Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  “Then we shall,” I said. “Leave it to us.” The Scottish brothers let out a banshee war cry that took us all by surprise, particularly a woman passing nearby with a young boy. She hurried him away, but the child stared back at us as he was being dragged along by the hand. He reminded me of you as a boy, Teddy, always so inquisitive and afraid of nothing. It gave me courage.

  When we arrived at the estate, we took up position in the woods to observe.

  There was a steady stream of carriages leaving the property and heading off to the east. This went on for a good two hours.

  “With any luck the place will be near empty,” Tim said, as the last carriage rolled through the gates.

  “Aye. Time to make our move,” Tom said. (At least that is what I think he said; his accent is rather thick and hard to decipher.)

  Mikael grunted in approval.

  Before I could say another word, the three of them were storming the house! So much for my hopes of a stealthy approach!

  Like a fool I followed.

  Mikael kicked down the door and Tim and Tom shot two vampires in the foyer straight away, hitting them right between the eyes. They exploded into goo, as I have learned the newly created ones often do, and we fanned out.

  Tim took control of the situation and ordered Mikael to take the ground floor while he and Tom searched upstairs. They rushed up the stairs and I followed, if for no other reason than to ensure they didn’t accidentally shoot the child in their zeal.

  Two more vampires rushed towards us at the top of the stairs, but in short order they were nothing but sticky puddles on the richly carpeted floor. A vampire was guarding a door, but he fled in terror as he saw the redheaded brothers screaming towards him. It was actually cheering to realise that not all vampires were willing to die for the Bishop’s mad scheme.

  Nevertheless, I fired my Colt revolver, hitting him in the back, and the bullet exploded through his chest.

  I kicked in the door and found a nursemaid holding Noel. She was cowering in fear in the corner and seemed human enough.

  The two brothers continued to run up and down the hallway kicking in doors and screaming. I didn’t hear any shots fired so I reckon they didn’t find anybody behind them.

  “You need not fear us, we are the rescue committee,” I told her. I could see a wave of relief come over her and she hugged the infant closer. I asked her where the other prisoners were being held and she told me she thought they were in the cellar. I herded her out the door and called to my Scotsmen.

  Mikael was already in the cellar when we arrived. Barred cells lined one end of the room. The piles of goo on the floor indicated he had killed at least three vampires.

  “Two vampires are locked away. I kill dem now?” Mikael asked.

  “Not yet,” I told him. “Mr. Irving, are you down here?”

  “Yes,” he called from one of the cells. “I’m over here.”

  I had to retrieve the key from one of the disgusting piles of guts to free him.

  “Release me as well,” a foreign voice called from the other cell.

  “Do not let him out,” Irving warned.

  “Me kill?” Mikael asked eagerly.

  “No,” Irving said. “He too is an enemy of the Black Bishop, but I don’t know if we can trust him.”

  “Let me out or you will regret it,” the unseen vampire said. “I am a valuable ally. More importantly, you do not want me as your enemy.”

  “I’m sorry, but Wilkins can control you,” Irving replied. “He will just make you turn on me whether you want it or not. If I can get the spear away from him, I will come back and free you.”

  As we left, the prisoner starting yelling what I took to be obscenities in a foreign language.

  Then, in English, he said, “I gave you freedom, Irving. You owe me the same!”

  “And I shall repay you if I can,” Irving said, then ushered us out of the cellar.

  “We must get word to Stoker that we have freed his son,” I said. “He needs to know the Black Bishop no longer has anything to hold over him.”

  I sent Mikael to accompany the wet nurse and Noel back to London. I wanted the baby far away from the place as soon as possible.

  Tim, Tom and I will now meet up with Ellen and Oscar at Stonehenge. But first I must retrieve my Gatling gun.

  I feel we may just win this thing, Teddy!

  Letter III from Robert Roosevelt to Theodore Roosevelt, 6th of May 1880

  Dear Theodore,

  This will be my last letter before our final rescue. I am on a hill overlooking Stonehenge with Oscar, Ellen, Henry and my Scottish mercenaries. I suspect the ceremony will begin at sundown, which is about an hour away. All attempts to send Miss Terry off to safety have met with her adamant refusal.

