Dracul

by Dacre Stoker

  Thornley reached for the sheet covering the man’s face. I felt Matilda’s hand wrap around my arm and squeeze; she then gasped as the sheet was slipped away.

  There was no mistaking the man’s face; this was Patrick O’Cuiv. He appeared no different than he had on the day he came to supper at our house all those years earlier. He could have stepped from our table to this room only yesterday.

  “He has not aged a day,” Matilda breathed.

  Thornley slowly shook his head. “This cannot be. This man is a relative of some kind, of that I am certain, but he cannot possibly be the Patrick O’Cuiv we knew as children.”

  “You still believe this to be some kind of trick?” Matilda asked.

  “I’m not sure what to believe.” An idea came to me, and I began to explore the table.

  “What are you searching for?” Thornley asked.

  “His clothing and personal items. Perhaps there is something there that may help identify him.”

  Matilda frowned. “I’m most certain the police searched his body thoroughly and any belongings found on his person. They found no identification.”

  “Nothing to identify him by name, but there might be something familiar to us, something we might recognize.”

  Thornley pulled a sack out from under the table. It was labeled with number 28773; this same number was inscribed on the body’s identification card. He removed the string at the top of the bag and dumped the contents on the floor.

  Nothing but damp clothing. We searched the pockets but found them all empty.

  Matilda screamed. Shrill and sharp, her voice cut through the morgue with the precision of a scalpel.

  I turned from the bag’s contents to find her hovering over the jars containing O’Cuiv’s organs, pointing at one of the containers. I crossed over and placed my hands on her shoulders. “What is it?”

  She shook her finger, pointing at the jar holding his heart.

  “It just beat.”

  NOW

  Five wolves pace beneath the window, staring up at Bram, hunger in their eyes.

  Bram pauses every few minutes in his writing to stand up from the chair, cross the chamber, and glance out the window. By this point, he has shot each of the wolves in turn, but little good it did. While the bullets pierce their thick coats and draw blood, they don’t injure the vile creatures in any way. Within minutes, the wounds heal, leaving behind no trace but for dried red patches of blood on the fur. He begins to suspect they actually wish to draw his fire—a distraction, possibly an attempt to get him to expend his ammunition.

  The wolves watch him as he watches them.

  The gray one is the leader, of that Bram is sure. Always the first to move, with the others responding to its cues—to what end, he is not certain.

  My pets adore you, you know.

  Ellen’s voice, muffled, behind the door. Bram glances back but says nothing.

  Why not go down and introduce yourself? Or would you rather they come to you? They so like to play.

  Bram believes these animals cannot traverse the path to this room, but there is no way to be sure. These wolves are not natural beings, and there is no knowing their true capabilities. As he thinks this, one of the black ones comes to the wall and stands on its hind legs, thick forelegs stretched upwards, reaching for Bram. The wolf’s ears are drawn back, and a long tongue laps at its nose. It whimpers as it glares up at him.

  A sudden chill fills the air, and Bram closes his coat.

  He hears a giggle—not that of a woman but a girl’s.

  Wolves prefer the cold. Their fur shields them from the elements, whether hot or cold. In the heat, they sweat only through the pads of their paws, and their fur provides cooling insulation. In the cold, though, they thrive. Their fur becomes heavy in the winter months as the undercoat grows in.

  The temperature in the room drops further still, and Bram can see his breath. The rifle feels like a block of ice in his grip, and he sets it down, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  When it gets really cold, wolves tend to return to their den and huddle together. In most cases, they hunt first and then bring the kill back to the den to feed one another and their young.

  Bram turns back to the window; the wolves now seem fueled by a restless fire, their whimpers mixed with howls.

  My pets are hungry, Bram. They long for a taste of fresh meat. If you went down there, they would feed for days.

  That giggle again, louder than the first.

  Bram shivers.

  Their den is so warm, Bram. Imagine going back there with them. The heat of their bodies pressed against you, surrounding you, all that warmth. Your death would be painless, I can promise you that. They can make it quick . . . if I ask them to.

  The temperature drops yet further, and Bram retrieves the last vial of holy water from his bag and holds it up to the lamplight. The water is nearly frozen, the bottle filled with flecks of ice. His hand shakes, and he finds it hard to hold, his fingers aching. He fumbles with the cap and after three tries finally removes it, before returning to the window.

  The five wolves huddle in a small group, all perfectly still, looking up at him in the window.

  Bram throws the vial in the wolves’ direction, aiming for a rock next to them. The bottle strikes the rock and explodes in a mist of glass, ice, and water. The wolves scatter, their cries cutting through the night.

  You’ve only agitated them, my dear Bram.

  Bram has accomplished more than that, though, for the temperature begins to rise, the spell broken. He works his fingers, opening and closing them in a fist, the feeling slowly returning. If the wolves are still near, he cannot see them.

  The voice changes, becomes deeper, a male voice that Bram doesn’t know.

  He is coming, Bram. He’ll be here very soon.

