Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  “Were you there on business or pleasure, sir?” I asked.

  “Business, I would call it, though there are many among the church leadership who would call it my crackpot whim.”

  I looked at him curiously.

  “Richard has some unorthodox views,” Mr. Irving commented with a smile.

  “They are considered so here and now,” the reverend said. “But we must not forget that here is not everywhere and now is not the sum total of time.” He turned to me. “I was in Dublin speaking about the supernatural and the danger it poses to our Christian nation.”

  My mouth went dry, not entirely due to the slightly stale scone I had just bitten into. I took a sip of tea to compose myself. “The supernatural in what form, sir?”

  He leant forwards eagerly. “It takes many forms, Bram. May I call you Bram?” I murmured my assent. “I have heard tales – from right here in Britain, mind – that would turn that ginger beard of yours white. Stories, credible stories, of vampires, witches and mummies. Why just a few years ago, I have it on good authority that a werewolf menaced the shores of your fair land.”

  “A werewolf you say?” My heart was beating wildly and I gripped the arms of my chair so as not to betray the trembling of my hands.

  “Indeed. Imagine that, right there in Ireland!”

  “Yes, imagine.” My mind raced. Here was someone who knew what I knew, indeed far more than I, about the unseen evils of the world. About the monsters who prowl the night. About, perhaps, the elusive menace that had so briefly crossed my path just days ago. Should I tell him my dark secret? Was this someone to whom I could, at last, unburden myself?

  Looking to my right, I realised that here, also, was my employer. A man who has entrusted me with the care of his life’s enterprise, who pays me handsomely for it, and who is responsible for my very presence in this city. How would he react to hear his trusted manager spout mad tales of sensing evil, seeing through the eyes of a monster, remembering horrific misdeeds that were not his own? How long could I expect to hold his trust were he to know of my curse?

  “Surely such tales are—” I began.

  “Utter lunacy?” the reverend finished wryly.

  “I was going to say rare, and subject to interpretation,” I finished.

  “Rare, yes,” Wilkins agreed. “Fortunately so, at least so far. But more and more the ancient monsters and pseudo-gods that plague the far-flung reaches of our Empire are reaching the shores of Britain. The faithful among us must prepare ourselves, or many more of us shall fall victim to their evils. Even if such things do not exist, the very idea that people think of them at all should give one pause. In fact, it may be worse if they are merely stories. Why would good Christian people be entertained by such tales?”

  Mr. Irving was looking at me intently, but kindly. Had he noticed my discomfort? He finished his tea and said, “Yes, yes, Richard, but perhaps that’s enough for now. Forgive him, Stoker, he has the passion of a zealot on this subject.”

  “No forgiveness is necessary,” I replied hurriedly. “It’s quite fascinating, actually. Perhaps….” I hesitated. “Perhaps we could speak of it in more depth at a later date.”

  “Of course, my boy,” the reverend replied, smiling. “I should like nothing better.”

  And with that we returned to the theatre, I to my work and the two old friends to Mr. Irving’s office. As I passed on my way home, I heard the reverend’s voice raised in prayer. This surprised me, as I have not known Mr. Irving to be a spiritual man. Perhaps he was only indulging his old friend, but I hope he takes genuine comfort and guidance from the prayers.

  White Worm Society Black Bishop Report, 16th of January 1879

  Operative: Anna Hubbard

  Location: London, England

  I have taken a position as a cleaning woman at the Lyceum Theatre in order to investigate Henry Irving. We now know he had a copy of The Munich Manual of Demonic Magic in his possession. I have managed to get into his library, which I can only safely do when I know he is performing on the stage, for the only access to it is through his office, where he works most nights.

  He has a very extensive collection on the occult, but nothing else as dangerous as the volume stolen from his office. There is, however, a membership directory for the Order of the Golden Dawn, which I have never seen before. It would make a valuable addition to our collection and I will try to steal it if I get the chance.

  From the Diary of Oscar Wilde, 31st of January 1879

  Dear diary,

  I have returned to Dublin to oversee the sale of the rest of my father’s property. This is a task that should be left up to Willie, but he is off on one of his alcoholidays and is nowhere to be found.

  Apparently, our father owned a few cottages that have only come to light after a cousin’s death. It is good news as we can use the money. Why my father had these cottages is something of a mystery, although it was most likely to hide away a mistress or two. Whatever the reason, I shall simply accept this as good fortune bestowed upon me by a benevolent universe.

  While I wait for the transactions to complete I have taken the opportunity to investigate Stoker’s past.

  While in Greystones, he confided in me that his ‘visions’ began when he was seven years of age after a period of grave illness. His mother still lives in Dublin, though not in the house where he grew up.

  One morning when I knew Mrs. Stoker was out I knocked at the back door and a maid answered. She looked to be in her late thirties. Her apron was covered with flour and when she opened the door a cloud of it sprinkled itself onto my clothes.

  She was taken aback, exclaiming, “Oh, sir, this entrance is for deliveries. You want to go ’round the front.”

  “My apologies, miss, but it is you I would like to speak with, if you have the time, that is.”

  “Oh, dear, I don’t know if that would be proper….”

