Dracula Ascending (Gothic Horror Mash-up)

by Cindy Winget

  All my love,

  Robert Walton

  August 19, 1843

  My Dearest Margaret,

  What a fortnight I have had! As you will recall from my last missive, the day that the ice broke up, my crew and I had decided to spend one more night. Luck was upon us for it was fortunate that we had stayed. The next morning, I was awoken by the raucous call from my men. I forthrightly pulled on my boots and coat and, taking the stairs two at a time, ran to see what was the matter, rather worried that one of the huge blocks of ice had punctured a hole in my vessel.

  “Sir! Sir! Look!” they all cried, drawing my attention to the port side of the ship. As I peered into the inky depths of the sea, I vaguely wondered if a whale had been spotted, but no. Upon a floating piece of fragmented glacier that had drifted close to the ship, lay a man on a sledge with a team of dogs. However, it was not the same man we had seen running across the landscape the day before. This man was average in his stature and appeared half-dead, if not truly dead.

  I implored my men to haul him up onto the ship and it was ascertained that he was yet breathing, though very sick and emaciated. All but one of his dogs had perished from want of food or exposure. We took in the remaining one and gave him food and water. He reposes even now in my cabin and has become somewhat of a mascot upon our vessel. The men all love him and call him Rascal. Rather fitting, I thought, for his tenacious survival.

  As to the man, he tells me his name is Victor Frankenstein. He is a native of Geneva, Switzerland, but has spent many years studying and living among friends in England. He won’t go into any details about what he had been studying, though I showed some interest in the matter. Only that he was a man of science whose interest in the subject has since waned and he was unlikely to take up the subject once more. He quips about becoming a poet or novelist who writes only melancholy stories of woe and untimely death.

  I suspect that some experiment or other didn’t pan out the way he had hoped and he is now in the throes of young passion—for he is yet still young, perhaps only 28 years of age by my reckoning—turning stagnant as he faces the sad truth that most of us will remain ordinary and never make the great discoveries that we dream up in our youth. I can relate to that, and told him so. I once (and secretly still do at times) dream of making monumental discoveries such as the finding of the Fountain of Youth or the Holy Grail. Perhaps on one of my journeys out to the farthest reaches of the globe I would discover a new and uncharted island or sea creature. Victor laughed at that and admitted to wanting to discover such things himself at one point in time; like harnessing the power to transmute lead into gold.

  But more often than not, such talk would turn Victor morose and self-contained. He would stare out at the frozen tundra and say not a word for hours on end, a look of such sadness upon his features as to leave little doubt that some tragedy has befallen this young man. As of yet, I have not ascertained what this tragedy is, and have been reluctant to pry into his private affairs. When he does begin to talk once more, he implores me to find tranquility in the simple things in life and to abhor ambition, for it has brought him nothing but grief.

  But I get ahead of myself, dear sister. As I nursed this man back to health and he slowly began to recover, I have found him to be quite an agreeable and amiable gentleman and enjoy his company very much. It is transparently clear that he is by far more educated than myself, but I find it excites me to discover new things I had not known or to see things from an angle I had not considered. He called me friend once and I am abashed to admit how pleased I was to hear it. These last two weeks have been a great boon to me. If only I could discover the reasons for his pensiveness and help eradicate the gloom. By times, he frightens me with how melancholy he can become. He claims that not even heaven can forgive him for his crimes, and he is fit only to hold court in the realm of Beelzebub. I don’t see how this can be possible. How is it that such a nice young man could possibly commit a crime so abhorrent as to deserve such a fate in the next life? I refuse to believe it, and I challenge anyone who would dare say otherwise. I told him that surely God would grant him mercy. To which he mockingly replied, “What is God’s mercy truly worth? If he exists at all.”

  “What’s this?” I had said. “Don’t you believe in God?”

  “I have wrestled with the concept of a deity as of late and the conclusion I have come to is that I hope not, for my own sake. For I doubt he would look favorably upon me. But I now suspect that there is such a being. For how could there be a Hell without a Heaven? And I have seen evidence that the Devil and his minions truly hold sway in this world.”

