by Syrie James
When we returned to our lodging-house, our landlady, Mrs. Abernathy, said there was a letter waiting for me. My heart leapt in excitement. I recognised the hand at once: it was from Jonathan’s employer, Mr. Peter Hawkins. Unable to wait until we reached our chamber, I ripped open the envelope at once. To my relief, I saw that the dear old man had enclosed a letter he had received from Jonathan.
“You see?” Lucy cried, straining for a peek at the enclosed missive as I glanced over it. “I told you Jonathan would write. What does he say?”
My heart sank. It was Jonathan’s handwriting; but I had longed for reassuring words and an explanation for his long silence. Instead, the enclosed letter to his employer was a shattering disappointment:
Castle Dracula—19 June, 1890
My Dear Sir:
I write to report to you that I have satisfactorily completed the business errand upon which I was engaged, and intend to start for home to-morrow, but will probably stop for a holiday somewhere on the way.
I remain, yours faithfully,
J. Harker
“One line,” I said quietly, as I passed the letter to Lucy. “One line only. It is very unlike Jonathan.”
“How so? He wrote to Mr. Hawkins, not you; I think it quite succinct and business-like.”
“That is just it. Mr. Hawkins is more like a father to Jonathan than a business associate. We have both known him ever since we were children. Jonathan would never address the old man in such a business-like tone.”
“Perhaps he was in a hurry. And look: he says he plans to stop for a holiday on the way home.”
“Even if Jonathan did stop somewhere, he should have arrived long before this. And why did he write to Mr. Hawkins, but not to me? I sent him my address here in Whitby.” A sudden fear gripped my stomach, and so assailed my senses that I was obliged to sink into a near-by chair. “Do you think it possible—could Jonathan have met another woman while on his journey? Is that the reason for his silence?”
“Another woman?” Lucy cried, aghast. “Never! Jonathan is as faithful as you, Mina Murray. He is very much in love with you, and you are the two most loyal people I have ever met. He would never look twice at another woman, I assure you.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I know so. You will marry Jonathan, Mina. I am sure there is some simple reason for his silence, and you will learn it in good time. He will come home to you, I promise.”
NEARLY A FORTNIGHT PASSED WITH NO FURTHER NEWS FROM Jonathan, keeping me in a state of suspense that was really quite dreadful. Lucy heard from Arthur, however. To her disappointment, he was obliged to postpone his visit, as his father had been taken ill—which meant postponing our plans to go rowing up the river, something we had been eagerly looking forward to.
Adding to this anxiety, Lucy continued to sleep-walk from time to time. In each instance, I was awakened by her moving about the room, determinedly seeking a way out. I now slept with the key securely tied to my wrist. Despite all this, we enjoyed our days together, which were spent strolling through the town or up to the East Cliff, or taking long walks to the charming near-by villages. Although we took care to wear our hats, Mrs. Westenra remarked with satisfaction that Lucy’s once-pale cheeks were now taking on a becoming rosy hue.
On the 6th of August, the weather changed. The sun was hidden behind thick clouds, the sea tumbled over the sandy flats with a roar, and everything was shrouded in a deep grey mist.
“We be in for a storm, my deary, and a big ’un, mark my words,” said old Mr. Swales, as he joined me on my seat in the churchyard that afternoon. He was a dear old man, but that day, as he rambled on, he seemed entirely fixated on the subject of death. Staring out to sea, he said in an ominous tone: “May be it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s bringin’ with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts…Look! It sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death!”
His words unnerved me. Although I know he meant no harm, I was glad when he left. For a while, I wrote in my journal, and watched the fishing-boats scurrying back to safety in the harbour. My attention was soon caught by a ship out at sea. It was a sizeable vessel, heading westward towards our coast with all sails set, but it was knocking about in the queerest way, as if changing direction with every puff of wind.
