Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  Under questioning, he told us that it was not the first book he had removed from the shelves. The young thief claims he was approached by an upper-class gentleman who arranged payment and collection of the materials. He has given us a vague description of the man, which we are following up on.

  The boy was paid a handsome sum for pages torn from specific books as well as several volumes from the shelves in the west wing.

  He was given locations and descriptions of the books, but he cannot read so was unable to tell the titles he removed. We are checking the shelves and compiling a list of the missing volumes. One of the missing books appears to be The Vellum Doyle Manuscript, which is most troubling since that book comes from the Other Realm. A difficult volume to translate, to be sure, but it could be most disastrous if they do.

  Furthermore, he told us he was also paid to steal a book from the Lyceum Theatre that was part of the collection of the owner, Henry Irving. The boy remembers the book was very old and had a picture of a dragon on the cover. From this description, we fear it may be the book The Munich Manual of Demonic Magic.

  We have operatives looking for the stolen volumes and are infiltrating occult societies to track down any rumours of their whereabouts. The street urchin is now one of our operatives and it is hoped that the gentleman will approach him again for further larceny.

  I shall further investigate Henry Irving. This is not the first time his name has come up in our investigations and research.

  – End Report –

  From the Diary of Oscar Wilde, 10th of January 1879

  Archivist’s note: While Wilde was in prison for gross indecency in 1895, his wife, Constance, sold his diary to the White Worm Society to raise money for his defence. Oscar Wilde’s diary was written in Pitman Shorthand and is transcribed into long-form below.

  Dear yours truly,

  I am sorry that it has been so long since I have written in our diary. I see here the last time I did I was only thirteen years old! I assure you many exciting things have happened to me since then; many I have forgotten and many I wish to forget!

  But here we are with a new year, and with it a resolution to write in the diary every day, giving you something to read in our old age. I do hope I shall find an opportunity to recount some interesting and noteworthy experiences to reflect upon when I am you.

  To begin, you should know that I have moved to London and am currently sharing a flat with Frank Miles. My plan was to find accommodations of my own, however, my current financial situation is not as sound as I would like it to be. Also, the simple fact is that Frank needs me. He is quite mad with his art, you see. Unless he has drifted out of our life by the time I am old, which would make me quite sad, you will remember that Frank is a painter and a brilliant one at that. At present, he is the very model of the starving artist. This is not because he lacks money for food; it is simply because he forgets to eat! So, I make sure he has three proper meals a day, takes the occasional bath and, with much coaxing, goes out to socialise with friends from time to time.

  Frank is obsessed with becoming the best painter he can be. He will spend days looking at something before he begins to paint it. This is fine when his subject is a bowl of fruit, but it can be quite unnerving for a human model.

  The other day he sat down to paint a dead pigeon he found out on the street. He studied it for days until it had grown (pardon the pun) quite foul. Then in a burst of frustration, he cut it open with a knife to study the entrails, explaining that he needed to see what was inside in order to paint the outside properly. Egad, I hope he doesn’t follow suit with one of the poor models sitting for his portraits!

  For it is the portraits that are his bread and butter. People pay him quite handsomely to paint them. I swear he manages to capture the subject’s very being. He has a technique with his brush strokes that makes the portrait’s face glow as if there were warm blood flowing under the skin and just a bit of perspiration on the brow. His paintings almost seem alive, as if they are the real people and the models mere sketches.

  There are patrons, clients and models coming into the flat day and night. One never knows who will be sitting for him. One day it is a count, the next a prostitute he’s brought in out of the rain simply because her eyes intrigued him.

  I must admit I do like the activity. There is never a dull moment in the Miles-Wilde household! (Perhaps I should refer to it as the Wilde-Miles household. Yes, that sounds much more rakish!) And as luck would have it, it seems that mostly attractive people pay to have their portraits painted. I must have seen half the beautiful people in London come through our doors.

  As for me, I am a work in progress. I have been doing some writing and some thinking, and also some translations of Herodotus and Euripides, which I have hopes of publishing. I have been toying with the idea of going abroad to continue my studies, but London is so vibrant and exciting that I am reluctant to tear myself away from it. I yearn to make a name for myself here, to set the world on fire with new ideas and new aesthetics. Is there any city more important for arts and culture and the life of the mind? This, I feel, is my domain, the place I am meant to be. The moment is mine to seize.

  From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 12th of January 1879

  9:37 p.m.

  An extremely upsetting day today! I have been agitated all evening by the day’s events, which were capped by a row with Florence in which she listed all my faults, which it seems she has been cataloguing since the beginning of our marriage.

  I deserved it. I was quite abominable to her. She was merely trying to coax me into pleasant conversation over dinner, but I was in no mood for it and spoke rather sharply to her, asking her to please let me eat my meal in peace.

  “I am stuck in this house all day, only to have you come home and speak to me that way,” she snapped. “Am I to always bear the brunt of your foul moods? I am not one of your stage crew, I am your wife.”

