The Case of Petre Toma: Unveiling the Last Real Vampire in 2004

Shadows in Marotinu de Sus

The moon cast long shadows over Marotinu de Sus as winter winds whistled through the tiny Romanian village. Old wooden houses creaked in the dark, their windows glowing with dim candlelight. It was 2004, but in this remote corner of Romania, time seemed to move slower. 🌙

"Something is wrong," Maria whispered to her children as they huddled around the fireplace. "Ever since Petre Toma died, strange things have been happening."

The children leaned in closer, their eyes wide with wonder and fear. Everyone in the village knew Petre Toma – the quiet farmer who lived at the edge of town. He was a simple man who tended his crops and kept to himself. But now, six weeks after his death, people were starting to talk.

“The chickens won’t lay eggs anymore,” said one neighbor.
“My cows give sour milk,” said another.
“I hear footsteps at night, but no one is there,” whispered a third.

In Marotinu de Sus, these weren't just strange happenings – they were signs. The older folks remembered the ancient stories their grandparents told them about the strigoi – the undead who rise from their graves to trouble the living.

Little Ana tugged at her mother's sleeve. "What's a strigoi, Mama?"

Maria looked nervously at the window before answering. The old tales said that strigoi were special kinds of vampires. They weren't like the scary monsters in movies. These were regular people who, after death, became restless spirits.

Here's what the villagers believed about strigoi:

• They could appear as normal people during the day
• They visited their families at night
• They made people and animals sick
• They drained the life force from the living
• They could only be stopped through special rituals

"But those are just old stories," Maria said quickly, trying to comfort her children. Yet her voice trembled as she spoke.

More whispers spread through the village each day. People said they saw Petre walking at night, wearing his favorite red scarf. Others claimed their relatives fell ill after dreaming about him. The village doctor couldn't explain why so many people were getting sick.

"We must do something," said Old Ioan, the village elder, during a secret meeting. "Before it's too late."

The villagers gathered in small groups, speaking in hushed tones. Some wanted to follow modern ways and ignore the signs. Others remembered the old customs and feared what might happen if they did nothing.

Young Stefan, who had studied in the city, tried to calm everyone down. "These are just coincidences," he said. "We live in modern times now."

But his grandmother shook her head slowly. "Some things don't change, child. Some dangers are as old as the earth itself."

As January turned colder, more people reported strange events. Gardens withered overnight. Children woke up with mysterious bruises. The village priest found scratches on the church door.

In the Toma family home, Petre's daughter couldn't sleep. Every night, she heard knocking on her window. Every morning, she felt more tired than the day before. When she looked in the mirror, her face was pale and drawn, as if something was draining her energy away.

The modern world said vampires weren't real. But in Marotinu de Sus, facing the longest nights of winter, the old fears felt very real indeed. The villagers had to make a choice: follow the old ways or trust in modern science. And they had to decide quickly, before more people got sick.

A cold wind blew through the village, rattling windows and doors. In the cemetery, dried leaves danced over Petre Toma's grave. And in their homes, the people of Marotinu de Sus waited, wondering what darkness the next night would bring.

The Gathering of Fears

The village meeting hall was packed tight as a jar of pickles. Everyone in Marotinu de Sus had come, even those who usually stayed home. The room smelled like wet wool coats and worry. 🏠

“My daughter hasn’t eaten in three days,” said Mrs. Popescu, wringing her hands. “She says her grandfather Petre visits her dreams every night.”

Old Ioan stood at the front of the room, his white beard glowing in the lamplight. “We have counted seventeen sick people this week. The doctor from the city says it’s just winter flu, but…” He paused, looking at the worried faces around him.

“We all know what’s really happening,” whispered Ana’s grandmother. “The signs are clear as day. Petre Toma has become a strigoi.”

The room got very quiet. Even the children stopped wiggling in their seats. Stefan, the young man who went to college in Bucharest, stood up. His modern jacket looked strange next to all the traditional clothes.

“Friends, neighbors, please listen,” he said. “It’s 2004! We can’t just dig up a dead man because we’re scared. There must be a normal explanation.”

“Normal?” Mrs. Popescu shouted. “Is it normal that my chickens lay eggs filled with blood? Is it normal that we all see the same dead man walking at night?”

The village priest, Father Mikhail, cleared his throat. He was new to the village and tried to be modern, but even he looked worried. “The church has… procedures for such matters. If the community believes there is a genuine threat…”

“What exactly happens in these… procedures?” Stefan asked carefully.

Old Ioan’s voice was grave as he explained: “First, we must watch the grave at midnight. If we see signs, then we dig up the body. If the body shows marks of a strigoi, we must remove the heart and burn it with special herbs.”

