Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  Oh, all right, just a little.

  Two more ships had arrived in port that day, and sailors and some of the less savoury townsfolk crowded the bar and every table. The room was so filled with smoke I could scarcely see my flask in front of my face as I took a drink to brace myself. A saucy, raven-haired barmaid was telling an off-colour joke to a group of patrons. I shan’t reveal the punch line, but they all laughed uproariously and one of them patted her in a spot that wasn’t her shoulder. Across the room, a dapper-looking gent neatly dipped his hand into a drunken sailor’s pocket, then quickly slipped whatever he’d found there into his own.

  Captain Burton pushed his way to the bar and talked with the landlord for a moment, as Bram, Willie and I hung back. I could not hear what he was saying over the noise of the rowdy patrons, but at one point he slipped the man a five-pound note.

  Burton made his way back to us. Just in time too, for more sailors were pouring into the overcrowded room.

  “He’s playing cards in a room upstairs,” Burton informed us. We threaded our way through to the stairs, which were clogged with more drunken sailors.

  Captain Burton shouted, “Make room!” waving his arms – and his pistol – impatiently.

  The crowd readily parted and Burton led the way up the stairs, followed by Stoker and me. Somewhere along the way, we lost Willie to the throng.

  At the top of the stairs, Burton gestured down the dimly lit hall. “Around the corner to the left,” he said, and Stoker and I flanked him as he led the way towards our brutal quarry. A clatter behind us made us all wheel about, weapons at the ready, but it was only Willie, who, having escaped the mass of sailors on the stair, stumbled as he cleared the last step, dropping his pistol onto the floor. Pulling himself up, he straightened his clothes, adjusted his hat and retrieved his gun. “Carry on,” he said, gesturing us forward.

  After we’d assembled ourselves into a suitably intimidating force outside the room in question, Burton threw the door open then immediately braced himself and sighted down the barrel of his pistol at the group of sailors around the table. Most dropped their cards, their eyes wide, but a few seemed more accustomed to having pistols pointed at them and stared back boldly.

  “Don’t move, you scurvy pirates!” Burton commanded. Such is the authority in his voice, when he chooses to employ it, that they obeyed. “We are here to speak with the captain of the Demeter.”

  A thin, bearded man facing us smiled a gap-toothed grin. With a jagged scar on his cheek and a wild mop of hair, he looked the part of a pirate and I daresay, should anyone ever decide to produce a biography of Blackbeard for the stage, he would make a convincing lead!

  “I am Captain Abramoff. What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked in perfect but accented English. He laid his cards down on the table. “Now that you have so rudely interrupted my game.” He rolled his R’s as Russians often do.

  “Where were you the night the girl was killed?” Burton asked, his gun now pointed straight at Abramoff.

  “As I told the constable, I was on my ship. My crew can testify to that.”

  “Then you won’t mind giving us a sample of your handwriting,” Stoker said.

  The captain looked puzzled for a moment.

  “A man’s handwriting is as recognisable as a leopard’s spots,” Burton added.

  The captain’s grin grew broader. “I would be happy to.”

  Then suddenly the table exploded upward, sending mugs, cards and coins flying. He flung it at us with such a force it pushed Burton and me back. A gun went off, blasting a hole in the ceiling. The sailors scattered and the captain leapt over the table with a speed and agility I can only describe as beastly!

  Stoker grabbed him, but though he is certainly the largest and strongest of our lot, the captain threw him aside like he was a rag doll and bolted into the hall. Willie was close behind.

  “Shoot him!” Burton ordered, as we clambered to our feet and dashed into the hall. Sailors dropped to the floor and covered their heads as Willie wildly tried to take aim.

  Willie fired but missed, succeeding only in scattering plaster dust as his bullet added another hole to an already scarred wall. The captain disappeared around the corner, tossing a sailor into our path as he went. A door slammed as we followed, dodging the sailor. When we rounded the corner, he was nowhere to be seen. This part of the hallway was empty, with a closed door on either side.

