A Halloween tale from the Crazy Pharmacist cult archives.
He roamed the groves after sundown, tasting fruit on the edge of harvest. His veins ran on polyphenols; his heart pumped extra virgin. Villagers learned quickly: garlic did nothing. They left bottles at their doors instead, a quiet truce sealed with wax. In winter he slept in amphorae, in summer beneath millstones still warm from the day’s press.
He never bit. He sipped. Crystal glass, one measured pour, a ritual as precise as any liturgy. In a mirror he appeared only under perfect lighting — filtered, not refined. And though centuries passed, time did little. He never aged. He simply oxidized slower.
They called him Draculakis — the vampire who drank olive oil.
Once a year, on this very night, he returns for a single drop — the moment the fruit tips from green to black, from promise to power. Some say that is why the oil glows like candlelight in the glass: a memory of the moon, a vow kept in gold.
Culture. Ritual. Rebellion.
Even for the undead.
