Van Helsing's Diaries (Books 1-3): Nosferatu

by Peter Cawdron

  A perfectly logical explanation is precisely what I need to set my mind at ease, and I slip the catch on the window, pinning the frame in place.

  As I turn to walk back to my crumpled pile of blankets lying on the floor beside the fireplace, a shadow passes over the window. My heart jumps. I cannot help but look.

  My name floats as if whispered on a breeze.

  “Alan.”

  My blood runs cold.

  A low mist swirls across the ground, hiding the muddy track outside.

  “Alannnnn.”

  It’s the wind.

  The storm is returning.

  Clouds blot out the moon.

  “Alannnnnnnnn.”

  I blink, rubbing my eyes, and Jane steps out of the shadows. Her hair is wet. Strands of loose hair stick to her cheeks, wrapping around the side of her neck. Her nightgown is soaked, clinging to her body.

  Jane is fastidious. My Jane couldn’t stand to be seen in public without at least brushing the knots out of her hair. She’s businesslike, often keeping her hair back in a ponytail even on the weekends. This is not my Jane.

  She walks slowly toward the window, reaching out her hand. Her fingers are relaxed, with a slight, natural curl that begs me to take her hand.

  “I—I…”

  I want to yell for help, to wake the others, but my throat constricts and I can barely breathe.

  “Alllllannnnnn.”

  “Jane, please,” I whisper, reaching out my hand and steadying myself against the window frame.

  “Let me in,” she says, with her voice sounding like the wind.

  “I can’t,” I say, but that’s the wrong term. I should have said, “I won’t.” I should be defiant, but even now I can feel my willpower fading. My arms are heavy, seemingly pinned to my side. My feet flex, but refuse to move. I should flee, but I’m held captive by some dark spell.

  “Alan, please. It’s me. Jane.”

  My hands are shaking.

  “I’m cold. I’m so very cold,” she says, approaching to within a foot of the window.

  “No,” I say, but that one word is not convincing, being spoken at barely more than a whisper.

  Jane reaches out and touches the window. Her fingers spread out, pressing lightly against the old glass pane. No, not Jane. My Jane never set foot outside the Continental USA. This monster, this foul thing that has stolen her body seeks to deceive me.

  “Honey, please,” she says.

  Could this be Jane?

  Could Jane have survived somewhere deep inside?

  Perhaps Vladimir is wrong. Of course he’s wrong. There’s no such thing as vampires. Jane must be having an identity crisis, having suffered a mental breakdown following the shock of killing Jasmine Halter, but she’s still my wife, and I love her.

  But what if he’s right? And my mind casts doubts upon itself, remembering the night I almost died because of some hideous disease hidden beneath her fingernails. But she couldn’t have known about that. Could she? My mind wrestles with the possibilities.

  What happened in the ruins? What really happened? Jane was there, but she never attacked me. Vladimir did. He and his sons, they rushed at me with chains. They were going to murder me. Even now, they’re manipulating me, stirring up primal fears, using me to act out their own fantasies.

  “Alannnnnn.”

  “Yes,” I say as our eyes meet.

  Jane has never looked more beautiful. She’s dressed in a white ball gown, with frills of lace and sequins that sparkle in the light. Her hair is set in meticulously crafted braids. Blush lights up her cheeks with a hint of color. She's wearing blood red lipstick. Staring into her eyes, I feel myself falling into a trance.

  We’re no longer in Romania. We’re back in Boise, Idaho, coming home after dinner at The Gaslamp. I open the door and we walk inside our apartment, but something’s wrong. A putrid stench fills the air. Dark stains mar the carpet. The cushions have been disemboweled. Scratch marks line the walls. I shake my head and the dream dissipates, leaving Jane standing before me, drenched in her nightgown.

  “No,” I say, and yet my hands betray me, fiddling with the latch. Jane’s fingers grip the edge of the window frame, pulling gently on the wood. I cannot resist her.

  “Take my hand,” she says, reaching in through the window.

  I step back, knowing this will be the death of us all.

