As for the blood that dripped down upon her face, her hair, her bosom—she rubbed it into her skin with abandoned relish, her excitement mounting so quickly that I expected her to cry out any moment in ecstasy.
All this I watched with such keen revulsion that for some time, I could not quite believe what I saw; and then, when I believed, I could not think, could not move, could not intervene. What should I have said? What should I have done? Should I have freed the poor dying girl and killed her to stop her pain? The only death I could offer brought no true rest.
She would die honestly soon enough, without the loveless torment that undeath brought; so I did nothing, nothing at all.
Nothing at all save let a single tear of horror and pity spill down my cheek, for both the dying girl and Elisabeth. And at the surge of emotion, my control flickered; too stricken to struggle, I simply let it go, and stood unprotected and unveiled before the actors in that hellish tableau.
The girl was too far gone to detect my presence. But at last, Elisabeth sensed a change in her surroundings, and looked down to see me. “Zsuzsanna! Darling!” Her voice was shocked, exasperated, annoyed—and finally, terrified; her blood-painted face was a ghoulish mask darkening rapidly to violet-brown. She held out scarlet-spattered arms to me, beseeching, beckoning. “Do not judge me harshly, dearest. What I have done, I do for you. Come to me, and let me teach you the truest sweetness; come to me, and trust that this is all for the good.”
I said not a word. I merely stood motionless and returned her gaze without hatred, without anger; but the revulsion in my eyes was its own rebuke.
I lingered upon that vile, unconsecrated ground no longer than the span between two beats of a human heart. Then I went upstairs, gathered Friend into my arms, and left forever.
11
Dr. Seward’s Diary
7 SEPTEMBER. For the past five days, I have sat up through the nights with Lucy; never have I performed a more bittersweet task. During the whole time, I heard nothing from the professor, but each day sent him the requested telegrams on Lucy’s condition—to a “Mr. Windham” at the parents’ old cottage in Shropshire. The covertness of it all makes me feel rather sheepish, even though I understand the necessity for it.
For four days and nights, Lucy got along quite well, and began to markedly improve; the professor’s “magic” was working. But on the fifth night, exhaustion took its toll on me; and Lucy (who was feeling more her merry self) insisted that, rather than continue my vigil, I sleep in the adjacent room upon a comfortable old sofa. I refused, but as I could not altogether resist Morpheus’ lure, and since Van Helsing’s unnoticed silver crucifix was still safely in place above the window, I allowed myself a “brief nap” in the chair.
So it was that I fell into the sleep of the dead and did not wake until late morning, when I heard the anxious voices of the chambermaids:
“Oh, my poor Miss Lucy!”
“The doctor! Wake the doctor!”
I heard the words through the veil of a dream, but their content brought me to full alertness, just as an infant’s shrill cry provokes an immediate response from the sleeping mother. I leapt to my feet at once and followed the horrified servants’ gazes to the woman on the bed.
There lay my sweet Lucy, golden hair fanned behind her on the pillow, her skin and lips a dreadful ashen grey, her breath coming in gasps. The poor girl could barely speak. I rushed to her and took her hand, which was quite cool, then instructed one of the servants to bring a glass of port at once, but to say nothing to Mrs. Westenra should they encounter her en route. The other I sent off to the telegraph office, to send a message off to “Mr. Windham,” asking him to return to Hillingham at once. Lucy herself I ordered to remain silent, in part because I could not bear to watch her struggle so.
The next thing I did was to glance surreptitiously at the lintel over the window, as I completely expected that the small crucifix had somehow come loose from its place, fallen, and been swept up by one of the maids.
But no; I saw the glint of silver in the same place it had been the night before, and panicked. How could this be? I had trusted Van Helsing’s explanations utterly, but now one piece of the puzzle no longer fit. And if he was wrong about the security ensured by a talisman, might he be wrong about everything else?
There was nothing more to be done than sit by Lucy’s side and await the port, and, when it came, to put the glass tenderly to her lips and help her drink—she looking up at me with an expression of such sweet apology that it pricked my broken heart. She did her best with the port, which was not much; and then she sank wearily back upon the pillow, sighed, and slept.
