Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  “You aren’t, Oscar,” I said. “Are you?”

  “He is the Black Bishop,” Oscar replied, his eyes locked on the bishop with an anger I had never seen in him before. “You are the one who is running around turning people into vampires and killing people!”

  “Vampires aren’t real,” the Bishop said, looking to me for support. “Tell him, Lady Jane.”

  I shrugged. “I wish that were true, but I have it on good authority that they are. Perhaps we could test the bishop,” I suggested to Oscar.

  I told him to touch the silver cross to his bare arm. He did and it did not burn him, much to Oscar’s consternation.

  “That proves nothing. He might not be a vampire, but he surely is the Black Bishop!”

  “That is enough!” the Bishop yelled. He pulled forth from his pocket a small gun! “Drop the stake.”

  Oscar complied.

  “I have been carrying this gun for days, just in case this Black Bishop’s deluded followers were coming to kill me. I have let fear get the best of me, listening to a crazy, unfounded story straight from the penny crime magazines. Shame on me.”

  He handed me the gun.

  “Please, Jane, take it. But whatever you do, keep an eye on your son. See, Oscar? If I were, in fact, a dangerous anarchist, would I give up my gun?”

  Oscar paused, confused, then relented and apologised. He tried to clean off the bishop with his napkin.

  “Stop it! Don’t touch me, you imbecile. Get out! If I ever see your face again, I’ll rip off my collar and pummel you within an inch of your life!”

  “You see,” Oscar said, “there are vampires and they are infesting London at the moment. If you could only help us….”

  “Out!”

  “Just listen to what he has to say,” I pleaded with my old friend.

  “You’re as mad as he is,” the bishop yelled. “Give me back my gun, before you accidentally shoot me.”

  I carefully handed it back to him.

  “All you need to do is talk to Reverend Wilkins,” Oscar said. “He will tell you I am not insane.”

  “I am sorry if Wilkins put these foolish ideas into your head,” the Bishop said. “He is an old buffoon who likes to find conspiracies where there are none. I share part of the blame for humouring his delusions. In any event, the matter has been turned over to the Archbishop of Canterbury for further investigation. If there is any truth to these rumours he will get to the bottom of it. Good day.”

  Oscar raised his hand, “If I could just—”

  “I said good day!”

  Back at the cottage, Oscar told me of the horrific things that have been going on in London, right under my very nose. It seems we are knee-deep in vampires. Who will believe us? Who will help us? All seems lost.

  We are off to gather up Bram Stoker and Ellen Terry and head back to London. I cannot wait to put this whole day behind me.

  Letter from Ellen Terry to Lillie Langtry, 24th of April 1880

  My dearest Lillie,

  With so much horror in my life lately, is it wrong for me to enjoy an afternoon picnic? As I write this, Bram is busy shooing away a rather large flock of woolly sheep. I am sitting among the stones of Stonehenge on a carpet of grass and buttercups.

  Stonehenge is a sight to see. Enormous rectangular stone pillars form a circle. On top of the pillars are stone slabs – how anyone hoisted them up there is a mystery, though I am told giants may have been involved!

  We are alone except for the sheep. Dear Lillie, I fear I am falling in love with Bram. I am sick with guilt, for Florence is a dear, sweet thing and does not deserve to be hurt. Perhaps it is just the thrill of the danger we have found ourselves in that has me swooning like a schoolgirl.

  I know I must suppress my feelings. The incident I wrote of previously has not recurred. He is a decent and moral man who is trying to remain steadfast to his marriage. A proclamation of love would only make things more difficult for him.

  So, for now, my feelings must remain unspoken.

  Bram returns, I shall pick up this letter later.

  – Later –

  Bram has fallen asleep next to me. I cannot help but think that we are soul mates, kept apart by the cruel stars. I am even more enamoured than before. Our afternoon picnic was platonic, I assure you; however, my heart does not think this to be true. I do not think I have met a man like him before. So strong, brave and such a troubled soul. One wants to save him.

