In the darkest part of the forest, inside a crooked castle where bats squeaked like broken violins, lived a vampire named Dracula. He was 215 years old, colder than ice, and scarier than a shadow in a thunderstorm.
No one liked him.
The werewolves didn’t invite him to their full moon parties. The witches avoided him at broomstick festivals. Even the goblins, who liked pretty much everyone, whispered, “Dracula gives me the shivers.”
And honestly? He didn’t care.
He didn’t like feelings. Or parties. Or people. He liked silence, storms, and sipping blood from his fancy goblets while staring dramatically at the moon. He was proud of being cold and shallow.
But one day, something unexpected happened. While stalking through the woods one misty evening, Dracula heard humming.
“Hmmm hmm hmm… la la la…”
He followed the sound and saw something strange. A little girl, no more than five, sitting on a tree stump, braiding leaves into a crown.
She looked up, smiled, and said, “Hi!”
Dracula blinked. No one had said hi to him in… decades.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said in his deep, spooky voice. “It’s dangerous.”
“I’m not scared,” she said, swinging her legs. “You look like a grumpy bat in a cape. I’m Charlotte!”
“You’re… not afraid of me?”
“Nope,” Charlotte said cheerfully. “Do you want a leaf crown?”
Dracula narrowed his eyes. “What… for?”
“So you can be a nice king, not just a scary one.”
He didn’t know what to say. No one had ever made him a leaf crown before. He took it awkwardly and put it on his head.
Charlotte clapped. “You look perfect!”
Dracula almost hissed, but instead… he stayed. He was on high alert, just in case someone saw him with it on.
Charlotte came back the next day. And the next. She brought crayon drawings of the two of them holding hands and smiling. Sometimes she brought snacks. Sometimes she just talked and told him about her stuffed bunny, Mr. Flopsy, and her favorite color (purple with sparkles).
Dracula didn’t understand. Why did she come back? Why was she kind to him?
“You’re not so scary when you smile,” she said one day, after he made the tiniest laugh at her impression of a zombie doing ballet.
“I don’t smile,” he said stiffly.
“You just did!”
He looked away. “…That was a mistake.”
But over time, he changed. He started listening. Then talking. He even helped her fix a broken doll once, muttering, “Foolish sewing needle,” while carefully stitching its arm back on.
Word spread through the monster world: Dracula was acting strange.
He said “please” and “thank you.” He helped a goblin find his lost cat. One evening, he even gave a compliment—“Your wart is… symmetrical”—to a passing troll.
When Charlotte’s sixth birthday came, she invited every monster she knew. They were nervous. Would Dracula ruin it?
Instead, he greeted them in a top hat, handed out ghost-shaped cookies, and—after much convincing—played a game of musical chairs. He came in second place.
Charlotte hugged him. “See? You can be nice.”
Dracula looked around. Monsters were smiling. Laughing. No one was running away.
He sighed. “I suppose… I don’t entirely dislike this.”
From that day on, Dracula remained a little spooky, a little dramatic, and still very fond of the night. But now, he has friends. He told bad jokes. He framed Charlotte’s drawings in gold.
And once, just once, someone saw him twirling in the forest wearing his leaf crown when he thought no one was watching.
All because of one little girl who believed even the coldest heart could be warmed.
Image courtesy of Canva.