Dracula the Undead: A Chilling Sequel to Dracula

by Freda Warrington

  “What secret?” I said, confused.

  Beherit went unexpectedly, intently towards the door beneath the dragon. This gesture overwhelmed me with dread. I felt that something unspeakable lurked behind that weirdly glowing door and if he opened it I would be driven insane. I cried, “No! No!”

  He opened the door. I glimpsed... nothing to justify my abject terror, only a vast lightless cave, from which a sulphur laden wind blew as if from an abyss. I heard water dripping into some unseen lake far below. Each drop was, I believed, the tolling of my own death-knell. I fell to the ground, screaming, “No!”

  The door slammed shut with an ear-splitting bang.

  “All the powers of Hell,” came Beherit’s voice. He was crawling towards me on his hands and knees, his teeth and eyes shining. “Find Dracula for me, my love. Watch him. If he challenges you, warn him not to come here. Don’t try to prevent him, or he will surely destroy you; only dissuade him.”

  “Kill me, or let me go alive,” I begged, “but not Undead!”

  “But I am bound to kill you, for I need your blood. Therefore you can only help me, Undead. But come to me willingly and I will give you...” He put his full lips to my ear. “The keys to the library and all eternity to study there.”

  I couldn’t fight him any more.

  He fed on me a third time, both of us on our knees in the feverish womb of the temple. Demons came down from the walls and danced around us. Then he drew down the neck of his robe, pierced his own breast with a fingernail, and pulled my mouth to the wound. His blood ran into my mouth and I swallowed. “Ah, now I know your thoughts. I know why you came. You did not lie. And you will not betray me.”

  So now, dear Abraham, we know the price of my soul. A library.

  Later

  I am waiting for death to come. We are back in the library, Beherit sitting cross-legged on the couch. I am reclining against him, using what little strength remains to complete this account. I am sorry it is incomplete and makes so little sense. I am very tired now.

  What lies beyond, I do not know. Elena, Emil, Miklos, Abraham, forgive me. My sight fades and I can no longer hold the pen. God hears no prayers from this place.

  I asked Beherit a while ago why he could not make this journey to find Dracula himself. He replied, “I cannot leave here. For me, Initiate or not, there is no way out.”

  Chapter Seven

  JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

  12 October

  I write this alone in my study, with the little white cat watching me. Puss is a pleasant, quiet companion. I have taken to spending more time in here since Elena arrived. Not that I have any aversion to the girl, far from it; I am glad to see her lightening Mina’s burden in caring for Quincey. But her arrival has coincided with a black mood falling upon me. I don’t wish to dampen their spirits with my grim humour, nor to worry or affect Mina in any way. I will simply keep myself out of their way until I am more fit company.

  I don’t know the cause. Life at Hawkins & Harker has been no more troublesome than usual. Quincey, then; but concern for my son has never in the past precipitated such self-absorbed blackness as I feel. No, this is an old enemy. Each time I overcome it, I believe it gone for good, yet I should know by now that it will always spring back with renewed vigour.

  I have often been prey to disturbing dreams and fancies, ever since I first went to Castle Dracula and there learned what horrors swarm beneath the civilised patina of our world. I was ill with brain fever for many weeks after I escaped. I don’t expect those shadows ever to leave me. Yet I have reassured myself that they are only fancies – the natural, nervous reaction of my mind to extreme trauma, so Dr Seward says – and Mina is always there, of course, to comfort me with her kind, practical sensibilities. She has been my strength. Even when she so nearly fell prey to that foul monster, her spirit never faltered.

  Sometimes, when darker moods come upon me, as now, one scene haunts me. To think that I lay unconscious while Dracula fed upon my wife beside me! I still cannot forgive myself, although Mina has told me often that I must. We all know that Dracula put some unholy sleep upon the servants and myself that night. But to think he forced her to drink from his veins – as if binding her in some unholy wedding contract, a marriage forged in hell – and could only be detached from her by death!

