Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  Part of the creature, I knew not how much, remained underground while the top part writhed and flailed over a terrified crowd. It had no eyes, only a gaping, circular maw of teeth, dripping with saliva. It hungrily scooped up all in its reach, swallowing humans and vampires whole as if they were flies feeding a frog.

  I retreated to what I thought to be a safe distance, hiding behind a row of now-tipped carriages. I freed the horses and they ran off into the night. I thought for a moment of joining them but realised how important it was for me to record these events.

  Its hungry mouth snapped just feet away from where Stoker was tied to the table, just out of the beast’s range. It sniffed and quickly discovered that he was the only live thing left nearby – aside from the dragon, which was so close that the worm seemed unable to contort itself enough to reach it.

  The ground was loosening, and more and more of its grotesque body was wriggling its way out. With each lunge and snap of its mouth, it moved closer to Stoker, who was struggling fiercely to free himself.

  I had lost track of the prisoners in the chaos of so many people screaming and fleeing. But then I heard gunfire. Mr. Roosevelt had got to the Gatling gun and was firing at the fleeing vampires. Dozens exploded at once.

  “Robert, the worm!” Wilde screamed.

  Roosevelt turned the big gun on the worm. The bullets pierced its flesh and it roared in pain, but then the gun jammed.

  The creature continued its frenzied attempts to snatch up Mr. Stoker as Mr. Roosevelt turned his attention to unjamming the gun.

  “Help me, Oscar!” Miss Terry pleaded, running towards Bram who looked at her in alarm.

  “Ellen, no!” he cried. “The worm is too close, you’ll never untie me in time. Free Henry – we need his speed and strength now.”

  With an agonised look at Stoker, Miss Terry rushed over to Irving and tried to remove his chains, but his ankles and wrists were manacled and locked. She picked up a rock and started to pound at the locks.

  “I have an idea,” Wilde yelled. Then he just stood there, paralysed in fear as we all were.

  “What?” Ellen yelled. She had managed to break the lock on Irving’s ankles and was working on the wrists.

  “You won’t like it,” Wilde said. “Could make things worse.”

  “How could they possibly be worse?” Stoker yelled. The worm was so close to him now he was being sprayed with the creature’s spit.

  “It’s now or never, Oscar,” Roosevelt yelled. He stopped trying to unjam the gun as it was apparent it was not going to happen.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Wilde yelled (or some such expletive), and started to run. He was going for the dragon!

  He pulled the stake out of the beast’s foot and began yanking up the roped stakes. After only a few were loosened the dragon broke free, casting off the silver net. It used its talons to rip the muzzle off its beak and let out a roar of flame that nearly hit Wilde, who dropped to the ground and covered his head.

  It took to the air, circling the worm. I could tell it was looking to go home and was upset the worm was blocking its way. It screeched and cried.

  Wilde’s plan worked. The worm’s attention turned to the dragon.

  The dragon let out a huge roar and blasted flame onto the worm, producing a nauseating smell of brimstone and burned flesh. The worm screeched in pain, the noise terrible and deafening.

  “Hooray for the dragon,” Roosevelt yelled. He ran to Stoker.

  Wilde sprang to his feet and grabbed the dagger that the Black Bishop had dropped. He and Roosevelt started cutting Stoker free.

  The dragon flew past the worm and turned back for another attack. The worm gave one large heave and freed itself further, enough for it to extend itself in the direction of the dragon and grab it with its jaws.

  With a quick flip of its neck, it tossed the dragon down its throat, snapped its mouth closed and swallowed. The worm belched a plume of fire and then swooped down to finish off Roosevelt, Stoker and Wilde.

  Wilde ducked under the table, cowering in fear. Stoker was partially free and he and Roosevelt were frantically trying to remove the remaining ropes.

  The worm snapped again, hitting and crumbling part of the stone table. Wilde rolled away in the nick of time, but Stoker collapsed with the table. A large piece of broken stone now pinned his leg.

  Wilde and Roosevelt tried in vain to remove the stone and free Stoker’s leg.

