Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  “If you would like my honest opinion, I would say, never.”

  “So, your advice would be to take the position, then?”

  “I, too, love the theatre, and confess that I would not hesitate were I in your position,” she said. “However, I do not presume to advise you, Mr. Stoker. Only you can make such a decision for yourself. You must look within your own heart.”

  Her warmth and interest buoyed me, and her mention of my heart – so innocuous on her part – thrilled me far beyond reason. “I am letting fear get the better of me. I would be foolish not to take the job. A life in the London theatre! It sounds like a bit of adventure, doesn’t it?” I said, with what I hoped was a rakish twinkle in my eye. “Yes, Miss Balcombe, I think you have helped me make up my mind.”

  “I am so glad I could be an inspiration to you,” she said, with a smile that struck me as altogether admiring.

  Lady Wilde interrupted our conversation. “Florence, my dear, there you are. Oh, and Bram, feeling better, dear?” My affirmative reply had barely cleared my throat when she said, “Good, good. Go and mingle, or at least rein in Willie. Now come, Florence, there are still people you need to meet.” Miss Balcombe reluctantly got back onto her tired feet and I rose as well.

  “I am very pleased we had these moments to talk, Mr. Stoker. I hope you will write to Oscar and me when you get to London and tell us all about your new life.”

  I am ashamed to say my heart sank when she mentioned Oscar’s name. “I will.” I forced a smile.

  And with that, she disappeared into the crowd.

  The appearance of Lady Wilde had reminded me of why I was sitting in a quiet corner with a cup of tea: Count Ruthven. I felt an urgent need to find him. Now that my head had cleared I knew that, if he was indeed a werewolf as I suspected, I could not let him roam freely among the Wildes and their friends. What I would do when I found him I did not know; my only thought was to restrain him somehow until silver bullets could be acquired.

  I made my way through the crowd, which was thinning with the late hour. Ruthven was nowhere to be found, but Willie had two pretty girls cornered in the hallway to the kitchen.

  “Have you seen Count Ruthven?” I asked him. The girls took this interruption as an opportunity to slip by him and back into the dining room.

  “Yes,” he said, irritated. “Oscar has taken a shine to him and last I saw was giving him a tour of the house.”

  I considered telling Willie of my suspicions and enlisting his aid, but at that moment he leant back slightly to peer around me at the fleeing girls and nearly toppled over. Obviously, he was already far too drunk to be of use. I steered him back towards the party – safety in numbers, after all – and resumed my search, continuing down the hall towards the kitchen.

  There were no tracks to follow as there had been with the werewolf in Greystones, yet I felt my senses heighten. I was pulled onwards and a clear vision of the wine cellar came into my mind. I glanced about to make sure no one was near, then tried the knob. The door was locked. Remembering that Lady Wilde kept a skeleton key on the ledge above the door, I quickly located it and gained access.

  I crept down the stair so as not to startle my quarry, for I was sure then that he was down there. I could smell his sickly scent and a green glow emanated from behind a rack of bottles.

  I picked up a shovel that was leaning against the stairs and slowly made my way around the rack. I could hear an inhuman panting and feared the worst.

  Finally reaching the end of the wine rack, I leapt around the corner with two hands on the shovel handle, holding it high above my head.

  “Back!” I yelled with all my might. To my horror, I saw Oscar with his back to me and his trousers down around his ankles. He had the Count bent over a table and the sounds I had heard were disgusting grunts of ecstasy.

  Startled, Oscar jumped away from the Count. His legs caught in his trousers and he tripped, toppling to the ground. He scrambled behind the table, attempting to pull up his trousers without exposing himself further.

  Unembarrassed, the Count straightened and took his time reclothing himself. As he pulled up his braces, an evil grin came across his face, as if he were proud to make me witness such a thing.

  Oscar stood and dusted himself off. “Er, Bram. Have you met the Count?”

  I became enraged at the thought of his lovely fiancée, who was at that moment under this same roof, celebrating her engagement to a man who would betray her trust in such a base and carnal manner.

