Mrs. Elizabeth James and the Death of Count Dracula
“One Garlic Tart to Stake Them All”
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Castle Dracula, Transylvania – October, 1890
Fog curled like gossip around the crooked towers of Castle Dracula. The moon was full, the howls were plentiful, and something evil was stirring deep within the velvet-draped halls.
Count Vlad Dracula, aristocrat of the undead, lay draped over a crimson chaise lounge with one leg artfully flung over the side, sipping from a crystal goblet that absolutely did not contain wine.
“Gregor!” he called, licking his lips. “The innkeeper’s daughter was delightful, but I’m still peckish. Bring me someone… plump.”
But Gregor, his skeletal manservant, did not appear. Instead, the castle’s great wooden doors groaned open with a dramatic flair that would’ve made Shakespeare roll his eyes.
In stepped a figure wearing a bonnet tilted like a mourning hat and an apron that had seen more stains than a battlefield nurse. Flour dust followed her like smoke.
“Good evening,” said Mrs. Elizabeth James, calmly closing the door behind her. “I’m your new cook. Your last one fell into my gravy and evaporated.”
Dracula blinked.
“…I don’t eat food.”
Mrs. James set down her enormous black cauldron with a THUD that shook the gargoyles off the windowsills. “Don’t worry, dear. I didn’t come to feed you. I came to finish you.”
The Setup: Kitchen Catastrophe
The Count summoned his shadows, the bats in the ceiling, and the sentient curtain (don’t ask) — but Mrs. James was already bustling toward the kitchen.
“I’ll only need twenty minutes,” she said, tying her apron. “Fifteen if the bats don’t scream too loud.”
The castle kitchen hadn’t been used in 400 years. The last person to enter it accidentally summoned a demon by touching the wrong whisk. But Mrs. James didn’t hesitate.
She unpacked:
- 78 cloves of garlic
- A bottle of holy water disguised as gin
- A sack labelled “Blessed Breadcrumbs — extra rough-cut”
- And a pie tin forged from melted crucifix medals
Her hands moved with alarming speed. She whistled “Nearer, My God, to Thee” as she mixed, kneaded, and flung herbs through the air like a spiritual grenade.
Soon, a horrifying scent — one part heaven, two parts sulphur, all parts fatal — drifted through the castle.
Dracula groaned. “Is that… garlic?!”
He clawed at his throat. “I can feel my soul shrivelling!”
From the kitchen, her voice rang out:
“Oh, you’re not dying yet, sweetheart. I haven’t made dessert.”
The Encounter: Pie vs. Predator
Dracula, now red-eyed and furious, floated into the kitchen mid-air.
“Foolish mortal! You dare confront the eternal lord of darkness with baking?!”
Mrs. James didn’t even look up. “I’ve ended two emperors, one cursed pharaoh, and a demonic squirrel using nothing but lemon custard. Sit. You’re next.”
She plopped a glowing garlic pie onto the table.
Steam curled into the shape of a cross. The crust hissed. The filling growled softly.
Dracula recoiled. “You witch!”
She smiled. “You say that like it’s an insult.”
He lunged.
She hurled a ladle of holy-water gravy straight into his face.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!
He screamed like a choir of banshees. His fangs steamed. One bat exploded spontaneously in the rafters.
Mrs. James seized the moment. She slapped a slice of pie onto a plate and jabbed it into his open mouth.
“Chew, darling.”
He did.
He had no choice.
The Gastronomic End of Dracula
Dracula froze.
His eyes bulged.
His arms flailed.
And then he began to convulse — not from holy water, nor from prayer — but from a crust so aggressively seasoned that it bypassed undeath and triggered ancient digestive memories.
His stomach made a sound like an earthquake under a cheese shop.
He grabbed the table.
He staggered.
“I… taste… remorse…” he whimpered.
His body contorted into the shape of a question mark. His shadow fled the room independently. He tried to transform into a bat — instead, he turned into a ferret for six seconds and then exploded in a puff of oregano.
Mrs. James stood calmly, fanning herself with a chopping board.
Gregor peeked out from behind the wall, pale as cobwebs. “Is… is he gone?”
She nodded. “Evil never survives my garlic tartlets.”
“Are you a saint?”
“I’m worse.”
Aftermath
Castle Dracula was later sold to a garlic farmer. The villagers danced for three weeks. The bats unionised.
Mrs. James returned to England with her cauldron, a pack of smouldering scones, and a new title:
“The Woman Who Killed a Vampire With Pie.”
She wrote a cookbook (banned in 12 countries), started a catering business for exorcisms, and once catered a werewolf summit with silver-laced sausage rolls.
Epilogue
A letter was later found in Dracula’s study. It read:
“If anyone finds this, beware the woman in the apron. She is not mortal. She is crust and flame. She is the end of all dark things.
Also, I hate raisins.”
— Count Vlad Dracula, 1890. RIP (Roasted In Pie)
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