The vampire Count Belasco kept his coffin, not in a crypt or keep, but in the cellar of an old, decrepit inn, which was managed by his servant, Igoron.
Poor Count Belasco had a terrible secret: In his ancient age, his scalp was beginning to rot, his hair falling out in great clumps and knots. In embarrassment, he commanded Igoron to purchase a beautiful raven-black wig, hoping to preserve the handsome, younger man he had once been.
"A handsome man indeed," agreed one of his guests—an elderly, near-blind widow named Olivenka—one particular moonlit night. Dear Olivenka kept to herself, spending her days sorting and re-sorting her late husband's rock collection, which she kept lovingly in her purse. Despite the Count's odd behavior and pale skin, she suspected nothing, her old vision too blurry to make out the fangs that poked down amidst his teeth.
As always, the Count felt an urge to feed upon her—and though her flattering words quelled his interest, he felt the thirst in his fangs all the same. "Igoron!" he boomed. "Fetch my coat—I'm going hunting."
"Yes, sire," Igoron wheezed. As he returned, he whimpered, "Best be back before dawn, milord. I'm cleaning the curtains tonight. Want you nice and safe in your coffin before sunrise."
Count Belasco scoffed. "Fear not, simple Igoron," he boasted. "I know well the hour of my enemy. Not a thing could stir my spirit to linger beneath its dreadful rays."
And so the Count departed. He lurked in alleyways and prowled across rooftops—yet he found not a single morsel to sate his thirst. It was with surprise, that the hungry, defeated Count finally looked up to the velvet skies and saw the periwinkle-grey of approaching morning.
With panic, he flew through the streets. Four blocks away. A streak of orange began to slice across the sky. Three blocks. Two—
—the door to the inn slammed shut behind him.
"Goodness," Olivenka said, yawning atop the staircase. "Have you been out all night?"
In an eyeblink, the Count's great silhouette towered far above her. "Yes," he growled. "But I've only just found what I've been looking for. Olivenka—I want to suck your blood!"
Ordinarily, one of Count Belasco's victims would scream, flee, or faint—yet he had made one, terrible mistake.
He had forgotten that Olivenka's cataract-ridden eyes couldn't quite see his fangs.
"You disgusting man!" Olivenka screeched, and whirled eighteen years' worth of rare rocks and minerals directly toward his head. There was a terrible thud—and a terrible splintering of wood—and Count Belasco went tumbling down to the floor below. When he opened his eyes, he saw Olivenka staring in horror, not at him, but at his head—his bare head.
There, just beneath the eastern window, lay his beloved wig. He dove for it, claws outstretched—and a sliver of sunlight grazed across his skin.
There was a sizzle, a hiss, and a burst of smoke and flame. Olivenka, purse clutched to her chest, watched in awe as Count Belasco succumbed to the morning light, until all that remained was a smoldering heap of ash and a charred, smoking wig.