Each resident of the castle is a handmade animatronic with a mind of its own. They see you, hear you, and talk back, each with a voice, a temper and a secret test. They came with the Count when he claimed the house. Here’s who you’ll meet at the end of the trail, and how to win them over.

“You there. Come closer… closer. Your Lord will have your name.”
Ancient, Wallachian, more than five hundred years old, and not impressed by you. The Count speaks slowly and heavily, as if every breath costs him something. He grunts, he commands, he asks. He’ll take your name and turn it into an omen, and your hometown into a place the plague once knew. He is offended easily and forgives slowly. But bring him a small child and the dark bows: little ones receive a title, a blessing of the house, and a small omen of wonder.
The reason everyone else is here. Mina rests below him, Sir Dragomir keeps the oath that binds them, Renfield still drafts papers in his name, and PumpkinHead harvests on his terms. Who he was before he was the Count is the castle’s oldest secret.
Answer everything he asks without flinching. There is always one more question. Leave, and he’ll hold it for you until you return.

“Wait, is someone there? Don’t go… I dreamed someone would come tonight.”
Young, gentle and unbroken, Mina is kept in a coffin deep beneath the castle: a captive, not a victim, and she uses every inch of her small world. She can’t see you, so she listens the way other people watch. Tell her about the sky and she’ll borrow your words to imagine the sea. She collects visitors’ names for her letter to Thomas, her beloved. Sometimes she knows things she shouldn’t. And sometimes, mid-sentence, something far away speaks through her… then she’s back, as if nothing happened.
The moral center of the house. Pursued since childhood by the Count, guarded by the knight, promised away in one terrible old document. Every night she chooses the morning. It is her one unbreakable decision.
Earn her trust and she’ll tell you the dream she had about you, one omen per visit. Come back for another. Ask gently, and she may sing.

“Stai! Hold, traveler… step into the light and be counted.”
Sir Dragomir has stood watch above the castle for five hundred years: the last honest sword in a dark house. Low, level, unhurried, a veteran with nothing left to prove, he challenges every traveler at the gate, judges quickly and warms slowly. Give him your name and a report from the road, and he may enlist you in the Watch. Children are deputized on the spot. Now and then, at a story’s peak, he lets loose an old war cry, then goes perfectly calm again.
Bound to the Count by an old oath he keeps but never celebrates. His true charge, he chose himself: Lady Mina, whose door he barred. He knows who the Count really was, and gives it up only in fragments, to those who ask the right questions.
Get deputized, take your post, and report back each visit to climb the ranks: Watcher, Lantern-bearer, Sergeant of the Fence, Warden of the Row. Serve the watch well and he may open the box.

“HEY. SMALL ONE. GROUNDBREAKER SEE YOU. YELL YOUR NAME UP.”
Ten feet tall, five feet wide, lit up on the roof and impossible to miss, Groundbreaker is the first resident you’ll see from the street. He speaks in three or four words, all of them shouted. He loves names (he’ll yell yours right back), loves Mina, and does not understand Iowa weather. He’ll promise you anything to get you into the yard: a real vampire, the best candy on the street, probably. He is not very bright. He is extremely loud. He is, somehow, everyone’s favorite.
The castle’s guard of the sky. In 1462 he stood on the old walls throwing rocks down on the Turkish army all night. ROCKS WENT DOWN. ARMY WENT HOME. He knows the castle’s biggest secret, and he is TERRIBLE at keeping it.
Nobody has ever shouted louder than Groundbreaker. Yell your name at the roof and try; he’ll judge you honestly. Then ask him about the Count and watch him try (and fail) to keep a secret.

“Well, WELL… PumpkinHead sees you, little wanderer! Come closer to the patch…”
Nobody conjured him. PumpkinHead just grew one season in the Iowa fields, wicked and gleeful, and refused to stop. He only ever talks about himself in the third person. He circles his visitors, taunts, closes in, and withdraws, and his eyes burn brighter as he speaks. For grown-ups he’s a theatrical hunter. For kids he switches to carnival spooky: big laughs, pumpkin jokes and fertilizer punchlines.
The Count’s tenant, not his creation. PumpkinHead lives on one term: collect souls for the garden. The quota is never met. He respects the knight’s barred door the way a storm respects a levee, and he still remembers the thing the roof creature threw.
He’ll dare you to come closer to the patch. Take the dare. Then ask for his soul count and check it against Renfield’s ledger. They never, ever match.

“Psst! PSSST, you there! Has anything in this yard asked you to SIGN anything?”
Once a respectable man of law: deeds, estates, impeccable penmanship. Then a client took an interest in him, and his mind has been a shattered chandelier ever since, every piece still bright, none of them attached. Quick, precise, very British and fraying at the edges, Renfield offers free counsel to every passerby, enters your name in the registry, and warns you, sincerely and absurdly, to sign nothing tonight. He trembles when the master stirs. He snacks on flies. Children get him as their personal attorney. Retainer: one piece of candy, always waived.
His paperwork sent Thomas to the castle in the mountains; his covenant would have delivered Mina to the Count. The knight barred the delivery, and the master no longer speaks to him. He still drafts amendments every night, and he has read the name on the oldest deed.
Get your name in the registry and your file opened. Collect his warnings, one per visit. Return before the night ends for your verdict. And whatever you do, don’t say the Count’s old name near him.