  LETTER FROM MATILDA to ELLEN CRONE, DATED 11 AUGUST 1868

  My dearest Ellen,

  I write to you at the latest of hours, for sleep is the furthest thing from my mind.

  I am sure of what I saw! What is that, you ask? Well, I shall tell you. I saw the beating heart of Patrick O’Cuiv not only fourteen years after his “death” but while the organ rested in a jar at his side rather than within his chest!

  My less than insightful brothers are both convinced my imagination simply got caught up in the moment, lost in the macabre atmosphere of the morgue, the scents and sounds overwhelming me to the point of delusional visions, but I can attest with complete certainty that such is not the case. I was looking directly at O’Cuiv’s heart, and I witnessed as it first contracted, then expanded, with one quick beat. I even saw the heart expel blood from one of the arteries severed at its top with enough force to propel a crimson stream down the inside of the jar, where it puddled at the bottom. The blood was nearly black and thick as molasses. I imagine it smelled of canker and decay, beef gone bad.

  His heart beat only once. I did not tear my eyes away even as the morgue’s guard entered and demanded we take our leave. As Bram and Thornley pulled me away, my eyes did not break away, not even for an instant, but the heart did not beat again. I was certain it would, though; I still am certain. I believe his severed heart is beating even now, perhaps slower than a normal heart would but beating nonetheless, for whatever evil kept O’Cuiv alive all these years lives on in his heart. Just because nobody is there to witness such things doesn’t make them less true.

  With my scream, the guard hurried us out of the morgue, and Thornley led us out of the hospital, until we found ourselves standing outside the south entrance again, the past hour feeling more dream-like than real.

  Was that you under the ash tree earlier? Were you watching us?

  I thought it was you, but Bram claimed the woman we spotted was someone else. He believed it to be a girl, perhaps a streetwalker. Apparently, none of my opinions hold much weight this even
ing.

  After leaving the hospital, the three of us found ourselves under that same tree arguing about what we saw. I have no doubt this was the body of Patrick O’Cuiv. I cannot explain how or why I know this, but I am sure of it. Bram and Thornley feel differently; they both believe the man to be a distant relative of O’Cuiv, or possibly a son unknown to us during our childhood, but I think such speculations are rubbish.

  It clearly was him!

  I am absolutely certain.

  I will find proof.

  After much debate, I convinced my two brothers of the only course of action open to us. We must travel to Clontarf and further investigate O’Cuiv.

  How did his heart beat? Do you know the truth behind this?

  I imagine you do.

  If your heart were sliced from your breast and placed on a tray within sight, would it continue to beat?

  I realize such thoughts are morbid and not those of a lady, but they speak to me from the back of my mind whether I want them to or not, begging to be answered, and there is no other acceptable option but for me to go with them to Clontarf. There, I said it. Even though they forbid me from taking this trip, I will go.

  I cannot trust them, really. That is my primary reason for going. I do not doubt they will go to Clontarf, but to what extent will they really search for truth? Enough to find answers or just enough to appease me? The only way to be certain of conducting a proper investigation is to undertake the journey myself. Even though the town is relatively close by (Pa used to walk the distance when we lived there and he was employed at Dublin Castle), a lady should not go alone; therefore, I require the company of my brothers. I also worry that should I go alone, I may find it difficult to obtain answers to some of my questions, particularly when asking men those questions. Men can be so pigheaded sometimes. No, I cannot, and will not, go alone; nor shall they. I will be in their company, regardless of their wishes.

  What is your connection to Patrick O’Cuiv?

  Was he a lover?

  Dare I foster the thought?

  But all those nights you snuck away under the cover of darkness, where else would a young woman flee but into the arms of her lover?

  If such is the case, how scandalous! I am blushing at the very idea of it. A married man, nonetheless. A married man with children. I think you better than that; therefore, I do not believe this to be so. I do not wish it to be so.

  Then what?

  If not your lover, what was he to you? Who is he to you? Now that he is dead, do you mourn him? What if the opposite is true? What if you hate him so much you wanted him to tumble off that boat into the sea and drown?

  Perhaps you even pushed him.

  What is your connection to this man?

  You possess so many secrets, my dear Nanna Ellen. And, I daresay, I will uncover them all.

  We leave tonight, the moment Bram concludes work at the castle. I will accompany them, even if I must stow away in the coach.

  Affectionately yours,

  Matilda

  THE DIARY of THORNLEY STOKER

  (RECORDED IN SHORTHAND AND TRANSCRIBED HEREWITH.)

  11 August 1868, 9:21 p.m.—Oh, to put down on paper what has happened! Even now, only minutes later, all of the evening’s happenings seem more dream-like than actual events, the makings of a terrible tale told to frighten a child. It is only now, from the safety of my own home, that I even consider pausing to document what has transpired. I feel to do so is necessary—nay, may I say it is required of me? To fail to write down these events would be irresponsible, for others must be made to know.

  I arrived home from the asylum at slightly past six in the evening, no later than usual, only to find Emily standing statuesquely in the foyer. Her eyes were fixed forward, locked on the door, and in her hand she held the silver cross from our bedroom wall in a grasp so tight that blood was trickling out between her fingers.