  “We’ll take them one at a time,” Burton whispered. “Oscar, open that door, and Willie, you take aim. Bram, this one shall be ours.” He positioned himself in front of the door, his pistol held at the ready.

  I crouched at my door and Stoker at his. I slowly and carefully turned the doorknob, holding my breath.

  I flung my door open and Willie fired into the room.

  “Willie, you fool!” Burton shouted. “Wait until you see the whites of his eyes!”

  “Er, I’m out of bullets now,” Willie said fearfully. Luckily, the beast was not in that room. Even more luckily, Willie had fired high, missing the sailor and the woman entertaining him! They cowered in fear under the bedclothes.

  At his door, Burton shouted, “We have you trapped, Abramoff! Come out with your hands raised and you’ll get a fair trial.” We all held our breaths, listening. We heard laboured breathing and the sound of cloth ripping.

  Boom! The door shattered into kindling, sending shards of wood flying into our faces. A snarling, furious beast charged out, knocking Burton away before he had a chance to get off a single shot. Burton hit the opposite wall and fell, unconscious.

  The remnants of the ship captain’s clothes hung from the beast’s hips and shoulders and coarse dark fur covered him from head to foot – or should I say paw. Pointed ears stood up from its head and it rotated them as a dog might to catch every sound. An elongated wolf’s snout had replaced the captain’s leering grin, but his black eyes still glittered out of the monster’s face. It stood upright like a man on two crooked legs and howled. The sound was deafening in the cramped hallway and the woman in the room behind us screamed, or perhaps that was Willie. Then the creature dropped to all fours and crept forward, growling menacingly as it backed Willie up against the wall. Willie trembled with fear.

  We heard a sailor yell from down the hall, “Captain’s loose again!” The rumble of a mass exodus sounded from the bar below, as seemingly every sailor in the pub poured out into the street, leaving us to fend for ourselves. Willie and I were too scared to move, fearing the slightest motion might provoke a killing blow. The beast was snarling and foaming at the mouth. I could smell its foul breath and its drool dripped onto Willie’s shoes. Had he been in any condition to notice, I’m sure he would have been quite annoyed at the mess.

  Then, from seemingly nowhere, Stoker appeared with a chair. He swung and smashed it across the creature’s back. The beast broke off its advance on Willie and wheeled to face Stoker.

  As its red-rimmed eyes met Stoker’s, it froze with what I swear was the same puzzled look I had seen on the captain’s human face just minutes before. It seemed to be thinking, plotting its next move.

  “Back!” Stoker yelled, holding a broken chair leg over his head like a club.

  I was certain the werewolf would rear back and pounce on Stoker, but instead, it tucked its tail between its legs and slowly backed away. It seemed to be afraid, like a dog whose master was scolding him and was about to strike him with a switch.

  From the corner of my eye, I could see that Burton had regained consciousness and was struggling to his feet. He raised his pistol as he stumbled forward.

  “Step aside, Bram!” he said, and as Stoker did so, the wolf dodged and Burton fired, hitting the creature in the shoulder. It yelped, turned and ran down the hallway at an unnaturally fast sprint.

  It crashed through the window just as Burton got off another shot. His bullet hit the sill, missing the creatur
e by no more than an inch.

  As this point, Willie fainted, hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  “Let’s go after it!” Stoker shouted.

  “There are lanterns in these rooms, grab them,” Burton said. “He won’t get far. And he’ll be leaving a trail of blood to boot.”

  “How are we doing for ammunition?” I asked, helping Willie to his feet. He had smashed his nose in the fall. It was bloodied but not broken and I held my handkerchief to it to staunch the bleeding.

  “I have four bullets left, but not to worry,” Burton said. “It only takes one to the heart to finish him off.”

  “Hmm, yes,” I muttered. “Pity one to the shoulder and three to the wall wouldn’t do the trick.”

  “Give us a drink, Oscar,” Willie pleaded. I reluctantly gave Willie my flask and he greedily drank the rest of my gin.

