by Dacre Stoker
“Do you trust me?” she said.
I forced a nod, unable to speak.
“You shouldn’t,” she replied.
NOW
Bram glances up from his journal. He heard breathing; thick, ragged gasps, followed by a huff of air against the opposite side of the door. The petals of the rose fluttered silently over the stone floor. One petal broke away. Black with rot and shriveled with decay, it skimmed across the floor and landed at Bram’s feet. The remainder of the rose had not fared much better; he would have to replace it soon.
The breath comes again, long this time, an exhale from monstrous lungs.
It sounds like a horse or a large dog, but that cannot be right, for he knew there was no such animal here. Yet he hears it, each inhale and exhale louder than the last. He pictures huge nostrils, those of a Great Dane or mastiff, at the base of the door, inhaling with such force and purpose that it could identify everything in the room from scent alone.
Bram sets the journal on the floor, stands, and crosses the room to the door.
The presence on the other side must know he is near, for the breathing ceases momentarily, then resumes again, this time with more haste. Bram lowers his face to the floor and tries to look under the door, but there is little space, only a hair’s breadth between the stone floor and bottom of the thick oak barrier. Then comes another exhale, and Bram shuffles back; the air is hot and filled with moisture, and the dampness brushes against his cheeks as it rushes past, followed closely by the most abhorrent of odors. His eyes water just at the scent of it, and he tries to back away farther still, until his legs clatter against the chair he had occupied moments earlier. The stench enfolds him, and he wants nothing more than to leave. Instead, he rises and goes to the window and sticks his head out into the cold night air, taking it in until the stink washes away from his nose and lungs.
At the door, the breathing continues, louder still.
Bram reaches into the pocket of his coat and retrieves a small vial and holds it up to the flickering light of the oil lamp. Vambéry had filled the vial, along with four others just like it, only two days earlier from the font at St. John the Baptist. Two are gone now; after this one, only a single vial will remain—and Bram will have no means to get more. Carefully, he removes the stopper and crosses the room.
Again, the presence on the other side falls silent for a second as he approaches, then resumes its rhythmic breathing. A low growl follows, then a scratching at the stone, a single, tentative scratch, as if its maker is testing the strength of the stone beneath its feet.
Bram kneels at the door and cautiously tips the vial, spilling the holy water in a straight line, from one end of the threshold to the other and back again, until none remains. The slate seems to drink it up, for the moment it makes contact the liquid vanishes, leaving nothing behind but a thin trail. Behind the door, the creature scuttles back. Then comes the deep wail of a great wolf.
THE JOURNAL of BRAM STOKER
October 1854—I woke to muted light, gray beams of sun streaming in through my three windows and flooding my little attic room with a glow that was neither daylight nor dusk. I assumed fog had rolled in off the harbor; this time of year, it was known to do so. There was a moistness in the air, too, and although someone tucked the bedsheets in around my entire body, they did little to fend off the bite of the sea as it snatched at me.
The birdsong told me it was early morning. It hurt to open my eyes, but I did so anyway. The bowl that Ma had used to moisten my brow sat on the table at my side along with the cloth, but the chair beside my bed was vacant. I expected to find Ma there, or Matilda, but neither occupied it. I was alone in my attic room. If Uncle Edward was still in the house, there was no sign of him. His bag was gone, and along with it the horrific jar of leeches. I brushed the bedclothes to the side and forced myself to sit up, holding my arm up to the light. Marks began at my wrist and worked up to the shoulder of both arms, dozens of three-point punctures. I found similar marks on my legs, beginning on my thighs and continuing to my feet. How many leeches had he used? I could not help but wonder. I thought I might be ill but forced myself to choke back the vomit.
Although I was cold, it was not the cold I had known the night before while fighting the fever. In truth, I only assumed it was the night before, for I had no way of knowing for sure. The last time I succumbed to such a violent attack, I slept for three full days before regaining consciousness and rejoining the living. When I awoke after that episode, I was famished, as if I hadn’t eaten in days. What little energy my body typically harbored had abandoned me; I could barely sit up, let alone stand. This time I felt weak, to be sure, but not as weak as I had on that previous occasion. In fact, it was the opposite, like I could climb out of the bed and venture across the room, if need be—as if I had emerged from a great sleep—a bear emerging from hibernation and returning to the world.
I reached for the little bell on my night table and gave it a shake. Ma appeared at my door moments later, a breakfast tray in hand. “And how are you feeling this morning?” she asked as she settled the tray on the table beside me. “You gave us quite a scare last night. Your fever exceeded all others in recent memory; I honestly feared you were in danger of combusting while you slept . . . your skin was so hot.”
“What of Nanna Ellen? Is she here?” I said in a voice not quite my own.
“She is indeed.” Ma’s eyes glanced down the hall to Ellen’s door. “What do you recall of last night?”
I tried to remember the events of the night before, but it was a dismal blur at best. I vaguely recalled my fever growing worse, then little more until the arrival of Uncle Edward. “Uncle Edward bled me.”