  How hard I have tried to blank that scene from my mind. Dr Seward, however, once suggested that the more strenuously I try to forget, the more fiercely and horribly it will linger.

  I hate this mood, for it discolours everything. For example: I know that Elena is perfectly sweet and charming; Mina finds her so, and to all appearances she is perfect. But to me there seems something dark and sly about her – a sideways look from her eyes, a half-smile no one else sees. I do her a great injustice with these impressions, yet I cannot shake them off. She is a very handsome girl, it is true. I wonder if she must always wear her plain, buttoned-to-the-neck dresses like a governess? Perhaps Mina might take her to obtain a less severe garment, to wear for dinner or when we have guests.

  I find myself watching Elena. I cannot understand why it is that she fascinates yet in some way repels me. I watch for signs that she may not be the perfect nurse-companion for Quincey that Mina assumes. I see no evidence, have no basis whatsoever for these suspicions. I can only conclude they spring from my own disordered perceptions. As such, I must try to keep them in check.

  14 October

  Last night fell asleep in my study while going over columns of figures. I dreamed that the lamp burned dim and I sat in my chair unable to move. Elena moved through the room like a ghost; I hadn’t heard her enter. She seemed to glide along past the bookshelves and I could read the spines of the books through her! But the books had strange names and are none I possess. They had titles such as, Red Oyster, Violet Pearl; Prospero’s Quill; Alchemy with Angels; and other such nonsense. When she passed the mirror above the mantelpiece she had no reflection. Then she circled in the same fashion round and round my chair, her hair and dress like ebony, her face pale and glowing. She smiled. She reached out and stroked my hands and I heard her voice, faint yet icily musical as crystal, with her lovely accent. “You are young and strong, Jonathan. There are kisses for us all.”

  She leaned towards me and I was possessed by fear, revulsion and a strange excitement – an echo of that terrible time when the three women came to me in Castle Dracula. My mind rebelled but my body lay back in languor, waiting. As her burning lips touched my throat I awoke violently. I was, of course, alone. Then I felt dismally ashamed of myself. That I could equate Elena with those three lascivious female vampires who so nearly took me into their ranks!

  I am truly mortified at the workings of my unconscious. Were I a Catholic I could unburden myself in the confessional; as it is, I could abide no clerical judgements upon my state of mind. I would rather entrust myself to science – for all the good that has done! The laudanum Dr Seward prescribed to help me sleep exaggerates rather than prevents the dreams. I am alone.

  Why is this happening, when Elena is becoming such a valuable member of our otherwise harmonious household? What right have I to project my old fears – which by now should be long-dead and forgotten – upon her?

  If I am going mad, I must do my utmost to keep my battle to myself, in order to protect my family, and to preserve us all from the stain. The next time I enter Dr Seward’s house I wish it to be as his guest, not as his patient.

  As I write this in the bedroom I can hear Mina and Elena through the closed door. They are in the dressing room, preparing for bed, letting down each other’s hair and combing the long tresses. It is becoming quite a little ritual between them now. It soothes me to hear their laughter.

  16 October

  A peaceful day. My mind has been quiet and stays so, as long as I occupy myself with work. When I come home to Mina, her company also keeps me from the darkness. So far, she appears to suspect nothing. If only I can struggle through this trough – these episodes will pla
gue me all my life, I fear – and come out upon the far side without troubling her, I will be content. She has trouble enough with Quincey. I am determined not to add to her burden!

  17 October

  I’ve had an intensely disquieting experience. Thank heaven for my long practise of recording such things in my diary! The journalistic habit makes for a degree of objectivity that I sorely need.

  I was in my study, completing the accounts over which I fell asleep the other night, when I heard the cat miaowing outside. She was on the window-sill, pressing herself plaintively against the glass. I let her in and she sat for a while on the edge of my desk, watching me work. I cannot explain my feeling, for she was as quiet as ever, but she made me uneasy.

  The desk lamp cast a long dark shadow behind her, and in this shadow I saw blue sparks dancing!

