The Dracula Dossier

by James Reese

  “Let us resume the ritual.”

  And this we did! I was stunned. I’d thought this strange session would surely be brought to a close now, that soon I’d walk from the Temple with the Golden Dawn in my past and Constance Wilde very much in my debt. But now, more than ever, I wondered if the American weren’t a mesmerist of sorts; for he, a mere neophyte, had commanded the Temple Chiefs to resume the ritual—and they had obeyed him! Extraordinary, this. What hold might he have then over Henry Irving? Over Hall Caine?…Over me? For, evincing neither will nor wit, I found myself re-taking my own role!

  I had suddenly gone gelid: I was all gooseflesh and cold sweat. The Temple itself was unaccountably cold, and now the silks overhead shivered on a sourceless breeze—no mere draught, this. Silhouetted atop the silks were slithering snake-shapes which I could not blink away, try though I did. It seemed I heard, too, the rasp of their scales upon the silks. I reasoned, reasoned, that this too must be shadow-work, that still my senses were confounded…. Alas, what cannot we convince ourselves of? But is it not true that by disbelieving in Satan we confer unto him his very strength? And if ever we had the least faith in God, how then do we turn from His opposite when proof, proof of the Dark Prince is present, as surely it was on Friday the 1st?

  Must stop this. Must simply testify here. Record, record all that came to pass.

  The Chiefs re-took the dais. The Hierophant sat altar-side, and with what strength had returned to him shushed the adepts, some few of whom seemed on the verge of question or complaint. The resumption of the ritual fell to Flo. Farr as Kerykissa, and she progressed with a wavering voice in which I heard the nerves of a first-night actress.

  The Hierophant had ordained that a second Purifying Ritual be read, and this the Kerykissa did. Just whose influence led to the selection of the Invisibility Ritual, I do not know; but so it came to pass, most fatefully, I fear.

  The adepts rearranged themselves slightly, but on balance it seemed to me the Temple was as it had been for the Bornless Ritual, the Stolistes and Dadouche circumambulating thrice to purify the site, &c. And when Constance with her censer passed the altar before which I knelt, she looked at me. In her eyes were wonderment and fear, and just when it seemed she might speak, the Hierophant hurried her back to her southerly place, beside the False Door. Having relegated the Kerykissa to her previous position as well—and rudely so: with a wave of his hand—the Hierophant then commenced the reading, or should I say recitation; for I could see that his downcast eyes did not move over the open book in his lap, and indeed they sometimes back-rolled as before. I had the impression, too, that he knew not what he said: here were utterances only, as from one whose consciousness has been altered. More, I could not reconcile the Hierophant’s stricken self—verily, it seemed he might slip from his chair at any moment—with that voice, so strong, so sure, that fell first upon us neophytes before filling the Temple proper.

  As for Tumblety, there he knelt, still so oddly redolent of violets. He, too, seemed over-strong for what he’d suffered, showing symptoms of neither stroke nor seizure, save for a flinching of his limbs that came coincident with certain words of the ritual. Indeed, it seemed to be Tumblety who knew the ritual as it was read; for, from the corner of my eye, I saw the movement of his hood where it hung before his mouth and by its billowing knew he spoke the text in time with the Hierophant. Oh, but then whose voice was it I heard, heard as though brambles were being drawn over all my body by an unseen hand.

  “I adjure Thee by Thoth, Lord of Wisdom and Magic who is thy Lord and God. I adjure Thee by all the symbols and words of power; by the light of my Godhead in thy midst. I adjure Thee by Harpocrates, Lord of Silence and of Strength, the God of this mine Operation, that thou leave Thine abodes beneath the sands to concentrate about me, invisible, intangible, as a shroud of darkness, a formula of defence, that I may become invisible, so that seeing men see me not, nor understand the thing they behold.

  “Lady of Darkness, who dwellest in the Night to which no man can approach, wherein is Mystery and Depth unthinkable and awful silence, I beseech Thee to clothe me about with thine ineffable mystery. I implore Thee to formulate about me a shroud of concealment. Aid me with your power, and place a veil between me and all things belonging to the outer and material world. Clothe me with a veil woven from silence and darkness, the same that surrounds the abodes of eternal rest.”

