by Cindy Winget
My Dearest Wilhelmina,
Mina scoffed at this, having always hated her given name.
I trust that all is well with you at Whitby. I fear that you are prostrate with worry because of my neglect in writing to you. Know this, it was for a very good reason that I did not write you. For you see, I have been a prisoner inside the Count’s residence!
You know that I traveled to Transylvania in order to help a gentleman sell his house and procure him a new residence in dear old England. Well, this gentleman, known to me only as the Count, has henceforth not allowed me to leave and has intercepted every correspondence I attempted to send.
The first time we met, I must confess, I was a bit fearful of his presence. He kept to the shadows and I couldn’t get a proper glimpse of him. His voice was unsettling, though I couldn’t say why. He neither shouted nor whispered in hoarse tones, but something about it gave me chills. It was like the rustling of leaves in the fall or the scraping of tree branches upon a windowpane in the dead of night. Shrouded in shadows though he was, I perceived that he was exceptionally tall, to exceed that of any man I had previously had an acquaintance with.
But upon conversing with him, I found him to be very pleasant, fascinating, and a most accommodating host. He was a man very amiable in nature, and I took him up on his offer to stay and rest at his place of residence until our business was final. After all, the nearest inn was miles away, through a snowy and treacherous mountain pass, and would take hours to traverse each day in order to conduct our meetings.
I passed many pleasant hours with him in front of a roaring fire in the most massive fireplace I had ever seen (his residence was not merely a large mansion as I had been led to believe by my employer, but was actually a castle, ancient in date and mysterious in origin). I asked him pointedly how he had come to reside in such a place, and he told me that he had inherited the domicile from a rich uncle who had recently passed away, but was eager to take up residence in England. It was either that or remain isolated in a large and drafty house all by himself, being secluded from the world by nearly three hundred acres of wooded Carpathian Mountains. He had been born and raised in England and wished to return to happier times.
Victor shook his head at that before continuing.
I sympathized with the chap and was determined to rid him of his burden as quickly as possible. However, several days passed in idleness as the Count recounted his many exploits and regaled me with tales of Romanian history. He was a masterful storyteller, and he made it sound as though he himself was there in person and was reminiscing. He asked after my own background and family. I spoke to him often of you, my dear Mina. Your beauty and grace. Your loyalty and rich laughter. The day that we met in Hyde Park.
Victor had begun to feel decidedly uncomfortable and wondered if he should skip ahead. A glance at Mina’s reddened cheeks bespoke of her own discomfort but Victor barreled on, grateful to see that Jonathan was done with his sentimental statements.
I grew comfortable in his presence, feeling fortunate to have been entrusted with helping this charming man find a residence in England and looked forward to many future visits with him in my own native land. Although I will admit, I remained uneasy at his persistence in remaining hidden in shadows. During the day, the windows were covered by heavy velvet curtains. The Count claimed that his eyes were too sensitive for strong light. His residence was kept dimly lit, with only the fire for light and warmth or else a few miserable tapers that cast an eerie glow over our dinner plates in the evening, of which I never actually saw him partake. He would merely stir his food around a bit and then profess that he wasn’t hungry. I also realized that there were no mirrors anywhere to be seen at the Count’s residence. When I asked him about it, I was informed that he detested mirrors. How truly odd this man was! However did he manage to remain clean shaven and well-coiffed?
He gave me full access to his large library and solarium, both of which I spent several happy hours in during the course of my visit. Throughout the day the Count was largely gone. Where he went, I knew not, and didn’t feel it my place to ask. I was, however, growing increasingly frustrated that we never spoke of his impending move to London. He made no mention of where he wanted to live or the type of residence he wished to procure. No business of any kind was ever discussed or conducted. I was due back in England before much longer and didn’t wish to be derelict in my duties by pretending to be on holiday, but every time I made mention of it, the Count would only smile and change the subject.
