Van Helsing's Diaries: Nosferatu

by Cawdron, Peter

  “You have a crime to report?” he asks, taking his apron off and dumping it on the desk. I presume he’s speaking English on account of my clothing. He’s roughly my age, but his hair is unkempt and dirty. His face is pitted, scarred by some form of pox or measles, probably occurring in early adulthood from what I can tell. In America, this was once common, but for the past sixty years, vaccinations have spared people such disfigurement, making his face all the more hideous to behold as he seems out of touch with my generation.

  “Ah,” I say, pulling my wallet out and showing him a picture of Jane. “I’m looking for my wife, an American woman traveling through here about a week ago.”

  “Haven’t seen jåån,” he says, gathering his apron.

  “Wait,” I cry, saying, “But you know her name, Jane.”

  “Jåån,” he says. “Woman.” And my heart sinks.

  “She came through here,” I insist. “Last week.”

  “You should leave,” he replies. “Before sundown. It is not safe for you to stay. Many robbers. Thieves. I cannot guarantee your safety.”

  “I need to find my wife.”

  “You will not find her if she does not want to be found,” the man says.

  “You’ve seen her,” I say.

  “No good will come from this,” he says, ignoring my accusation. “It is best that you leave.”

  “Where did she go?”

  He pauses by the internal door, with his fingers already gripping the handle, half turning the lock. He looks at me, looking down at my clothing and then back to my face. Without any emotion, he says, “You cannot help her.”

  “Please,” I say. “I need to see her.”

  He breathes deeply, and I can see he’s fighting regret. He doesn’t want to tell me, but he will, I can see it in his eyes. There’s a glimmer of compassion behind his stony expression.

  “Goat herders spoke of a woman by the ruins, but you must respect the old ways, the traditions of the past. They said she was vrolok—one that feeds on the living.”

  “But you don’t believe that,” I say.

  He shrugs his shoulders, saying, “What I believe makes no difference. If she is your wife, she is no more. She is beyond help.”

  He opens the door and leaves, calling out to someone in the shop next door.

  I wander out onto the muddy track running through the village.

  Joe comes jogging over.

  “Well, you’re never going to guess what I found out,” he says.

  “What?” I ask, not in the mood for games.

  “I spoke to the doctor. She’s been here for eighteen months and has seen more infectious disease than I have in fifteen years. Hepatitis A and B, measles, encephalitis, typhoid fever, yellow fever, and get this. Polio. Goddamn fucking polio.”

  He pauses, waiting to see if I’m going to respond, before saying, “We should have had shots before we left the USA.”

  “Well,” I say. “So long as you don’t sleep with her, you won’t get hep B.”

  “Haha,” he cries, slapping me on the shoulder. “Yep, there’s at least one disease I won’t take back stateside.”

  “Well, the cop is useless. He moonlights as the storekeeper.”

  “So what’s next?” Joe asks.

  “I’m going to scout around, show Jane’s picture to a few of the locals and see if anyone recognizes her.”

  “Okay,” Joe says. “I’m going to stick with the doctor. She’s treating a few locals with bite marks from wild animals that may have rabies.”

  “I’ll meet you back here at sunset,” I say, feeling we need some kind of plan.

  “Sounds good,” Joe says, taking my bag from me. “Oh, and don’t eat anything. Nothing. If you get thirsty, boil the fuck out of any water. If you do eat something, make sure it’s been cooked to an indistinguishable pulp. I don’t want to drag your sorry ass back to America with hepatitis.”

  I nod, and we part ways. Joe jogs back into the clinic, while I walk up the track.

  In the distance, high above the village, I see a broken stone wall hidden among the trees.

  Chapter 2:04 — Castle

  What looked like a couple of hundred feet turns into an hour long slog through thick forest. Pockets of snow line the ground in the shade. The track weaves between fir trees with low hanging boughs blocking the path. At points, I can hear the sound of goat bells drifting on the breeze, but I don’t see them or their herders. The sun sits dangerously low in the sky, threatening to plummet below the horizon, but I push on, determined to reach the ruins.

