The Seyahatname, Evliya Celebi's ten-volume book of travels, records the night of April 26, 1666 in the Circassian village of Pedsi: a six-hour aerial war between Circassian and Abkhaz witches, limbs and flesh falling from the sky, two Abkhaz witches dead, their blood drunk by the victors. The locals called it the night of the karakoncolos and advised him to watch calmly, since it recurs annually. In the same region he logged revenants who rise on that night to drink the blood of the living, and the protocol for dealing with them: assemble the village, consult a witch, find the grave, settle the body. The Ottoman vocabulary was already complete: hortlak for the risen corpse, cadi for the night-flying hag.
Under Ottoman rule the Balkans ran a shared revenant economy: Serbian vampir, Greek vrykolakas (itself a Slavic loan, vukodlak, wolf-hair), Albanian lugat and shtriga, Turkish hortlak and vurkolak. On Ottoman Mykonos in 1701 the French botanist Tournefort watched an exhumation and a heart-burning with his own eyes and reported it with a scientist's distaste. On Chios, Leo Allatius had written the first methodical account back in 1645, including the rule horror fiction still uses: never answer the first voice that calls your name at night.
The striking asymmetry: no Ottoman vampire panic, no imperial decrees, no commission reports splashed across gazettes. Same corpses, same stakes, same borderland, but the Ottoman frame filed the revenant under local custom and spiritual hygiene rather than public emergency. The panic of 1725 to 1732 was a Habsburg media event because the Habsburgs had gazettes, military bureaucrats, and a reading public eager to feel superior to the frontier.
Europe's vampire panic was a press event. The Ottoman version never needed one. What does it say that one empire filed the undead under folklore and the other under breaking news?