Ma sat on the edge of my bed and folded her hands in her lap. “That he did, and a good thing, too; the fever had taken a deep hold on you, and if he had not arrived when he did, there’s no telling what would have come of you. Edward is a blessing on us all, and you owe him quite a debt. I expect you to tell him so when next you see him.”
“But it was Nanna Ellen who really helped me, was it not?”
Ma shuffled where she sat, her fingers twisting nervously together. “Your uncle is to thank for your recovery, nobody else; it was his competency that put an end to your fever. To say otherwise is nothing more than conjecture, and I will hear no such talk.”
Her eyes fluttered back to Nanna Ellen’s closed door down the hall. “I’m beginning to wonder why we allow that woman to remain in our house, disappearing for days at a time and returning according to her own timetable and whim. I require someone dependable when it comes to tending to you and the other children, not an unpredictable, flighty vagabond. I plan to speak to your father about her; perhaps a change is overdue.”
She was clearly aggravated, and I did not wish to agitate her further, so I changed the subject. “Is Uncle Edward still here?”
“He left with the rising sun, I’m afraid. He slept downstairs for a few hours but was due back at his work in the early hours and could stay no longer. He was kind enough to check back in on you once before he left and told me your condition improved greatly—a miraculous recovery, he said.” Ma turned and over her shoulder loudly announced, “Matilda, your brother is awake!”
Matilda poked her head around the corner of my door; she had been standing there the entire time.
“Why, you little snoop!” Ma exclaimed. “I’m going to take Bram’s bell and tie it around your neck!”
Matilda blushed. “I wasn’t snooping, Ma.”
Ma tilted her head. “I am to believe you were just standing in the hallway outside your brother’s door simply because it is a comfortable place to rest your feet?”
Matilda opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it.
Down the hall, Baby Richard began to wail, and Ma pursed her lips. “That child will be the death of me. Stay with your brother for a moment.”
; With that, Ma left the room, and Matilda took her place on the edge of the bed. Reaching for the breakfast tray, she plucked up a piece of toast and crammed it in her mouth, then handed the remaining slice to me. The bread was slightly stale, and I wasn’t very hungry, but I ate it anyway. When I was sure Ma was out of earshot, I spoke in a low voice. “What happened with Nanna Ellen last night?”
Matilda, too, looked down the hall for Ma before responding. “You don’t recall?”
I shook my head, my neck stiff and sore. “She came back early to help me, did she not?”
Matilda whispered, “Nanna Ellen walked you back from the Gates of Hell last night and rescued you from the Devil’s touch. Of this I am sure.”
“But Uncle Edward—”
“Uncle Edward tried his best, and your condition worsened with each passing hour. But Nanna Ellen . . . she somehow . . .”
“Somehow what? What did she do?”
The wounds from the leeches began to itch, and when Matilda saw me scratching them, she held both my hands in her own. “What she did took place behind closed doors, but when she emerged an hour later, it was clear your fever had broken and the danger passed, but she spoke nothing of her methods, despite Pa’s and Uncle Edward’s queries. Instead, she walked from your room to her own and closed the door without so much as a single word. Uncle Edward beat on her door for nearly five full minutes before finally giving up and returning to your side only to see what Ma and I were already seeing; the sweats from your fever were gone and you were resting peacefully in this very bed—still and quiet, only the rise and fall of your chest to tell us you were still amongst the living.” Matilda glanced at Nanna Ellen’s closed bedroom door. “She rests in there still.” She leaned in close. “I saw Thornley bring something to her after she left your room. A large bag. Something inside was moving. She opened before he knocked, opened it only enough to take the bag, then closed the door behind her.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“That is what I saw.”
“You must have been dreaming.”
She defiantly crossed her arms. “I saw it.”
I examined the wounds running the length of my arms, turning them in the light.
“Does it hurt?” Matilda asked.
I was sore, and I knew from past experience it would take days before I would heal, and I told her so, although the wounds seemed to be healing faster this time, already scabbing over and itching something fierce.
Her voice dropped even lower, to a hush barely heard above the birdsong outside. “There is more. When Nanna Ellen first arrived last night, when she shouted for all of us to leave your room, she looked like herself: a young, healthy woman. But when she emerged from your room, she was anything but; it was like she aged a dozen years in those minutes she was in here. Her face had gone pale and dry, her hair limp and brittle. And her eyes were those of an old woman. I caught a glimpse of them as she shuffled to her room, but only a glimpse, for she turned away and shielded her face behind the shadows as she rushed past and closed her door on us.”
“What color were they?” I asked her, already knowing her response.
“Blue as the sea when she entered, the deepest gray when she left.”
“So, it’s happening again?”
Matilda nodded.
* * *
• • •
MA RETURNED WITH a glass of claret and handed it to me. “I nearly forgot: Uncle Edward said you are to drink this the moment you awake.”
