Dracul

by Dacre Stoker

  At this point, I spotted Bram. He rounded the corner of the street and was running back towards me. I took my eyes off Maggie O’Cuiv for only an instant, but when I turned back she was gone; no sign of her remained.

  “I couldn’t find him,” Bram said. “Wherever he went, he left no trace.”

  I walked to the spot where Maggie O’Cuiv had stood and pivoted in a leisurely circle, peering into the trees and surrounding flora. “Did you see her?”

  Bram had not seen her, and for a moment I thought I had imagined the entire encounter. I told him about it anyway, careful not to leave out a single detail.

  “Was she watching us the entire time?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “And she was still a girl? A child?”

  I nodded.

  I then showed him the blood on the coach, the drops beginning to dry now, grim speckles on the black leather. Bram covered them with a blanket. “We cannot leave without the driver. I think we should take a room at Carolan’s Inn and report him as missing in the morning if he has not turned up.”

  I welcomed this suggestion. I harbored no desire to travel back to Dublin tonight. I wanted to be someplace surrounded by people, as far from this isolated place as possible. Carolan’s Inn stood on Howth Road, not far from the graveyard. The inn had a good-sized stable block attached, with all provisions for the horses. If the driver had simply wandered off, he would spot the coach easily enough there.

  These events took place two hours ago, and now I find myself sitting at a small table in the corner of our shared room, for I was too unnerved to consider renting a room of my own, writing you this letter while Bram snores loudly in the bed. The poor thing was exhausted from tonight’s activities. Sleep, however, is the furthest thing from my mind.

  Instead, I am writing you. I am writing you while the things we took from O’Cuiv’s grave lie on the table before me, each one generating more questions than answers.

  If you want these things back, you know where to find us.

  Until then, I will find some way to rest. Tomorrow I plan to learn who this Countess Dolingen von Gratz might really be. Then I will find someone who can read and translate your book.

  I hope you find my other letters, now seven feet deep in the earth. I hope you read them and come to me. I believe you are near. I can feel it.

  Or is that the O’Cuiv girl?

  Affectionately yours,

  Matilda

  THE JOURNAL of BRAM STOKER

  12 August 1868, 2:23 a.m.—I awoke to the rumble of thunder.

  A bold clap reached deep down into my dream and pulled me back with a jolt. At first, I didn’t understand where I was; the strange room, the unfamiliar bed. Not until my eyes adjusted to the gloom and the sleep dissipated did I recall our decision to spend the night at the inn.

  Clontarf.

  I was in Clontarf.

  My throat ached, as if a cold were coming on. My imagination at play, for I never got sick anymore.

  I sat up as the rain began to patter against the windowpane, only a few drops to begin with, then many more. Within minutes, the deluge was coming down in thick sheets. When flashes of lightning flooded the chamber, I caught a glimpse of Matilda asleep at the little desk near the door. The single candle she had lit earlier had long ago sputtered and gone out, now just a puddle of dry wax upon the plate.

  Sleep had at first eluded me, and I must admit I took more than one nip of brandy before finally being able to rest. The events of the night seemed like nothing more than a bad dream, but I knew better. At first light, we would have to go in search of Thornley’s driver. I do not believe the man would have wandered off, and Matilda’s discovery of blood on his seat proved very disturbing. This coupled with O’Cuiv’s grave and the findings inside, worse still.

  I stood from the bed and went to Matilda. Her breath flowed steadily. Although she found the wherewithal to seal her envelope before drifting off, she still clasped her pen in hand. I carefully extracted it from her fingers and lifted her from the chair. She stirred slightly but did not awaken. I carried her to the bed and gently set her down, covering her with the thick quilt. I had forgotten how nippy Clontarf could be at this time of year, particularly this near the water.

  I found myself at the window, peering through the rain towards the harbor. My arm began to itch, slight to begin with, then growing so persistent that I had no choice but to scratch. And although irksome nearly to my elbow, it was more acute at the wrist, the site of those two little lewd marks.

  Bram. Come to me, Bram.

  When I first heard the voice, I spun around expecting to find her in the room with us, but there was only Matilda, still slumbering soundly a few feet away.

  It was her voice, though, no mistaking it.

  “Nanna Ellen?”

  I said her name aloud, and at hearing my own voice, I realized her voice somehow came to me in my mind, and while my voice sounded thin in the little room, hers seemed to come from all directions at once yet from no particular direction at all.

  “Where are you?”

  I eyed the door and it was locked; there was no place in the room for one to hide.

  My head shot back, and I stared at the ceiling as that horrible vision from my childhood came to me. I found nothing but cracked plaster and spiderwebs.

  I am out here, Bram. The window.

  I spun back around to face the window and there she was, her face inches from the glass. The rain dripped from her hair, cascaded over her skin. She was so pale, more so than I recalled ever seeing her. She had not aged, just as Matilda and Thornley had said, appearing no older than the day she left.

  Her being there was impossible, though; our room was on the second floor of the inn, with no balcony or patio on which to stand. The front of the inn boasted no walkways or ledges, nothing but a rough brick façade.

