Powers of Darkness

by Hans De Roos

  “I’m glad to hear that, dear Harker,” he said with great enthusiasm. “Do you think that in a few weeks, let’s say—or a month—I could speak your beautiful language like an Englishman? Don’t you think that Londoners will immediately hear that I am a foreigner? I owe you a lot, my friend, and I will repay the favor, you may count on it.”

  I said that he would learn the language best—or the pronunciation, rather, as he can already build perfect sentences—once he is in London. Once there, he would hear other people speak as well and get to know the various dialects.

  “No, it must be as I say. I do not want to risk drawing attention to myself or being laughed at when I come to London.205 What do you think? I am buried in work and I’m willing to pay for some proper help. There are, however, certain things that cannot be paid for with money, and such is the case with the favor and the pleasure that you have bestowed on me. I hope you will enjoy staying with me here for the time being, and you should be able to rest here after a hard day of work. There are plenty of law books in my library, and among them are many rare publications that you will not easily find in larger collections. There is a treasure trove here for an intelligent lawyer, and I know with certainty that this castle has a good deal to offer you—far more than you suspect … I am sure you will not be bored.”

  I didn’t know what to think. I thought I detected a sarcastic undertone in his words, and throughout our conversation I considered telling him all that I had chanced upon, asking him to speak to me openly—but I dropped the idea, and it was probably for the best. Instead I merely mentioned that my employer might dislike it if I were to stay here much longer, potentially for weeks on end.

  “I have told you that you will be my guest for now. You must inform your employer—and in any case, a few more weeks will not make any difference. We will speak no more of it.”

  He gave me such a dark look as he said this that I realized it would be wisest not to mention another word about my wish to leave. I am to be imprisoned here, willingly or not.206 Yet I still don’t understand why he keeps me here; he pretends that he needs my English lessons, but that is nothing but pretext. He must have another reason that I cannot figure out.

  I have now decided not to stay here, though he wishes to keep me. I will not be granted permission to leave, on neither good nor bad terms, so there’s nothing else I can do but try to escape secretly.

  When I embarked on this journey—like on any other business trip—I expected to complete it within a few days, but now I have become a captive, fearing for my life under the power of an Oriental tyrant.207

  No. I have to get out of here. Staying here will be unbearable. I can already feel that I’ve lost my normal sense of composure. I have always been known to be an impassive person and have aimed not to let others unduly influence me. This is the first time that I’ve felt seriously compelled to bow to someone else’s will.

  If only I had some task at hand, so that I would not feel so restless.

  ________________________

  I am now starting to write an essay for the Law Journal on the legal procedures of Hungary, past and present. The Count was right when he said that his library is an inexhaustible treasure for a lawyer. It could have been of great use, had the circumstances been different. It is always better to know than not, and in such a situation as I am in now, idleness can be very harmful, so I work intensively and immerse myself in the books.

  Fjallkonan #40 | 13 October 1900

  The missing chapter208

  OVER THE LAST FEW DAYS THE COUNT HAS BEEN IN THE best of moods, spending more time at home than usual. He sat with me all evening—like he did on the first night I was here—and tried to entertain me; he may partly have done so to improve his English. He has told me many stories about his family and most of them were so obscene and lewd that they are not to be repeated, neither in speech nor in writing. Certainly we English folk are no angels,209 but nevertheless—thankfully—we consider certain moral principles to be our laws of nature, and we believe that our moral aspirations are supported by decency in speech, written word and behavior. Sinfulness may hide beneath an impeccable disguise. Much like dust and dirt, it can be found anywhere, yet it is crucial to society that such behavior is condemned as vicious and damaging. Surely the community that is ashamed of its filth is truly healthier than that in which people are shameless enough to throw their rubbish on streets and crossroads as if it does not matter. I understand that the Count may consider our ideas of morality to be worthless, and that ethical behavior—as we call it—in his opinion is nothing but worldly wisdom that man has learned from experience. I do not pretend to be very strict with morals myself; still, I cannot condone that the only strings constantly struck are those of uncurbed carnal craving.

  It’s as if the Count believes that the love between a man and a woman—in its basest form—is the only thing that counts in this world.210 Half in jest, I pointed this out to him the other day, and I didn’t fail to mention that I cannot subscribe to such a view.

  “Oh, you are such a great Joseph, I admire you,”211 he said and laughed disturbingly. “I respect your principles—for having them is truly a rare virtue nowadays—but believe me, you too will someday prove the saying ‘C’est l’amour, l’amour, l’amour, qui fait tourner la terre’ to be true (that is, ‘The love of women is what makes the world go round’212). You will understand me! Look at me!”

  He slapped my shoulder, and I felt the blood rush to my head as he looked at me, but I must not have understood him the way he intended, for if I had, I would have been—

  18 MAY213

  I WOULD HAVE BEEN DONE FOR. YES, THAT IS WHAT I CANNOT erase from my mind—even as I sit here to read or write—for my thoughts are constantly wandering. It feels as though some current is carrying me to the brink of destruction and I cannot fight it.

