Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  “No need to whisper,” Henry said, surveying the graveyard. “There is no one, not vampire nor human, within earshot at the moment. I made her bring me here. You need my help.”

  “Obviously, we are powerless to stop you,” Bram said. “At least get out of the moonlight.”

  We joined Bram and the others in the shadows.

  “Are we too late?” Bram asked Henry. “Is she gone from here for good?”

  “Perhaps. If she has already joined her maker she might not return here.” He continued to scan the graveyard with his heightened senses. “Some turn in a night, some it takes longer.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Dr. Hesselius said. “She could have led us right to the vampire that made her, if only we had arrived before sundown.”

  “If her master is miles away she will need to feed to have the strength to travel,” Henry said. “We may need to fan out from here to find potential….” He paused and listened. “She comes,” he whispered.

  After a moment, we saw Lucy enter the graveyard hand in hand with a child, a little ragamuffin not more than five or six years of age. He was skipping along with her as she cheerfully sang.

  “…Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb, Mary had a little lamb whose fleece was white as snow….” She stopped and lifted the child onto a nearby tomb. “My tasty little lamb.” She tickled the boy and he giggled. She moved in for the kill but, with another whoosh, Henry snatched her away and brought her to us.

  “No!” she screamed. “Release me!”

  Henry forced her to the ground. “Stake her!” he cried.

  Her spell on the street urchin was broken. He jumped from the tomb and ran with all his might out of the graveyard.

  She struggled so fiercely I was sure not even Henry could hold her. Dr. Hesselius rushed forwards with mallet and stake.

  “Don’t!” Robert screamed. He stepped between them and held Dr. Hesselius back. “Lucy, repent! Pray to God to save your soul!”

  She only bared her fangs at him and snarled in response.

  “She isn’t your Lucy anymore,” Henry yelled. “Let us release her soul. It is the right thing to do.” A confused Robert hadn’t any time to ponder this. From seemingly nowhere a shadow swooped in and threw Henry off of Lucy, flinging him a great distance and crashing him into a large gravestone.

  A brutish-looking vampire – for what else could he be with such strength? – was suddenly standing over Lucy. He struck Dr. Hesselius and Robert down with a single blow.

  “You’ve come for me, Mr. Coal!” Lucy squealed with glee. She rushed over and threw her arms around him. “Take me away from all this death.”

  Bram rushed Coal, but in a great bound of speed Coal swept Lucy up into his arms and sped off.

  Henry was on his feet now and gave chase. He caught up to them just as they were about to jump the cemetery wall. He tackled Coal around the legs and the three of them went tumbling in a tangle of limbs. They growled like animals as they wrestled. But Henry was no match for two vampires and they quickly pinned him.

  Robert, Hesselius and Bram made a mad dash to Henry’s aid, with stakes drawn.

  Lucy, like a rabid cat, was clawing at Henry’s face, tearing off flesh, snarling and laughing all the while. Coal had his arms around his neck and was trying to snap it.

  They paid no mind to us in their frenzy and this gave us humans an opening. We rushed them and Robert plunged a stake into Lucy’s back. “Forgive me, Lucy!” he cried. “Forgive me!” He threw his weight behind the stake and it burst out through her chest. She screamed and exploded into a pile of blood and gore!

  Bram wrapped a silver chain around Coal’s neck and brought him down like a dog. You could hear the vampire’s flesh sizzle as he fell to his knees.

  Henry was up and, surprisingly, did not appear to be in pain from the wounds inflicted by Lucy. However, his face was grotesquely deformed, with deep scratches. Part of his nose was missing and his left ear was torn clean off! Ridiculously, my first thought was that his acting days were certainly over.

  Poor Robert was in a silent daze. He just stood there, mouth agape, holding the bloody stake he had used to dispatch Lucy.

  Henry could see Bram was struggling to keep Coal down. He stalked over to Coal and struck him across the face, so hard a few teeth flew out of his mouth.

  “Who is the Black Bishop?” he ordered. “Tell me or I shall stake you!”

  “I…I don’t know ’oo ’e is,” Coal gargled.

  “This is pointless,” Hesselius said. “He is bound to his master and could not tell us if he was ordered not to.”

  “That’s right,” Coal said. Bram had let up a bit on the chain to make it easier for him to talk. “I can’t. I’d like to, can’t.”

  “All right then, let’s stake him and be off,” Bram said, tightening his grip on the chain.

  “Wait, wait!” Coal pleaded. “The Black Bishop didn’t turn me, so I could tell you if I knew. But I don’t know! I swear! Me and Leech was ’ired by this count from Romania to get ’is ’ouse ready. Bloke showed up one day, introduced himself as the Black Bishop and offered us a lot of money to kidnap the count. I didn’t know until that day the count was a vampire. Never even ’eard of vampires before then, truth be told.”

  “How did you become one?” Hesselius asked.

  “I can’t say who drained and filled me,” he said. “I am forbidden to tell anyone.”

  “Where can we find the Black Bishop?” Henry asked.

  “I don’t know nothin’. I’m just one who looks after my master’s ’ouse.”

  “Ah, are you forbidden by your master to tell us where he lives?”