  I knew from looking at the Temple Chiefs that the Hierophant was neither reading nor performing the rite as prescribed. He made no motions at all, but sat hunched in his chair seeming half the man he’d earlier been. Yeats’s pen was yet still, and now I saw him cast an eye towards the Temple’s roof: Could he, too, see the snake-shapes writhing there, hear the rasp of their scales? Insects, too, there were now, hand-sized and scrabbling atop the snakes. I saw others of the adepts tilt their hoods upwards to watch, to worry that the silks would split and down onto us would rain the snakes and…scorpions. Yes, here were scorpions in the very heart of London! And I saw one, or thought I saw one, or would have sworn I saw one—its body white, its legs pale unto opalescence, its tail turgid and set to strike—disappear fast up the pant leg of the kneeling Tumblety; who, a moment later, stiffened before falling still, ecstatically so, such that I’d no doubt he’d been bitten and had pleasured in the bite.

  No-one else had seemed to remark this, but off to the side I saw Constance glancing from the Temple’s top to its False Door. Meanwhile, that incorporeal voice came ever stronger, though the priest and neophyte from whom, or through whom, it seemed to come were weakening, such that I readied to catch either if he fell, or leastways remove myself to safety before there came another tangle of limbs and senses. Meanwhile, I could do naught but listen as the voice now commanded:-

  “Behold! He is in me and I in Him. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and last, and my life is a circle unto Infinity. I change, but death does not come nigh me. I rise now from the firmament of sands, my light that of Ra, my powers rendering impotent those of Osiris and Isis, of Horus the hawk.” The voice began now to ululate, to vibrate, at once to use and to overwhelm the men’s bodies through which it came, such that they, the Hierophant and Tumblety, shook, visibly shook, and choked even as they spoke what now I know to be the secondary names of Set:-

  “For I am Apophis, I am Typhon, returned to the House of Maat to settle its scales.”

  How to describe that voice as it uttered the Setian names? The ululating—bizarre though it may be—is a sound of human dimensions; but the vibration accompanying the names could be felt, bodily. It moved the white silk of my sleeves. It stirred, too, the tent overhead, where the snake-shapes had taken on weight sufficient to sag the silks. And though I am a big man, little prone to fear, it was fear that stilled me then, and fear that caused my eyes to tear as that supernal voice spoke on:

  “Hear me, Lords of the Paths in the Portal of this, the Vault of the Adepti. Give unto me the blue-black egg of Harpocrates as a shroud of concealment that I may attain unto Knowledge and power for the accomplishment of the Great Work and the execution of my will of Genius. Let rise He who hath been unjustly banished to the Realm of Sands. Rise Aphophis! Rise Typhon! Rise Set, who will lay a host of hearts upon the scales of Anubis to show how false is the Feather of Maat! How false Horus the heir! How false Osiris and Isis, the Whore of the High World!”

  Others of the adepts had begun to cry. Hoods were turning this way and that. Naught but our common concern anchored me to sanity: Were we not, all of us, seeing the Unseen?

  The Imperator descended the dais and moved towards the Hierophant, who stayed him with one raised hand whilst with the other he took from off the altar an ancient sistrum—no replica, this—and rattled it, rattled it till it fell to pieces. He then applied both hands to scrawling on the air Spirit Pentagrams, both active and passive. At this the adepts cried out, such that all three Temple Chiefs called on the Hierophant to still his evil-summoning hands.58 This he would not do, and so they turne
d from warning words to deeds. From the fracas that ensued, they all withdrew when the following happened concomitantly:

  I cried out; for I’d turned to Tumblety to see issuing from beneath his hood a thick, treacly liquid. It came copiously now, darkening his neck and collar. I thought bile had risen with his vomit to both blacken and thin it; but how could he heave up either effluent, still as he was? I might even have reached out to Tumblety then, save for:

  Constance had cried out when I had; for the red-painted canvas of the False Door had split, loosing into the Temple a stench so sulphurous that others of the adepts retched. All the while the weighted silks above us writhed. So imminent did their splitting seem that Constance and others covered their heads. It was the Praemonstratur who called for order, order and obeisance; but still the ritual devolved to Chaos, to Pan-demonium proper. The adepts had either to flee the Temple or to fall, so horrid was the stench. My staying put may be attributed to my confused senses: variously I saw the smell in shades of red and heard the sight of the rent canvas as clashing cymbals. And so whilst the rest of the adepts fled the Temple, passing fast through the Pronaos to the street beyond and away, I stayed to witness the worst of it.