The maid brought me a piece of stationery from Lucy’s desk, and so I hastily penned a note to Art telling of his betrothed’s setback, and had it sent out by mid-morning post.
The hours awaiting Van Helsing seemed to drag on forever, especially when night again fell and he had still not arrived. The worst of it was the fact that there simply was nothing more I could do for Lucy. In my desperation I considered attempting a very novel and experimental procedure, the blood transfusion—but since there was no one at Hillingham except myself, Mrs. Westenra, and three young housemaids, there seemed no one suitable to donate the blood except myself. Even if I had the equipment (which I did not), it would have been impossible to perform the procedure upon myself, as I might faint and thus lose both doctor and patient.
By early evening, we received a reply from “Mr. Windham” that he would be arriving on the early morning train. Even though my confidence regarding the crucifix talisman had been sorely shaken, I was nonetheless greatly relieved to hear the professor was well and was indeed on his way.
Thank God we passed an unremarkable night; this time, I allowed myself not a second’s sleep. The guilt I felt over failing my patient—the very one whom I most loved—negated all fatigue.
So it was that the professor at last arrived. He was in a somber mood—so somber that, in spite of Lucy’s terrible situation, I suspected that he had even greater sorrows on his mind. The first thing he whispered to me after Lucy’s mother (who seemed grateful to be kept in the dark concerning her daughter’s health) welcomed him into the house was:
“The crucifix. Did one of the maids remove it?”
“No,” I replied, as we began to ascend the stairs. “You will see. It is precisely as you left it.”
“Then someone else must have invited him in,” he said gravely. “Not Mrs. Westenra—”
“No,” I seconded, surprising myself. “Not she.…”
Despite the situation, Van Helsing gave a faint, grim smile. “You are quite the psychic talent, friend John. Most assuredly you do not take after me; what paltry abilities I possess came only after the greatest effort.” The smile faded at once into a thin-lipped expression of unhappy determination. “You are right about Mrs. Westenra. She has not been touched by those we fight; such things invariably show first in the aura, if only to the tiniest degree. But we must interview each one who slept in this house last night, even those who visited here after sunset. There we will find our answer to the mystery.”
He fell silent as we two approached Lucy’s room, and the little chambermaid opened the door with a slight curtsy. We requested privacy for our examination, which the girl grudgingly yielded; a good thing, for when Van Helsing stepped inside and saw Lucy sleeping, he whispered:
“My God!”
For a time, neither of us spoke, and as we both stood studying Lucy in the early morning light, I saw that she looked even worse than she had the day before. Her cheeks had sunken so that her face appeared skeletal. She was that close to death, perhaps only minutes away—and the realisation struck so hard that I came close to weeping, and actually stumbled.
The professor put an amazingly strong hand on my arm and steadied me. “She can be saved, John, but we must act swiftly; there is one thing I can do, but there is no time for explanation—”
“Yes, yes,” I answered, eager to focus on
something other than my own grief. “I thought the same! A transfusion—”
He sighed and shook his head. “No; such is too risky. I have seen the operation perform miracles—but I have more often seen it bring death. I do not know how to explain what it is I propose, except to say that it is a transfusion … of sorts. But it is not on a physical level.”
I was far too overwhelmed with emotion and confused by his words to reply. I merely blinked at him, waiting.
“I must have complete privacy; tell Mrs. Westenra and the servants—no one is to come near. Tell them—tell them that we are performing a transfusion of blood, and that the delicacy of the surgery is such that any interruption would endanger Miss Lucy’s life.” He paused, apparently struggling to make a decision as I turned towards the door; his hesitation made me linger. “John … I hesitate to ask such a favour, but the ‘operation’ I wish to perform does, in fact, require a donor.”
“Then I am he,” I answered at once.
“You should be aware, then, that this will drain some of the aura’s strength, and thus your ability to protect yourself, for some hours.”
“Doctor, I care not whether the cost is my own soul.”