  A wolf howls in the distance, but it’s the sight of fresh paw prints in the soft mud that sends a chill through my bones. I can distinguish between several footprints on the muddy track, but they’re distinctly different from my boots. Instead of regular tread marks, they’re broad and flat, as though they were made by business shoes rather than hiking boots. From what I can tell, they’ve been made today, as they’re crisp and well defined. The sight of paw prints crossing over the top of them is unnerving. Large pads, with a clear imprint of claws, along with the occasional tuft of fur caught on a low-lying branch have me second guessing myself. I should go back. I should come here early tomorrow with Joe. Perhaps we could find a guide in the village.

  Suddenly, a series of broad stone steps emerge from the forest, and I realize I’ve arrived at the ruins. Moss clings to the steps, growing in clumps and smothering the stones. As I walk up the steps, a clearing opens out before me, sparsely populated with young trees and uneven cobblestones. The cobblestones have been lifted by tree roots over the centuries, leaving some of them overturned.

  Through the trees I can see the ruins of a castle wall. Crumbling stones line the edge of the clifftop overlooking the valley. In the distance, I can make out the village in the dying rays of the sun. Weeds and sapling trees grow out of the cracks in the paving stones, springing to life following a harsh winter. Burnt wood lies to one side, marking what looks like a vast hall near the entrance. Large wooden beams lie scattered like bowling pins even though moving just one of them would require a dozen men.

  “Hello?” I call out, unable to shake the thought I’m being watched. “Jane? Are you there?”

  Broken ramparts give way to the castle proper, with the fortifications hidden from view, nestled against a cliff reaching up to the mountain top. From what I can tell, this castle must have acted as a gateway through some kind of alpine pass. Its location seems more strategic than regal, and yet the coat of arms on the keystone above the archway is proud, almost defiant. Etched into the stonework is the image of wolves overlaid on a black shield with swords crisscrossed beneath.

  The wind howls around me. Stones cover the forecourt, having been torn from the walls and strewn like boulders after an avalanche.

  Several archways stand where once stone walls must have housed kings and queens as they travelled the land, and I wonder what this castle looked like when it teemed with life.

  As I walk on, several crows take flight. Their dark wings are as resplendent as they are menacing. The birds call to each other. Their shrill voices echo off the jagged cliff, setting me on edge.

  The layout of the castle is such that a courtyard dominates the entrance. Stone buildings are set to the rear, out of sight from the village easily a mile away in the distance. Most of the buildings have been laid waste, but a few still stand, with burnt-out rooftops leaving them exposed to the elements. I catch a glimpse of a pale lady staring out of a window in one of the towers looking across the valley.

  “Jane?” I utter under my breath.

  If she sees me, she doesn’t respond. She’s wearing a cotton nightgown, something far too flimsy and thin for this cold weather. I want to call out to her, but getting her attention feels wrong, it feels as though I would be making a grievous mistake. Instead, I hide from sight, crouching beside a low stone wall. I watch as she walks away from the window, disappearing into the ruins. I have to find her. I have to reach her.

 
; Dark clouds rumble overhead. Flashes of lightning announce a coming storm, but I will not be deterred. I’m so close, and yet I have no idea what I’ll do when I catch up to her. What should I say? I need to know what happened in Boise. I need to understand what happened to her in that house with Jasmine. Why did she attack me? Why did she run to Europe?

  I creep forward, trying to figure out how to reach her. Picking my way through the burnt-out ruins, I’m shocked to see human bones lying beneath a collapsed section of roof. White bleached bones form a rib cage and spine, but there’s no sign of a skull or hip, arm or leg bones. Dating a dead body left exposed to the elements isn’t easy, as such a corpse would probably have been ravaged by wild animals after death, and has certainly been exposed to insects and bacteria, but the lack of any skin or scraps of withered flesh clinging to the bones has me thinking decades rather than years have passed. These bones are as white as marble, dispelling the notion they ever harbored life. The ribs have been crushed on one side, immediately next to the sternum, leaving a gaping hole over where the heart once lay. Whether these are the remains of a man or a woman, I know not, but whoever this was, they met a violent, bloody death. And I shudder, confronted by my own mortality.