  I dropped my pen, making an ink blot on the ledger. I stared at the sparks, certain that my eyes were deceiving me. I could see these phantom motes – an eerie blue, like the flames I saw on Walpurgis night in Transylvania – nowhere else in the room, only in the cat’s shadow.

  The cat stared at me. Her reflective eyes changed from green to red, and a distinct, malevolent intelligence coalesced in them. Her ears went back and her mouth opened wide, so wide it seemed a garoyle’s leer, revealing her gums and thin sharp fangs. How she hissed! Such a harsh, fearsome noise that I could not believe it issued from her small body! Her usual hiss is a weak affair by comparison. That this affectionate small creature, our friend, could sit snarling at me like some demon from Hell horrified me.

  I was about to shoo her away, but before I could move she launched herself at my head. Her claws and teeth pierced the skin of my forehead and skull. I cried out in pain and tried to throw her off, only to receive a savage clawing of my hands. I could not dislodge her! In panic I leapt out of my chair, shouting, and with a final effort took hold of the cat and flung her across the room. I am not proud of manhandling a dumb animal, but I had no choice. She collided with the mirror, scrambled along the mantelpiece dislodging several ornaments, and landed on her paws on the rug. With a yowl she fled through the open window.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was as white as my hair, with rivulets of blood branching across the paleness. But what struck me in retrospect was this; that as the cat struck the mirror, she had no reflection.

  Mina and Mary came rushing in, exclaiming in concern as they saw my injuries. I explained that the cat had attacked me for no apparent reason. What I could not explain was the nervous state to which the incident had reduced me. I mean, the dread roused by the cat’s strange behaviour, even before she pounced.

  Later, Joseph – making his usual rounds of the garden – found the animal cowering in the shrubs by the bird table. Puss was glad to be rescued, and after a dish of milk seemed quite her normal self again.

  At least, that is what Mina tells me. I cannot bear the cat near me. They brought her in, while I was resting in the drawing room, to make friends – and although she was her affectionate, purring self again, my heart thundered and I broke into a clammy sweat at the sight of her. I had to ask them to take her out. I could not control or hide these reactions, so Mina is worried about me now. Precisely what I wished to avoid.

  Mina says Puss must have got a fright before she came into the study, and that’s why she behaved so oddly. I do not know. Once I caught Elena looking at me with exactly the same red eyes and mocking, malicious glance as the cat had – but a moment later, the look was gone. I wish I could rid myself of these imaginings!

  I will pray God to let me sleep and at least have a few hours’ respite from the fevered whisperings of my brain.

  * * *

  MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

  21 October

  Quincey continues to make good progress. He is listless and sleeps a lot, but the doctor says he is out of danger. I cannot stop worrying and praying. If anything happened to Quincey, I don’t know what would become of me.

  I am so glad to have Elena here, for I am anxious about Jonathan too. I fear he is working too hard. Since the incident with the cat – although the scratches he received are healing well – he has been preoccupied, pale and tired during the day but restless by night. I woke him from one wild dream, but he stared at me and claimed he could remember nothing! He says there is nothing wrong, but I know him. Poor dear, I hate to see him suffering so. I think he will not wish to talk to our own Doctor Gough. So if he is not better soon, I will ask Dr Seward to come down from London. Oh, but he is busy, and cannot be at our beck and call.

  We still have not discovered what made the cat behave as she did. She has exhibited no more wildness but has been as lovable as ever; indeed, I would not have believed she had such energy! I have to keep her away from Jonathan, however, for he cannot abide her at present. I hope he will not have a fever from her scratches. I must be careful with Quincey, also, though I would hate to forbid him to stroke his pet! He has little enough pleasure as it is.

  As for myself, I am quite well. I am a little tired, for the strange dreams continue to haunt me. A heavy atmosphere hangs over the house, like a storm that will not break. We are all edgy. It is as if, although the sun shines and everything is serene, I feel a great shadow gathering and pressing on my back; and if only I turned round quickly enough, I would catch sight of an unutterable horror.