  My dear Wilma, I call upon you, just like a Catholic man calling to the Virgin Mary at the hour of temptation.214 There’s another image that always crops up before my mind’s eye, clouding your appearance so that my spirit cannot see it any longer, and when I try to seek comfort in memories of our happiest times—when we would silently understand one another and look with hope towards the future, with all our plans to live and work together in harmony—another memory surfaces. One that suffocates all else and affects me like a fever, or poison, or drunkenness. And when I open my arms … it is not you – – –

  Whether I am awake or sleeping, she haunts me—this strange creature. She scares me, and yet she attracts my thoughts, harder and harder. I don’t understand how I have changed—how I have become crazed and obsessed.

  I have seen her again, although I have sworn a solemn oath—more than once!—that I would never do so again. But what’s the use of that? Without the least forewarning, she shows up here.

  When I sit here and write in my journal—only about the things I have experienced—she suddenly stands behind me, like the other day, when I put down my pen and left my diary. I hear nothing and don’t notice anything until I feel an electric shock run through my every nerve, urging me to look up, and then – – –

  I will try to describe these personal trials, as that may make it easier to avoid them.

  One example: I sat writing in the library after the Count had bid me good night. Suddenly, while writing those last lines on the previous page, I felt the urge to go up to the top floor—to the tower room next to the portrait gallery. Something drew me there against my will. I fought against it with all my might and continued to write, but it felt as though some voice were whispering in my ear, incessantly, “Why do you not come up? I thought you would visit us. I have so much to talk about with you. You will come. Remember that you are expected.”

  I didn’t go up there—there I will not go again while I’m still in control of myself—but although I have considered myself tougher than most other people,215 I am so weak. I can control my body, but my inner man I cannot.

  Physically I was not the
re, but something in my inner man obeyed her and called her to me. I continued to write, but then I suddenly sensed her presence. The pen dropped from my hand—I looked back and saw that she stood behind the chair, gazing at me with those eyes that are like radiant beams, cutting through bone and marrow. – – –

  Fjallkonan #42 | 27 October 1900

  THERE IS A LOT OF DISCUSSION ABOUT HYPNOSIS.216 I have never tried letting myself be hypnotized, but in my law cases I have seen on more than one occasion a wrongdoing blamed on hypnosis. I have always believed that this so-called hypnotic state is nothing more than a lack of moral endurance or will, and I have never wanted to accept that such an excuse would be honored in legal proceedings. If men of law would acknowledge and use this as an argument, it could lead to a confusion of people’s moral compass and accountability. It would, however, be convenient for all weak men, if they could employ this subterfuge to lay blame on some chap whose evil will they couldn’t have resisted.217 As a result, society would plunge into chaos. Although I had to undergo the painful experience myself, that another person was powerful enough to make my will melt like wax—weakening until it dissolved altogether—I feel and I know that it is entirely my own fault. If my soul were purer, and my desire for the good stronger and tougher in the battle, I wouldn’t so easily give in to something that I cannot identify—which I cannot even understand with common sense.

  She bent over me and I could feel how her eyes sought out my innermost nature, my independence and all my mental strength. I sensed it, although at that moment I couldn’t put it into words. I leaned back in the chair and looked at her. A ray of light revealed the ruby heart on her chest and it seemed to me as though blood ran from it. Was I asleep? At first I only saw the radiance in her eyes, but then I clearly saw that her bosom was bloody, and I remember how horrified I was. What happened next I only recall as if from a dream in which truth and fantasy merge. She sank down on my knee, and I felt her soft body in my arms as she wrapped hers around me so tightly that I could hardly breathe. I can still feel how she pressed her lips to my neck with a long, quivering kiss. It was as if I melted and lost all awareness, as if time and space dissolved. But then I woke up in pain and she whispered to me impetuously, “Take away the cross—the cross, I cannot stand it—take it away.”

  I assumed that she meant the crucifix hanging from the rosary I carried around my neck, but it was as if some internal force within me revolted. By no means can I explain it, for I put no belief in inanimate objects—neither in the cross, nor in anything else—and I am such a devoted Lutheran218 that I cannot ascribe supernatural power to the crucifix, as Roman-Catholics do. I honestly don’t know what stopped me from obeying her. It was as though some voice whispered to me that I should pay no heed to her words. I woke up as if from a slumber, and it felt like some invisible string suddenly snapped. She jumped up from my lap like a spring, glancing at me with a threatening look. She extended her arm over my head, gradually lowering it while she stared at me; at the same time, she inched backward towards the door. I stood still, stunned as if struck by a rock, and so I didn’t notice how she stole out, though I was curious to find out.

  – – – And since then I’ve felt that she is constantly around me. Even though I’m clearly helpless and horror struck219 when I think of her, I cannot rid myself of the strings she has wrapped around me; those invisible threads that have been spun around me ever since I got here, initially filigree and light like spider silk, but then stronger and stronger—so strong that they practically strangle me.