Some people gasped. Others nodded like they expected this. Little Ana held her mother’s hand tighter.

“That’s against the law!” Stefan protested. “We could all go to jail!”

But Mrs. Popescu stood up again. “And what about my daughter? Should I watch her waste away while we worry about modern laws?”

The arguing went on for hours. Modern thoughts fought with old fears. But as night fell and the wind howled outside, more people started agreeing with Old Ioan.

“We’ll need special tools,” someone said.

“And holy water,” added another.

“My grandmother’s book has the ritual words,” whispered a third.

Father Mikhail looked troubled but didn’t stop them. Stefan kept arguing, but his voice got smaller and smaller.

Finally, Old Ioan raised his hands for quiet. “Tomorrow night, we will watch the grave. If we see the signs…” He didn’t need to finish. Everyone knew what would happen next.

As the villagers left the meeting hall, they walked close together. No one wanted to be alone in the dark. The moon was almost full, casting sharp shadows on the snowy ground.

In her bed that night, little Ana asked her mother, “Are we really going to dig up Mr. Toma?”

Maria tucked the blanket tighter around her daughter. “Sometimes, child, we must do scary things to stop scarier things from happening.”

Outside, the wind carried sounds that might have been footsteps, or might have been something else. The village of Marotinu de Sus held its breath, waiting for tomorrow night.

Dark of Night

The moon hung like a silver coin over Marotinu de Sus. Forty villagers huddled near Petre Toma’s grave, their flashlight beams dancing on the frost-covered ground. 🌕

“Remember,” Old Ioan whispered, “no loud noises. We don’t want to wake the dead… or the police.” His breath made little clouds in the cold air.

“First, we must check for signs,” Father Mikhail said, holding his prayer book tight. “Does anyone see fresh dirt? Strange lights? Animal tracks?”

Mrs. Popescu pointed with a shaking finger. “Look there! The ground is disturbed, but no animal made those marks.” 😨

Stefan stood back, his modern jacket zipped up tight. “This is crazy! We could all go to jail for this!”

“Quiet!” hissed Ana’s grandmother. She sprinkled holy water in a circle around the grave. “The old ways must be followed exactly.”

Four strong men stepped forward with shovels. They looked scared but ready. The dirt made soft scraping sounds as they began to dig.

“I hear something!” little Ana squeaked. Everyone froze.

*thunk*

A shovel had hit wood. The coffin.

“Now comes the hard part,” Old Ioan said. He pulled out a bag of special tools: wooden stakes, red string, and herbs that smelled like grandmother’s garden.

Father Mikhail began to pray in a low voice. Some villagers joined in. Others just held hands and trembled.

The men cleaned dirt from the coffin lid. It looked newer than it should, like it had been opened before.

“Wait!” Stefan called out. “Please think about what you’re doing!”

But Mrs. Popescu stepped forward. “My daughter is dying. We must know the truth.”

Old Ioan nodded to the men. “Open it.”

The sound of creaking wood filled the graveyard. Flashlight beams pointed down into the open coffin. Someone screamed.

Petre Toma’s face was not the gray color of the dead. It was pink, like he was just sleeping. His hair and nails had grown. There was fresh blood around his mouth.

Even Stefan stopped arguing. He stared into the grave with wide eyes.

“Quick now,” Ana’s grandmother said. “We must finish before midnight!”

The villagers moved faster, setting up candles and spreading herbs. Father Mikhail’s prayers got louder. The wind picked up, making the flames dance.

“Form the circle,” Old Ioan commanded. “Hold hands. Whatever happens next, don’t break the circle!”

Little Ana squeezed between her mother and grandmother. “Will this stop the bad dreams?” she whispered.

“Yes, dear one,” her grandmother answered. “But first, we must be brave.”

The ritual was about to begin. Overhead, clouds started covering the moon, as if even the sky knew something big was about to happen in the little village of Marotinu de Sus.

The Midnight Hour

The clouds parted just enough to show the full moon hanging over Petre Toma’s open grave. Old Ioan lifted his wooden stake high. 🌕

“Hold the circle tight!” he shouted. “The time has come!”

“We break no laws tonight,” a new voice boomed. Flashlight beams swung toward Police Officer Dragos, standing at the cemetery gate. “Step away from the grave!” 👮

Panic broke out among the villagers. Some ran into the shadows. Others stood their ground, holding their crosses tight.

“My daughter needs this!” Mrs. Popescu cried. “She gets weaker every day!”

“Look!” little Ana pointed at the coffin. “Something’s moving!”

Officer Dragos stepped closer, his flashlight beam showing fresh blood drops on the coffin lid. His hand shook slightly.

