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I lied on my back staring at the book, attempting to determine for myself whether or not Dante was real. It was one of life’s greatest mysteries, and there was no way I would ever know. At least that was what I had thought. I determined in that moment that Dracula couldn’t leave his novel, and that was impossible.

I set the book on my nightstand and glanced out the window. The light was pouring in through the clouds and splashing on the corn. I had chores to do in a few minutes, but I sat there a little longer. The book that I had obtained was handwritten, which wasn’t all that uncommon for Dante’s book in general.

Legend told that the original copy was handwritten, so lots of copies followed suit, attempting to replicate the original. Like the original was said to be, the one that was on my nightstand was caked in a stain that looked like long dried blood. Really good fakes would have brown blood like the one I had, and the crafter would be careful to make it look real.

Most people could spot an obvious fake easy enough by its bright red nature. No blood, vampire or human, was going to be red after 100 years. Typically, Dante’s handwriting was often the most creative aspect of the handwritten book. Some depicted Dante’s strokes as elegant, swift, and flourish ridden cursive. As beautiful as that often was, it was hardly likely for the vampire to have possessed such knowledge or precision, given his long stay inside the coffin. My copy was uniquely different, it attempted to express the handwriting of someone rushed, perhaps even frightened. It was choppy, sloppy, and looked as though it had been written by a pen long past its do not use date. There were even stains that recreated the drama of being left handed and smudging the pages of a notebook. Granted no historic record ever explicitly stated that Dante was left handed, nor did most historians believe he was. At the very least, the book seemed to be authentic in its recreation.