You Are Invited

Chapter One

Alexandru muttered what I imagined was a curse word in Romanian as he shouldered the suitcase into his taxi. The boot lid came down with a slam that matched the volume of the man’s grunting and groaning, before he sucked in a long draw of his cigarette, tossed it, and ground it into the pavement with the heel of his shoe. I quickly snatched up the flattened butt. He watched me gingerly holding the tip, and with a shake of his head—and an amused exhale—he continued to watch me throw it into the nearest bin.

I’d been in Brasov less than thirty minutes and already I was about to leave again. I had no desire to face the last leg of my journey, I wanted to sleep, and I found myself staring back at the ground.

Is that your button? I asked, pointing to the grey disc near my shoe.

His gaze followed mine to the tarmac and he cursed again. Yes, that belongs to me. Then he slapped the fabric bomber jacket he was wearing and shook his head. This is new! What happened to quality, eh? He sighed, his greying beard sagging along with his jowls.

It’s an easy fix. Do you have a needle and thread? He stared at me as though I had two heads. That’s okay, I do. It’s in my suitcase though. Could you...? I gestured to the car.

While he opened the boot, I scooped up the button and kept it safely between finger and thumb. Then I quickly rummaged in the suitcase for my emergency sewing kit.

I’m not taking that case out again, he grumbled behind me.

I’ve found it. Here, give me your coat and I’ll fix it while you drive.

He removed the jacked and handed it over. Careful. That is expensive coat. Christmas present from my daughter.

Oh, I see. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I flashed him a reassuring smile. I once made a tube top out of an old pair of jeans.

He paused by the open driver’s side door, as though considering whether to ask further questions. Then he climbed in, clearly deciding not to bother.

Before following him into the car I allowed myself one last peek at the town I had no time to explore. Brasov was quiet around us as I hopped into the back seat. At the end of October, the tourist season was dying down. Only the most hardcore Dracula fans wanted to be in Transylvania for Halloween. Brasov, I thought, was far away from the vampiric nightmare of Stoker’s imagination. The trees were heavy with amber leaves, the houses pastel fronted. Yet there was an atmosphere about the narrow roads, with the bruised contours of the mountains in the distance, that was tangible even on a clear, crisp autumn day like today. I imagined the isolation bad weather would bring, and the sweeping mists coming down from those blue peaks, touching the steeples and bulwarks of the Gothic churches.

On wide roads that felt out of place in such timeless scenery, there were tacky billboards for the Dracula Experience. I imagined fairground ride attractions covered in fangs and blood, weary local actors donning black capes lined with red velvet, all run by young men with dark eyes that dart suspiciously from tourist to tourist.

But soon those busy roads quietened as Alexandru took us deeper into the Carpathian range, to the smooth winding roads of car adverts, flanked by forests and farms.

I reached into my bag for the welcome pack Irene had sent to me. The Event was printed on the front of the document in a bold font. Inside were photographs of the monastery’s stark exterior—tall stone walls, lancet arches and stained-glass windows. A ruined infirmary built separately to the main abbey. Then there were a few pictures of the renovation. Irene Jobert and her mother, Adele, stood next to builders in hard hats, grinning like Cheshire cats. They were in the centre of the monastery, the open part, with the cloister around them. Above them loomed a tall cherry tree in full candy-floss bloom. I could just make out a separate wing behind them, opposite to the newly refurbished rooms. Its stones and arches were in silhouette; ink-tinged and macabre next to the smiling faces and pink blossom.

Is it going well? Alexandru regarded me with his dark eyes beneath bushy, white brows. Framed by the rear-view mirror, most of his mouth was obscured, but I imagined him frowning, unconcerned with such things I found myself troubled by, such as people-pleasing.

I’ll be honest, I confessed. I’m distracted by the view. I placed the document down on the seat next to me.

There was a faint eye-roll visible through the rear-view mirror. You here for vampire shit?

No, I replied. Nothing like that.

You are staying at Sfântul Mihail? he asked. The monastery?

That’s right, yes.

You know about the curse? The legend?

I shook my head. I don’t.

He grunted. Perhaps it’s best you don’t. How long are you staying in Transylvania?

A month, I replied. Maybe longer.

His bushy eyebrows shot up. So long? At the monastery? I did not know it was even... He paused, searching for the word. Habitable. It has been ruins for a long time.

Not quite ruins, I corrected. It’d been empty since the forties, but I believe the company I’ll be working for has bought and renovated part of it.

Well, he said. The locals will not like that.

Aren’t you a local?