  I offered an apology, but the outburst had released something that has apparently been building steam in her for some time and her complaints continued: I work too much. I am often morose or distracted. We do not have the social life she imagined we would in London. She has not enough to occupy her days.

  I knew not what to say other than to offer another apology and a promise to try to improve. (Though in truth I have no idea how to accomplish this; I cannot shirk my work responsibilities nor introduce her to social contacts I do not have.)

  She seemed about to launch into another litany of grievances, but instead she sighed and looked somewhat abashed. “The shameful truth is, Bram, I am vexed nearly as much by your good moods as the bad. For they remind me of all the excitement of the theatre, a world which I do not share with you. A world you know I wish to be in. I recall you promising me that it would not bother you in the slightest if I should pursue an acting career.”

  I told her that I will do my best to hold that promise, but as the theatre manager it would be unprofessional of me to put my family up for parts that should go to professional actresses.

  This made her go silent and she withdrew soon after to attend to some correspondence, apparently again angry with me and my shortcomings.

  I returned to the theatre for an evening rehearsal, only to find the gaslights are not functioning properly. I have sent the actors home and am frustrated that the gas company cannot dispatch anyone until morning.

  I should return home as well; however, I shall wait until Florence is likely to be asleep for fear my foul mood will be a contagion and lead to another argument. I hope that writing in this journal will quiet my mind, and shall help the process along with some brandy.

  Now for what put me into a foul mood in the first place.

  The encounter earlier was a small thing, really, if judged by duration. I was coming home for my supper and had just crossed the Strand.

  It was quite cold and there was a feeling in the air as if
it might snow, and so most of us were bundled up against the chill, with scarves wound tight around our necks and faces and hats pulled down as far as we could manage.

  As I hurried up Wellington Street to catch my tram, a feeling came upon me that I have not experienced in many months. Fleetingly but strongly, I felt the presence of something supernatural and malevolent. I stopped short as a wave of dizziness passed over me, and the man behind me cursed as he bumped into me. Muttering an apology, I whirled around, scanning the crowd and catching a glimpse of the familiar green glow enveloping a man hurrying in the other direction. I attempted to follow, but the tide of foot traffic proved difficult to swim against and I soon lost him in the crowd. I know nothing of him – not even what form of monster he might be – save that he was wearing a black coat and hat, as were ninety per cent of the men on the street, myself included.

  If he frequents the neighbourhood it is possible I will see him again at a more opportune time to investigate. But I do not know if I wish for this to happen. I know that a good man does not let evil walk the streets while doing nothing to challenge it. If I saw a street crime in progress, would I not step in to try to stop it? How much greater is the responsibility to rid the world of a monster who might terrorise and murder countless innocents, most of whom have no knowledge of its very existence much less the threat it poses?

  But is it my obligation to chase down every evil creature that prowls the world? Can I not simply enjoy my life, my work, my marriage, without these intrusions from the netherworld? This is the first such incident to trouble me since my marriage; what would Florence say were she to know about this curse and the danger in which I place myself when I heed its call? Is not my responsibility greater to provide a secure and stable home life for my wife and family?

  I have no answers to these questions and asking them has only served to upset me further. Another brandy when I get home, perhaps, in front of the fire, and then I shall try to sleep. The morning may bring greater clarity.

  13th of January, 4:45 a.m.

  Monster!

  My hand shakes so badly, I can barely keep pen to paper.

  Werewolves and vampires exist. I have known this for some time, of course, but now it has become obvious that I somehow attract their attention. They are drawn to me like flies to a rotting corpse.

  What else could it be? One encounter, bad luck, but two, now three must be some sort of curse.

  After my last journal entry, I headed for home. The cloudless sky made the night even more bitterly cold and I was not dressed properly for it. Instead of snow we’d had rain, which had frozen and made my walk treacherous. The surrounding buildings were encased in ice, and I felt as though I was too. I was chilled to the bone and worrying about frostbite when my vision lit up like the Northern Lights.

  A loud ringing in my ears deafened me and gave me a feeling of vertigo. It was all I could do to remain standing. But this time I was determined to take control of the vision rather than fight it. I imagined taking the reins of a horse and tried to control the vision in the same way. It seemed to work and I must admit it made me feel powerful. My fear passed through me and I gained a clarity I have never felt before.

  I quickly turned and looked behind me. A man…a thing…was following, but upon my turning to look he disappeared into the shadows. A green glow betrayed his position but was not enough to allow me to see who or what was there.

  “Who goes there!” I shouted, with as much authority as I could muster.

  He pulled himself further back into an alley to avoid my gaze.

  It was foolish of me. I had no weapon with me, not even a cane or umbrella.

  My fear returned and I turned and walked towards home quickly. I could feel his presence still and wanted to break into a run but feared I would lose my footing on the icy ground.

  Then I realised I was leading this creature to my home. I looked around for somewhere else to find refuge. A pub, or church, any place with people.

