Dracul

by Dacre Stoker

  I was right to worry about Vambéry, for the moment the others left he announced, “Whatever is inside this room is evil, Bram. It cannot be allowed. We need to end it.”

  He said this with no regard to Patrick O’Cuiv, who was standing at the window, an unmoving sentry.

  Vambéry’s cane leaned against the wall in the far corner, out of his reach. I felt ill at ease around this man, friend to Thornley or not; he regarded me in much the same way he did Patrick. Part of me expected him to wield that sword to try to strike us both down. Thornley insisted such was not the case. Vambéry was a reasonable man, he said. But, still, I could not help but distrust him.

  “You heard what Ellen said. The man behind this door is not our enemy.”

  “What lies behind this door is not a man at all,” Vambéry replied. He had brought our bags into the room and was shuffling through their contents. “I do not trust your Ellen or her traveling companions any more than I trust Dracul. I think you are blinded by some childhood allegiances and memories. You and your brother and sister are not thinking rationally, so I must do the thinking for one and all.”

  He pulled out a large crucifix and held it up to the lamplight.

  Although Patrick O’Cuiv’s back was turned, he somehow sensed the cross’s presence. He turned around and faced Vambéry. “Put that away!” he hissed.

  “I will not. If our purpose here tonight is to keep strigoi out, then I plan to do just that. Perhaps you should wait outside.”

  O’Cuiv gave me a weary look, then moved past us both in an instant, finding a place in the hallway just outside the room.

  Vambéry pulled out a hammer and nails and affixed the cross to the wall next to the door. He then retrieved a second crucifix, followed by a third. “Perhaps you might help?” he said.

  I located a second hammer in Vambéry’s bag and started on the other side of the room. When we ran out of crosses, we hung mirrors, all that we had in our possession. The better part of an hour elapsed before we finished. Vambéry nodded at my bowie knife. “Carve crosses into all open surfaces; leave nothing unmarked. The mirrors tend to confuse these beasts, if only by multiplying the number of crosses.”

  As I went about this task, Vambéry placed garlic and holy wafers into a small bowl and crushed them with the handle of his knife, he then added water and stirred the mixture until it formed a thick paste like he did at Thornley’s home. Then, using the blade, he forced it into the space where the thick oak door met the surrounding stone. “Strigoi can become mist and pass through even the tiniest of cracks. This will prevent anything from getting in or out. The water is holy.”

  The scent of the paste was strong, and Patrick O’Cuiv shuffled uncomfortably out in the hallway when he smelled it.

  Vambéry began to sweat. He paused for a moment, steadying himself against the door.

  “Are you all right?”

  Vambéry nodded, but he did not appear well. I thought it was his anger boiling up inside him, but this reaction was something else entirely. He finished applying the paste, then retrieved one of the white roses from the basket he purchased earlier. He invoked a prayer in a whisper, stumbling over the words, then placed the blossom at the foot of the door. “No strigoi can leave his grave if he must pass such a rose, and most assuredly the chamber behind that door is nothing short of a tomb.”

  These last words were forced out with no small effort on Vambéry’s part. His eyes rolled back in his sockets, and I managed to reach him just before he collapsed and was able to ease him to the ground. His skin was cold and clammy.

  I sensed something behind the door, a presence. Something stronger than anything I had ever encountered.

  “Arminius?”

  The man’s eyelids fluttered, and his mouth moved as if to speak, but he said nothing.

  “What is going on in there?” Patrick O’Cuiv said from the hallway, no longer able to look into the room now filled with crosses and mirrors.

  “Vambéry passed out.”

  “Not Vambéry,” O’Cuiv replied. “There is something happening behind the door.”

  “I . . . I do not know.” I felt it, too, though. Whatever it was grew stronger, pulled at me in much the same way Nanna Ellen had when I was but a child. I wanted to open the door, wanted to wipe away the paste Vambéry applied there and stomp the rose to dust. I wanted to open the door and let it out. I felt it reach for my mind and wrap around my skull, these shadowy fingers groping, kneading at my thoughts.

