by Dacre Stoker
“‘I am not here to kill you,’ she replied.
“Her voice seemed to come from all around him as well as from inside his own head, the sweet voice of his beloved, a voice he thought he would never hear again. ‘But I failed you,’ he told her. ‘I could not rescue you from that place, from that man. I am no better than the rest; you might as well have died at my own hand.’
“She placed her hand upon his, expecting him to pull away at her cool touch, but he did not; instead, he wrapped his fingers around hers. His warm fingers—she could feel the blood pulsing through them, and it aroused something within her. ‘I missed you so,’ she said. He smiled at her. ‘And I missed you, too, more than you could possibly know. I thought more than once about climbing to the top of that castle and joining you on the rocks below. Had I known it would place me by your side once again, I would have surely jumped, but there was no way to be certain. I am weak, and I hesitated, and I have done nothing since but spend my nights on this porch waiting for you to find me.’
“For the longest time, she did nothing but watch him, their hands intertwined. A tear slipped from her eye, a drop of crimson. He wiped it away and fought back tears of his own. She was so happy to be back in his arms that she did not see him pick up the metal blade from beside the bench, nor did she notice the hammer he had placed there beside it months earlier. With one quick motion, he pressed the sharp blade deep into her breast. She fell back in awe as he raised the hammer above his head and brought it down with all his strength, sending the steel through her heart with such force it embedded in the frame of the bench. A moment later, it was over, her body was still, and he wept until the morning light crept over the forest.
“He buried her for the second time on a little plot of land to the south of his cabin under an old willow tree. This time he took care to stack rocks high upon her grave—rocks he topped with a fresh white rose each night for the year that followed, hoping they would be together one day, but taking solace in the fact that she finally slumbered in peace.”
* * *
• • •
WHEN VAMBÉRY looked up from the book, the four of us were silent. It was Matilda who spoke first. “That is the saddest story I have ever heard.”
Vambéry turned to the last page. “There is a bit more.”
His gaze remained fixed on the final words, and at first, he said nothing. I know now he hesitated because he was unsure of whether he should tell us, knowing it would lead to more questions. When finally he spoke, he did so with reservation. “It says—
* * *
• • •
“SHE AWOKE FROM DEATH for a second time three years later, her tired eyes peering into the gloom of what could only be the inner walls of a castle, a room so similar to the one her evil husband had locked her in that for a moment she thought all of this had been nothing but a dream and she was back in that dreadful place. Then she saw him; she saw this man bending over her. He held a rabbit by the leg over her, the neck sliced open and blood flowing freely from the wound to her mouth. She tasted every sweet morsel of it; she could feel it racing through her body, awakening limbs and muscle and tissue.
“‘How can this be?’ she said in a hoarse voice.
“The man said nothing at first, just gripped the rabbit, his free hand squeezing the carcass to release every last drop of blood. When he did speak, she found his voice to be deep and rich, but thick with an accent she could not quite place. ‘I have woken you from a deep sleep. I have brought you back to life.’
“I have recorded these words as I remember them to be.
“Countess Dolingen von Gratz, 12 October 1654.”
* * *
• • •
WHEN HE FINISHED READING, Vambéry slid the book to the center of the table, still open to that last page. Nanna Ellen’s handwriting stared back at us from the yellowed paper.
He rang the bell for the servant and this time ordered a bottle of brandy. Matilda refused to drink, but Bram, Vambéry, and I harbored no such qualms. The three of us each enjoyed a glass, then another. The warmth of the alcohol did little to banish the chill from my bones. But, then, I doubted anything could.
“Who is this Countess Dolingen von Gratz?” Bram asked aloud.
“She is clearly Ellen. Or Ellen is she,” Matilda said.
I cleared my throat and rolled the stem of the brandy snifter between my fingers. “Are we to believe Ellen wrote this more than two hundred years ago? Is that what you are implying?”
“If Ellen did write it, is it fictional or an account of the events she actually experienced?” Bram said.
Vambéry tapped the book. “I have heard the tale of the Dearg-Due, but never in such detail; only in whispers while amongst the Pavees.”
“Pavees?”
“Minkiers . . . Lucht Siúil . . . knackers . . . They go by many names. They are Irish travelers, gypsies.”
I turned to Vambéry, my friend, and asked him the question on all our minds. “Are we to believe our Nanna Ellen is this Dearg-Due?”
He shook his head. “I do not know what to believe.”
“Isn’t it just the stuff of superstition?” Bram said. “A tale meant to frighten children late at night?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Vambéry replied. “The Pavees believe it to be true, and . . .” He paused here, closing his eyes. Then he spoke slowly, saying the words aloud as his mind worked, slowly, deliberately. “The box you found as children, you said you found it in the ruins of a castle tower, did you not?”
Bram nodded. “In what remained of Artane Castle.”