  “I am not here to sell you anything or to court you, though you are quite pretty.”

  She blushed and giggled, of course.

  “I am a friend of Mr. Bram Stoker, Mrs. Stoker’s son. We were children together and I have fond memories of his nanny and was wondering if she is still employed here?”

  “She passed a while back, I’m sorry to tell ya.”

  So, the nanny was no good to me for information, outside of a séance. I could ask Mother to help with that, but her séances never go off quite as planned.

  “Are there any staff left who might have known her, from Bram’s childhood I mean?”

  “No, I’m the only housekeeper now. I don’t know of any except for the housemaid who I replaced. She joined a convent.”

  So, dear diary, it looks like I am off to a nunnery.

  From the Diary of Oscar Wilde, 3rd of February 1879

  Dear yours truly,

  I am uneasy in holy places, for many reasons of which you are quite aware, and convents make me especially queasy. These poor girls locking themselves away from life. Imagine, dressing drably on purpose! No art on the walls, nor flowers on the table; I have seen stables with better decor.

  The maid took the name Sister Agnes when entering the convent. I told the mother superior that I was a long-lost nephew and was allowed to see her. I do not know what I thought she could tell me, or why she would tell me anything at all. What did she know? That Bram was a strange child, I suspect, but that is apparent to anyone who knows him as an adult.

  We met in a large room with a long table, the dining hall perhaps. Other nuns were about, sweeping and doing nunnish things.

  She was confused to see me but took it in stride. The spiritual life does thrive on serenity, after all.

  “All of my nephews are accounted for, and you are not one of them,” she said.

  “I apologise for the ruse,” I said. “My name is Oscar Wilde, and I am a friend of Bram Stoker….”


  She quickly sat down at the table across from me. Her face had gone white, which is very apparent when one is wearing black.

  “Bram!” she exclaimed more loudly than she wanted to. She lowered her voice and asked, “Is he well, Mr. Wilde?”

  “Yes, fine,” I said, then added, “physically, at least.” Her reaction convinced me that she did indeed have the information I sought, and so I decided to lay all my cards on the table. “He’s been having visions, Sister Agnes.”

  She looked distressed. “What sort of visions?”

  “Demonic, I fear,” I said, feeling that this would have the desired effect. “I am quite worried about him. He confided in me that he had similar visions when he was a child.”

  “Oh, saints protect us. I was hoping there would not be any ill effects.”

  “Whatever do you mean? Effects from what?”

  “I have said too much already.” She stood to leave and I grabbed her hand.

  “Please, if there is anything that can help me understand Bram’s condition, I must know.” Her eyes were still hesitant. “Sister Agnes, his very soul may be in danger.” Appealing to her piety worked for she sat back down.

  “It is something that has weighed upon my own soul for some time now,” she said. “Yet I cannot bring myself to talk of it in confession. Sometimes I convince myself that it didn’t happen at all. Does Bram not remember…that night he was cured?”

  I didn’t know what she was talking about and decided to lie. “He does not,” I said. “Consider me your confessor in this matter. I will keep what you tell me in the strictest confidence.”

  She smiled ruefully. “No one would believe you if you were to tell, but Bram has a right to know, though he may not want to.”

  “It might help him control his curse if he understands.” (Perhaps, diary, it is my propensity for lying to nuns that makes me so uncomfortable around them. Something to consider.)

  She sighed. “Well, I’m not sure I understand it myself. I certainly didn’t at the time, but I was just a slip of a girl when I worked for the Stokers. My name was Bonnie then. I shared a room with the nanny, Mary Crone, and it soon became apparent that she did not walk with God. She read books on the occult and practised divination. While this bothered me, I did not feel it was my place to set her down the correct path, for she did, as well, read the Bible daily and attended church twice weekly.”

  “Did the Stokers know about this?” I asked. Bram does not seem the sort to have grown up in a tolerant household.

  “Oh yes. In fact, they would often ask her to do their astrological charts or brew a potion for an ailment. There were five children in the family and they all were very fond of Mary. And despite her ways, she seemed to me a good woman. Over time, I too grew accustomed to her behaviour in these matters and thought little of it.”

  “How old was Bram at the time?”

  “Six. He was a sickly lad, bedridden most days, but cheerful and bright. I would often keep him company, and he would read me stories he wrote. When he discovered I could not read, he started teaching me and I was reading myself in only a few months.

  “However, his taste in literature concerned me – books of the occult, tales of pirates and highwaymen. He was especially fond of Frankenstein, a book of which I could see some moral value, as it shows the follies of playing God, but it is morbid nonetheless.”

  I felt glad she did not know of the reading material available in my home as I was growing up.

  “One morning I came into his room to find him covered in a sheet. I gasped and dropped the laundry, for it appeared he had passed in the night. To my relief, he stirred and pulled the sheet down.

  “‘Don’t fret, Bonnie, I was just practising being dead,’ he said.

  “‘Why would you want to go and do a thing like that?’ I cried.

  “‘I heard Mother talking with the doctor. She doesn’t know I can hear through the chimney flue. He said I only have a few months to live and that I may not see Christmas.’

