Powers of Darkness

by Hans De Roos

  Below me was a mass of people, men and women in separate groups; there might have been 150 people altogether.

  Never have I seen faces with such distinct animalistic features. I refer to them as such because they are the kind of traits we find to be normal in other creatures, but we think them repulsive in humans. It was as though I could, to some extent, recognize the faces, but I couldn’t immediately recall where I’d seen them. But after some further thought, I realized I had seen similar features in Count Dracula’s family portraits! When I try to recall the impression their appearances made on me, I remember they seemed more diabolical than beastlike.

  They were all bare to the waist, and it was horrendous to see their yellowish-brown frames, with muscular structures more like that of apes than humans. When in full harmony, the human body is the noblest work of nature, but here, the combination of their primitive look, build and posture created something more beastly than human.228

  It seemed as though some kind of religious ritual were taking place.

  Fjallkonan #44 | 10 November 1900

  I STARTED LOOKING AROUND. ACROSS FROM WHERE I crouched I saw a kind of altar—for lack of a better word—consisting of a large black stone with a pillar of black marble on top. Behind this pillar—which seemed to replace the cross normally standing on church altars—a mural displayed a disgusting, horrible face with coarse and lewd characteristics. Around it, on a black background, fiery flames were painted.

  In front was a large marble staircase, where I saw that six brutes were sitting; they were even more ape-like than the rest. They were perched on their heels and were staring at the wall on the other side. I saw that the hateful characteristics, so evident in the faces of the others, were multiplied in these individuals. Their foreheads were receding, wrinkled, and barely an inch high; straw-like hair grew from their big heads; their necks were like that of a bull and they had very broad shoulders. All six were stark naked, revealing their tan—and very hairy—bodies.

  I shuddered at the sight and immediately understood that it must have been one of these brutes who had overpowered me on the stairs when I was attacked in the dark.

  The same chord I’d heard while coming down the stairs started up again. The whole vault resounded with the same tones of horror. If the trumpets used by the priests of Israel when they marched around Jericho were akin to these, it’s no surprise that the city walls collapsed.229 The rock began to tremble and I felt myself begin to pass out.

  Then I noticed a tall, old man. He had whitish hair and a grey beard, and he wore a red cloak that went all the way down to his feet, though his arms and neck were bare.230

  It was the Count.

  When he rose before the congregation, they all bowed as low as wheat in the field bending in a gushing wind.231

  He went to stand before the altar.

  After various ceremonial procedures, which were of such a nature that they cannot be described, I saw the six men—if one can call them such232—enter the room again two by two, each pair leading a young girl with her hands tied behind her back. The girls were all practically naked, of luscious build, and with most lovely looks. They probably would have appeared exceptionally alluring had they not been disfigured by terror.

  Then came another group of men who looked like the rest. They carried archaic-looking drums that made a rare sound, which can best be described as resembling the rumble of thunder.

  Next, four men came forward who were unlike the others. They carried shiny copper trumpets that were almost as tall as the men themselves. I realized they were the source of the trumpet sounds I’d heard.

  Now the whole congregation approached the altar, whereupon the old man dressed in red—the Count, as far as I could see—stepped forward to read some kind of ceremonial invocation. The trumpet players sounded their instruments again, and in the same moment, one of the gorillas grabbed the fettered girl next to him and threw her lengthwise onto the altar. She struggled, as if fighting death itself.

  A moment later the red-clad Count advanced towards the girl. He bent over her, staring hard into her eyes. I saw her face begin to change; little by little the fear seemed to fade and, after a while, her deathly pale cheeks were flushing normally again. It was as though she’d given up her resistance, her lips parting in a lascivious smile. She closed her eyes halfway, leaned her head back, and opened her arms.233 And then she seemed to swoon.

  The old man gestured to one of the scoundrels234 kneeling by the altar, who promptly jumped onto the girl like a wild beast. I could hardly stop myself from crying out.

  I saw how he bit her throat, seeming to suck her blood. She struggled for a moment, but all was over in a flash. She was dead.

  The trumpets called again while the corpse lay on the altar.

  The crowd went berserk upon seeing the blood flow from the wound. The Count went to the girl’s body, dipped his hands in the blood, and splattered it all over himself.

  I had seen too much and couldn’t stay in my hiding place any longer. With great difficulty, I managed to stand up. My legs could hardly carry me, but with great effort I succeeded in getting up the stairs. When I reached the top of the staircase I lit my lantern again. I managed to open the door—and I closed it behind me with great care. On my way back to my room, I could still hear the grisly sounds from below.

  I felt weak, as if I had been confined to bed for a long time and had just stood up. I threw myself onto my mattress, quivering with fear.

  It isn’t mere fabrication by 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.235

  Perhaps next time it will be my turn to be slaughtered on that stone slab …

  ______________________

  Two days have now passed, but I haven’t had the courage to further investigate whether I can use this secret staircase to escape.

  Everything still follows the same routine as before. The Count sits beside me in the evenings and is the epitome of benevolence itself—both in words and manners. On the table before me lies the latest home directory of London, and in this library one can find all kinds of books explaining the progress of the nineteenth century.