  This deeply troubled me.

  As we drew nearer to civilization, I became more and more saddened at the prospect of having to drop Victor off at some port or other.

  One day, I casually mentioned that, before his arrival, we had also seen another man upon a sledge being pulled by a team of dogs. Victor’s interest was piqued and it soon became apparent that this other man was known to him.

  I have finally become privy to this man’s secrets and I now know the reason for his great depression. I shall not relate them to you, for they are not my secrets to tell and the task would be far to daunting for a letter, for the tale is long, but suffice it to say that though I still disagree that Victor is fit only for hell fire, I now understand the reason he should think so. Over the course of his retelling, he weakened and gained a fever. I fear that he won’t last long and will waste away aboard my whaling vessel. Tis such a cruel world, my sister, should it require that this good man should perish whilst that abomination runs rampant and free.

  But let it be as God wills it.

  I shall keep you updated as to his condition and hope for the best. It is halfway selfishness on my part, for I sorely hate to lose such a friend as Victor Frankenstein when it has been the secret wish of my heart for quite some time to have such a worthy companion.

  As always, all my love,

  Robert Walton

  Chapter Thirty

  Robert returned to his cabin from the dining room as quickly as possible—having only left in order to procure nourishment—fearing that his new friend would pass from this mortal coil while he was away. The other crew members had asked after Victor’s health and Robert could only answer honestly; it didn’t look good.

  Robert set down the broth he had brought for Victor, along with a lighted lantern—for it was getting dark—upon his writing desk and gazed down at the man lying prostrate upon his bed. Robert himself had been sleeping in a hammock he had strung along the opposite wall, which was much too small for the function. At first, he had taken up residence with his ship mates in a vacant bunk, but found that he was too worried about Victor to sleep properly, and much preferred to stay in his cabin, uncomfortable as it was, in case Victor should need something in the middle of the night.

  He had also grabbed a hard biscuit from the galley, making sure to tap it upon the table for weevils before bringing it back to Victor. Their food stores had been nearly depleted while encapsulated in the ice for those few weeks back in August. The fruits and vegetables, except for a dozen potatoes, had long been consumed before they could spoil, and all that was left was some questionable salted pork and cod, beans, rice, and the hard biscuits.

  Upon hearing Robert enter, Victor slit his eyes open ever so slightly and moved his head in his direction.

  “I have brought you some food. You should try to eat something,” Robert told him.

  Victor nodded and tried to sit up. Robert hurried over and lent him a helping hand. The simple action taxed Victor. His face grew pale and he panted, small puffs of cloudy air escaping his lips. As the fur that was previously piled upon him slid off his shoulders, he began to shiver.

  “This will help warm you up.” Robert grabbed the bowl of chicken broth and brought the tin spoon to Victor’s lips, who obediently sipped at it. Robert patiently fed his friend—even as most of it managed to dribble down his chin and drip onto his shirt—
as he recounted the news that they were only three weeks away from port.

  “I have also brought you a biscuit.” Victor grimaced at the news and Robert knew why. They tasted awful, but were a staple for whaling ships such as his due to their tendency to keep, despite the weevils that often infested them. “Tonight, I shall have the cook prepare some mashed potatoes for you. Would you like that? It won’t be taxing to chew and the cook claims that he still has enough ingredients for a hearty and thick gravy to go with it.” Robert was pleased to see that this news had the desired effect.

  Victor smiled tenuously. “You take such good care of me, my friend. Whatever would I do without you?” His voice sounded hoarse and scratchy; barely a whisper. He managed to get down all of the broth, but refused the hard biscuit.

  Victor’s half-masted eyelids told Robert that it was time for him to leave and let Victor get some more rest. He gathered up the now empty bowl, along with the biscuit, and returned them to the galley. He was at a loss for what to do with himself now. He finally decided on returning to his cabin and seeing if Victor would like to be read to, as he often did. If not, then Robert would read silently to himself at Victor’s side. Three more weeks and he would be able to get his friend to a doctor where he could be properly cared for. He just had to keep him alive until then.