  “Upon hearing this I felt faint. I tried the best I could to hide my sorrow and fear from him. I told him he must have heard wrong and that he’d be out of bed in no time.

  “‘The only way I am leaving this bed is in a coffin,’ he said, without a bit of remorse in his voice. ‘What do you think it will be like to spend eternity in a coffin?’”

  My goodness, Bram was a morbid child! Perhaps he is not so ill-suited to the theatrical life as I thought.

  Sister Agnes continued. “Later, I asked Mary if it were true, and she said it was. The blood disorder Bram suffered from was not curable, and he had taken a turn for the worse.

  “‘There is nothing science can do for him. He’s in God’s hands now,’ she said.

  “I wondered how God could do this to such a young, bright boy. In my mind, I could hear my mother chiding me not to question the Lord’s wisdom, but I didn’t care. Her voice seemed very far away then.

  “Mary told me there might be a way we could save him, but she didn’t dare tell the Mister or Missus. ‘Tonics and horoscopes are one thing,’ she said, ‘but this….’”

  Sister Agnes looked away, her brow furrowed. I feared she was about to cut our interview short and urged her on gently. “Whatever Mary’s idea, it worked, obviously. But at what cost? Please, Sister, I must know.” She looked at me sharply, and I hastened to add, “For Bram’s sake.” She nodded and went on.

  “She told me that she knew of a Gipsy woman who might be able to cure him with magic. I scoffed at the notion. ‘But it is better than doing nothing,’ she persisted.

  “So, I was tasked that night to go to the Gipsy camp on the edge of town to fetch the woman and bring her to Bram’s bedside. These weren’t the Irish Travellers I had encountered in the city, but Romanian Gipsies who had by then mostly been driven out of Ireland.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard of them.” My mother, in fact, used to visit their camps often to learn their lore, but I thought it best not to mention that to Sister Agnes.

  She continued. “I took the Stokers’ horse and carriage, following Mary’s directions out of town and down a dark, lonely road. The looming forest seemed more frightening in the moonlight and I feared highwaymen. But soon I heard the music and saw the firelight of the Gipsy camp. As I got closer it was almost too much to take in. People dancing half-naked, singing drunken songs. The smell of spicy foods and unbathed men filled the air and it was all I could do to catch my breath.

  “I dared not get out of my carriage and did not have to, as the old woman was expecting me and met me on the edge of the camp.

  “‘You have been sent by Sister Crone?’ she asked. She was wrinkled and grey and looked every bit the witch, dressed in colourful silks and adorned with jewellery that bore pagan symbols. I nodded and she bade me to wait, saying, ‘I’ll get the master.’ I grew even more uneasy.

  “She returned shortly with a tall man dressed in a black cloak. I was immediately taken with fear of him and at the same time, I could not look away from his face. He was dark-haired and handsome, his alabaster skin seeming to glow in the moonlight. He was tall and thin, but not gangly as some such men are. His face was youthful and yet not, for his eyes had a wise and weary look, as though he had seen much.

  “The horse backed away as he approached and I could not regain control. The man waved his hand ever so slightly and the horse calmed, then bowed his head before the man.

  “He did not speak on our way back into town. The old woman looked up at the stars and began to sing a song in a language I did not recognise. The horse sped up, and I could see something running beside us. It was a wolf! I let out a little yelp and the old woman laughed and said, ‘There are worse things in these woods than a wolf, my dear.’ The wolf stayed with us until we reached the gaslights of the city, then turned back.

  “Mary was waiting in the garden. She let out
a small gasp when she saw the man but quickly regained her wits.

  “The man leapt off the carriage with an eerie silence. Not even his cloak flowing behind him made a sound. And then, in one quick motion, he snatched the old Gipsy woman from the carriage as if she were as light as a wee babe and gently set her on the ground.

  “‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked Mary in a deep baritone voice.

  “‘Yes,’ she said, and I noticed she avoided his eyes. She looked to the Gipsy woman. ‘You told me you had a potion.’

  “‘He is better than any potion. Do not fret, Mary Crone, he means us no harm. Far from it. Sometimes a dance with the devil will bring the angels running.’

  “‘Invite me in,’ he commanded.

  “Mary seemed not to know what to do. She glanced back at the house – how safe and warm it looked. She looked at me, but I was no help to her, as frightened as I was. Finally, she made her decision. ‘Please, enter,’ she said, swinging open the garden door. She told me to put the carriage away and not to come upstairs.”

  Diary, I fervently hoped young Bonnie had not heeded that instruction. My hope was rewarded!

  “My curiosity got the better of me,” she continued. “I went up the back stair and into the connecting linen cupboard where I knew I could observe them unseen.

  “Bram’s room was lit only by the light of the fireplace. In the shadows, I could see a pentagram had been drawn on the floor at the foot of the bed. Bunches of wolfsbane and clover hung from the bed’s canopy. Little Bram sat up to greet his visitors.

  “His voice was weak but he smiled politely. He was always a well-mannered child. ‘Are you a new doctor?’

  “‘Yes,’ the man replied, his voice as rich and intoxicating as wine. ‘Let us see what we can do for you. Look deeply into my eyes.’