  “Save yourselves,” Stoker commanded.

  “Any of that blood of yours left?” Wilde asked. “Maybe it closes the hole as well as opening it.”

  “As you can see, Oscar, the hole is currently blocked,” Stoker said.

  “Maybe we can unblock it! Where is the bloody blood!”

  “In the bag. It fell somewhere over there!” Stoker yelled, pointing to the doctor’s bag just a foot away. Unfortunately, it was a foot closer to the worm’s grasp.

  Wilde dived for the bag, and the worm dived for Wilde!

  Wilde pulled a bottle from the bag and was frantically trying to unlatch the stopper. Then, in one quick gulp, Wilde was swallowed up!

  Ellen screamed and ran towards the worm. Roosevelt sprinted forwards and grabbed her, holding her back.

  The worm lifted itself up straight and swallowed. You could actually see the shape of Wilde moving his way down the throat and disappearing into the depths of the worm’s stomach!

  Then the worm suddenly grew still, stiff almost. It became eerily quiet.

  After what seemed like minutes but was probably only seconds, it lurched forwards and vomited up Wilde at Stoker’s feet. Wilde had the remains of the broken bottle in one hand and the dagger in the other. Bloody drool dripped down from the worm’s maw. Its skin sizzled wherever a drop of blood touched it, and it flailed, apparently trying to rid itself of the noxious substance.

  The earth shook once more. The glowing light returned and encircled the hole. The ground closed up like an iris on a camera, snapping the worm in half! What remained aboveground collapsed to earth with an enormous thud.

  A blinding light once more shot into the sky, obliterating our view. The rumbling stopped and all was silent and then the light vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The stones were returned, undisturbed from their previous locations, every blade of grass and pebble replaced as if they had never been gone. All would have seemed as normal, except the top half of the worm’s bloody body was coiled among the ruins, twitching and pulsating as the last of its life force oozed out of it.

  Ellen and Robert ran over to Stoker and Wilde. Wilde was stunned and covered in saliva and vomit but appeared unharmed.

  “Bloody hell, Stoker, you are paying for this suit,” he said, shaking off the goo.

  “Good job, Oscar,” Roosevelt said, patting Wilde on the back. “What was it like in there?”

  “Overly hot and unpleasantly wet, but I have been in worse places for longer.”

  Oscar and Roosevelt pulled off the stone pinning Stoker’s leg and helped him to his feet. Ellen threw herself at him, nearly knocking him off his feet again, and enveloped him in a hug, which he gratefully returned.

  “See, I told you it was your destiny to be a hero,” she said.

  “I did very little,” Stoker complained. “It was Oscar who saved the day and my life.”

  “Once again it was your disagreeable blood that did the trick,” Oscar said. “I was merely the hors d’oeuvre that delivered it.”

  “We can go home now,” Ellen said, finally breaking her hug with Stoker.

  “Not quite,” Roosevelt said. He pointed over to a nearby area of thick grass. Prince Edward was hiding there, sobbing uncontrollably. “We need to get the prince back home.”

  A pistol made quick work of Irving’s shackles and he was freed. Roosevelt rounded up a horse and they all loaded into a carriage.

  When t
hey had gone, I collected samples of the worm and its saliva. I also managed to gather a few drops of the dragon’s blood that remained in the chalice and some of Stoker’s blood from the stone table. All have been sent to Cardiff for testing. I set the worm on fire with kerosene, reducing it quickly to ashes.

  May I also add that Supervisor D’Aurora agrees with me that Messrs. Stoker and Wilde would make valuable additions to the White Worm Society and its work. I feel recruiting them into our ranks should be an utmost priority.

  – End Report –

  The Events Discussed Here Happened on the Night of the 6th of May 1880

  Archivist’s note: This letter was delivered to the White Worm Society on 21st of April 1912. Is it a coincidence the letter was written just a day after Bram Stoker’s death? It is unknown what motivated this unprecedented correspondence, but it does provide unique insight into the aftermath of ‘the ceremony’. The details it contains match what we have learned from other sources, but this is certainly the most flamboyant account of that night.