  The Hierophant having fallen still, the Temple Chiefs—no-one remained save us five, and Tumblety—turned their attention to the American, who held his kneeling pose as if he were statuary. A steady thrumming could be heard coming from him. Had the voice of Set distilled to this? Still there issued from him that hellish effluent which now I knew to be the source of the violet stench, married to the dissipating sulphur come through the False Door. The silks overhead were blessedly still, unshadowed. Neither was the False Door animate, as earlier it had seemed. And so yes, to the American we all five turned, though somehow it fell to me to reach out and rip from off his head his hood and so disclose…

  Oh, it was the very face of Hell, risen Hell!

  His hair, all of it, whiskers as well, had reddened, appreciably so. His pate was slick with sweat. The skin over his cheekbones was stretched drum-tight. His eyes had back-rolled. And his jaw hung down, making of his mouth a horrid O open for the egress of the effluent and a distended tongue atop which…Oh, where are the words suited to such strangeness as this?

  Atop Tumblety’s tongue as well as his moustaches, his chin, his throat were—light-bright amidst the black spew—seven small scorpions: the seven of legend, given by Sequet to Isis to protect a young Horus from Set. But it was he who controlled them now, he who spoke their names through Tumblety; for the American, immobile but for his fluttering eyelids, incanted, again and again:-

  “Tefen, Befen, Mestet, Mestetef, Petet, Thetet, Matet…”

  It seemed the others heard the names as nonsense, if they heard them at all. Billiam, it was, who bent to touch Tumblety on the shoulder, as one would to rouse a sleeper. At this, Tumblety’s black pupils rolled fast into place and the skin of his left cheek split. Blackness seeped. The stench was strong. And to the substance the scorpions scurried, as if to feed. And there knelt Francis Tumblety, stony still, unrecognisable save for his eye-fire, his white skin—slick with blackness, bright from seven white scorpions—and the heightened red of his hair.59

  Yeats had fallen back from Tumblety, but now the Imperator made as if to wipe the stricken man’s face. “Careful!” said I. “They sting.”

  My hood was now off, and with it had gone all pretence to secrecy; for the Imperator addressed me by name. “Whatever do you mean by ‘sting,’ Mr. Stoker? This man has sickened and wants only a good washing-up. Isn’t that so, poor chap?” Whereupon he patted Tumblety on the shoulder, and he, Tumblety, turned to me. Would that I’d been able to turn away!

  Instead I saw the seven scorpions disappear into Tumblety’s now-smiling mouth and the split of his cheek. I could hear their names being called: echoes, these seemed. Could the others hear nothing at all? Was I alone now in seeing the scorpions, in hearing a demon draw them away so? This I made to ask:

  “Can you not see—”

  It was Tumblety who interrupted me, saying in his own silken tones, “Sto-ker.” He smiled, he smirked as he said again the two syllables of my name: “Sto-ker”; and then he shushed me as one would a child.

  “See, man,” said the Imperator, having heard something else entirely, “he wants but a hand…. Surely you’ll offer one, Mr. Stoker?”

  I had no need, for a standing Tumblety clamped his hand to my arm. And I listened with incredulity as the Temple Chiefs offered him their apologies—apologies! Perhaps they’d proceeded too fast with too intricate a ritual…and wasn’t the Temple over-hot to-day…and oughtn’t the Order to disband for the day, &c.? Hadn’t they seen what I had? Where was Constance? Where were the other adepts? Surely they would bear witness to all I’d seen. But no, they will not. Constance has taken sick to bed at Tite Street. Billiam over-boils with bull-shite, and I get no answer to the question: What did you see Friday last? Florence Farr denies she was present. Peck is returned to Edinburgh, whence I await his response to my two telegrams. It seems I alone amongst the adepts have not dived headfirst into the River of Lethe!60 Extraordinary, this.

