Dracul

by Dacre Stoker

  I remembered seeing this man before at the Hellfire Club on at least one occasion, but we did not speak. He had been in the company of Vambéry at that time, too, and I recall the two of them rushing through the main hall to the back stairs. Stewart nearly hugged the wall, avoiding all those members standing at the center of the room. His hands had been in his pockets then, his eyes locked on the floor.

  “Shall we get started, then?” Vambéry said. He pulled out a chair for Matilda and took the seat next to her.

  Stewart’s eyes lingered on Bram for a moment, then he, too, sat, taking the seat in the far corner. I took the chair beside Vambéry, and Bram found a seat between Stewart and me. Stewart produced a detailed map of Dublin and the surrounding countryside from his black satchel and unrolled it on the table. He then retrieved a small wooden box from the bag, unsnapped the latch, and carefully opened the lid, revealing the contents. “This is called a scry. I inherited this particular model from my grandmother nearly thirty years ago when she realized I possessed the sight. She received it from her grandmother. To the best of my knowledge, it is about two hundred years old.”

  “The sight?” Matilda repeated.

  Stewart glanced at her for a second, then looked back to the item inside the small wooden box. “As Mr. Vambéry was so kind as to explain, I see things when I touch people or items that have come in contact with people. This may mean a quick flash of memory or possibly something entering their mind at that very moment. Other times, the vision is far stronger, and I am lost to it, unable to focus on my actual surroundings and taken over by the sight. Over the years, I have learned to direct it, to seek out the information I wish to possess, whether that be a secret locked away in one’s mind or even lost in the subconscious. I have also learned to use this sight to pinpoint the exact location of a person or object, which I believe is the reason Mr. Vambéry asked me here tonight, is it not?”

  “Yes,” Matilda said. “You’re here to locate our former nanny.”

  “Ellen Crone,” I added.

  “Ellen Crone, yes,” Stewart repeated.

  He reached into the small wooden box and extracted a device made of gold. The top was a cross consisting of two thin braces with a gold chain dangling beneath. Attached to the bottom of the chain was a weight in the shape of a teardrop, also wrought in gold, with its tip colored black. The weight hung about six inches below the cross portion he held in his hand. It reminded me of a marionette. He hovered the scry just above the table and let the weight swing to and fro. “The hair, please,” Stewart said.

  I was so enthralled by these unfolding events that I failed to realize he was addressing me. All eyes turned to me, and I reached into my pocket and extracted the small lock of Ellen’s hair I had carried with me my entire adult life. I held it out to Stewart.

  “Please place it on the table.”

  “Yes, sorry.” I set the lock of hair down on top of the open map.

  Stewart stared at it for a long while, his head tilting this way and that. Then he inserted his index finger in his mouth and removed the white glove with his teeth, dropping it on the table at his side. When his hand was free, he flexed the fingers and carefully reached for the hair, holding it in a tight fist.

  His eyes closed and he exhaled, the air whistling between crooked teeth. His eyes fluttered behind his lids like someone in a dream state. With his left hand, he reached across the map, the scry dangling beneath his fingers. He mumbled some words in a language I did not understand and began to move over Dublin. The tip of the scry pointed down at the various roads and buildings, the chain taut but swaying. For the next ten minutes, he crisscrossed the map, moving from side to side, up and down, until eventually he passed over every square inch. Then he did it again, and again after that. Nearly an hour passed without any result, and all of us were becoming restless.

  “Maybe she is no longer in Dublin,” Bram said, apparently buying into this sideshow. I was beginning to think this exercise was a complete folly.

  Stewart opened his eyes and set the hair and scry down on the table. “I will require additional maps.”

  At this point, the frustration took hold of me, and I stood from my chair with a huff, went to the library, and returned a minute later with Matilda’s sketchbook, opened to the map of Ireland. “See if you cannot find her with one of these; I am going to check on my wife.”

