Dracula the Undead: A Chilling Sequel to Dracula

by Freda Warrington

  Dracula the Undead

  A chilling sequel to DRACULA by Bram Stoker

  Winner of the Dracula Society’s

  BEST GOTHIC NOVEL Award, 1997

  Freda Warrington

  www.fredawarrington.com

  DRACULA THE UNDEAD

  Copyright © 1997, 2009, 2016 Freda Warrington

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Art by © Selfpubbookcovers/ Viergacht

  Cover design by Freda Warrington

  Bloodwine Books 2016

  Some reviews of Freda Warrington’s work

  Freda Warrington is the author of twenty-one novels of fantasy, alternative history, gothic vampire romance, and the supernatural. Elfland won the Romantic Times Award for Best Fantasy Novel (2009), Dracula the Undead won the Dracula Society’s Award for Best Gothic Novel (1997), and Midsummer Night was in the American Library Association’s Top Ten Fantasy Novels of 2010. Here are some reactions to her work:

  “Dracula the Undead by Freda Warrington is a true rarity – a sequel to a literary classic that doesn’t pale in comparison... She does Stoker proud in her deft handing of horror and suspense.” – Setisays.blogspot

  “Dracula the Undead is a rich sequel, the best out there... capturing the romantic and gothic spirit of the Victorian era... with great pacing and a creative plot.” – Darkcornerbooks.com

  “By far the best mainstream fantasy I’ve read this year.” – Waterstone’s Magazine (on The Amber Citadel)

  “She writes expertly and her characterisation is complex and convincing.” – Starburst

  “A glittering treasure trove and a stunning read.” – Tanith Lee (on Elfland)

  “Storytelling that takes you where you don’t expect to go, and that exquisite sense of wonder that makes the heart of this old reader sing.” – Charles de Lint (on Elfland)

  “The plot is complex, often shifting unexpectedly, and leaves you wondering what’ll happen next. That you also worry about the characters is a mark of Warrington’s fine writing.” – SFX

  IF YOU ENJOY THIS BOOK, PLEASE WRITE A REVIEW!

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  www.fredawarrington.com

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Reviews

  Dracula the Undead

  Expanded Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Freda Warrington

  About The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III

  About the Blood Wine Sequence

  DRACULA THE UNDEAD

  “How eagerly is the Devil welcomed under a beautiful form or a fascinating presence, a silvery tongue or a gilded offer of assistance; yet he is the same as would be loathed if presented to the gaze as the incarnation of filth, ugliness, wickedness or fraud.”

  –J. Charles Wall

  Seven years ago we all went through the flames; and the happiness of some of us since then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured. It is an added joy to Mina and to me that our boy’s birthday is the same day as that on which Quincey Morris died. His mother holds, I know, the secret belief that some of our brave friend’s spirit has passed into him. His bundle of names links all our little band of men together; but we call him Quincey.

  In the summer of this year we made a journey to Transylvania, and went over the old ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid memories. It was almost impossible to believe that the things which we had seen with our own eyes and heard with our own ears were living truths. Every trace of all that had been was blotted out. The castle stood as before, reared high above a waste of desolation.

  When we got home we were talking of the old time – which we could all look back on without despair, for Godalming and Seward are both happily married. We were struck with the fact, that in all the mass of material of which the record is composed, there is hardly one authentic document; nothing but a mass of type-writing, except the later note-books of Mina and Seward and myself, and Van Helsing’s memorandum. We could hardly ask anyone, even did we wish to, to accept these as proofs of so wild a story. Van Helsing summed it all up as he said, with our boy on his knee:–

  “We want no proofs; we ask none to believe us! This boy will some day know what a brave and gallant woman his mother is. Already he knows her sweetness and loving care; later on he will understand how some men so loved her, that they did dare much for her sake.”

  Jonathan Harker.

  –from DRACULA by Bram Stoker

  DRACULA THE UNDEAD

  Note

  Some of the documents in the following account passed into our hands only a considerable time after the events they describe. Nevertheless, in my typewritten transcription, I have incorporated them in as close an approximation of chronological order as possible. In this way, we were able to piece together what had happened, and thus understand – too late, it is true – the manner in which, so soon after my husband wrote his postscript to our dreadful adventures, the disaster gathered and swept over us anew.

  –Mina Harker

  Chapter One

  JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

  22 June

  Van Helsing has proposed a journey to Transylvania. The very idea has given me such a shock that I have come into my study to turn over the prospect in my mind; to see if setting down my thoughts in my journal will help me to reach a decision.

  It is nearly seven years since we made our last trip and destroyed the monster, Count Dracula. There is something significant, almost magical about the figure seven; it seems an anniversary of great meaning, coinciding as it does with the new century. It is like the crossing of a symbolic bridge. Quite irrational, yet very potent, so Van Helsing says. At least, that is how he explains the sudden dwelling of our thoughts, in recent months, on the events of seven years ago.

