Love's Requiem

By Rebecca Ivey

"Romania, where beauty conceals a whisper of the abyss, seduction unravels secrets, and intrigue fuels nightmares. Reality fractures, revealing truths more chilling than fiction. Dare to step into the shadows and confront the darkness that awaits."

Carolina, etched by years of her father's cruelty, prayed not for salvation, but for oblivion. Little did she know, a hungry ear lurked in the shadows – not in the heavens, but in the crimson gleam of Sebastian's eyes. As the earth swallowed her tormentor, Carolina found herself swept away by the alluring vampire, into a world cloaked in moonlight and shadowed desire. As one life was laid to rest, another was born.

Sebastian, with his unearthly beauty, easily shattered the bars of her fear. Yet, within her, he awakened a dormant beast – a thirst for a different kind of vengeance, one painted in shades of crimson and fueled by Carolina's own suffering. He had unleashed a force he could barely control, one that threatened not just Carolina's soul, but his own very existence.

Dare to follow them into the haunted heart of Romania, where nightmares bleed into reality and the gates of Hell creak open. Be warned, traveler, for amidst the captivating facade, sinister truths lurk, waiting to ensnare the unsuspecting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Montgomery Coleman Publishing
• Release date: Feb 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224893614

Book preview

Love's Requiem

A love story carved in flesh.

Author & Creator: Rebecca. L Ivey

Jellico, Tennessee. United States

© United States Copyright 2024

Professionally Published & Edited by: Montgomery Coleman Publishing

1501 NW North Ridge Dr,

Blue Springs, Missouri. United States

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the author, except as permitted by U.S.

copyright law.

All Rights Reserved

Rebecca's writing has been described as vein busting; slaughterhouse horrors combined with provocative obscurity. She excels in intense fear-shock writing in which she has won multiple awards and compensation.

Rebecca's writing is not for the young, the easily offended or for the faint of heart which is why it is proudly listed in the 18+ adult category.

Trigger Warning

Contains explicit sexual situations, blood & violence, and intense, graphic scenes

Authors Note................................................................................ 4

The Burial - Born from death ....................................................... 6

The Forbidden - Collector of secrets ......................................... 14

The Vision – A mortal flame....................................................... 27

The Turn - A beautiful mutation ................................................ 36

Alone - Tormented by her memory ........................................... 51

To Romania - The thresh hold of Hell ........................................ 60

At the mercy of The New Order ................................................ 76

Dining With the Dead - Knife against bone ............................... 87

Wallachia - Solace in the storm ................................................. 97

The Warhorse – Flames of Wallachia ...................................... 112

Blood and guts – A life for a life ............................................... 124

Forest of the damned - Domain of the forgotten.................... 133

Chained to my fate .................................................................. 146

Reawakening - A bloody shadow ............................................. 163

The phantom of Wallachia....................................................... 179

A love story carved in flesh ...................................................... 190

Credits ...................................................................................... 196

Authors Note

As an author, I fully believe that a good story comes from lots of research and a clear understanding of what you're writing about. I have spent hours upon hours researching Vlad the Impaler. I have studied Romania, homing in on fine details of the land and culture. This book has been almost 2 years in the making and professionally edited for quality. Deliberately created to be readable, and not dreadfully outstretched.

Written with lots of time, dedication, sleepless nights, headaches, tears, writer's cramps, and, yes, enough shredded paper to form a dragon's nest. I have devoted the past two years of my life to this story.

So, dear reader, open this book and step into the blood-soaked streets of Romania. Meet Sebastian, a tall, good-looking, and very persuasive stranger, and Carolina, his not so innocent lover. He thinks that she's just another prey to add to his treasure trove of beautiful women, but there's something different about this one.

Remember, there are always two sides to every story, so listen closely to the whispers not just of horror, cruelty and blood-soaked sheets, but of courage, of cunning,

and of a love that you’re willing to give the ultimate sacrifice for.

This is my story, but ultimately, it's yours to decipher.

Dive deep, question, and lose yourself in the echoes of a bygone era. I can only hope that the whispers from Romania resonate long after you turn the final page.

As always, if you enjoy this story, please consider leaving a review. Your reviews not only appeal to other readers, but they also give me the courage and drive to continue writing.

With ink-stained fingers and a heart full of gratitude,

The Burial - Born from death

It all began on a cold, wet day in November. I remember that miserable day well. The somber memory will forever be wretchedly sketched into my mind. It was the day that I buried my father.

Seeing his casket in the soggy, bitter ground was the single most horrific moment of my life.

The abuse that I had endured by my father was a well-guarded secret. I had taken care of him for years after he fell ill with cancer.

