by Lisa Morton
“How did you get this?” Diana asked, trying to keep the quaver from her voice.
“We have agents working for us throughout the major European cities. Our man in Belgrade, I think it was, encountered this in an antique shop, and upon scanning its contents he thought it might be of interest to us.” Chappell suddenly caught himself and looked at her very seriously. “Lady Furnaval, I should forewarn you: This won’t be a pleasant read for you. Your husband was involved in an extraordinarily dangerous undertaking surrounded by any number of occult forces—”
“I’m well acquainted with my husband’s activities, Mr. Chappell,” she snapped, but immediately regretted the remark. “Thank you for your concern, but if you knew some of what I’ve seen—”
“Oh,” he responded, unoffended, “I understand. You’ve undoubtedly dealt with some rather…alarming beings coming through the gateways.”
She gaped at him in open-mouthed astonishment for a beat, then caught herself. “You know of the gateways?”
“We wouldn’t be great bookmen if we didn’t at least attempt to acquaint ourselves with the contents of our stock, Lady Furnaval,” Chappell answered.
“How much of your stock do you know?” she asked, beginning to view the bookseller with interest that went beyond his engaging appearance.
The bookseller gestured with the lamp, and began strolling back toward the front room. “Of course I haven’t read every book in here, but I’m familiar with most major aspects of occult and paranormal philosophy and history. The gateways are certainly very significant.”
Diana surprised herself by what she said next: “Stephen, I’d very much like to talk to you further about your knowledge.”
He stopped and turned back to smile at her; his smile wasn’t dazzling, like a sunny meadow, but rather it promised mystery - a moonlit stroll across a moor. “I’d enjoy that as well, Lady Furnaval.”
“Are you available for dinner any evening?”
Chappell answered, “Would this Sunday evening be acceptable?”
Diana nodded. “Eight p.m.?”
They agreed to dine at the Pall Mall Restaurant. Stephen led her back to the front room where she purchased the journal, which Chappell sold to her at a considerable discount (“I wish I could just give it to you, but we did expend a fair sum getting it ourselves”).
As she returned to her apartment—desperate to tear open the wrapped package containing William’s journal—she found herself both anticipating her dinner engagement and being vaguely ashamed of herself.
What am I doing? I should be at home disinterring William’s corpse, not imagining dining out with this handsome stranger.
Still, it had been so very long since she’d enjoyed the company of any man other than Howe or Quilby, and she quite looked forward to the appointment.
Before tea time, she was settled into her private railway car bound for Derby, with Mina curled up on the seat beside her. She was normally disdainful of hiring a private car—she didn’t feel herself to be so far above the other passengers—but today she needed the solitude to study the journal. The weather was appropriately gloomy, and she was grateful for the warmth of Mina’s small form in her lap.
Then she opened William’s journal, and after moving past the pages that were no longer intelligible, she found the first clean page and, trembling, allowed herself to imagine William’s voice speaking to her as she read.
Chapter IV
From the final journal of Lord William Furnaval:
- had the last English-keeping innkeeper translate my papers into Romanian, because it’s been some time now since I’ve encountered anyone who speaks Eng. My fellow passengers on the current coach seem to be a mix of Romanian and Hungarian. We had a German on the coach, with whom I could converse a little, but he left us at the last village.
The coach is now climbing up a steep mt. road, with a sheer drop only yards to the left of us. The condition of the road does little to reassure, but our driver seems unconcerned and the horses very strong and steady; the great beasts are indeed most impressive equine specimens, far removed from our more genteel Eng. steeds. The l.s. is a mix of wild forest and craggy rock, splintered here and there with brooks which shatter into mist as they cascade over some cliff’s edge or other. (Oh dear, I fear this bumpy ride is doing little for my pensmanship!)
6:40 p.m.
