Night of Dracula

by Christopher Schildt

  “Hello?”

  From the phone came the bizarre whispers of a dozen voices. Jonathan pressed a button to end the call and slammed the phone down on the passenger seat. No sooner had the cellular touched the expensive gray leather upholstery than it rang again.

  Jonathan’s eyes darted in panic. His trembling hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. His knuckles whitened as sweat poured down his forehead.

  The cellular continued to ring and ring. Jonathan finally picked up the phone again and held it close to his ear. This time he heard the strange voices laughing.

  Jonathan opened the driver’s side window and tossed the phone out. He continued speeding down one street after another. At the intersection of 4th Avenue and Route 43, the light turned red. He locked up the brakes, and the car screeched to a halt. His heart pounded. He struggled to breathe.

  When the light turned green again, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The BMW shot through the intersection and down the street like a bullet. But the engine’s sound was smothered by the car stereo, which had popped on by itself, the volume turned as loud as it could go by an unseen force. The selector erratically bounced from one station to the next, transforming the deafening sound to garble.

  Jonathan could take no more. He released the gas pedal and locked up the brakes. The BMW dragged to a halt in the middle of a deserted street, in a neighborhood he’d never seen before. He pushed the car door open.

  Jonathan leapt from the driver’s seat, but his heel caught on the doorsill and he struck the asphalt painfully with his knees. Jonathan quickly pushed himself back onto his feet. He ran from the car as fast as he could, sharp pangs shooting through his kneecaps, never once looking back—afraid of what he might see. The bright neon lights held no assurance for him. Finally, he had to stop to catch his breath.

  That was when he heard a high-pitched scream. He gasped, frozen with fear, and looked back. It was only an alley cat. Jonathan let out a mindless laugh.

  He turned to start running again, but could not move. A low ground fog swept across the street ahead of him. The dark, indistinct figure of a man, eyes glowing bright red, coalesced.

  Jonathan spun to run in the opposite direction. There stood the very same figure.

  The apparition spoke. “Good evening, Doctor.” Jonathan turned right, then left. No matter where he turned, the grim image of Dracula greeted him. He was surrounded.

  Jonathan started blubbering. “Please . . . Please, no. I swear, I’ll do anything you say. Please don’t hurt me.” Dracula only laughed, savoring the craven words as if they were a fine, aged wine.

  Jonathan held out his arms to beg more emphatically. He tried to step closer to Vladamir. He couldn’t. His feet seemed glued to the asphalt, but not out of fear.

  Dracula slowly approached, long black coat floating in a wind that didn’t exist. The street burst into flames around Jonathan.

  “Welcome to Hell, Dr. Steward!”

  The fire licked hungrily at Jonathan’s trousers. He screamed, and continued screaming as his entire body was engulfed in flames. Dracula laughed wildly. His soul was electrified by the screams.

  When it was over, Dracula took a deep breath, to savor the sweet smell of revenge. The image of poor Renfield lying dead on the floor at Carfax intruded on his thoughts. The vampire laughed harder, as if the sound of Jonathan’s screams could ease the pain Dracula felt in his heart.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Dixon was about to knock on the door when an elderly voice said, “Come in, Detective.” He turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open. Inside, Van Helsing sat at a table by the only window in his room at the Milford Boarding House.

  The doctor was studying what appeared to be a very old book through a large magnifying glass suspended on a brass pedestal. Dixon cocked his head. Van Helsing glanced up. “Don’t look so surprised, Detective,” he said. “I saw you getting out of your car.” Van Helsing gently closed his book. “Besides, it was only a matter of time . . .”

  “Time?” Dixon asked. “Time for what?”

  “For you to come to believe me. So the vampire has escaped?”

  Dixon nodded.

  “And Dr. Steward is dead?”

  “He was found early this morning—what was left of him.”

  Van Helsing reached for his cup of coffee and sipped it casually. “Oh, well; I tried to warn him. Was anyone hurt during the escape?”

  “A few bruises.” Dixon shrugged. “Nothing too severe.”