  Since learning the nature of our foes, I have invested a considerable sum in silver bullets, much to the amusement of the armorer who made them for me. We have them loaded into rifles and the Gatling gun, which is set up in its wheeled cart. We are too far away for the Gatling gun to be useful in our assault, but it should fully protect our fallback position on top of the hill.

  Irving can move, literally, in the blink of an eye. The plan is for him to grab Bram and make a break for the top of the hill. Any vampires pursuing us are in for a nasty surprise when they face a hail of silver bullets from our gun.

  The sun has set and at least a hundred people (vampires?) are surrounding the ruins. For what purpose, I know not.

  A round stone table has been brought in and placed to the side of the structure. I fear the worst as it looks like the stone table we saw atop that Aztec temple, the one used for human sacrifice! Channels are carved around its perimeter leading to a spout, like a mortician’s table used to drain a body of blood. Workers are digging a small trench from the table into the center of the ruins and lining it with clay pipes.

  Now that we are here, the task seems more daunting than it did back in Amesbury. Wish me luck, Teddy, and if I don’t come back, remember me fondly, and take care of my children.

  Uncle Robert

  White Worm Society Black Bishop Report, 6th of May 1880

  Operative: Anna Hubbard

  Location: Amesbury, England

  So much to report; I fear I cannot possibly do justice to the events I have seen, but I will try.

  My attempts to infiltrate the Order of the Golden Dawn and ascertain the Black Bishop’s identity have been successful.

  The Black Bishop is the Reverend Richard Wilkins, a vicar at Salisbury Cathedral. How a low-level member of the clergy has come to garner and wield so much supernatural power I do not know, but it would be a worthwhile subject of investigation for the Society.

  Reverend Wilkins has single-handedly managed to create dozens of first-generation vampires by resurrecting the dark arts we of the White Worm Society have tried so hard to wipe from the face of the earth.

  In addition, he has accomplished what we fear most: he has opened a door into the Other Realm. He thinks it to be hell, which makes his motivation even more chilling. Of course, he was unable to control its terrible power.

  Following is an account of the ceremony and its immediate aftermath. There are still many unknowns that bear further investigation.

  The ritual took place at Stonehenge, a place known to have a particularly close connection to the Other Realm. The moon was nearly full. Perhaps this was needed for opening the portal, or possibly the night was chosen just for the light the moon provided. (The Occult Ceremonies Division is investigating this question.)

  Wilkins addressed the crowd dressed in flowing white druid robes. I think this was mostly for theatrics, but it is possible the robes held some supernatural significance. (I have referred the matter to the Magical Properties of Objects Division.)

  “Come forth, the twelve,” he commanded. I must say, he has a powerful voi
ce when he wishes to employ it; I am a bit surprised he hasn’t risen further in the Church, but perhaps it has been to his advantage to appear unassuming.

  Twelve men took up places around the ruins, spaced evenly apart. They were clothed in the normal, modern fashion. They began to chant in unison in an unknown tongue. At the completion of their chant, they knelt before the stones.

  “Tonight,” the Black Bishop intoned to the crowd. “Tonight we open the gates of hell and bring forth the dragon of everlasting life.”

  A young man – who appeared to my eye to be not quite in possession of his faculties – was brought to him by two black-clad minions.

  “All hail the future King of England, Prince Edward!” the Bishop proclaimed.

  I was shocked at this introduction. It was all I could do not to run away at that very moment and alert the authorities to rescue His Royal Highness.

  The crowd cheered in unison, “All hail the future King!”

  Another man, apparently a prisoner, was brought through the crowd to a round stone table outside the circle of stones. I recognised him at once from my investigations at the Lyceum Theatre as Bram Stoker. He clutched an ample leather physician’s bag. The men who brought him forwards – I believe they were vampires – handled him roughly, though he did not struggle.

