August 31, 2022. A chilly, restless end-of-summer night nestled in the hills of Brașov, Romania. The day had been exhausting yet exhilarating, marked by a long journey from Bucharest. The road to Brașov—an ancient, twisting route through dense forests and cliffs—was as gruelling as promised. Known to Romanians as one of the most challenging drives in the country, it’s legendary not only for its hairpin turns but for the breathtaking views that unfold as you ascend into Transylvania. My driver, wary of the national holiday chaos looming, insisted we leave a day early to avoid traffic jams locals say can rival the terror of any horror film.
As we climbed higher, the legendary landscapes of Transylvania revealed themselves. Rolling hills stretched endlessly, interspersed with haystacks that looked more like sculptures than storage. They rose out of the mist like ghostly sentinels while age-old villages dotted the valleys below. Every twist in the road felt like stepping further into the myth and lore of this storied land.
Near Bran Castle, we passed the old customs point that once marked the border between Romania and Hungary during the Austro-Hungarian Empire. After World War I, Transylvania was transferred to Romania under the Treaty of Trianon—a decision many Hungarians still consider unjust. But here in Transylvania, such tensions feel distant. The land felt entirely Romanian, its identity steeped in traditions and stories carved into every hill and valley.
By the time we reached Brașov, I was worn to the bone. Still, I couldn’t resist leaving the door open that night, letting the cool Transylvanian breeze drift into the room. Just as I was about to fall asleep, my phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message from my friend Duda in Zagreb, teasing me: “Check your neck in the evening,” she joked, referencing the vampire legends that haunt this place. I laughed it off, but the air felt charged that night—whispering curtains, the creak of the old house, shadows moving with an eerie rhythm. Sleep eventually came, but it brought vivid, unsettling dreams that lingered just out of reach come morning.
September 1. The first day of autumn arrived, cloaked in heavy gray clouds and a fine drizzle. The weather was perfect for my visit to Bran Castle, known worldwide as “Dracula’s Castle.” As we approached, the mist thickened, and the castle emerged from it, its dark spires slicing through the fog like a fortress from another time. Standing at the gates, I could feel the weight of centuries pressing down, as though the stones themselves held ancient secrets.
My passionate Romanian guide filled the air with stories of Vlad the Impaler and local folklore. I appreciated his enthusiasm, but a part of me wished he’d stop talking so I could soak in the surreal, spooky atmosphere uninterrupted. Overhead, a raven croaked—a sharp, raw sound that echoed through the mist. Ravens have always been my spirit animal, something I feel deeply from my Native American roots, and the timing was uncanny. It felt as though the castle, the raven, and Romania itself were calling to me, pulling me into their shadowy embrace.
The castle’s winding corridors were dim and shadowy, more stark than grand. Relics of folklore and history replaced royal finery. It felt like a place where the line between reality and legend blurred to the point of vanishing.
Then, inspiration struck like a lightning bolt in a rare quiet moment. Why not tell the story of a young vampire from an influential family, bound by ancient traditions yet irresistibly drawn to the forbidden world of werewolves? Her name came to me instantly—Luminita, meaning “little light,” a cruel and poignant irony for a vampire. Her surname, Dimineață, or “morning,” would take on deeper meaning as her story unfolded. I could see her so vividly, as though she stood beside me: petite, with big black glasses and a naïve curiosity that betrayed her age. She would be 14-and-a-half, caught between the weight of her lineage and the pull of something daring and unknown.
From the moment she was born in my mind, Luminita became more than a character. She was my connection to Romania, a bridge to something ancient yet deeply personal. Over the next few days, I scribbled ideas furiously, but it wasn’t until I returned to Bucharest that the story indeed took hold. I’d been taking a tarot card creation course, sketching with colored pencils, when the urge to write overtook me. I dropped my pencils and began filling pages, barely pausing for breath. Over the next year, I carried six heavy notebooks across Europe, pouring my soul into her story.
The Werewolf Project began that day in the shadow of Bran Castle, with a raven’s cry echoing through the fog and a story begging to be told. To bring Luminita’s world to life isn’t just a creative pursuit—it’s a way to weave together Romania’s culture, supernatural lore, and history. Through her diary, Luminita reflects on “ancient” Romania and her fascination with what we know as the 21st century while wrestling with her identity and the forces that compel her to hide who she truly is. I hope to make her a beacon for those questioning their path, offering a story that invites others into a world where reality and myth intertwine.
That September morning, in the mist-shrouded silence of Bran Castle, I felt as though I’d unearthed a rare treasure. The Werewolf Project is my tribute to Romania, a love letter to its landscapes, legends, and spirit. Luminita’s story is an invitation to step into this world and see it through her eyes. Romania awaits! Ne vedem! La revedere!
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