When the coastguardsman ambled by with his spy-glass, he stopped to talk with me, all the time looking at the same ship. “She’s a Russian, by the look of her,” he said, “but she doesn’t know her mind a bit, and is steered mighty strangely. It’s as if she sees the storm coming but can’t decide whether to run up north, or put in here.”
The next day was again cold and grey, and the strange schooner was still there, gently rolling on the undulating sea, its sails idly flapping. That evening after tea, Lucy and I returned to the cliff-top to join a large assemblage that was curiously watching the ship, as well as the approach of sunset—a sight so beautiful, with its masses of clouds in every shade of sunset colour from red to purple, violet, pink, green, yellow, and gold—it seemed impossible to believe that bad weather could be imminent.
By evening, however, the air grew uncannily still. At midnight, when Lucy and I were safely tucked in our beds, a faint, hollow booming came from over the sea, and the tempest broke in sudden earnest. Rain poured down in a fury, clattering against the roof, the window-panes, and the chimney-pots. Every peal of thunder sounded like a distant gun and made me jump. I was too agitated to sleep, and for many an hour, I heard Lucy tossing and turning in her own bed. At last, I fell into a fitful slumber, and I had a strange dream.
Perhaps I have a very active imagination; perhaps it is in my blood; but I have a propensity to dream very vividly—and I have dreamt every single night, all night long, ever since I was a little child. At any moment when I awake, I can recall the dream I was just experiencing in perfect detail, and it always takes me some minutes to reassure myself that it was not real. Sometimes, my dreams are silly, sweet, and tangled fantasies incorporating bits and pieces of the day I have just been through; at other times they are nightmares, frightening manifestations of my darkest fears; but on occasion they have proven to be portents or signs, showing me what my future holds.
On this night, I dreamt that I was back in my chamber at school—only it was not the school where I had lived and worked—it was a place I did not recognise. In the dead of night, in the glow of a brilliant moon, I wandered down a long, cold passageway in search of something—I knew not what. Outside, a fierce wind blew through the tree tops, making the eaves of the building creak and groan, and casting frightening shadows on the walls. The floor boards felt icy beneath my bare feet, and I shivered in my thin nightdress. I wanted to return to the warmth and safety of my bed, but I could not; I could only move forward, one step at a time, compelled onward by some force I could not name.
All at once, a deep, soft voice came out of the darkness: “My love!”
Was it Jonathan calling? Was he here, at last? “Where are you, Jonathan?” I cried, as I ran down the long, endlessly twisting corridor, past many closed doors.
“My love!” I heard again.
I suddenly realised it was not Jonathan at all but a voice I had never heard before. I flew breathlessly around a corner, only to lurch to an abrupt halt as a door opened just ahead of me. From that door issued a tall, dark figure. Was it was man or beast? I could not be certain. In the shadowy passage, I could not perceive the being’s features; just two gleaming, red eyes—a sight which made me gasp in alarm.
He—or it—approached and stopped before me, uttering words in a soft tone that sent a chill up my spine, yet at the same time were both captivating and strangely compelling:
“I am coming for you.”
TWO
I AWOKE WITH A START, MY HEART POUNDING, TO HEAR THE storm still raging outside. The dream had felt very real; the image of the dark, faceless figure remained vivid in my mind. Who was he—or it? Why did he call me My love? Why was he coming for
me? This contemplation was interrupted when I heard movement in the room. I struck a match and discovered Lucy sitting on her bed in her nightdress, pulling on her boots. I lit the lamp and went to her.
“Lucy: dearest. You must go back to bed.”
“No,” she replied, pushing me away emphatically in her sleep. “I must go. He is coming for me.”
A wave of apprehension washed over me. Had not I just heard those same words in my dream? “Who is coming?”
“I must go!” was her only response, as she began to tie her shoe-laces.
It took some doing to convince Lucy that, under no circumstances would I permit her to leave the room. She did not wake, but continued to be restless all night, rising yet again to dress herself. How strange, I thought—when I managed to get her back to bed once more, and settled beneath the bedclothes myself—was it possible that Lucy and I had had the very same dream?
