‘In Search of Dracula’ is one of the finest books on the subject you can come across. Reading the tome is like tracing a long ancestral scar through the flesh of European imagination, from medieval Transylvania to the flickering screens of modern horror.
I first came to it, in September this year, not out of any gothic fascination but from a curiosity about how a myth can be born, buried, and resurrected by history itself. McNally and Florescu’s work stands as both historical investigation and imaginative archaeology — a rare fusion of meticulous scholarship and eerie storytelling, where the line between archive and afterlife is perilously thin.
In the preface, McNally and Florescu begin with an act of invocation rather than introduction. They don’t so much ‘present’ Dracula as ‘summon’ him. Their words carry the tone of scholars who have spent too long in libraries where myths breathe in the margins. There’s something deeply personal here — a sense that this project is not merely about uncovering the truth behind a legend, but about confronting how legends themselves shape truth. Reading their preface feels like crossing a threshold — one where the academic and the spectral merge.
They write not as sensationalists but as men possessed by historical empathy, determined to give Dracula — both the vampire and the man — a fair hearing. It’s this tone, this balance between curiosity and compassion, that anchors the book’s authority.
The opening chapter lays down the essential tension: the Dracula of ‘fiction’ versus the Dracula of ‘history’. The authors draw a remarkable triad — the folkloric bloodsucker of Eastern Europe, the literary vampire of Bram Stoker, and the real-life Wallachian prince Vlad Țepeș, the Impaler. It’s an act of triangulation that still feels revolutionary.
What struck me most here is the idea that myth doesn’t erase history — it ‘feeds’ on it. The vampire is not a denial of the past, but a grotesque continuity of it. When McNally and Florescu write about the fear of plague, the desecration of graves, the whisper of superstition across Carpathian villages, they remind us that folklore was never fiction — it was a way of explaining the inexplicable.
And beneath it all lies the dark heartbeat of Eastern Europe itself — a region perpetually caught between empires, religions, and the shadow of its own mortality.
In Chapter 2, the narrative takes on a detective’s pulse. The authors retrace Stoker’s research for ‘Dracula’ with a fervor that borders on literary necromancy. Stoker, it seems, never visited Transylvania; his “castle” was an amalgam of rumor, reference, and borrowed geography. Yet McNally and Florescu uncover how meticulously Stoker mined the available sources — from travelogues to obscure histories — to conjure a setting that ‘felt’ real enough to last a century.
Reading this chapter, I found myself reflecting on how imagination and scholarship can be twin engines of immortality. Stoker’s ignorance became his advantage — because the less one knows, the freer the myth becomes.
Chapter 3 is where the pulse of history quickens. Vlad III, the Impaler — the historical Dracula — enters with all the terror and tragic grandeur of a Shakespearean villain. The authors describe his reign not merely as cruelty but as political theatre, a spectacle of fear necessary for survival in a fractured world.
I could almost see the forests of impaled corpses rising like obscene monuments under the dusk of Wallachia. Yet the text resists moral simplification. McNally and Florescu refuse to condemn or glorify him. They instead portray a ruler shaped by chaos — brutal because the times demanded brutality.
There is something disturbingly modern in that logic, echoing through centuries of political cruelty disguised as pragmatism.
If the previous chapter is about blood, Chapter 4, ‘Prince of Wallachia’ is about power. Here we see Vlad as a strategist, a patriot even — a man trying to hold a fragile principality against the Ottoman tide. McNally and Florescu reconstruct alliances and betrayals with almost novelistic flair.
What stayed with me most was how they show that the same acts that turned him into a monster in Western chronicles made him a ‘hero’ in Romanian folklore. It is the eternal paradox: every tyrant is someone’s saviour.
Reading this, I felt the chill of historical relativism — how every horror, given the right context, can be recast as virtue.
In Chapter 5, ‘Crusader Against the Turks’, the moral greyness continues. The authors present Vlad not only as a local ruler but as part of the larger geopolitical narrative — the Christian crusade against the expanding Ottoman Empire. He becomes, paradoxically, both a nationalist and a pawn in the European crusading imagination.
It is a fascinating dissection of myth-making at the state level: propaganda, reports written for foreign courts, and the slow mutation of political narrative into legend. The “vampire” was born, in part, from fear and foreignness — the idea that the East, with its cruel princes and strange rituals, was a place of unholy appetites.
In this, the book becomes not just about Dracula, but about how Europe has historically defined itself against its own shadow.
Chapter 6, ‘Castle Dracula’, is the gothic heart of the story. This chapter feels cinematic — the authors physically travel to the ruins in Transylvania often claimed as Dracula’s castle, notably Poenari and Bran. Their descriptions are both archaeological and poetic. The stones themselves seem to breathe.