  As I sit in my study, contemplating the garden through the tangle of pink climbing roses that droops across the window, I cannot help reflecting upon our happiness since Mina and I came to live in Exeter, in the house of my dear late friend Mr Hawkins, who was as much a father and mentor as a kind employer to me. We miss him still, and it feels wholly right that we have made his home our own. It was what he wished. Mina and I have had every reason for contentment (excepting only the frequent illnesses of our boy). Why, then, is it that of late I have been plagued by memories and nightmares of Dracula?

  Mina, I know, thinks that I have never been my old self since my ordeal at Castle Dracula. I have been happy; I thought the ghosts would slumber for ever. But several times in the past months I have woken, sweating and trembling, from some oppressive dream of a smothering darkness, dust-laden cobwebs and malevolent scarlet eyes.

  Van Helsing says that it is a natural working of the mind, to submerge bad memories for a time then to be ambushed by their sudden return to the surface. There is a lingering terror that the monster is not truly gone; that time has deceived one’
s memory. The good professor’s solution is drastic. “A journey back over the old ground will serve a dual purpose,” he said. “First, to reassure ourselves that the evil was, indeed, utterly destroyed, to drive out sick imaginings with healthy reality. Second, to perform a Christian rite at the spot, to bless it and thus ensure – for the sake of that country and of Dracula himself, as much as our own – that the haunts of the monster are cleansed and his wretched soul truly at peace. To that end, all those of our little band who survived must go; that is, Mina and Jonathan, Lord Godalming, Dr Seward, and myself.”

  I confess, I do not want to go. The thought fills me with panic. But Mina is in accord with Van Helsing, even though it will mean her being separated from Quincey for several weeks. If she thinks it is important enough to leave the boy, then I cannot argue.

  Well, I have made my decision. We must go; I must face my fears. Yet I have the gravest reservations. At the very thought of Transylvania, darkness presses on my eyes and my heart tries to lift out of my chest in cold terror. A brandy. God help me hide these fears from Mina!

  Memo: Must ask Joseph to cut away these roses from the window. They are overblown, they obscure the view and their thorns scratch at the window. If they are not pruned, I believe they will choke the whole house.

  * * *

  LETTER, MINA HARKER TO QUINCEY HARKER

  14 July, Buda-Pesth

  My darling Quincey,

  Did you receive our letter of yesterday? That was written on the train from Vienna, but we are now arrived in Buda-Pesth and the city is beautiful. Cities, I should say, since the river Danube divides the two parts. We showed you on the map before we left, do you remember? Papa and I have been strolling around some magnificent buildings of every imaginable style. I wish you were with us. There are delightful fountains everywhere, which you would love. One day, when you are older and stronger, you will travel with us, I promise.

  We are staying here for two days, before travelling south and east to see the mountains of Transylvania. Then it will be time to begin our journey home. Pleasant as it is to travel, it will be so much more exciting to see you again!

  I hope you are feeling stronger and eating well. The fresh summer air is good for you, so get plenty of it – only take care not to over-tire yourself, or catch a chill. Be good for Mrs Seward and Nurse. Papa and your uncles Arthur, John and Abraham send love and kisses – as do I. I shall write again tomorrow – until then,

  Your loving,

  Mama.

  * * *

  MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

  18 July

  How strange it feels to retrace the steps that Jonathan first took more than seven years ago, and in which I followed – in such dire circumstances, yet with such loyal friends! – a few months after. By train to Munich, onwards to Vienna and Buda-Pesth. As well as Jonathan and myself, all our party is here: Abraham Van Helsing, Dr Seward, Lord Godalming. All, that is, except brave Quincey Morris, who gave his life to save us. He is with us in spirit, I know.

  We have time to look round this time and Buda-Pesth is delightful, an eclectic mix of gothic, baroque and classical architecture, with water burgeoning everywhere in the form of fountains, springs and hot baths. We are staying two nights with a friend of Van Helsing’s, Professor André Kovacs of Pesth University. In a way I wish we could forge on with our journey, tiring as it would be, rather than interrupt it for social calls. Not that I feel unsociable, but I dearly wish this journey to be over as soon as possible. The past, and the thought of going back over the ground where the events took place, casts a shadow over my heart. However often I tell myself it is all over and there is nothing to fear, I cannot shake it off!

  I am sitting in an airy room with a most lovely view across the Danube. Professor Kovacs, a bachelor, is a delightful man, tall and energetic, with a fine intellect. His features are rather strong and heavy but his ready smile and brown eyes reveal a kind soul. He has the most wonderful head of thick silver-grey hair! He lives in this house with his widowed brother, Emil, and niece, Elena. The brother I like less, though I know one should not go by first impressions. He is courteous enough, but seems always to be frowning and displeased. He is an artist. Perhaps we should excuse his disagreeable demeanour as artistic temperament. At any rate his daughter, Elena, seems unspoiled by it. She is eighteen and a most charming girl, quiet, demure and self-effacing. A little lacking in spirit, if anything.

