GHOST STORIES

I, Strahd continued.........

But I can't think about that now.  Time is too short.  Life is too short.
He has all the day ahead of him, midsummer day to be sure, the longest of the year, but brief enough now that he saw how much work lay before him.  And where to start?
He moved quickly, lighting candles in their sconces as he found them.  The black shadows grudgingly retreated.  Though the  room was cold like the rest of the castle, Van Richten decided to leave the great fireplace dormant.  He was comfortable enough in the coat he'd thought to bring and two layers of sweaters.  Besides, the telltale smoke would only let all and sundry know the place was occupied, and Van Richten had excellent reasons for keeping this visit as descreet as possible.
   The gypsies knew about him, of course; one couldn't enter or leave the place without their help.  He had paid them dearly to guid him to the ring of poisonous fog that surrounded Castle Ravenloft.  The potion they'd sold him to neutralize the poison had cost extra, but they had only charged him half as much for the second dosage--macrebe indication that they did not expect him to return.  In the course of centuries, many bold explorers, well armed and highly magicked, had gone in to deal with 'the devil Strahd,' as he was known locally.  None had ever come out--at least not in the same condition as they'd gone in.  What hope did a lone, middle-aged herbalist have?
                                      None, he answered truthfully.
However, he did have knowledge, and upon that he was willing to gamble his life.  Indeed, more than his life.  If he was wrong......well, there were much worse things than dying, but he has a kind of escape prepared should it come eventually.  Not pleasent, but better than the alternative.
          So the gypsies had been more than willing to take his money and leave him to his fate.  Van Richten had no doubt Strahd knew of his presence in the castle, but he was certain Strahd would do nothing against him.  Correction, Strahd could do nothing against him.
  It had taken Van Richten nearly a decade to guess the truth, and yet another five years of waiting to be sure, and this day, this one midsummer day, he'd proved it by simply walking unchallenged into Castle Ravenloft.
  In those fifteen years the place had shown no sign of life.  The merchants  in the village that lay in its shadow had not recieved any orders for goods in all that time.  The youngest of them had comlained about the lack of custom.  His father had known something of prosperity, but these days?  The man had thrown up his hands in well-rehearsed dispair for those low profits.  The others were silent or grimly amused by him.
  In fifteen years, Lord Strahd had not collected the taxes, though the taxes had been dutifully compiled, the burgomaster proudly stated.  There were many old wives' tales about burgomasters who had failed in this task and had come to very bad ends, indeed.  Just wives' tales, to be sure, but sometimes there was truth to be found in such fancies.  Anyway, non of the villagers, let alone the burgomaster, would risk comlaint from their lord.  The  money, quite a lot of it by now, was stored in a special stone house in the center of town.  Theives?  No.  They had no fear of theives.  Even the gypsies would not dare to touch it.
  Also in that time there had been few unexplained or unusual deaths, as had once been common.  Young girls in the prime of their looks no longer disappeared without a trace--unless they decided to elpoe with their lovers.  Fifteen years of relitive peace, fifteen years of nights that were not so dark as before, fifteen years that Strahd had...left them alone.
Some cautiously whispered that perhaps Death had caught up with him and taken him away.  But if so, then why was the poisoned wall of mist still thick about the castle base?  No one had a reply to that one, nor were any too curious to find out.  One could ask the gypsies: they knew everything.  Aye, and told everything.  To Strahd.  Best not to ask; you might not like the answer.
But Van Richten was sure he had the answer.
Strahd the Ancient, Strahd who was the Land, Strahd the great and awful Lord of Barovia--genius, necromancer, ruthless killer---was now at his most vulnerable.
Strahd Von Zarovich, the vampire, was in hibernation.
  Van Richten, who knew as much about the undead as any living man, was reasonably certain that for a few more years the master of the castle would be unable to stir from the sleep that was not sleep.  The odd fact that he stood where he stood--that he hadn't encountered.
Strahds undead minions and necromantic guardians---seemed confirmation enough.  Perhaps Strahd's dark magics could not last through his years of quiescence.