If you haven’t read Dracula, go smack yourself in the head. Then take a long, hot bath and rethink your life. And while you’re at it, bring a copy of Dracula to read in the bathtub.
Dracula is the reason I can’t take Twilight seriously. Because every time someone says a vampire is “hot,” “sexy,” “dreamy,” or any other synonym for “attractive,” I’m like, “Right, but brutal, abusive, hypnotic serial killer. Did you forget those adjectives?”
Because those adjectives are really what vampires are all about. Food. Vampires are about food. And food is blood. Human blood, to be precise. And any attachment a vampire might have to a particular victim is more of a farmer/pig mentality: if I keep you alive longer, you’ll make me more blood. Any sympathies you might have for vampires go out the window pretty early on in Dracula, when the Count throws his three “wives” a bag with a human baby in it for dinner. And then the baby’s mom comes wailing to his doorstep, demanding her baby back, so he sics the wolves on her and they rip her to shreds, because who has time for whiny women banging on your door? He doesn’t even bother eating her.
This vampire is decidedly a villain.
Also, this vampire is one of the first to join English literature (I think technically Carmilla came first). And he’s definitely the best-known. So if you like horror, pick it up. It’s one of my favorites. ♦