Dracula The Un-Dead

by Dacre Stoker

  Big Ben, only a short distance away, began to chime. With each consecutive gong, Stoker knew that the countdown to the end had begun. Nine chimes, nine o’clock. His wife had retired to her chambers, as had his nurse. This was the time he hated most, alone, unable to move, trapped in his thoughts.

  He felt suddenly cold, as if the temperature in the room had dropped by ten degrees. Had the fire gone out? He struggled to prop himself up, and called out for his nurse. He could only partially move his mouth.

  He could barely turn his head to see that the shadows that now shrouded the room, created by the moonlight spilling past the shade, began to move. Stoker tried to call out again, but was capable only of a low grunt.

  Stoker’s eyes searched for a sign of another soul in the bedroom with him. There was no one. He strained to listen for any sound of breathing, but heard none but his own. An odd scratching sound made him hold his breath. At first he thought it was a mouse burrowing beneath the floorboards, but the sound grew loud, like a chisel carving wood. His fear quickened. There was someone in the room. A shadow detached itself from the wall, blocking out the moonlight as it passed the window, and crept to the foot of his bed. Stoker balled his hand into a fist and punched at the headboard, struggling to scream. He watched in helpless disbelief as the shadow began to take on the outline of a human form, certain he was having a terrible nightmare. He shifted his body so that he could roll onto his side, trying to use his functioning right arm to reach for the wheelchair next to the bed. If he could just get into the chair, perhaps he could escape. As his hand was about to grab the armrest, he heard a whoosh of air. Something hit him hard in the chest, throwing him back onto the bed, the air knocked from his lungs. He struggled to breathe. An angry growl came to his ears, seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere at once, as if a pack of wild wolves had surrounded his bed. The shadow’s black mass lunged forward, enveloping him. It had weight, like another human being pressed down on him, pinning him to his bed. Using what little strength he had, Stoker tried to fight back.

  He screamed as something punctured his neck. He felt no pain, but he knew his blood was being drained from his body. The shadow was alive and he would soon be dead.

  He had made a terrible mistake. The madman he had met all those years ago in the pub had not merely told him an amusing story. That man had tried to warn him that vampires did exist.

  The moonlight from the window once again fell on Stoker as the shadow moved. He could now see what had hit him in the chest. It was his own personal copy of his novel. Scratched across the cover, as if by a savage claw, was the word: LIES!

  CHAPTER XLIII.

  Quincey could never have imagined anything more impressive than the great cathedral of Notre Dame, yet he was awestruck by the immense, ostentatious grandeur of the Midland Grand Hotel. He felt very out of place in his disheveled, stinking, soot-covered attire. He pressed himself against the green marble column as if to blend into the background, keeping distance from any patrons crossing the lobby.

  In stark contrast, Holmwood was so sure of himself that he marched straight through the crowd, across the multicolored marble floor, to the hand-carved mahogany front desk. He didn’t care what he looked like or smelled like or even that his shoes were sopping wet. He was still Arthur Holmwood, and he commanded respect.

  The nervous concierge ran up to him.

  “Lord Godalming! What an exquisite surprise. Had I expected you, I would have had a tailor and valet waiting.”

  Holmwood remained unfazed. “A tailor? Good God, for whatever reason?”

  “I could have a suit prepared in less than—”

  Holmwood held up his hand to interrupt. “That won’t be necessary. I’m looking for a guest by the name of Mr. Renfield.”

  Renfield is my sanctuary. Quincey finally understood the code hidden in the old man’s telegram. Van Helsing was clearly trying to lead them to him. Perhaps he could help them after all.

  It was no wonder that the Midland Grand had fallen from its perch as London’s finest hotel. The year was 1912 and they still refused to install a lift. And of course Van Helsing, or rather Mr. Renfield, would choose a room on the top floor, no doubt for the advantage of escape routes via the roof.