  “Hold me, Alan. Touch me,” she implores. Her words are hypnotic, commanding me to obey. Try as I may, I cannot fight her.

  Her fingers reach for me, coming within inches of my cheek before clutching softly at the air beside my neck. It’s not as though she means to hurt me, just to rest her fingers on my skin.

  I have to warn the others. If only so they can pull me away.

  “Joe,” I say, but my voice breaks, barely registering in the silence.

  Jane laughs softly, playfully.

  She entices me, luring me closer with her fingers, beckoning me to step up to the window.

  The door is unlocked. The wooden beam barring the entrance has been removed and is leaning against the wall. Was that me? Did I do that? I don’t know what is real any more. Am I condemning us all to die beneath her hands?

  I am in a dream. And yet still Jane calls to me.

  In a feeble attempt to warn the others, I whisper, “Run,” but I am too weak. Jane knows she’s won, I can see that in her eyes. She smiles, but with satisfaction, not warmth. Her cheeks are as pale as those of a cadaver.

  My fingers are drawn to hers. I have to touch her. I have to know what’s real.

  “I love you,” she says, with one arm outstretched, reaching inside the cottage.

  Although I know it’s wrong, I’m spellbound. I have to touch her hand. Save me. Someone, please. But there is no one awake. I must save myself, and yet I can’t.

  Our fingers touch.

  Her hand is cold. In a fraction of a second there’s a discharge of what feels like static electricity. The transformation of this new host will take hours to complete, but already I can feel energy surging through my veins.

  Jane is disoriented. There’s confusion in her eyes. Now, it is I who am Alan and she is suddenly outside.

  Jane withdraws her arm, looking at her own hand as though something is horribly wrong.

  I smile.

  Once again, I have defied the fragile form of humanity, passing seamlessly between these wretched creatures. Jane steps backward, looking at her pale, thin fingers with disbelief. She falls to her knees in the mud.

  I am inside the cottage. No one is the wiser. I will kill them in their sleep, starting with the old man, the vampire hunter.

  Jane sobs quietly.

  Creeping into the kitchen, I open the drawers slowly, searching for a knife. I am ready to react to any sudden movement from the shadows, although if someone lit a lamp my default instinct would be denial. To catch humans off-guard, to fool them is sweet. There’s no greater pleasure than watching them die betrayed by those they trust.

  I pull out a butcher knife. The stainless steel blade reflects what little starlight seeps through from the thin window. I half expect Jane to start pounding on the door, trying to warn the others, but they will never believe her. If they heard her, they would think she was lying, that her cries were a ruse.

  Coals glow in the fireplace. One of the hunters sleeps on the floor by the dying fire. I could kill him before he woke, but the old man—he is the threat I fear. He must be the first to feel this cold steel blade sliding up into his heart.

  Quietly, I peer into each of the bedrooms, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Clothing lies scattered on the floor of the last room. I crouch, examining the old man’s jacket. I can smell him.

  Jane doesn’t disappoint me. She bangs on the wooden door, pounding madly, but she’s too late. All she will do is cause confusion, making my work easier. And I plunge my knife into the old man, slashing at his chest and driving the blade deep into his rib cage, striking him repeatedly. I’m dr
unk, almost dizzy on the expectation of consuming his life force before moving on to the brothers. I will save the woman and the foreigner till last. They won’t understand and that will make their deaths easy.

  My blade slices through the bedclothes, sinking deep into the body, only there’s no movement beyond my frenzied strokes. There’s no blood, no life.

  Tearing away the blankets, I see farm produce. Pumpkins, squash, and sacks of potatoes arranged in the form of a sleeping body. With the blanket pulled back, the sickening smell of garlic shocks my nose, causing me to shake my head. They’re masking their scent.

  With a burst of speed unlike anything these humans can naturally muster, I race into another bedroom. Beneath the bedding there is nothing but vegetables.

  The pounding continues on the door, or is it the window?

  I’m confused.

  Jane is trying to raise the alarm and warn them, but they’re not here.

  I can smell gasoline.