  Emily’s nurse, Miss Dugdale, approached me when I crossed the threshold, her face etched with worry. “She has not moved from this place since early this morning. She will not speak. I tried twice to escort her to the parlor, but the moment I laid hands on her she screamed; I dared not try a third time.”

  I offered Miss Dugdale a compassionate glance and thanked her for her efforts; this was not the first time I discovered my spouse in this condition, and when last it occurred, only time broke the spell. I asked Miss Dugdale to leave us, and when she had departed I went to my wife, circling around her slowly.

  If she had been silent earlier, that wasn’t the case now. As I leaned in close, whispers escaped from her lips, the words so soft I could not make them out. I thought it might be the Lord’s Prayer, but I wasn’t certain. I tentatively reached for her hand, the one holding the cross, and gently took her into my own grasp. She did not cry out as she had for Miss Dugdale; instead, the whispers stopped, and she gasped.

  I leaned into her. “You should go to bed, my love. You’ve had a long day. You’ll feel better by the light of morning.”

  With this, I tried to walk her towards the stairs, but she would not move—her feet held to the marble as if they were part of the stone. “What is it? What bothers you so?”

  I knew she heard the words; I saw this in her eyes, but she did not answer. Beneath my grasp, her fingers clutched the cross tighter still, causing it to slice into a finger. The warmth of her blood rolled over the back of my hand. When I tried to pry her fingers from the silver, the start of a scream welled within her throat. I dared not continue; I would get it from her after she calmed.

  “He is putting the man back together again,” she said softly. Emily followed this with a short laugh. “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, but the man in black can put him back together again. The man in black can make him good as new.” Her face twisted into an expression of horror, and she turned to me, her eyes wide, her mouth opened slightly. “You must stop him.”

  “Stop who? I do not understand.”

  “You cannot let him put the man back together again.”

  “Who?”

  At this juncture, she began to hum. Not a tune, mind you, but a single note held for an ungodly length of time, as if breathing were not a necessity. I knew of no other course of action, so I took her shoulders in hand and shook her violently in hopes of breaking this stuporous spell. “Who do you mean, Emily?”

  “The man in pieces who fell off the wall, the man who had a great fall.”

  It was then that it struck me. “Do you mean Patrick O’Cuiv?”

  She raised the silver cross to her lips and kissed it. “God has turned His back on him. The man in black has made it so.”

  My eyes grew wide. “How do you know of Patrick O’Cuiv?”

  I know I never mentioned the man to her, not in the past years or the past day. Maybe she heard us speak of him last night when I thought she was asleep? I supposed that was possible, but our bedroom was located a great distance from the library, and with all doors closed, it seemed very unlikely. Maybe she snuck down the stairs and we did not hear her. But I administered her so much laudanum, I cannot imagine her waking, let alone coming downstairs.

  At this point, her arms went limp, and she began to shuffle towards the stairs. I took the opportunity to help her; there was no telling when she would be willing to move again, and I didn’t wish to ply her with a drug for yet another night. I assisted her up the steps and went about the business of unfastening her dress. When my fingers worked the buttons at her collar, they came away moist and sticky. I held them to the lamplight. They were damp with blood.

  I sat Emily upon the bed and held the lamp closer; there were two tiny pinpricks at the point where her shoulder met her neck. They didn’t appear fresh, perhaps a day or two old. Most likely, her clothing aggravated the injury and reopened the wound.

  “What did you do to yourself, my dear Emily?”r />
  Her free hand went to this spot, massaged it, then fell back to her lap, but she didn’t utter a sound.

  I removed the rest of her clothing with some difficulty, for she wouldn’t release the crucifix, and I had to work her sleeves around it; then I laid her down on the bed. She clutched the cross to her chest and closed her eyes. As I started for the door, she spoke one final sentence in her calm voice. “Death is coming to us all; it will be marvelous.” My wife then drifted off into the quietest of sleeps.

  * * *

  • • •

  A MOMENT LATER, a knock came at the front door, and, knowing it to be my brother come to fetch me for our trip to Clontarf, I felt a profound déjà vu wash over me. I hurried down the steps to let him in before he knocked a second time. The sight of Matilda at his side startled me.

  “Why are you here?”

  She let herself in with Bram on her heels. “I told you I was going, and I will speak no more of it.”

  I turned to Bram, prepared to argue, then held my tongue when he shrugged his shoulders. “Apparently, she doesn’t trust us to see this matter through properly.”

  “Perhaps this is for the best; I cannot go.”

  Bram frowned. “Why not?”

  “Emily has taken ill of late; I’m afraid she cannot be left alone.”

  Matilda glanced around the foyer. “Surely your staff can watch over her.”

  Until now, I had no desire to share the extent of my wife’s condition, but in light of what she said I thought it necessary to inform them. When I finished my account, the three of us fell silent.

  Matilda spoke first. “But who is the man in black? What did she mean by ‘put him back together again’?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did we miss something?” Bram asked. “Something on the body?”