  I look forward to meeting you, Bram.

  Vambéry mouthed this greeting, but not a sound escaped his lips; instead, I heard the words in my imagination only. He was unconscious, of this I was positively sure, yet his mouth moved again.

  I learned so much about you from Ellen. She thinks so highly of you. Your sister as well. And your brother. Such a resourceful family. I can smell her blood in your veins, her sweet blood. And she so loves the taste of your blood. I cannot wait to sample it myself, Bram. In all these years, do you realize I never fed on your Nanna Ellen? I never had her blood on my lips. To know that, soon, I will taste not only hers but yours . . .

  Vambéry’s pulse was racing, and he was breathing in quick, short gasps. Too, every muscle in his body had contracted and tensed. His fingertips were extended so far, they appeared to bend back towards the top of his wrists. He continued to mouth the words I heard only in my head.

  Poor Deaglan O’Cuiv, only half a man living in a box. Why do you not let him out? Let him breathe. Let him enjoy the night. He has been imprisoned for so long, I think he deserves that, do you not?

  “Do not open that door, Bram! Dracul speaks through your friend somehow and it is trickery. You cannot trust your eyes and ears.” Patrick paced with frustration in the hallway, unable to so much as peek into this room.

  Is that Patrick O’Cuiv I hear? Come to put his great-great-great-grand-uncle back together again for our lovely Ellen? Please thank him for his hospitality; I so enjoyed spending time with his wife and children. I am sorry I could not stay longer, but I suppose I stayed long enough. His little boy cried out for him moments before I took his life. He expected his father to save him; so naïve and sweet—Sean, I believe? Oh, and little Isobelle! She thought I was her father when I reached down into her bed and brought her little body to my lips. The young can be so trusting. In all my years, I found nothing to compete with the blood of a young child, always so fresh and clean, free of the pollutants most adults allow their bodies to ingest. I only wish I could drain her veins again and again. Then there was Maggie! That Maggie was a clever one, to hide from me. Now that Ellen has turned her, perhaps I will take her as a child when this travail is all brought to a conclusion. She and the lovely Emily can come back with me when our little game has ended and the lot of you are being feasted upon by the worms.

  A loud bang resonated through the tower, and I realized Patrick had struck the wall. Dust flickered down from the ceiling, raining upon the floor.

  I noticed Vambéry’s hand, then, his palm covered with an inky, sticky substance. Something had oozed out from under the door; he must have touched it while applying his holy paste. I realized this thick liquid had created a bond between him and Dracul. The bond through which Dracul now spoke.

  You will wait for me, won’t you, Bram? Right there on that very spot? I can be there soon. You only need to tell me where you hide. Why don’t we take a look? Get our bearings?

  At this, Vambéry’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up perfectly straight, taking in every square inch of the room. His head pivoted from side to side, then up and down. He broke from my grasp and raced to the window before I could stop him. He gazed up at the stars, then down at the grounds, at the town, the graveyard, the forest, and the ocean beyond.

  Ah, yes, of course, his voice said through Vambéry’s lips. Where else? Then silence.

  Vambéry fell to the ground at m
y feet and mumbled soft, incoherent words. Then his eyes fluttered open, his breathing returned to normal.

  Patrick spoke from the hallway. “We must get him out of here. As long as he is near that door, Dracul can reach him and make use of him again. You and I are protected by Ellen’s blood; he is weak and therefore open.”

  I knew he was right, and even before Vambéry had fully recovered I carried his limp body out to the hallway and handed it to Patrick O’Cuiv. “Take him back to the inn, to be with the others, away from here. I will guard the door until morning.” I showed him the stain on Vambéry’s palm. “Wash away this blot on his hand thoroughly.”

  Patrick eyed me worriedly but knew I was right. “I will return to help you.”

  I shook my head. “Stay with the others, protect them. He cannot get in here, I’ll be fine.”

