Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  “I cannot be sure and am not willing to take the risk without more information.”

  He was right, of course. Sighing, I returned to my wooden throne and sat heavily.

  “Who is the Black Bishop?” I asked. “Some sort of vampire king?”

  “It appears so. Vampires fear him and do his bidding. From what I have discovered, he is planning to create a vampire army that would enslave humanity, reducing you to nothing more than their cattle.”

  I thought back to the chess piece we found on Count Ruthven that night, a black bishop! That was over a year ago; how far their plans must have progressed in that time.

  “My only ally in this fight has been Reverend Wilkins. And the Gipsies, for they also have cursed among them, werewolves, whom they wish to cure. Even as we speak they are travelling the world to find a place where the ritual can be performed. It is my duty to keep you safe until that day.”

  Safe. I felt anything but. “I hope what you are telling me is true, Henry,” I said. “If I can lift your curse, I will.”

  “Thank you. But we have more pressing matters at hand. You must put Lucy to rest and hunt down her killer. After that, we can discuss what to do next.”

  Despite what he has told me, I cannot wholeheartedly trust him, for it is not only my life that is at risk. I will leave him locked up until we dispatch Lucy’s killer. Irving tells us that Lucy will rise and be drawn to her sire. She may have already done so. I hope in our zeal to interrogate Henry we have not missed our chance to follow Lucy to her killer.

  From the Case Files of Dr. Hesselius, Number 355: The Mysterious Case of Abraham Stoker, 28th of June 1879

  I have been summoned to London by Captain Richard Burton to help track and put down a vampire terrorising the city. (See Case 354: The Siring of Henry Irving.)

  It seems Abraham Stoker, the manager of the Lyceum Theatre, had discovered his employer, the famous actor Henry Irving, was in fact, a vampire.

  After a successful hunt and capture of said vampire, I was taken into Mr. Stoker’s confidence. He came to me concerned and looking for a cure to what he saw as an affliction.

  It seems he has the power to detect the darker forces of the supernatural. A power that was bestowed upon him as a small child by the vampire Henry Irving.

  While suffering a blood condition that would have most certainly led to his death, Stoker was visited by Irving, who gave him some of his vampiric blood and did not feed on him in return.

  I have never heard of such behaviour from a vampire. Indeed, the vampire Irving seems to be most unusual indeed. Perhaps his release from the lineage of the vampire king so many years ago had given him back his soul.

  In any event, Irving’s actions towards young Stoker were not purely altruistic. Irving was and is seeking a cure for his vampirism, and the ritual of inoculating the boy was to give Irving an ingredient for such a cure.

  According to Gipsy lore, the feeding of vampire blood to a boy on his seventh birthday would give the boy a foot in both worlds – our world and that of the Other Realm. This would make the boy a key to open a doorway between those worlds. How this would help to cure Irving is unclear, as is the place and manner for opening the door. Irving’s research continues and his time grows short as the day approaches when the veil between worlds will be at its thinnest.

  It seems that Irving’s blood both cured and cursed the young Stoker. His blood does indeed show unusual properties. For example, vampires are sickened by drinking from him. It may be that Stoker could never be turned. His blood could lead to a vaccine to protect us all from vampirism and I hope to study it further.

  The blood has also given him the power to sense supernatural creatures.

  “Especially,” he told me, “if there is violence involved or the intent to do violence.”

  He became quiet and found it hard to continue but pressed on.

  “It is as though their lust…their hunger sets something off in myself. I see a green glow around them and the things they have touched, as if they are giving off the scent of evil. If they commit an act that is extremely violent, I can see it days later. I can relive the violence as if I were the one perpetrating the crime.”

  I told him that this is known as clairvoyance, and it can be very disturbing to those who experience it. He seemed relieved that I had a diagnosis for his condition.

  “Yes,” he confessed. “I am frightened to give in to it, even when I could be helping to track down these monsters.”