He nodded, clearly relieved. “It is not impossible for me to use myself—but it will likely be far less effective for our patient. Very well; I will go into the other room to prepare myself. Could you also fetch my medical bag from downstairs? It will enhance the illusion that we are indeed performing the act we claim.”
I nodded, and we moved away from each other—I towards the hallway and stairs, he towards Lucy’s sitting-room. But sounds coming from downstairs—the sound of knocking, and the maid’s high-pitched reply—caught our attention. The professor shot me a look, and said, “I suspect Miss Lucy has a visitor.”
So it was he followed me quickly down the stairs, and just as we arrived in the hall, we saw Art Holmwood stepping in. At the sight of me, Art rushed up and took my hand, professing that anxiety over my letter had brought him here. “Is not that gentleman Dr. Van Helsing?” he asked politely, for the professor stood by my side, rather guardedly studying this young intruder. “I am so thankful to you, Doctor, for coming.”
I knew that Van Helsing had no reason to trust Art, and was examining him on a psychic level to see if he posed a threat to us or Lucy. But I was confident my friend would pass inspection, and so he did. I saw a flicker of relief on Van Helsing’s face, followed quickly by an honest look of admiration and satisfied approval. At once he took Arthur’s hand and, to my surprise, told him that we needed a donor for a blood transfusion—to which Art of course quickly volunteered.
Van Helsing sternly informed the servants then of our requirement for privacy, and found his black bag (which was larger and heavier than the typical physician’s bag; I cannot imagine what was hidden in it).
We three proceeded up to Lucy’s room. Art was, of course, stricken to see her so ghastly weak, and out of kindness, the professor permitted him a kiss before the “operation.” I was rather curious how he intended to pull it off with an outsider present, and Lucy now awake (though too exhausted even to speak).
He went into the other room, telling them both that he must prepare for the operation. He was gone no more than a handful of minutes, and when he returned, he bore in his hand a glass. This he said was a sleeping-draught for Lucy, and slipped an arm beneath her shoulders, lifting her up that she might drink it.
Perhaps it was indeed what he claimed, but I saw his gaze catch hers for an instant—and swear now that a distinctly bluish glow surged forth from his eyes into hers. At the conclusion of this, she promptly fell asleep. He then moved over to Arthur (who sat beside the bed in the same chair where I had so often sat vigil), and, bringing forth a long bit of tubing from his bag, pretended to affix it to his patient’s arm. First, though, he stared into Holmwood’s eyes with the same intensity he had used with Lucy, and within a matter of seconds, Art, too, was soundly unconscious.
I watched in fascination, scarcely breathing, as abruptly an egg-shaped glow enveloped the entire body of each patient—Lucy’s a feeble pale green, Arthur’s a strong, virile orange. Van Helsing moved first to Holmwood, whose head had lolled back against the high-backed chair. I was still so amazed by the brightness of the patients’ auras that I did not realise, until the professor approached Art and reached a hand out towards the deep tiger-lily glow, that Van Helsing himself was surrounded by a larger and even more intense, brilliant blue shimmer.
The professor reached forth into the sparkling orange and withdrew a large globe-shaped portion of it from over Holmwood’s heart. I could see the dark vacancy it left, and how the psychic wound immediately rushed to close itself and fill the void with shimmering orange; but the effect was that the entire aura paled and dimmed, as if diluted.
This orange “globe” the professor held between his hands for a moment. It did not mingle with Van Helsing’s bright blue, but instead seemed to grow ever stronger, ever deeper in hue, as he gazed calmly down upon it. And then, when he judged the moment to be right, he stepped over to where Lucy lay, and tenderly placed it upon her heart.
The reaction was fascinating to see: her feeble green aura at once surged forth like a hungry amoeba and “consumed” the orange glow, enveloping it until its distinctive colour disappeared completely. The union of the two did not yield a third hue; to the contrary, the pale green brightened to bold emerald, and its borders noticeably enlarged.