  Smoke drifts through the air. At first, I attribute that to the hearth, but the crackle of fire comes from beneath the house. A red glow seeps through the cracks in the floorboards.

  A trap.

  I rush the door, pulling at the handle, but wooden planks have been nailed across the outside of the house. Peering between them, I see Jane standing in the moonlight with the old man. He has his arm around her shoulder comforting her.

  “Jane,” I call out, reaching my hand between the boards blocking the window. Hammers strike madly against nails, pounding them into wooden planks. They’re sealing the other windows. I run between the windows, desperate to escape.

  A fireball erupts outside. They’re fueling the flames with tanks full of gasoline, rolling them under the cottage. Smoke clogs the air. Heat surges through the floorboards.

  I try to summon the elements, the clouds of the sky, the creatures of the night, but these take time. Coughing, I shield my mouth with the collar of my shirt, and grab a chair, smashing it against one of the windows, desperate to break the shutters open and escape into the darkness, but the smoke is pungent. I can’t breathe. Fire crackles around me, curling up the walls and wrapping around the beams. The heat is overwhelming, searing my skin.

  “Noooo,” I scream, but my cries are met with more explosions as gas tanks are tossed into the fire. This cannot be happening. A journey spanning thousands of years cannot end so suddenly. I am a vampire. I am their lord. How dare they rise up against me?

  My clothing catches alight, and I fall to my knees. Pain surges through my body, crippling me. The smoke chokes my lungs, searing my throat, and I am starved of oxygen. With one last surge of strength, I break through the burning floorboards, falling to the smoldering ground beneath the raised cottage. Barely three feet of crawlspace separate the wooden floorboards and concrete supports from the dust and soil. If I can escape, I can abandon this body of pain and switch with someone, anyone.

  With fire searing my skin and burning my hair, I scramble toward the edge of the building. Just another ten feet. Already, I can feel the rush of cool air being drawn into the fire. I’m going to make it, I know I am, and then I shall have my revenge. I will flay the skin from their bones, just as I did of my enemies in the years of old. In my mind, I’ve already escaped. My hand reaches out, grabbing at the last of the support pillars when the burning floor above collapses, burying me in ash and flames.

  I scream, but no one can hear me over the roar of the fire, and the house collapses, crushing me in a funeral pyre. Through the pain of those last few seconds, I have nothing but hate for those that have hunted me. As I die, my last thought is the solemn assurance that Nosferatu will exact revenge.

  Ten thousand voices cry out in agony and then are no more.

  A legion has fallen.

  The End

  Epilogue

  I was bait.

  I don’t like that, but I accept that it had to be done.

  Vladimir intended to lure Jane inside the cottage. He unlocked the door and had Anton standing by to snatch me should the vampire enter, but I awoke to go to the bathroom. Crazy how such a banal act could change my life. The vampire waited in the darkness, switching identities to gain access to the home and kill us—only we destroyed the monster. We burned the house to the ground. The fire raged through the night and into the next day, and when we cleared away the ashes, we found his bones. My bones. No, not mine. Not anymore.

  My name is Dr. Jane Langford, and this is my testimony.

  I am on the run, hunted by Interpol for the murder of my husband in an act of arson, but you know otherwise.

  I've published my autobiography as best I understand it through so many different twists and turns. No one will believe this. At best, it will be seen as a fringe conspiracy, something clung to by fools. At worse, this tale will be consigned to the horror section of a dusty bookstore in the old quarter of town, but you know better. For you, there is no doubt. And now that you know what happened, you know why I'm coming for you, Nosferatu.

  BOOK THREE — NOSFERATU

  Chapter 3:01 — Berlin

  “So you like Europe, huh?” the customs officer says, looking at my passport. “Two trips in two years.”

  “Yes,” I say, as he eyes me with suspicion.

