Van Helsing's Diaries: Nosferatu

by Cawdron, Peter

  “Not a bat,” I manage as my head sinks into the pillow.

  “Well, rest up, buddy. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Chapter 2:02 — Finding Jane

  It’s another two days before I’m discharged from the hospital. My mom and dad have visited every day, and I’ve had their anxiety to deal with on top of my own. They have lots of questions about Jane, but I have no answers.

  “You sure made a mess of that car,” Dad says, making light of my mad dash to the hospital as we sit outside a patient interview room adjacent to ER. “Good thing you’ve got that fancy doctor’s insurance. The mechanic will have it back to you tomorrow.”

  I nod.

  Mom tries not to look nervous. She’s silent, fidgeting with her hands. She’s worried about me, worried about Jane.

  Sheriff Cann walks over while we’re waiting for the final paperwork to be signed.

  “Alan,” he says, pulling his Stetson from his head with seasoned practice. He slips the hat under his arm and reaches out and shakes my hand. We met at Jane’s Christmas work party.

  “Sheriff.”

  “How are you feeling?” he asks, sitting beside me and gesturing a quick hello to my folks with a wave of his hand.

  “Fine, I guess. Still playing catch up.”

  “Doc Marring says you had it pretty rough.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you remember?” the sheriff asks, and I know what he means. He’s not talking about the past few days in the hospital. He’s asking about Jane.

  “She was strange,” I say. “Different. I—I know it sounds crazy, but her behavior was out of character. She was… She wasn’t herself.”

  The sheriff nods, pursing his lips before asking, “Have you heard from her?”

  “No.”

  He goes to get up, when I grab his arm, asking him, “What happened to my wife, Sheriff?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

  When he says he doesn’t know, there’s an implicit understanding between us. I can see it in his eyes. He cares for her beyond his professional capacity. They were friends.

  My heart sinks.

  “We found her car at the airport. She bought a ticket to Chicago, but that’s as far as I can trace her. There’s no sign of foul play, so the FBI isn’t interested in taking the investigation further.”

  “Chicago?” I say, lost in thought.

  “Did she know anyone in Chicago?” the sheriff asks.

  “No. Jane’s from a small town in northern Minnesota, about an hour from Duluth. She studied in Portland and hated it. Portland was too big for her. We met in Salt Lake City at a conference. Getting away from the city and seeing the salt flats was all she could talk about. She’s always been a mountain girl—loved the outdoors. I can’t imagine her in the smog of a big city like Chicago.”

  And a knot forms in my throat. She loved the outdoors? Why the past tense? Why not ‘she loves the outdoors?’ My slip of the tongue goes unnoticed by the sheriff, but I feel her loss. Deep down, I fear she’s dead.

  “Did she mention Martin Ellison to you?” the sheriff asks with my parents listening intently to every word.

  I think for a moment, racking my brains before shaking my head softly and saying, “No.”

  “He’s a prisoner over at the federal penitentiary. Jane took a book from him. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “A book? What kind of book?”

  “I don’t know, but Ellison’s freaking out about it, demanding it back.”

  “She didn’t mention it to me,” I say.

  “Doesn’t matter,” the sheriff says. “Probably nothing. Warden says Ellison’s crazy. Says he’s been unhinged ever since her visit.”

  I’m silent.

  “If you think of anything,” he says, handing me his card. “Just call. Any time. Night or day.”

  “What did she do?” my mom asks. I know her well enough to detect a slight hint of panic in her voice.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “She’s a hero. She killed a murderer, shot her in self-defense. Jasmine Halter slit the throats of her husband and kids. I don’t know how Jane knew, but she did. She confronted Halter. Halter rushed at her with a knife and Jane shot her dead.”

  Like my folks, I’m stunned. None of this makes any sense. I shake my head with disbelief. This doesn’t sound like my wife. After what happened between us that night, I can’t fathom how her personality could change so radically in such a short period of time.