  Van Helsing chuckled. “Dracula, always the man of honor.” He quickly turned more serious, pointing a quivering finger at the detective. “You may not be so fortunate next time. He’s a clever one, this vampire. And he will have learned from his mistakes. I guarantee you, he will not be caught off guard again.”

  “Will he return to the Carfax estate?”

  “No,” Van Helsing replied confidently. “Unless he intends to set a trap for you. But I don’t think so. You are not what he is after.”

  “What exactly is he after? Blood?”

  “Blood?” Van Helsing repeated, amused. “Blood he may obtain anywhere. The world is his restaurant.”

  “New York? Several murders in New York were identical to the ones here.”

  “New York—Los Angeles—Paris, in 1943—take your pick, Detective,” Van Helsing grumbled. “He is a predator! But here in Atlanta . . .”

  “What about Atlanta?”

  Van Helsing pursed his lips in thought. “He’s gone to great lengths to remain in Atlanta.”

  “How so?”

  “Renfield,” Van Helsing replied.

  Dixon shrugged. “What about Carl Renfield?”

  “You don’t understand the vampire, Detective. Dracula works alone. He trusts no one. Yet he allowed this man, Renfield, into his strange world. Why? Then there is Dr. Steward, who was to help him locate victims. Why should he require anyone’s assistance? You’ve come to understand the power at his disposal. Why should he wish to associate with anyone?”

  “I don’t know,” Dixon replied. “Do you?”

  “I have a theory.” Van Helsing hesitated. “What do you know about this woman Heather?”

  “She visited him in jail before his escape. We went to her house to question her, but there was no one home. Why?”

  Van Helsing stared out the window at the sunlit sky. “She is the reason for the vampire’s presence here in Atlanta. I’m certain of it.”

  “He’s lonely?” Dixon joked.

  Van Helsing wasn’t the least bit amused. “Dracula could never love any woman!” he barked. “No! There’s more involved.”

  “What?”

  “Learn all that you can about this woman,” Van Helsing insisted. “Find out who she is and where she comes from. Then, Detective, we will know why he has come to this place, and why he wished to remain here.”

  Dixon nodded, as if following the orders of a superior. “All right. But tell me, Doctor . . . how is he able to do the things he does? How does he vanish into thin air? Where does he get his strength? For that matter, why was it so imperative that you move Renfield’s body? Why keep it?”

  Van Helsing raised a hand for silence. “Renfield was infected by the same virus detected in the bodies of the vampires’ victims Dr. Steward had autopsied. As for these powers of his, that’s one question I can’t answer. No one knows how he takes command of the forces of nature and breaks the fundamental laws of physics, as he does. Why does he have fangs? He doesn’t use them. Perhaps there is no explanation. Dracula is unique. He represents a species unknown to us, except through legend and folklore.

  Unfortunately, most of what has been recorded about this vampire expresses the thoughts of superstition, rather than scientific methodology.”

  “He can do just about anything,” Dixon said.

  “No. He has his limitations.”

  “Limitations?” Dixon stared into Van Helsing’s clouded, old eyes. “Then he can be stopped?”

  “Oh, yes. M
ost definitely.” Van Helsing’s wrinkled lips formed a smile. “You may kill a fly, despite its tiny size and amazing speed. A lion, one of the most powerful creatures of the jungle, can be destroyed. But first you must catch them.”

  “We’re not talking about an insect or an animal, Doctor.”

  Van Helsing grimaced. “We are talking about something far more lethal. He is extremely intelligent. He is cunning and he has the advantage. At night, he can see you, but you will never see him. He moves with the speed of a leopard. He has battled every sort of human animal that ever stalked our terrifying world. And he has always won. Why, you ask? I will tell you, Detective. He will always be victorious because he realizes you fight an enemy on your terms. At night, he is virtually impossible to stop.” Van Helsing pointed at the sunlit sky outside his window. “But in the day! That is when you strike at him! In the light of day, you will have the advantage! But first you must find him! That is why you have to investigate this woman, Heather. Learn her secrets. She will lead you to him, and help you end this catastrophe, once and for all.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Major Ron Hieden of the United States Army looked more like a combat officer than a surgeon, with a rugged build, salt-and-pepper hair and a square jaw. Entering Detective Dixon’s cluttered, windowless office, he skipped the usual pleasantries. “What’s all this crap about my wife helping a man escape from jail? Where is she?” “I was hoping you could tell me, Major,” Dixon replied quietly.