  “Give it time, Thornley,” Vambéry said. “This is not an exact science.”

  “Science? This is not science at all! This is a parlor trick at best.”

  “Perhaps I should leave,” Stewart said. Probably the only thing he said of worth since his arrival.

  “No, you must not,” Matilda said. “We must keep trying.”

  “May I see the hair?” Bram asked.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Why not?”

  Bram reached across the table and took the hair in his hand, closing his eyes much like Stewart had. “Where are you, Ellen?” I heard him say.

  A storm was kicking up outside, and I went to the window as the rain began to fall. I half expected to find Patrick O’Cuiv and a pack of wolves on my front lawn, but this time there was nothing. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a clap of thunder strong enough to jingle the china in the curio cabinet beside me.

  I had my back to the table only for a matter of seconds, no more. Of that I am sure. And when I turned back, I spotted Emily through the dining room door, standing midway up the staircase. I first thought I was imagining things, for she stood there perfectly still and completely naked. With one of the leather bindings still dangling from her wrist. When our eyes met, I watched in awe as she leapt from the landing and over the railing, somehow soaring across the foyer and hall to the dining room beyond. She executed this maneuver in utter silence, and it was not until she crossed the threshold of the dining room that the others even saw her.

  Vambéry, shocked, pushed back from the table, toppling his chair. Matilda screamed. Stewart’s eyes went immensely wide, but he did not move, frozen in fear. Only Bram acted, and he acted with swiftness. He seemed to snatch her midair and slam her down against the table in one fluid motion, pinning her there by the neck, her arms and legs flailing. Her foot caught me, and the power of it sent me crashing into the wall. I felt the plaster crumble and the lath snap upon impact, and a pain shot up my back. I forced myself upright as Vambéry pulled the sword from his cane and prepared to plunge the silver blade into my wife’s heart.

  “You cannot!” I shouted, diving across the table. I nearly caught the blade in my back, but Vambéry pulled back his thrust, missing me by only a fraction of an inch. Instead, I crashed to the ground at his feet.

  “I cannot hold her much longer!” Bram cried out. He still had her pinned, by the shoulders now, but she was bucking beneath him, trying to break free.

  Matilda reached over the table and snatched the scry from Stewart and held its cross-like scaffold above Emily’s face. My wife instantly froze in horror, her head turning to the side and her eyes pressing shut. “Stop or I will press it to your skin!” Matilda said, but the threat was unnecessary; Emily’s body had gone soft. Her senses seemed to return, for her flailing arms covered her exposed breasts and privates, and she pulled her knees in close to her chest as a child might do when seeking protection. The loud hisses that had been escaping from her throat ceased, and her eyes stared up at me pleadingly. “Oh, he is calling me! His voice is so beautiful!”

  “Who?” Vambéry asked.

  Emily ignored him. “He is searching for the Dearg-Due as well. His precious countess.”

  Grasping her shoulders, Bram shook her. “Who!”

  “The tall man.” Emily then smiled. “He wants to dance with me. I must go to him.”

  Stewart stood from his chair and leaned over her. “Where can we find Ellen Crone?”

  Emily eyed him for a brief second, then her han
d shot out and grabbed his. Stewart’s fingers went white as she squeezed. His face registered the pain, but before he could scream, his head snapped back and his eyes rolled up, exposing the whites, as a vision took hold. Emily froze, too, as if the two of them were in some kind of communication. “I so love to dance,” Emily said softly.

  Beside me, Bram cried out. I turned to find him in terrible pain. He released Emily and tore at the buttons of his shirt, ripping the material open. His hand fell upon the chain around his neck and he ripped it free, hurling it on the table. It was the ring, the one he found with Matilda all those years ago. The metal glowed a fire red, a heat so strong I could feel it from where I stood.

  “Whitby!” Stewart cried out, his face twisted in agony.

  Emily released his hand and bounded from the table.

  In an instant, she crashed through the enormous dining room window and disappeared into the thick of the night’s storm.

