The Dark Missions of Edgar Brim

by Shane Peacock

  Edgar and Lucy are close to each other as they approach the painting, but she sees it first. He shuffles nearer her as she looks at it, her face slightly reddening. He can feel the heat of her arm next to his. But when he turns and gazes at it too, he is almost instantly inside it: on the bed, a woman over him and smiling down on him, her thigh pressed against his torso. He looks up and sees that the woman isn’t Lucy. Tiger Tilley has him in her grip, alarmingly alluring. He turns away and walks into the gallery, his heart rate accelerated. Jonathan lingers. He makes a joke as he looks at the canvas, but glances back several times when they leave. Tiger stares at it too, for a long while.

  They reach the Lyceum at four o’clock and make their way to the side door. As they near, Tiger, Lucy and Jonathan join arms and walk quickly, teasing Edgar that they are running away together. There is something forced about their attitude, as if they are trying to stave off their fears.

  The building’s shadow looms over them.

  The side door of the Lyceum opens with a bang. Bram Stoker is standing there. He smiles at them.

  “Welcome,” he intones.

  31

  The Devil’s Set

  Stoker shows them the lobby and the ticket office first, and then takes them back to the hallway under the stage. He suggests that the “young ladies” go first, but Tiger demurs, saying she is frightened and wants to be near Jonathan, and Lucy says the same about Edgar. So Stoker takes the lead. Halfway along, deep in the theater at the darkest point in the hall, he stops and turns to them.

  “I have a confession to make.” He pauses. “I am not what I seem.”

  Jonathan, who is in front of his friends, makes himself large in the tight space and puts his hand into his pocket to find his pistol. Lear, who is wearing his greatcoat, has his huge knife concealed inside it. Tiger has stolen two small carving knives from the Langham’s restaurant and given one to Edgar: hers is in her purse, his up a sleeve. They all bear crucifixes on little chains around their necks, hidden under their clothing. Tonight—if they make it that far—the girls will be sure theirs can be seen, displayed on their chests.

  “What are you then, sir?” asks Jonathan.

  “I have powers,” says Stoker. No one responds. His left hand moves toward his coat pocket. “I am not merely the manager.” He pulls something out. Tiger quietly unsnaps her purse and puts her hand inside. “I have the run of the place.” Stoker jingles what is in his hands, and it’s hard to make out in the dimly lit corridor, but when he holds it higher, they can see it is a ring of keys. “Follow me,” he says.

  They ascend the stone stairs again, pass the wing to the stage and move by the staircase that leads up to the Beefsteak Room. Then they descend a few steps and turn down another hallway, this one wider and wood paneled. They pass more doors, going deeper into the basement of the theater.

  “These are the dressing rooms of the lesser lights, but here,” he pauses and mentions an actor who often plays opposite Irving, “is one that might interest you.” He unlocks the door, flips on an electric light and ushers them inside. It is small but cozy, smells of greasepaint and has a desk with a chair and mirror, lit up with lamps. There’s makeup in canisters and a rack of costumes along a wall. Among them is Faust’s clothing.

  “Won’t he mind?” asks Lucy.

  “It is my choice to show you,” says Stoker, “and he will not dare confront me.” There is a hint of anger in his voice, a dictator’s tone they haven’t heard before. But then he smiles. “Shall I leave you alone in here for a while?” he asks and begins to close the door on them, but Lear puts his big arm against it. They slip quickly back into the hall.

  “One more,” says their guide. There is a long gap before they reach the next door. Stoker is about to use his key when he sees a line of light along the crack at the floor. “Ah, the great artist is in.” He knocks. There is silence but the door opens on its own. It hadn’t seemed that anyone had approached. In the entrance is Ellen Terry. Lucy and Tiger gasp.

  “Uncle Bram!” Miss Terry exclaims and smiles at them all, her mouth large and sensual on a flawless face glowing without a stroke of makeup, her gray eyes bright with spirit. Her shining hair is tossed about on her head, not yet attended to but somehow perfect. She is fifty years old and ageless, as beautiful as the day she made her debut. The greatest actress in the world stands before them.

  “Miss Terry, I thought I might acquaint you with some friends, readers of my novel.”