  I want to turn back, and yet I feel compelled to go on. I am giddy, with a sense of vertigo not unlike what I've felt when standing on a building rooftop without a safety rail. The fall calls to me, luring me closer to the edge, daring me to look down, and I snap my mind back to reality, creeping alongside a collapsed stone wall.

  The wind groans, swirling among the fir trees and moving the upper branches.

  A light rain begins to fall as I climb a set of stone stairs that originally must have ascended within the great hall toward the living quarters at the rear of the castle.

  I am drawn on as though I'm caught in a tide, with my legs simply giving way to the current as it surges around me, urging me on.

  Lightning breaks overhead, followed immediately by the crash of thunder, shaking my bones.

  Daylight is replaced with darkness as clouds blot out the setting sun. My hands are shaking, but I have to see her. I have to talk reason to Jane. I’ve come so far. I can’t go back when she’s so close. I refuse to believe in such silly fables as vampires and werewolves. There must be some other rational explanation for all that has happened, and I am sure talking with Jane will provide me with answers.

  I reach a stone balcony overlooking the courtyard, immediately below the window where Jane appeared. Moss clings to the marble balustrades. The remains of a sword lie beside the skeleton of a severed hand. The last of the snow clings to the dark corners of the wall.

  A vast doorway leads into darkness, opening out into what once must have been the throne room. Rusted hinges reveal where thick wooden doors must have barred the entrance in ancient days. Slowly, I creep into the shadows. The slightest noise—the howl of the wind, the rustle of the trees, and the haunting call of crows, has me jumping in fright. I’m struggling to hold my nerve.

  A large bat takes flight, sweeping past me with its leathery wings grasping at the air. Claws stretch out from within the dark membrane of its wing, and the creature turns its head, facing me with its hideous, bloody mouth open. The bat snarls at the fool intruding on its haunt, and then the winged creature is gone as quickly as it came, leaving me shivering in the cold.

  “Don’t freak out,” I whisper to myself. “Nothing to fear. Nothing but silly superstitions.” As logical and rational as that thought is, I can’t convince myself to believe it.

  Lightning ripples through the clouds, followed by the low rumble of thunder, and in the brief flash I see a row of stone coffins arranged in front of me in the darkened interior of the castle. They’ve been set as though in a mausoleum, with stone vases and dead flowers arranged before them. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

  I creep forward with my heart pounding in my ears like war drums. Run, you idiot. But no, once I got back to the village, I know I'd feel stupid for panicking in fright. Back there, my reactions here would seem foolish.

  As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can see the stone lids have been carved with the likeness of men and women lying in state. They’re content, with their legs outstretched, their arms folded across their chests, and eyes that stare blindly at the ceiling, depicting a peace they surely could never have known in life.

  Each of the stone coffins is sealed, all but one. The stone lid on the coffin closest to the far window has been pried off and has fallen to the floor, breaking in half. At a guess, the lid weighs four or five hundred pounds, and I wonder who could have shifted such a weight. Perhaps there was a team of grave robbers at work, but their determination is surprising given the other coffins remain untouched and intact.

  I inch closer, astonished by what I’m seeing. The underside of the broken lid has scratch marks digging into the stone. It is as though some wild beast was trapped inside and died trying to claw its way out.

  I am drawn on as if in a trance. The danger around me seems incorporeal, nothing more than a dream. I could awake to escape—I’m sure of it.

  I have to see inside the open vault. Is there a second, normal sized coffin inside this large stone vault? A coffin made from wood? Is it still sealed? Is there a body inside? A skeleton or a fresh corpse? Is this morbid curiosity on my part? Perhaps, but I have to know.

