Beyond the tattered rag, the broken glass, the mist that hangs upon the hill,
Behind the shadow of the clouds that still and darkly drip their poisons to the ground,
Obedient to the will of one who drowned this place in blood,
The brooding Count is loose tonight and how his moon drapes all in jaundiced light.

Whilst good folk rest, he scorns such dreams that warm their simple hearts.
Delighted by such things of day, one does not feel his chill,
For at the creeping window frame he coldly waits
For passing storms to draw some sleeper's gaze,
And in the bolt behold his dismal form and weep.

Here is the place, the hour,
The ever-running nightmare warm and red,
Commanded from a catastrophic throne,
Drawn from your veins by grim desires,
His tastes thus served, he comes to claim his own.

You shall not shun such eyes that ever thirst,
Nor feel again your will outwith the master's hand.
Come, your feeble minds are his and by his filling,
He shall rise with such a beautiful despair
As chills us all, the inexorable dying of the soul.
So stay and yield, and I, Renfield,
Shall lead you on to taste the sweetness of Carpathian soil