"What are you talking about?" he demanded.
"I didn't want to have to live alone my whole life, but I just would not pass this … this plague on to another generation of Harkers. So I married a man who had no interest in being a father, and I took steps to insure that I would never become a mother."
He stared at her. "You mean you … you had some kind of surgery? You had yourself sterilized, because of this crazy story?" She nodded sadly. Malcolm looked from his sister to his grandfather and said, "No offense, but I think you're both nuts!"
"Sit down, Malcolm," Quincy said. "We aren't finished."
"Well, I am," he replied heatedly. "This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my whole life!"
Rachel's voice was tired and sad. "You must read Mina Harker's diary. Not the part that was published. The rest of it, the later sections."
"Listen, Sis," he shouted, "I've seen my share of vampire movies, you know? I know that when the vampire gets killed, which he always does—even Dracula—then the people he's bitten are okay. They heal or something. The things—you two are telling me don't even make sense as a vampire story!"
"Malcolm, listen to me," Quincy said patiently. "Stories are stories, movies are movies, and facts are facts. We are discussing facts here, not fiction."
Rachel took one of the other old books from the table and dropped it into Malcolm's lap. "This is the diary of our great-grandmother, things she wrote subsequent to the materials published in the book. Read this carefully, from start to finish."
"It will explain everything," Quincy added.
Malcolm looked at his grandfather hard and long before he said, "Gramps, I'll read this as a courtesy, because I love you. But don't think that I'm going to take any of this as being anything more than goddamned, superstitious bullshit."
"Don't blaspheme, Malcolm," Rachel said.
"What's the matter, Sis?" he asked sarcastically. "Vulgar language brings out the Dracula blood?"
"And don't be flippant. This isn't funny."
"Well, it seems awfully funny to me," he snapped. "I'll look through this junk later. Right now I'm going to take a shower." He rose and left the room.
Rachel watched him go and then muttered, "He doesn't believe us."
"Of course not," Quincy responded. "Did you believe it, when first I told you of this?"
"No," she shook her head. "I didn't. Of course I didn't. On the surface, the story simply isn't believable."
"I had always hoped that after three generations the blood would be so diluted that … well, I had hoped that neither you nor Malcolm ever need be told." He emitted a soft, bitter laugh. "I wouldn't have told you, Rachel, if you hadn't been such a rambunctious young girl. I could see what was happening to you. It terrified me, especially after what happened to my son."
She smiled at him sadly. "I've done what had to be done, Grandfather. And don't think my life has been a pleasant one for it."
"You believed me, at least. Malcolm's reaction is like his father's. Abraham didn't believe me either."
Rachel sighed. "Perhaps our father simply didn't care."
Malcolm Harker huddled in the shadows of the doorway on the side of Austin Street opposite Holly Larsen's apartment house, watching with a peculiar mixture of sorrow and fury as she drew nigh her doorway. Her arm was entwined in that of a blond man of medium height and athletic build, someone unknown to Malcolm. His lips pressed together tightly, growing white and cold, as he watched Holly lean forward and kiss the stranger deeply upon the mouth.
"'It doesn't matter,' she said," Malcolm muttered. "She told me it doesn't matter, and so she dumps me and starts seeing someone else the first chance she gets." He hissed as he drew in a breath. "Bitch!" he whispered. "Goddamn bitch!"
Holly's voice carried to him softly through the cold night air, unintelligible yet softly seductive words drifting to his ears. She turned and entered her building and the stranger began to walk away, heading down the street toward Continental Avenue. After a moment's pause Malcolm leaned out of the doorway, looked right, looked left, and then began quietly to follow him.
The stranger walked to the subway station on the corner of Continental and Queens, pausing to smoke a cigarette on the street before descending the stairs to the train. Malcolm passed by him, not looking at him, not drawing attention to himself, and proceeded down the stairs. He turned to the left when he reached the bottom and hid in the doorway of the men's room. He drummed his fingers nervously against the grimy tiles and waited.
A few minutes later he heard the footsteps of his rival as he walked easily down the steps. The stranger walked directly past Malcolm, not suspecting anything, unaware of the danger until Malcolm jumped out from the doorway. He wrapped his right forearm around the stranger's throat, pulled it back with his left hand, throttled him, crushed his windpipe, and left him lying on the dirty, gray cement floor, trying with pathetic futility to draw breath into his lungs. The stranger died in a few moments, but by then Malcolm was already up the stairs and back on Continental Avenue.
He walked casually toward Holly's apartment. The only people he passed on his brief journey were a stumbling, disheveled couple who were quite obviously enraptured by their own narcotic preoccupations and a young black man who was waiting impatiently for the bus.
He opened the front door of the co-op apartment building and rang Holly's bell. A few moments passed, and then he heard her voice, fuzzy through the intercom, ask, "Who is it?"
"Telegram, Miss Larsen," he said, laughing.
"Malcolm? Is that you?"
"Yeah, Holly. Let me in, will you?"
"Do you know what time it is!"
"Yeah. I'm sorry I'm coming over so late, but this is important."
