Dracul

by Dacre Stoker

“Hurry,” he said. He held a revolver and carefully scanned the trees and bushes surrounding his property. “It’s still out here; I’m not sure where it went.”

  “What is still out here?”

  “Just get in the house, all of you,” he ordered, locking the door behind us.

  Thornley went to the window next to the door, peered out for a moment, then crossed the hall to a window in the library and pulled back the curtain. His eyes were fixed on the blackness outside.

  “What are you looking for?” I prodded, stepping to the window.

  “I thought it was a dog, but I think it might be a wolf. All black. I saw it the other night when I returned from the hospital, and it was out there again less than an hour ago—standing on my walkway, staring at the front door. My God, Bram, it was big. The biggest wolf I have ever seen. And do not tell me there are no wolves in Ireland. I know exactly what I saw and it was a wolf.”

  “Your first instinct, that it was a dog, is probably correct; most likely, it was only a dog.”

  “Nonsense. It was a wolf, I tell you.”

  I could smell brandy on my brother’s breath, but I do not think he was drunk.

  “Thornley, where is Emily?” Matilda asked. She was standing at the foot of the staircase, examining the fingers of her right hand. Holding them up to the light, she saw they were red. “There is blood on the banister.”

  I turned back to my brother. “Thornley, may I have the gun, please?”

  Thornley glanced down at the weapon in his hand. Then his eyes jumped from me to our sister. “What is it you think I’ve done?”

  Through all of this exchange, Vambéry remained mute, but I spied him moving slowly around to Thornley’s side, his hand tightening on the knob of his cane.

  “Give me the gun, Thornley.” I said this as a command, holding out my hand to him.

  Thornley placed the revolver in my hand. I quickly removed the bullets and dropped them in my left pocket, then secured the revolver in my right.

  Matilda raced up the stairs.

  “Wait!” Thornley shouted, before running after her.

  I heard Matilda scream as I bounded up the steps behind my brother, Vambéry following.

  Matilda was standing at the foot of my brother’s bed. Emily was lying atop its sheets, her arms and legs securely tied to the four bedposts, a gag in her mouth. Her chin and neck were covered with dried blood, as were her hands, her arms, and her clothing as well. She stared up at us just then and screamed, her voice muffled by the gag.

  “What have you done?” Matilda shouted at Thornley, reaching for the rope securing Emily’s left wrist.

  Thornley pushed past me and shoved Matilda aside. “You mustn’t untie her!”

  “Is she hurt?” I asked, taking in all the bloody evidence. I didn’t detect any sign of a wound, however.

  “It’s not her blood you’re seeing,” Thornley said, standing between Emily and the rest of us.

  “Whose blood is it, then?” Vambéry demanded.

  “She’s not well. She hasn’t been well for some time now. She doesn’t understand what she’s done. I doubt she even remembers what she’s done.”

  Vambéry took a step closer and leaned in towards Emily’s face. “What, exactly, did she do?”

  Emily twisted and strained in the bed, testing the strength of her bindings. The bed frame creaked as she tried to sit up. The bindings held, though, for now at least. Her face flushed with anger at this, and she tried again.

  Thornley pulled a syringe from his medical bag on the nightstand and plunged it into Emily’s shoulder. She turned to him and again tried to sit up, tugging at the ropes with enormous strength, but her efforts quickly ebbed as the drug took effect. She fell back into the mattress and drifted off to sleep.

  “Laudanum,” Thornley said. “It seems to be the only thing that works. Although I’m finding it less and less effective. I had been putting it in her wine; now only injections have any effect. The dose I gave her would normally keep a man my size out for six to eight hours; she’ll be awake again in less than one.”

  Vambéry carefully pulled back Emily’s gag so he could inspect her teeth.

  “What are you doing?” Thornley said.

  “How long has this been going on?” Vambéry said, peeling back her lips from the gums and leaning in yet closer. Her breath reeked of rot, even from where I stood.