  So many lies written about me: lies in history and lies from the poison pen of Stoker.

  I know you hunt me, obsessed with killing me as a trophy to add to your wall of monsters. But what is a monster? A cat is a monster to a sparrow. You are my monsters.

  True monsters walk among you and they are men. They bring war and famine, slavery and death, yet you do not move against them. You should. A great war is brewing and the four horses of the apocalypse will be ridden by men.

  The Black Bishop was one such man. You have no idea how close he came to the destruction of your entire world. The world of the Realm is like water and yours like oil; mixing them will just push your world aside. The Realm will burn your world off and take its place.

  I have read the documents in your archive, for I have minions everywhere, even among the ranks of your ‘secret society’. I have read the accounts of that night the door opened among the stones. More lies.

  You give Stoker accolades, yet it was he who opened the door to the Realm because he was too weak to sacrifice himself and his son to keep the world safe. Fool. What good would it have done to save his son only to have him destroyed along with the world? My father sacrificed me as a hostage to the Turks to keep the peace of a kingdom. Stoker could not even muster the courage to sacrifice one child to save everyone in the world.

  You hunt me? Fear me? Then blame Stoker for setting me free.

  Here are the true events of that night.

  After Wilde closed the hole to the Realm, the Bishop came to my prison cell in a rage and commanded me to chase down Stoker’s carriage and rescue the prince. The blood on the Spear of Longinus gave him this power. I was no more than a dog on a chain and had to obey him, even as my hatred for him crouched taut in my chest like a tiger waiting for its moment to pounce.

  We were off into the night. Like a common beast of burden, I carried him on my back and the vampires called Dripp, Leech and Wotton followed.

  We quickly caught up to the carriage, near an old stone church and cemetery.

  The vampire Irving felt our presence, but it was too late for I move like the wind. We descended on them. Dripp leapt upon Roosevelt, who was driving the carriage, while Wotton and Leech killed the horses, then dragged Wilde and Irving from the carriage and held them. I held Stoker. He went limp in my arms as if he knew all was lost.

  Irving struggled and broke free from Leech.

  “Mind yourself, Henry,” the Bishop said to Irving, who was clearly gauging the best strategy for attack. “Your friends’ necks could be so easily broken.” Irving stayed poised but made no move. Fool. Had he freed me when he had the chance, it would never have come to that.

  The Bishop helped the woman out of the carriage. (I forget her name; she is not at all important to history, in any event.)

  The prince was sprawled across the seat of the carriage, unconscious, as he dreamt the dream of the vampire. The fools were unaware that he was only moments from waking and would have slaughtered them all when he did.

  The Bishop stomped about like a petulant child.

  “Do you know what you have done?” he screamed in Stoker’s face. “I was to lead the world to righteousness. You have condemned millions of souls to eternal hell! The stars must be aligned just so. We cannot open this gate again for another hundred years.”

  “That is a relief,” Wilde said. “Now we need only hope that the twentieth-century megalomaniac who tries to open it is every bit as incompetent as you.” (His whiny little voice rings in my ears to this day! I should have crushed his windpipe!)

  The Black Bishop walked over to Wilde and slapped him across the face, the only action I would ever thank him for. “You may think you have beaten me, but you have not. You have just made things more difficult. The second part of my plan will continue. The prince lies in that carriage in a fevered state because he is becoming a vampire even as we speak. And such a vampire he will be, made from the pure blood of the dragon!”

  “You monster,” the woman shrieked.

  The Bishop smiled and continued. “After the prince turns the royal family into vampires I will control them with the spear.” He held it up for the prisoners to see. It was old and tarnished, yet at such a close distance its power set my blood on fire. It was almost too much to bear.

  “Then it will only be a matter of time before all the royal houses of Europe will fall under my control. My vampires are everywhere.”

  Suddenly a shot!