  “Oh! I have begun it, though I don’t know if I can go on!”

  Stoker grins and introduces his guests. The young ladies offer slight curtsies and the men actually lower their heads. Lear is speechless and extends a shaking hand, which the great lady takes gently and squeezes. She gives him a flirty look. Edgar wonders if he should stand near the old man to keep him upright. She is wearing a red dressing gown. It is done up to her chin and they cannot see her neck.

  “Why are you here so early, dear one?” asks Stoker. “This isn’t like you.”

  “I thought I might see him for a few moments, but he is not seeing anyone now. So I am glad to have visitors. Won’t you come in?”

  They survey the room in awe. Her mirror, the pictures of her two children and her costumes seem to sparkle. As the five visitors leave, she gives them each a flower from a vase on her desk.

  In the hallway, they turn in the direction from which they have come. Lear stops. He looks the other way toward a door down the hall, a good fifty feet from them, closed and in shadows, a light coming from under it too. “Can we not …” He pauses.

  “Can you not what?”

  “See his room?” asks Edgar.

  Stoker glares at him. “The master’s? Have you taken leave of your senses, boy?”

  “No, sir, but we saw Miss Terry’s and—”

  “He is NOT Miss Terry! I shall show you the stage and then we must end the tour.”

  Stoker is in much better spirits when they emerge onto the stage. He takes them out through the wing near the Beefsteak Room. The theater is still dark, just a few footlights are lit, but the dim lighting creates a spooky effect. They are in the realm of the devil.

  Stoker is going on about a scenery detail, his chest puffed out and proud, but Edgar can barely listen. He cannot believe where he is. The seats rise before him like a sea of possibilities—he can see thousands of mesmerized eyes, hear the rapturous applause. He notices marks on the boards. One near the edge of the stage says Mephistopheles. It’s Irving’s mark! He goes to it and stands on it. For an instant, he is Sir Henry Irving! He becomes Satan. But he shakes himself out of it. He knows he needs to be respectful and listen to Stoker, and turns back to the others. The stage tour is in full swing. Stoker writes some of Irving’s public speeches and has a way with words: he loves to hear himself speak.

  “There are, of course, many special effects in our production of Faust: from the opening in heaven to the devil materializing from smoke when he comes to tempt Dr. Faust, and so on. But the ultimate moment occurs on the Brocken, the fearful German mountain top where, on Walpurgis Night, the witches and other evil ones meet and dance in a horrific display.” Stoker smiles at the thought. “In order to create such scenes, we move parts of the set on and off the stage, but some things are permanent. All of the Walpurgis Night set remains in place throughout, here at the back.”

  Stoker takes them toward the rear of the stage. Upon it they see mounds of what appears to be black earth. Edgar reaches down and touches it.

  “Yes, it is real,” says their host. “Sir Henry demands nothing less. And how, you might ask, did we get so much soil on stage? It is ingenious yet simple. Directly below, at the most removed part of the stage, is a deep basement with an earthen floor. We opened up the stage and, using a pulley system, raised tons of soil. When we are done, we will remove the boards again and let it fall back from whence it came!”

  The huge mounds have a scattering of gravestones, a guillotine and five-foot wooden stakes for grave
markers, sharpened to deadly points. Edgar remembers the Walpurgis Night scene. It was during that presentation of flying beasts and evil that he imagined he saw the beautiful young woman thrown upon the boards at the feet of Irving and the tall man.

  “There isn’t a graveyard or a guillotine in Goethe’s original play, but we added them for effect.”

  Edgar recalls, with a shiver, the gravediggers excavating one of the plots as Mephistopheles spun tales of depravity and temptation for Faust.

  “Do they fill it back in after every show?”

  “That was what you heard last night when we walked down the hallway—stagehands shoveling soil into a grave—though it may have been our ghost, as well.” Stoker grins.

  Edgar approaches the guillotine. He remembers the animals’ heads being put into it during the scene, the sound of the blade falling, the blood oozing, the thunder cracking through the building, the orchestra playing frightening music. The animals seemed real and so did the blood. They had cried out as they were being taken to their deaths.

  “Is this real too?” asks Edgar, reaching out for the killing machine.