  “Car—” he said, but the words were choked out of his mouth. “Ca— Car—”

  “He is worthless,” Bram said. “He is an illiterate henchman at best.”

  With that, Robert suddenly snapped out of his trance. Before anyone could react, he rushed forwards with a heartrending wail of grief and rage and thrust the stake into Coal’s chest, leaving another pile of bloody remains.

  The rage quickly left Robert’s face and he now looked horrified at what he had done. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t thinking.”

  We found some shovels in a nearby shed and buried what was left of the vampires in separate graves. Robert was still wracked with guilt for having killed Lucy, and for killing our only lead to the Black Bishop, such as he was.

  “You released her. It was a kindness,” I said. “And we weren’t going to get much more out of Coal.”

  “When I saw her taking delight in killing Irving, I knew my Lucy was no longer in that body,” he said as he finished filling her shallow grave with the last shovel of dirt. “I thought killing Coal would bring me peace. It did not.” I could only pat his shoulder, feeble comfort at best. There will be no peace for him, for any of us, any time soon.

  “The older ones just turn to dust,” Hesselius said to Bram, quietly so Robert wouldn’t hear.

  Henry was amazingly almost back to normal. His nose was intact once again and the scratches were completely gone. A bud of an ear was growing before my eyes. Imagine if he could perform that trick on stage, what a sensation it would be!

  Oh, Lillie, I do hope you get these letters and write back soon.

  Love,

  Ellen

  Letter from William (Willie) Wilde to James Whistler, 28th of June 1879

  Hope all finds you well, James. I am sure you are in shock at finding the enclosed twenty-pound note. Yes, I am paying back the loan and no, I did not rob a bank.

  I am now a fully employed member of society. I am a reporter for the Financial Gazette, thanks to a friend of my father’s, Lord Basil Wotton, who owns the publication.

  I fully see the irony in my working for a newspaper that is concerned with finance, as money and I are rarely on speaking terms,
but fear not, I shall be covering the theatre, opera, society parties and other sordid subjects only tangentially connected to money and those who have it.

  Enclosed is an advance on my first month’s salary. Thank you, James, for keeping me afloat and inebriated in lean times.

  One would think Oscar would be pleased at my new position; however he seems to have a grudge against my benefactor. To hear him tell it, Lord Basil is some sort of monster who is only trying to exert control over Oscar through me.

  Is it not interesting how all things circle back to Oscar? I am sure he feels my servitude to Lord Basil makes it harder for him to claw his way up the social ladder, which has been his obsession since childhood. When he is not mocking the upper classes behind their backs, he is grovelling at their feet.

  It is a waste of time as far as I’m concerned. We were never part of their world and my father made sure we never would be with his scandalous behaviour. The best we can do is take their money when they are foolish enough to throw it at us.

  Oscar being Oscar to be sure, but it was still upsetting that he could not be happy for me and support my new career.

  In any event, I will be making enough to keep Mother in her house and myself in libations.

  Why don’t you get out from behind that easel and come out with me this Saturday night? We can paint the town red like we did in the old days.

  Forever in your debt,

  Willie

  Letter from Florence Stoker to Phillipa Balcombe, 29th of June 1879

  My dearest Mother,

  I am sure by now you have heard the tragic news of Lucy’s passing. I am shocked and saddened to the extent that I have been ordered to bed by my doctor. Fear not, he says the baby is in good health and this is but a precaution.

  It saddens me greatly that the baby will never know Lucy, for she brought my life great joy with her sunny outlook.

  My own disposition has been very melancholy even before Lucy’s death, and now I have no light to shine upon this shadow hanging over me.

  I cannot help but think there was more I could have done for her.

  Bram and I are well and looking forward to your visit after the baby is born. It is a comfort knowing I will see you soon.

  Your loving daughter,

  Florence

  Letter to Florence Stoker from Phillipa Balcombe, 6th of July 1879

  My sweet, sweet Florence,

  You must pray to God and ask for forgiveness. Not for failing Lucy, for I do not think you have, but for failing yourself. Wallowing in despair is a selfish act at best and at worst is putting your soul into the hands of Satan himself. Cheer up, my little flower, and turn your face once again towards the sun.

  It is the lot of women in life to be the emotional backbone of the family. Give up your silly notions of acting on the stage and redirect your efforts into being a good wife and mother. I think it will give you a greater sense of purpose and fulfilment; I know it did for me.

  Your father and I will pray for you and the baby’s good health.

  Love,

  Mother

  From the Diary of Florence Stoker, 25th of September 1879

  Death haunts me.

  Lucy’s death hangs on me like a funeral shroud. What I have learned in its wake has left me shaken and at sea, untethered from the moorings that held me fast to the rational world I thought I knew. My logical brain and sceptical nature kept me from even considering what was before my eyes.

  For Bram has told me that there are vampires in the world and Lucy became one. I would have thought him mad if his story weren’t supported by Henry Irving, who apparently is one himself! He demonstrated this for me by suddenly sprouting fangs, a trick that I know to be beyond the skills of the theatrical artists of the Lyceum.

