“Helen drew back, white lipped in the candlelight, and I fought the urge to take her arm and run up the steps. ‘Helen,’ I began softly, but there was nothing else to say. I picked up the dagger and Helen slipped a hand into some part of her clothing—I never did see where—and drew out the tiny pistol, which she put an arm’s-length away, near the wall. Then we reached under the edge of the gravestone and lifted. The stone slid halfway off, a marvelous construction. We were both shaking visibly, so that the stone all but slipped out of our grasp. When it was off we looked down at the body inside, the heavily closed eyes, the sallow skin, the unnaturally red lips, the shallow, soundless breathing. It was Professor Rossi.”
Chapter 72
“I wish I could say that I did something brave, or useful, or caught Helen in my arms to make sure she wouldn’t faint, but I didn’t. There is almost nothing worse than a much-loved face transformed by death, or physical decay, or horrifying illness. Those faces are monsters of the most frightening kind—the unbearable beloved. ‘Oh, Ross,’ I said, and the tears welled up and ran down my cheeks so suddenly that I couldn’t even feel them coming.
“Helen took a step closer and looked down at him. I saw now that he was wearing the clothes he’d had on the night I’d last talked with him, nearly a month ago; they were torn and dirty, as if he’d been in an accident. His tie was gone. An ooze of blood filled the lines of one side of his neck and made a scarlet estuary on his soiled collar. His mouth was slack and swollen around that faint breath, and apart from the rise and fall of his shirt, he was still. Helen put out her hand. ‘Don’t touch him,’ I said sharply, which only increased my own horror.
“But Helen seemed as much in a trance as he was, and after a second, her lips trembling, she brushed his cheek with her fingers. I don’t know whether it was worse yet that he opened his eyes, but he did. They were still very blue, even in that murky candlelight, but the whites were bloodshot and the lids swollen. Those eyes were horribly alive, too, and puzzled, and they moved here and there as if trying to take in our faces, while his body stayed deathly still. Then his gaze seemed to settle on Helen, bending over him, and the blue of his eyes cleared with tremendous force, opening as if to take her in whole. ‘Oh, my love,’ he said very softly. His lips were cracked and thick, but his voice was the voice I loved, the crisp accent.
“‘No—my mother,’ Helen said as if groping for speech. She put her hand against his cheek. ‘Father, it’s Helen—Elena. I’m your daughter.’
“He lifted one hand then, as if he controlled it only waveringly, and took hers. His hand was bruised and the nails overgrown and yellowing. I wanted to tell him that we’d have him out of there in no time, that we were going home, but I knew already how desperately wounded he was. ‘Ross,’ I said, bending nearer. ‘It’s Paul. I’m here.’
“His eyes turned in bewilderment from me to Helen and back again, and then he closed them with a sigh that went all through his swollen frame. ‘Oh, Paul,’ he said. ‘You came for me. You shouldn’t have done it.’ He looked at Helen again, his eyes clouding over, and seemed to want to say something else. ‘I remember you,’ he murmured, after a moment.
“I fumbled for my inside jacket pocket and took out the ring Helen’s mother had given me. I held it close to his eyes, but not too close, and then he dropped Helen’s hand and touched the face of the ring clumsily. ‘For you,’ he said to Helen. Helen took it and put it on her finger.
“‘My mother,’ she said, her mouth trembling openly now. ‘Do you remember? You met her in Romania.’
“He looked at her with something like his old keenness and smiled, his face crooked. ‘Yes,’ he whispered at last. ‘I loved her. Where did she go?’
“‘She is safe in Hungary,’ Helen said.
“‘You are her daughter?’ There was a kind of wonder in his voice now.
“‘I am your daughter.’
“The tears came slowly up to the surface of his eyes, as if they did not flow with ease anymore, and ran down the lines at their corners. The trails they left glistened in the candlelight. ‘Please take care of her, Paul,’ he said faintly.