  We talked of literature, the theatre and mythology. He told me of his aspirations to become a great writer. Did you know he corresponds regularly with the esteemed American poet Walt Whitman, who finds his writing to be invigorating? I must say, I find everything about Bram invigorating.

  – Later –

  Oh, Lillie!

  What a thrilling day! I have been shaken to exhaustion by romantic infatuation, intense fear for my life and a heart-soaring victory!

  My earlier pages in this letter pale by comparison. I am very tempted to write this down as a play, it would make for thrilling theatre! I shall do my best to recall all that was said and done.

  Our fine picnic was interrupted by Oscar and Lady Wilde arriving in haste by carriage. I woke Bram from his nap.

  He sighed and said, “All good days must come to an end.” He stood and brushed grass off his trousers.

  The poor horses were sweating from a full gallop.

  “Egad,” Oscar said, climbing down from his seat. “Any further north and we would be in Scotland.”

  They recounted the tale of their lunch with the bishop; he is definitely not a vampire and by all indications is not the Black Bishop either. However, it sounds as if the bishop thinks the Wildes to be quite mad.

  “It’s not all bad news,” Oscar said. “The food was excellent.”

  Bram was not convinced, pointing out that even if he were the Black Bishop, he would have hesitated to kill them in a cathedral full of witnesses.

  “How did you know where we were?” I asked, still a bit put out by the interruption. “And why the urgency of your arrival?”

  “Reverend Wilkins left word at the cottage that you would be here. And we thought your life may be in danger,” Lady Wilde said. “Is that pie in the basket?”

  “I do not understand,” Bram said. “The reverend knew we were in no danger. Why would he say we were?”

  “No, no, man,” Oscar said, rummaging through our picnic hamper. “He simply said you were here should we be looking for you. And knowing the business we’re about, danger was a natural assumption at a locale such as Stonehenge. Who could have suspected it was merely a spring idyll on a grassy plain?” He cocked an arch eyebrow at Bram, who turned away, clearly embarrassed. When he turned his wry smile to me I defiantly refused to blush, but I was not too proud to change the subject.

  “Reverend Wilkins told us of some very suspicious actions of the bishop,” I said. “I think he still bears watching.”

  “We assumed the Black Bishop is a vampire, but maybe he is not,” Bram speculated. “He doesn’t need to be a monster to rule the monsters.”

  Oscar agreed, adding, “If the Right Reverend Moberly is the Black Bishop, and I am still not convinced he isn’t, then he knows we are on his trail. He and his vampires may be nearby. That is why we thought it best to come find you. Safety in numbers and all that.”

  “Well, I can assure you we were quite safe. It is a sunny afternoon and we are miles from Salisbury,” Bram said. “Wilkins should be by any moment now to take us back to his cottage.”

  “I would hope so. As you can see, it is no longer a sunny afternoon, but dusk.” Oscar said. “And eerie Stonehenge is not where one should be in the dark. Why, I can just picture a druid strapping us to a stone table and sacrificing us to…. Whom did they worship, Mother?”

  I could see a cloud of dust off in the dista
nce: yet more people on horseback. Our private picnic spot was becoming a crowded village.

  It was six fast riders. I could not make out their faces but suddenly I saw them leap from their horses at a full gallop! It was then I knew they were unearthly creatures. “Bram!” I screamed, but in that very instant they flew at us at a tremendous speed. We had no time to react before they were on top of us!

  We were instantly in their clutches. Four vampires each held one of us from behind as a fifth struck Bram and Oscar hard across their faces.

  “That is enough,” a sixth one said, calmly standing before us. He was well-dressed, upper-class, and clearly the others’ superior. He slowly took off his riding gloves. His horse trotted up beside him and he took an apple from his pocket and fed it to him. “Marvellous creatures, horses,” he said. “They live to be obedient.”

  Oscar spat out some blood. “Sundry! This is one of the Golden Dawn I told you about, Bram. He leads the vampire ceremonies.”