  The climb up the spiraling grand staircase seemed unending. Holmwood made the ascent without once stopping to rest. Quincey, on the other hand, was forced to stop for the second time. As he caught his breath, he craned his neck to see a cobalt blue sky with gold-leaf stars painted on the cathedral-like ceiling. It was as if they were mounting the steps to heaven. In an alcove overlooking the landing, there was a canvas mural of Saint George slaying the dragon. Quincey thought the mural quite appropriate to the quest at hand.

  Midway down the hallway, Holmwood stopped and glanced about to ensure they were alone. He discreetly withdrew his revolver and checked that all the chambers were loaded. “We can only assume the telegram was sent by Van Helsing. On the off chance that we’re walking into a trap, it is better to be prepared.”

  “According to Mr. Stoker, shouldn’t you be loading silver bullets?” Quincey asked.

  “You confuse your folklore. As did Mr. Stoker. Silver bullets are reserved for werewolves, Master Harker,” Holmwood replied with a satirical smile.

  Quincey didn’t share his amusement. If this was a trap, his life would be in just as much risk. Holmwood might not care whether he lived or died, but Quincey still did.

  Holmwood went to the farthest door closest to the roof access and whispered, “This is it.”

  Quincey was about to knock on the door when Holmwood pulled him back, pointing to the space between the floor and the door. Quincey felt stupid. Another mistake. By stepping in front of the door, they allowed anyone on the other side to see the shadows of their feet. He pointed to the doorjamb. The door was unlocked and had been purposely left slightly ajar. This was not a good sign. He nodded to Quincey: Get ready.

  Quincey’s heart was in his throat, but he nodded back despite his fear. Holmwood moved with lightning speed, pushing open the door and bolting into the room, his pistol at the ready. The room was dark, the light from the hallway illuminating ony half of the massive suite. Like the rest of the hotel, the ceiling in this room was abnormally high. The curtains were drawn.

  Quincey closed the door behind him. Holmwood whispered angrily, “No, wait.” Quincey moved to stop the swinging door. Too late. The door closed, extinguishing the light from the hallway. They now stood in total darkness. He cursed himself under his breath. Another stupid mistake.

  The floorboards to their left creaked. Footsteps. They were not alone. “I warn you, I have a gun,” Holmwood said.

  The footsteps came closer. Holmwood spun and cocked his pistol, pushing Quincey behind him.

  Quincey found himself so terrified that he had forgotten to breathe, so when a hand reached out from the blackness and touched his shoulder, he jumped in fright.

  A deep, sophisticated voice echoed from all around them: “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  Holmwood raised his pistol.

  CHAPTER XLIV.

  Considering how long it had taken Cotford to reach the theatre, he should not have been so angry that the police surgeon had been so slow to appear and collect the latest victim. Not wanting to take any risks with the evidence, Cotford followed the surgeon’s wagon to the hospital on Carey Street, next to the Royal Courts of Justice, where the autopsy would be performed.

  As the police carriage turned south, Cotford savored the flavor of his cigar. The smoke wafted past Mina Harker, who was seated across from him in the police carriage. She fired a disapproving glare at him. Cotford’s hand touched the tip of the bloodstained sword triumphantly. He kept himself between this vital piece of evidence and Mrs. Harker. Soon he would prove her involvement in murder. The Crown Prosecution Service whined that they needed more evidence. They would soon have it, and he would at last be vindicated.

  The carriage was now close to the alley where Mina Harker�
�s husband and the woman in white had been attacked. Cotford glanced over at his prisoner to see if there was any recognition of this fact, but as in the morgue, her face betrayed no emotion. Was she that cunning or was she innocent? Cotford knew in his bones that Van Helsing had had a hand in orchestrating the death of Jonathan Harker. Cotford thought of the broken oak crates in the alley. It was clear that Van Helsing was no longer young enough to act alone. Undoubtedly, he had recruited new blood to carry out his wicked deeds. The letter from the Ripper, obviously penned by Van Helsing, made it clear that Quincey Harker was the key to unraveling this mystery. In his investigation of Jonathan Harker’s life, Cotford had already made some inquiries about the life and behavior of young Quincey Harker. Cotford had discovered that Quincey was a failed actor who had been forced by his father to attend the university in Paris. Interesting. Cotford himself had covered the cost of an international telephone call with Braithwaite Lowery, Quincey Harker’s former flatmate at the Sorbonne. Mr. Lowery described Quincey as quite mad, “sixpence short of a shilling,” and as someone who hated his father. In Lowery’s last conversation with him, Quincey had told his old roommate that he had met “someone wonderful” and was leaving his studies at the Sorbonne to “follow his new destiny.” A few days later, Quincey’s hated father had been found impaled in Piccadilly Circus. The more Cotford learned about Quincey Harker, the more he was convinced that the young man was the natural accomplice in Van Helsing’s new string of crimes.