  “Why would she run?” my dad asks, beating me to the question.

  “Maybe she thought she was in trouble? But given the evidence in that home, she’s got nothing to fear. No jury would convict. Hell, I doubt the state prosecutor will bring charges. He’s liable to recommend her for a medal instead.”

  My mind’s blank.

  “Listen,” the sheriff says, facing me. “If she reaches out to you, tell her everything’s going to be fine. Justifiable homicide. She’s got nothing to worry about. Tell her to come home.”

  “I will,” I say as he gets up. The sheriff nods, puts his hat on and walks away.

  Joe’s been listening. I’m not sure how long he’s been standing in the doorway, but he hands me a few insurance forms, saying, “I hope you find her.”

  “Hey, thanks,” I say, getting to my feet and taking the forms from him. Although my recollection of Jane is skewed by our last night together, I don’t think she’s running from anything. I think she’s running toward something, and wherever she is, she’s had a week to disappear.

  “Let’s get you home,” Mom says, picking up her handbag.

  “I’m heading out that way,” Joe says, glancing at me with a knowing look. “I can drop you off, if you like.”

  “That would be great,” I say before either Mom or Dad can respond. I don’t mean to be rude, but having them fuss over me is a little overwhelming, and Mom is going to freak out when she sees the apartment.

  “You don’t want us to come by and help out?” Dad says, being as intuitively aware of polite social constructs as ever. Like Mom, I guess he's confused by what's happened. Mom looks a little upset at the prospect of being sidelined, but Dad understands, and his words are more for her than me. He’s already figured out my preference and is trying to let Mom down easily. He rests a friendly hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m fine, really,” I say, giving him a hug.

  “You call us every day,” Mom says as I kiss her on the cheek.

  “I will. I promise.”

  Joe and I walk off.

  “You looked a little cramped there,” Joe says once we’re out of earshot, knowing he’s rescued me from a million well-intended but prying questions.

  I laugh softly. “Yeah, they want to help, but at the moment I need some time to get my head together.”

  Outside, it’s a beautiful winter day. Not a cloud in the sky. The streets are clear of snow and ice. Although the air is crisp, I feel warm in my thick jacket. Spring is coming.

  “Are you going to go after her?” Joe asks as we pull out of the parking lot in his Audi Quattro. I’m an American muscle car lover, but Joe likes the European styling, and I must admit, the Audi is plush.

  “Yep,” I say, nodding, although I’m not trying to win her back. Jane almost killed me, and I want to know why. She ran out on me. I want answers.

  Joe turns on the car radio to break the awkward silence between us.

  “Listen,” he says as an old Eagles song begins to play. “I know it’s a cliché and all, but if you need to talk, you know I’m always here for you, right?”

  “Thanks,” I reply, taking my eyes from the snow covered fields for a moment and acknowledging him.

  “It’s good to see you bouncing back,” he says, trying not to take his eyes off the road. “You had me worried.”

  After a few miles, we pull into my apartment complex. There’s a light on inside the apartm
ent.

  Joe brings the car to a slow stop, putting the transmission in park and asking, “Do you want me to come in?”

  “No,” I say, knowing the apartment looks like a drug den. I hate to think what the cost will be to replace our furniture and repair the walls and doors, but that’s the least of my problems at the moment.

  “Okay,” he says, nodding his head slowly. “Listen, I’m going to wait here until you’re inside. Just stick your head through the curtains and give me a wave or something, will you? Let me know you’re all right.”

  “Jesus, Joe,” I say, not sure whether to laugh or feel horrified. “You’re freaking me out.”

  “You know what I mean,” he says. “Everyone heard about the wolf and stuff. And with Jane and all. I just want to be sure you’re okay.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say.

  The warning bell on the dash beeps as I unbuckle my seatbelt, recognizing that the engine is still running and someone’s unrestrained in the passenger’s seat. I’m not sure who’s more overcautious, Joe or his Audi.