  She raised her hands to the window, pressing her palms against the glass, her fingers moving slowly as if scratching at it. I tried to take a step closer, but fear held me inert. I could only look at her, watch her.

  When a second face appeared in the window next to her, I gasped. It was a young girl with long dark hair. I recognized her immediately from outside the hospital. From what Matilda told me, I had no doubt this was Maggie O’Cuiv.

  You must come outside, Bram. I need to talk to you. It has been so long.

  My arm itched horribly.

  Ellen pulled at me, the same tugging I once felt as a child that drew me through fields and forest to find her. I backed up towards the door, one cautious step after another, until I was in the hallway, until I was downstairs. I moved silently through the inn until I found myself stepping outside into the icy rain.

  Ellen and the girl were no longer at the window; I found them standing across the street, holding hands. Both wore cloaks that had been dismally soaked by the storm. I realized I was wearing no jacket at all; I was standing in the rain in my nightshirt, my feet bare upon the cobblestones.

  There’s my Bram! Come to us now, let me help you.

  Her voice sounded so sweet, nectar to my ears, and I desired to hear it again.

  Help me? Help me how? I questioned this for the briefest of seconds before finding myself crossing the street, drawn to them as if by that taut cord from my distant childhood memories.

  I could think of no place I would rather be than cradled in their arms.

  NOW

  Alone.

  The wolves do not return—or if they do, Bram doesn’t see them. He stands guard at the window, writing feverishly in his journal in hopes of documenting all while still able.

  He can still hear them, though. Their brooding howls break through the night from all around, and occasionally the creature behind the door answers them, sometimes with a howl of its own, other times with nothing more than
a frustrated-sounding grunt or the shuffle of agitated feet. At one point, it sniffed at the doorframe again, first at the bottom, then somehow going up the side and over the top—high above Bram’s head. Bram has no idea how it could do such a thing and he tries not to even think about it.

  Now the creature scratches at the wood. Not the sound of a dog pawing at a surface, but that of a person with long fingernails dragging them from the top of the door to the bottom and back up again. Bram cringes at the thought of splinters digging beneath those nails, yet the creature only presses harder, oblivious to the pain. This repeats over and over again. When the scratching does stop, the room falls into silence.

  It is then Bram catches sight of him.

  A lone man standing atop the very rock on which he broke the holy water. The man is tall and dressed all in black. Long, dark hair frames a pale face beneath a black top hat. He wears a cloak the full length of his body. It wavers in the night air, fluttering at his feet. Bram can’t see his face. The man looks to the earth, and shadows blot out his features. As he turns his head, those same shadows seem to follow the contours of his face, keeping him in constant darkness.

  Bram reaches back and takes the rifle in hand. Simply touching the cold steel brings comfort, although he knows the weapon will be of little good. Whoever or whatever this man is, he does not fear bullets.

  He’s come for us, Bram. He wants me, but he wants you most of all. We are not that different, you and I, the blood of others thriving within our veins.

  The voice is male this time, unfamiliar.

  If you release me, perhaps he will spare you.

  Bram plans to do no such thing.

  He sets down the rifle and pulls the last two roses from the basket, blesses them, and places one on each windowsill.

  Drawn either by the movement or the act itself, the man looks up. A smirk plays across his thin red lips. Bram catches the faintest hint of white teeth beneath those lips and is reminded of the wolves, their hungry fangs dripping with thick saliva.

  Behind the door comes the little girl’s giggle again.

  The man stares up at him for the longest time, still as a statue, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. Then he raises his hand and points—long fingers outstretched, reaching across the distance, reaching for Bram.

  Bram’s arm begins to itch furiously. First at the two small bite marks, then up his forearm and all the way to his shoulder. No one other than Nanna Ellen had ever brought this condition on before, this itching. He closes his eyes and attempts to reach out to her, to Ellen, but finds nothing of her presence; there is only him, this strange man staring up at Bram.

  The floor shudders under Bram’s feet, and he nearly loses his balance.

  The man’s fingers are pointing directly at Bram, and with a small twitch of his fingertips he causes the room to vibrate again. The crosses jump against the wall, two tumbling to the floor, and the mirrors rattle. When the man points yet again, one of the mirrors slips off its nail and crashes to the stone at Bram’s feet. Dust cascades from the ceiling as the room rocks, and Bram watches nervously as the paste he had affixed around the door continues to crumble and fall.

  “Come down and you will be spared,” the man says. He is speaking in a low voice, yet Bram somehow hears him perfectly. Much like the voice behind the door, the man’s voice penetrates Bram’s mind directly somehow.

  Bram closes his eyes and pushes back. He imagines an invisible bubble, first around himself, then around the entire room, a bubble so strong not even the bullet of a rifle will pierce it. He pushes back until the room falls still. He pushes back until the man’s voice is gone. He pushes back until he feels nothing of the creature behind the door.

  It is then Bram hears a snake hiss.