  “You fear becoming a monster yourself,” I said. “It is understandable and you are wise to keep yourself distant from it.”

  He confided that he’d had a few spells as a boy, but that it wasn’t until he encountered a werewolf that it fully took him over. After that event he found it hard to concentrate, difficult to resist his baser self. He found himself carousing and drifting from his intellectual pursuits. He chalked it up to a failing of character, but with his recent contact with the supernatural the feelings have become worse. His temper has become short, his lust is harder to tamp down and he finds his mind drifting into dark fantasies.

  I asked him what the contents of his dark fantasies were, but he said he was uncomfortable discussing them in detail.

  However, he finally added after coaxing from me, “When I become aroused I feel as though I am not myself, as if I am watching someone else enjoy intimacies with my wife. Someone who delights in making me watch. I know that sounds vague and somewhat silly, but it is an unsettling feeling.”

  I told him that it may very well be a side effect of using the power and that he should trust his instinct about this ‘vague’ uneasiness.

  “If this power comes from a supernatural place, the price may be that you leave a bit of yourself there to bring that power here,” I explained.

  I do not think he felt better after my advice; however, I feel honesty is the best medicine when it comes to protecting one’s self from evil forces. How many men who have dabbled in the supernatural thought they could control its power and could not?

  From the Diary of Florence Stoker, 28th of June 1879

  I am going mad.

  Reality is collapsing around me. I know not what to believe anymore. The events of last night seemingly cannot be real, but I know they are.

  Last night I awoke to find myself sleepwalking. I had flung open the French doors to the garden and was stepping outside, my bare feet coming down on cool, rough flagstone. My heart began to pound as I shook off sleep and realised I could have brought harm to myself or the baby in such a state. I knew, however, that something had pulled me out there.

  It was a warm and breezy night. I stood there for a moment taking in the moonlight and the wind in my hair when I heard a voice whispering from the darkness.

  “Florrie….”

  She stepped forwards into the moonlight. I could scarcely believe it. It was a dream, surely. How could she be standing there in front of me?

  It was Lucy! She was wearing a burial shroud and in her arms clutched something wrapped tightly in a blanket. She put the bundle down and ran towards me with open arms.

  I did not care if I were dreaming, I happily embraced her.

  “Lucy, my dear Lucy, this is a miracle!” I exclaimed. She was cold to the touch. “How can this be?”

  “I awoke in a coffin in the family crypt,” she cried. “Can you imagine my terror? Why did everyone abandon me?”

  “We thought you were dead!” I clutched her tightly and my heart filled with joy as I realised this was really happening.

  “I can hear your heartbeat,” she sighed. “I can hear the baby’s heartbeat.”

  She kissed me and I nearly fainted. Her lips were ice-cold yet sent a shock of warmth through my body. I could not deny her anything as my will folded into hers. I’m ashamed to say we kissed not as friends. She began fondling me as a man would. Part of me was s
creaming to break away, but another part was her willing slave. She buried her face in my neck and it was all I could do to remain standing as shivers of pleasure ran down my spine and into my legs. I was trying to convince myself to stop her when she let out a yelp and pushed me away.

  “Your necklace! It burned my lips!” she hissed. It was then I remembered I was wearing the silver cross Oscar had returned to me after I broke off our engagement. Surely, she cut her lip on it, not burned it.

  I felt as though I had drunk a full glass of whisky. The world was hazy now, my head swimming. I noticed the bundle she had been carrying had landed safely in the hedges. What could it be?

  “Lucy,” I said, “what is wrapped in the blanket?”

  A large smile spread across her face.

  Like an excited schoolgirl, she squealed, “I almost forgot.” She retrieved the package and hurried back to me, unwrapping it. She held it upside down by one of its ankles. What was I seeing? At first, it looked like a rabbit or a suckling pig, but then, to my horror, I saw it was a baby!

  “We both can be mothers now,” she said, smiling.