  “I just flew in from Frankfurt!” the major barked. “I come home and discover my friend Dr. Steward has been murdered. My wife was attacked at a bus stop in a shopping mall, and now she’s missing. What else can I say?”

  “You have no idea where she might have gone?”

  “None! What the hell is going on? Why do you suspect she helped a man escape from jail?”

  Dixon stretched back in his wooden swivel chair, stroking his chin, carefully studying the major’s reactions. “We have a problem with your wife, Heather. I was hoping you could help.”

  “Problem? What sort of problem?”

  “I can’t seem to find any information about Mrs. Hieden. The Motor Vehicle Department has no record of her.”

  The major shrugged. “She doesn’t drive. It’s not unusual in a big city for people to use taxis.”

  “We also ran her fingerprints through the F.B.I. We lifted a set from her makeup table. The F.B.I. has no record of a Heather Hieden, or for anyone else with those prints.”

  The major sank his hands in the pockets of his green military trousers, and wandered around the room. He appeared deeply troubled. He stopped, glanced at the ceiling, and said, “I knew this would happen someday.”

  “What, Major?” Dixon asked. “If I’m to locate your wife, I need the truth. You have to tell me everything.”

  The major nodded. “She’s not from the United States,” he said reluctantly. “ ‘Heather’ isn’t even her real name.”

  “What is her real name?”

  “I have no idea. Neither does she.”

  Dixon’s eyes narrowed in slits. “I don’t understand.”

  “A couple of years ago, I was assigned to a M.A.S.H. Unit in Bosnia. One night she came to the hospital with a sick child—about five years old. The child had an unidentified illness. Hell, there were all sorts of diseases in Bosnia we had never come across before, with the terrible sanitation and lack of nutrition.”

  “Was she also infected?” Dixon asked.

  The major shook his head. “No. In fact, she was quite healthy, considering the circumstances. But she did have amnesia. She had no idea who she was, or where she came from. No home—no family—no one to care for her. We offered her a job with the unit. Nothing important, but it gave her a place to sleep and food to eat.” The major looked at him sternly. “You have no idea how bad it was in Bosnia.”

  Dixon frowned. “I met your wife. She doesn’t speak with an accent.”

  The major chuckled. “She’s an incredible woman, Detective. At the base, she watched videos, everything from Hollywood epics to training films. Her English was excellent, but she wanted to speak like an American.

  “She listened to the lines, then repeated them out loud. She got quite a kick out of fooling people, but not maliciously. She loved to be mistaken for an American.”

  “The two of you fell in love?”

  “It was impossible not to love her, Detective. Everyone adored her. When I received my orders to return to the States, we were married.”

  “How did the name Heather come about?”

  “From a movie. The name was taken from a character she liked.”

  “What about the child?”

  “The boy she brought to camp? We never did locate the parents. The child was sent to a camp for displaced persons. I never heard anything more.”

  “Could it have been hers?”

  “It’s possible. An exam revealed Heather had given birth, once. But she had no memory of either the child she gave birth to, or the one she brought to our medical unit.”

  Dixon took a deep breath. “Could she have been lying about the amnesia?”

  “The thought occurred to me at first.” Major Hieden sighed. “You couldn’t blame her, given the circumstances in Bosnia. But no, she wasn’t. The unit psychiatrist was certain she wasn’t fabricating the loss of memory.”

  “Did it ever return?”