  I open the door and step onto the sidewalk, feeling stiff and sore.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” Joe replies, waving as he calls out, “If you need anything. Anything.” And for a moment, I’m envious of him. Joe can drive away. For him, this bizarre sideshow ends as soon as he rounds the corner. I shut the car door and hobble down the pathway. The caretaker’s been busy. The snow has been cleared away from the sidewalk and a little salt has been sprinkled to melt the ice. The snow on the lawn is deep, crisp and pristine. There’s no sign of footprints or paw prints or whatever the hell I thought I saw the other night, which is a relief.

  I reach the front door and fumble with my keys. I can hear Joe’s Audi purring behind me. He’s not going anywhere until he’s sure I’m safely inside.

  The door opens and I gag at the stench of decay hanging in the air. Covering my mouth with the collar of my jacket, I step inside the apartment, calling out, “Jane?”

  Please don’t answer.

  Please.

  Don’t.

  I leave the door open wide, not only so Joe can see me but so the intensity of the smell is drawn away into the cold air. Fungus grows from a plate on the kitchen bench, covering what was once a raw steak. Most of the vomit has dried, but there are bacterial colonies sprouting around the sink. Life springs forth from death. I’m surprised by how much vomit there is on the counter and how much dripped down the cupboards before being smeared across the floor as I rolled around in agony.

  The light is from the kitchen. I must have left it on last week. Feeling somewhat paranoid, I walk cautiously through the apartment, checking the spare room, the bedroom and bathroom. It’s strange how the utter chaos is familiar. To say nothing’s out of place is bizarre as clothing lies strewn over the floor, dried blood has soaked into the mattress, torn sheets lie draped over upturned chairs, but everything is as I remember it. No one’s been here in a week, which is, in a perverse way, comforting.

  I walk back to the open door and put on a brave smile, waving at Joe. He waves back and drives off slowly. I shut the door, wondering where the hell I should start with the cleanup.

  Jane would want to burn this place to the ground rather than deal with the mess. There are cleaning supplies beneath the sink. I grab a dust mask and a pair of gloves from the cupboard and begin working methodically through the kitchen. It’s therapeutic to have some music playing softly in the background as I scrape away the growth and wipe down the counter.

  While cleaning the legs of the table and wondering how I managed to project vomit some fifteen feet from the kitchen onto the carpet in the dining room, I see a paperback novel lying on the floor by the couch. Curious, and remembering the sheriff’s comments about a missing book, I turn over the tatty novel.

  Dracula

  Bram Stoker

  I stop cleaning and lean against the wall, flipping through the book. There are a variety of underlined sections and notes written in the margin, but they’re meaningless to me. I cannot imagine why anyone would take a work of fiction so seriously, and I wonder if this was originally a study copy, perhaps from a high school assignment. Is this what Martin Ellison is so worked up about? I can’t imagine there’s anything other than sentimental value in these worn pages, but I decide to give the book to the sheriff. I’m not sure it will help.

  Dinner is a tube of Pringles and a can of soda, which leaves me hungry. I find a frozen pizza in the freezer and cook it in the microwave. I’m not sure it’s any healthier than my first course, but it’s more substantial. For a moment, I can pretend normalcy is returning, but without Jane, there’s an emptiness in my heart. Running the microwave interferes with my internet reception, so I turn off the music and a calm silence descends on the apartment, broken only by the soft whirl of the microwave and a ding as the timer reaches zero.

  With a slice of pizza in hand, I turn on my laptop and open my email. There are 867 unread messages, and I spend ten minutes checking boxes and deleting most of it without bothering to open it. If there’s anything important in there, someone will call, I hope.

  One email in particular catches my eye.

  YourCloud—95% Warning: Your cloud storage is at...

  Both of our phones are set to backup automatically to our internet cloud provider whenever they’re connected to a Wi-Fi network. Jane’s phone must have uploaded a large file, as last I remember, we were around the 60% mark and had plenty of space to spare. As our phones sync with my computer, I can see exactly which file has been uploaded.

  soundbite.wav audio backup. Length 60:00 minutes

  Although I’m curious about the file, it’s an hour long so I figure I’ll listen to it later. There’s another email that strikes me as out of the ordinary.