  My own baby began to kick violently inside me, breaking my spell, and I began to swoon.

  She reached for me, dropping the baby as if it were no more than a rag doll.

  I fell forwards but by some miracle, I stumbled and caught the baby.

  I clutched the infant in my arms and made a mad dash for the doors.

  “Bram!” I screamed as I fumbled the doors closed behind me. “Bram! Help, come now!”

  The baby began to stir in my arms. It was alive! Revived from the heat of my body, it stirred and began to cry.

  “Florrie, whatever is the matter?” a bewildered Lucy called out, tapping on the glass. “Let me in. Give me back the baby, I am ever so hungry.”

  “Bram!” I screamed.

  Where was he? Why wasn’t he here? I heard Mrs. Norris running down the stairs and saw the light from her lamp, coming quickly towards me.

  The baby inside me was kicking so hard I thought I may give birth that very moment.

  Lucy backed away. “That thing inside of you is a monster,” she yelled, before fleeing into the night. “You should rip it out!”

  Mrs. Norris entered with a lamp in one hand and Bram’s pistol in the other.

  “Dear God,” she exclaimed. “Mrs. Stoker, you’re bleeding.”

  The baby in my arms was crying very loudly now, but it was a happy sound to my ear for I knew it meant it was healthy.

  “Whose baby is this?” Mrs. Norris asked.

  She took the baby from me and put it down between two pillows on the bed. Then she put a washing flannel to my neck. By the light of the lamp I could see in the mirror that I was bleeding. The sight of my own blood made me swoon and I collapsed onto the bed.

  “I’ll fetch the doctor and a constable,” Mrs. Norris said as I slipped into unconsciousness.

  Later I awoke to find the doctor and Mrs. Norris over me. He sat me up so I could take a drink of water.

  “The baby?” I enquired.

  “Yours is fine,” he said. “And the other baby was returned to his mother by the police.”

  “Some crazed fiend attacked the nanny and took the baby,” Mrs. Norris said. “A neighbour saw her fleeing. The nanny is barely hanging on to life.”

  She brought me tea and sat with me. Later that night the constable returned to take my statement, though it was not to his liking.

  “So, you are saying it was Lucy Mayhew who attacked you?” he asked, his pen poised over his notepad.

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you also say that Lucy Mayhew died three days ago.”

  “Well, obviously she was not really dead,” I said curtly. “You hear of these things happening all the time. Someone is thought to be dead, and through a physician’s incompetence, the person is buried alive. She was very lucky to be in the family crypt and not in the ground.”

  “Indeed,” the officer said with more than a bit of scepticism in his voice.

  “And waking up in a coffin has driven her mad,” I added. “The poor thing is out there scared out of her wits. You must find her before she hurts herself or someone else.”

  “Perhaps the perpetrator who attacked you last night just looked like her, and in your grieved state and being half-asleep you mistook her for Miss Mayhew.”

  So, that was it. The facts all nicely wrapped up in his mind, and a great deal of sense they no doubt make. It is unfortunate that I know exactly what I saw and experienced or I might believe them myself.

  “I’ll leave a constable at the door, in case she comes back,” he said, standing and flipping his notepad closed like a coffin lid.

  Now I sit waiting for daylight and Bram’s return. Where is he? Why did he abandon me? And where is Lucy now?

  Letter from Ellen Terry to Lillie Langtry, 28th of June 1879

  My dearest Lillie,

  The tragedy of Lucy Mayhew has drawn to a close. I am sure I will relive tonight many times when I sleep, or when sleep eludes me. Oh, Lillie, I had thought myself worldly, with few illusions about the cruelties that life can inflict upon the innocent and the powerless. I had no idea. The world is far more merciless than I ever imagined if it can produce creatures such as I have seen tonight.