  But down below—underneath this castle—the most gruesome human sacrifices, more horrifying than in any story, seem to be common practice.

  Fjallkonan #45 | 19 November 1900

  25 MAY

  I HAVE BEEN FEELING SICK AT HEART AFTER WHAT I HAVE seen and heard here.

  I don’t believe I’m wrong in saying that the Count is becoming more ominous with every passing day. He is certainly very kind when he speaks, but I can feel the mockery in his words, which are becoming all the more ambiguous, and sometimes when I make the mistake of looking into his eyes his expression terrifies me.

  Since writing to Mr. Hawkins and Wilma of my need to stay here for a few more weeks, I have not heard from them. And every time I complain that not a single letter has arrived, the Count answers something like,

  “Why should I, an old hermit, deal with the outside world? Who would write to me and to whom should I write? Here in the mountains, the land is sparsely populated and the flooding rivers have now broken many bridges, making transportation difficult. You must excuse us, my young friend, if our traffic connections and other facilities—which are sufficient to us—are less advanced than those in the center of the civilized world. I hope, however, that the roads will improve when the snowmelt abates.”

  I noted that this would most likely be his last word on the matter, and because I’d written to Wilma that the mail connections here were far from perfect, I assumed she wouldn’t worry or become restless if she didn’t receive a letter from me.

  But I personally cannot stay calm; God knows that.

  Two days after the Count told me about the communication problems, I found five or six newspapers in his library, both in English and French, including an issue of the Times—and all were much more recent than the ne
wspapers the Count had shown me before. It occurred to me that the post deliveries were not all that infrequent, as my host had told me they were. I’ve also got the impression that he’s very familiar with various political events that have only recently occurred. He said that he’d heard about them from his acquaintances in the neighborhood, but it’s quite peculiar that any of these neighbors would be so well informed when floods and other natural obstacles are inhibiting the mail connections here.

  But there is more.

  A few days ago, I forgot my watch in the library when I left the Count and went to bed. When I noticed it was missing I got up and returned to the library, taking the light with me. My watch was lying on the table under some loose letters that had been placed on top of it. When I moved them aside, I saw two or three letters sealed and addressed by the Count. I read the addresses and was surprised to find that the letters were directed to men known throughout Europe for their involvement in political, social and cultural affairs.

  I itched to open one of these letters, but I didn’t dare do so.

  When I laid them back on the table I saw that there were also letters the Count had opened to read. I was flabbergasted to find that these letters were only three days old!

  There was absolutely no reason to deplore the slow mail connections. Why had the Count not wanted to tell me the truth?

  Now I didn’t hesitate to read the letter lying open next to me. It was in French and was signed by a well-known man.

  Its author expressed his gratitude for a very high remittance, which he’d received from the Count with the honorable letter of 16 May—that is to say, last week—and he wrote that he’d completed the missions that had been entrusted to him with that message. After various elusive paragraphs—in which several people were named by their initials only—the letter reached its conclusion, reading,

  “With tireless dedication, everything is finally set for the great revolution. Our cause acquires new followers every day. Those of mankind who are ‘chosen’ have suffered for far too long under unbearable oppression, bigotry, and the shame of majority rule. We have outgrown these slave morals and will soon reach the point where we can preach the message of freedom.

  The world must bow before the strong ones.”

  This is the very phrase constantly repeated by the Count.

  The text itself, however, didn’t weigh heavily on me; neither did the well-known name it was signed by. What shocked me most was the fact that, as I saw now, the Count had regularly been sending and receiving letters since I’d arrived here!

  I wanted to read more of the letters and even saw the name of a well-known Englishman on one of them, but I had the distinct feeling that I should leave, sensing that she was on her way to me. I ran back to my bedroom and twice locked the door behind me.

  I feel safer this way. – – –

  It was several days later that the following incident occurred—the incident that proved to me I’m in a most life-threatening situation here.

  I sat in the Count’s library and wrote, as I often do. He came in and greeted me, giving me the good news that he could now send a man to Bistritz, and that now I could write home, if I wanted.236

  Although I didn’t believe him, I expressed my joy and got up to fetch paper and pen.

  “Here is everything you need, my friend,” the Count growled. “Time is running out.” He opened a drawer and gave me some paper and a pen. Then, with a an innocent expression on his face, he said,

  “The mail service here is slow and uncertain, and so it would be best if you write three messages with three dates. I will ask the postmaster to ensure that your letters are passed on in time, so that your friends may know when to expect your return.” He could see that I didn’t understand his proposal. “You see,” he said, “you will write in the first letter that you have finished your work here and that you will be coming home in a few days. In the second letter, please write that you will leave the next day. And in the third letter—well, let’s see—yes, write in it that you are on your way to Bistritz.”237

  My jaw dropped and I stared at him, but he returned my look with such an evil glare that I didn’t dare utter another word.

  It’s no use to try and protest against his will, and I’m afraid he suspects that I know too much—and thus will never let me out of here alive.