  My brother turned away from us in an attempt to conceal the tears in his eyes. “Weeks now, but tonight is worst of all. She has never done . . . this.” He spread his hands, gesturing at the bloody gore.

  Thornley told us how he had found her in the basement. He told us of the mice. I nearly became ill at the thought. Matilda, too, had turned a pale white. Only Vambéry seemed to be unfazed. He studied the mark on Emily’s neck. “What about this? When did you first notice this mark?”

  “A few days ago,” Thornley replied.

  Vambéry pulled a chain from around his neck, a cross dangling from the end. “This crucifix is of the finest silver. It was given to me by a priest at a monastery I visited about four years ago in a small town called Oradea on the border between Hungary and Romania.”

  He removed the chain and held the cross by its base. With a careful motion, he pressed the silver talisman against the back of Emily’s right hand. Her body jerked on contact with it, and smoke rose from the place the cross touched. I smelled burning flesh and watched in horror as her skin became red and blistered.

  “Stop!” Thornley cried out, batting Vambéry’s hand aside. “You are hurting her!”

  Matilda and I stood by in stunned silence.

  “Has she been near this Ellen Crone?” Vambéry asked, looping the chain, the crucifix reattached, back around his neck. “Perhaps Ellen has afflicted your wife as some kind of warning, meaning to frighten us away, to keep us from investigating further. Has she ever been in contact with Ellen Crone before?”

  “Not that I am aware of,” Thornley told him. He reached for his wife’s hand and held it tenderly in his own, his fingers caressing the wound. “Can you help her?”

  Vambéry let out a deep breath. He glanced at me and quickly averted his eyes, something not lost on me. “These undead, they spread their illness by bite. Once bitten, once this disease enters the blood, there is little that can be done. Much depends on the number of times she has been bitten, just how much she has been exposed. We must allow her rest and fluids, as much as she is willing to drink, red wine most of all to replenish her healthy blood. We must give her body what she needs to force this infection out. There is also a need to ensure she is not bitten again. These creatures tend to return to the same victim; this helps to prevent their discovery. The one who has bitten her will return, and we must keep this creature from getting back to her at all costs.”

  “You’ve encountered these beasts before, haven’t you?” Matilda said. “You speak of them as if from firsthand knowledge, yet you tell us so very little.”

  Vambéry appeared taken aback by this remark. I imagine he had never encountered a lady as forthright at my sister, and in truth, he may never do so again. For this, I was, as ever, grateful; she asked the questions that were on all of our minds.

  I watched as Vambéry settled into a chair beside Emily’s bed, his eyes warily watching my brother’s wife as she slept. “There is little to tell, I’m afraid. Nothing of which has ever been proven by scientific measure, only what I pieced together over many years from legends and superstitions. The story we read from Ellen’s book, her tale of the Dearg-Due, I can tell you it is not unique. I found similar stories in cultures throughout the world. These stories of creatures born of the Devil who sustain themselves on the lifeblood of others. As a younger man, I was skeptical of such things, but as I heard of them over and over again from all corners of the world, I began to believe. Isn’t it logical to assume that even the
wildest of fables found life in a buried truth? The evidence cannot be dismissed; you witnessed this yourself. They possess the power of necromancy; to manipulate the dead, they are, in fact, the dead themselves. Somehow cursed to walk the earth, unable to find true death. With this curse comes an unimaginable power, the strength of twenty men, a cunning far beyond most, the result of an existence spanning centuries. Much like bees, I learned there is a hierarchy. There are worker drones in a state much like young Emily here—those who only follow commands. And there are those who issue the commands—the ones who use the drones to do their dirtiest work. These are the ones we should fear most, these are the ones like your precious Nanna Ellen, the Dearg-Due, if her tale is to be thought of as fact.

  “It is believed that the strongest of them can assume any form, be it bat, wolf, swirling mist, even human. They can appear young, old, or any age between. Some can manipulate the elements, producing fog, storms, crashing thunder. Their motives remain unknown, but one thing is clear: They leave a trail of death in their wake, thinking no more of a human life than we would the life of a fly.”

