Van Helsing's Diaries (Books 1-3): Nosferatu

by Peter Cawdron

  “What’s the matter, honey?” she asks.

  “When—when you came to the door,” I say, trying to lighten the mood with a little humor. “The shadows. For a moment, I thought I saw a wolf.”

  Jane laughs, smiling a little, and I can see tiny bits of raw meat stuck in her teeth.

  Jane always had slightly long incisors, and when we began dating, she used to joke about her teeth being long enough to draw blood. My wife, the vampire. Seemed funny back then. Right now, I feel unsettled by her strange behavior. She seems to realize something’s wrong and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Behind me, I hear the distinct sound of a dog padding on the carpet. I turn, catching a shadow disappearing out the door.

  “Did you see that?” I ask, turning away from her, my heart pounding in my throat.

  “See what?” Jane asks, stepping behind me and slipping her hand under my arm and around the front of my chest as she hugs me. She pulls gently at the zipper on my jacket before sliding her hand in beneath my shirt. Icy cold fingers claw at my skin as my heart thumps inside my chest, exploding with life. I can’t help but jump at her touch.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  Everything, I want to say, but I can’t bring myself to be honest.

  “Nothing.”

  I close the front door and turn on the central heating, adjusting the thermostat and firing up the gas furnace. A few of the overturned items have been stood up, but the apartment is a mess. The TV is back on its stand, but the glass is shattered. The coffee table has been righted, and the magazines have been neatly stacked, but the carpet is covered in muddy boot prints.

  Light, I’ve got to have light. On an impulse, I march through the ransacked apartment turning on lights. It’s as though light will drive away the darkness I feel looming over us, and I cannot be content until all the lights are on, even in the spare bedroom and the guest bathroom.

  “You’re acting really strange,” Jane says, following me with her glass of red wine in hand, sipping softly as she watches my manic behavior.

  “Me?” I say, tempted to look in every cupboard and under the bed for... For what? The boogeyman? “It’s been a crazy day.”

  Already, the apartment is beginning to warm. Banishing the cold is as effective as turning on the lights, helping me to relax a little more, and I breathe deeply, trying to calm my nerves.

  Jane watches me with curiosity as I take off my tie and hang it on a rack in our walk-in closet. She knocks back her wine, drinking it as though it were orange juice. A thin strand of red wine runs from the corner of her lips, rolling down her chin and onto her neck as though it were a drop of blood.

  “You’ll get stains on your clothes,” I say, reaching out and wiping the wine with my thumb. I’m curious. I lick my thumb. Pinot.

  “Hungry?” she asks, taking her jacket off now warmth is radiating through the apartment.

  “No, I ate at the hospital.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t talking about food,” Jane says, biting softly at her lip and looking at me with what can only be described as wild eyes.

  “What happened?” I ask, ignoring her. “We were supposed to meet at my parents’ place.”

  Jane doesn’t answer. She turns her back to me, pulling off her sweater in a slow, provocative motion.

  “I was worried about you,” I say.

  “Me?” she replies, peering over one shoulder. “I’m fine. Never felt better.”

  She takes off her shoes and jeans.

  Standing before me in her bra and panties, Jane looks hot, and yet there's something different about her. We’ve been married for over a decade. Our sex life is as regimented and predictable as our professional lives, while her underwear is neither lacy nor frilly, being more functional than sexy. Practical is how I’d describe her underwear, as it's a drab flesh tone, lacking any color or excitement, and yet my heart races at the sight of her sensuous body. There’s something unusual about her posture, the poise of her hips, the way she rests her slender hands by her side, toying with the skin on her thighs with just the lightest touch of her fingernails.

  “You shouldn’t worry,” she says, grabbing playfully at my belt buckle and dragging me over toward the bed.

  “I thought all this freaked you out,” I say, gesturing to our ransacked home with scratch marks lining the walls, torn sheets on the floor, overturned furniture and a half broken bathroom door.

  “This morning, maybe,” she says, unbuttoning my shirt. “But the night is ours.”