One night, my room felt stifling and musty, so I went to open my bedroom window and let in some air, only to discover that the window remained fast. No amount of tugging or pulling could coerce it to open even a centimeter. Disappointed, I went back to bed.
The following night, I awoke in the middle of the night and found myself unable to sleep. I lay there for hours, but sleep continued to elude me. I determined to go to the library and grab a book to read, which was liable to make my eyes itch with tiredness. To my consternation I discovered that my bedroom door was locked. I wondered if it was always kept locked.
The next night, I made sure to keep the door unlocked, even going so far as to crack it open a bit. When I awoke in the wee hours of the morning, I saw that the door was closed. I got out of bed and turned the handle to find it locked again! The Count had been locking me into my room at night! Ill-at-ease, I reluctantly went back to bed. When I awoke again my door was open a few centimeters, just as I had left it the night before. I tried the latch on my window and it swung open easily.
But that is not the end of the strange things that have occurred here. One night as I sat at my window, glancing outside at the Carpathian Mountains, I wondered if the Count would actually let me leave when the time came. I had been here nearly three weeks and was no closer to finishing my business than when I began. Suddenly, a most curious phenomenon met my gaze. The Count had opened the window to his own bedroom and proceeded to crawl out of it. My first harrowing thought was that the man was committing self-murder. But no, he didn’t fall. He was entirely outside of his room by this time and had proceeded to crawl headfirst down the wall of his estate in a most lizard-like fashion, using every nook and cranny from the worn mortar around the stones to his advantage. I could scarcely believe it. Never in all my years have I witnessed such an event. I knew it was the Count for the moon was full and bright, placing into full relief his tall form. He was exceedingly pale, which made this event an even more grotesque sight.
I waited by the window all night for his return, only dozing off and on. Towards morning, he appeared and scaled the stone wall to his bedroom window. Although he was still too far away to make out his features clearly, I was shaken by the change in his complexion. The paleness that I had seen in the moonlight was gone, replaced by ruddy cheeks and scarlet lips. The contrast from the night before was shocking.
I remained in my room all that day, not trusting myself to stay quiet about what I had seen. I came down only for dinner, being famished from skipping my other two meals. When the Count asked why I had remained cloistered in my room, I told him that I wasn’t feeling well. He tittered his sympathy and hoped I would return to full health soon.
A few days later, I was in my room shaving, having retained a round personal mirror in my toiletry kit. This was a far more difficult task than normal, owing to the small size of the mirror, when I was accustomed to using a much larger one situated above my wash table, but I had things well in hand, when a noise from behind startled me. In my agitated state, I inadvertently cut my face with the straight razor. I spun around in search of some sticking plaster, only to be confronted by the Count. His eyes were locked onto the glistening bead of ruby-red blood which had swelled on my chin and threatened to dribble down my neck. As I watched his face, a sort of demonic fury lit up his dark eyes and he lunged toward me, arm outstretched, reaching for my throat. I took a step backwards, away from him, all the while involuntarily reaching for the rosary beads and cross y
ou had given to me, which I never take off.
I sincerely believe that you have saved my life, dearest Mina, for when he saw them, the Count stopped his pursuit. Instantly, a change befell his visage, the fury passing away so quickly that I could scarcely believe it was there in the first place, and he was once again the calm and benevolent host. He handed me my sticking plaster, inquired after my health, and asked for my forgiveness for scaring me. I was at a loss for words, for when he lunged at me he had come into the sphere of light cast by my candles and for the first time since coming here I was privy to countenance. His face was disfigured with scars and his needle-like eye teeth were long, extending past his lower lip. He had the high forehead of a Neanderthal but the intelligence behind his eyes belied a more modern origin. His eyes held a great deal of knowledge and wisdom, as though he had seen many lifetimes. The hard set of his mouth and subtle squinting of the eyes spoke of an intense cruelty, and I felt paralyzed by their gaze upon me. So startled was I by his appearance that I continued to back away from him. In my haste to get away I bumped into the washstand and knocked over the bowl of water, milky with shaving cream. Dropping the small round mirror in order to right it—luckily the bowl had not cracked—quick as a cobra, the Count snatched the mirror up and threw it out the window, where I heard it shatter on the cobblestones below. He apologized profusely, admitting that he loathed his monstrous form and avoided looking at his reflection at all costs, which was the reason that there was not a mirror to be found in his home. I stammered that it was quite all right, thinking to myself that I understood completely why he did not care to gaze upon his own appearance (please do not think less of me for thinking such an uncharitable thought). He promptly left after that.