  The Black Bishop turned to him and said, “Bram, we thank you for your blood, freely given to usher in a new era of peace and righteousness for all mankind. It is only fitting on such a momentous night that some of your friends have come to wish you well. I hope you will be as pleased as I am to see them.”

  Vampires dragged a woman and a man, whom I recognised as the actors Ellen Terry and Henry Irving, before the Bishop. Irving was bound in silver chains, which I can only assume means he is a vampire! (Imagine, a vampire right under our noses running the most prestigious theatre in London. At least he appears to be on the outs with the Bishop and a foe to his plans. Could there be ‘good’ vampires? The Supernatural Creatures Division assures me they know of none such in the past.) Irving fell to his knees, the effect of the chains too much to bear. I could hear his skin sizzle where the silver touched his wrists and neck.

  More henchmen brought two other men through the crowd to stand before the Bishop. One was Oscar Wilde; the second I had seen at the Lyceum, but never learned his name. Another vampire followed, pulling a Gatling gun in a cart.

  “I fear, however, that they have not come with pure motives.” The Bishop looked down at them, smiling. “Oh, Oscar, Oscar, when will you realise that I have been and always will be one step ahead of you? I knew you would try to free Stoker and Henry. I admit I was surprised you decided to use brute force. I thought you more of a strategist. However, all it took was to offer a reward for your capture and within hours your own mercenaries showed up at my door to collect.”

  Two red-headed, heavily tattooed identical twins waved to the crowd, grinning.

  “They told me what your merry band had up your sleeves.” He turned to the twins. “However, perhaps it was unfair of me not to tell you before that I hate turncoats, especially those who have killed my people.” The fools’ grins faltered as the Bishop commanded, “Mr. Dripp, Miss le Fey, give them their rewards.”

  Two of the vampires pounced on the twins, and their smiles and lives were quickly drained away to much delight from the crowd. They fell dead at the Bishop’s feet within moments.

  The Bishop walked over to the Gatling gun to admire it. He addressed the man with Wilde. “I must admit, Mr. Roosevelt, you have some very big sleeves. I take it you planned to mow us all down with this toy?”

  The crowd laughed and booed.

  “Stoker, Noel is safe! You don’t have to do this,” Wilde yelled, as he struggled to free himself from the clutches of a large vampire. The monster forced him to his knees.

  The Bishop smiled. “Safety is an illusion, Mr. Wilde. I allowed the Russian to take Noel back to his mother as a sign of good faith. I can get him back anytime I choose. But Bram and I have an understanding, don’t we, Bram?”

  “Go to hell, Wilkins!” the one named Roosevelt spat. (Note: He is an American. Ask the U.S. chapter of the Society to check their records for the name Roosevelt.)

  “No need, not when I can bring hell here.” Wilkins smiled at his own joke.

  The crowd roared with laughter and shook with thunderous applause.

  The Bishop raised his hand and silenced the crowd. “Mr. Stoker has a plan that might save his throat from being cut. While I realise this may disappoint some of you, I admire his initiative. I hope it works, for his sake. Go ahead, Bram, pour your blood onto the stone, the way we rehearsed it.”

  Stoker took a bottle from his bag, spoke something in what sounded to be Latin and then proclaimed in English, “I, Abraham Stoker, do give this blood willingly.” He uncorked the bottle and poured it into a channel carved into the surface of the stone table. The blood flowed halfway around the perimeter of the table, slowed to a crawl and stopped.

  “Not quite enough,” the Black Bishop said.

  Stoker pulled another bottle from the bag, uncorked it and poured its contents onto the table. The blood flowed around then down a spout and into a trench laid out to the centre of the stone circle. Still, the blood did not reach the centre. The Bishop smiled patiently.

  Stoker took yet another bottle and added its contents to the table. This was enough liquid to push it all the way to the centre.

  The crowd became eerily silent as it waited with anticipation for something to happen. And they waited. Nothing. Finally, Wilkins spoke.