  By the time we exited the pub, the creature had already disappeared into the woods. Stoker led the way into the dark forest, which grew even darker when the moon became shrouded by clouds. Our lanterns did not offer much light or comfort.

  Stoker forged on as if he were a hound who had caught a scent.

  I must end here, dear Florrie, but a third letter will follow soon!

  Archivist’s note: A third letter mentioned by Wilde pertaining to the hunt was never found. See next entry.

  From the Notes of Sir Richard Burton, date unknown

  Archivist’s note: Isabel Burton donated these notes to the White Worm Society in her will and they were added to our collection upon her death in 1896. They appear to be notes for a longer memoir that was never written. An excerpt is included here to fill in missing material pertaining to the Greystones hunt of 29th of October 1876 that is covered by neither Stoker nor Wilde.

  The Night of the Werewolf!

  I have hunted in the dense jungles of India and the scorching deserts of Arabia, but nothing prepared me for the hunt of my life in a tiny forest in Ireland!

  The Queen herself had dispatched me to hunt down a terrible creature that had been terrorising the fishing village of Greystones, Ireland.

  My hunting party consisted of William and Oscar Wilde and Bram Stoker. We determined straight away that the creature was a werewolf. And, through brilliant deduction on our part, we had further ascertained that it had come in on a Russian schooner. The creature’s human form was no less than the captain of the ship himself!

  Who knows how many natives it had killed on its trips around the globe? Nor did we have any way of knowing how the man came to be cursed thusly. I am told the bite of a werewolf is all it takes, so it is a wonder we aren’t knee-deep in the things – a werewolf plague, as it were – for biting is surely one of the things they do best. However, it seems the werewolf seldom inflicts a wound that isn’t fatal, so perhaps that is what keeps their numbers down.

  We confronted the captain at the local pub, hoping to capture him in his human form. But alas, unbeknownst to us at the time, some werewolves can change at will. This was one such creature. He transformed into a wolf quickly and I managed to wound it with a silver bullet to the shoulder, but it escaped into the darkness.

  So, there we were on a cold Irish night, in the forest, hunting a wounded monster. We had no dogs, and only four silver bullets in two pistols. I was sceptical we could follow the blood trail in the dark, but as it turns out Bram Stoker was a natural-born tracker. I had never seen a white man with such skill. By only lantern light he was able to see wolf tracks and droplets of blood. We followed him, and he was so focused it was as if he were in a trance, similar to what I have seen in the eyes of Indian trackers in Punjab.

  The trail led us out of the woods and to a farm. A dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road – a long, agonised wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by another dog, and then another and another until, borne on the softly sighing wind, a wild howling began. It seemed to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination could grasp it through the gloom of the night.

  I stepped over the bloody remnant of a goat’s head.

  “It has fed,” I told the others quietly. “Maybe it will be more docile.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Stoker whispered. “Perhaps it fed because it needed strength to heal.”

  There was no light from the farmhouse. That meant the owners were either not home or dead. Or I suppose they may have been sleeping. Farm folk are early risers after all. In any case, it was dark.

  A horse in the barn whinnied and snorted in what sounded like fear.

  “He’s in the barn,” Stoker said.

  “Bram, you and I will go in through the front. Willie and Oscar, see if there is a back entrance. And for God’s sake, remember you only have two silver bullets. Make them count.” Willie nodded and he and Oscar went off to the back of the barn.

  I set down the lantern to make myself a less obvious target and entered through the double doors, which were open slightly. Only moonlight from the loft window illuminated the interior. It was dark and, damn my old eyes, I could barely see a thing.

  “Do you see him?” I whispered.

  “No,” Bram said. He froze in his tracks. “I’m not sure he is in here any longer.”

  Before I could ask him why he thought that, a whooshing sound cut the night. Bram took the full force of a shovel to the stomach and was thrown backwards by the blow. I saw a shape run by in the shadows. He was in the form of a man now! I took aim at the naked man but he disappeared in the pervasive darkness and I dared not waste a bullet.

