by Dacre Stoker
“I just know.”
But what I could not know was whether I was using this shackle to follow Ellen or if Ellen was using it to bring me to her, as an offering to this Dracul. Regardless, I was certain of one thing: answers were buried at the end of this path of questions.
Vambéry eyed me but uttered not a word. He was focused on my hand, where the burn had once inflicted pain but which festered no more and was now healed.
Thornley returned to the table and sat beside him. “Armin, you have been a tremendous help, more so than I could have ever hoped. I cannot ask you to come with us, that would be too much, you have given so much already.”
Vambéry said, “Enough! Of course I will accompany you. If you are going to march to your death, the least I can do is bear witness. We will need supplies, though; I will begin gathering them at once. We should be prepared to leave at first light.”
NOW
The man is glaring at him.
A shiver crept up Bram’s spine, as if this dark entity had reached out and caressed his cheek.
At the man’s feet, the coiled remains of the two snakes spasmed and twisted in the muddied grass. Bram watches in awe as the mucky mess surrounding them begins to bubble and the serpents are swallowed beneath the surface, the beady black eyes of one of the snakes locked on him still as its ugly head disappears from view.
A fog begins to collect then, rising from the still erupting earth like some ungodly steam. First it gathers only around the man, but then it spreads out from him, growing wider in a concentric circle configuration, fanning out until it reaches the tower and begins to wrap around it in some kind of embrace. Bram advances to the other window and sees that the soil has begun to bubble on that side of the castle as well, the grass simmering with steam, followed by the expulsion of fog. The mysterious mist hovers near the ground, rising no more than a foot or two, but within ten minutes the entire structure is shrouded.
The man’s eyes never leave Bram, although he appears to be in deep concentration. He flexes his hands at his side, stretching his fingers out straight, his long nails pointing to the earth. Then, in a fluid motion, he lowers himself to the ground and plunges his fingertips into the dirt. The fog stirs around him, swirling slowly then gaining speed. If a wind drives this, Bram does not feel it; the air inside the room lies still.
In an instant, the fog vanishes, as Bram watches it first sink to the ground, then disappear as it is sucked beneath by some unseen force, an inhaled breath.
All goes quiet, so quiet that when someone speaks from behind the door, Bram startles.
He is coming for you, it says in that little girl’s voice.
With that, the boiling mud around the man begins to stir as snakes break the surface—thousands of snakes, of all colors and sizes, wiggling out from the hell below.
LETTER FROM MATILDA to ELLEN CRONE, DATED 16 AUGUST 1868
My dearest Ellen,
I will not restate the occurrences of the past few days, for no doubt you already know. I can only assume the tall man, the one we refer to as Dracul, has informed you. I also believe that the link Bram shares with you allows you, in some way, to monitor him. You must know, therefore, that we are on our way to Whitby.
We boarded a ship in Dublin called the RMS Leinster and crossed the Irish Sea with little difficulty—unless, of course, you consider the two large trunks our Mr. Vambéry brought in tow, a curious assortment of clothing and holy relics. Far more than the simple bag I brought. Bram and Thornley also thought it best to travel light.
The ship transported us to Liverpool, where we boarded the train to Whitby, by way of Manchester, Leeds, and York. We are expected to arrive within the hour.
Thornley has been understandably distressed yet subdued. He did not wish to leave his home and nearly stayed behind. Even after all that has occurred, he clings to the belief that whatever affected Emily dwells only in her mind and that she now is wandering the streets of Dublin in some kind of daze. He cannot bear the thought of her returning to their home to discover him gone. After much debate, Bram convinced him he would be right in joining us. He instructed his servants to leave all the doors and windows unsecured at all hours and, should Emily return, to notify him at the Duke of York Inn by telegram.
Bram tells us that you, too, are in Whitby, but he cannot tell us why. Did you travel with the tall man, this Dracul? Or is he following you there as we are? What could be the nature of your business in such a far-off place?
Why are you running from us? Or are you chasing us?