“‘I’m going to marry her,’ I told him. I put my hand on his chest. There was a kind of inhuman wheezing inside it, but I made myself hold him there.
“‘That’s—good,’ he said finally. ‘Is her mother alive and well?’
“‘Yes, Father.’ Helen’s face quivered. ‘She is safe in Hungary.’
“‘Yes, you said that.’ He closed his eyes again.
“‘She still loves you, Rossi.’ I stroked his shirtfront with an unsteady hand. ‘She sent you this ring and—a kiss.’
“‘I tried so many times to remember where she was, but something —’
“‘She knows you tried. Rest for a moment.’ His breathing had become alarmingly hoarse.
“Suddenly, his eyes flew open and he struggled to rise. The effort was awful to watch, especially since it produced almost no result. ‘Children, you must leave at once,’ he panted. ‘It is very dangerous for you here. He will come back and kill you.’ His eyes darted from side to side.
“‘Dracula?’ I asked softly.
“His face went wild for a moment at the name. ‘Yes. He is in the library.’
“‘Library?’ I said, looking around in astonishment despite the horror of Rossi’s face before us. ‘What library?’
“‘His library is in there —’ He tried to point to a wall.
“‘Ross,’ I said urgently. ‘Tell us what happened and what we should do.’
“He seemed to struggle with his eyesight for a moment, focusing on me and blinking rapidly. The dried blood on his neck moved with his struggle to breathe. ‘He came for me suddenly, to my office, and took me on a long journey. I was not—conscious for some of it, so I do not know what place this is.’
“‘Bulgaria,’ Helen said, keeping his swollen hand tenderly.
“His eyes flickered again with an old interest, a spark of curiosity. ‘Bulgaria? So that’s why —’ He tried to moisten his lips.
“‘What did he do to you?’
“‘He brought me here to look after his—diabolical library. I have resisted in every way I could think of. It was my fault, Paul. I had started doing some research again, for an article —’ He struggled for breath. ‘I wanted to show him as part of a—greater tradition. Beginning with the Greeks. I—I heard there was a new scholar at the university writing on him, although I couldn’t find out the man’s name.’
“At this, I heard Helen draw her breath in sharply. Rossi’s eyes flickered toward her. ‘It seemed to me that I should finally publish —’ He was wheezing now and he closed his eyes for a moment. Helen, holding his hand, had begun to tremble against me; I kept a tight grip on her waist.
“‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Just rest.’ But Rossi seemed determined to finish.
“‘Not all right,’ he choked, his eyes still closed. ‘He gave you the book. I knew then he would come for me, and he did. I fought him, but he has almost made me—like him —’ He seemed unable to raise his other hand and he turned his neck and head, clumsily, so that we could suddenly see a deep puncture wound in the side of his throat. It was still open, and when he moved it gaped and oozed. Our gaze on it seemed to make him wild again, and he looked beseechingly at me. ‘Paul, is it getting dark outside?’
“A wave of horror and despair went through me, shooting through my hands. ‘Can you feel it, Ross?’
“‘Yes, I know when the dark is coming, and I become—hungry. Please. He will hear you soon. Hurry—leave.’
“‘Tell us how to find him,’ I said desperately. ‘We’ll kill him now.’
“‘Yes, kill him, if you can do it without endangering yourself. Kill him for me,’ he whispered, and for the first time I saw that he could still feel anger. ‘Listen, Paul. There is a book in there. A life of Saint George.’ He began to struggle with his breathing again. ‘Very old, with a Byzantine cover—no one has ever see
n such a book. He has many great books, but this one is —’ He seemed for a moment to faint, and Helen pressed his hand between hers, beginning to weep in spite of herself. When he came to, he whispered, ‘I hid it behind the first cabinet to the left. Take it with you if you can. I have written something—I have put something inside it. Hurry, Paul. He is waking up. I am waking up with him.’