  I gasped a few words, indicating that I would do as he told me, and asked what dates I should put on the letters.

  The first letter should be dated 12 June; the second 19 June; and the third 22 June.238

  It felt as though I’d been sentenced to death but I wrote as instructed nevertheless.

  Fjallkonan #46 | 23 November 1900

  29 MAY

  SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED—QUITE A TRIFLE, BUT perhaps it could be helpful.239 The overwhelming silence, which has loomed over this place since I arrived, was disrupted yesterday. When I came into the dining room, I saw a group of Tatars in the courtyard.

  These nomadic people are numerous in Hungary and Transylvania (Siebenburgen), with a population of many thousands. To some extent they live outside the country’s laws, clinging more tightly to their old customs and habits here than elsewhere in Europe. Still, sometimes they elect some mighty nobleman as their protector, adopt his name, and assume themselves as his liegemen. They are wild, brave and merciless; they have no known religion, but they are very superstitious.240

  It occurred to me that I might be able to send messages with the help of these people. To make contact, I greeted them and spoke to them from the window. They looked at me with great respect, but they understood me no better than I understood them. I had finished the letters. I only wrote a few lines to my employer, asking him to speak to Wilma, as she could tell him what he’d want to know. I had written her a long and clear letter, explaining everything about my situation.241This letter was coded in shorthand,242 so that it’s less likely to be read by others. I told her that the Count is more or less deranged and that one of his whims is to keep me here for as long as he can, but that staying here is unbearable for me. I urged that my employer make an effort to try and get me out of here, with the help of the British ambassador in Vienna and the Consulate in Budapest. I expressed confidence in the English Government, which always goes to great lengths to protect its citizens.

  ______________________

  I have managed to pass the letters to the Tatars. I tossed them out the window, along with two gold coins. One of the Tatars picked them up, bowed deeply and, pressing the letter to his chest, pointed to the west; apparently, he had grasped my intentions. There was nothing more that I could do. I went back into the library and waited for the Count to return. – – –

  31 MAY

  WHILE I WAS WRITING THE LAST WORDS OF MY previous entry, the Count entered. He greeted me with his normal courtesy, which I now find disturbing as I know what lies beneath. Then I took a seat on the other side of the table. I remarked something about the unusual guests in the courtyard and added some meaningless comment about what remarkable people the Tatars were.

  “They are good people. I wish there were more of them—then a lot would be different. For centuries, they have faithfully243 preserved many treasures of the occult sciences that otherwise would have been forgotten.244 When the time has come, their loyalty will not go unrewarded.”245

  I didn’t know how to respond to this, for never has the conduct of the “twilight people” been considered exemplary in Western Europe; their doctrines and beliefs are frowned upon as the most wretched246 sort of superstition, completely worthless. But the Count saved me the worry and continued,

  “The chief of the Tatars gave me these letters, which, of course, I felt obliged to accept, although they are not addressed to me, and I do not know whom they are from. What is this?” he said, tearing open one of the letters. “Is this from you, dear Harker, and addressed to our good friend Peter Hawkins? But this other letter,” he ripped that one open as well, but upon seeing the strange writing—whi
ch he could not read—his face turned black as soot and he looked at me furiously. “It is a dishonest, anonymous letter that mocks trust and hospitality, but as it is unsigned, it is of no relevance to either of us.”

  He set the letter on fire with a candle and threw it into the oven.

  “Of course, I will take care of the letter to Hawkins, as I see that you have signed it. All letters from you, dear friend, are sacred to me, and you should know that they are in safe hands. I sincerely apologize for opening it. Perhaps it is best if you write the address again.” He handed me an envelope and bowed politely.

  I had no other choice but to address the letter again and hand it back to him. He walked away with it. A few moments later, when I was about to go to my room, I found that the door of the dining room was locked from the outside. I was unnerved by this and returned to the desk, trying to calm myself as best I could. I wanted to continue my writing but couldn’t. I started to walk around, but I wasn’t calm enough for this, either. Finally, I threw myself down on the couch, and I must have fallen asleep there because I woke up when the Count came in again, seemingly in the best of moods. When he noticed I had been sleeping, he said gently, “Oh, dear friend, you are tired; you have to go to bed. The blanket is one’s best friend. Unfortunately, I will not have the pleasure of your company this evening as I have a lot to do. Good night and sleep well.”

  I wished him a good night in return and saw the mockery in his face. Then I trudged to my bedroom and fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. Despair can find itself some rest.247

  3 JUNE

  I HAVE NOW DETECTED NEW TRICKERY248 THAT PREDICTS even worse things for me. Today when I went through my suitcase looking for my writing utensils—in case I should get the chance to dispatch a letter—I noticed that all the paper was gone: Everything I had written (save for this one book, which I usually carry on me)—my passport, my letters of recommendation, all my notes for this trip, such as train schedules, hotels, etc.—was taken. It will be even more difficult for me to get back now. Curiously, my money and valuables were untouched, and everything else was exactly as it ought to be.249