No longer did we converse in the same breezy manner as before. Having seen him crawl from his bedroom window like a lizard on nearly a nightly basis, and witnessing his grotesque features, I no longer felt comfortable around the Count. There was something “off” about the man. It went well beyond his appearance. His very demeanor exuded wickedness and a need to control. Once I swear I saw a streak of red liquid—that looked suspiciously like blood—crusted at the corner of his mouth. Although he still abstained from food during our shared meals, I convinced myself that it was a bit of jam or wine.
My time here had come to an end. I needed to leave as soon as I was able in order to make it back to my employer in the time allotted for this trip. When I voiced my desire to leave to the Count, he always managed to talk me out of it. It was raining or snowing and the roads would be treacherous and impassable. Or else he put in a sincere effort and desire into procuring a residence and, being the overachiever that I am, I would remain in order to fulfil my duties. One way or another I found that another day had passed.
I would have simply walked out the door and left, leaving a note for the Count detailing some excuse for my hasty departure; however, I discovered to my dismay that he kept the main doors of his residence locked at all times. There was no escaping this castle without his permission.
I had written to you several times, as well as to other various friends and family members, but as of yet had not received any letters in return. When I asked the Count about it, he assured me that he had posted my letters, but that mail often took many weeks, or even months, to find its way here so far back in the mountains. As reasonable as this seemed, I had a nagging suspicion that none of my letters had made it past his hands. I had been here for two months. Surely some reply should have reached me by now.
The following night solidified my urgent desire to leave this place as one of my fears was all but proven. A bedraggled and worn-looking woman came crawling up to the gate. I could just make out her features in the dim moonlight. Her face was streaked with tears, and even now, she wailed and wept. Mud coated her oft-patched dress. She cried out a name, over and over, and begged the Count to return him to her. I could only guess that the unfortunate woman was looking for her son. The Count appeared in the window of his bedroom, a cold and cruel smile upon his face. He watched the woman for a time, but made no attempt to converse with her. I heard distant howling. Knowing that the Carpathian Mountains were full of wolves, I began to fear for the woman’s safety, though by the sound of it they were still far off. The woman seemed fearful as well and stopped her crying briefly to listen. When the howling did not resume, she began once again to wail and call out for her child. In time, I heard more howling, closer this time. The smile upon the face of the Count grew and he withdrew from the window. To my horror I watched as a pack of large black and silver wolves descended out of the woods and set upon the unfortunate woman. Her wails of grief turned to screams of agony, and I could bear to look no longer. I am horrified to say that a part of me felt that this was a small mercy; knowing, or at least suspecting, what had become of her precious child at the hands of the Count.
Good fortune found me when a band of local gypsies camped out on the front lawn of the Count’s estate. I hastily scrawled a note, asking for their help in getting me out of this place, as well as my most recent letter to you, detailing why I was not yet home and what I suspected about the Count. I am ashamed to admit that the missive was also a goodbye letter in case I should find myself at the mercy of the Count and unable to return home to you.
I opened my window and called out to them, succeeding in hailing some of their attention. A group of three men standing beneath my window glanced up at my call. I dropped the letter, along with the note, at their feet and asked that it be delivered as soon as they were able. I would have explained my predicament farther, but upon my request they walked out of earshot and were gone. I simply had to trust that they would read the note and that a letter would at last make it you.