“I NEVER REMEMBER ANYTHING I DREAM,” LUCY SAID WITH A shrug the next morning, when I asked her about it. “It took me ages to fall asleep, but when I did, I slept like a log.”
I let out a great yawn, exhausted by the night’s proceedings; but since Lucy looked so bright and happy as she opened the shutters to let in the early-morning light, I decided to make no mention of them.
“What a horrible storm!” Lucy went on. “Thank goodness it is over now.”
“Old Mr. Swales was so full of doom and gloom yesterday about this tempest. I hope all the fishing-boats survived intact.”
“Let us go down and see.”
We dressed quickly, skipped breakfast, and hastened outside. The early-morning air was crisp, fresh, and clear, and the newly risen sun peeked out here and there between billowing clouds. As we hurried down the street, I felt a sudden chill, and the oddest sensation came over me. I saw Lucy shiver, and said, “Are you cold?”
“No,” she replied, “but I just had a funny feeling—as if someone was watching us.”
“I had the same feeling!” We looked quickly around us. The buildings along the street were all cast in shadows, but the street itself was empty except for us and two other souls, who were marching briskly in our direction, towards the West Cliff.
“I do not see anything,” Lucy said.
“I think the storm has set our nerves on edge.” Sharing a little shudder and a laugh, we took each other’s arms and hurried down to the harbour.
The sea was still dark and awash in angry-looking, foam-crested waves. There were only a few people about, and they were all chattering excitedly. All the fishing-boats appeared to be securely moored to their docks; however, a large sailing ship—the same strange, foundering ship, I realised, which had aroused such curiosity in the days before—had beached itself across the way, by the pier jutting under the East Cliff. It now stood tilted on the sand and gravel at a perilous angle, its sails in shreds, and some of its top hamper crashed to pieces across the deck and sands below.
“Such a beautiful ship!” I cried in dismay. “What a shame!” I turned to a red-bearded, weathered-faced man standing near-by, and asked, “What happened? Do you know?”
“I do,” replied the man solemnly, as he puffed at his pipe. “I saw it all late last night. They say it’s a Russian ship called the Demeter. The coastguard saw her coming in, all shrouded by mist and fog, and signalled her to reduce sail in the face of her danger, but got nary a response. She kept wavering this way and that, like there was no hand at the wheel. Then the storm broke with a great roar, and she was lost from sight for a time. Suddenly the wind shifted, and there she was again. By some miracle the schooner made straight into the harbour, rushing in with such speed that I knew she must fetch up somewhere. Indeed, she ran in as soft and sleek as a seal flappin’ under an ice-floe, then rammed up on the sand heap with a great concussion. When the coastguard boarded the vessel, then it was that the great horror met their eyes.”
“What great horror?” Lucy asked fearfully.
“That ship was steered by a dead man,” he replied, his eyes widening under his bushy eyebrows.
“A dead man?” I repeated. “How can that be?”
“There lies the mystery, missy: for the entire crew is missing, and they found the captain’s corpse lashed to the helm, swinging horribly to and fro, his dead hands clutching a crucifix.”
“Oh!” Lucy and I cried together, in stunned alarm.
“The only survivor, it appears, was a dog.”
“A dog?” I repeated, surprised.
He nodded. “Just as the vessel touched shore, a huge dog leapt off the bow onto the sand, made straight for the cliff, and disappeared. Neither hide nor hair of it has been seen since. It must be a fierce brute, too; for it seems to have fought and killed a local dog—a half-bred mastiff that was found in the roadway opposite to its master’s yard, with its throat torn away and its belly slit open, as if with a savage claw.”
“Oh!” Lucy cried again.
I was inclined to stay and hear more, but this tale so distressed Lucy that she insisted we return to the Royal Crescent at once. Later, as she picked at her breakfast, Lucy said with a frown, “We were having such a lovely holiday, and now that horrible ship has to appear—with a—with a dead man at the wheel! I shudder just to think of it.”
