Belgreth Is Real

I’m here to tell you how the story of Dracula came to be. The entire premise stems from my travels and the stories I learned along the way.

The author Bram Stoker attended the same college as I. He studied and earned his BA, then paid to have it promoted to an MA. Too lazy to actually earn it, he bought it because he was allowed to. Good for him, I have no jealousy. I beat him at everything and didn’t feel the need to boast about anything. He wrote Dracula, which became famous as people were still fascinated by the supernatural after Shelley’s Frankenstein.

I digress. I had traveled far and wide with my great-uncle, a well-known scholar, before I met Stoker in college. Eastern Europe was Uncle Brewster's favorite, with all of its mineral spas and mountain air. We sat in bathhouses while the Czechs, Hungarians, Romanians, and Bulgarians regaled us with tales of war (and peace), jewels, and strange myths of creatures roaming the hillsides, as we ate delicious ethnic meals and copied recipes.

Wanting to remember the stories, I journaled nightly. Watermark splotches from the spa stain some pages. My uncle spun many tales, but one story was real. I was there.

We were walking through a field with scattered apple trees. Some of the trees were ancient and tall, while others were perhaps thirty years old. Yellow and red apples dotted the trees, and the older ones had a few lying at their base. Crows and jays would stop their pecking when we passed by. Uncle Brewster suggested we sit under a large apple tree and have our lunch, which the cook at the country manor had packed. We had ham and cheese slices on thick, buttered dark bread. Sliced radishes topped a small pea salad dressed with sour cream. Vanilla shortbread finished it off. Uncle plucked a yellow apple from a tree and sliced it for us, not bothering if the orchard owner cared.

“We need to go, Boy. Dark is coming quickly.” As we folded our napkins to place them into the basket, a dark creature whisked past us. Then another and another. Three of them passed us so quickly we couldn’t even take in a shocked breath. The earth trembled under some as-yet-unseen enormous weight that was making the ground shake. Yellow eyes twenty feet above the ground appeared, locked onto mine. “Herbert, run! Run for your life, Boy!’ Uncle Brewster was not one of those pot-bellied uncles. He was slim and athletic. He sprinted past me, dragging me along with his larger stride.

“Uncle, what are those things?”

“The tall one is the Belgreth, quite ferocious. The runners are his gretties, supernatural creatures bound to do his bidding. The Belgreth eats hornets and wasps, all stinging Vespidae, and these fuel the glow in his eyes. In daylight, few ever see his true form—he can appear differently, but he is wasp-like and usually hides in shadow.”

“Will he kill us?”

My uncle had shrugged at my question. I still do not know if the Belgreth is hunting humans, but it makes a good story, doesn’t it?

So I wrote a short one about it in my journal, saying it could turn into a dog and also fly if it expanded its wings. The journals were sacred to me, and I had etched the leather covers with creatures I made up as well as those from tales we heard in Eastern Europe.

After Stoker bought his advanced degree, he strutted around, claiming to be a historian, an advanced mathematician, and a master editor. Stoker was fleet of foot; yes, I admit it. He could beat me in a foot race (but not in any other sport). I wished for an apple to stuff in his mouth. Stoker is a thief and a braggart.

One day in the library, Stoker looked over my shoulder as I wrote in my journal. He grabbed a couple of my small notebooks from the stack and began flipping through them, mumbling.

“What is it, Stoker? What are you mumbling about? Put down my journals.”

He slammed them onto the desk and turned on his heel, rushing away.

The next evening, I came home from work and ate dinner. My door was closed but not locked. The wardrobe where I stored my journals was ajar. As I hung my shirt, I immediately realized that five of my eight journals were missing – all the ones with entries from my Eastern Europe trips

I put on my overcoat and strode to Stoker’s. He denied rifling through my things or taking my journals. I shouted, waving my arms, not caring who heard.

“You are a thief! You stole my journals, admit it! I will not let this go, Stoker. I want them back now!”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

I demanded to search his place and shoved past him, ready to fight. In his sitting room, I spotted my journals. I accused him outright of theft and threatened to have him arrested.

He picked up the one about the Belgreth and began reading. “A large black creature with yellow eyes, rarely seen in daylight hours. The creature is ferocious, has a voracious appetite, and is said to appear at will. It has hoards of smaller dog-like animals, known as ‘gretties,’ that run before it. It seems he sends them in to clear his path, although why, I can’t say. It seems to be scary enough to clear any path by itself. Uncle said it eats wasps and hornets. I clearly saw its enormous bee-like eyes and noticed through its black fur, the pointy stingers jutting from its mouth and arms.” Stoker couldn’t stop chuckling as he read aloud. “My God, Herbert, what an imagination you have. Eats wasps and hornets. It would make a good story, that’s for sure. What do you plan to do with all this idiocy you have written?”

I lunged at him, punching him in the stomach. As he doubled over, I gathered my journals and stepped outside onto his porch, leaving the door wide open. Once he caught his breath, he followed me, continuing his cajoling in a high-pitched voice, ridiculing me.

“You miserable ass, shut up. I will file charges against you. You are a lying, thieving bastard! The police are going to arrest you for burglary and theft.”

“You have no proof I took those. I will say you loaned them to me and are trying to cause me trouble. Everyone in town knows and admires me; I’m the President of the University Philosophical Society. You are nobody.”

I raised my fist in a vulgar gesture, but froze when I heard a loud whoosh and a thud. Stoker’s eyes enlarged to the size of apples, making me turn around. There, in the moonlight, was Belgreth. He reached over me, grabbed Stoker, and flapped him back and forth on the porch decking until he was moaning, tears of fright spilling from his eyes. “Herbert, make him stop.” I was enjoying this display and wondered if Belgreth was punishing him for ridiculing his existence. The gretties crept forward, snarling, spit flying from their jaws. Belgreth put a large webbed foot onto Stoker’s neck, then bent down and hooked the man's eyebrow with a claw. I could see the creature's rear stinger bobbing in anger.

I only wanted my journals. I didn’t care what happened to Stoker. “Belgreth, I have what I came for,” I said to the creature. The gretties were behind me now, sitting and waiting. Belgreth stood, snapped his stinger-fingers, and they were gone in an instant.

“You didn’t believe it, did you? So busy being overly smart and conceited. I am still pressing charges!”

Stoker was found guilty at trial. He never mentioned Belgreth. Years later, I read a press brief stating he had published a horror novel. He was always deceitful. Mary Shelley had written that drivel about Frank, and Stoker had to join the horror craze. He stole my Eastern European journals, filled with horror stories and legends, and used my experiences to write Dracula.

Belgreth is real. He would have devoured Dracula.

#creatures #mythicalcreatures #scary

This is a work of fiction- the story is a product of my imagination, and mentions of actual people, living or dead, are not to be taken as factual.

Copyright © 3/15/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin

I am grateful you read my work! 😃 If you liked it, please like it ♡, drop a comment, and subscribe for free. - - Andi