  I hate customs. I haven’t done anything wrong, but the whole process is designed to make me—and everyone else—feel like criminals. Authority figures love to intimidate, and I struggle to hide my disdain for this imbecile with a badge. Maybe I’ve seen too many Die Hard movies. I swear, nothing would please this guy more than if I were to panic and run, but neither me, nor the aging grandmother behind me are religious terrorists hell bent on destroying Western civilization. No one’s beyond suspicion, I guess, least of all me, given my recent history, but constant suspicion is overkill. Perhaps I’m reading too much into his demeanor. He must see thousands of people pass through here every day. I’m no one. I’m just one more weary face being shoved through the grist mill that is customs at Berlin International Airport.

  I struggle to hide my frustration. I just want to go to my hotel and get some sleep.

  “Purpose of your visit?”

  “Vacation. Visiting friends.”

  “So which is it?” he asks with a deadpan expression.

  “Both,” I say, trying to smile. After seventeen hours in transit, and a time zone difference that defies reason, I’m cranky.

  “Have you anything to declare? Fruits, vegetables, meats, or dairy products?”

  “No.”

  “Are you bringing in more than ten thousand euros, or any goods for sale in the E.U.?”

  “No.”

  Thunder resounds from the flat page of my passport as the customs officer brings his stamp down like a hammer. He scribbles something illegible on the smudged ink, and returns my passport, along with my entry declaration, but not before drawing a large red X over the entire form. Here I am—I’ve carefully and diligently filled in each of the various tiny boxes, stating my name, my occupation, my home address, declared that I’ve never been convicted of a felony, never been a member of the Nazi party, or fought in the Middle East, along with a whole slew of other ridiculous questions I’m sure are meaningless—and he treats my responses with contempt. Such meticulous care on my part, such flippancy on his. Authority thrives on suppressing reason. Common sense is wasted. I despise this man and the illusion of power he represents.

  The massive red X has me a little concerned, but he says, “Next,” and focuses on the elderly lady behind me. I feel sorry for her.

  I walk toward the baggage claim, staring at the customs form and wondering about the meaning behind the X. I’m not normally one to feel paranoid, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice several customs officers slowly converging through the crowd. They’re trying not to make their motion obvious, but their navy blue coveralls, along with the German crest and the customs insignia on each uniform makes them conspicuous.

  I slow my pace, and they flank me, walking al
ong some fifteen feet away as they tacitly accompany me to the baggage carousel.

  “Great,” I mumble to myself. I’m dying to pee, but I don’t dare go to the bathroom. They’ll think I’ve been spooked, and I’m trying to offload drugs, or something. The last thing I want is to be strip searched by some overzealous customs officer named Fritz.

  Alan—Jane—or whatever you call yourself these days—Thanks.

  I try to look relaxed as I wait dutifully beside the baggage carousel. Various items of luggage glide past. Other passengers barge around and push, rushing to get suitcases they’ve realized were theirs just a little too late, when their bags are already ten to fifteen feet beyond them. I’m patient, trying to be well behaved. I only have one bag, and it has tinsel tied to the handle—a relic of a far more pleasant holiday to Canada—several years ago, I think. I see it well before it gets to me.

  As I reach for the suitcase, one of the customs officials steps up beside me, saying, “Please. Allow me to help you with that, Dr. Manning.” He lifts the bag off the carousel, adding, “It is Dr. Manning, right? Dr. Joseph Anders Manning?” The formality of his German accent makes my name sound distinctly evil.

  “It’s Joe, but yes.”

  “Would you come with me, please?”

  The young man is polite. I’m tempted to say, “No thanks. I’d really like to go to my hotel and get some sleep,” but his pleasant demeanor is a front to avoid causing a scene. I walk in the direction he indicates, toward a side door with a one-way mirror instead of a window. Several other customs officers stand back at least thirty feet on either side of me, their hands resting casually on holstered guns. One of them has a submachine gun. I make at least eight of them.

  Jane. Jane. Jane. What have you done?

  I’m led past a series of interrogation rooms and empty desks, to a holding cell at the rear of the customs hall. One officer walks in front of me, while at least two others trail behind. I don’t even bother asking what this is about. They wouldn’t know. They’re probably acting on orders from someone on the other side of the country. Besides, given what happened in Transylvania, it’s not hard to guess.