  The fool Wotton had become so enthralled by the Bishop’s prattling that he had loosened his grip and Wilde had pulled a pistol and shot at Dripp, who was clutching Roosevelt tightly from behind. He was as incompetent at shooting as he was irritating to listen to, for the bullet instead hit Roosevelt in the shoulder.

  Wilde looked horrified at what he had done. Another weakling, afraid to make the sacrifices necessary to save the world.

  Dripp laughed. Then a look of dread crossed his face and he let Roosevelt drop. The bullet had gone through Roosevelt and into Dripp. It must have just nicked his heart, for he stood for a few more seconds with a stupid look on his face before exploding.

  Wotton pulled Wilde closer but Wilde got a second shot off, just as Wotton snatched the pistol away. The bullet hit me in the neck and Wilde looked at me in terror as I turned my furious gaze upon him. I staggered and Stoker slipped from my grasp and rushed to the woman, standing in front of her as if he could protect her. I fell to my knees, the pain of the silver bullet radiating through my body from the wound on my neck.

  Wotton tightened his grip around Wilde’s neck to the point I thought he would break it.

  In the confusion, Irving made his move. He plunged his hand through Leech’s chest, grabbed his heart and yanked it out. Leech had a moment to look at his death and actually laughed. “See all of you in—” Then he exploded, but I could hear a faint echo of, “…hell.”

  Wotton spun Wilde around and slammed him against the carriage.

  In the chaos, Irving grabbed the wounded Roosevelt, made a run for the church and kicked down its door. Stoker and the woman seemed poised to make a stand against me. Foolish. They would not have been able to stop me had I turned my wrath upon them.

  “Kill them!” the Bishop barked.

  I was still shaking off the pain and healing myself. This only took moments (for my healing powers are great), but I was momentarily unable to give chase. Oddly, the pain broke the spell of the spear, and I was hoping to use this to my advantage.

  Wotton was preoccupied with Wilde.

  “First I’m going to drain you to the point just above death. Then I will kill your friends so you can hear their screams as you lie here, helpless. Then I will come back and torture you some more, just for amusement, before turning you into my slave. I shall have centuries to torment you!”

  “Give me the damn gun,” the Bish
op commanded. “I’ll finish them off myself.”

  Wotton tossed the gun to him and the Bishop came over to me.

  “Get up!”

  “Still too weak,” I lied. By then I was almost back to normal.

  Wilde, still held against the carriage by Wotton, remained defiant and silent.

  “What, cat got your tongue?” Wotton asked. “Normally you can’t shut up. Where is your great wit now?”

  Wilde shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

  Wotton opened his mouth wide and bared his fangs, dripping with saliva.

  Wilde took a deep breath through his nose then spat a tiny silver cross he had been hiding in his mouth down Wotton’s throat. Clever, I must admit.

  With a look of shock on his face I found to be quite humorous, Wotton stumbled back, releasing his grip on Wilde. Stoker and the woman took the opportunity to make a break for the church.

  The Bishop raised his gun to shoot him, but Irving rushed out of the church at full speed and knocked him down. Damn it all, he managed to maintain his grip on the spear.

  “Help me!” the Bishop screamed. By now my strength was back and so too was the spear’s influence. I was compelled to help him and attacked Irving.

  Wotton fell to his knees choking, frantically trying to cough up the cross, but it was all in vain. He must have swallowed it further, for a small hole burned near his sternum. The cross pushed its way out, clinging to the singed flesh of Wotton’s chest for a moment before dropping to the ground. A look of relief came across Wotton’s face. Then a big, evil smile. He staggered to his feet, triumphant, not noticing the flames starting to smoulder in the hole in his chest.

  Wilde, who had stopped, mesmerised by the scene, shouted, “That is for Derrick Pigeon, and for Frank Miles! You shall destroy no more lives, you pompous, depraved, vulgar wretch.”

  “I shall squash you like the bug you are,” Wotton bellowed. However, before he could take another step forwards, his stomach belched out a large flame and it ignited his clothes.