A very worn and battered sign inscribed with the name of the castle in Rumanian was nailed to the trunk of a big tree. Someone had scrawled other words across it: NU SE POATE. I guessed what they meant even before Henry told me: Keep Out.
It was clear Mr Antonescu thought we were completely mad, and to be honest I wasn’t entirely convinced we weren’t. But this was life with Henry Hunter, and even then, I wouldn’t have swapped it for anything. He stood there while Henry produced two large torches from the boot of the car, along with two well-stuffed backpacks, one of which he handed to me.
“Should be everything we need for tonight, Dolf,” he said, grinning. I took the rucksack and tried to return the smile. Then I turned to Mr Antonescu, who looked a rather forlorn figure standing by the car. He watched us with a look that clearly said he did not expect to ever see us again.
Henry set a cracking pace and for the next hour neither of us had much breath for talking. The way was steep and the path soon petered out, replaced by rough scree that had us slipping and sliding and falling over several times.
“Not far now, Dolf,” Henry said every so often, as if he’d climbed this mountain hundreds of times before. And finally, it wasn’t. We emerged from a grove of trees onto the mountain peak. And there in front of us in the gathering dark was the real Castle Dracula.
Unlike Castle Bran it was small, and looked a lot older – and somehow nastier. A narrow wooden bridge spanned a very deep gorge between us and the gates, which hung off their hinges as if they’d been blown out by some kind of explosion.
In the darkness, big shadows hung everywhere around us like bat wings, and far below we could see the lights of a couple of villages glowing dimly. There was just enough light from the moon to get a glimpse of huge mountain peaks to the north. Then clouds drew across the moon and darkness rushed in on us like a cloak.
“No going back now, Dolf,” said Henry, in a chirpy voice – he said this because he was happy about it, not because he thought I needed reminding. He was right, of course. There was no way we could find our way back down the mountain in the utter darkness. This was what adventure was to Henry Hunter – all about the unknown and the dangerous. And this was one of our most dangerous situations yet.
Henry switched on his torch, which was one of those powerful LED jobs that are as bright as a searchlight. Shadows jumped about everywhere, and for a moment I thought I saw something solid moving by the castle wall – maybe a flash of eyes – but just as quickly it was gone. “Did you see that?” I asked.
“What?” said Henry, casting the torch around.
“I thought I saw something moving.”
“Probably just a wolf,” said Henry.
“There are wolves around here?” I said, wondering why I hadn’t guessed this before. But Henry wasn’t listening. He was shining the torch into the gateway of the castle.
“Let’s go, Dolf,” he said, and set off across the wooden bridge.
Without a better suggestion, I followed, the bridge boards creaking ominously every time either of us put a foot on them. I couldn’t help but imagine the bridge collapsing, sending us plummeting to our grizzly deaths in the valley below. I was too young to die.
But my worries were unfounded, and we soon found ourselves up close and personal with the castle wall.
It was a lot more ruined than I had realised. Big cracks split the walls and in places there were just heaps of rubble. But the gatehouse still looked pretty solid despite the broken gates, and with our torches held out in front of us we passed under the frowning stones and emerged into the courtyard.
By daylight it must have been impressive – at night it was just plain scary. Although I didn’t actually ask Henry, I was sure at that moment even he would agree. Dark shadows lay in wait everywhere, and when we shone our torches into them they seemed to swallow the light and turn it into something feeble. We could just make out the shape of the castle: a rough octagon with towers at each corner. Most of them were ruined, with big gaping holes that looked a lot like eyes watching us.
A thick carpet of leaves rustled underfoot – if there was something waiting for us, it was going to be impossible to take it by surprise.
Henry’s attention was immediately drawn to a crumbly, moss-covered well built of stone with a wooden arch from which hung a rusty chain. When he shone his torch into its depths, the light only penetrated about a metre. He dropped a stone into it and we waited. It was at least ten long seconds before we heard the clunk of it hitting the bottom.
Henry moved on to examining some carvings on the outside of the stone well.
“Take a look at these, Dolf,” he said.
I peered at the carvings. At first I could make nothing of them, but as my eyes traced the outlines like a dot-to-dot puzzle I could make out a row of sharp stakes embedded in the earth, each one decorated by a skull.
