by Steve Seitz
Thick, dark clouds blotted the moon. My light vanished, and the breeze became a chilly wind, numbing my face, my fingers, and my sense of touch.
Gingerly now, I found another handhold, another toehold. My foot slipped once and I cried out, but I did not fall. Another step, and then another. Two bats flitted by and seemed to be circling me, waiting for a mistake. They came uncomfortably close and I stopped moving, hoping they would go away.
By now, I could hear the sounds from Holmes’ open window more clearly. A cold steady rain began to fall, which was a mixed blessing. Soon I would not be able to feel my fingers at all, but my presence would be harder to detect. Hard droplets pricked my face.
“Please. You must be sated by now,” Holmes said in a soft, pleading voice.
“It’s been so long, Englisch,” said one of the women, and I heard a weak whimper from Holmes. “That child was barely enough, and the Count has abandoned us.”
“If we are greedy tonight, then it might be a long time until our next opportunity,” said another. “And the other one is still loose.”
More chilling laughter.
I almost fell again when I put my foot to what I thought was a toehold and connected with air. The window!
It took long, agonizing minutes in the icy rain to steel myself for what I had to do. By now I could no longer feel my hands nor trust my frozen fingers. But I leaned as far as I could to my right, my war-wounded shoulder a symphony of pain, and groped along rough, bitter stone for a solid hand-hold even as my mind pictured over and over again my plunge to certain death on the rocks far below if my unfeeling fingers failed me. I squeezed both my hands into the tiny hole, champed my lip, and kicked free.
My lower back clipped the casement as I swung into the room, and then I cracked the back of my head as I landed, but the harpies were too surprised to do anything but react. I clumsily thrust my crucifix at them as stars danced on the edges of my vision.
The ghastly sight will be with me to my dying day. Holmes lay on the bed, impotent and semi-conscious. The women were arrayed around him like vultures dividing up prey. Fresh, bright arterial blood dripped from the harpies’ lips, and one was sucking at a fresh wound opened on Holmes’ chest when I landed.
I faced the blonde, who was leaning over Holmes when she saw me. She had exposed her breast, which was bleeding freely, and when I saw the dark spots around Holmes’ mouth, I realized with a shock that she had made him drink, too.
They hissed and stepped around the bed, acting as a barricade as I pulled my body in through the window.
“Begone!” I barked, waving my crucifix. The women shrieked. Cold and in pain, I struggled to get to my feet.
The women were gone as suddenly as they had come. I was in such pain that I did not hear the door or even see them leave. I had a more pressing concern.
I lit candles and gasped in horror. Nearly naked, Holmes’ pale white body was covered with several deep wounds. He had been bitten at the jugular vein, which now flowed freely, as did fresh bites to his breast, near his heart, and the harpies had also punctured the carotid artery at Holmes’ neck. It did not seem humanly possible to lose so much blood so quickly.
Luckily, the jugular wound looked worse than it actually was. There were only two small puncture marks, and these I was able to seal with plaster from Holmes’ shaving kit. The arterial wound required stitching. Securing my crucifix around Holmes’ neck, I left long enough to get my Gladstone and some wet towels for a cold compress.
Some of the other wounds were more problematic. They were close to the heart, and looked deep. If the bleeding wasn’t stopped soon, Holmes would be dead.
“My dear Holmes,” I said in my most reassuring, doctorly manner. “It’s I. It’s Watson. Come on now, old boy. Open your eyes if you can.”
“W- Wat-”
He tried to raise his head, but it sank back into the pillow.
“No, no, not yet, Holmes.”
I applied a cold towel to the chest wounds and pressed; it was all I had. Warm, dark stains soon appeared. I applied another, and then another. It seemed like hours later, but the bleeding finally stopped and I closed the wounds with stitches.
I lifted one of his eyelids and brought a candle close. The pupil responded as it should; at least there was no obvious brain damage. Lifting his thin, pale and deathly white hand, I held the flame under his palm, and that did it. He snapped awake and snatched his hand away.
“Watson!” he said, and coughed. After several minutes he said softly, “It’s a wonder you retain any patients at all with a bedside manner like that.”
“What happened, Holmes?”
“Did I not dream it?” he asked, his voice feeble. “It’s hard to know. My memory is dissipating like the morning fog. I found three women in here as I returned from my bath. I can’t really describe them except to say they were the most beautiful, alluring creatures I have ever seen. You know me, Watson. I have never fully trusted the sex; even the best of them gives me pause. But these ...”
His eyes started to close.
“Not yet, Holmes,” I said slapping him gently. “Try to stay awake while I find some brandy.”
By the time I returned from the wine cellar, it was too late. He had fallen back on the bed, unconscious.
We’ve been here ever since. Holmes has been going in and out of delirium, his ravings both fascinating and terrifying. Even more baffling and disquieting is a new symptom I have never seen before: Holmes’ canines are growing and have become noticeably sharper. This phenomenon is completely unknown in modern medicine. Outside of vampire superstition, I can’t explain it.2
I have found two other crucifixes; one is in the window, and the other is over Holmes’ bed. I haven’t slept, except for a few fitful turns during the day.