  I have seen her twice since then. Once in the twilight, like the first time I saw her. I stood by the window in the library and looked out, but when I glanced back I saw that she was standing behind me, and before I knew what was happening she had slung her arms around me and pressed a kiss on my throat like before. The second time, she was standing, pale and sylph-like, right under the lamp in the octagonal room, when I opened my door. We looked at each other, but I had enough strength to turn around and slam the door so that it locked between us.

  – – – But whether I’m awake or asleep, she always hovers before my mind’s eye, and if I were to obey that voice that always seems to be talking to me, I would search the whole castle for her.

  There is only one desire in me that is stronger: my wish to get away from here, even if it costs me my life. But how do I get out?

  The gate is always locked and I don’t know any other exit. True, the Count doesn’t monitor me at all times, but I know for sure he’d soon find out if I tried to flee. It seems he’s constantly observing me in his self-satisfied and scorning manner—he hardly cares to cover that up. Sometimes when he speaks to me (always diligent to practice his English) and I’m so lost in thought that I forget to answer him, he pauses and looks at me with an expression that I cannot describe. But it frightens me. I am almost convinced that he knows and understands how I feel, and that he’s enjoying it.

  The things he said to me during the first days of my stay here often cross my mind, when he talked about his—allegedly moonstruck—cousin; I remember how slyly he peered at me with those eyes of his. Now I wonder whether I am caught in a trap. Is she actually a lunatic—or what then?220 No. I have to get away from here … before I go insane myself.

  Fjallkonan #43 | 3 November 1900

  21 MAY

  I NO LONGER DOUBT THAT THIS CASTLE IS HOME TO hideous demons—not human beings with hearts and conscience.

  I shall now explain in a few words what I have discovered.221

  I have repeatedly studied the octagonal room, searching for the exit that I was convinced had to be there, although I had yet to find it.222

  Last night, after the Count had gone to bed—and I assumed he’d be fast asleep—I decided to make one more attempt.

  I opened my bedroom door, lit all the candles, and investigated every inch of the small room.223

  I guessed that the secret passage had to be right across from my bedroom door. In effect, the octagonal room has only four walls large enough for a door, as the diagonal panels at the corners aren’t wide enough for passage. In two of the walls were the doors I already knew about—one leading to my bedroom and the other one to the dining room—and as one of the remaining sides backed an outer castle wall, there was only one side left. After a long search I found a triangular button on the floor. I stepped on it. Immediately, and without a sound, a door wide and high enough for me to walk through opened up in the wall.

  Now I saw how it was possible for the old lady to disappear in an instant every time she left the dining room.

  Cautiously, I shined my light into the doorway and saw a broad corridor, which I assumed during daytime would get light from a window above. At the end of the hallway I saw a stairway leading down.

  I rushed to my room to fetch matchsticks and my revolver, then lit the candle in my train lantern,224 before starting my expedition down the stairs. They descended gradually and it was clear they were used often. I felt vigorous and high-spirited—I had finally found the exit I’d sought for so long. I went down the steps and proceeded as cautiously as possible.

  I startled and stopped dead in my tracks when I heard the echo of some sound I couldn’t identify. This reverberation seemed to come up from deep below the ground. I soon found, however, that it was the sound of trumpets, but then the music slowly faded away. As I stood there stock-still, listening, I thought I could make out a dozen225 horns or trumpets.226

  I was so horrified by these sounds, truly terrified for the first time in my life, that I was about to turn back.

  I managed to brace myself, however, and continued down the stairs.

  I had been circumspect enough to take off the shoes I usually wore and put on slippers instead. I made no more noise than a fly. When I went down another floor, the sound was clearer and I could hear people talking—their voices striking me as primitive and aggressive. I heard many people speaking at once, like when school children are reciting something by heart, a
s in the old days.

  Then I detected a strange smell, and when I lifted my lamp I saw thin streaks of bluish smoke drifting up the staircase.

  I was becoming very curious and no longer thinking of the danger that could be—or most likely was—waiting for me, should I go any further. At any cost, I had to see what was happening down there.

  I headed down another stairway, just as careful as before. It was a spiral staircase cut into rock, and I guessed that I was now below the castle’s ground level. I wondered if these stairs would ever end!

  Finally I saw a gleam of fire down in the deep, while the chords from below grew to a crescendo.

  I extinguished my light straight away and froze on the spot.

  The glow of a fire shone through a low door at the foot of the stairs227 and cast its light on the nethermost steps, the smoke obscuring the end of the stairway like a fog. I went farther down the stairs, pressing myself to the darker side of the wall. Finally I made it to the door and reluctantly peeked through it.

  I relaxed when I saw that the door didn’t lead to the domed space from which the glow came, but instead opened up to a kind of balcony, from which a winding staircase led down towards a hall where the fiery glow and voices originated. I crawled onto the balcony and was able to hide myself behind the lattice.

  Even if I live to be a hundred years old, I will never forget the sight I witnessed there.

  There was a large arched vault down below, with a very low ceiling held up by two stout pillars supporting the roof. It appeared that the walls weren’t made of brickwork but were carved into the rock. They were pitch-black with soot left by the burning torches—the source of the light I had seen—and the waves of smoke billowing up the stairs.