  I turned to check on Bram, a foolish thing to do I know now. The man must retain some of the beast’s supernatural speed, for suddenly a pitchfork pierced my leg with incredible force! I fell to one knee, pivoted around and fired into the darkness. I did not hit him, but it was enough to keep him from advancing on us.

  Willie and Oscar rushed from the back of the barn with guns drawn.

  “He’s in human form!” I shouted.

  We could hear his footsteps running away from us and Oscar fired his pistol towards the sound. We could hear our quarry scurrying up the ladder and into the loft.

  Willie came to my aid. Bram was getting to his feet, holding his midsection.

  “Leave me,” I ordered. I handed Bram my pistol, with its one remaining silver bullet. “I’ll be all right. Finish the bastard off.”

  A pair of red eyes pierced the darkness of the loft. The creature snarled and growled in pain as he once more transformed into a wolf.

  Stoker took aim and fired up into the loft, but his angle was all wrong and it went high.

  “Damn!” He tossed my empty pistol down and pulled out his own.

  Willie was trying to aim. “Where is it? I don’t see it!”

  The wolf leapt out of the loft and Willie fired, missing it. The creature landed on all fours near us. Stoker shot it several times, but the ordinary lead bullets bounced off it as if it had an elephant’s hide.

  Willie, trembling, aimed at the creature. So, there he stood, terrified, certainly, well aware he had but one more bullet with which to kill the beast, but he bravely stood his ground, awaiting the proper moment to fire.

  Oscar threw his lantern at the beast, smashing it onto its back. This proved to be a smart move, as it did momentarily catch the creature on fire. (I do not know, specifically, if fire would kill a werewolf, but then fire kills most things.)

  The wolf then did a remarkable thing. It laughed. A deep, guttural sound, but it was recognisable as a laugh. It stood up straighter on its crooked back legs and shook out the flames as if it were a dog shaking off an unwanted bath.

  It was then I saw its front paws were more like deformed hands, something you might see on an ape. Willie stepped forwards to shoot, but the beast jumped at him and grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanking it from his hands. It flung the gun with such force tha
t it smashed against the wall of the barn into pieces. It backhanded Willie, striking him to the ground.

  Bram charged the creature, but it simply grabbed him by the throat and held him up as if he were a rabbit. Bram pounded on the beast with his fists and kicked at it wildly, but it held its grasp firmly. He turned Bram this way and that and sniffed him. I was sure its next move would be to bite off Bram’s head!

  But then it spoke! A raspy, almost unintelligible voice asked, “What are you?” It snarled and leant in closer, sniffing at Stoker. “I was wrong to be scared of you. You are weak like a human, but you smell like…something else. What bewitchment is this?”

  While it was preoccupied with tormenting Bram, Oscar had snuck up behind it. I saw the glint of something shiny in his hand. It was his silver flask. In one swift move, he pushed the flask against the middle of the creature’s back, put his pistol up to it and shot through the flask!

  The bullet must have forced a piece of silver into the creature. It dropped Bram and howled in horrible pain. It whirled around and took a swing at Oscar, but he had already backed away out of its reach.

  It dropped to all fours, gasping and choking. Blood and foam came from its jaws. It rolled onto its side and fell silent.

  Then an incredible transformation took place. We watched as it turned back into a human being! Where there had once been a powerful wolf, now there was a frail, naked man. He was still living, for his chest moved with breath and his eyes slowly opened. They held a look of defiance.

  Bram bent down before it. “This curse that has afflicted you is gone. May God have mercy on your soul.”

  The man laughed and said, “Whatever you have, perhaps that is a curse. My wolf…this was a gift.” He choked and blood came to his lips as he breathed his terminal breath.

  I returned to England and reported to the Queen herself that the creature had been put down. Had I known then it was a portent of horrible things to come, I would have never gone off to India and left England unprotected from supernatural forces. Fortunately, my companions on that fateful hunt were there to take up the mantle as defenders of the Empire.