I find that two hours have passed since I began to write, and that I am almost out of paper. I have found a suitably sized envelope in the Count’s office, and I am addressing it to you, Mary, in the hope it will find its way to you some day. Know that, in this life and in the next one, that you are ever dear to my heart, that I love you now and will love you until the twilight of time.
Your adoring husband,
John
Chapter Five: Escape from Castle Dracula
Letter, Dr. Watson to Mary Watson
August 20, 1890
Kimpelung, Bukovina
Dear Mary,
I apologize for not writing sooner, but Holmes fell ill while we were at Castle Dracula. The gipsy band we hired for transportation and assistance abandoned us, a sudden snowstorm trapped us, and we had little choice but to wait until the road was clear. This trip has not been a holiday, believe me.
On top of that, we never found Jonathan Harker. Holmes thinks it likely, and I concur, that he fell from a high window. It would require a team of skilled mountaineers to search the area for his body, and neither of us is fit nor equipped for such a task.
I expect to see you Sunday or Monday. And what a story I shall have to tell.
Your ever loving husband,
John
***
Dr. Watson’s Journal
August 20, 1890
Safe at last.
Holmes and I are in a small, quaint hotel in Kimpelung, Bukovina. How I have missed the bustle of humanity! We are in the center of town on a warm summer’s eve. The windows are open, and the sounds of conversation in the street, of commerce being conducted, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves are like a symphony to me after the harsh isolation of Castle Dracula.
Holmes’ fever broke last Friday, giving me some hope that we would soon leave Dracula’s horrid citadel.
“Poor Watson!” Holmes whispered as I gave him water. “You haven’t slept for days. Will you ever forgive me for bringing you on this hopeless quest?”
<
br /> “Quiet, dear fellow,” I told him. “There is nothing to forgive.”
“Those women-”
“Gone, or in hiding.”
“I had dreams. They were at the window …”
I had placed a crucifix at every entrance to Holmes’ room, as well as one around his neck. It seemed to have great power over the women, though such a thing has never turned up in any vampire tales I’ve ever read. In any event, the women haven’t returned since the attack. Our only company in the castle was a handful of bats flocking by Holmes’ window.
“We have to leave,” said Holmes.
“Can you get up?”
Holmes nodded. It was a bit of a struggle, as he had not left his bed in days, but once he was on his feet, I knew the worst was truly over. His wounds are healing more rapidly than I have any right to expect. Perhaps it’s the chicken soup.
But, in all my medical experience, in war, across three continents, I have never encountered what is happening with Holmes’ teeth. His frightening sharp canines have fallen out, and are being replaced by teeth of normal length and evenness. This phenomenon is unknown to me. I’ll keep this knowledge to myself for the time being; there may be something in the literature to explain it.
Reading over the letter I wrote to Mary, I realize I must have been delirious myself. There are perfectly rational, logical and scientific reasons for what happened, even if I don’t know what they are right now. Vampires do not exist outside the imaginations of Dr. Polidori or Mr. LeFanu.
That these women believe themselves to be vampires, I have no doubt; why else would Dracula keep them about? They share the same superstitions that grip the minds of the villagers, and we are in the land that gave us the Countess Elisabeth Bathory, who bathed in the blood of young girls in hopes of preserving her own youth. Perhaps Dracula’s women share the Countess’ belief that the drinking of blood grants eternal youth and beauty. I wish I had paid better attention to which hallway they came from. Unless there are still more secret chambers in that castle. I thank God that I will never return to it!
Holmes and I discussed the nature of vampirism at length as we waited for the snow to melt.
“There is simply no way I can accept vampire superstition,” Holmes said. “These people are masters of illusion, nothing more.”
“How do you explain it, then?”
“Count Dracula is a mystic, perhaps a devil worshiper, and he leads a vampire cult. Everything we’ve seen here supports it: the lack of mirrors, the banning of Christian imagery, the blood rituals.”
“How do you explain your symptoms?”
“Poison, injected through the skin,” said Sherlock Holmes. “They get away with it by exploiting local superstitions, reinforcing the superstitions with their terrifying actions, as well as employing stagecraft and chemical trickery to hold the belief of gullible minds. I shall not give in to it.”
“How do you explain the teeth?” I asked. “There is no mention of growth like that in any of the literature I know of, medical or otherwise.”
“I admit that I haven’t worked it all out yet,” Holmes said. “Dracula has possibly included some folk chemical in his poison that science has yet to explain. I emphasize ‘yet,’ Watson.”
“Perhaps the women truly believe in the power of Christ,” I said. “Perhaps those crosses are keeping them away.”
For whatever reason, the women did not approach us again, and I did not try to find them. Sherlock Holmes was my sole concern. Once I was able to apply the medical knowledge of this century, he improved rapidly. By Sunday, the snow had receded enough to allow us to leave.
“At least we’ll be walking downhill,” he said. “Your leg should be able to stand it, I trust?”
We left at dawn, taking a healthy heap of the Count’s gold coins as compensation for our travails. I kept looking over my shoulder until the castle was no longer in sight, but I didn’t feel truly safe until we were beyond the melting snow and under the cover of the trees.