We’ve arrived at a stop which can’t even truthfully be called a village, since it consists of little more than a single inn. We supped on a very decent meal of a rich and flavorful meat stew and a local red wine, and I’ve been provided with a serviceable, if not exactly luxurious, room. I’m writing this now by the light of the small fire, which is calming and cheerful after the strenuous ride here. I confess I sometimes wish I had D’s nerves when it comes to confronting these difficult positions! She would not only have not minded the rough road and vertigo-inducing downward views, she would probably have exulted in them. Dear Diana…I miss her more than she can know, and I do regret not being able to have her accompany me on this tr. How often I wish our lives were those of normal folk, whose greatest concern is what to have for breakfast or remembering to pay the glazier who fixed the broken window. (Good god—did I remember to pay the glazier? Oh well, no great matter—if I did not, D. can certainly handle him.)
I know D. would be curious to know of the books on the small shelf here in my room. Of course they are in the native tongue and so incoherent to me, but I can make out enough to know that one is, of course, a Bible (the crucifix embossed on the cover makes it rather easy to recognize), and one seems to be some sort of history. I see a large portion of this book is dedicated to an ancient hero who seems to be greatly worshipped in these parts. The Eng.-speaking landlord of a previous inn told me his name was Vlad Dracul, meaning “Son of the Dragon”, and that he was a 15th-century prince of extr. bravery and cruelty. The l.l. took particular delight in regaling me with the unsavory story of how this “Dracula” (who is apparently the source of many local legends) had 30,000 of his own people impaled, and then ordered that his nobles join him in a feast at tables set in the very heart of this nightmarish tableau. Whilst dining, this barbarian noticed that one of his noblemen was vainly attempting to cover his nose against the foul stench of rotting bodies and bodily emissions, and he ordered this gentleman impaled above the rest of the corpses in order that he no longer be forced to endure the odious smells.
It should reveal much of the savage nature of this land that these people hold this monster in such great esteem.
Enough; I shall think of him no more. Tomorrow afternoon we are due to arrive at my final destination, a village known as Urveri. From there I will meet with this János Rákóczi, assist him with this unknown dire matter of his, and then hopefully be bound home to Eng. & D. within the wk.
April 30, 1876
Imagine my surprise when I awoke at sunrise this a.m., dressed, gathered my things, and stepped out of the security of my little room only to discover that the entire inn had been redecorated during the night!
It took me a few minutes to remember why: Tomorrow is the delightful celebration of May Day in Eng., but here in the more ancient and primeval areas of Eur. tonight is Walpurgisnacht. I remember this odious date as a night of peculiar events in Goethe’s Faust, and I gather it is still a time of superstitious danger in these parts. In the main room of the inn I found branches of some sort fastened above all doors, while the local women sat at tables fashioning torches from an herb I could identify (by its scent) as rosemary. Outside some of the men were placing crosses above the doors of the stable.
Most interesting to me, though, were the strings of whole garlic bulbs strung around all windows. Before leaving for this tr, D. and I used our library to study the folklore of the area. We’ve come to believe (or at least I have—I think my darling wife may still be somewhat skeptical, as is her nature) that there’s some kind of factual basis behind nearly all folklore. I believe that the Russ. witch “Baba Yaga”,
the Egyptian sphinx, and the N. Amer. Indian thunderbird may all represent creatures that have traversed gateways from the netherworld. Our research on this area of Eur. revealed belief in the vampire—creatures returned from the grave after death to feed upon the blood of the living. Romania’s neighbor Hungary experienced a veritable frenzy of vampire belief in the 17th century, not unlike the witch-hunting madness that possessed other parts of Eur., and in these outlying areas, away from the more sophisticated cities, Walpurgisnacht represents a potential orgy of vampires, witches and other evil entities.
And given the prox. of this area to a gateway, these people may be wiser than we city folk in employing these protections.
After a breakfast of a tough local bread, thick butter and a strangely-scented herb tea, we piled into our coach again and continued our journey. This time the going was easier, as our rt. took us through forests so thick I wondered if sunshine ever shone within them, and past occasional crag faces where we glimpsed abandoned mines. Apparently the whole of this country was highly prized by the Romans for its mineral resources, which included gold, copper and salt; but many of the mines have been abandoned, either because they were worked out or were too difficult to reach.