"What could be so important that you'd come over here this time of night?"
"Just let me in, Holly, just for a few minutes. I have something very important to show you."
There was a pause and then the buzzer sounded, unlocking the interior door that led into the lobby of the building. Malcolm pushed it open and ran up the stairs toward Holly's apartment. He knocked softly on the door and waited for her to open it. When she finally did, he was a bit surprised at her appearance. Her burgundy hair was up in curlers and there was a film of white grease covering her face. Guess you don't think you have to worry about what you look like when you see me, he thought bitterly. "Hi," he said.
"Okay, Mal, come on in, but just for a few minutes," she said. "I've had a hard day."
And a hard night, no doubt, he thought, following her into the apartment and closing the door behind him. "How are you?" he asked.
Holly placed her balled fists upon her hips, and without a hint of friendliness she said, "Mal, what do you want? What are you doing here?"
He drew closer to her and smiled. "I want to show you something," he said.
"Well? Go ahead." She was impatient and uninterested.
"Watch," he whispered. He drew close to her, and moving much too rapidly for her to stop him, he reached behind her and grabbed her hair in his right hand. A gasp escaped her lips as he wrenched her head backward, sending curlers bouncing onto the floor.
"We're going to have a new type of relationship, honey." He smiled, then leaned forward, opening his mouth and then closing it upon the smooth white skin just below her left ear. He could sense her beginning to scream, but before she could utter a sound he had closed his teeth upon her and pulled her head back forcefully, tearing open her throat.
The blood spurted horribly as if from an unblocked fountain, and Malcolm pressed his mouth down upon the wound, relishing the bitter warmth of the thick liquid as it flowed over his tongue. With every drop of blood he drank he felt stronger, healthier, more vibrant, more alive. He drank cheerfully as the struggling woman grew weaker and weaker, at last hanging limp in his arms.
And then Malcolm heard a sound, a sucking sound, very close to his ears, and he realized with a start that he was not the only one who was drinking from Holly's
neck. He had not noticed it until that instant, but there were two other arms wrapped around her limp form. He looked up and stared in wonder into the face that seemed simultaneously to withdraw from the other side of Holly's throat to stare at him. Standing beside him, his red eyes shining in the darkness, his lips red with blood, the collar of his cape pulled high, was Bela Lugosi.
Malcolm sat up in bed.
"Goddamn it," he said aloud. Stupid nightmare! First time in weeks it looks like I'm going to get some decent sleep and I have a goddamn stupid nightmare! "Thanks a lot, Gramps!" he muttered as he reached over and switched on the lamp upon his night table. Goddamn stupid stories! Curse of Dracula! Christ!
He picked up the book he had been reading on and off for the past few weeks and opened it, intending both to get his mind off the conversation he had had with his grandfather and sister and to read himself to sleep. The book was a collection of the letters of the ancient Roman essayist Pliny, and Malcolm paged through it until he found the section in which Pliny describes the eruption of Vesuvius. Malcolm always found that section oddly relaxing.
His eyes drifted up from the book, and he noticed with irritation that the box that he had dragged out of the closet for his grandfather earlier, the box that contained the dusty old collection of papers as well as the supposed first edition of Dracula, was now sitting on the floor beside his bureau. "Oh, Rachel, give me a break, will you?" he muttered. Sneaking that thing into my room while I'm asleep! Come on!
He got up from the bed and walked over to the box, uncertain whether to carry it back to his grandfather's room or leave it outside for the trash collector. Can't do that, he thought to himself. As stupid as this all is, there's probably stuff in here that is important to Gramps. He decided, just on principle, to move the box from his room out into the hallway. Let Rachel put it away somewhere, he thought. He bent down to pick up the box. He had lifted it up halfway from the floor when the bottom of the box broke and bundles of paper dropped onto the carpet. "Damn!" he muttered.
Most of the papers in the box seemed to have been tied together, therefore making his task of picking them up easier than it might have been. There seemed to be three bound piles of papers, a number of loose sheets that appeared to be letters, and the old edition of Stoker's novel that he had seen previously.
Malcolm's curiosity got the better of his annoyance, and he untied one of the bound piles. The pile of papers had a plain cover sheet, and when he removed it, he saw the words, "Dracula: a romance by Bram Stoker." The words were handwritten in a script with something of a self-conscious flourish. Malcolm flipped through the hundreds of pages that rested beneath the first page and found that each was written in the same hand. "The original manuscript?" he whispered aloud. "Is that possible? This must be worth a fortune!" He turned a few pages until he came to the first chapter, then opened the first edition to the same place in order to compare them. In the printed first edition he read:
Chapter 1
Jonathan Harker's Journal
(Kept in shorthand.)
3 May. Bistritz. Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late …
Malcolm looked from the printed book to the manuscript, and he frowned at what he saw.
Chapter 1
Jonathan Harker's Journal
(Kept in shorthand.)