  I looked down at Emily in her bed, now sleeping soundly, at the punctures on her neck. I could not help but think of the marks on my wrist, which I dared not look at, not now anyway. “What are their weaknesses?” I asked, moving the discussion forward. “How do we put an end to them?”

  Vambéry nodded at these questions. “As with the stories of their strengths, there are likewise stories of their vulnerabilities.”

  I watched as he stood and retrieved the looking glass from Emily’s dressing table and brought it over to the bed, holding the mirror at an angle to her face. “Look closely. What do you see?”

  Matilda, Thornley, and I all leaned in to look.

  My sister gasped. “I see her reflection, but it is not complete! I can see through her, as if she were transparent!”

  I saw, too, that she was transparent, and clearly Thornley saw it, because he drew back in horror and fell into the chair previously occupied by Vambéry.

  Vambéry set the mirror down on the night table. “She has not completely turned, mind you; that is why we still can see her at all. The true undead cast no reflection; they cast no shadow, either.”

  “Then why would Ellen own a looking glass?” Matilda asked.

  Vambéry shrugged. “Perhaps out of nostalgia, a reminder of the life she once had. But there is no way of knowing for certain.”

  “What else?” I asked.

  “They cannot cross moving water under their own power, and, as with Ellen’s story, they cannot enter the house of the living unless invited. Their powers are limited to the desolate hours of night. While they can walk about in broad daylight, they attempt to avoid the sun at all costs. It is during these bright hours that they are at their most vulnerable. And they can find rest only by lying in the soil of their native land. Because they are born of something unholy, sacred objects, such as crucifixes, communion wafers, and baptismal waters, are poison to them. They are repelled by garlic as well, although I have no knowledge as to why this is so. The same holds true for the wild rose—if a blossom is placed upon the tomb while the craven creature reposes, it will not be able to rise until that rose has expired utterly.”

  “Can they be killed?” my brother asked, his voice low, as he stared at the inert form of his wife.

  Vambéry nodded. “They can be destroyed only by driving a wooden stake through the heart. Then the body must be decapitated and burned to ash, and then those ashes scattered to the four winds. Nothing short of this grisly solution will be effective.”

  Thornley lowered his head to his hands. “Why would Ellen do this?”

  Vambéry shot me a sideways glance, then quickly turned away. “She is somehow attached to your family, but her reasons are known only to her. She must be tracked down and stopped. I fear that with another bite, your wife’s heart will stop and she will turn into a vampire. Ellen will surely return to finish transitioning her and welcome her into the fold of the undead; we will stop her then.”

  “We need to get to Ellen first, in other words,” I said under my breath. “Find her while she rests, while she is most vulnerable. Waiting for her to return here, when she is at her strongest, is foolhardy.”

  “I agree,” said Thornley. “We need to take the offensive. I will not wait for her to cut us down one by one. We must find her resting place.”

  Vambéry considered this for a moment. “I know a man who may be able to locate her from the items we acquired from the grave, her possessions you recovered. I can bring him here.”

  For the first time in nearly a week, my brother allowed a smile. “I can give you something far better than some old trinkets.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small lock of Nanna Ellen’s hair and held it up to the light.

  FROM THE NOTES of ARMINIUS VAMBÉRY

  (RECORDED IN CIPHER AND TRANSCRIBED HEREWITH.)

  14 August 1868, 4:08 a.m.—I dared not put pen to paper until certain it was safe to do so.

  I must not let my excitement rule my words; it is important I document everything in a clear and concise manner. Nothing can be left out. All must be duly recorded.

  This night continues to yield revelations and generate distress at a pace that has left me utterly exhausted. I must not sleep, though, not here, not in this house. Not while a creature of the night sleeps in the bed before me and another wanders these haunted halls, a guest welcomed by his own brother.