  In the cold air, sweat beads on my forehead, and my muscles feel as though I have run a marathon. Cautiously, I reach out, touching at the rim of the stone vault as I step up on a lip around the base, wanting to see within. To my surprise, the vault is full of dirt.

  The wall beyond the vault moves.

  Shadows dance along the stonework.

  At first, I’m confused, and I question my sense of sight. Am I imagining the darkness coming to life? But then I see them. Two men step forward on either side of the stone coffin.

  I back away, holding my hands out in front of me and gesturing for calm.

  “Easy now,” I say, as though I were trying to placate a panicked horse.

  The men pace toward me. They’re dressed like monks, with long flowing robes made from rough hessian sacking. Hoods cover their faces, hiding their features in the shadows.

  “Hey,” I say, mustering courage in spite of my trembling hands. “Just a tourist. I got lost in the woods. I’m trying to find somewhere dry out of the storm.”

  The monks are carrying lengths of chain with a heavy block of stone attached at one end. Manacles hang from the other end of each chain. The monks swing their chains, whirling the metal links with a slow, menacing motion. They mean to capture me, that much is sure, but I don’t understand why.

  “Let's all just stay calm,” I say, and my voice wavers with doubt. I’m terrified of what’s about to happen. My life is suddenly measured in seconds, not decades.

  As I step backwards, I trip on either a fibula bone or a length of wood, I’m not sure which, as I don’t have time to look properly, but the thought of stumbling over human remains is horrifying. The monks seize the opportunity to charge at me, yelling incoherently as they swing their metal chains.

  I turn and run, bolting for the doorway, wanting to reach the outside balcony and escape down the stairs, fleeing to the forecourt of the ruins. Rain lashes my face as I fly out into the storm. There’s a third monk blocking the stairs. He holds a giant mallet in one hand—a wooden hammer with a neck like a broomstick and a head well over a foot in length.

  “Now, wait a minute,” I cry, backing against the railing of the balcony as the three monks close in on me. “Look, this is all a big misunderstanding.”

  They rush at me, swinging their chains. I duck, and links of heavy chain slam into the marble railing, sending fragments of shattered stone flying through the air.

  I push the closest monk, only to be grabbed by the other and thrown to the ground. Struggle as I may in the torrential rain, they easily overpower me. Irons are clamped on my wrists. In an instant, the stone anch
ors at the other end of each chain are pushed through the gaps in the railing, falling over the balcony. The chains go taut, stretching my arms out wide, and I find myself pinned against the marble balustrades, unable to raise my arms more than a few inches.

  The monks yell at each other in Romanian. I can’t see their faces. They’re wearing leather masks hiding all but their eyes. Gloved hands tear open my jacket, and my heart races as I see one of the monks brandishing a large wooden stake. Rather than the small, theatrical stakes so often depicted in vampire movies, this looks like something to secure a circus elephant to the ground. The mallet has a handle almost five feet in length, designed to drive the stake deep into the earth with each blow.

  “No, no, no,” I yell. “This is a mistake.”

  I struggle, trying to pull my hands from the iron clamps, but the weights keep my arms pinned back. I am fixed in place, as though on a crucifix, with my arms out wide in surrender. I strain against the combined weight of the chains and the stone blocks, but even with two arms, I'd struggle to pull one of these stones back up. My arm muscles spasm in pain, and I feel the pectoral muscles on my chest stretch as my biceps give in.

  “Please, no,” I yell. “Don’t do this. I beg you.”

  One of the monks positions the massive wooden stake over my madly beating heart while the other readies the mallet, swinging it back over his shoulder and preparing to strike a single, fatal blow.

  I piss myself. I can’t help it. It’s an involuntary reflex at the prospect of being murdered. Lying there with my arms outstretched, pulled taut against the balustrades, my bladder empties.

  With my jacket torn open, the third monk grabs at my shirt, ripping buttons away and pulling at the soaking wet cotton, exposing my bare chest.

  “This is a mistake,” I repeat as the rain comes down in sheets and lightning ripples through the dark clouds, urging these brute men to strike me down. “Please, I didn’t mean any harm.”