“‘Oh, Jesus.’ I looked around for some kind of help—what, I didn’t know. ‘Ross, please—I can’t let him have you. We’ll kill him and you’ll get well. Where is he?’ But now Helen was calmer and she picked up the dagger and showed it to him.
“He seemed to let out a long breath, and it was mingled with a smile. I saw then how his teeth had lengthened, like a dog’s, and how the corner of his lip was already chewed raw. Tears ran freely from his eyes and trickled down his bruised cheekbones. ‘Paul, my friend —’
“‘Where is he? Where is the library?’ I made the question even more urgent, but Rossi could not speak again.
“Helen made a quick gesture, and I understood, and dug a rock quickly from the edge of the floor. It took me a long moment to loosen it, and in that moment I feared I could hear some movement in the church above us. Helen unbuttoned his shirt and opened it gently, and she set the tip of Turgut’s dagger over his heart.
“He kept his eyes on us for a moment, trustingly, so that they looked blue as a child’s, and then shut them. As soon as they closed I gathered all my strength and brought down onto the hilt of the dagger that ancient stone, a stone set in place by the hands of an anonymous monk or hired peasant, some vanished denizen of the twelfth or thirteenth century. Probably that stone had lain quiet as centuries of monks trod on it, bringing bones to their ossuary, or wine to their cellar. That stone had not moved when the corpse of a foreign Turk-killer was carried secretly over it and hidden in a fresh grave in the floor nearby, or when Wallachian monks celebrated a heretical new mass above it, or when the Ottoman police came searching in vain for the corpse, or when Ottoman horsemen rode into the church with their torches, or when a new church rose overhead, or when the bones of Sveti Petko were brought in their reliquary to sit close to it, or when pilgrims knelt on it to receive the neomartyr’s blessing. It had rested there those many centuries, until I dug it roughly from its place and gave it a new use, and that is all I can write about it.”
Chapter 73
May 1954
I have no one to whom to write this, and no hope that it will ever be found, but it seems to me a crime not to attempt to record my knowledge while I am still able to, and God only knows how long that will be.
I was taken from my university office some days ago—I am not sure how many, but I surmise that this is still the month of May. On that night I said good-bye to my beloved student and friend, who had shown me his copy of the demonic book I had tried for years to forget. I saw him walk away with all the help I could possibly give him. Then I shut my office door and sat for a few moments in great regret and fear. I knew that I was culpable. I had renewed in secret my research into the history of vampires and I fully intended to come around by degrees to an expansion of my knowledge of the legend of Dracula, and perhaps even to solve at last the mystery of the whereabouts of his tomb. I had let time, rationality, and pride lull me into believing there would be no consequences to renewing my research. I admitted my guilt to myself even in that first moment of solitude.
It had cost me a terrible pang to give Paul my research notes and the letters I’d written about my experiences, not because I wanted them for myself any longer—all desire to continue my research had vanished in me the second he had shown me his book. I simply, deeply regretted having to put this gruesome knowledge into his hand, although I was sure that the more he understood the better he would be able to protect himself. I could only hope that if any punishment followed, I would be the sufferer and not Paul, with his youthful optimism, his light step, his untried brilliance. Paul cannot be more than twenty-seven; I have had decades of life and much undeserved happiness. This was my first thought. My next thoughts were practical. Even if I wished to protect myself, I had no way to do so immediately, except my own faith in the rational. I had kept my notes but not any traditional means of warding off evil—no crucifixes or silver bullets, no braids of garlic. I had never resorted to those, even at the height of my research, but now I began to regret that I had advised Paul to use only the resources of his own mind.
These thoughts required the space of a minute or two, and as it turned out, I had only a minute or two at my disposal. Then, with a sudden rush of foul, cold air, an immense presence was upon me, so that I could hardly see, and my entire body seemed to rise out of its chair with fear. I was enveloped, blinded in an instant, and I felt I must be dying, though from what I couldn’t tell. In the midst of it I had the strangest vision of youth and loveliness, a feeling more than a vision, a sense of myself much younger and full of love for something or someone. Perhaps that is the way one dies. If so, when my time comes—and it will come soon, whatever terrible form it takes—I hope this vision will be with me again in the last moment.