  As unsettled as I feel, her soft hands stir something primal within me, melting my defenses. Like Jane, I want to put this nightmare behind me. Perhaps it’s the stress of the moment, but I want her. I want to ignore the madness, the chaos of our home, and lose myself in her love. I unbuckle my trousers as she tosses my shirt to one side.

  “Doesn’t that feel better?” she asks, unzipping my trousers and slipping her hand down the inside of my thigh, playing with the hair on my leg.

  “It’s been a long day,” I say, kicking off my shoes, and finally feeling as though something is going right.

  “It’s going to be a long night,” Jane says, teasing me. This kind of aggressive sexual behavior is unlike her. In the deep recesses of my mind, I’m aware something’s wrong, but I feel overwhelmed by a desire to escape from the insanity around us.

  Jane reaches out and turns off the light, plunging the bedroom into darkness, and I feel my heart pounding in my throat. Her fingers claw at the hairs on my chest immediately over my heart, and we collapse onto the bed, kissing passionately.

  There’s a gap in the curtains, and the streetlight casts a soft glow through the room. As my eyes adjust to the dark, Jane transforms from the woman I married into a foreboding silhouette. My adrenaline surges in response to both fear and desire. For a moment, I could swear there’s a glow in her eyes, but it’s just the light reflecting off her pupils.

  I reach around behind her back, unhooking her bra, and she pulls a hair tie from her ponytail, allowing her hair to fall freely to her shoulders. We roll over on the mattress, madly pulling off our underwear and tossing them onto the messy floor. Jane and I giggle like children.

  Normally, I’d rise on top of her, but with a burst of strength, she flings me back into the mattress, straddling my hips.

  Jane claws at my chest, scratching so deep with her fingernails I have to tell her to stop. My mouth opens, but no sounds come out. She’s being too rough. I want to tell her that, but words fail me. I am overwhelmed in the passion of the moment as she kisses my chest, biting at my nipples. My body trembles beneath her touch.

  Jane runs her tongue across my lips. I want to kiss her, but I’m paralyzed. It’s not that I can’t move, but that I don’t, and I can’t explain why except to say that I'm scared. One wrong move, and as crazy as it seems, I fear she will devour me.

  Waves of passion roll over me. Jane grinds her hips against mine. In the darkness, I feel her lips brush against my neck, and she licks softly at my skin. Slowly, we rock back and forth on the mattress, building in intensity.

  Jane nibbles at my earlobe, moaning.

  A sharp pain stabs at my ear.

  “Ouch!” I cry, grabbing at my earlobe and feeling warm, sticky blood on my fingers.

  Jane sits back, riding up and down on me as blood trickles from her mouth. I want to say something, I want to protest, I want to get her off me, but I can’t. I’m too weak, and I find myself swept away in the moment. My head seems to fracture with pleasure, and I black out, catching one last glimpse of Jane’s naked body writhing on top of me as the darkness washes over me.

  Sunday dawns, but without an alarm, as we normally sleep in. There’s daylight outside when I wake, which means it must be after ten in the morning. I crawl out of bed feeling weak and sore. Every muscle aches. I feel sick.

  “Jane?” I ask, suddenly realizing I’m alone in the bedroom.

  I walk into the bathroom with my bladder bursting. After relieving myself, I take
a look in the mirror. Red scratches line my chest, running at a variety of angles. It’s as though I’ve been mauled by a bear. My right ear throbs with pain. Dried blood clings to what remains of my mauled, mutilated earlobe.

  “Oh, Jane,” I say, knowing something is terribly wrong. I thought we were reacting to the pressure of all that has happened and a desire to comfort each other, but last night was agony. What could have set Jane on such a wild path? I know she’s been under a tremendous amount of stress over the past few days. Has she snapped? Was this a one-off overreaction? Where is she?

  “Jane?”

  I get dressed and walk into the hallway.

  The front door is open, but only slightly, just enough to allow a draft to chill the air. I push the door shut, hearing the lock click in place.

  “Jane, honey?” I say to an eerie, empty apartment.

  Several drawers in the living room and kitchen are open. Someone’s rummaged through the contents. Jane’s cell phone and handbag are gone.