“Fascinating,” said Henry. But as I stared harder at the carvings, Henry’s attention had been taken by something else. He was shining his torch on the ground a few metres to the left of the well. There, half-hidden by the leaves, was a big iron ring.
“There’s supposed to be an underground chamber somewhere here,” said Henry, setting off across the courtyard towards the iron ring.
He never got to it.
Three steps away, the ground gave way and Henry vanished with a yell that echoed around the great stone walls. It was followed by silence.
If you’ve ever wondered what the phrase ‘rooted to the spot’ means, this described me right then. Every muscle in my body simply stopped working for at least a minute. I tried to call out but all I could manage was a croak.
Come on, Dolf! I told myself, and took a couple of deep breaths. That made me feel better. I shone my torch at the spot where Henry had vanished and saw a large hole framed by some splintered wooden planks. Slowly, one step at a time, testing the ground before I put any weight on it, I crept nearer to the edge of the hole. Finally I was able to peer down.
Darkness. I guessed that however far Henry had fallen, his torch must have gone out. A strange musty smell came from the hole. I shouted as loudly as I could, “Henry! Are you okay?”
Silence.
I leaned over the hole and shouted again. Still no answer. Then, just as I was beginning to give up, a faint sound drifted towards me from the depths. The sound of someone scrabbling. Then, distant but clear, and very echoey, came a voice. Henry Hunter’s voice.
“I’m okay, Dolf.” A wave of relief flooded through me. As I stared down, a very dim light appeared. A match. Of course – Henry always had a box of matches on him.
“Can you climb out?” I yelled.
“I can’t see any way to do that, Dolf,” came Henry’s voice. “I think I’m going to need a hand.”
“Um, did you pack a rope?” I called down.
“Only one – but it’s in my pack,” he answered. “Which is down here with me.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to think quickly about what else I could use as a rope. “I’ll see if I can find something up here.”
“Just where do you think you’re going to find rope around here?” said a voice behind me.
I jumped, my heart beating wildly. I spun round and shone my torch into the darkness. At first all I could see was a shadowy silhouette.
My first thought was: I don’t think it’s big enough to be a monster.
My second was: Who says vampires have to be huge?
And my third was: It’s a girl’s voice.
“Could you point that thing somewhere else?” she said. Her voice was clear and low and she spoke English with only a trace of an accent. I lowered the torch obediently, but its peripheral glow still allowed me to get a proper look at her. I guessed she was around fourteen or fifteen. She would have been pretty if she wasn’t scowling. Her dark hair was cut short and stuck up in spikes and she was clad from head to foot in black leather. But it was her eyes that got my attention. They were bright blue, and in the reflected torchlight they seemed almost to glow. (I know that sounds lame, but if you’d been there you would have said the same.)
I had a sudden, powerful desire to apologise. For being there. For shining a light on her. For existing. Finally I managed to get some words out, “My friend. He’s down there. Can you help us?”
“It’s amazing you’ve survived this long,” she said. She leaned forward with her hands on her hips, and peered down into the hole. “You down there. Where are you exactly?”
If Henry was surprised to hear a girl’s voice he didn’t sound it. “I’m in a kind of chamber. About ten metres down, I think.”
“Can you see a stone that’s a different colour from the rest? Just above your head?”
“Hang on a minute,” Henry’s voice echoed. Down in the darkness I saw another match flare briefly.
“I see it,” Henry called, still sounding very calm despite the situation.
“Good. Press it,” ordered the girl.
I heard the sound of stone scraping against stone, which went on for a minute then stopped.
“It’s a hidden door,” Henry said, quite matter-of-factly. But then he was used to this kind of adventure – nothing much shocked Henry Hunter. “And… a passageway.”
“Follow it,” the girl told him. “It will bring you out onto the side of the mountain. We’ll meet you there.”
“Okay,” said Henry. “See you in a bit.” Then he added, “Everything all right up there, Dolf?”
“Um… I think so!” I called back.
“He thinks so,” muttered the girl. “How like a boy.”
“See you soon, Henry,” I called into the darkness, but there was no answer. Henry had already gone.