  American Phone Company—Global Roaming Activated: Your request to…

  Jane has activated the international travel plan for our cell phones, probably inadvertently by simply traveling outside the country. A day trip to Canada is enough for the phone company to slap on a fifty buck premium for global roaming.

  I open an application called Find My Phone, and watch as a virtual globe of the world rotates before me, shifting the point of view from somewhere high above the USA to Eastern Europe. A red flag sticks out of a lush green mountain range a couple of hundred miles above Greece, with the Black Sea immediately to the east. As a tiled map appears, the name of the country becomes apparent. Romania.

  A small pop up message beside the flag reads: Last known location. 3 days ago.

  Either her battery’s flat, or she no longer has a use for the phone and has switched it off, or perhaps she’s switched to a new phone. But why run to Europe?

  I zoom in on the rugged mountains, watching as various towns and villages appear in the satellite imagery. The nearest major city is Sibiu, but dozens of small villages dot the landscape. From what I can tell, there’s a single freeway winding through a vast, sprawling mountain region. Valcea County. As I zoom closer a name appears that causes my blood to run cold.

  Transylvania.

  “No,” and I slam the lid shut, pushing the laptop away from me as though it were cursed.

  My heart races. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of the noises around me. The howl of the wind outside. The hum of central heating coming from the floor vents. The creaks and groans of the apartment fighting off the cold of the coming night. Footsteps tread lightly on the carpet behind me, the soft rustle of clothing and the gentle pad of bare feet causes the hair on the back of my arms to stand on end. Sweat breaks out on my brow. My heart pounds like a drum. I turn, but there’s no one there.

  “I’m going mad,” I mumble to myself. “This is crazy. This is insane.”

  Curiosity demands I continue looking into Jane's disappearance. I open the laptop again and retrieve the audio file, pressing play as I talk to myself.

  “This cannot be happening. This is fiction. Make-believe.”

  My eye
s settle on the worn novel lying on the table beside the laptop, and the temperature within the apartment seems to plummet. I grab a pad of paper and a pen, hurriedly making notes as the recording starts.

  “What were you doing?” I ask Jane, listening to the audio file as it replays on my laptop. There’s a muffled sound. Fabric flexes as she moves. Then a knock on a door. I feel as though I’m blind, desperately wanting to see what Jane saw, wanting some kind of commentary from her. The creak of a door opening is followed by the soft, kind voice of a woman.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Jasmine Halter?”

  I jump at the sound of Jane’s voice, and instantly, I know. This is my Jane. I don’t know who I made love to the other night, but it wasn’t her. This is my wife.

  I jot down the name Jasmine Halter along with the timestamp so I can easily refer to it later if needed. Being methodical has to have some benefits beyond being borderline obsessive-compulsive.

  “My name is Jane Langford. I’m working with the police, investigating the death of your neighbor.”

  “I thought it was suicide,” the other woman says, sounding distinctly insincere to my ear.

  “Oh, it was,” Jane replies, and I catch a pause so characteristic of her as she scrambles for a response. “Tragic. And yet even in heartbreaking circumstances like these, there’s a standard process we follow, gathering background information from associates for statistical purposes in the hope we can recognize trigger events and prevent future tragedies.”

  Liar. I know my wife well enough to recognize when she’s nervous and covering her insecurities with too many words.

  I hurriedly scrawl a note on the pad—Did Jasmine know at this point? Had she already seen through Jane’s bluff?

  I’m confused. Jane killed Jasmine. And it strikes me that what I’m listening to is evidence that needs to be surrendered to the police, and yet what does it prove? Nothing beyond what is already known. The sheriff already knows precisely what happened. Jasmine killed her family at some point before Jane confronted her and shot her dead.