  “Bits and pieces—here and there,” Hieden shrugged. “Nothing that made much sense.” The major’s eyes widened with hope. “I almost forgot. It couldn’t have been Heather at the jail. She has a problem with extreme light, especially the sun. She’s extremely sensitive to the sun.”

  “I’m sorry, Major. There’s no mistake, I saw her there myself. In fact, I escorted her in for an evening visit.” He scowled. “You say she’s sensitive to sunlight?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Was there a medical reason?”

  “Malnutrition, more than likely. I’m not certain. Without a proper diet, eyesight can be affected.” The major looked confused. “What does this have to do with Heather’s disappearance?”

  Dixon opened a folder on his desk. He quickly thumbed through the pages, stopping on an old photograph Van Helsing had given him. He handed the picture to Major Hieden. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  The major studied the picture a minute. “Of course. It’s my wife, Heather. Where did you get this?”

  “You’re positive it’s her, and not just someone who looks like her?”

  “There’s no doubt about it.” Hieden pointed to the woman’s face. “See? This woman has a small mole above the right side of her upper lip. But who’s this guy next to her?”

  “There must be some mistake,” Dixon said, avoiding his question. “That picture was taken around 1910, according to a man named Van Helsing.”

  “Van Helsing?” Major Hieden chewed his lower lip. “That wouldn’t be Dr. Eric Van Helsing, would it?”

  “You know Van Helsing?”

  “Only by reputation. Dr. Van Helsing is considered the finest in his field. He specializes in infectious diseases. Most of the work we did in Bosnia was based on his research. You haven’t answered my question, Detective . . .” The major pointed to the image of Vladamir in the photograph. “Who the hell is this guy?”

  Dixon stood and grabbed his jacket off a wooden coat rack. “Let’s take a ride, Major. I think it’s time you and Dr. Van Helsing met each other.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Heather sat on a wooden crate, facing low-burning flames in a rusted metal barrel, a heavy wool jacket draped over her shoulders. She was alone in the filthy basement of a decaying red-brick building that had housed a factory many years ago. Cold December winds whistled through broken windows, carrying sounds from outside: police sirens, distant traffic—faint reminders of the world Heather had left behind. From a dark, distant corner, she heard a heavy wooden door creak open. Her beautiful blue eyes expressed a hint of fear. Then Heather
recognized Vladamir, and her smile was warm and inviting, expressing the longing she felt for him. Vladamir couldn’t look at her, ashamed of himself for putting her in this terrible situation.

  Vladamir carried a small stack of scrap wood salvaged from the building. He quietly walked up to the barrel, staring into the crackling flames. He poised to drop a few more sticks into the steel barrel, then turned to face the dark and gloom and despair that surrounded them. He whispered, “A Prince . . . I was once a Prince, commanding the respect of thousands . . .” He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. He felt truly weak—betrayed and defeated.

  “You never told me why you came to Atlanta,” Heather said, to distract him.

  Vladamir tried to smile, but couldn’t. There was hardly a smile left in him to offer. “It was the wind . . .”

  Heather’s smile broadened. “What about the wind?”

  He dropped a couple of sticks into the barrel to rekindle the flames. “The wind carried a wonderful scent to me. It was the scent of lilacs . . .”

  “Lilacs?” She looked hard into his sad eyes.

  Vladamir finally offered her a half-smile. “It was in New York, in winter, when I smelled the fragrance. It was carried to me by a wind that blew north from this place. I was reminded of Alyssa. It felt as if she was calling to me with the sweet scent of lilacs.”

  “Lilacs are my favorite.” Heather’s smile was as sweet and innocent as the flower itself. Then her smile faded. “But I’m not Alyssa. I wish I were. I really do, but I’m not.”

  Vladamir turned away. “You should go back,” he said. “You have a husband to think of. It was selfish of me to take you from him. I have nothing to offer you.”

  Heather stood up, walked over to him, and took him by the hand. “I have everything I need right here. As for Ron, well, I never truly loved him. I know that now. My place is with you.”

  “No.” Vladamir refused to look at her. “It is wrong for me to keep you here. You must go back.”