  POST OFFICE TELEGRAM

  FROM: M. STOKER

  CAROLAN’S INN

  107 HOWTH ROAD

  CLONTARF

  TO: THORNLEY STOKER, M.D.

  43 HARCOURT ST.

  DUBLIN

  12 AUGUST 1868, 3:12 A.M.

  MY DEAREST BROTHER—

  SOMETHING HORRIBLE HAS HAPPENED.

  GRAVE AS SUSPECTED.

  BRAM INJURED.

  DRIVER MISSING.

  SOMEONE POSSIBLY IN PURSUIT.

  IF YOU RECEIVE THIS MESSAGE BEFORE WE RETURN, SEND HELP.

  —M

  THE DIARY of THORNLEY STOKER

  (RECORDED IN SHORTHAND AND TRANSCRIBED HEREWITH.)

  13 August 1868, 6:43 p.m.—I feel the need to continue to document all that has happened. So much has occurred in the past days that I find it difficult to know where to begin, so I will begin with the events of today.

  I woke yet again to a pounding at my front door. At some point during the night, I drifted off to sleep in a chair at the front door with my rifle cradled in my arms. The large dog returned multiple times throughout the lonely hours, each time circling my home just a little closer than before. Although safely inside, my entire body quivered when the dog stopped on the walkway in front of the house and stared at me with its large red eyes. I heard its hungry growls, such a deep rumble, but only once did I glance out the window. Although I had a powerful weapon in my hands, that beast would prove to be faster than I could ever hope to be on the draw.

  But, as I said, I woke here. Daylight came and the dog had gone, light washing away all that is dark, and there was a fierce pounding at my front door.

  I opened it to find Matilda and Bram standing there yet again, but I saw in their eyes the fear I had felt only hours earlier, so I rushed them inside. Together, they recounted their trip to Clontarf and their findings at O’Cuiv’s grave. The items they had found were laid out before us on my table. My lost driver, missing still. What happened to Bram—

  * * *

  • • •

  “TELL ME AGAIN,” I said.

  Matilda took a deep breath. “I woke to find the door to our room open and Bram missing. A storm raged outside, so I went to the window and saw him . . .”

  “Please, Matilda, do go on.”

  Matilda glanced at Bram, who nodded. She continued. “The O’Cuiv girl held him while Ellen sucked at his wrist. And Bram . . .”

  Her eyes welled with tears, and she tried to shake them off, unwilling to bow to her emotions. “. . . Bram had Ellen’s wrist pressed to his lips. He was . . . he was drinking from her as she was drinking from him.”

  With the utmost of restraint, I forced myself to look at my brother. Not that I wanted to. The emotions flowing through me at just the notion of him committing such an act were overwhelming. Yet, this was the third time I made her narrate the story, and not a word has changed, as much as I hoped it would.

  “And you do not recall any of this?” I said.

  Bram shook his head. “I remember waking and carrying Matilda to the bed, and I remember the start of the rain, but all after that moment is lost. I remember nothing else until hearing Matilda screaming my name.”

  “I ran across the street,” she said. “I nearly slipped on the wet stones and took my gaze from him for only a second. When I turned back, he was on the ground, unconscious, alone. I found no sign of Ellen or Maggie O’Cuiv.”

  “And Bram?”

  “Like I told you. Blood covered his lips and wrist, but the rain made quick work of the mess, washing it away. I couldn’t revive him; I tried for ten minutes. Two men on their way to the harbor were kind enough to help me get him to our room; I told them he spent too much of the night in the pub. While he slept, I arranged for another driver with the aid of the innkeeper, and we left at first light. By that point, Bram had awoken but was groggy. It took some time to coax him to the coach. Once in the light and fresh air, he began to get his wits back about him.”

  I turned to Bram and held out my hand. “Let me see your wrist.”

  Bram hesitated for
a moment, then held out his arm, turning it over.

  The two small puncture wounds at the wrist were clearly visible at the vein, but neither appeared fresh. Had I seen them without the benefit of Matilda’s recap, I would have thought them to be an old injury, far on their way to healing. I touched one tentatively. “Does it hurt?”

  “No,” Bram replied. “They itch. They have always itched.”

  His response gave me pause. “This has happened before?”

  My sister and Bram both glanced at each other. My brother nodded. “They first appeared the night I was healed as a child. They have been with me ever since.”

  “Why have you not spoken of this?”

  “I knew . . .” Matilda said hesitantly. “Ever since we were children.”

  This was of no surprise to me. Bram and I were not close as children, nor was I close to Matilda.

  “There’s more.” Matilda plucked a letter opener from my desk and handed it to our brother. “Show him, Bram.”

  Bram took the instrument and without hesitation cut a three-inch gash in his arm.

  “What are you doing?” I cried, pulling my handkerchief from my breast pocket and wrapping it around the wound.

  Bram calmly placed the letter opener down on the side table. “There is no need for that.” He peeled away the handkerchief, now damp with his blood, and used it to wipe away at the cut.

  I stared in awe. The gash was gone! There was no sign of the injury aside from a thin pink line. And, within a moment, that, too, had vanished.