Yes, he said. I mean the villagers. It is isolated around there in the mountains. They don’t like outsiders in these areas. The closest village to the monastery is Butnari. Farmers who keep to themselves. Perhaps don’t bother them too much and it will be fine.

We’ll be very respectful, I said, but I had to admit that a shiver ran down my spine.

Placing the button over the remnants of the snapped thread, I quickly sewed it in place and went back to staring out the window. The taxi wound along the serpentine road surrounded by tall spruces, thin silver birches, and the occasional high-reaching oak. They blurred at the edges. Green and gold like Christmas.

The forest is beautiful.

Yes, he said. But they are cutting it down.

Who?

Loggers. He shrugged. They take too much.

Your jacket is fixed now, I said, passing it through the gap between the front seats, placing it carefully down on the passenger side.

Thank you, he said.

How old is your daughter? I asked.

Twenty. His clipped tone made me decide not to ask any further questions.

For a time we fell into silence, while all around us the last dying light of the day set over the spectacular vista. Unfortunately, I’d arrived later than expected in Brasov, after an airport luggage-handlers strike had resulted in flight delays, which in turn resulted in me missing my connection from Bucharest. When I called ahead to inform Irene, which—because of her fame—was surreal to me in many ways, she’d sighed dramatically and told me to get to the monastery as soon as I could because the roads would be tricky at night.

Now that the light was fading, her words were on my mind, but Alexandru kept the car in control, not too fast, confident with the bends. Each road was a thinner echo of the road before. Soon the car had to work harder on the steep incline.

This was nothing like home. It was wilder. The forest sprawled and fought through the dark, roots and branches reaching their fingers and toes towards the road. But nothing like home had been exactly what I wanted. Hadn’t it? A place as far away from home as I could find. An opportunity for change, to be a different person for a while. To leave the empty terraced house behind. My mind drifted back to it, to the room I now kept locked, imagining the dust collecting, the heavy air I’d longed to escape. My chest tightened with fear.

Alexandru broke the silence, pulling me from those thoughts. You are not here for holiday?

No, I said.

Then what will you be doing?

Writing. I’m meeting other creatives for a retreat that we’re filming and streaming on the internet. We all have a social media following and those followers are also patrons, so they can pay for exclusive content.

Alexandru shook his head as though the concept seemed nutty to him. To be fair, I understood why. The strange world of social media influencing is not entirely accessible or easily understood by older generations.

This is what you do for a living?

I laughed. Yes, I suppose it is.

And your parents approve of this... trip?

There was no way for me to answer his questions without lengthy explanations, so I simply made an mmhmm sound.

We were on a narrow road with a steep drop, but his eyes found me in the mirror for a brief glance. There was both warmth and hardness in his expression that reminded me of a father either about to scold his daughter or give her a life lesson. What is your name?

Cath.

Okay, Cath, I will tell you about the curse because you should know. But remember, it is a story, a legend. Truth and fiction combine in this story. A lot of it is not real. Do not let it frighten you. Do you understand?

Yes.

I saw his shoulders relax and decided that Alexandru was a decent man. Good. Sfântul Mihail is an old building. At least two hundred years old but I forget the date. Lived in right up until the unfortunate event in 1946, just before the socialist republic began. The true part is, almost everyone in the monastery died one night. There was one survivor—the abbess. This place is not what you would call a monastery. You call it a nunnery, but we have no distinction between the two in the Orthodox Church. But all of the victims were women.

That’s tragic, I said, sitting up straight, one hand clenched around my emergency sewing kit. My eyes darted from the bouncing headlights of the car, to Alexandru’s reflection in the mirror. Out there the darkness closed in, blocking out the precipitous drop. Enveloped in the night, we existed on our own plane, away from the world.

Yes. Great tragedy. He glanced at me again, but I could tell he was mostly concentrating on the difficult drive. Since then, villagers say the building is cursed. That the souls of the nuns roam Sfântul Mihail. But it is nonsense.

Of course, I replied unsteadily. Ghosts don’t exist.

You’re not a believer. Good. Best to keep sceptical. The other part of the legend is a little... strange. Well, not so strange considering where we are. He hesitated again, and I saw the question in his eyes as he wondered whether to tell me the rest.

Go on, I prompted. I almost wanted to add I can take it but I didn’t.

"They say the bodies were bloodless with wounds at the neck. They say an argument ensued among the villagers. There were those who wanted them to be staked, or have their heads removed, because the old stories of the strigoi are still told in remote places."

"Strigoi is the Romanian word for vampire, isn’t it?" I asked.