3 May. Orada. Bistritz - Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was hour late …
Odd, he thought. The printed book says the entry was written in a place called Bistritz, but it seems as if the original manuscript used the name of a different place, Oradea, and was then changed. Could have been a revision, of course. Stoker must have written the book and then changed things around. I'm sure all writers do that.
He looked over at the two other bound piles of paper, and sitting down on the floor beside the broken box, he picked them up. He untied one of them and saw that it was a pile of papers of different sizes and consistencies. A cursory glance through the pile revealed a variety of different handwritings and some typed pages. He looked at the first page and read the following:
Whitby, June 3, 1896
My dear Mr. Stoker:
As you requested, Mina and I have arranged all of the personal memoirs and records that are at our disposal in the proper and appropriate order. Mina has made a transcription for you both of my own journal, which I kept in shorthand, and of the phonographic records maintained by Professor Van Helsing and our friend Jack …
Malcolm turned to the first full page of writing and read it quickly. There was no heading, no title. Just the plainly handwritten words:
3 May. Oradea. - Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was hour late …
His eyes moved from the book to the manuscript to the third pile of papers.
Bistritz.
Bistritz.
Oradea.
Oradea.
Malcolm frowned again, perplexed, and then he understood what he was looking at. He felt a sinking feeling in his chest as his eyes moved from the pile of papers to the manuscript to the book, from what must have been the original documents to what must have been the working manuscript that contained revisions to the final printed form. A change in place names, Malcolm thought. And a change in the names of people as well? Possibly, quite possibly. He flipped through the manuscript to search for names, then searched through the printed book until he found the same places. Then he swallowed hard as he felt his heart jump.
The names had been changed.
Not all of them, but enough of them. John Stewart had become John Seward. Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, had become Arthur Holmwood, Lord Godalming. And though the name Abraham Van Helsing had been left intact, this German professor had suddenly become Dutch.
Malcolm knew that only one logical reason explained why the author or the editor would have made such changes. The emotional aspect of his personality rejected the explanation absolutely. The logical, rational side of Malcolm Harker could not avoid the obvious conclusions.
A chill ran up his spine as he began slowly and carefully to read and compare the first printed edition with the manuscript and the source papers. When he had finished this task, he moved without stopping to the final set of documents, the old book that purported to be the diary of his great-grandmother, Wilhelmina Murray Harker.
Neither his grandfather nor his sister disturbed him as he read, and the rising and the setting of the sun went unnoticed. As the hours passed, he read without rest and without nourishment; and if at any time it struck him as odd or significant that he felt better after sunset than he felt after sunrise, that despite his hunger he had little interest in conventional food, he did not pause for reflection. Only once did he stop reading, and that was to lean back and mutter, "God help me!" in hushed, trembling tones.
Chapter Five
Mina Harker's Journal
28 September, 1896. - Jonathan is better today, though Jack has told me privately that the instances of recovery from consumption are depressingly few. But still I shall act in my poor dear's presence as if his full recovery were in sight, as if all were well with the world.
I know that we all face the same fate in the end, and that though it will be a crushing sorrow to me if Jonathan dies, I have nonetheless been privileged to love and be loved by a great and good gentleman, and thus must not allow myself to grow bitter. And yet I cannot keep from asking why he was spared in our battle with the Count only to fall victim to the prosaic scythe of so common a reaper as this disease. The Professor says that we must not question the infinite wisdom of God, and he is of course correct. And yet, still I wonder and still I ask, and still I pray for Jonathan's recovery. I do believe I would gladly die in exchange for the opportunity once again to see him robust and strong and quick, once again to see that warm an
d happy smile. I have never said this to him, nor shall I ever, but his aspect today is depressingly similar to his aspect as it was when first I saw him again after his escape from the castle and his subsequent stay in hospital in Europe. Oh, the poor, dear man! Give him leave to stay with me, dear Lord! Please!
3 October. - How fortunate we are—Jonathan, little Quincey, and I—to have so steadfast a friend as Jack Stewart. He is as an uncle to our little boy, as are Arthur and the Professor, but Jack comes daily to visit with Jonathan and to spend precious time with Quincey. My sweet little boy so desperately needs a father, and Jonathan is simply too weak to play with him and talk with him. This makes Jack's daily visits so important to us!
I know that Arthur and the Professor would do the same if they were here, but of course they are not. No Duke of Wellington could remain here in England in ease and comfort while such trouble is brewing in South Africa, and so Arthur has gone to the Cape Colony to serve his Queen. "My great-grandfather did not shrink from Waterloo," he told us before his departure, "nor shall I shrink from whatever warfare to which the Crown calls me." Such a brave man! Braver even than the great Duke, for he faced only Napoleon, while Arthur has faced the Devil himself.
And the Professor is too old now for much traveling. He lives in a pleasant cottage not far from Rostock in Mecklenburg, enjoying the retirement he so greatly deserves. He has written that he shall visit us soon, no later than the end of November, and hopes to be able to stay past the new year, "if you will have me," he asks. If we will have him! Sweet, beloved old man! What would I or Jonathan or any of us be, had not Professor Van Helsing come to open our eyes to what was happening to us?
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