  I instructed the others to rest while also insisting I remain in the room with Emily and Thornley for the duration of the night. Thornley is now sound asleep in a chair to the right-hand side of the bed while I occupy another chair beneath the window in the far corner. I inspected Emily’s bindings myself and am satisfied they are sufficient in nature, at least for the night. The sickness is spreading within her, and with it a great strength is being realized. These thin ropes may be enough for tonight, but tomorrow I will insist on replacing them with leather straps, possibly silver chains. That is, of course, if she is permitted to live another twenty-four hours. Allowing her to turn would be an injustice to her mortal soul, one I am not certain I am willing to risk. Already, I see signs of the laudanum wearing off. She has been stirring and mumbling a bit in her sleep, both of which increased notably in frequency over the past hour. For now, though, she rests.

  The others are silent now, too, and while I would hope they found sleep, I will not presume such to be the case. Bram, in particular, puzzles me greatly, and under no circumstance will I lower my guard in his presence. Earlier, when I had the mirror in hand to demonstrate Emily’s decreased reflection therein, I took the opportunity to gauge Bram’s capacity to cast a reflection as well. Although I had but only a second to conduct my experiment, I am certain his reflection was evident. I find this particularly perplexing, given what he and the others told me. If he has, in fact, been bitten by the undead, by this ghoul Ellen Crone, as often as he claimed, he should have turned many years ago. And to think, he has drunk of her blood, too! Earlier, he handled Crone’s looking glass and brush without any sign of distress, even though both are forged of silver. I can only assume he has found some way to counteract the tests known to and utilized by me. The Devil is very crafty in his ways. Perhaps this is some kind of natural evolution, that he has developed an immunity to the weaknesses usually plaguing the undead. If such is the case, I am increasingly horrified, for at some point this immunity may become unstoppable. I plan to test this premise further, when given the chance. I am curious to see what will happen if Bram ingests holy water. I shall slip it to him without any advance warning to determine if these immunities are unconscious or if they require him to arm himself in advance.

  I feel I am deceiving my friend Thornley Stoker, but these are things I must do. His judgment is compromised in all matters regarding his wife and his brother. The disease they carry cannot be allowed to
spread, and if I must feign friendship with the afflicted in order to ascertain the weaknesses inherent in this disease—and then to destroy it and those infected by it—so be it.

  I have no doubt this Ellen Crone is the key.

  My driver has been sent to fetch Oliver Stewart. I have known Stewart for a number of years and I trust in him fully. As a practitioner of the dark arts, he has helped me in the past locate objects as well as people, and his discretion will prevent him from asking questions. I eagerly await his arrival.

  There is—

  THE DIARY of THORNLEY STOKER

  (RECORDED IN SHORTHAND AND TRANSCRIBED HEREWITH.)

  14 August 1868, 4:10 a.m.—I awoke to my sister screaming. It startled me, and I nearly fell from the chair alongside my wife’s bed as Vambéry raced past with his cane in hand, rushing down the hall towards my guest room. Bram and I nearly collided as he bounded up the stairs. We poured through Matilda’s open door to find her standing beside the window, her finger pointing towards the glass.

  “He’s outside!”

  “Who is outside?” Bram asked.

  Vambéry went to the window and peered into the inky night.

  Matilda covered her pale face with her hands and shook her head. “It was dreadful! I awoke to a tapping at the glass. When I went to the window, I saw Patrick O’Cuiv’s face pressed against the pane. He smiled at me and tapped on the glass again with his fingernails. His nails were long and yellow, hideously so. Oh, and his teeth! He had these . . . they were not normal. His lips were curled back like those of a snarling dog, and his teeth were like fangs. He licked at his lips and said my name. He said it so quietly, as if mouthing it, yet I heard him perfectly, as if he were right next to me. God, it was horrid!”

  “He is still out there,” Vambéry said, looking out the window. “And he is not alone.”

  Bram and I both went to the window and looked out, and there he was. Patrick O’Cuiv, the man who died not once but twice, the man whose autopsy I witnessed personally. He was now fully intact again and standing in the grass down below. I had no doubt Matilda had seen him at the window, even though we were on the second floor and there was no way for him to reach us from outside. But I also had no doubt that man could reach us as easily as I could reach my brother next to me.