  I gestured to the crucifixes and looking glasses on the walls—a futile effort, admittedly, for he could not gaze upon them. That very fact proved my point. I retrieved Vambéry’s cane and handed it to Patrick. “When he wakes, return this to him. Perhaps it will help muster trust between you and he. Although you may not believe so, we will need him, his expertise.”

  Patrick took the cane in his other hand.

  “Now go before Dracul tries to invade his body once again.”

  With that, he was gone, hoisting Vambéry up as if he weighed nothing and disappearing back into the bowels of the abbey.

  And then I was alone in the room, my eyes fixed on the door, the presence lurking behind it crowding my every thought. I pulled the rifle from Thornley’s bag and sat in the chair.

  I now faced the long night ahead.

  PART III

  It is not a mere fabrication of theologists that Hell exists, for it is right here on earth. I have personally stood at its border and seen the devils carry out their work.

  —Bram Stoker, Makt Myrkranna

  NOW

  ARMINIUS

  Arminius Vambéry, lying upon a soft bed at the inn, awakens with the first light of morning, remembering nothing of how he got there, nothing beyond being in the tower keep of Whitby Abbey with Bram and Patrick O’Cuiv.

  Matilda is hovering over him, a warm, damp cloth in hand. “He is awake,” she says to someone behind her.

  Thornley.

  The two of them help Vambéry sit upright. Every wretched bone and muscle in his body aches.

  “Are you able to stand?” Matlida asks. “To walk?”

  “I believe so.”

  “You must,” Thornley announces most impatiently. “Our train awaits, and we need to retrieve Bram—he is still in the Whitby Abbey keep.”

  There is no sign of the undead; Ellen, Maggie, and that monster Patrick no doubt are deep in slumber.

  Vambéry, weak and disoriented, is in somewhat of a haze when they exit the inn, but climbing the one hundred and ninety-nine steps to the abbey for yet a second time cures him of that. At the top of the stairs, however, his bad leg is throbbing. The events up to this point seem but a dream, by his reckoning, but now are beginning to take on a decidedly realistic quality as the three of them make their way through the abbey, climb the ladder hidden in the chimney, then ascend yet more stairs to the tower keep.

  They find Bram lying in the corner of the chamber, nearly unconscious due to exhaustion. He grasps his journal in one hand, the other hand resting on the stock of the trusty Snider–Enfield rifle. He looks as if he has aged a good ten years in the span of a single night.

  “Dracul knows we are here,” Bram says. “He was here, but I kept him at bay.”

  Matilda goes to Bram and tenderly runs her hand through his hair. “Patrick told us. You were such a brave fool to stay here all alone,” she whispers at his ear. “I should kill you myself, knowing you wish for death so heartily. We tried to come back last night to help you, but Ellen would not allow it. They kept watch over us at the inn and insisted you would be safe.”

  Thornley and Vambéry assist Bram to his feet, help steady him. It is then Bram pats the leather cover of his journal and nods at Vambéry. “This will help you to understand all,” he offers weakly.

  The damp room reeks of death. The floor is muddy and covered with tiny stones that resemble the coiled fossilized remains of serpents. The crucifixes and mirrors on the walls are either broken or twisted out of shape, and any number of them have crashed to the floor.

  “What happened here?” Thornley asks.

  In response, Bram only raises his hand and shakes his head. “Later . . . What about the train?”

  “We leave in an hour,” Matilda replies.

  It takes Bram a moment to comprehend what she has said. “Ellen?” he finally inquires.

  Matilda glances at Vambéry and, lowering her voice, says, “She and the others have already been put aboard the train.”

  Vambéry can picture them, the undead trio, sealed in their crates and sleeping upon beds of soil, more vulnerable now than at any other time. They must be in one of the cargo cars, but he has no way to know which. His fingers tighten on the knob of his cane, which he found on the floor next to his bed.

  Thornley nods towards the heavy oak door at the far reaches of the room. “We need to make haste.”