  “You selfish—” I yelled. “This is your engagement party, for God’s sake!”

  “Bram,” he pleaded. “It’s just a bit of harmless fun.”

  “Harmless? You are betraying your fiancée, who is but a few rooms away.” I imagined the lovely Miss Balcombe upstairs, being shepherded around by Lady Wilde, mingling herself to exhaustion for this cad. “I have never been so disappointed in a human being in my life! And bear in mind I had no great expectations of you to begin with.”

  “Bram,” Oscar said, in what was clearly meant to be a placating manner. “I love Florence dearly and always shall. This does nothing to—”

  Suddenly I took a blow to the back of the head. It did not drop me, but I stumbled and turned to see the Count. He struck me a second time as I heard Oscar scream, “No!”

  I collapsed to the ground, still conscious, but just barely. My vision blurred as I saw the Count grab Oscar by the shirt and pull him close.

  I attempted to get on my feet but could only make it to my knees.

  “Sleep,” the Count said to Oscar, who went limp in his arms. He tossed Oscar aside and pulled me to my feet with great strength.

  He looked into my eyes. His own were dead and obsidian-black, with no glint of human feeling. I could see my reflection in them and was unable to look away. I felt as if I were falling into an abyss.

  “Sleep,” he commanded. I could feel him in my mind as if his bony fingers were poking into my very brain. I sensed his expectation that the command would be obeyed as Oscar and who knows how many others before had obeyed. And yet I did not obey.

  “Sleep!” He said it with anger this time. He opened his mouth wide and I could see snakelike fangs dripping with saliva. “I wasn’t nearly finished with that one yet, but now I find I’m more interested in you. Your scent is intoxicating. I have been forbidden to kill you, I am not sure why. But I shall take a taste before wiping your memory of this night.”

  With that, he sunk his teeth into my neck!

  The pain pushed him out of my head. He seemed shocked by this, and I could feel him pull completely out of my mind. He recoiled in fear as the werewolf had done and pushed me away with great force, bouncing me off a rack of wine bottles, which swayed but did not give way.

  He was choking, coughing, then vomited up my blood.

  Oscar stirred awake.

  I recovered my wits and my shovel and charged the monster.

  The demon yanked Oscar to his feet and took refuge behind him. He wrapped his spindly arm around Oscar’s neck.

  “Stay back, Stoker, or I will snap his neck!”

  I remembered his immense strength and knew him capable of it. I backed away.

  Oscar struggled and then, unexpectedly, the Count screamed in pain, his grip loosening. I could hear the faint sizzle of searing flesh. He recoiled in horror, letting Oscar go. Ruthven’s sleeves were rolled up and on his arm was a cross-shaped burn, still smouldering. I could see that Oscar was wearing a silver cross around his neck.

  “Oscar, the cross,” I yelled. “It burns him!”

  Oscar yanked the chain off his neck, breaking the clasp. He held it in front of him and the vampire, for that’s what he most surely was, backed away. The fiend ran for the second set of stairs that led outside and into an adjacent alley. He was but a blur and a gust of wind and was out the door before I could take another
step.

  “Come, we mustn’t let that thing loose on the city!” I cried. I tightened my grip on the shovel and Oscar grabbed a bottle.

  “Oh, no, not the champagne,” he said, putting it down and grabbing another vintage and a lantern.

  Out we went into the night. He was far ahead of us now, making it more difficult to track, but with concentration, my nose could find that nauseatingly sweet scent that I now knew was his natural odour. Like a carnivorous flower, he emanated a honeyed reek to mask his true nature.

  He moved swiftly and covered much ground. It was nearly half an hour before we caught up to the beast, and we never would have were it not for the fact that someone – or something – had beaten us to it!

  As we approached a dark, damp alley we heard a brief cry, a thump and swiftly retreating footsteps. With a quick, grim glance at each other, we plunged into the alley.