Is there no end to the roads you will travel?
Bram has been scratching at his arm. I don’t think he realized that I noticed, but I did. He scratches at your bite mark all the way to his shoulder. This “itch” within him seems to grow as he draws closer to you, as we near Whitby. He talks little of it, but it obviously worries him so. Even now, as he stares out the train window at the English countryside rolling past, his mind is elsewhere, his mind is on you.
Affectionately yours,
Matilda
THE JOURNAL of BRAM STOKER
17 August 1868, 12:05 p.m.—After three days of travel, we arrived and settled into the little town of Whitby without incident. I must admit, I was fearful to board a ship and cross the Irish Sea. Something about the confinement I found deeply disturbing, also the rushing water all around us. The experience made me feel so small, so vulnerable. Had I not been so utterly exhausted, I may have spent more time worrying about these things, but instead I slept. I expected my dreams to be filled with images of Ellen and this quest before us, but they were not; there was only a blackness devoid of all sight and sound. I can only imagine death to feel this way; that is how I slept.
Upon arrival in Whitby, Vambéry summoned a coach to transport us to the Duke of York Inn, situated on the town’s western-facing cliffs, where we took possession of our reserved rooms. Vambéry and Matilda occupied rooms of their own, while I shared a room with Thornley. I felt it best not to leave him alone in his current condition. He is asleep now upon one of the beds, but he is not enjoying restful sleep, it being fitful instead. He keeps becoming entangled in the sheets, and more than once he has been given to mumbling in his troubled slumber. Most cannot be understood, but I was able to pick out his wife’s name, something about her feeding, and some nonsense about the police pursuing him for the murder of the guard at Steevens’ Hospital. I know the man died in his presence, but he was in no way responsible; surely Thornley knows this, yet his mind seeks guilt. Perhaps it is because he did not report the crime, or perhaps the stress of all the events of late are simply manifesting themselves as guilt. Thornley is versed in the study of the mind, which I am not, but I must admit its workings are quite fascinating and intrigue me no end.
I have settled into an armchair at the window to record this entry, the sea breeze feeling quite exquisite bathing my skin. To inhale the salt air reminds me of Clontarf so many years ago. Whitby is a lovely locale, the little River Esk meandering through a deep valley, broadening as it nears the harbor. The houses of the old town, seemingly piled one upon the other, are all red-roofed. Overlooking the town is the abbey, a noble ruin of immense size. Between it and the town is the parish church—St. Mary’s, I was to learn later—around which lies a capacious graveyard, chockablock with tombstones. The grade of the hill is so steep over the harbor that part of its bank has given way and some of the graves violated. Vambéry had pointed to this sad development when first we arrived. “Many of those tombs are empty, the headstones there just to placate the loved ones of those lost to the sea.” This explanation did not erase the image in my mind of the cliff breaking away and the bodies of the buried falling to the waves below.
To reach the graveyard from the street, one must climb one hundred and ninety-nine steps—no simple feat, considering how steep the hill is and how strong the winds are blowing off the sea. At the top of the steps stan
ds the church and abbey.
I was drawn to the summit of this hill and its abbey.
Even before Vambéry left word for Thornley and me to meet him in the lobby of the inn, I knew we would be climbing those steps soon.
* * *
• • •
17 AUGUST 1868, 4:13 p.m.—“I have spent the past few hours in search of information,” Vambéry told us, “anything my contacts might share that may be of use to us.”
The four of us sat around a table at a small outdoor pub on Church Street, with the abbey looming over us in the distance. The blue sky of earlier was gone, replaced with one of dull gray and thick clouds. There was rain in our future, but none as of yet. A fog hung over the harbor, threatening to roll in.
“I would have gone with you,” I said.
Vambéry waved me off. “You needed to get some rest, all of you, for what lies ahead. I got plenty of rest in my younger years and have little need for sleep now.”
“You have friends here?” I think the question came across more skeptical than Matilda had intended, and her face reddened.