  Cotford was prepared to wager his last penny that the “special someone” Quincey spoke of was none other than Dr. Abraham Van Helsing. Quincey Harker was impressionable enough to be seduced by Van Helsing’s twisted teachings. He was also young, strong, and very likely mad enough with the bloodlust of his first kill to break the oak crates in the alley. He also hated his father enough to impale him brutally as a final proof of his loyalty to Van Helsing. It all fit together. Cotford was certain the Crown Prosecution Service would agree. He looked out the window at the familiar domed roof of St. Paul’s Cathedral poking up through the haze on the horizon as they turned onto Fleet Street, then glanced back at Mina Harker. Her reserve was still solid, but it would not be for long. He would interrogate Mina Harker, and rather than conducting the interview in secrecy, Cotford would now have the full weight of the law behind him. He would be relentless. The bloodhound was back and he would hound her until she broke and revealed the whereabouts of Van Helsing and made a full disclosure of his crimes.

  Cotford had long suspected that Van Helsing had recruited followers into his occult beliefs to carry out his bloody work. It was more than likely that Dr. Seward, plagued by guilt, had threatened to expose Van Helsing’s crimes. Cotford felt it was safe to assume that Van Helsing was the one who had driven the black carriage that had trampled Seward in Paris, thereby eliminating the first of his previous accomplices. That left Jonathan, Mina, and Lord Godalming as the only living witnesses. It stood to reason that Van Helsing had decided they all had to be eliminated one by one. Jonathan’s death had brought them back together.

  Cotford surmised that it was Quincey who had set fire to the Lyceum. Perhaps it had been a failed attempt to kill his mother and Lord Godalming. Cotford noted that Quincey had “escaped” with Godalming, and that the young man planned to kill him once away from prying eyes. It was imperative that Sergeant Lee find Godalming before he met his demise. All avenues of escape from the city had been blocked off. Eventually, he would have Quincey in custody. Perhaps that was part of Van Helsing’s plan all along. To eliminate everyone—including his newest accomplice, leaving the bastard free to escape justice once again. Everything was falling into place. This night would wash away the years of failure. At last, the scales were balancing. There was only one thing missing from making this night a total triumph. Where is Van Helsing?

  Constable Price held fast the reins of the horses as the police carriage moved along Fleet Street. The ominous statue of the Fleet Street Dragon loomed ahead of them. The fog shrouded the pillar upon which it was perched, giving the illusion that the dragon was floating in the air with its batlike wings extended. Price glanced over to Constable Marrow, who was sitting next to him, holding the rifle. From the way his eyes were carefully watching the dragon as they passed, it looked as if Marrow was thinking the same thing.

  Given the unusual events of this evening, their wild imaginings were unsurprising. For the first time in his police career, they were carrying firearms, which was not usually allowed by London police. Then there was the fire at the great theatre and that poor, brutally murdered woman. He had heard Sergeant Lee and Inspector Cotford whispering a name: the Ripper. Could it be true? Was he involved in the investigation of the greatest unsolved murders of Scotland Yard? It was more than he could have ever hoped.

  As the fog grew thicker, it was becoming more difficult to see the street ahead. He squinted, trying to make out where he was, and suddenly had the overwhelming feeling that their coach was being followed. Constable Marrow must have had the same feeling, for he glanced back as well. The street was empty . . . there was not a single soul in sight. Price blinked. His eyes were surely playing tricks on him, for it appeared as if the fog behind them had turned bloodred. It must be caused by the new electric street lamps.