  “Oh, I am sorry, Bram, truly,” he said, and he did sound it. “It does appear that we need fresh blood. This is often the way with magical forces, I have found. A bit old-fashioned, but there you are.” He snapped his fingers and two vampires grabbed Stoker, threw him onto the table and tied his four limbs to it, securing the ropes through holes carved near the edge of the table. The Black Bishop approached, drew a knife and put it to Stoker’s throat.

  “No!” Miss Terry screamed.

  “Ellen,” Stoker yelled. “Please, this must be. For Noel’s sake and yours.”

  “I will make it quick, dear lady,” the Bishop said. Someone in the crowd yelled, “Not too quick!” and some laughed, though the Bishop looked irritated. When there was silence again, he started to chant in Latin.

  Then something happened. Perhaps the bottled blood only needed a few moments to properly soak into the earth, but suddenly the ground trembled with such force that everyone lost their footing.

  Plumes of smoke and beams of light started to come forth from the ground, as though subterranean pressure was building and forcing its way out through small cracks in the earth. A glowing red ring appeared all around the stone ruins.

  Then, a shaft of the most intense light, I swear as bright as the sun, shot into the sky. I could no longer see the stones and had to shield my eyes or go blind.

  A few moments later the ground ceased its shaking. The pillar of light was gone. The stones were gone. Only a hole remained, about thirty feet in diameter, emitting the foul smell of sulphur. An eerie red glow emanated from its depths. Humans and vampires got to their feet and cautiously approached the gaping pit.

  The red glow intensified and brightened.

  “It comes! Quick, the net!” the Black Bishop yelled.

  A flame shot out of the hole – followed by a large red dragon! Its torso was the size of a baby elephant and its head protruded forwards on a long, writhing neck. The hole was too small for it to flap its wide, leathery wings, so it clawed its way out, screeching and belching fire.

  Several vampires threw a silver net over the creature and pulled it out of the hole. Though the silver did not appear to burn the creature, it did seem to weaken it.

  One of the vampires manning the ropes was hit by a blast of fire and went up like a Roman candle. A
lasso was thrown around the cruel-looking beak to force it shut.

  They wrestled the beast all the way out of the hole and someone rushed over and put a silver stake through its webbed foot. It writhed in pain.

  Many vampires descended upon it and tied body and neck to the ground with ropes and stakes. The Bishop himself muzzled the creature with an extra silver chain. It quickly learned that breathing fire out its nostrils earned it another jab with a silver stake so, once bound, it collapsed in defeat and remained still, except for heavy, laboured breathing and tiny puffs of smoke from its nose.

  The crowd cheered once again.

  With the creature subdued, Wilkins patted it on the snout, as if it were his pet. “With this dragon’s blood, we usher in a new Golden Age.”

  He took the dagger he had only moments before had at Stoker’s throat and made a small incision in the soft flesh of the beast’s neck. A robed vampire handed the Black Bishop a chalice and he collected some of the blood.

  He gave the cup to the prince, who guzzled it down. The crowd cheered and the prince stumbled around as if drunk.

  Wilkins filled the vessel again and held it high to the crowd, proclaiming, “I now join your ranks.”

  He muttered and gestured over the cup (praying?) and the crowd cheered. And then, the noise of something else. A small rumble. The crowd was too transfixed on their leader to notice what I saw plainly; there was dirt falling away into the hole. It was rapidly becoming bigger. Then the ground shook violently, shaking the Bishop’s cup so hard it spilt its contents before he could drink it.

  A monstrous roar shot from the hole, a sound so loud and horrible I had to cover my ears for fear of bursting an eardrum. Dirt exploded into the sky and an enormous white worm shot out like a whale breaching an ocean of earth. It was truly the largest white worm I have ever laid eyes on – at least twice the size of the one we encountered in Nevada – as long as a locomotive and as wide as a house.

  Many, including the Black Bishop, fled in terror. Others were too stunned to move or fainted outright. Some ran towards it, compelled, perhaps, by something in its nature calling to something in theirs.