  After Lucy’s funeral, she was laid to rest in a mausoleum purchased by her Aunt Agatha. Dr. Hesselius told us that on the third day Lucy would rise from the dead and return to the vampire that killed her. However, Henry tells us she could already be walking the earth. Her sire, the vampire that turned her, may not want anything to do with her, or he may summon her to be his bride. Furthermore, he informs us, a newly made vampire has not learned to control its appetites and she may go on a killing rampage.

  Bram, Robert and Dr. Hesselius set out this evening to watch over Lucy’s crypt in hope that she will lead them to her maker. However, obtaining the key to the mausoleum took more time than anticipated and it was already getting dark.

  Bram forbade me from going, not wanting to expose me to any more danger. Besides, they needed someone trustworthy to watch over Henry, who is still our prisoner. It was a task I found myself woefully unfit for.

  “Let me out, I can be of help,” Henry pleaded, throwing himself against the cage. “The sun is already down and she is out hunting by now. Three men are no match for two vampires!”

  “Back, you fiend!” I commanded, with my cross in hand. Thank heaven I am a trained actress, for I believe I managed to sound bold despite the fear that gripped my heart.

  “Please,” he said, calmly now. “Ellen, you know me. I’m not a bad person. I did not ask to become like I am, and I have tried to fight on the side of righteousness.”

  I must admit that the tale he told us earlier, of using his vampiric powers to rid the world of other vampires, rings truer to me than the idea of Henry Irving as a blood-sucking, murderous fiend. But I was not yet ready to take him at his word. “Bram wants you locked up for now, and locked up you shall stay,” I said, and looked into his sad eyes.

  Looking into a man’s eyes has so often been my undoing.

  “As an actress, you understand the human heart,” he murmured. His voice was silky. “Surely you are in touch with all emotions in order to be so expert in your craft. Can you not perceive the truth about me? That I only wish to help?”

  Of course, I saw that. It was all so clear….

  “Open the gate and remove the chains,” he said, a command that became a fervent wish the moment it reached my ears. And moments later he was free and it was I in the cage!

  “Oh, damn you! How did you do that?” I cried, for my mind was now clear and yet I did not remember setting him free.

  “Never look a vampire directly in the eyes, my dear,” he said, not unkindly. “We have the power to cloud your mind and bend your will. As yo
u see, I could have killed you and I did not. I am no threat to you. I only wish to reach the others before it is too late and all is lost.”

  “Then you will have to let me out of here,” I retorted. “You don’t know where they have gone. I do.”

  He turned and I shielded my eyes. “You won’t get the information that way. I have learned my lesson.”

  He unlocked the cage and I emerged, warily. “Where are they?” he asked.

  “I will tell you if you take me with you.”

  “It is too dangerous.” He looked alarmed, which confirmed that I had the advantage.

  “Time is running out, Henry. That is my final offer.”

  After a mere moment’s hesitation, he relented. “So be it.”

  We left the theatre and I tried to hail a cab, but Henry stopped me.

  “No, I am quicker than a cab. Climb on my back.”

  “What?” I nearly laughed, despite the situation. “No, that is preposterous.”

  “I can move like the wind. Climb on and tell me where we are going.”

  And that is how I found myself jumping on the back of my employer and wrapping my arms around his neck tightly, like a little girl getting a ride from an indulgent father. “They’re at Pembroke cemetery, it’s—”

  “I know where it is,” he said and with a great whoosh, we were off!

  We moved so fast the houses looked as one solid wall. The air blew through my hair as if I were sticking my head out the window of the fastest moving train in the world and I was absurdly grateful that I had not spent overlong styling it this morning. It was hard to catch my breath and I had to shield my face against his back for the rushing wind stung me. It was terrifying yet exhilarating! And in what seemed only scant minutes, we arrived at the cemetery gates.

  I climbed down from his back on wobbly legs. We found Bram, Robert and the doctor hiding behind a mausoleum with a good view of the Mayhew family crypt, a mere twenty-five yards away. The full moon provided much-needed light.

  “Miss Terry!” Bram whispered. “What is the meaning of this?”