  They have another guest, a cheerful, blond young man named Miklos. He is one of the Professor’s students and paying court, I gather, to Elena. Professor Kovacs treats him like a son.

  We have not explained our reasons for making this journey to Transylvania. I believe Van Helsing has told them we are simply enjoying a tour. I do hate to tell untruths, and that would have been another reason to travel with speed and privacy. Still, I must not let the others think I am ungrateful for this warm Hungarian hospitality!

  They are calling us now for dinner. I will continue this as soon as I may.

  19 July

  We have had a change of plan. It will inconvenience us hardly at all, except that we will be unable to talk freely among ourselves about certain matters as we travel – but perhaps that is just as well. It will make the journey seem less burdensome.

  Last night at dinner, Emil was speaking of his intention to go to Transylvania with his daughter to paint a series of landscapes. Professor Kovacs was making a joke of this. “The peasants of Transylvania come to Buda-Pesth to find work,” he said, “while all the artists of Buda-Pesth flock to Transylvania to paint!”

  Van Helsing laughed. “Is this considered a fair exchange?”

  Emil told us that he knows a family of Szekely farmers with whom he has twice before spent the summer in order to paint. Their farm, he said, is on the edge of a village beyond Bistritz and near to the Borgo Pass. As he spoke, Jonathan looked at me, and there passed between us a silent mutual agreement to say nothing. It was Van Helsing, however, who at once exclaimed, “But that is our destination; I mean, to explore the Carpathians from the Borgo Pass!”

  Emil replied at once, “Then we shall travel together. Elena and I can leave with you, as we have no special time at which to arrive; the family are always glad to receive us. Indeed, you shall stay with us at the farm!”

  “But this is excellent!” said Van Helsing. “It will make easier our expedition, if we have not to travel from Bistritz into the mountains in one day.”

  I said, “As long as it will put the farmers to no trouble.” I was taken with Emil’s outburst of friendliness and thought I had probably mistaken his sullen demeanour after all.

  “No trouble,” said he. “They delight in visitors. The kindness of Transylvanians to strangers is legendary.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “It will be only for a short time, anyway, two or three nights at most.”

  So it is all decided. Emil and his daughter will join our party, and we shall convey them with their easels and paints to the farm, and there leave them when we depart again for home. Ah, how I anticipate that time! I miss our son so much. I must stop now and write to him. Jonathan and I are preparing for bed. We left Van Helsing alone with Professor Kovacs, no doubt to talk late into the night and catch up on several years’ wisdom. Kovacs is an historian with an interest in folklore... I wish – oh, unworthy thought – that I could eavesdrop upon their conversation! Sometimes I think Van Helsing a little indiscreet, and it would surprise me not at all if he told his friend all about our experience with Count Dracula.

  21 July

  I am writing on the train to Bistritz, which seems interminably slow although the landscape through which we pass is picturesque. We spent last night in Klausenburgh, from whence I wrote to tell Quincey of the spires, cupolas, red-tiled mansions and storks’ nests. And of our strange hotel; a double door led through a vaulted passageway to a shrub-filled courtyard, from which a staircase curved up to the timber galleries that ran along the rows of bedrooms. The rooms were clean enough, but
inferior, Jonathan said, to the hotel in which he stayed last time. He wanted to stay at a different establishment so that no one from last time should recognise him. The people here are kind but so curious and superstitious! I can understand him wanting to avoid their attentions. I did not mind, but the tall courtyard with its shadowed galleries was very eerie. Once as I crossed it, I glimpsed in an alcove a tiny gypsy woman, brown and gnarled within layer upon layer of filthy clothes, a twist of black hair upon her head. She made a sign against the evil eye at me and said something in Roumanian, which I half understood. “His blood and yours,” or something of that sort. I cannot explain it, but her feral look and her words sent a violent shiver through me. Yet when I pulled at Jonathan’s sleeve to point her out, she had vanished! Whether she was a spirit, or had simply slipped away, I could not say. To think of it makes me shudder. I was very glad to leave that place.

  I have talked a little to Elena on the journey. She is shy, but warming to me as we become acquainted. Her English is excellent, and her German puts mine to shame – and my Hungarian, of course is non-existent, so why she should be in awe of me I do not know. She asked what I was writing, and I told her that I always keep up a journal, however uneventful our domestic life may sometimes be (I thank God for those quiet times, I must confess).

  I suppose I am a creature of routine. Besides, I was determined that the end of those dreadful events would not mark the end of my diary-keeping. There is Quincey’s capricious health to provide drama enough, and Jonathan’s work at Hawkins & Harker, of course.

  I am missing Quincey terribly, though I know he is safe in the care of Mrs Seward, Mary and his nurse. I have written to him every day since we left England. He reads well and is quite the young man, as I have been telling Elena. I have always encouraged him to read. At least he will have rich compensation in life for being less vigorous than his fellows.