  All the buildings were dark. The nearest pub was blocks away and behind me. Then I remembered there is a newspaper office a street over. They must work late into the night. I would go there.

  I quickened my pace, then heard a scream. Not a woman’s scream, but a man’s loud groan, as if he were being beaten or stabbed. I am ashamed to say I thought of running away. But I knew I must summon the police.

  “Help! Help,” I yelled, hoping some constable was nearby and would come running. “Police!”

  Then I felt an excitement in the lower part of my stomach that suddenly radiated through my entire body. It was the same feeling that I had when the werewolf’s violence took me over. I was both repelled and drawn to the violent emanations.

  My second sight was making my whole body throb. As I tried once again to harness it, a surge of bravery and strength flowed through my veins. I felt more animal than human, like a large jungle cat chasing down its prey.

  I ran towards the sound and promptly slipped on the ice, in a manner assuredly unlike any jungle cat. I don’t remember getting to my feet but I must have because I found myself standing at the alley entrance where I had seen the monster moments before.

  In the shadows I could see a man lying on the ground, the creature feeding at his neck!

  The vampire looked up at me. The moonlight lit his bloodied face as he hissed and bared his dripping fangs.

  He leapt up before I could take a step back and grabbed me by my coat. He swung me around and threw me into the alley, where I landed on top of his victim, who turned out to be a constable. Though I was stunned I had enough presence of mind to see a billy club in his hand. I grabbed it.

  The creature was on me, but I swung and bashed him in the skull. That surprised him more than hurt him, but it was enough to make him stumble back and let me get to my feet.

  The constable stirred! He moaned and got to his knees.

  The creature leapt over my full height and landed on the constable. He snapped his neck, killing him instantly, and turned his attention back to me.

  He grabbed me once again. I struck him repeatedly on the head with the billy club, but he merely absorbed the blows. He slammed me hard against the wall of a building and a great heap of icicles rained down on us. He batted the billy club out of my hand and it clattered and slid away down the alley.

  My strength was no match for his. I could no longer fight him off and became motionless like a stunned mouse in a cat’s claws, my mind racing for some way to escape.

  “I’m not supposed to kill you,” he said peevishly.

  Had I not known he was a monster, I would not have been able to tell. Like Count Ruthven at Oscar’s engagement party, this one looked human enough to walk among us. His fangs were no longer visible. Except for the blood smeared around his mouth, he could pass for any tradesman you would see on the street. Strangely, this all went through my mind as he held me against the wall.

  “But I suppose I could take a pint or two,” he continued, opening his mouth. His fangs grew before my eyes, glistening with saliva. His breath smelled of rotting flesh and sickly sweet honeysuckle flowers.

  He sunk his teeth greedily into my neck, then – like Ruthven had – backed away, choking and spitting.

  I fell to my knees and my hand brushed against an icicle. I grabbed it and, with all my might, jumped to my feet and plunged it into his neck.

  I stumbled out of the alley and found my footing. A carriage was going by and I staggered into the street and blocked it. The driver pulled the horses to a stop just before running me over.

  “Oy, watch where you’re going,” the driver scolded. “I could’ve killed ya.”

  The vampire zoomed by me at such a speed the driver didn’t seem to notice him. I watched him vanish quickly into the darkness. The driver then saw my wounds and helped me find a policeman. I led him to the alley and told him the partial truth – that I had hea
rd his colleague scream, come to help and been attacked myself. I described the perpetrator honestly – minus the fangs – and the officer deduced that he must have been in the grip of some sort of murderous mania, perhaps drug-induced. The wounds on my neck were evidence enough of that.

  I sit here now, at home in front of the fire. The puncture marks on my neck are healing remarkably quickly. I wish I could say the same for my bruises and scratches. But there is more to trouble my mind. While I am grateful to be alive, I can’t help but worry about the vampire’s words: “I’m not supposed to kill you.” Why not, and by whose orders?

  To explain my injuries, I told Florence I fell from the scaffolding at the theatre. She tended to my wounds and we once again apologised to each other for our earlier row.

  She fell asleep in my arms. It made me feel safe momentarily, but when I drifted off I was awakened by nightmares. Nightmares that now will follow me throughout my day. I fear there will be no more sleep for me tonight.

  From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 14th of January 1879

  1:30 p.m.

  Took lunch with Willie Wilde today at the Langham hotel.

  He was hard to track down. A few weeks back he borrowed twenty pounds from me and then apparently disappeared off the face of the earth. I found out from a mutual friend that he is working as a freelance reporter (which is hard to imagine with his atrocious vocabulary and spelling skills), and that he is living with his mother, who has also relocated to London. I was sorry to hear they had fallen upon hard times once again and were barely supporting themselves.

  Perhaps that was why Willie seemed happy to see me and agreed to let me treat him to lunch.

  I needed to confide in someone about my run-in with the vampire. I also told him that Oscar and I had encountered one at the engagement party (leaving out the more lurid details, although I doubt it would shock him to discover his brother’s predilections).