Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  Wotton ran towards me and Irving, screaming in agony. He nearly stumbled into us, almost setting us on fire in the process. Irving and I broke apart.

  Irving took that moment to grab Wilde and rush back into the church.

  Wotton fell to the ground and collapsed into a pile of smouldering goo.

  “Into the church,” the Bishop commanded me. “Kill them all!”

  Into the church I went, dragged against my will by the invisible force of his anger.

  The humans scattered like rats, except for Roosevelt, who was lying between pews, barely conscious. Irving attacked me and I sent him flying with a slap of my hand. He smashed into a pew and it shattered. A large piece of splintered wood impaled his lower back, emerging through his stomach. With the vampire down, the rest of them had no chance against my great strength.

  The Bishop entered, waving that damned spear like he was a Roman emperor.

  Irving writhed in pain, much to the Bishop’s satisfaction. “You could have had so much, Henry, and you threw it all away.” The Bishop turned to me. “Kill the rest of them, now!”

  Hatred flared inside me, and its power helped me regain a bit of my own will.

  I cornered Wilde by the altar. He cried in fear like a lamb before a wolf.

  I saw a glint of silver from a dagger in Wilde’s belt. “Stab me,” I whispered, for anything would be better than being a fool’s slave. I held myself back as long as I could, giving him time to recover his celebrated wits.

  “I said kill him!” the Bishop barked again.

  But I had given Wilde enough time to grab his dagger and stab me in the chest. The clumsy fool missed my heart by a good six inches.

  I fell to the ground with the dagger in my chest. It was enough to break the spell momentarily. “Get that spear away from him!” I yelled. The pain was quickly leaving my body and the wound closing up and pushing out the knife. When the dagger fell to the ground, I would be back under the spear’s influence.

  Stoker, the woman and Wilde all rushed the Bishop at the same time. Stoker grabbed hold of the spear at the shaft just below the blade. But it was too late; the Bishop had raised the pistol and fired, hitting the woman in the leg.

  Wilde grabbed the gun, but the Bishop held on tightly.

  Stoker cried out the woman’s name (Helen?) in vain.

  “Back!” the Bishop yelled, firing another shot, this time at Stoker, and missing him by inches.

  Stoker and Wilde did as they were commanded.

  “And you, Henry,” he said to Irving, who had freed himself and was struggling to his feet. “Stay where you are,” he said, pointing his gun more squarely at Stoker. He held the spear tightly in his left hand.

  Seeing the woman crying in pain, Stoker took a step towards her.

  “Stop!” the Bishop yelled. “She will be out of her misery soon enough, as will you all.”

  “Think of what you are doing, Wilkins,” Stoker said. He held his palm out as if he could stop another bullet from hitting the woman. “Is cold-blooded murder part of your new world order?”

  “It is for those who try to stop me,” the Bishop screamed.

  Suddenly Stoker rushed towards him, his arm out squarely in front of him, and purposely plunged his open hand onto the blade of the spear. The tip pierced through his palm and out the back of his hand. He did not wince in pain. His eyes held only a steely determination of which, I will admit, I would not have guessed him capable.

  “You don’t scare me, little man,” he said. Blood dripped from his pierced hand.

  Wilkins yanked the spear away, ripping the blade out of his flesh. Stoker took a step back, his hand now gushing blood.

  The Black Bishop laughed. “Now what did that accomplish, Bram? Who’s the little man now?”

  What Stoker had accomplished – whether through brilliance or a foolish accident I do not know – was to cover the blood on the spear with his own, taking away its power. I suddenly found myself completely free of it!

  Wilkins spat. “Kill this one first,” he commanded me, pointing at Wilde.

  “Maybe second,” I hissed, sinking my fangs into his neck. I tasted surprise, fear and despair in his blood. I drained away his arrogance. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter, to my living or Un-Dead tongue. The spear clattered to the stone floor, no more a threat to me now than the arrows shot at me by doomed villagers all those centuries ago.

