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what was being said down there, that I realized they didn’t speak English. It was close to English, but it wasn’t English. I don’t know what race they are or what language they are speaking, but they don’t appear particularly with it.
    I spent a couple days sitting at the window watching them. Sometimes they would try to throw me up a burger and I would throw them down some trinket from the mansion, a silver candelabra or something of value that they would smile and fight over.
    As I was sitting out on the sill today , watching two women fight over a bag of what I can only assume was heroin, I realized something: they had access to the outside world. And the Count seemed to leave them alone.
    I rushed around my room and went through one of my bags. I found a legal pad I had brought to take notes on and jotted down a full letter to Mina. I folded it up and wrote the address on the outside and wished like hell I had an envelope: I would’ve paid five thousand dollars for an envelope and a stamp at that point.
    I ran back to the window and called to my friend down there, the one that always came up to the window. He walked over wearing a silly type of hat and bowed. I threw down the letter. He picked it up, looked at it and then back to me. I shouted, “In the mail. Please, you have to send it in the mail. Mail. M - A - I - L. But you have to put it in an envelope with a stamp.”
    He bowed and placed the letter in his pocket. I can only hope he knew what I was talking about.

May 29 th
     
    The Count came in today and sat next to me. It was pitch black outside, but a full moon slowly crept out of the clouds and illuminated everything in an icy glow. I stared out the window. I could hear those wolves again and it sent chills up my back. I was sitting at the table reading and he sat next to me and placed something down on the table: it was the letter I had thrown out the window yesterday.
    “Some Gypsies gave this to me,” he said. “It’s an insult to friendship and hospitality. But it’s not signed. I wonder who wrote it?” He stared at me a long time, expecting me to say something. When I didn’t respond he continued. “Well, I suppose we’ll never know.”
    He held the letter up to a candle on the table and lit it on fire. It turned to ash and the flames licked his fingers but it didn’t seem to bother him.
    He rose and left the room. I heard a key turn. When I got up and tried the door, it was locked. I went and lay on the sofa and maybe an hour or two passed before I heard the key in the door and the Count walked in. He was in a happy mood, his shirt off, black leather pants hanging off of him. His muscles were something else to see in person. But his skin was ashen gray, like a worn statue.
    “You’re sleepy, that’s fine. Get some more rest. I can’t really do much of the interview tonight anyway. I have some business to take care of. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
    He left the room, and I fell into a dreamless sleep. My terror has turned to depression and I slept calmly. Despair has its charms I guess.

May 31 st
     
    I woke up this morning and everything in my room was gone. Most of my clothes, my recording equipment, my bags; every scrap of paper and writing instrument was gone. The only thing left to me was my Mac and probably only that because I slept with it under my pillow since I suspected something like this might happen. I didn’t think ahead though and my power cord was in my bag. I have half the battery life left. I’m going to have to cut back on these blog posts.
    Everything tha t could’ve been useful to me inside this mansion is gone.
     

June 17 th
     
    I saw a lot of people outside. I ran to the window. They were men wearing torn up T-shirts with greasy long hair. Some of them were young and dressed like hipsters. They were loading a bus and truck with things they had brought out of the mansion.
    I ran to the door, hoping that the main hall would be open and I could run out