  “That is Lord Sundry to you, Wilde. You and Stoker here have been particularly irritating thorns in my side. You, Mr. Stoker, killed one of my men. There is a price to pay for that. And you, Wilde,” he said, looking Oscar up and down. “You really just wear upon one’s nerves, don’t you?”

  “I have been told that before, though there is far from a consensus on the subject,” Oscar replied coolly.

  “I killed no man,” Bram said, struggling to free himself from the clutches of the vampire. “Coal was a monster like you.”

  “Well, I suppose you are right about that,” said Sundry. “In any event, a price will be paid. One for one seems fair. I will not kill you, for I am told you have something we may need. So, pick one of the others and be quick about it or I will kill all three.”

  “Kill me, you bastard!” Oscar yelled. I must confess it seemed out of character for Oscar. So often he plays the callow narcissist for amusement, I was touched by his willingness to give his life for others.

  Sundry smiled. “On second thought, I suppose Wotton will want to kill Mr. Wilde himself. So, Stoker, choose one of the women.”

  “Go back to hell!” Bram commanded.

  “Fine,” Sundry said, nodding to the vampires holding me and Lady Wilde. “Have your fill.”

  “No!” Bram cried.

  “Choose now!” Sundry screamed, baring his pointy teeth.

  “It is all right, Bram,” Lady Wilde said. “I have lived a long life. It is only logical it be me.”

  “No, you do not get to choose,” Sundry said. “Kill the other one.”

  I could feel the fiend’s cold breath on my neck. Terrified, knowing the next few seconds would be my last, my legs gave out and I slipped momentarily from the vampire’s grip. My mind raced as I steeled myself to make a run for it and wondered whether there was anything in the hamper I could use as a weapon when suddenly – I do not know how to write this any more delicately – the vampire’s head exploded! Blood spattered onto Lord Sundry’s fine clothes, and the vampire who had been about to end my life collapsed into a pile of sludge, making a frightful sploosh sound.

  A stunned Lord Sundry scanned the horizon, looking for an assailant. Then the vampire holding Oscar released him and made a run for it. His chest exploded outwards from a bullet to the back. Bram broke free and pushed the vampire holding him away, and in the confusion, that one too took a shot to the chest.

  The others fled for the cover of the stones. Poof! Another one exploded. Sundry took a shot to his leg and collapsed. The remaining vampire sped away at high speed. Oscar and Bram started to give chase, but the vampire was gone.

  “He’s getting away,” Lady Wilde screamed. Lord Sundry was crawling along the ground, trying to make his escape. Lady Wilde ran over and sat on him. Facedown, with his arms pinned beneath his body, he snarled and hissed and twisted his neck to snap at her like a wild animal, any vestige of his previous humanity gone.

  Oscar and Bram secured him with silver chains, which, apparently, they’ve taken to carrying around with them. It is amazing the habits one can cultivate when pressed.

  Way off in the distance, at the top of a hill, a man stood and waved a rifle. It wasn’t until he was closer that I could see it was Mr. Roosevelt.

  He ran up to us, panting and holding his rifle in the air.

  “Buffalo…rifle…silver bullets. Two-hundred-yard…range.” It took him a moment to catch his breath, as it did us all.

  Apparently, he had run into Reverend Wilkins in Rollestone. The reverend’s carriage had broken a wheel and he sent Mr. Roosevelt to fetch us.

  Bram pulled out a stake and pressed it against Sundry’s chest. “Who is the Black Bishop?”

  “I am,” Sundry said, a predatory grin on his face.

  “Why you’re never!” Oscar exclaimed. “You’re not even clergy.”

  “Not Church of England, perhaps,” Sundry said. “But there are other faiths, other gods. Some grant more power than yours, if one proves worthy. Perhaps it is now time to see what else my god has in store for me.” Hands and feet bound by silver, he still managed to bend his knees enough to launch himself forwards onto Bram’s stake. Bram instinctively pulled away, but not quickly enough. Sundry’s weight overbalanced him, and the two fell together, Sundry landing firmly upon the stake to complete his intended suicide. He let out a hideous scream and exploded into a puddle of foul-smelling sludge.