After this I remember nothing, but a nothing that lasted for a period I could not and still cannot measure. When I came slowly to myself again, I was amazed to find myself alive. I could not see or hear, in the first seconds. It was like emerging from a brutal surgery, and my awakening was immediately followed by a comprehension that I was in pain, that my whole body was terribly weak and ached profoundly, that there was a burning in my right leg and in my throat and head. The air was cold and dank, and whatever I lay on was cold, so that I felt chilled all over. This sensation was followed by light—a dim light but enough to convince me that I was not blind and that my eyes were open. This light, and the pain, more than anything else, confirmed to me that I was alive. I began to remember what I thought at first must have been the evening before—Paul coming to my office with his shocking discovery. Then I understood with a sudden plunging of my heart that I must be in the custody of evil; that was why my body had been brutalized and why I seemed surrounded by the very smell of evil.
I moved my limbs as cautiously as I could and managed through my great weakness to turn my head, and then to lift it. My sight was blocked by a dim wall not four inches away, but the feeble light I’d already perceived came in from above it. I sighed and heard my own sigh; this made me believe I could still hear, as well, and that I was simply in so silent a place that it had given me the illusion of deafness. I listened harder than ever, and, hearing nothing, I raised myself cautiously to a sitting position. The action sent miserable pain and weakness through all my limbs, and I felt my head throbbing. In the sitting position I regained more of my tactile sense and found I was lying on stone, and the low wall on each side of me helped me prop myself up. There was a terrible buzzing in my head, which seemed to fill the space all around me. It was a dim space, as I’ve said, silent and dwindling to darkness in the corners. I felt around with my hands. I was sitting up in an open sarcophagus.
This discovery sent a wave of nausea through me, but at the same moment I noted that I still wore the garments I’d had on in the office, although my shirt and jacket were torn in one sleeve and my tie was gone. The fact that I had my own clothes, however, gave me some reassurance; this was not death, not mere insanity, and I had not awakened in another era, unless I’d transported my clothes there with me. I felt my clothes and found my wallet in the front pocket of my pants. It was a shock to feel this familiar item under my hands. My watch, I found to my sorrow, was gone from my wrist, and my good pen from my inside jacket pocket.
Then I brought my hand up to my throat and face. My face seemed unchanged, apart from a very tender bruise on the forehead, but in the muscle of my throat I found a wicked puncture, sticky under my fingers. When I moved my head too far or swallowed hard, the wound made a sucking sound, appalling to me beyond all rationality. The punctured area was swollen, too, and throbbed with pain under my touch. I felt I might f
aint again from horror and hopelessness, and then I recalled that I had the strength to sit upright. Perhaps I had not lost as much blood as I’d at first feared, and perhaps that meant I had been bitten only once. I felt like myself, not like a demon; I felt no longing for blood, no wickedness of heart. Then a great misery swept over me. What did it matter whether I felt no bloodthirst yet? Wherever I was, it would surely be only a matter of time before I was fully corrupted. Unless, of course, I could escape.
I moved my head slowly, looking around, trying to make my eyes clear, and then I was able to discern the source of the light. It was a reddish glow far away in the darkness—but how far I could not tell—and between me and that glow loomed dark heavy shapes. I ran my hands down the outside of my house of stone. The sarcophagus seemed to be close to the ground, or to a stone floor, and I felt around until I’d determined that I could climb out into the dimness without falling any great distance. It was a long step out onto the floor, and my legs shook terribly, so that I stumbled to my knees as soon as I’d got out of the sarcophagus. Now I could see a little better, too. I made my way towards the source of soft reddish light with my hands in front of me, in the process bumping into what seemed to be another sarcophagus, which I found empty, and into a piece of wooden furniture. When I collided with the wood I heard something soft fall, but couldn’t see what it was.
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