“We are done now,” Van Helsing said, and I looked up at him to see the blue aura quite gone. A quick glance back at the sleeping patients showed no trace of orange or green—only Art’s now wan-looking complexion, and Lucy’s cheeks kissed with a subtle trace of pink. It was as if I had been abruptly wakened from a strange dream, indeed.
When Art revived, we sent him home with instructions to sleep and eat as much as possible (though how he could with such worries about his ailing father and his fiancée, I cannot fathom). Lucy wakened vastly improved, which relieved me almost to public tears, for if she had died, her blood would have been on my head.
The professor then took me aside, and we two agreed that the best course of action would be for me to sit with Lucy the next few nights. Van Helsing himself will during the day keep to his cell at the asylum, and continue the “research,” as he calls it, that he began during his stay in the country cottage. By night, he will come in invisible guise to Hillingham, and remain here to see if he can unravel the mystery of how the vampire entered despite the protective talisman. He will also take steps to increase the “security” here, sealing off all windows and doors, and ordering blossoms of fresh garlic, which he says are more powerful repellents than the heads.
10 SEPTEMBER. A terrible, terrible day. I had spent the entire night of 8 September keeping watch over Lucy; when morning came, I was quite done in. But there was work to be accomplished at the asylum, and a new patient to be admitted. By the time I had attended to it all, dusk was approaching, and once again, I hastened to Hillingham for another all-night vigil.
Happily, Lucy was up when I arrived, and in fine spirits. Her mother reported proudly that she had dressed for an early supper, come downstairs, and eaten heartily. This was the best news I had had in some several months, yet my cheerfulness could not entirely mask my exhaustion. Lucy noticed it, and insisted that I rest upon the couch in the room adjacent to hers, within earshot. In case of any trouble, she promised to call for me.
Such was my fatigue that I agreed, telling myself that my sweet charge’s improvement was due to the added measures the professor had taken against the vampire, and that we were now completely safe. And at any rate, the professor himself would also be silently and invisibly patrolling the rest of the house.
So I crawled upon the couch, fell fast asleep, and did not wake until a palm pressed against the crown of my head. I sat up with a start, and saw Van Helsing staring down at me with a faint smile.
“You are well-rested, I trust,” said he indulg
ently, then lifted a hand for silence as I began to make apology; I had certainly not intended to sleep through the night. “No, John, explanation is not needed. You were tired and had earned the right. At any rate, I remained on watch around the servants’ quarters and Mrs. Westenra’s room. No disturbance there last night, nor on the main floor below. Shall we go see how our patient is faring?”
I assented eagerly, and together we stole into Lucy’s room.
I (and the professor, I am sure) was confident that this would be a cheerful visit, that we would find Lucy ever more restored and blooming with health. The room was quite dark, so I moved to the window and opened the blind, letting the morning sunlight stream into the room.
“God in Heaven,” Van Helsing whispered. At the abject horror in his tone, a thrill of unutterable fear shot through me. I closed my eyes and remained facing the window, for I knew what I would see the instant I turned.
Alas, I could not remain so forever. So I faced at last the heartrending sight upon the bed: Lucy unconscious, grey as Hillingham’s stone walls and just as lifeless. For a sickening instant, I honestly thought her dead.
And then, blessedly, her chest rose as she struggled for breath. Van Helsing addressed me at once. “Friend John, now is the time to make your sacrifice. Lock the door, then sit; I shall go into the other room but a moment, and then when I return, I will do it swiftly.”
I replied not a word, but moved directly to the door and locked it fast whilst the professor went into the adjacent room. Then I sat and tried to breathe slowly, evenly, in hopes of slowing my furiously racing heart. A miserable sense of failure washed over me, along with the irrational conviction that if Lucy died, I alone was to blame.
Directly Van Helsing came out, encompassed once again by the egg-shaped brilliant blue shield of his powerful aura. I glanced beside me to see that Lucy herself was radiating the pitifully dim emerald glow; as for myself, I spread my hand before me, curious to see what colour I might find there—but found nothing. (Van Helsing later reported to me that I have a “very healthy” blue aura with areas of gold.)
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