Hotel Transylvania

The year is 1895. Perched atop a mist-shrouded hill, a grand house lay silent, its lights extinguished as if in slumber. A lone bat, a fleeting shadow against the moonlit sky, soared towards a balcony, its destination a pair of glass doors. With an unseen force, the doors swung inward, revealing Count Dracula in his cloaked, fanged glory.

He approached a crib in the corner, a gentle smile touching his lips. “Peek-a-boo!” he cooed. But the infant inside, a tiny baby boy, startled and began to cry. “No, no, no, no, no,” Dracula apologized, scooping up his son. “Hush, little vampire, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna bite the head off a bird.” The song, odd as it was, brought a gurgle of laughter from his son.

Years later, a toddler Maven rode a toy horse through the halls, his father chasing close behind. “I’m going to get you, little Maven!” Dracula teased. But Maven, noticing an open door, asked, “What out there?” Dracula swiftly scooped him up, a note of fear in his voice. “Oh, we never go out there. Ever.” The outside world was a forbidden mystery, a place of danger that Dracula vowed to shield his son from, forever.