“I have friends everywhere, my dear. In my line of work, one can never have too many friends.”
At this point, we all knew better than to ask him what that line of work was, so we said nothing.
“Ellen is very close, I am sure of it,” I said.
“What about Emily?” Thornley asked.
“I don’t know.” This was the truth. While I could most definitely sense Ellen nearby, I had no connection to Emily. “Ellen feels as if she is sitting at this table with us. I believe she’s watching us right now. The daylight is fearsome to her; it makes her feel vulnerable, so she stays within the shadows, but close, very close.”
“What about the tall man, Dracul?” Vambéry asked. “Can you feel him?”
I could not, and I told him so. “But when I think about him, I believe Ellen can feel him. In fact, I know Ellen can feel him. I don’t believe he is in Whitby yet, but he will be soon. She waits for him to arrive . . . yes, she is watching us and waiting for him.” I said these words slowly, as they came to me. I couldn’t explain this bond between Ellen and me, but it seemed to be strengthening, allowing me to reach out and pluck thoughts from her mind. I couldn’t help but wonder: If she were doing the same, would I know?
“I want you to try something, Bram. I want you to think about Emily while focusing on Ellen as she thinks about Dracul. Think of Emily in Ellen’s mind. Does she know where Emily is?”
My eyes closed, and Vambéry said these words in a soothing voice, a monotone; I found his tone put me in a dreamy state, on the verge of sleep. “Plant the thought in Ellen’s mind, then try to capture the result.”
I did as he requested, then said, “Yes, Emily is with the tall man. A dark, dismal place. Waiting. Anxious. No rest. Rocking. Rocking with the sea? Wait, no, not anymore. Coach. They travel by coach.”
“Good, Bram, very good. Now this is important, so think hard. When did they leave Dublin?”
I forced the thought into Ellen’s mind. If she resisted, I did not sense any pressure. The answer came back swiftly, plucked from a fast-moving current. “Saturday night, by boat, to Liverpool. Private coach then. Many horses. Fast. So very fast. Dark. She expects them some time tonight, late into the night.”
“You are doing very well, Bram. I want you to attempt one other thing. I know you can do it, so just allow your mind to relax and accept that you can. This task will be no more arduous than looking from right to left or taking a drink of your tea, do you understand?”
“Yes.” I heard my voice, but it sounded distant, like I was across the street overhearing myself respond.
“You said Ellen was watching us. You even said she was watching us right now. I want you to look through Ellen’s eyes and tell us where she is. What is her view of us, from what direct—”
My eyes snapped open as a sharp pain sliced through my brain. It rolled forward and felt as if someone had squeezed my eyes in their hand with all their might. A moan almost escaped my lips, but I bit it back.
“Breathe, Bram, breathe,” Vambéry intoned, his voice at my ear. “It is over now, relax.”
I blinked back the light. Even with the storm clouds overhead, it seemed immensely bright. With my elbows planted on the table, I rested my head in my hands.
“She blocked you. Ellen caught you poking around in her mind and locked you out. This was to be expected. Did you learn where she was?”
I thought about this for a second. “No. Still close, but she might be in any one of these buildings.” Hundreds of windows surrounded us from all angles, from storefronts to houses to our own inn and the abbey perched opposite it on the cliffs. I had no idea where she was.
“This is still good; we have learned much. I do not believe this is her first visit to Whitby. In truth, I think she has been coming here for some time,” Vambéry said.
Matilda had rested her hand on my shoulder. “What makes you say that?”
Vambéry gestured towards the harbor. “For the past few years, there have been sightings of a phantom hound, large and black, prowling the moors. The locals claim the beast is far larger than the typical dog, wolf-like in its appearance. In the past few weeks, these sightings have increased in number and frequency. It was seen as recently as last night.”
“And you think this wolf is Ellen?” Thornley asked.