  Price’s heart almost stopped as he heard an unnerving sound, like the flapping wings of a large bird of prey, perhaps a hawk. But this was louder . . . and far larger. It was coming from above them. And it was getting closer.

  CHAPTER XLV.

  Holmwood’s pistol was poised and ready to fire.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” uttered the thickly accented voice out of the darkness.

  Quincey, with his hand on Holmwood’s shoulder, felt his companion’s muscles relax. Why didn’t he shoot?!

  The wall sconces suddenly illuminated the room. Standing before them was Abraham Van Helsing, one hand still on the light button, the other supporting himself on his cane.

  “Professor!” Holmwood said, pocketing his pistol. “My God, I could have shot you! Thank God you’re safe.” He rushed to embrace his old friend.

  Van Helsing smirked. “You know I can’t resist a dramatic entrance.”

  Quincey winced. The scratch on his neck, caused by Van Helsing only two nights before, stung again. It was as if his body was warning him to be cautious of this old man. He felt a surge of annoyance that Holmwood seemed to have forgotten that the professor had attacked him.

  Holmwood hurled questions at Van Helsing, not waiting for a single response before casting the next inquiry. “Are you all right? How did Dracula find you? How ever did you manage to escape?”

  “Using my wits and a tactic that he never expected . . .” Van Helsing paused and looked at Quincey, as if hesitating to share this information in front of him.

  Holmwood nodded: The young man had been taken into confidence.

  Despite this assurance, Van Helsing turned his back on Quincey.

  Quincey was angered at this obvious act of rudeness, and further aggravated that Holmwood didn’t do anything about it. He also noted that the professor had not answered the question. How had he escaped from Dracula?

  “It is good that you have found me,” Van Helsing said softly. “I’d hoped Madam Mina had informed you of my telegram.”

  For someone who had just survived an encounter with Dracula, Quincey thought, Van Helsing seemed unnervingly calm, very different from the frenzied old man he had met in the alleyway. He noticed a table full of weapons, and wondered about the draped window. Why are we standing here talking? The longer they waited, the sooner they would be discovered by the police—or Dracula. They needed to plan their next move with haste.

  Holmwood introduced the matter of Bathory while he examined the weapons on the table. A collection of crosses sat next to a carpetbag, a wooden stake, a bowie knife, and vials that Quincey could only assume contained holy water. There was, however, no wolfsbane or garlic. The centerpiece was a crossbow, armed and ready
.

  Quincey watched Van Helsing, who expressed no surprise at the mention of this new vampire, as if he already knew of Bathory. The old man hobbled to the side of the table and, with trembling hands, struggled to open a brandy bottle. He seemed so frail, quite unlike the man who’d bested Quincey in the alleyway only a few nights ago.

  At last, Van Helsing addressed him: “So it would seem, Master Harker, that you decided against taking my . . . advice.”

  The way Van Helsing enunciated the word “advice” made Quincey’s teeth clench. He countered, “My willingness to bend to coercion ended with the death of my father.”

  “All’s well,” Van Helsing replied with a sly smile. He poured brandy into two glasses. “It’s actually fortuitous for me that you are here.”

  “And why is that?”

  Van Helsing made no reply. He picked up one of the snifters with a gnarled hand and shuffled toward Arthur Holmwood, who was examining the bowie knife.

  Holmwood slammed the bowie knife into the table and took the glass. “If only I had listened to Seward in the first place,” he said. He took a swig in an attempt to wash away the memory. “Perhaps he, Jonathan, and Basarab might still be alive.”

  “Basarab?” Van Helsing asked, his voice light and curious.

  “The Romanian actor,” Holmwood said.

  Van Helsing steadied himself with his cane and offered the other glass to Quincey.

  He was not a drinker like his father. “Not for me, thank you.”

  Van Helsing set the glass down without comment, but there was something in his body language that seemed distant. He thinks of me as a rash child. Quincey thought it best to maneuver the conversation back to what they had learned about Basarab.