  “Turn me,” he gasped when I paused for a moment to savour his defeat. “Please. Together we can still reshape the world.”

  “I do not seek to change the world,” I said. “Nor would I need a partner to do so. The only thing we will share, Mr. Wilkins, is this.”

  And I drank again. I drained him until his heart fluttered its final beat, then ripped his head off out of spite and tossed it into the baptismal font.

  The humans looked at me, terrified, and Irving got to his feet, readying himself to defend them to the best of his ability. I should have killed them – at least Stoker before he could write his damnable book. Few people learn my true nature and live to tell about it. But it is what Wilkins wanted me to do and I would not give him anything, even in death. I wiped the blood from my face and, with a dismissive wave, urged them about their business. “You are safe from me. Tonight,” I said.

  Wilde and Irving rushed to Roosevelt’s aid, while Stoker tended to the woman’s leg. The bullet had not gone through the bone and she was surprisingly brave about it, not even losing consciousness as women so often do at the sight of blood.

  As I left, I told them, “Stoker’s blood will turn the prince back into a human, but you must hurry before the demon takes hold. After that, it might kill him.”

  “So, his blood is not my salvation,” Irving said, dejected.

  “No,” I said. “There is no cure for us. We are doomed to walk the earth forever, thirsty for life.”

  I paused again on the way out of the church. Roosevelt lay on the floor before me, barely alive from his gunshot wound. Wilde was pressing a handkerchief to the wound futilely.

  To this day I do not know what came over me. Perhaps it was gratitude for my regained freedom. I bit my wrist and pressed it to Roosevelt’s lips.

  “Drink, it will save you.”

  He refused.

  “It will not make you a vampire to take a small amount of my blood, but it will save your life.”

  He sipped and it revived him; my last act of charity, I can assure you.

  This is the true account of what happened that night. You have me to thank for killing the Bishop.

  As for your little Society, I continue to let you live because I do not want the Realm opened any more than you do. You serve me, even if you think you do not.

  This is my world, and my world it shall stay.

  Letter from Dr. Seward to Dr. William Gull, Royal Physician, 22nd of May 1880

  I have thoroughly examined the prince and must say he has made a remarkable recovery. The madness that ravaged his brain brought about by his head trauma and childhood typhoid fever has subsided.

  Gone are his delusions and his manic behaviour. He is able to speak with us in a coherent manner, though he has no recollection of the last two years. Perhaps that is for the best.

  I do not know what led to this cure. I wish I could say it has something to do with his treatment here, but alas I cannot. I can only attribute it to an act of God.

  I see no reason he cannot return home and to his studies. I turn his care over to you, Dr. Gull. Please let me know if his odd behaviours return.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Seward

  From the London Times, Society Page, 25th of May 1880

  Wilde Animal found in Zoo

  25 May 1880 – Regent’s Park

  This morning, a keeper at the London Zoo discovered a new exhibit, of the Homosapien-Drunkard type.
The zookeeper was shocked to discover a naked man in the wolf cage ‘sleeping one off’.

  The man, later identified as William ‘Willie’ Wilde, is the son of Lady Jane Wilde.

  Well known for his carousing, Mr. Wilde has taken it to new heights.

  “Found him curled up among the sleeping wolves. Why they didn’t eat him is anybody’s guess,” said zookeeper Peter Butcher.

  Wilde was fined five pounds and released into the custody of his brother Oscar, who, when asked to comment on the incident, would say only, “My brother has always been fond of dogs.”

  This comes after reports of a wolf loose in Mayfair last night, but Mr. Butcher insists all the zoo’s wolves are accounted for. If Mr. Wilde did let any of them out they have returned to their cages without incident.

  Last Pages of Oscar Wilde’s Un-Produced Play

  Archivist’s note: The White Worm Society has been unable to locate any source material that explicitly details Derrick Pigeon’s actions, location or fate beyond the night when Willie Wilde saw him leave with the other vampires. What follows is an excerpt of an unfinished play by Wilde titled, Eternal; or Death of a Fallen Angel. Though the play was never completed, it was dedicated ‘To DP, always’.