  At least Elena helps to relieve these ridiculous but troublesome feelings! I suppose autumn is the season for thunderstorms. I blame all upon “static electricity’.

  23 October

  Last night – I can barely bring myself to write of it, but I must, for honesty demands that even the most delicate of matters must and should be squarely faced. Anything I write here may serve to help my dear husband in the future – and should he ever read it, he will know that I think of him with the same deep regard and love as ever.

  As for myself, I cannot answer. God shall be my judge.

  Jonathan and I have always been as one in our belief that relations between married people should be restrained and decorous. Truly there is no place in a Christian marriage for lasciviousness in thought or behaviour. We have been in accord and very content in this belief.

  Last night as we went to bed, Jonathan was very quiet and there was a strange, almost wild look in his eyes. Usually I would have asked its cause, but for some reason I did not feel inclined to do so. There was an unnatural mood upon me, as well; a sultry closeness in the air, more of summer than autumn. The lamps burned low and red. I opened the window for fresh air but there was none, only a static thickness. I heard a dull rumble of thunder. The skies were all greenish and purple-black, lying low in thick masses, yet they yielded no rain. The tree-tops and the church steeple glowed eerily. I saw a cloud of motes glittering by the window; they made me feel strange and dizzy, as if recalling me to some dark memory. I suppose they were only midges, but I closed the window against them anyway.

  As I got into bed, Jonathan turned out the lamp and we lay in darkness. Usually he leaves it burning for a time while we talk about our day. I was uneasy. It was as if we were waiting for something. When my eyes grew used to the dark, I suddenly saw his face above me and his eyes burning down at me! I drew a breath. They did not look like his eyes! The irises were dark as blood, the pupils glowing scarlet even in the dark. A spell lay on me – for all I know, I imagined everything – so I did not try to evade him. His lips met mine in a kiss of incredible savagery and I – I found a fierceness rising inside me to match his.

  I shall draw a veil over what followed. I am still shaken by the memory of the wildness that swept over us. Shamed, almost. For although we are married, it seemed to me that it was not Jonathan who... Oh God, I must stop. I did not mean to write so much. His eyes were red, his face gaunt. When I say it did not seem to be Jonathan, I mean that my darling was not himself. Nor was I; I have never known such savage feelings before and hope I never shall again! I burn at the thought. Oh, I hope he can forgive me for abandoning
myself to such bestial passions!

  Later

  I have taken a walk to the Cathedral and back, alone, to compose myself. With distance I can be more rational.

  I believe that it was the oppressive weather that put us both in so strange a mood. That, combined with the stress Jonathan is under. Perhaps we also have a touch of fever – that would account for the dreams that have disturbed me – and with the thundery weather, we were simply not ourselves. Dr Van Helsing himself has told us that certain eminent scientists, himself included, do not dismiss the effect of subtle electricities upon the human brain!

  I shall talk to Jonathan of this later. I do pray he will be in a humour to talk.

  24 October

  A sad, oppressive day. The storm will not break. Alas, I cannot persuade my husband to speak openly of what happened between us. His eyes are red-rimmed and distraught. He took my hand and said ardently, “I will be well again soon, I promise. There is nothing to speak of; whatever we imagined last night was a dream that we must forget as it if never happened!”

  “But my dear,” I said, “there have never been forbidden matters between us, nor should there be!”

  “Nothing happened,” he kept saying. He seemed quite angry, and he has never been angry with me before. He must have seen the look of distress in my face, for he suddenly buried his head on my breast and cried, “Dear Mina! I am not a brute! I would not have hurt you for anything!”

  “You didn’t hurt me!” I replied fervently. “I was not myself, either. It was the storm.”

  Then an eerie change came over his face. All trouble passed from his expression and he smiled. “It was not the storm,” he said, very soft, pressing my hand. Even his voice was unlike itself; deeper, and with the taint of an accent. “You know, and your husband knows, what it is that you really desire.”

  “Jonathan, what is it?” I said, disturbed. “What do you mean?”