“Please,” Old Ioan said to the officer. “You grew up here. You know the old stories. Look at his face – see how it’s changed!”

Officer Dragos peered into the grave. His face went white. “Mother of God…”

A reporter’s camera flashed from behind a tree. More lights appeared as news vans pulled up to the cemetery.

“The whole world will know now,” Stefan said. “They’ll think we’re crazy!”

But Officer Dragos had made his choice. He put away his handcuffs and picked up a wooden stake.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered. “But my own mother is sick too. If there’s even a chance…”

The circle formed again, bigger now. Officer Dragos stood with the villagers. Camera crews filmed from a distance as Father Mikhail began the ancient prayers.

Old Ioan raised the stake once more. “Remember – no matter what happens, don’t break the circle!”

Mrs. Popescu grabbed her cross tighter. “For my daughter!”

The stake came down. A terrible scream filled the night air. Nobody was sure if it came from the grave or somewhere else.

Little Ana buried her face in her grandmother’s skirt. “Is it over?”

“Not yet, dear one,” her grandmother whispered. “The hardest part is still to come.”

As more reporters arrived and police sirens wailed in the distance, the villagers of Marotinu de Sus prepared to face both the supernatural and modern worlds at once. Their old ways were about to meet the new on this moonlit night in 2004.

When Worlds Collide

The morning sun rose over Marotinu de Sus, but nobody in the village had slept. Police cars and news vans filled the dirt roads. 🌅

“This is Maria Constantin reporting live from Romania,” a TV reporter said into her microphone. “Where last night, villagers performed what may be Europe’s last vampire ritual.”

Inside the village hall, Officer Dragos faced his angry boss.

“You were supposed to stop them!” Chief Inspector Popov shouted. “Not join them!”

“Sir, you don’t understand what it’s like here,” Dragos said softly. “These are my people. Our families are sick.”

“Look!” Mrs. Popescu called out. “My Elena is better today! The ritual worked!” 🌟

“Nonsense,” said Dr. Marinescu from the University. “Your daughter likely had a normal virus that ran its course. There are no such things as vampires.”

But more villagers came forward with stories of sick family members suddenly getting better.

“We’re not criminals,” Old Ioan told the police. “We’re protecting our families the way our grandparents taught us.”

Little Ana tugged at her grandmother’s sleeve. “Will they take Uncle Ioan to jail?”

“No, little one,” her grandmother smiled. “They can’t arrest the whole village.”

Reporters from around the world crowded the village square. Some made fun of the “silly superstitious villagers.” Others tried to understand.

“Our ways may seem strange to you,” Father Mikhail told them. “But they come from centuries of wisdom.”

Dr. Marinescu set up a small clinic in the village hall. “Let me check these recovered patients,” she said. “There must be a scientific explanation.”

Officer Dragos watched his boss talking to reporters. “What will happen to us now?”

“The truth will come out,” Old Ioan said calmly. “Just like the sun always rises after the darkest night.”

As camera crews filmed the scientists working, little Ana held her grandmother’s hand tight. “Are vampires really gone now, Grandma?”

“Perhaps, dear one,” she answered. “But our stories will live forever.”

The Stories We Keep

The sun set on Marotinu de Sus one last time before the big changes came. The police cars were gone. The news vans had left. But nothing would ever be the same. 🌅

“Tell us again, Grandmother!” the children begged, sitting around the fire. “Tell us about the last vampire!”

Five years had passed since that night. The village looked different now. New houses stood next to old ones. Cars drove on paved roads where dirt paths used to be.

“But what happened after?” little Mircea asked. “Did anyone go to jail?”

“No, child. The judge understood our ways. We paid a small fine, and the government made new rules about old customs.”

Dr. Marinescu still visited sometimes. She had written a big book about what happened. Scientists came from all over to study their village. 📚

“Look what I found in my garden!” Maria showed everyone a garlic charm from the old days. The children passed it around carefully.

“We keep the old stories,” Father Mikhail said, “but we also learn new ways. Both are important.”

Officer Dragos, now the police chief, smiled at the children. “Sometimes the scariest monsters are just our fears given shape in the dark.”

“Grandmother,” little Ana asked, “do you still believe in vampires?”

The old woman smiled wisely. “I believe in the power of our stories. They teach us about love, courage, and taking care of each other.”

“The real magic wasn’t in fighting vampires,” Old Ioan told the children. “It was in how we all came together when we were scared.”

The village had changed, but its heart stayed strong. New doctors worked with old healers. Children learned computer coding and ancient folk songs.

“Time for bed!” mothers called to their children. No one worried about vampires anymore.

But sometimes, on dark nights, the old ones still hung garlic by their doors. Just in case. Because some stories are too precious to forget. 🌙