We arrived at the village of Urveri at about four in the p.m. The sun was still high in the sky, but I suppose because of the particular day, the villagers were already bolting doors, leaving only a few of the men outside, with clusters of the homemade rosemary torches. The village consists only of an inn, a general store, a church, a few homes, and several abandoned businesses which I gather once served the area’s mines. I inquired after Mr. R.; I displayed the note the innkeeper had written for me, and the original letter I’d received from this R., but no one in the village was able to identify such an individual. I posted a letter to D., then retired to the inn.
As I write this, I’m seated in a cozy corner of the inn’s main room. The sun has set outside, and I’m trying to gather my wits as to how to deal with this problem of my non-existent host. The only possible explanation must be that I’ve somehow arrived at the wrong village; is it possible there are two villages named Urveri? If only someone here spoke Eng., I could query them further; alas, they can barely pronounce my name, and I confess I’ve gained no Romanian whatsoever. I’m apparently stuck here until the next coach passes through, at which point I shall board it, ride on to the next stop, and make my inq. there.
It’s full night now, and a very strange scene greets my eyes beyond the windows of the inn: The local men roam about with their lit torches of rosemary, waving them about overhead in quite a mad fashion. I seem to recall hearing of some practices conducted in Scotland on Hallowe’en (at the exact opposite end of the calendar from Walpurgisnacht, or April 30), in which torches were waved overhead to frighten off witches, so my guess is these Rom. are indulging in something similar. The inn smells (pleasantly, in my opinion) of garlic, from the ubiquitous strings of bulbs. The women sit near me, looking morose, reading from their bibles, and glancing up nervously from time to time.
Later—I must have dosed off, and have just now been awakened by the sound of a carriage pulling up outside. According to my watch it’s just past 11, which seems rather late for a coach, doesn’t it? The villagers seem anxious about this new arrival as well. The driver is stepping down from the coach, and approaching the door. He’s knocked; the women are conferring among themselves, apparently deciding whether to open the door or not. The men who were outside with the torches must have wandered off, for the night is dark as pitch and quiet.
The women seem to concur, and the door is opened. A caped and behatted man stands in the doorway, his face invisible but his build powerful—wait, I hear my name! Could this be my contact, the mysterious J. R.?
May 1, 1876
I’m very weak and may not have long to live, but I must get down as much of this as can. D. must know. I will pay one of the innkeepers to be sure this journal reaches her.
Diana, dear one, if you are reading this, then you know by now that I have been declared dead. You also know, of course, that you were right, as always—the letter inviting me to come here was a trap. The most obvious of deceits, and yet I believed it. I’ve likely paid for that belief with my life…if not indeed with my soul.
As I mentioned in my last entry, it was shortly after eleven when a weird visitor arrived at the inn: A tall, strongly-built man whose face was invisible in the shadows of his large hat and high-collared cloak. He uttered my name, in a deep croaking voice that caused more than one of the women near me to cross herself. I rose and advanced towards him, uttering the name, “János Rákóczi?”
He heard me, swiveled in my direction, and executed a deep, very old-fashioned bow. He swept off his hat, and a collective gasp sounded behind me: He was indeed a very unsettling-looking individual, with whitish-grey skin, a few wisps of black hair crossing a protruberant skull, deepset eyes and hollow cheeks, and a wide, almost lipless mouth. His smile was not a pleasant thing to behold; but he spoke Eng., and my relief at hearing my own tongue was enough to cause me to disregard some of my trepidations.
“Lord F—,” he said, gesturing towards the carriage with his hat, “if you don’t mind. We need to be at the gateway by midnight. It’s nearby, but we haven’t much time.”