“Many believe the Dearg-Due was held captive in a castle outside of Dublin, near the coast. It is very possible that castle and the one in Artane are one and the same,” Vambéry said. “It was built by the Hollywood family in the fourteenth century, but who is to say who occupied it in 1654 or the years prior when this story originated?”
“Or actually took place,” Matilda pointed out, “if the story is true.”
“Matilda, remember the lock?” Bram asked. “The lock on the tower room was on the outside of the door, meant to keep something in.”
“We must go there at once,” said Vambéry.
THE JOURNAL of BRAM STOKER
14 August 1868, 12:21 a.m.—I only wish to make note of our departure, late into the night.
Vambéry summoned his coach, and we left the Hellfire Club in much the same way as we arrived: through a dark passage, never once gazing upon the exterior. Thornley elected to return to his home rather than ride with us; he feared he had already left Emily alone with his servants far too long and could do so no longer. We rode in relative silence, each of us lost within our own thoughts.
Matilda ignored me for much of the journey. I attempted to apologize for deceiving her, but she only mumbled in return and continued to stare out the window. Vambéry did not seem to notice this, though, instead focusing his attention on his notes, filling page after page without pausing. I couldn’t help but envy the ease with which he wrote, for I sometimes found myself at a loss for words while attempting to recount these events in my own journal. He had not taken down a single word as we spoke at the Hellfire Club; I could only imagine he was documenting all of it now, for the hearty speed at which he wrote could only be fed by such a fire.
FROM THE NOTES of ARMINIUS VAMBÉRY
(RECORDED IN CIPHER AND TRANSCRIBED HEREWITH.)
14 August 1868, 12:21 a.m.—I write in my own version of shorthand to ensure my words cannot be read by another. I do so with great hesitance, for if these words were to fall into the wrong hands, I have no doubt they could break my code, given enough time. That in mind, my shorthand is nothing more than a means to slow down others. I feel the risk of not documenting far outweighs my fear of discovery.
Thornley’s brother sits across from me now, and I dare not take my eyes off him, for he has dr
unk of the blood of the undead, of this I am certain. He told me so in his very own words. He bears the mark from where they, too, drank from him in some twisted exchange I have yet to understand.
The story they shared is extraordinary, to say the least, and while most persons would not believe a word of such a tale, I have seen and heard enough in my lifetime to know the only thing we know for certain is that there is much more we do not know for certain.
With the blood of the undead flowing through his veins, I am curious to see what will become of him when the morning light breaks. Does he even understand what he has become? What he may become if this perversion is allowed to continue? I think not. It is clear he was meant to die as a child, yet his alliance with this unholy creature has garnered him more years; a deal with the Devil, possibly worse, if such a thing is imaginable. The good person he once was has been driven from him, and with that innocence all comprehension of right and wrong. It is for his sister I fear the most; she is but an innocent in all of this, yet somehow she leads the way. Her desire for information blinds her, and it is a lack of self-preservation that will be the death of her if I am unable to protect her. When the time comes to rid her brother of this evil and save his immortal soul, will she stand by my side or in my way? I would like to believe clear thinking will prevail, but such is rarely true when love or family is involved.
I wish I had had the foresight to bring a more formidable weapon. All I have on my person is the sword hidden within my cane, and while the blade is plated in silver, I know it will not bring an end to creatures such as this; it will only buy time.
THE DIARY of THORNLEY STOKER
(RECORDED IN SHORTHAND AND TRANSCRIBED HEREWITH.)
14 August 1868, 12:21 a.m.—My coach dropped me at my front door before proceeding to the stables. I considered going with the others back to Artane Tower. Foolish, I know, but I did not wish to go back inside my own house for fear of what I might find there. I had no reason to believe anything was amiss, nothing but this lingering anxiety dwelling beneath my flesh. I told myself repeatedly there was no truth to this apprehension, yet there it was, clawing to get out.
As we neared my home, I found myself scanning the bushes and trees for signs of the dog from the night before. There were none, of course, and I began to wonder if I had seen this creature at all. With all the happenings of late, my mind screamed. That, combined with the lack of sleep, could no doubt create any number of imaginings. Many of my own patients presented worse under far less stressful circumstance.
I stood at the front door and watched the coach disappear into the stables. I stood at the front door and listened to the sounds of night. I stood at the front door for another minute before finally finding the courage to twist the knob and step inside.
The house was silent. The servants had long ago left for home.
“Emily?”
I do not know why I spoke her name, only that I did, and I thought myself silly for doing so. I found no sign of her in any of the downstairs rooms. I checked each, moving slowly through the house, space by space. Strange how different a place seemed in the dark of night—the utter lack of life made the walls seem a little closer together, every sound amplified.
