Constantine Petrova, 35, had once owned a modest winery outside Moscow. There, among barrels and cellars, he thrived. His wines were complex, his blends sought after by those with refined palates. But misfortune fell upon him—debts, betrayal, a crumbling empire. With nothing left, Constantine fled to America, carrying only his old-world charm and a hunger for reinvention.
From the start, he was striking. At 5'9, dark-haired and brooding, his presence filled every room. His manners were formal, his smile careful. People described him as handsome, but there was something in his eyes—something watchful, something that unsettled. Family back in Russia had teased him for years, calling him “Count” because of his taste for red wines so deep they looked like blood. But Constantine never joined in their laughter.
He carried that silence with him.
The Winemaker in Exile
In New York, Constantine took a job at a liquor store. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept him close to his passion. By night, in the solitude of his apartment, he pressed grapes with near-religious devotion. His hands stained crimson, his cellar filling with bottles. He whispered to the fermenting vats as if they were confidants.
Finally, he perfected his signature vintage. Bold. Smooth. Impossible to forget. He christened it Count Constantine—a nod to the family joke, though there was nothing humorous in his tone.
The Women
It was at the liquor store that Constantine met Sydney, a petite raven-haired woman with crystal-blue eyes. She lingered at the counter, fascinated by his accent, his manner, his dark allure. Soon, they were seen everywhere together.
And then… nowhere.
“She relocated for work,” Constantine explained when asked, his smile unchanged.
Not long after came Miranda—tall, auburn-haired, green-eyed. She laughed brightly, leaning into him as though she had known him all her life. Then, one day, she vanished as well. Constantine dismissed it with a shrug: “It wasn’t working out.”
And so the pattern continued. Each woman more radiant than the last. Each relationship short-lived. Each disappearance left whispers hanging in the aisles of the liquor store.
Yet while women vanished, Constantine’s wine grew famous. Bottles of Count Constantine appeared in shops, its flavor intoxicating customers. They described it as velvet on the tongue, with a haunting aftertaste that lingered long after the glass was empty. Some swore it tasted faintly metallic. Few questioned why.
The Investigation
Then came the missing persons reports. Sydney. Miranda. Others. Friends and family grew desperate. Police began asking questions.
Through it all, Constantine remained calm. Polite. Cooperative. His accent smooth, his eyes unwavering. “I honestly couldn’t tell you,” he would reply, as though puzzled himself.
But Officer Clarkson of the local precinct wasn’t convinced. A seasoned cop with a gut for lies, Clarkson saw something others didn’t.
“There’s something peculiar about him,” Clarkson muttered. “He’s too careful. Too smooth. He’s hiding behind charm. My instincts say he’s bottling more than wine.”
With a warrant secured, Clarkson went to Constantine’s apartment one evening while the Russian worked at the store.
The Cellar
At first, the apartment appeared pristine. Bottles lined shelves, gleaming in the light. The air was perfumed with the sweet tang of fermenting grapes.
But then Clarkson caught it—that undercurrent of rot, faint but undeniable. A sour-sweet stench that clung to his nostrils. He followed it, heart pounding, until he found a heavy wooden door at the back.
The cellar.
The hinges groaned as he pushed it open.
The smell hit him like a blow.
Bodies.
Sydney. Miranda. Others. Their limbs hung stiff and grotesque, draped over barrels as though they had been poured out and discarded. Pale faces stared lifelessly, lips stained red. Some lay arranged in grotesque circles around the vats. Their veins were collapsed, their skin sagging as if something essential had been drained from them.
Nearby, bottles gleamed, filled with liquid the color of garnets. Corks blackened with more than wine. Tools lined neatly, their edges dulled by repeated use.
Clarkson doubled over, retching violently until nothing remained in his stomach. The cellar echoed with the sound of his gagging, the smell of death searing his lungs.
And then—he froze.
The Beast Unmasked
From the far end of the cellar, shadow stirred.
Constantine stepped forward.
Tall. Dark. Sinister. His jet-black hair glistened in the overhead light. For a heartbeat, Clarkson saw only the handsome Russian, the man who charmed women with a smile.
Then Constantine stepped fully into the beam.
And the mask dropped.
His face twisted, bones cracking beneath skin. Cheekbones jutted unnaturally, his jaw lengthened, his mouth stretching into a grin too wide, too sharp. Flesh darkened, calcified, until his visage resembled carved stone. His eyes sank, glowing faintly red in their pits.
No longer a man.
A gargoyle. A malevolent thing of nightmare, risen from shadow.
Officer Clarkson screamed, stumbling back against the barrels. He screamed until his throat tore, until his voice was raw and useless. His flashlight slipped from his shaking hands, its beam quivering across bloodstained floors, illuminating bottle after bottle—each one shimmering as though alive, as though watching.
Constantine advanced, his shadow monstrous against the cellar wall.
The bottles hummed.
And then—silence.
The Next Day
Morning arrived as if nothing had happened. The liquor store bustled, its aisles alive with chatter. Behind the counter stood Constantine once more. Perfect hair. Impeccable smile. His eyes—dark, bottomless.
The bell above the door chimed.
A gorgeous young woman entered, her skin cocoa-dark, her curls tumbling like a waterfall. Her phone was in her hand, already recording.
Her name was Toni Marie. An influencer with fifty thousand followers.
When her eyes met Constantine’s, she brightened, entranced.
“Can I pose with Count Constantine for my followers?” she asked eagerly.
Constantine’s lips curved into that practiced, devastating smile. His eyes glowed faintly with a hunger only he knew.
“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “But first… have a sip of the sample.”
He lifted a crystal glass, the crimson liquid shimmering in the light like molten rubies.
“I’ve been considering a wine tasting party,” he added, his voice velvet, inviting. “The more guests, the better the wine.”
Toni Marie laughed, unaware of the cellar’s silence, unaware of the screams that had been swallowed whole. She raised the glass to her lips.
And Constantine’s smile widened.
***Fictional Story Written By Zainab Ali***
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