  THE JOURNAL of BRAM STOKER

  14 August 1868, 11:19 p.m.—My brother would have hurtled out the window after his wife if not for Vambéry holding him back. I clutched my burnt hand and chest and stared around the room in utter disbelief at what had just happened.

  Matilda stood perfectly still in the corner of the room, her hands over her mouth, her face such the picture of fright that I half expected her hair to have turned white. Her eyes shot from the table to me, to Thornley and Vambéry at the window. Finally, they zeroed in on Stewart; the man was curled up on the floor, clutching his hand. Tiny sounds escaped from him—in truth, whimpers.

  It was then that Matilda seemed to snap to full alertness. She crouched next to him on the floor and held his arms, careful not to touch the exposed skin on his neck or at his wrists. “What is in Whitby?” she asked him. This surprised me, for I thought she meant to comfort the man, but instead she only wanted an explanation.

  “Do not touch—” Stewart said softly.

  “You must afford him a chance to recover,” Vambéry said from the window. “Emily came in direct contact with him and he was not prepared for it. I realize this may be vexing for you or me to comprehend, but when it happens to a clairvoyant as strong as this man, it can be quite traumatic, even dangerous.”

  “I am okay,” Stewart mumbled. “But please, Miss Matilda, please back away. I mean you no disrespect, but you are far too close.”

  Matilda did as he asked.

  Still at the window, Thornley was now sobbing. I went to him and looked out, surveying the night. There was no sign of Emily. If she had left tracks in the muddy earth, the rain had washed them away. But I sincerely doubted she had.

  “She is out there all alone,” Thornley said. “We must find her. She cannot care for herself.”

  “We will, I promise. Let me close these shutters; the storm is coming in.”

  Thornley glanced absentmindedly at the puddles collecting on his dining room floor, then waved a hand in my direction before walking back to the table and collapsing into one of the chairs.

  I made one last assessment of the night, then closed the shutters and engaged the lock. When I returned to the table, Vambéry was there, holding my ring to the light. “What is this?” His voice had taken on an angry edge.

  “That is the ring Matilda and I found in the palm of the hand we found in Artane Tower,” I replied. “We told you about it already.”

  “You told me about the ring, yes, but you did not mention the inscription on it or that you still possessed it. Did you not think those details of importance?” Vambéry leaned in close to Stewart and allowed him to read the words circling the interior of the ring. “Would you care to hold it?” Vambéry asked him.

  Stewart grimaced in obvious discomfort. He scrambled to his feet and reached for his glove. “I will do no such thing. I would like your coach to return me to my home immediately.”

  “You cannot leave yet!” Matilda stepped between him and the door. “You must tell us about Whitby.” She scrambled for her sketchbook on the table and turned to the map of England, tapped at the mark next to the town of Whitby. “What is this place? What is this Whitby?”

  “You would be best served to forget all about Whitby or ever finding your nanny,” he replied. Turning to Thornley, he added: “And you should forget your wife. He has her now; there is no getting her back.”

  “Who has her?”

  Stewart pushed past him for the front door. “I will tell your coachman to return here after he takes me home.”

  Matilda tried to go after him, but I grabbed her hand, shaking my head.

  “Let him go,” Vambéry concurred. “What do you know of Dracul?”

  “Nothing. Aside from the inscription on the ring, I have never heard the name before,” I said.

  Vambéry gestured to the vacant chairs, and Matilda and I sat. He then picked up the ring and held it clamped between his thumb and forefinger. “This explains much,” he said. “More than you will want to hear, but you must if you are to understand what we are up against.” He took one of the remaining seats and set the ring on the table. “The Draculs are an ancient family born in the mountains of Wallachia; they rose from the peasant class to protectors of the people to ultimately rulers over the land, safeguarding the populace from numerous invaders, primarily the Turks, for centuries. It is said they did so with great might and fearsome battle techniques, and that they benefited from an unholy alliance with the Devil himself. It is said each member of this family traveled to the mountains near Lake Hermannstadt to attend the Scholomance, the Devil’s school. Here, students were exposed to all the secrets of nature, to the language of animals, and to countless magic spells and charms, all taught by the Devil.