I was not typically fond of claret. I didn’t develop a taste for wine until later in life, but I knew from past experience the drink would quicken the return of my strength—what little I had in those days anyway. I took the glass in hand and forced the liquid down without so much as a single breath between gulps. The wine was warm and dry and not entirely horrible to my young palate, but alcohol nonetheless, and I quickly felt the effects wash over me. I returned the glass to Ma, who eyed me curiously. “You must be dehydrated; I thought I would have to fight you to get it all down. After witnessing that, I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps this sickness of yours is nothing more than a hangover, that you have been sneaking off to the pubs at night.” She said this with a twinkle in her eye. I knew it was in jest; I couldn’t help but smile at her.
“How else will I ever perfect my game of cribbage?”
This earned a laugh, and she ruffled my hair. “That sense of humor of yours is going to get you in trouble one day, but it’s good to hear its return. I was quite worried last night. That may be the worst you have ever been.” She placed her hand on my forehead. “The fever seems to have broken, though. You’re still a little warm to the touch, but nothing like earlier. I could have boiled a pot of water on that head of yours.”
“He does have a big head,” Matilda chimed in.
I swatted at her and missed, nearly knocking the tray off the table. Ma plucked my hand from the air and held it in her own, her eyes filling with tears. “I prayed to the Lord above all day and all night that your suffering would come to an end, that your illness would finally abate. Let us hope Uncle Edward chased the demons from you.”
I knew he had not. While I felt better, I could sense the illness brewing within me, dormant for now but prepared to return. The achy feeling in my bones, the fatigue and light-headedness; it had been subdued, nothing more.
“He hasn’t told yet, Ma,” Matilda pointed out, once again perched upon my bed.
“Perhaps we should give him time to regain his strength, young lady.”
“If he doesn’t tell now, he’ll never remember,” she replied.
Ma knew this to be true, a fact that she reminded us of. “Dreams are much like the sand in an hourglass, lessening with each passing second, until the last grain disappears down a hole and is lost forever in the dark.”
For as long as I could remember, the three of us shared our dreams, recounting them to one another to the best of our recollection. I would sometimes record them; I kept a journal at my bedside just for this purpose. I would write them down the moment I woke, knowing if I waited even a little while, they would fade, just as Ma always told us they would, and the details would become increasingly difficult to pluck from memory. I hadn’t yet taken the time to transcribe last night’s dreams, and I wasn’t sure I wished to. Unlike regular dreams, fever dreams were extraordinarily vivid. Matilda knew this, which was why she prodded me with such insistence now, and while a normal dream really did fade shortly after awakening, fever dreams burned into the mind. I didn’t even want to close my eyes for fear of returning to that ugly blackness which had engulfed me amidst the worst of last night. I remembered being buried alive so clearly that I could taste the dirt and hear the worms as they burrowed inches from my head, hungrily awaiting the rank meal I was to become.
“I . . . I don’t want to,” I protested sheepishly.
“Was it frightful?” Matilda inched closer, her face beaming. “Oh, do tell, Bram!”
My eyes drifted from Matilda to Ma, then back again. Ma had once told me if we speak of the Devil in our dreams, he loses his power to harm us. So, with a sigh, I told them of my burial; I recited all I could recall. When it was over, I realized Matilda had drawn closer while Ma looked on without a word.
“Was your grave amongst the suicides?” Matilda asked.
At this, Ma frowned. “What do you know of the suicide graves?”
My sister’s mind tried to calculate a way to expand on this without betraying the fact that she had been listening in on what was no doubt a private conversation between Ma and Pa, but before she could bring forth some elaborate lie, Ma spoke again. “You were eavesdropping on your father and me yesterday, were you not?”
“I was only walking past and may have heard mention of suicide graves, but I did not continue listening; that would be wrong.”
“Yes, it would be very wrong.”<
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“Did the men in town really bury a man alive in the graveyard?” I asked.
Ma drew in a deep breath. “If it’s true, Horton Lowell and the constable found no evidence of it yesterday afternoon when they went out to the old graveyard after hearing talk of the burial in town. I have no doubt the story was simply the product of someone’s overactive imagination, passed from one gossip to the next, until it garnered a life all its own.” She turned to Matilda. “Gossip is not a slight bit better than eavesdropping, and I best not find you doing either in the future or you’ll catch a switch on that pasty white backside of yours.”
I laughed, which quickly turned into a cough. Ma poured me a glass of water and I drank it eagerly. My throat felt raw, as if I had chewed on stones and swallowed the bits.
Ma continued. “The famine has taken a toll on many of our countrymen. In Dublin, the sick and homeless are dying in the streets. The poor are robbing the poor. Men who once worked their own fields are begging on corners in order to scrape together food for their families. Don’t ever underestimate what a man will do to put food into the mouth of his starving child.”
“Pa says it’s getting better,” I said.
“Sometimes I think your father prefers to believe the rhetoric preached amongst the aristocrats at the castle. They want us to believe the famine is coming to an end, so they stand around telling one another it is, but speaking of such things does not make them fact.” Ma looked down at her hands. “I think things will get far worse before they get better, so when I hear that a sick man was buried alive, I don’t dismiss it as fiction straightaway; I know firsthand what evil men will do when frightened. When I was a little girl and cholera ran rampant, I witnessed men do far worse than bury a single sick soul.”