  And I’d question myself, my sanity, if I did not fear the answer so. Instead I shall hold to the facts, strange though they be, and gather more as I may: which is to say C-A-I-N-E. I shall go to Caine. From him I will wring word of Tumblety. I will have the man’s history from Caine at all costs; for I shan’t get it from Tumblety himself. Of that much I soon became certain.

  I had to quit the Temple, and quickly; but I saw I’d not be let to do so without Tumblety, for it was evident he’d earlier spoken of me to the Chiefs and doubtless used my name to lie his way into the Order, such that now the sick American was seen as my responsibility. So be it. I would lead him from the Temple if it meant my own escape. And once out on the street, I would accost him. Then I’d have my answers, damn the man!

  The Pronaos was empty of the adepts. They had all gone their separate ways, never, it seems, to speak of what they may have seen. The Chiefs, seeming somewhat dazed, donned their street dress and wordlessly took their leave. I saw a change in their aspect: forgetfulness yes, but however had it been conferred? Is there precedent amongst those present at…at a possession, for mustn’t I deem it such, all that I witnessed within the Temple?

  Questions. Too many questions. Must first procure answers from Caine.

  And question the first shall be: What of the American now? For there has been no word of him for a week, and though I do not worry, I wonder. Oh, yes, I wonder; for:

  We walked from the Temple in company, Tumblety and I. Neither of us spoke. We’d not taken five steps down the street—with Tumblety stumbling, seeming most unsteady—before I wheeled on the man. Or rather, made to; for something about him stilled me, and no questions, no accusations came. It seemed I had lost the power of speech. I simply stared at him—how long I cannot say—and just when I saw, or rather understood, that Tumblety was not breathing, that he stood before me corpse-still yet somehow animate, a creature akin to the dead un-dead of lore…alas, just then I heard a scream.

  Turning, I saw by the late daylight that a hansom had tipped in the street. The scream had come—indeed, continued to come—from a female pedestrian fearful of the fallen, still-harnessed horse struggling mightily to extricate itself from beneath the weight of the cab. Its whinnying was horrid. A crowd gathered round passenger and driver, both lying akimbo upon the curb. Whistles could be heard summoning constables of the watch. From this I turned back to find…nothing.

  Tumblety was gone. Disappeared.

  It seemed doubtful he’d have ducked back into the Temple, and as I did not see him down the length of street in either direction, I could only conclude that he had, yes, disappeared. However had he done so? I’d not been turned away from him so long, or had I? And just as I cursed the American aloud, I heard again his, “Sto-ker.” Was he nearby still? Oh, but where?…that I may go invisible, so that every spirit created, and every s
oul of man and beast, and everything of sight and sense, and every spell and scourge of God, may see me not nor understand. Was he hidden, then, in the blue-black egg of Harpocrates, Lord of Silence? Absurd, this. I might have laughed at the notion had not my blood begun to run cold.

  I walked away. I walked away whilst in my heart I ran, ran, such was my fear. I have never known its like.

  And when I reached the corner, there came from behind me a sound, a report so shatteringly loud that I at once sought a wall against which to steady myself. Looking back, I saw a constable standing over the fallen, broke-legged horse, his pistol yet smoking, and I fancied—oh, but what is fancy now, in the face of such truths as I’ve seen?—…I fancied I saw the horse’s blood flow from its nose to flood, verily flood, the street. There I stood, believing the blood-wave would come to break upon me. I watched for it, waited for it; till finally I went onto my knees at the curb to confirm its absence from the macadam with both my hands, holding them up to assure myself they were merely dirty and not blood-stained. Only then did I rise and truly run.

  I ran not knowing where I went. I ran till the end of breath. Hours passed, hours for which I cannot fully account; and then finally I found myself on St. Leonard’s Terrace, whence I proceeded home to No. 17. There I threw the useless bolt behind me.

  Sto-ker. I heard it as I ascended the darkened stairs.

  I slept from excess of soporific—no longer do I begrudge Rossetti the comforts of chloral—and, says Florence, would not be woken for eighteen hours, not even when Henry sent a boy round to see where I was. When finally I rose, it was to find my senses righted and my memories far, far too sharp. No dream, this.

  In days since, I have not heard my name spoken so. In time I will. This I know.