  To his immense shock, upon his return, he found that Victor was not alone. There was a man bending over him, a man of such large proportions that the small room necessitated him to bend down in order for his height to be accommodated. He stood over the bed, gazing down upon the sick man, ill intent written upon his features. With sudden clarity, Robert was surprised to find that he recognized the man now looming over Victor.

  “You! I saw you some weeks ago, being taken across the ice of the Black Sea by a team of sled dogs! But how have you managed to be here?”

  The man turned to look at Robert, his starched white shirt glowing in the light of the lantern. Robert was horrified at the mesh of scars upon the man’s face. He was unlike any man he had ever seen. He moved with a strange grace that did not match his gargantuan limbs and the dull yellowness of his eyes unnerved him in a way he couldn’t define.

  “It makes little difference how I came to be here,” the man said, turning his attention back to Victor. “Is he dead?” he inquired.

  “He yet lives, but only just,” Robert informed him. “I fear he will not make it to port.”

  The man’s visage went through a gamut of expressions. First there was triumph, then rage, followed quickly by a look of guilt and regret. With remorse in his voice, the man spoke once again, “Then my task is complete. I feel no need to stop his beating heart. He has suffered enough at my hands, and I feel content to let him slip out of this life without the added horror and weight of seeing me one last time.”

  “Who are you?”

  “This man is my father.”

  “Your father? He couldn’t possibly be! He is far too young to have sired a man as old as you!”

  “Nevertheless, it’s true. He is my father in every way that counts. I can credit no one else with giving me life. I only regret that we had not seen eye-to-eye on things. Such has always been the way with fathers and their sons, I suppose,” the man smirked. “Oh, Father! Forgive me for the things I have done!”

  The fear and repulsion that had entered Robert’s breast upon seeing this man who had stolen into his cabin, was replaced with pity and compassion at hearing his laments. Then, as he mulled over the man’s words, with sudden realization he knew with whom he now conversed. Dracula! When he called Victor, Father, he really meant his creator.

  “You! You are the monster that Victor told me about! He has recounted to me how you have come to be and the heinous acts you have committed. Hypocrite! You speak of remorse and regret now only because he lies upon his sick bed, knocking at death’s door. I have no doubt that, were Victor in his right mind and health, you would feel differently.”

  Dracula’s eyes, which had widened with surprise, now flared with a momentary fire of hatred before fading. “Perhaps you are right. I cannot deny that my feelings for Victor Frankenstein are … complicated.”

  At this time, Victor began to stir from his slumber. A look of horror entered his face as he took in the appearance of Dracula. He slid forcefully across the bed, trying to get as far away from the fiend as possible. “Is the world really so full of such injustice that I must witness any more crimes before I die? Have you been made privy to the fact that I have managed to make a friend upon this vessel, and you are here to once again snuff out that most precious thing that quickens us all?”

  Robert was quick to step forward. “I am here, my friend.”

  Victor lay his head down upon the pillow, pale and exhausted from the effort of moving away from Dracula. “Thank God,” he intoned, closing his eyes and breathing heavily for several seconds. When once again he opened his eyes, his attention was fixed upon that monster to whom he had foolishly given life.

  “I am here to make amends, Doctor Frankenstein,” the monster said.

  “Amends? How can you possibly make amends for your evil deeds? Nothing you can do can bring back the dead. Be gone! Leave me to my fate! The only way justice could truly be served is if you were to manage to destroy yourself!”

  Dracula tsked. “So much hostility towards thy creation, Doctor Frankenstein. If you had only shown me some kindness and compassion in the beginning, then I would not have committed any of these crimes. I misspoke when I claimed to make amends. I meant only that I wish to reconcile with thee and depart ways forever. I grow weary of the chase and only want to live out my life in peace.”