  “Admittance was limited to only ten students per class, and at the conclusion of learning, nine of the students would be released and returned to their homes while the tenth would remain as payment to the Devil. At least four of the Draculs are believed to have been selected for this honor over the centuries. The so-called Tenth Student becomes the Devil’s aide-de-camp, his personal student, and is taught magic far darker than any other. They learn the ability to cheat death, to manipulate the minds of others, to transform their own bodies into anything they wish. They become gods among men, but the price is steep, for the Devil claims their soul, and the gates of Heaven are forever closed to their ranks, as their final test requires them to renounce God and embrace all that is unholy.”

  “This is a legend, right? Nothing more?” Bram asked.

  “It is as real as the story of the Dearg-Due your nanny put to paper—what I firmly believe to be her past life. All legends, after all, find their basis in fact.”

  “So you believe this ‘tall man’ to be one of the Draculs?” Matilda asked.

  Vambéry nodded. “I believe him to be the voivode Dracula, yes. I heard his name spoken of in legend throughout Eastern Europe, sometimes referred to as stregoica, Ördög, pokol, even wampyr in a German text shared with me in Budapest. The physical description is always similar: tall, dark hair, thick eyebrows, an aquiline nose. I have seen numerous drawings of the man, but he always appears a little different in each one. The similarities are there, though.”

  I recalled Matilda’s attempted drawings of Ellen from all those years ago, how she was never quite able to capture her, each image different from the last. I caught Matilda looking at me; she was thinking much the same.

  “The most common image,” Vambéry went on, “can be found in an old pamphlet from Nuremberg published in the fourteen hundreds. Therein, he is known as Dracula the voivode, but I believe he has gone by many names.”

  “I do not care what name he is known by or what atrocities he committed in the past, this wicked man has taken my wife,” Thornley said. He was again at the window, with the shutter open enough to see out into the storm. “I will chase him to the ends of this world to get her back. If Ellen is somehow with my Emily, I will
put a blade through her heart, too, if that is what is necessary.”

  “To pursue him means death. Think about what you have seen,” Vambéry said. “This man transformed from a singularly human form to a swarm of bees before our eyes. I believe we can assume he brought Patrick O’Cuiv back from the dead, not once but twice, the second resurrection after his body had been dissected in autopsy. This very act offers a glimpse at his malignant powers. He somehow has infected your wife with the vile disease that thrives in his own blood, making her a willing slave and turning her against you. If the story of the Dearg-Due is to be believed, your Ellen joined the ranks of the undead when she renounced God. The evil that created Dracul flows through her veins as well. You stand no chance against one; to take on both is ludicrous.”

  “How can he travel to England? You said they cannot cross water?” Thornley asked.

  “I said they cannot cross moving water under their own power,” Vambéry countered. “But Dracul possesses great wealth and with it he can procure the aid of others, people lacking scruples.”

  “We must see this through,” I said quietly. “Whatever Ellen has inflicted on me, whatever this man has done to Emily, all of it is connected. This curse has haunted us since childhood; we must bring it to an end.”

  Thornley said, “How can we be certain Emily has gone to Whitby? What if we leave and she returns here to an abandoned house?”

  I had picked up the ring again and gripped it tightly in my hand. “Emily has gone to him, and we know he has gone to Whitby. He came here tonight to spirit her away. We only served to slow him down.”

  “What about Ellen?” Matilda asked.

  “Ellen is on her way there as well, of this I am certain,” I said.

  “How can you know?”

  My arm was itching incredibly, and for the first time in many years that cord binding me to Ellen tugged at my imagination, the link I thought as a child I was only imagining.