I told him I’d join him momentarily, and retreated to my room, wherein I sought my coat, hat, gloves, and the pages of The Book I’d copied out. Before I left the room, I also took one of the loops of garlic bulbs from above my window and secreted it in my leather traveling bag, which I slung over my shoulder under my coat. I returned shortly to the main room, and then left it to join R. outside at the carriage. Even his horses were strange—they were gigantic and jet black, with eyes that rolled whitely in their sockets. The carriage looked quite ancient but sound enough, and yet I was still reluctant to enter it, with so many questions unanswered.
“Mr. R., why exactly have you summoned me?” I queried.
R. merely gestured with some annoyance at the open carriage door. “Please, my Lord, all will be explained, but time is of the essence.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not going anywhere until some of my questions are answered,” I told him.
For a moment, his countenance seemed to change, resembling more some great enraged beast than a fellow human being, and I confess I stepped back in some alarm as he loomed over me. Then he seemed to catch himself, and reached forward as if for the carriage door.
“We have less than an hour to reach the gateway,” he said, “and seal it.”
It was the one thing he could have said that would have persuaded me to enter that carriage just then.
“The g.w. can be sealed? How?”
“It can only be done on this night, Walpurgisnacht. Now, if you please, Lord Will.—your questions will be answered when we arrive at our destination.”
Fool that I am, I entered that carriage.
It was not done without some last hesitation, at least, but the idea of closing a g.w. overwhelmed my better judgment. R. closed the carriage door behind me and assumed the position of driver. I glanced back once at the inn, and caught the village women all staring out at me with absolute horror in their faces. One even frantically ran up to the carriage, gesturing and madly spewing words in her own language, but a glare from R. sent her scurrying back to the safety of the inn.
The carriage took off with such sudden force that I was thrown back against the seats, which I was dismayed to find smelled of mildew and age. I wondered how on earth R. dared drive the horses so fast in the dead of night, on a forest road that was undoubtedly treacherous on even the brightest of days; yet our tr. transpired without incident, and it was perhaps 10 min. later when we bumped to a halt.
After a few seconds R. appeared at the side of the carriage and opened the door, gesturing me out. I stepped down, rounded the carriage, and gaped at what was before me:
We had stopped before the entrance to a large and very old cemetery.
> I turned to stare at R., who was removing a lantern from the carriage and approaching the cem. “The g.w. is within, Lord F—” he said, gesturing towards the graveyard.
I don’t mind relating that I very nearly demanded just then that we return to the inn. The notion of a g.w. situated in a graveyard was simply too monstrous. Although g.w. were invisible (at least to the human eye), they always precipitated strange, sometimes deadly, events: Hauntings, monster sightings, cases of madness and murder…and unholy desecrations. Certainly a cemetery could be mistakenly started near a g.w.—but the swiftly mounting numbers of occult phenomena would cause any sane people to soon cease burials in the area and relocate.
This was a very large cemetery.
My host obviously saw my trepidation. He stood at the perimeter of the necropolis and said, “Lord F—”
“Are you saying your g.w. is within this cemetery?” I queried.
He nodded. “It is.”
I asked, “And to seal this g.w. requires both of us?”
He nodded and answered, in that strange croaking voice, “Tonight is Walpurgisnacht, a night of great power. I have discovered an incantation which will allow us to seal the gate forever, provided it is performed on this one night and by two gatekeepers.”
“How did you find this ‘incantation’?” I asked. I myself had incurred some expense searching for such a solution; I would certainly have sealed my own g.w., had it been possible.
Rákóczi answered: “A 14th-century necromancer’s spellbook held the incantation for the closing of the g.w.”
What a fool I was to follow him into that graveyard.
I can barely describe the utter desolation and bone-chilling dread of that place. The markers were largely rotting wood crosses, a few still adorned with withered bouquets or wreaths; what few stone monuments were present were large and baroque carvings, of bony reapers or grieving angels. The most macabre showed a skeletal musician playing a flute made from a human thighbone. There was no fog at this high elev., but there was a strong, freezing wind blowing that made me shiver beneath my heavy outer coat, and somewhere off in the distance thunder rumbled.