Mrs. Westenra, who was not feeling too well herself, suggested that Lucy spend a quiet day with her to calm her nerves. “You have received a shock, my dear, that is all. In a few days, you will have forgotten all about it.”
I, too, was unnerved by the eerie appearance of the beached ship, but I had no desire to let it ruin my holiday, or to spend the day cooped up inside. Although the morning had grown quite overcast, it still promised to be a nice day, and I felt a strong compulsion to go up to my favourite seat on the East Cliff to read and write. I quickly checked my appearance in the looking-glass, smoothing out my simple skirt and jacket of amethyst piqué, straightening the jabot of my white blouse, and ensuring that my blonde hair was tidily secured beneath my straw hat. Satisfied that I appeared presentable, I took a book and my journal, hugged my companions good-bye, and headed out, filled with a strange, inward anticipation that I could not explain.
The wind was blowing briskly as I traversed the churchyard, past the widely dispersed gravestones washed clean by the night’s rain. I inhaled deeply, finding pleasure in the mingled scents of wet gravel, stone, earth, and grass. For some reason, for the second time that morning, I was possessed by the strange feeling that I was being watched; but as I glanced around, I could again perceive nothing out of the ordinary.
People of all ages and descriptions were strolling about as usual, chatting and smiling. Were it not for the multitude of mud puddles which had gathered in the low spots along the path edges, there would be nothing to indicate that a storm of the most spectacular nature had blown through only the night before, much less a storm which had violently driven in a ship populated by ghosts.
I was pleased to see that my preferred bench was empty. I sat down and revelled in the beauty of the scene below me. Sunlight danced on the ever-shifting, dark blue sea, and the waves crashed up in great, foaming, white crests against the beaches, sea-walls, and distant headlands. I thought about Jonathan; I prayed that he was safe, and had not been crossing the stormy sea the night before.
Just as I took out my fountain-pen and was about to begin my journal entry, the wind suddenly and unceremoniously picked up and took off with my hat. One moment, my bonnet was secured to my head; the next, it was airborne and rolling away in frantic circles across the pathway.
I leapt up in dismay and dashed after my retreating bonnet. Despite my most earnest attempts to retrieve it, however, it maddeningly remained just a few inches out of my reach. It was making a bee-line for the most dangerous section of the cliff—that part where the sustaining bank had fallen away, and some of the flat tombstones actually projected out over the sands far below. I stopped a few feet from the cliff edge, certain that my hat was lost to me; for it would be only seconds now be
fore it rashly flung itself out into open space and sailed to its doom below in the depths of the sea.
Suddenly, a tall form rushed past me and grabbed my hat at the very brink of the cliff, just as it was about to hurl itself into oblivion. I had never seen a human being move with such speed; but then, with calm assurance and a pantherlike grace, the gentleman returned to my side and presented me with his spoils.
“Is this your hat, miss?” he enquired in a deep, rich voice, enlivened by a very slight, indistinct foreign accent.
I stared at him, suddenly speechless. He was a young gentleman—not much older than thirty, I thought. He was tall, thin, and extremely attractive, with a handsome nose, perfectly white teeth, and a jet-black moustache that matched his hair. As he smiled down at me, I was captivated by the force of his dark blue eyes, which were at once intense and compelling. He was impeccably dressed in a knee-length black frock coat, black tie, vest, and trousers, and a crisp white shirt, which were perfectly tailored to fit his fine figure, and whose materials and workmanship immediately announced his wealthy status. His complexion glowed with good health; his entire face and form, in fact, so embodied the very model of masculine beauty and charm that for a breathless moment, I wondered if I had conjured him from my imagination.
As our gazes met, an expression crossed his face which I had never before seen directed at me—not even by Jonathan. It was an expression of such immediate, profound, and undisguised interest, it caused my heart to flutter.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, when at last I found my voice. “I am very much obliged to you.”