  “I so hate it when they do that,” Bram sighed, wiping the sludge from his face. His clothes were soaked, however, and smelled putrid.

  We looked about at the piles of dead vampires among us and started to laugh from sheer relief as the truth sunk in. We had won. The Black Bishop was dead!

  So, that was my day, dear Lillie.

  Bram, Oscar and Mr. Roosevelt remain in Amesbury to seek Oscar’s friend. Lady Wilde and I are now on the train heading home to London. She will ask Mrs. Burton to keep Florence and Noel at her home for a while longer until Bram is certain none of the Black Bishop’s minions will seek revenge, while I am to inform Henry about our victory. My heart soars just thinking about it, but sinks when I think of returning to the theatre and to keeping my love secret from Bram, who will soon have his wife by his side once more.

  Please write back soon to let me know if these letters are finding you on the frontier.

  Love,

  Ellen

  From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 25th of April 1880

  Archivist’s note: Events covered more thoroughly in Ellen Terry’s previous entry have been omitted here.

  8:13 p.m.

  When we set out for Amesbury we had hoped to confront the Black Bishop and resolve this matter, but I’ll confess I had not thought we would dispatch the villain so quickly. However, our work here is not yet complete; Oscar is more concerned than ever about his friend. There are still more vampires about and they have Derrick. Without the Bishop’s leadership, I fear they are likely to eat him. I am honour-bound to assist with his rescue, if such a feat is even possible.

  My ‘gift’ had not alerted me to the presence of any supernatural element, so we decided to make some discreet enquiries in the village. We began, as is Wilde’s wont, in the pubs.

  One thing that can be said for Oscar is that he is able to make himself agreeable when needed. He quickly ingratiated himself to publicans and patrons alike, discussing the weather, the merits of the local beer and national politics before eventually working his way around to asking if they had noticed any unusual activity or strange visitors in the area. While beer and politics could provoke heated discussion, on this point they all agreed that, no, life in Amesbury had been proceeding quite as usual.

  As we staggered from our third pub, Robert recklessly decided that discretion was not giving us the results we needed. He approached a police constable making his rounds and introduced himself, then asked whether there had been any reports of mysterious activi
ty in the vicinity.

  “Mysterious activity, sir?” the constable asked, affecting the bland politeness that is the hallmark of his profession.

  “Yes. A young man of our acquaintance has been kidnapped, you see, and we have reason to believe that the villains have hidden him here in Amesbury.”

  “I can assure you, sir, that had we heard inklings of an abduction we would have mustered our forces straight away,” the constable said.

  “The chaps would likely only move about at night,” Oscar contributed helpfully. “Perhaps you’re more familiar with criminal activity on the day shift.”

  “Well, sir, it’s not such a large village,” replied the constable, an amused smile spreading beneath his greying moustache. “We of the constabulary do tend to keep one another informed of such things.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Oscar said, disappointed. “Thank you for your time, constable. If you should happen to hear anything, perhaps you would be good enough to let us know? We are staying at the inn. The name is Wilde.”

  Heaven knows why the man asked; he couldn’t have possibly intended to share any information with us. But he helped us out immeasurably when he enquired, “What inn would that be, sir? The Boar’s Head near the village green or the Lamb and Whistle out on the way to the old Wotton estate?”

  We all froze for a moment. Finally, I broke the silence. “Wotton estate, did you say?”

  So, with our confidence in our own investigatory skills shaken, we made our way directly to the Wotton estate, which is located on the road heading north out of town. It’s a monstrous old thing, well-kept but stark, and I couldn’t help but feel that even had there been no monsters within, I would not have wished to visit.

  We approached on foot, each carrying a pack with our meagre tools: wooden stakes, holy water and the like. Robert also carried his buffalo rifle. Though it was still full daylight, we cautiously kept to the trees and circled the property until we found a side entrance that we could get to without crossing too much open ground. If this vampire coven is as organised as it seems, I would not be surprised to learn they have human henchmen about to guard their interests during daylight hours.