  The creature we’d known as Count Ruthven was sprawled on the ground. His head had been cleanly cut off. There was no blood; only dust poured from his wounds. The head and body were decomposing as we watched, looking more like a shrivelled mummy than a freshly dead corpse. We could only stare in astonishment.

  Finally, Oscar broke the silence. “A bit of luck, that.”

  I nodded my agreement, for as we had tracked the thing I’d realised I had no idea how to deal with a vampire. Somehow, I think a shovel and a bottle of Bordeaux would have been of limited use. But someone had known how to kill him. Whoever it was had escaped out the other end of the alley and, by unspoken agreement, we did not give chase.

  I bent down and started to go through the Count’s pockets.

  “Bram, what are you doing? Don’t touch that thing!”

  “Need I remind you that you were buggering him less than an hour ago?”

  Oscar turned away from me, retched and vomited. I couldn’t help taking some small satisfaction from the sound.

  In the Count’s pockets, I found a cigarette case, Henry Irving’s calling card (that I had seen him receive earlier), and a chess piece, a black bishop. The body was nearly all dust now; the suit had collapsed completely.

  Oscar regained his stomach and I showed him what I’d found.

  “Why is he carrying a chess piece?”

  “That’s not at the top of my list of unanswered questions,” I said.

  “You saved my life, Bram,” Oscar said as if it had just occurred to him. “He would have drunk my blood, perhaps even turned me into….” He nearly retched again but maintained his composure. “Thank you, Bram. Damned lucky for me that you were around. I guess we’re even now.”

  Under the circumstances, I let the comment go unchallenged.

  “I say, can’t you work your magic vision on that chess piece? Perhaps find out more about him?”

  “I’ll try.” I closed my hand around it and closed my eyes. All I saw was a quick flash of the piece passing into his hand, and then the vision was gone. Opening my eyes, I regarded the piece. “The black bishop is a calling card, of sorts.”

  “His calling card?”

  “No, it was given to him by someone.”

  “Can you make out who it was?”

  “His face is but a shadow,” I said.

  “You don’t suppose that’s who took his head off?”

  “I do not know,” I said. “I can’t see it.” The chess piece was making my hand go numb. I slipped it into my pocket. We returned to the party, not saying a word to one another on the walk back.

  I have now recounted the evening’s events in as much detail as I can muster, and yet my mind is still unquiet and I feel no closer to sleep. In the last several hours, I have encountered a monster and a mystery. I have been offered a job in London, working for a man I respect and admire. I have met the most beautiful and intriguing woman I have ever known, a woman who is promised to another. And I have in my possession information that would surely sway her to break her engagement. What I shall do about any of these things I do not know.

  I wish I understood why it is given to me to commune with the supernatural and its creatures. I wish I had the means to rid myself of this dreadful ability, though I have to admit that it has saved my life and others’. I wish I knew what to do about the job and the woman and Oscar, who I don’t quite count as a friend but who has proven himself a worthy ally on more than one occasion.

  Such is not the life of a petty sessions clerk.

  Letter from Florence Balcombe to Lucy Mayhew, 5th of August 1878

  My dearest Lucy,

  I hope this finds you well in exciting London. I am most joyful to hear of your engagement to Robert! Will he whisk you off to America, or will you both live in London? I am happy that one of us is going to have an exciting and fulfilling life.

  I wish I could be happier that we are both engaged. My own engagement, I’m afraid, is off to a rocky start.

  Oscar is on a trip to Greece with some school chums and his former literature professor, while I plan the nuptials on my own. His mother is of great help in these matters, and I suppose men never participate in the planning of these things, but I can’t help but feel neglected.

  Oscar normally is a copious letter writer; however, his letters from Greece are short and infrequent. One’s darker nature imagines him being seduced by some Greek siren. Is it not odd that a man should disappear for months before his wedding?