They remind us that the castle is less a place than a psychological construct — a symbol of confinement, of haunted inheritance. And as I read, I felt that this “castle” is really a metaphor for history itself — looming, half-ruined, yet impossible to escape.
In the macabre chronicles of impalements, betrayals, and grotesque punishments, of Chapter 7, McNally and Florescu read the propaganda literature of the 1400s not as mere reports but as ‘performances of fear’. It is media before the media age — pamphlets circulating tales of monstrous cruelty across Europe, ensuring that Vlad became a creature of ink long before he was one of blood.
The chapter also reveals how atrocity becomes aesthetic — how horror, when written down, becomes oddly pleasurable. This paradox haunts the reader as much as it does the historian.
In Chapter 8, ‘The Historical Dracula, 1462–1476: Imprisonment and Death’, the fall of Vlad is rendered with almost tragic restraint. Betrayed, imprisoned, and finally killed, his story dissolves into ambiguity. McNally and Florescu emphasize that no one truly knows where he died or where he was buried. This uncertainty is the seed of immortality — for legends thrive in gaps, not facts.
As I read this, I thought of how every myth ends with an unfinished sentence.
In Chapter 9, the authors visit Snagov Monastery, where Dracula’s supposed tomb lies — empty. This section is pure gothic travelogue, and perhaps the most atmospheric moment in the book. The emptiness of the grave feels like a cosmic joke — the body of history is missing, replaced by the echo of our collective fear.
It is here that ‘In Search of Dracula’ transcends its genre and becomes a meditation on the futility of closure. Some stories are meant never to end.
In Chapter 10, ‘Vampirism: Old World Folklore’, McNally and Florescu step back from history into anthropology, tracing the ancient folklore of the undead across Slavic and Balkan traditions. They show how the vampire was a social metaphor — for disease, guilt, and corruption. Reading this chapter, I felt a strange kinship between science and superstition — both are ways of managing uncertainty.
This section is a reminder that the supernatural is often a mirror for the social. The vampire, after all, drains not only blood but meaning.
In Chapters 11 and 12, the narrative expands into the twentieth century. Stoker’s literary vampire becomes a cultural phenomenon — carried from penny dreadfuls to Hollywood, where the cape and fangs turned into universal shorthand for seduction and death.
McNally and Florescu write with tenderness for how art evolves, how a local tyrant became the world’s most famous monster. Reading these chapters feels like watching myth adapt to survive each new age — the vampire as capitalist, as lover, as immigrant, as contagion.
It’s not just cultural history — it’s a study of endurance through transformation.
Chapter 13, the final chapter returns us to the idea that ‘Dracula’ is not a person but a process. He is history’s self-portrait in shadow. The authors conclude with humility — that the search for Dracula is really the search for ourselves, for what we fear losing and what we secretly desire.
Moreover, in that sense, McNally and Florescu’s book is not merely historical scholarship — it’s existential cartography.
What impact did this book have on me?
Reading ‘In Search of Dracula’ altered how I think about myth, power, and memory. It made me realize that the undead are not supernatural beings — they’re our own unfinished stories.
Each impalement, each superstition, each retelling across centuries is a way of negotiating trauma.
This book taught me that to study horror is to study history stripped of its illusions. It also reshaped my sense of reading itself — that every text, like every tomb, hides an absence at its core. And perhaps that’s what keeps it alive.
Why Should You Read This Book Today?
Because ‘In Search of Dracula’ is not just about vampires; it’s about how we construct our monsters — and, more importantly, why we need them. In an era where truth and spectacle are entwined, McNally and Florescu’s meticulous blending of scholarship and storytelling feels prophetic.
It is a book for anyone who suspects that myth is history’s subconscious. For readers who understand that the undead aren’t in coffins — they’re in our collective memory, waiting to be read again.
My Final Verdict:
‘In Search of Dracula’ endures as both a historical investigation and a metaphysical experience — an elegant collision between the archive and the abyss. It stands beside Carlo Ginzburg’s ‘The Night Battles’ and Marina Warner’s ‘From the Beast to the Blonde’ as one of those rare books that prove the humanities can still make your pulse quicken.
It is not perfect — its prose sometimes meanders, and its evidence is occasionally speculative — but that, I think, is its truest gesture. The authors know that history itself is vampiric: feeding on fragments, sustained by conjecture.
When I closed the book, I did not feel I had learned the truth about Dracula. I felt, instead, that I had glimpsed something more enduring — the truth about how we ‘dream’ our monsters into being.
In the end, the empty grave at Snagov is the perfect metaphor for the modern mind: endlessly curious, half-afraid, still searching.
And perhaps that’s all any of us are doing — reading in the dark, hoping the page will turn before the dawn breaks.