“I have reason to believe so, yes. There is more.” He nodded towards the abbey. “Another local legend tells of a woman in white seen in the windows of the abbey, high up in that tower. The keeper of the abbey assures me that this particular tower is inaccessible, yet even he saw her as recently as this week past. While the descriptions vary, I believe this specter, too, may be our Ellen Crone.”
“I have been drawn to that place since we arrived here,” I admitted. “I’m not sure if that is where Ellen is now, but there is a familiarity that cannot be denied.”
“She used Patrick O’Cuiv’s grave to conceal possessions; maybe she has done the same here,” Matilda said. “For someone who has defied death, it seems fitting to hide possessions in some forlorn grave, someplace the locals have long forgotten and will never disturb. It would be an all too fitting refuge in which to hide her maps.”
“But how can she enter there in the first place?” Thornley pointed out. “Is it not designated a holy site?”
Vambéry smiled at this assertion. “I asked that very question at the Whitby Library and learned a very interesting fact about the abbey’s history. The first monastery was built more than a thousand years ago by King Oswy of Northumbria and sheltered both monks and nuns. A Saxon princess named Hilda served as abbess. In 664, a synod was convened—”
Matilda frowned. “‘A synod’?”
“A gathering, a council,” Vambéry explained. “One of the most important meetings in the history of the Church, called to reconcile the differences between the Roman and Celtic churches in the British Isles. At this time, there were few sites considered holier. In the tenth century, the entire structure was destroyed by the Danes, and the current abbey was built to once again house Benedictine monks. It was an active monastery for nearly five hundred years, until Henry VIII ordered the dissolution of all monasteries in 1539. That allowed the buildings and land to be bought by Richard Cholmley, a major land owner from Yorkshire. His family lived on the property until the eighteenth century, at which point it was abandoned. This is the part I found most interesting.” He paused for a second, then leaned into the table. “Mr. Cholmley used stones from the abbey to build his house. As was tradition at that time, before he could dismantle a holy sanctuary, the structure was deconsecrated by the Church. Only then could pieces be used to build a private home.”
“Are you sure of this?” I asked.
“Absolutely. The cemetery and remaining grounds no doubt stayed withi
n the graces of the church, but the abbey did not; it is no longer holy ground. Many believe the lady in white to be Hilda, the original abbess, roaming the ruins of the abbey she loved, but like I said earlier, I believe this to be Miss Crone, and why not? If you are to believe the story of the Dearg-Due, what better place for someone who renounced God to hide than an abbey, which is now deconsecrated?”
“A place believed to be holy, but is not. Hiding in plain sight,” said Thornley. “Truly remarkable.”
Something caught Vambéry’s eye just then and he stood. “Please excuse me for a minute.”
I watched as he left the table and walked down the block to the corner of Bridge Street and Church, where a flower vendor had recently arrived and was setting up shop. She was unpacking her blossoms and spreading them out on a blanket along the side of the road. They spoke for a moment, then the woman pointed to her wagon and money exchanged hands. She handed Vambéry a basket, which he carried back to the table and set at its center.
“If we do find Miss Crone in the abbey, I would like to present her with this gift,” Vambéry said. “There is nothing a woman likes more than fresh-cut flowers.”
I leaned forward and looked in the straw basket. It was filled with large white wild roses.
* * *
• • •
17 AUGUST 1868, 4:58 p.m.—We climbed the steps to the abbey, commencing at Church Street, winding our way up the cliffside to the abbey above in a gently curving progression of steps. Earlier, Vambéry’s trunks had found their way safely to his room at the Duke of York Inn. He had retrieved specific items from them and filled four leather satchels, which he then divvied up amongst us to carry. While I did not look in the others’ satchels, mine held mirrors and crosses of all different sizes. As Thornley walked in front of me, I could see the barrel of a rifle protruding from his bag. He had shown it to me earlier; a new Snider–Enfield Mark III, its barrel shortened to make for ease of travel. I also saw Vambéry place the roses in Matilda’s bag. I am not sure what was contained in his own satchel, but whatever it was appeared to be hefty—he shifted the weight from one shoulder to the other every few minutes.