  I dial her cell number. After ringing a few times, the call switches to voice mail so I leave a message.

  “Jane? It’s Alan,” I say, unsure why I’m clarifying my identity to a woman I’ve known for almost fifteen years. “Listen. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’m—I’m confused. What happened last night? Between us, I mean. I—I… We need to talk.”

  There’s a knock at the door and I jump at the sound as though the soft rap were gun shots going off in rapid succession. Cautiously, I open the door, peering out through a thin crack.

  “Dr. Langford?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jimmy Davis. From the garage.”

  A teenager in a thick coat holds out the keys to my car, ready to drop them into my hand. I put my hand out and the key chain falls like a lead weight into my palm.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, and I see my car parked behind him. A second car out on the road has another mechanic in it, eagerly waiting for Jimmy.

  “Fine,” I say, realizing his silence demands a reply.

  “Well, the problem was your alternator. I replaced it, charged your battery overnight and flushed your radiator, replacing your antifreeze.”

  “Great, thanks,” I say in a deadpan tone of voice.

  “Mitch said you can settle the account online.”

  “Good. Good.”

  Jimmy is still standing there. I don’t know what he’s waiting for. A tip? I’m not sure, but I can’t talk any more. My stomach churns. My head is spinning.

  “Sorry,” I say, closing the door.

  “If there’s anything else,” he calls out, but I’m already rushing to the kitchen, clutching at my stomach. I vomit into the sink. My stomach muscles convulse and I find myself clinging to the bench, barely able to stand as projectile vomit splashes around in the stainless steel sink.

  My stomach is empty, and within minutes, I’m dry-heaving. Frustrated, I pound on the edge of the counter, desperately trying to bring my body under control. I’m dizzy, on the verge of fainting. Being a doctor, I understand what’s happening. My body has picked up some kind of bacterial infection or a virus, and being so weak, I’m struggling to remain conscious. With no food or water in over twelve hours, my blood sugar is dangerously low and I’m slightly dehydrated, accentuating my distress.

  I stagger to the fridge, clutching at my stomach. I need fluids, simple sugars, something carbonated to settle my stomach. There’s a bottle of ginger ale. It’s all I can do to slump on the floor against the pantry and unscrew the lid. Sipping at the fluid, I slowly fight the cramps. I’m not sure how long I sit there, probably for several hours, but I feel as though I’m on the verge of dying. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. I can barely think beyond the pain wracking my body. Slowly, I gain the upper hand. I’ve got to get to the hospital.

  My fingers tremble as I dial my phone.

  “9-1-1. What is the nature of your emergency?”

  My mouth opens, but no sound comes out, not the slightest croak. I try, but there’s nothing beyond my soft wheezy breath. Spasms of pain rip through my body, forcing me into a fetal position. I curl up on the floor with the cell phone to my ear. My breathing is labored.

  “Are you in distress?” the female dispatcher asks in a soft petite voice. “I can hear you breathing. You’re not choking. Unless you state otherwise, I am going to assume you are suffering a heart attack and dispatch paramedics to your location. If you cannot talk, tap the phone. I would like some kind of acknowledgement from you to make sure this is not a phantom call. I need to know this is a genuine call and not a prank. Do you understand me?”

  I try. My lips mouth the words that fail to emanate from my throat.

  “I will stay on the line and talk to you until the paramedics get there. Can you respond to me in any way?”

  Two beeps signal the battery on my phone dying.

  I claw at the floor, dragging myself forward with the phone still by my ear. My breathing is heavy, as though I have a chest cold.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” she asks.

  My throat is constricted. Wheezing, I try to speak, but all that comes out is a deep moan.

  “I need to warn you that your call is being recorded. Prank calls to 9-1-1 are classified as a misdemeanor and are punishable with a fine of up to five thousand dollars. Do you understand?”

  I try to reply, but I can’t.

  The call cuts out as the phone dies.

  I can’t wait. Grabbing hold of the kitchen chair, I drag myself to my feet and make my way to the door, stumbling out into the snow and collapsing in my car.