  Dracula stretched forth his hand, as though in supplication, willing Victor to shake it and seal the treaty between them.

  With a growl, Victor sat up in bed. “I don’t believe you!” he cried. “I may have fallen for that at one time, but not now!” Victor reached toward Robert’s desk where there lay a silver letter opener and snatched it up—tipping over the lit lantern in the process—and brandished it at Dracula.

  Oil from the lantern splattered onto Dracula’s cloak and neck, bringing with it an ember that burned a livid red mark upon his pale skin. Dracula cried out in pain and fear and stepped quickly away.

  Robert hastily ran forth and retrieved the lantern, lest the fire spread onto his desk.

  That’s it! The way to defeat the monster! thought Victor, recalling with perfect clarity the story recounted by Dracula upon his first encounter with fire, how it frightened him and that upon being burned he was a long-time healing from its effects. Leaping forth from the bed, tossing off the covers as he did so, he walked swiftly toward Robert and grabbed the lantern from him. Opening the glass door that allowed the wick to be lit, Victor forcefully thrust it at the monster. Oil and sparks once again splashed and splattered onto him, only this time his cloak caught fire. The flame blazed up quickly and ferociously as it followed the tracks of oil that were spilled.

  Dracula hastened to remove the cloak, but it was too late. The fire had already spread onto his other clothing, burning his skin.

  Victor, in hellish glee, grabbed the taper from Robert’s desk and held it forth. As soon as the wick accepted the flame from off of Dracula’s clothing, he used it to set ablaze other parts of Dracula’s apparel, ensuring that the demon was fully engulfed in flames.

  Dracula howled in agony.

  Victor watched, transfixed, as the fiend tried to transform into a bat and then mist, but to no avail. Each time he tried, he would stop mid-transformation, apparently in too much pain to make the full metamorphosis.

  Fire was purifying. Let these flames cleanse from this earth those sins that I have committed in the name of science, Victor prayed as he plunged the silver letter opener deep into Dracula’s heart. The agony that the monster had already been voicing took on a demonic tone as he wailed with fresh anguish. Ruby liquid spread forth from the mortal wound and pooled upon the floor of the cabin. Within minutes, the
tall and formidable man known as Count Dracula, was nothing more than ashes strewn upon the wooden planks of a dingy vessel upon the open sea.

  Heavy footsteps alerted the two men that they would shortly be receiving company. Two sailors came rushing into their captain’s cabin. “Are you all right, sir? We heard a ruckus and a scream.”

  “Everything is fine,” Robert assured them. They looked skeptical upon seeing the puddle of blood upon the floor, but did not question their captain when he told them to have it cleaned up immediately.

  “Quickly, do you have a box?” Victor asked Robert, slumping down upon the bed, exhausted by the exertion in his ailing state.

  “A box?” Robert asked in confusion.

  “Yes! A box. Preferably a silver one.”

  Robert left and searched his ship for the asked for item. In time, he came upon a large communal snuff box brought aboard by a member of the crew. He didn’t know what type of metal it was made of for sure, but brought it back to Victor anyway.

  “Will this do?” he asked anxiously.

  Victor inspected it closely and was thrilled to note that the box was indeed silver. “Perfect!” After opening the lid, he stood up and began scooping Dracula’s ashes into the box. Robert bent down to help. When the deed was accomplished, the men straightened up and left the room just as the sailors returned with pails of soapy water and scrub brushes.

  Upon seeing Victor emerge from the cabin, Rascal bounded up to him and began to lick any part of him he could get at. Victor smiled in satisfaction. “It’s good to see you too, boy,” he told the dog, patting him atop his large, shaggy head.

  “Are you sure you are well enough to be out here?” asked a concerned Robert.

  “I need to get some fresh air. It smells of burnt flesh in there,” replied Victor.

  Robert nodded. As true as that was, he knew that it was more than that. He knew that Victor was attempting to distance himself from bad memories. He would coerce him back to bed soon enough.