  However, to be truthful, I myself have felt the bond of our engagement weakening. I have struck up a friendship with Bram Stoker. (It’s possible you met him at the engagement party. He is a dear friend of Oscar’s brother.) Though I can assure you it is strictly platonic, I have been spending more and more time with Bram. We go on long walks by the river and we talk of the most interesting things.

  Like Oscar, Bram has literary aspirations. He has published stories and poems and is being mentored by the famed American poet, Walt Whitman.

  I will miss our walks and talks. Bram leaves for London in December where he has secured employment as manager of the Lyceum Theatre. Can you imagine how exciting and interesting his life will be?

  Oscar talks of us moving to London after we are married. I hope we do. I would love to see you again and have you show me all that great city has to offer.

  I must go now, but write back soon.

  Love,

  Florence

  From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 23rd of August 1878

  11:15 p.m.

  I continue to make preparations to leave for London. I have given notice at Dublin Castle and have trained my replacement clerk. I have also finished my petty sessions clerk manual and delivered it to the publisher. I have a tidy sum that should help me get settled before I start my new position at the Lyceum.

  There are nights I lie awake and fret that I am not up to the task. The only thing that bolsters my confidence is Florence’s encouragement. I do not wish to let her down. As of late, she is all I can think about. Oh, how I wish she were not engaged to the reprobate Oscar.

  It is a wonder I can sleep at all, for I also must worry about vampires and my supernatural ‘gift’. I have not had any spells since Oscar’s engagement party. Perhaps they have run their course like a fever.

  I have sworn to Oscar to not reveal his indiscretion. In exchange, he will not tell the world of my demonic visions. Yet, can I trust him to honour that bargain? I am certain he sees it as just another chapter in the story of Oscar Wilde. What a thrilling tale it would make at one of his salon readings!

  To make matters worse, he has gone off carousing with his school chums, and his mentor, a ‘confirmed bachelor’ known to take a fancy to his brighter students. They are in Greece, where I’m sure the wine is flowing; what are the chances he can hold his tongue when there is a story to tell and a crowd of eager listeners?

  Yet I must confess, I am sorely tempted to tell his secret as well. It is something I now
feel Florence must know. As a friend, I should tell her that her fiancé has been unfaithful. What kind of marriage could she have to such a scoundrel?

  To be honest, I may not have the best of intentions for violating Oscar’s trust, for my romantic feelings for Florence continue unabated. Do I only wish to break up their engagement for my own selfish motives?

  These are the difficult moral dilemmas that keep me up at night.

  Even if Florence were to end things with Oscar, would she fancy me? I fear there is no time to court her properly, even if she does.

  Why must my life be so complicated when I have strived so to keep it simple? Why must my happiness at moving up in the world be tarnished with the thought of losing the love of my life forever?

  Letter from Oscar Wilde to Ellen Terry, 11th of December 1878

  Dear Miss Ellen,

  Will you accept from me a poem, which I have written for you as a small proof of my great and loyal admiration for your splendid artistic powers and the noble tenderness and pathos of your acting? My hope is that it gives to you some small measure of the joy and inspiration that have edified my soul while watching you perform.

  I am given to understand that congratulations are in order, as you are joining the repertory company of the Lyceum Theatre. I remember it was just a few months ago that you were lamenting to me that your ingénue days were behind you. And now, here you are taking the stage of one the most respected theatres in the world, acting alongside the great Henry Irving. Rumour has it that Hamlet will be the next production, and I for one am giddy with anticipation of your Ophelia. Now do not mistake me, Ellen, I would sit enthralled through Mr. Irving’s portrayal of David Copperfield, but compared to his Hamlet you will appear little older than a babe in arms.

  However, I must warn you about the nefarious types you will encounter there. I am speaking of the new theatre manager, Bram Stoker. He is a cad of the worst sort, having stolen away the fiancée of another. (I am embarrassed to confess she was mine.) He has swept her off to London without a proper courtship and after a hastily arranged marriage, and I shudder to think of my delicate flower sharing a breakfast table – let alone anything else – with that great, bearlike oaf.