Sunday Funny Story #5- The Drive-Thru Vampire Museum
It started, as most of our strangest adventures do, with a billboard that was too weird to ignore.
“World’s Only Drive-Thru Vampire Museum — Next Exit!”
Chris slowed down just enough for me to snap a picture of the faded sign. A cartoon vampire with glowing red eyes promised “NO SUNSCREEN REQUIRED!” while pointing a plastic finger toward a gravel side road.
“Please tell me we’re going,” I said, grinning.
“Obviously,” Chris replied, already signaling to turn. “World’s only drive-thru vampire museum? That’s destiny.”
Beth clapped her hands. “I love roadside oddities! Let’s see some vampires in minivans!”
Billy, riding shotgun, groaned. “If something jumps out at us, I’m suing.”
The narrow gravel road wound through overgrown trees until we reached a hand-painted sign reading “Welcome, Mortal Guests — Turn Headlights to Dim and Proceed Slowly.” Below it, another wooden board: “Admission $5 per Vehicle. Honk Once for Entry.”
Chris fished a five from the console and leaned out to drop it into a metal lockbox. When he honked, the rusty gate creaked open as if pulled by invisible hands.
“Okay,” I said, clutching my camera, “either someone’s watching or this place is haunted by a very polite ghost.”
“Or both,” Beth added, already taking a selfie with the sign.
The road led us between towering wooden cutouts of vampire silhouettes. Speakers hidden in the trees crackled to life, and a deep, theatrical voice boomed through the static:
“Velkommen to ze Drive-Thru Vampire Museum! Keep all limbs inside ze vehicle, und remember—ve bite only on Saturdays!”
We burst out laughing.
The first “exhibit” was a mannequin draped in red velvet, standing beside a coffin propped open at a jaunty angle. A plastic bat dangled from the trees on fishing line, swaying with every breeze. The vampire’s fangs were clearly hot-glued on, but the attention to detail—the fake cobwebs, the candlelight flicker from battery tea lights—made it oddly charming.
“Someone put real love into this,” I said softly, lowering my window to snap a photo.
Billy squinted. “Yeah, but… did that thing just move?”
We all froze.
The mannequin’s arm, which had been down a moment ago, was now slightly raised.
Beth gasped. “It didn’t move, Billy. You just want it to move.”
“No,” he insisted. “I swear, it—”
The speaker popped again.
“In ze year 1693, Count Vlassky vanished from his castle—only to return… undead!”
The voice boomed right as a fog machine somewhere near the tree line hissed to life, pumping out a dramatic plume of mist.
Chris chuckled. “I’m giving this place five stars already.”
The path snaked between more vignettes—plastic coffins, mannequins mid-bite, and one scene that looked suspiciously like a repurposed Halloween aisle display. A motion sensor triggered a shrill shriek, and Beth laughed so hard she snorted, clutching her chest.
“Worth every penny,” she said between giggles.
Then came the finale: a full-size vampire “dining hall.” A long table draped in torn lace sat in a small clearing, surrounded by caped figures frozen in eternal feast. Goblets of red-dyed water gleamed in the twilight, and a wooden sign read:
“Blood is Thicker Than Water. But Try the Punch Anyway.”
I leaned closer to get a photo through the window—and jumped when one of the mannequins’ eyes flickered red.
“Whoa!” Chris hit the brakes.
“Motion sensor?” I guessed, but the lights didn’t flash again.
Beth whispered, “Tell me we’re not about to be the next display.”
Billy swallowed audibly. “I’m just saying, if something taps the window, I’m out.”
The speaker crackled once more, softer this time.
“Thank you for surviving your visit… we hope you’ll return—when ze moon is full…”
And with that, the gate at the other end of the loop creaked open.
We emerged back into the daylight laughing and relieved, our tires crunching over gravel. Chris pulled into a small parking area where a shed doubled as a souvenir stand. Inside, a handwritten sign read “Self-Service Gift Shop – Honor System.”
We left five more bucks in the jar and grabbed a bag of plastic vampire fangs and a bumper sticker that read:
“I Brake for Bats.”
Beth immediately popped in her fangs and hissed at Billy through the window. He screamed, then laughed until he couldn’t breathe.
As we drove away, the old radio crackled—one final burst of static before cutting to silence.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.
Chris shook his head. “Probably just interference.”
But as the museum disappeared in the rearview mirror, I could’ve sworn I saw one of those velvet-caped figures turn its head to watch us go.
🧛♂️ Final Tally:
Souvenirs — $10
Creeps per mile — 3
Laughs per scream — 5
Ever visited a drive-thru museum? Tell us your favorite weird one below!
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