  MAURICE’S FLAT, NIGHT

  A storm rages outside, rain, thunder and lightning. It is dim, lit only by the light of the fireplace and occasional lightning strikes.

  Maurice enters with a lit lamp held out in front of him.

  Maurice: What kind of hell has broken outside? (He goes to the window to watch the storm.) I fear a flood has begun.

  A knock at the door. Maurice hurries to open it and is stunned to see Christopher outside, carrying a large framed painting; it is the portrait of Christopher that George had painted. After an agonised moment, Maurice makes a decision and steps back, holding the door.

  Maurice: (his voice resigned) Christopher. I suppose you had better come in.

  Christopher: (entering) Aren’t you glad to see me, Maurice?

  He drops the painting and embraces his friend. After a moment, Maurice returns the embrace, then steps back, studying Christopher, trying to discern the change in him.

  Maurice: I suppose I am. But I would have been happier had I found you weeks ago. I searched for you. I enlisted friends, we tried to rescue you.

  Christopher: I was rescued. Rescued from the spectre of death, and the depravity of human nature.

  Maurice: So I heard. You have been turned. I shall kill Willingham for this.

  Christopher: You’ll have to go through me first.

  Maurice: You are under his control, Christopher, I understand that. But when I kill him, you shall be free. You will still be…as you are, but perhaps we can find a cure. I know someone who is searching for one, and….

  Christopher: I do not wish to be cured. No one forced me to submit, it was my choice. Immortality is what I always wanted, after all.

  Maurice: But I don’t understand. They dragged you away, screaming in the night.

  Christopher: Foolishness. I was frightened. Too timid to take so bold a step and embrace the power and destiny that was being offered to me.

  Christopher begins to slowly circle the grief-stricken and horrified Maurice, like a venomous snake circling and mesmerising its prey.

  Christopher: But you know in your heart, Maurice, that I could not accept an ordinary life of ageing, decrepitude and death, a menial existence among menial folk. I am meant for so much more, for life and adventure, glory and eternal youth, and a seat among the powerful. It has always been so that the wise and bold rule over the stupid and meek. The Black Bishop, he has given me everlasting life. Let me give it to you, Maurice.

  Christopher stops behind Maurice, running a hand over Maurice’s neck. Maurice is frozen in agonising indecision.

  Christopher: Eternity, Maurice, for the two of us. It’s what we talked about, what we both wanted. I know you’ve thought about it, dreamt about it. How could you not?

  Maurice: (weakening) I have thought about you. Dreamt about you.

  Christopher: Then this is the way. The only way.

  He leans in to Maurice’s neck, but at the last moment, Maurice pulls away.

  Maurice: What good is everlasting life if one loses one’s soul?

  Christopher: The soul weighs so little, Maurice, you hardly miss it at all.

  Maurice: And yet it keeps me tethered to something greater than myself.

  Christopher: (growing annoyed) It keeps you tethered to the dirt of the earth. It keeps you tethered to death.

  Maurice: Death is the only thing we all share, the only thing that binds us together and makes us human. The poorest man and the richest king all share the same fate.

  Christopher: And you think that makes them nobler, somehow, than I?

  Maurice: It makes them human, as God and nature intended them to be.

  Christopher: Do you know where I grew up, Maurice?

  Maurice: No.

  Christopher: In the East End. My mother was a whore who sold her body for gin. And do you know where she plied her trade?

  Maurice remains silent.

  Christopher: She would wait at the side door of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The human churchmen did nothing to save her, they just watched her go off with man after man. Many of them were clergy themselves. When she went mad from syphilis they put her down like a dog. The Black Bishop sees the folly and corruption of men and means to make them pay for their lack of humanity!