We reached the main road at nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. Between my aching shoulder and stiff leg, and Holmes’ weakness, we were obliged to rest every twenty minutes or so.
We struck east; neither one of us wanted to risk the village and take the blame in case more children had disappeared. The evening coach came by about two and a half hours later, as the sky was beginning to redden with twilight.
I took a look back up at the castle, now many miles away atop a distant mountain. Clouds drifted along the battlements. Even far away and small, the castle looked stark and forbidding, and the red sunlight glowing on it made me think of all the blood spilled in its lengthy and splendid history. Again I thought of Holmes’ ordeal, and felt a chill.
Then we rounded a bend, and that is the last I ever hope to see of Castle Dracula.
1Holmes was right. In November 1890, the failure of the Buenos Aires Water Supply and Drainage loan of 1888 brought Barings down, but the Bank of England stepped in to salvage the disaster. By this time Dracula had been driven back to Transylvania (he died on Nov. 8), and Moriarty’s greatest coup was thwarted. No wonder he felt “seriously inconvenienced” by Holmes. Presumably Moriarty had nothing to do with the 1995 crisis that destroyed Barings for good. -SS
2The University of Michigan may have found a way. According to Science Daily, (Feb 12, 2005) researchers mixed bone morphogenetic proteins with an inactive virus and injected it into rats needing dental implants. The rats grew back much of the bone needed to support the implants. A Kirkland, Wash. company called Dentigenix is using this and other research to pursue the regrowth of human teeth using the body’s own cells. -SS
Part Two: The Plague of Dracula
Chapter Six: Count Dracula
Dr. Watson’s Journal
August 27, 1890
My wife has gone missing, and I don’t know what to do.
It seems that my darkest fears have been realized. I never expected a warm welcome, and now I fear that this Transylvanian trip has sealed my fate. Rather than my absence making Mary’s heart grow fonder, she has chosen to wander instead. My marriage is over.
Mary and the serving-girl seem to have vanished. Significantly, Mary’s luggage is missing, but it is unlike her not to leave a note. I have sent a wire to Mrs. Cecil Forrester, that good lady who brought us together. But in case there is evidence here I might unwittingly disturb, I have decided to spend the night at Baker Street and discuss the whole matter with Holmes.
Later. I am back home. Mrs. Hudson informed me that Holmes left for, of all places, Whitby, almost immediately upon his arrival. I am at a loss. I feel paralyzed without Holmes’ guidance. I shall wire everyone Mary could possibly be with and await answers. If there are none by the end of my morning rounds, then it’s off to Scotland Yard.
August 29, 1890
After an agonizing, restless night, I returned to Baker Street in the hope of catching Sherlock Holmes, but found a surprise instead.
Among the letters to Holmes in this morning’s post was one I hadn’t expected to see - from Mrs. Cecil Forrester. I opened it without shame, but with great heartache. It read:
Winchester, the Pentangeli
August 24, 1890
My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
I need both your tact and your discretion this hour. I am breaking a confidence in writing to you. Mrs. Watson has decided to leave her husband. You are the cause, I’m afraid: it is Mary’s belief that Dr. Watson far prefers your company to hers, and she has been trysting with another man, whose name I do not know, but who I believe is causing her great distress.
Mary came to me Wednesday, on the 20th. She was unhappy and withdrawn, and told me she was visiting for clear country air. But during one sleepless night, I rose for tea and saw her, in her night clothes, wandering across the lawn. I c
alled to her, but she did not seem to hear. Instead, she made her way to the gazebo by the lake. Waiting for her was a tall, elegant man, of strong bearing and noble features, in evening dress, possibly a foreigner. Mary took his hand and he absorbed her in his arms in a passionate embrace. I returned to the house immediately.
In the morning, I confronted her, and she confessed. But I believe she truly pines yet for the arms of her husband. Since her arrival she shows all the signs of a broken heart. Mary has grown pale and gaunt, and refuses to eat. But she also refuses to let me get in touch with Dr. Watson, saying she will do so when she feels the time is ripe.
And so, Mr. Holmes, once again I turn to you. I am in hopes that you can resolve the situation one way or another, for while I am loath to harbor an adultress, you know how dear Mary is to me. You have spared me heartache in the past, Mr. Holmes, and I implore you to do it again.
Yours most sincerely,
Mrs. Cecil Forrester
My own heart is aflame with rage, and pain, and pity. Have I so neglected my wife? Since our marriage, weeks have often passed without my seeing Holmes. True, I have accompanied him on a number of cases, but rarely have these exceeded one or two nights, and for the ones in London I usually slept at home. Mary always seemed to delight in the stories of our doings.
I am now torn. Honor binds me to pretend I never saw this letter that was not meant for my eyes, but how can I bear to lose a wife for the second time? And who is this strange lover? I must speak with Holmes! Why doesn’t he answer?
September 1, 1890
Tonight, the ashen tastes of defeat and disappointment lie heavy on my heart, not to be dispelled by any amount of brandy. For Sherlock Holmes has brought Mary back to me, it is true, but at the highest price. She does not know me, and does not want me.