  “DON’T!” cries Stoker.

  But it is too late. Edgar puts his hand on the guillotine, right where a victim’s head would go, and the blade is unleashed. The heavy steel shoots down in a flash.

  “No!” cries Lucy.

  At the last second, Edgar gets his fingers out of the way, leaving the flower Miss Terry gave him behind. The blade slices through it, sending its red petals spraying across the soil like drops of blood on black.

  They all stand still.

  “The …” says Stoker finally, “the mechanism is tripped by placing something in the head hole. Sir Henry insisted it be real. All the stagehands have been warned.”

  Half an hour later, Bram Stoker walks alone down the hallway toward the door at the far end. He can hear Irving talking to himself again, imitating the old man with the eastern European accent. Stoker hears just snippets. “Tonight is the night,” he thinks he hears the old man say. “Yes,” replies Irving in his own voice, “tonight.”

  Stoker raps on the door. There is a long silence and then it opens. Looking gaunt and strange in the full makeup of Mephistopheles, a ghoulish green tinge on his face, his lips blood red and eyebrows thick and as black as brimstone, Irving stands before him. That face, put into the red hood of the character, presents an unnerving appearance each night. He wears red tights and shoes, red from head to foot, a new color for the devil on stage.

  “Yes, Stoker, what do you want? You know I do not like to be disturbed this close to a performance.”

  “Might I come in?”

  “For seconds.”

  The room is dark, only the mirror lit. Irving likes it this way. It feels evil to him and he is summoning that feeling tonight.

  Stoker eyes the painting of the Impaler again.

  “What did you want?” asks Irving.

  “It’s about my novel.”

  “Did we not speak of it before?”

  “I would like to turn it into a play.”

  Irving grins. “An admirable idea, I am sure, though transforming your sort of work into a production that makes the money we demand would not be easy, you know.”

  “I think this one would suffice.”

  “Oh, really?” He smiles indulgently again.

  “It is much different. And I would, of course, like you to play the lead role, sir.”

  “Yes, I would have guessed that, dear Stoker. And what is the role?”

  “Count Dracula.”

  “A count? I see. Well, that in itself has possibilities. What sort of man is this chap?”

  “He is not a man, sir.”

  “Not a man? Then what, pray tell, is he?”

  “He is a vampire.”

  Irving’s green-tinged face seems to turn white.

  “Nonsense!” he says. “Leave me. I must prepare!”

  32

  Walpurgis Night

  They return to the theater early and are in the stalls in front row seats, armed and excited, long before the orchestra even begins. Lucy and Tiger, though wearing the same gowns as the previous night, seem even more beautiful to Edgar. Perhaps it is the thrill of being so close to the stage or of what might transpire afterward—when they plan to sneak back into the theater and explore its hidden chambers—that makes their complexions glow and their eyes shimmer. They both wear silk lilac gloves that go up past their elbows, their polished crosses displayed on their chests. They seem especially enamored with their escorts tonight too. Edgar has Lucy on his arm, of course, and Jonathan guides a reluctant Tiger. Handsome in black again, Edgar has tried to calm his unruly hair, but it sweeps about on his head, flaming red above his blue eyes and dark complexion.

  He stands until the last minute, gazing around, the seats behind him filled with excited people. The music swells from the pit near them and he feels as though he is already being transported into the world of the great play. But he knows that when Irving appears, electric and nearly within touching distance, the effect will be even greater.

  The lights begin to go down and he turns and gives one final, sweeping glance toward the anxious crowd. A tall man with an aquiline nose and a black bowler hat pulled down almost around the ears enters the auditorium at the last moment. Edgar squints in the dimming illumination, thinking the man looks familiar. For an instant, he feels he is under the gray skies on the moors again, on the front lawn near the stable. But darkness in the theater swallows the man and Edgar turns back to the stage.

  When Irving enters, Edgar feels as though he is pinned to his seat. The great man is like a specter up close: the pale face, red lips, the mesmerizing black eyes, all framed by scarlet. He comes to the edge of the stage and peers down on the first row and his gaze lights on Edgar. There are no irises in his eyes! They are all black pupils! Irving stares right into Edgar Brim and the boy feels as though the great man touches his soul, as if a clammy cold hand has gripped his heart.