  Maurice: Those men were hypocrites, but no more so than your leader; he wants them to have humanity but also wants to take it away. As he took yours away.

  Christopher: As a human, I was like a child. I have grown up and have become so much more.

  Maurice: A slave to that which made you. You have become less than what you were; a servant can choose to be a servant, but you have lost your free will.

  Christopher: We are all someone’s slave and someone’s master. I chose to serve Willingham and he serves the Bishop.

  Maurice: A chain of monsters leading all the way down to hell!

  Christopher: The Black Bishop is no monster. He isn’t even a vampire. He has chosen to keep his humanity.

  Maurice: So, he is king of the vampires by election then? What is this power he wields over them?

  Christopher: He has been chosen by God to lead. He has been given a talisman, the very spear that pierced the side of Jesus Christ. The blood on the spear calls on us all to help him rule.

  Maurice: So, if I held this spear I would be king? There is no divine provenance in that.

  Christopher: God showed him where the spear was and how to use it. The Black Bishop does not wield the spear, it wields him.

  Maurice: To what end?

  Christopher: A glorious rebirth of the world. A thousand years of peace, then the Second Coming. Let me turn you and you can witness the return of Christ for yourself.

  Maurice: To watch the humans ascend to heaven while we who waited get thrown into hell?

  Christopher: Those who serve the Bishop will be saved, so it is written in the secret bible, the Book of the Dragon.

  Maurice: Oh, the secret bible, why didn’t you say so? Listen to yourself, Christopher! You’ve thrown away your humanity, your free will and your soul because some madman told you it is the will of God?

  Christopher: And you would turn down eternal life because some other madman convinced you that you have a soul! Become one of us, Maurice. You have no idea what it’s like. All fear is gone, giving me such peace as you could never know. I experience things you can’t imagine. Sensual pleasures are heightened; the night is alive with sounds I’ve never heard before. Even the wind on my face feels different, like the breath of a lover.

  Christopher picks up the portrait from the floor, admiring it.

  Christopher: I will not fa
ce death. I will live forever. This portrait George painted of me will decay and rot away long before I do.

  Maurice: The eyes in that painting display more life then those gazing upon it!

  Christopher stares at the painting and knows this to be true. It angers him and he smashes it against the mantle, shattering the frame into pieces.

  Christopher: I shall not burn in the fires of hell – this wretched picture will!

  He rips the canvas away from what is left of the frame, wads it up and stuffs it into the fire.

  With Christopher’s back still turned, Maurice grabs a splintered piece of the frame from the floor, rushes over to Christopher and plunges the wooden shard into his back.

  Christopher screams in pain and falls back into Maurice’s arms.

  Maurice: Forgive me!

  Christopher: (dying breath) You fool! You could have had immortality!

  Maurice: I know. I will live a short life full of pain and misery. But it will be my choice.

  For a moment Christopher regains his humanity.

  Christopher: Maurice? Is that you?

  Maurice: Yes.

  Christopher: Thank you for freeing me from that soul cage. One second in your arms and I’m gratefully drawn to heaven.

  Stage goes black.

  Archivist’s note: The last line spoken by Christopher is struck out, with a note written in the margins: ‘Drivel. I shall never be a writer until I can write the truth!’

  Letter from Henry Irving to Dr. Victor Mueller, 31st of May 1880

  Dear Dr. Mueller,

  I regret to inform you that Reverend Richard Wilkins is deceased. As his closest friend, I was tasked with going through his unfinished correspondence and other personal business.

  I was quite intrigued to read letters from you that were forwarded by the estate of his acquaintance, Lord Sundry. I hope I am not invading your privacy, but I can assure you as executor of his will I shall keep the strictest confidence.

  From his journals, I know he was quite taken with your work regarding the life-giving properties of electricity. By the contents of your letters, I take it he has sent you blood samples to be examined. I, too, am quite curious as to the properties of said blood and would be very interested in helping you with your experiments and research. You see, the blood in question comes from myself.