  I would think myself mad even for writing this, that I had dreamt the entire conversation in my grief and fear, but at breakfast this morning I cautiously broached the subject with Bram and he confirmed that it had happened and that he stood by every word.

  I am angry at Bram for not confiding in me sooner. Apparently, he has known of such creatures since before our marriage. Indeed, as a child, he drank from a vampire – none other than Henry Irving – in an act that saved his life and changed him forever, though he learned of this only recently. He shouldered the burden of this knowledge on his own, thinking he was protecting me; however, it only put me in more danger. I shudder when I think that Lucy could have turned me into one of those things that night.

  I am still uneasy around Henry Irving. Bram assures me that he is no threat and, in fact, he offers us much protection. But I can’t help but see him as a thing wearing human skin. I do my best not to be in his presence, for my blood runs cold at the sight of him. I can’t help but feel he is somehow tangentially responsible for Lucy’s death.

  If I’m honest, I am uneasy with Bram as well. How can I trust him, knowing the secrets he has kept from me and the lies he has told to keep me in the dark? What sort of man is he, and how has his nature been formed by drinking the blood of a vampire? Will this nature be inherited by our unborn child?

  What can I still cling to as truth? Is there a God and a heaven? My only comfort is in believing so, for if there is Lucy should surely be there, now that she has finally been put truly to rest.

  But what of the wages of sin? I am haunted by that night in the garden. Did it condemn her soul to hell? Did she repent before her death? What sort of God would make us with human longing and weakness and then throw us into the fires of hell for giving in to them? I would prefer the cold, dark earth than to be at the whims of such a God.

  I assumed I was witnessing a lustful indiscretion, but now I know there was more to it. She was slowly being killed before my eyes. Did I just assume I was witnessing willing participation, because that is what I wanted to see?

  I have lost so much: My friend. My belief that we live in a rational world. My faith in my marriage. How I long to turn back the clock to the days when I felt safe, loved and confident in my future.

  From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 28th of November 1879

  8:25 p.m.

  I am feeling much more optimistic as of late, for the vampire threat seems to have been contained at least for the moment.

  Irving and Dr. Hesselius dispatched a nest of them last month. In addition, I have not sensed their presence in weeks. At the very least, Irving thinks we sent them into hiding and have disrupted their ranks.

  Our lives have returned to a normal routine and for that I am grateful.

  Florence has been ordered to bed rest by her doctor but he assures us she and the baby are doing fine and it is just a precaution.

  From the Diary of Oscar Wilde, 3rd of December 1879

  I feel my life descending into chaos. All around me corruption of the most hideous kind rages. And I, too, want to rage, to lash out, to scream profanities at the uncaring world. But I must not give in to the madness. I must find the internal strength to push it aside and deal with the matter at hand.

  Frank’s artistic nature perhaps has made him more susceptible to evil’s influence than most. Sweet, gentle Frank has witnessed a horror and it has broken his mind.

  As I write this, he has been institutionalised for his own protection. I am devastated, for it is I who brought this evil into his house.

  Nothing that day was a portent of the violence to come. In fact, I was in quite good spirits. After our conversation with the Cockney servant at the ceremony, Derrick had quite cooled to the idea of becoming a vampire, a great relief to me. I was jotting down a few ideas for a play I am working on, and Frank was finishing a painting of a young woman named Ingrid. I had become accustomed to nude people in the flat night and day, to the point where it seemed quite ordinary.

  Ingrid was becoming a Greek nymph through the magic of Frank’s brush. She was a patient creature, maintaining poses fo
r hours at a time, which included standing while holding a large bouquet of ferns and flowers.

  A Swedish girl, she spoke little English but could convey much with a smile. She was truly an exquisite specimen of womanhood and had not an ounce of shame in her nudity.

  A frustrated Frank threw down his palette. “I cannot for the life of me mix the proper blue to capture her eyes.”

  “I take break, now?” Ingrid asked hopefully.

  “We might as well call it a day,” Frank said. Ingrid did not understand the colloquialism, so he rephrased. “Yes, we are done working for the day.”

  As she laid down her burden and reached for her robe, our quiet evening was interrupted by a frantic pounding at the door.

  I had barely opened it when Derrick came barging in, out of breath and in a panic.

  “They are after me, Oscar!”

  I shut and locked the door and hurried after him into the drawing room.

  “Who are after you?”

  “The vampires! Lord Wotton has become one and I am to be his!” His eyes were wild with fright, and I felt as though the world had suddenly turned upside down.

  “Can he do that?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Apparently so,” Derrick said. “I have been summoned to his house to have ‘the gift’ bestowed upon me.”

  “What about ‘accepting the terms’ and all that rot from the ceremony?” I asked. “Can’t you simply refuse?”

  “I have, but was told by Lord Sundry that I cannot. In joining the Order, I entered into an agreement. And for the poor who cannot buy a spot at the top, our fate is sealed. When we are requested by an elder to be a servant, we must do so. Imagine, an eternity as a slave to that cretin!”

  “We will go to the authorities,” I said. “I have thought long and hard on this. These creatures must not be allowed to overrun London!”

  “Don’t you understand, Oscar? They are the authorities!”