Yes, he said. Again, his eyes appeared in the mirror, and again there was a hesitation, a warning. You must understand that most Romanians are not this superstitious.

I nodded to show I understood.

Well, I do not know whether the bodies were decapitated, but I know there are those who claim the ghosts walking the corridors are not ghosts at all.

Chapter Two

The night robbed me of my first glimpse of Sfântul Mihail. It was through hazy yellow lights that I caught sight of old bricks and stained-glass windows. In the darkness, those walls could have been carved into the mountainside. They shared the same bruised blue of the silhouettes seen in the distance from Brasov. Alexandru cut the engine and the lights. It was a darkness I’d not known before. He flicked the lights back on.

When I opened the car door, the night chill tickled my extremities, and the strong breeze tugged at my loose hair. Even Alexandru rubbed his arms as he hurried to the back of the taxi. Before joining him I found it difficult to tear my eyes away from the ill-lit building before me. Now, with the wind and the rustling of the trees around us, the jagged church steeple barely visible against the night sky, and the clear dots of white stars suspended above, I could see how easy it would be to concoct a legend about this place. To imagine life continued beyond what we knew existed. Stalking corridors. Pale fingers dragging against stone. I shivered. Up here we would be utterly alone.

I snapped out of my trance and walked around the car. Alexandru grunted as he pulled the suitcase from the boot.

Thank you for the safe journey, I said, handing him the cash owed, along with a generous tip. He handed half of the tip back to me.

For the button, he said. My wife died, and I would not have done it myself.

I’m so sorry, I said. And then I added, Perhaps next time I’m in your taxi, I’ll show you how to sew.

He laughed. Teach an old dog new tricks, ha!

I smiled, and then I gazed out along the narrow track back down the mountain. It’s a long drive to Brasov in the dark. Perhaps you should stay the night here.

I watched as Alexandru regarded the pale façade of the monastery, currently illuminated by yellow headlights. For the barest of moments he went still, his back held so straight it was stiff. It took that moment to understand the fear emanating from him, which made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

No thank you, I will drive. He reached into his pocket and produced a business card. You must take care now, Cath. Here are my details if you need anything.

It was lovely to meet you. I took the card. Thank you for telling me so much about the history of this place.

I wish it was a better story, he said, ducking into his car.

My heart lurched as he drove away. I thought of those narrow, winding roads, the precipitous drops down the mountainside. It was not a journey I would like to make by myself.

You must be Cath.

The lilt of a faint French accent made me jolt from my thoughts. I tugged my suitcase and turned around to see a tall, slim woman standing in the large, arched entranceway. She wore shorts and a pyjama top. Her feet were bare, and her hair trailed loosely over one shoulder, tendrils of messy curls hugging the curve of her chest. A silk eye-mask had been pushed high up her forehead.

Well, come on, Irene said. It is draughty enough already inside. She rubbed her upper arms as I dragged my suitcase along to greet her. "Of course monasteries just have to be open in the centre. Who designed such a thing? She glanced at me up and down as I approached. Long journey?"

Yeah. Felt that way at least!

You’re here now. You can relax. Most of us have arrived but Nathan is coming tomorrow.

I pulled the suitcase over the threshold and joined her in the chilly corridor. Behind me, the large door thumped closed. Irene locked it with an old-fashioned key, the mechanism clunking into place as it finally hit me: I was sharing air with Irene Jobert, one of the most famous young women on the planet; an influencer with almost ten million Instagram followers; a cancer survivor; a model; a business mogul. My face warmed as I remembered feeling a tingle of excitement the morning I’d checked the post to find her invitation to The Event. Metallic card tucked in a black envelope, Irene’s sloping hand liquid silver, like stardust on the night sky. I didn’t understand why she’d chosen me out of so many, but chosen I had been, and now I was in Romania with her, standing close enough to smell her jasmine perfume.

Are you hungry? She ducked beneath another Gothic archway on our right and brought us into the next room. A laundry area or utility room, with two large washing machines and a huge fridge. I’m not an expert about which white goods are the most expensive, but these definitely appeared to be high-end. She pulled open the fridge door and offered me cooked meat and cheese. This was where the nuns did all their baking. It was not easy getting electricity up here, believe me. We’re lucky to have this fridge. Come on, let me show you the kitchen.

I took the packets of meat and the cheese and followed her through another doorway. The first thing I noticed was an abundance of white. From marble worksurfaces to the white tiled floor and walls. Wow, this isn’t what I expected.

Wait until you step through to the dining room. She raised her eyes.