I did not find her on the ground floor, so I ascended the staircase and went into the master bedroom. I found this room empty, too. The bedclothes were all rumpled and bunched up at the foot of the bed, as if recently discarded. A full pitcher of water sat on the bedside table, along with an empty glass. I picked up the glass and held it up to the moonlight—bone dry, unused. The servants had prepared a bowl of stew for Emily; it sat upon a tray beside the water glass, long since grown cold, untouched.
The window stood wide open, and a breeze drifting into the room was sending the curtains a-flutter. It also wrapped around me in an embrace that caused me to jitter. When it left, I felt alone. How easily a breeze can capture you in its grip, then abandon you, I thought.
“Where are you, my Emily?”
Even to my own ears, my voice sounded thin and distant. Not the authoritative voice I wished to employ but a much lighter one, the voice of a child calling for his mother after a bad dream.
I left the bedroom and proceeded to check the remainder of the second floor. With each room, my heart grew heavier. If Emily was not in this house, where might she have gone? I must speak to Miss Dugdale and the others, I told myself; Emily was not to be left alone, not anymore, not until a cure for her affliction could be found. They would work in shifts if I was to be away from home for even the shortest while.
The thump from downstairs startled me, and I walked back out to the hallway, to the landing at the top of the stairs. There I listened, but the sound did not repeat a second time. But the first thump had come from downstairs, of that I was certain.
Returning to my bedroom, I retrieved my Webley revolver from the night table and checked the cylinder. I do not know why I felt the need for having a weapon in my own home, but I found comfort in its heft.
I descended the stairs.
When finally there was another thump, not as loud as before, I determined it came from the cellar off the kitchen. I found its door standing open, squeaking on tired hinges. When the residence was outfitted with gas lamps, we had limited the work to only the top two floors. There was little need for such extravagance at the lower level. I reached for the candle we kept at the top of the stairs and lit its wick on the lamp in the kitchen, then returned to the open mouth of the cellar door.
Again, I called my wife’s name. My words echoed off the stone walls and were swallowed by the musty air below.
Why she would go downstairs, I did not know. Nor did I understand why she would go down there in total darkness. If she had brought a light, I would see the glow from where I stood, but there was none. There was nothing beyond the glow of my candle.
For some reason, I thought of the dog again. The beast from the night before that I wanted to believe had not been outside my home, although I knew it had. I pictured the dog down below, waiting at the foot of the stairs. This was silly, and no doubt my mind’s way of offering caution, but the image lingered nonetheless.
I descended the stairs into the cellar, one hand holding the candle while the other batted away the cobwebs that clung to the walls and ceiling. When the flame of the candle caught one of the webs on fire, a quick sizzle was followed by the scent of burnt hair mixing with the coal, wintered-over potatoes, and other unrecognizable odors emanating from this dark, dank place.
“Emily, my dear, are you down here?”
At this, I heard a shuffle off to my left.
I turned, the glow of my candle washing over the walls, the low ceiling, the dirt floor. When the light found my wife, I nearly did not see her. My eyes washed right over her, for she was crouching down, her thin frame rigid and unwavering as a statue. She was huddled in the corner, with her back to me. Her feet were bare, her body draped in a thin, white nightgown.
“What are you doing?” I heard myself ask.
At the sound of my voice, her body twitched, then went still again.
Again, I imagined the dog, saw the black, muscled beast huddled in the corner in my wife’s stead. I shook the image from my mind’s eye and crossed the room to her.
A growl. I found it disturbing that such a warning would come from my lovely Emily, but I was certain it had. A feral sound.
When I placed my hand upon her shoulder, her head snapped back in a motion so quick it was as if she had not moved at all. I saw the red around her lips, on her cheeks and chin. In her hand, she held the remains of a mouse. The head was ripped off, yet the tiny body still twitched in her fingers, blood dripping from the ravaged remains. Piled at her feet, against the wall, were at least six other little corpses, one with nothing left but a tail and a bit of meat. I watched as her tongue lapped at the bloody carcass, then licked her crimson lips, before she swallowed it whole,
finishing off the nest.
NOW
The hiss comes from the right, from the corner of the room.
Bram pulls his bowie knife from the sheath attached to his belt.
The man is still staring up at him from his perch on the rock below, his hand still outstretched. He says nothing, but the look stamped on his face tells Bram enough. The man closes his eyes and straightens his finger, and the hiss punctuates the silence again.
Bram tightens his grip on the knife’s handle and picks up the oil lamp, cautiously inching towards the corner. He does not see the snake until he is nearly upon it. It raises its menacing head and lunges at him in a lightning-swift arc. Bram stumbles backwards and almost falls.
The snake hisses again.
Bram holds up the lamp.
At least two feet long and coiled, the snake at first appears black, but Bram realizes it is actually a dark brown. A zigzag pattern crosses over the slender body with an inverted V at the base of the neck, the eyes black as coal. In those dark pools, Bram’s own face stares back at him. The snake’s head moves back and forth like a pendulum, ready to strike.