  Bram is staring at the door, and Vambéry sees hesitancy in his eyes, fear.

  “We promised,” Matilda says.

  He thinks about this for a second, then nods. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the tarnished brass key Ellen had given him and goes to the door. He slips the key into the heavy lock at the center and twists it; a loud click echoes through the room as the bolts on either side retract.

  Bram reaches for the handle and pulls open the door.

  If the room in which they stood smelled of death, the room beyond the door reeks of a tomb. Flakes of dried paste fall from the edges of the door, and the mud that covers the floor gives off an odor so noxious it seems to push back at them. The three squint and cover their noses before stepping inside.

  The chamber isn’t very large, only about eight feet in diameter, with no window or other means of egress. At the center of the room stands a wooden trunk about two feet deep and four feet long—no larger than one would use to transport clothing for a long trip. The same trunk Bram saw in his vision of Ellen at the bog—every inch of the exterior covered in tiny crosses carved into the wood.

  The lid of the trunk is ajar.

  They approach and peer inside.

  Lying in the trunk, with soil loosely tossed overtop, are the remains of a man. Vambéry sees there is a leg and two arms protruding from the soil, along with part of a torso. On the far end, a man’s head; only the eyes and the tip of a nose visible of the face, his eyes closed as if in slumber. As Vambéry understands it, the man died hundreds of years ago, but his remains are remarkably preserved. Vambéry tries not to look at the torn flesh on the neck, where the head once was connected to the man’s torso.

  “Deaglan O’Cuiv,” Thornley says.

  Vambéry watches as Bram reaches through his open shirt collar and pulls out the ring he is wearing on a chain around his neck. He lifts the chain over his head, removes the ring and slips it on one of the fingers protruding from the soil. “This belongs to you.”

  The finger twitches.

  “Remarkable,” Vambéry says softly. He reaches inside and brushes some of the dirt from the man’s face. “The flesh is cold, yet there is still life.”

  Deaglan O’Cuiv’s eyes flutter, and his mouth distorts in a soundless scream. Vambéry snatches his hand away.

  “To spend eternity in such pain . . .” Matilda says, leaving the thought unfinished as O’Cuiv’s eyes slowly close again.

  The man’s torso is barely visible, but Vambéry sees the wound where the man’s heart had been yanked from his breast, the void left behind now filled with soil. How any of this is possible, he does not know
, yet here it is. “I cannot look at this anymore,” he says, reaching for the lid of the trunk and shutting it.

  The old brass latches clatter together, and Thornley secures each, then turns to Bram and Vambéry. “Ready, gentlemen?”

  Bram takes one end of the trunk, Thornley and Vambéry take the other, and, with Matilda in the lead, they carry it out into the main chamber. As they leave the room, Vambéry cannot help but notice the long scratch marks evident on the inside surface of the door. From top to bottom, and stained with dried blood, the oak has been clawed and splintered in what appears to be a failed attempt at escape. He also takes note that the box of gold and documents is gone, most likely already on the train.

  Together, they transport the trunk down the abbey steps to an awaiting coach. It is then loaded onto the train to Hull, where they will catch a ship to Amsterdam. From there, they are to board another train to Rotterdam, Düsseldorf, and Frankfurt, scheduled to arrive in Munich in approximately three days’ time.

  Once settled into their seats aboard the train, Thornley gives Vambéry Bram’s journal, another diary in Thornley’s own hand, and letters written by Matilda to Ellen, asks him to read all as they pull away from the station, Whitby lost at their backs.

  Vambéry carefully reads it all, doing his best to place all the pages in some semblance of order, flipping back and forth, adding his own notes as he goes.

  Several hours later, he finishes the final page scribbled in hasty script by Bram that previous night while trapped in the abbey tower. He closes the cover of Bram’s journal. All these recorded moments weighing heavily on him—this boy, this family, caught in something so horrendous for so long.

  He leans back in his seat as the train bounces along, the English countryside rolling past the window.