The dining room was adjacent to the kitchen but had an open plan feel thanks to the large archway. It was vast. There was a chandelier hanging low over a long teak dining table large enough to seat a dozen people. Beneath my feet, a mosaic of colourful tiles spread into a religious image, my toes resting on the halo of a saint I didn’t recognise.

The mix of modern and traditional left me cold, but I had to admit it would be useful to have such a big space for cooking and dining.

This used to be the refectory. It’s where the nuns would eat their meals. Loup did a good job with the restoration because there was nothing but dust here eight months ago, Irene said. Maman and I chose all the facilities. Modern comforts, but still the old, too. We did it well, didn’t we? She spread her fingers over one of the bricks, long nails catching the mortar.

Loup?

The investment company, she said. They had to bring solar panels up here for the electricity. The water system uses the old well as well as rainwater. It’s completely self-contained.

I had no idea so much money had been put behind this. I took the food back into the kitchen and began searching for a plate.

She pulled away from the bricks and rested on one of the barstools. They were smart. Once The Event is over, Sfântul Mihail will be opened as an Airbnb. Knowing all the social media stars stayed here will make it extra valuable.

I found the plates in a cupboard next to the sink. That is clever. Is your mother visiting us, too?

No. Just me. She’s not really involved, but she did help with the décor. She stretched and yawned, revealing the strength of her toned muscles running along her upper arms. The event begins officially tomorrow, and it’s late. If I give you directions to your room, do you think you could find it?

Umm, yes, I suppose so.

Good, she said, standing up and wandering back to the door. Because I need my sleep. Oh, and do not forget to read the rules. She tapped a framed picture adhered to the one plastered wall in the kitchen.

I walked across to get a better view, all the while, Irene’s fingernail continued tapping the glass.

Remain

Engage

Represent

You must sleep here each night, she said. "Therefore, remain. At least one person must be engaging with fans at all times, either by providing content or using the message board to talk to them. We will take shifts for the night-time. This is a global event. We must cover all time zones. And remember you are representing Loup, and me, and every participant in this event. That means all content must be appropriate. Nothing X-rated or political or religious. You understand?"

Got it.

Oh, and you should know that the internet connection is good, but the phone coverage not so much. You might not be able to make calls in the monastery. We had an aerial and a satellite dish put up, but we can’t force the telephone companies to build towers. She shrugged. You can email and send WhatsApp messages. The one other thing I recommend is not getting distracted. After all, you paid to come here. You won’t make your money back if you don’t follow the rules.

She tapped the glass again.

I meant what I said in the invitation. This was the best decision of your professional life. She grabbed my shoulders and leaned closer. Let me make you rich. And then she smiled, told me where my bedroom would be, and left me alone in the two-hundred-year-old monastery.

I WAS ALREADY USED to rules by that point. Entrants had to pay two hundred pounds up front to enter. Then, if chosen, there was a five-thousand-pound fee, not including travel expenses. All entrants had to have at least fifty thousand followers on Instagram, Twitter, YouTube or TikTok. I had sixty-five thousand followers at the time, more now. We also had to earn at least one hundred thousand US dollars per annum, after tax. I made over two hundred thousand.

And I was a nobody.

Irene Jobert had over ten million followers, a make-up company, a fan base—the Renees—and at least one corporate sponsor, the illusive Loup, who created this event. For four weeks, five social-media content creators would live-stream our retreat in the Carpathian Mountains. In order to see our content, users would pay for access. On top of that subscription fee, patrons could donate for special content. They’d pay, ask us to do whatever, and if it was a reasonable request, we’d do it.

It’s the new world. The internet has created thousands of entrepreneurs making money from their hobbies; from Etsy artists, to lifestyle bloggers; from make-up artists, to writers. This world is about sharing: knowledge, skill, humour. But most of all, it’s about monetising all of those things.

The truth is, I’ve never had a job. I finished my degree in English three years before The Event at the age of twenty-two and immediately wrote a book set in a fantasy world called Akarthis. When I self-published that book, I started to earn a bit of money through online sales. Those sales and the money grew every time I wrote and published another book, as did my number of readers and followers. When I started giving my followers the freedom to make suggestions for future stories, the Akarthis world grew in popularity again, with readers interested in the idea of having autonomy over their favourite characters.

But one day in the future, I might publish a book, and no one will buy it. Or I might find that the platform I rely on for my book sales has disappeared. One day it might all end. It wasn’t greed that compelled me to join The Event, it was anxiety about an uncertain future and a need to make hay while the sun continued to shine in my direction.

You may be wondering why I, and the others, paid so much money to come here,