As I walked down to dinner, my spirits much improved, I could not help but speak more cordially to my host, which seemed to please him. At the end of the meal, at which he once again ate not a bite, he informed me that one of the gypsies had handed him a letter. To my horror, he pulled from his pocket the letter I had penned not an hour earlier. The Count expressed his sorrow that I had not given him this letter directly for the gypsies are illiterate and don’t speak English.
Of course! I should have thought of that!
The Count promised that he would of course see to it that it was mailed properly. I could only assume that the note was also known to him. I told him that I was tired and wished to retire early and made a hasty exit up to my room.
I tried to hail some of the other gypsies through my window, but the former whom I had delivered my missive too, spoke some words to them that I couldn’t hear or understand and henceforth no effort on my part, no agonized entreaty or piteous cry for help, would make them even look at me. They only laughed and shook their heads, paying me no more mind than a troublesome toddler who pleaded for more sweets.
It therefore fell upon me and my own resourcefulness to be rid of this awful place. I planted a piece of cloth in the window, small enough to go unnoticed, but just large enough to prevent the window from latching properly, and lay in bed. I had intended to feign sleep until the Count entered to lock the window, but as trying as the day had been, I was asleep no sooner than my head met the pillow. When I awoke in the middle of the night, however, I found to my great delight that my plan had worked! The window remained unlocked that night. I opened the window and crawled up onto the ledge.
My intention was to climb down to the Count’s bedroom and enter through his window, for surely that is where he would have hidden his keys. I would have simply climbed down until I reached the ground and made my escape, but it was a very long way down and I couldn’t be certain that there would be enough hand- and footholds to get me all the way down safely. The distance to the Count’s window was much shorter, and I was confident that I could make it there at least. Not only that, the gate was also sure to be locked and his estate was surrounded by a very high wall. No, this was a better plan. The only plan.
That was when the thought occurred to me tha
t he would be in there, asleep, and I didn’t want to take the risk of waking him up. I decided to wait until I saw him lizard-crawl his way out into the night before making my move. He did this frequently, so I knew I would not have to wait long.
It was another two nights before such an opportunity presented itself. Each night I was sure to leave the window open so that I knew if the Count had come and gone. Though I curiously never saw or heard him enter my bedchamber, whenever I would leave the window open, I would awake to see that it was closed. I kept a constant vigil next to the window after that, waiting for him to leave the premises. I watched as the Count crawled out his bedroom window and made his way to the ground. When he was safely gone into the woods—likely on his way to the village for another victim (the thought makes my stomach churn)—I once again stepped up onto the ledge of my window and proceeded to crawl toward the Count’s window. Having not the great agility and dexterity the Count seemed to possess, I nonetheless made it safely there using the natural cracks in the mortar made by time and erosion, my footing having slipped only one time. Once there, I searched the entire room thoroughly. Alas, no keys were forthcoming. I sincerely hoped he did not have them upon his person when he left, but had a nagging suspicion that is exactly where they were. Drat! I would have to try this again when the Count was here.
The proceeding night, I tried again. This time when I entered the Count’s bedchamber, expecting to find the Count sound asleep in his large four-poster bed, I was surprised, and a little alarmed, to find that the bed was empty. I took the opportunity to once again search his room, but found no keys. There was a large door opposite the one that led out to the main hallway of the castle. I opened it with trepidation and was met with a circular stone staircase. It was dim, being lit only by loopholes in the masonry that allowed the moonlight to stream through. I had no taper, but nonetheless ventured down that staircase until I entered a tunnel. Where it led I had no idea, but my curiosity got the better of me, and I continued on. It turned out that the tunnel, which was lined with lit torches situated in sconces on either side, led to an old churchyard. To my shock and horror, I found the Count there, nestled among the graves on the once holy grounds, now sullied by his evil presence, in a common pine-wood coffin.