  Edgar soon drifts completely into Irving’s world. He senses that this artist is talking directly to him again, telling him to listen to the sound of his voice. The Walpurgis Night scene on the Brocken nears. As it opens, a movement off to Edgar’s right and behind him catches his attention. The tall man he had seen entering the auditorium late is rising from his seat. He moves to the aisle and begins approaching the stage! Edgar can’t believe it. He glances around and sees that no one else has noticed. They are fixated on the spectacle in front of them.

  The tall man stops before he reaches the stage and turns down Edgar’s row, stepping over spectators with his long legs, nearing them! Edgar realizes that he is not looking directly at the man, nor had he turned his head to see the audience. He is observing everything peripherally. In fact, he cannot move. He is entranced! Paralyzed! He can only move his eyes. He looks up and sees the hag on the stage beside Irving. The great man is talking but the hideous old woman doesn’t care. She leers at Edgar Brim. She is coming for him.

  The tall man stands directly over him for a moment, long legs on either side of him, huge thin hands on his shoulders, pressing down on him. The odor of something burnt and metallic, like blood, fills Edgar’s nostrils. It almost makes him retch. The man has taken his hat off and Edgar sees him clearly. But the gaunt face is staring past him. It glares down at the girls as if it wants to possess them, a terrifying, rapacious expression.

  Then it seizes Lucy! … And then Jonathan!

  They rise with him, enthralled. Edgar tries to move. But the hag intervenes. She has leapt down from the stage, clambered into the crowd and is climbing on top of him. His arms and legs are now useless weights. The tall man has one of each of his friends’ hands in his and is elegantly guiding them past the other rigid spectators in the row and out into the aisle. As Edgar sits there horrified and straining to see past the dirty, clotted hair of the hag, the man sets Lucy and Jonathan on the stage, placing them so they sit facing out. He leaps onto the
boards and lands behind them. He lifts them, one in each arm, as easily as if they were lambs, and carries them across the stage!

  “NO!” Edgar shouts inside his mind. No sound comes out. Fear engulfs him. The hag is going to act now. She leans down, her fanged teeth bared, and begins to bite his neck.

  The tall man drops Edgar’s friends at Irving’s feet—as he did with the beautiful young lady last night. Brim wonders if she is still alive.

  Irving continues to emote, spinning his evil lines in the Walpurgis Night scene, but he is slowing down, his words beginning to slur. The tall man regards the audience and bends down and takes Lucy in his arms, his face close to hers. He opens her dress and slides it down, baring her to just below the collarbone. Edgar squirms inside his rigid body. The man undoes her copper hair and lets it fall over her shoulders. She lies there below, gazing up at him. Edgar screams. But there is still no sound. The big man lays Lucy on the stage and moves to Jonathan, unbuttoning his shirt and laying him out at Irving’s feet. The man turns to Edgar and opens his mouth. Edgar doesn’t know what terrifies him most: that he will watch the vampire—THE vampire, not a fantasy—defile Lucy and Jon before his eyes, or that it will then return for Tiger, Lear and him.

  The demon keeps its attention on Edgar Brim as it bends over Lucy. She waits for him, ecstasy in her vacant eyes. Jonathan will soon be next, strong and powerful yet meekly yielding at his conqueror’s feet.

  Do not be afraid.

  Edgar turns to the hag and stares into its eyes. “No,” he says to it. He understands what is happening. The demon on the stage is somehow working with the great actor to mesmerize the audience. The two of them are conspirators in evil. The creature likely does this any night it pleases. There, before it, every evening Irving is at work, is a vast banquet of blood in the audience. It can have its pick! And they have no idea! It can drain whomever it wants. They soon die in their homes, just as his father did, an anonymous victim in the world’s greatest metropolis. But why had it taken Allen Brim? Edgar thinks again of what Lear said—Lear sitting there unaware and transfixed—about making the mistake of telling his father that he suspected some demons were real, about being close to him, about his belief that the creature was somewhere in or near the college, listening, ever ready to remove anyone who might be a threat. It had let his father go … but then it had seen him years later in this very theater, and in recognition and hunger, had descended!