As the disease took control, and his body weakened, his abuse became intolerable. Each day was filled with appalling verbal abuse. The physical abuse was shocking and troublesome, but it was the sexual torture that had pushed me into pure hatred and detestation.

I kept my secret closemouthed and silent, from both shame and anxiety. However, I prayed for his death daily, pleading for mercy and

sympathy. When his passage came it was both welcoming and traumatizing.

His final breath was a rusty rasp, a stark contrast to the booming voice that once

reverberated through the walls, ordering,

belittling, and breaking me. I watched, my heart a battleground of conflicting emotions. Relief, heavy and unexpected, threatened to drown the years of anger and hurt that had festered beneath the surface.

Yet, the trauma clung to me like a second skin.

Decades of walking on eggshells, anticipating the next outburst, had etched themselves into my very being. Every creak on the floorboard, every raised voice in the street, sent tremors through my body. The silence left by his absence was puzzling, filled both with peace, and the ghosts of past abuse.

Minutes bled into hours before I called the coroner. The house was a mausoleum of

despised memories.

I sorted through possessions, each object a trigger – the dented bowling trophy, a silent witness to years of forced participation, the leather belt hanging stiffly in the closet, a chilling reminder of punishments past. The sheer silk gown that I had been obligated to wear. With each discarded item, I shed a layer of the dutiful daughter, letting the resentment bubble to the surface. I savored the peace and silence every possible minute.

The restfulness was not just swathed by solitude, but by the absence of a final image, a physical memory of my father that I did not want to have.

My father loathed the idea of embalmment, wishing for his body to be untouched by

preservatives and chemicals. There had been no viewing of his body, and no chance to mourn.

His wish for an untouched body, while perhaps grounded in his own beliefs, now left a gaping hole in the grieving process for my family. It was a well-planned, perfectly cruel irony - his desire for purity while denying his loved ones the closure of a goodbye in the flesh, yet I was grateful.

On the day of his burial, I had deliberately arrived early. My time was best served in solitude away from the piercing eyes of people I barely knew, and of family who scarcely cared.

My unexpected arrival was designed not only for comfort, but for the harsh embrace of solitude.

The wrought iron gates creaked open with a groan, their rusty-black silhouette stark against the pearl grey dawn. I pushed through, gravel crunching underfoot, the air crisp and smelling of damp earth and saturated grass. The

headstones rose like silent sentinels, each one a

whispered story of a life lived, and a legacy left behind.

His grave was wide open, the coffin already consumed, swallowed by the sludgy earth. A peculiar depiction of the awaited burial.

I contemplated the abuse that I had endured by his hand. The resentment boiling inside of me, quelled only by the cool mist blanketing the hushed cemetery.

You don’t deserve my tears, your sleazy, depraved bastard. I quietly whispered. I could not command the bitter tears swelling in my eyes. My whisper hung heavy in the air,

merciless and grim.

The silence stretched taut, mirroring the turmoil within me. Were the tears a reflection of my own vulnerability, or a premonition of something formidable yet to come?

He was already there, leaning against the weathered granite of a mausoleum, his dark figure a stark contrast to the pale marble. As I approached, a single raven took flight from the rooftop, its wings beating a tattoo against the stillness. The first rays of the sun were just cresting the horizon, casting long shadows that flickered like phantoms across tombstones.

His face was hidden in shadow, obscured by a wafting willow tree. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a wisp of smoke curling into the chilled air.

There was a stillness about him, an air of quiet contemplation that seemed to echo the peace of the graveyard.

I gave no thought to his presence, I assumed that he too was mourning privately amongst the calm, peacefulness that only a cemetery could provide.

The rain began lashing down unsympathetically, an icy curtain across the realm of death, blurring the edges of tombstones and drowning out all sound but its own insistent rhythm.

I stood there, gazing into the somber hole that was now my father's home. Tears mingled with the rain on my face, a salty counterpoint to the bitter tang of the downpour.

Is it grief that drives you out, seeking solace in this bone-chilling storm? His voice was oddly familiar and yet unsettlingly strange.

Is it a love lost, a dream shattered or the weight of disappointment heavy on your shoulders that lures you here?

There was a peacefulness in his smokey voice.

An inviting, sultry echo tempting me to react. The

rain became a mirror, reflecting the tears that fell from my eyes, each drop swallowed by the downpour. I choked back the words that were forming on my lips. I wanted to scream. What kind of human being would intrude upon a lady saying goodbye to her father?

I turned, preparing myself for the altercation that would surely take place. As he stepped out of the shadows my anger was immediately

replaced by numbing fear.

The mist clung to the ancient headstones,