  The drive to the hospital is erratic. I race through stop signs, swerve onto the wrong side of the road, clip the snow-covered curb several times, and flatten a yield sign before colliding with a parked car in the hospital parking lot. Doubled over, I make my way to the emergency entrance. One of the paramedics sees me and hoists my arm over his shoulder, helping me through the doors.

  “Alan?” the duty doctor says as I’m bundled onto a stretcher and wheeled into the triage station.

  “Hey, Joe,” I manage, trying to smile against yet another crippling cramp forcing me into a fetal position.

  “Talk to me, Alan,” he cries, flicking a flashlight in each eye and checking my pupil response. “What have you been exposed to? Food? Drink? Drugs?”

  I shake my head, unable to answer. Foam dribbles from my mouth. I must look like I’m overdosing.

  A nurse standing next to him says, “He’s running a fever of 105. Pulse is erratic. Blood pressure is one thirty over forty. He’s about to go into cardiac arrest.”

  I vomit, bringing up bile.

  Joe says, “Get him on an IV and antiemetics. I want bloods run. We need to know what we’re dealing with.”

  He turns to me, resting his gloved hand on my forehead and saying, “Hang in there, buddy.”

  I’m shaking violently. A nurse runs Velcro straps around my arms and legs, and I flex, trying to tear them from the steel railing on the stretcher as another seizure rips through my body.

  “Hold him down,” Joe says, administering what I guess is a sedative.

  Darkness is a relief, sparing me from more pain, and reality blurs as the lights and noises around me fade.

  When the light returns, I’m lying in a private hospital room adjacent to intensive care. Although it feels as though only moments have passed since I was in the ER, I’m aware considerable time has transpired as I can feel a thick mat of facial hair on my cheeks and around my mouth. My neck is itchy.

  I recognize this room. I’ve cared for patients in here. A nurse peers through a glass window and sees I’m awake. She places a quick call and then comes in to talk with me.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  I try to speak, but my throat is dry.

  She pours a glass of water and holds it to my lips. I sip at the water. Although I want to drink the whole glass, moderation is needed.

  “Thank you,” I manage. “Fe
eling… better.”

  “Good,” she says, making notes on an electronic pad.

  My friend and professional associate Dr. Joe Marring comes rushing in, slightly out of breath.

  “Hey,” I manage, trying to raise my arm, but it feels as though weights drag my feeble fingers back to the mattress. I am a mannequin, clipped of his puppet strings.

  A drip runs into a vein on the back of my hand.

  Joe smiles.

  “Welcome back,” he says.

  “How long?” I ask, struggling against a dry throat.

  “Six or seven days,” he replies. “I’d have to check.”

  I try to sit up, but my head spins.

  “Hey, take it easy,” he says.

  “What?”

  “What happened?” Joe asks, looking to interpret my one word question. “Buddy, you flatlined twice. And your blood. I’ve never seen anything like your lab report. White cell count was almost nonexistent. Red cells were rupturing all over the place. McCarthy thought you might have some form of hemorrhagic virus. We pumped twelve pints of blood into you on the first day alone. The CDC heard about the possibility of a tropical outbreak in snowbound Boise and wanted blood samples. They put Boise on alert for any subsequent infections at surrounding hospitals, but it looks like it was just you, Bud. We pumped you full of antibiotics and antivirals, and waited.”

  “Jane?” I ask. Although it might seem as though I’m asking to see her, I’m not. I think she was the source. I need to know where she is.

  “No one’s seen her.”

  Tears comes to my eye.

  “The scratches on your chest?” Joe asks. “Were they caused by an animal?”

  I shake my head. Looking down at the loose fitting hospital gown, I catch a glimpse of my chest. Faint red scratches still line my skin, but they’re healing. Scabs have formed.

  “Have you come in contact with any wild bats?”

  “Bats?” I reply, surprised by the notion.

  “Your bloods came back with traces of histoplasmosis and half a dozen other nasty bacterial infections, along with East Venezuelan mammalian virus and rabies strand-C. The only known carriers in North America are bats, but how the hell you came across a bat in the middle of an Idaho winter is lost on me.”