by Steve Seitz
With a nod, Holmes indicated the portraits of two young men, in age not more than twenty, in ornate frames near the kitchen door. They were the image of Gustavus.
“The portraits are placed where you alone are most likely to look at them,” he said. “You need them nearby, yet you do not share them with the public. There are no portraits of wives or grandchildren, no sign of any family here but yourselves. I conclude, therefore, that they have passed away. It is pure deduction, madam, not devilry.”
“Don’t you Englisch say the devil cites Scripture for his purpose?” she snarled, her hand curling about the rosary at her neck. Then, with a sudden gesture, she snapped a crucifix under Holmes’ nose, startling him. He took it into his pale white palm and kissed it.
“As I promised, no devilry.”
She paled, snorted and went into the kitchen.
Holmes, betraying his relief with a nervous smile, displayed his palm to Gustavus. “It is not burned,” he said.
“You are a Christian gentleman?”
“Anglican.”
“Not of the true Church,” said Gustavus. “I remind you that your church was created by an earthly king, not the apostle of Christ.”
Holmes poured another goblet for himself and Gustavus. I had hardly touched mine.
“Your sons died in the same year,” he said. “What did Count Dracula have to do with it?”
It was now Gustavus’ turn to turn pale. “You have powers of your own,” he said.
Holmes did not deny it. “Please tell me,” he said.
“Albert and Vlad,” Gustavus said. “They were twins. Vlad would have been a priest. The love of Christ was strong in him. Albert was popular here, the customers liked him, and any girl in Bistritz would have been pleased to be his bride.”
“But Dracula intervened.”
“Have a care when you speak that name!” Gustavus ejaculated. “You use it too freely. We thought by naming one of our sons after him we might be spared. But Vlad chose to prove his devotion to the Lord Jesus by going to the castle to reclaim the Count’s soul.”
I could see tears forming in the man’s tired red-veined eyes, and he struggled to continue.
“I apologize for this display, Herr Holmes,” he said, draining his goblet and pouring more. “Vlad went to the castle and it was the last time we saw him alive. I knew what had happened, but I also knew the consequences of going to the castle. Albert called me a coward and went after him, even though he could persuade no one to join him.”
“Did he disappear as well?”
“No. Three days later, I found him, near death, on the road to the Borgo Pass. Almost no part of his body was unbloodied. Deep bites and claw marks on his thighs, his arms, his ribs and belly. His nose was broken, and he could not stand. But his neck and breast were not touched. I know the Count allowed him to live.”
“For what purpose?”
“As a warning to uninvited visitors like yourselves. But it was too late to save him.”
“How did he die?”
“His wounds were too deep,” the old man said with tears in his eyes. “The flesh began to rot. He wouldn’t stop bleeding. Herr Holmes, it is a terrible thing to see your children die.”
He cried again, and we let him weep. “We could not take a chance,” Gustavus said at last, “but they should not have demanded that I do it!”
“Do what?”
“I- Albert was dead beyond doubt, but after three days, he would have become vampyr if nothing was done. I could not wish that for my son. The priest insisted that I be the one to …”
“To?”
Almost in a whisper, Gustavus said, “I ... separated his head from his body. I stuffed the mouth with garlic, and I removed his heart for separate burial. Herr Holmes, his teeth were sharp as knife blades!”
“I am sorry for your ordeal,” Holmes said gently. “What happened to Vlad?”
“A girl in the village reported seeing him. She would leave her family’s home at night to meet him. He had clearly fallen from Christ. She started to waste away. She covered Vlad’s bite marks on her breast and neck and became afraid of daylight, all the usual signs. But this time we were ready.
“We followed her to their meeting place in the forest. Poor Vlad was now in rags, any trace of the priest he would have been gone. He was now a wanton animal, attacking her breast with lust and hunger. We subdued them both with crucifixes and holy water, and ... we decided it was best to end this plague on the spot. How foolish that hope proved to be.”
“You killed them both?” Holmes was incredulous.
“Vlad was already dead, and the girl dying. This pestilence had to be stopped, Herr Holmes. We held them down, and ... must I continue, Herr Holmes?”
“You will not rest easy in your mind unless you do,” he said.
“We drove wooden stakes through their hearts. We cut their heads off and stuffed them with garlic. Then we burned the bodies- right there in the woods.”
We sat by our drinks in silence for a while, and Holmes said then, “I cannot tell you how sorry I am.”
“You cannot defeat the Count. He controls the night and its creatures. Sooner or later he will have his way. Herr Harker is dead. If you find him, you must destroy him in the manner I described. It is the only way his soul will ever find peace.”
We finished our drinks and went to bed; no one could eat after that, but a strong aroma of garlic emanated from the kitchen as we left.
I count it as a blessing that Harker has not been seen in the village in some time. I should hate to report to Miss Mina that her lover has been beheaded to pacify the natives. But I have every reason to believe now that is exactly what will happen if we don’t find Harker first.
Holmes is now out in the village, and I am too agitated to sleep. Thoughts of my wife and her mystery lover torment me. Ordinarily, this adventure would be thrilling me, not killing me. Were I not afraid some careless remark of Holmes’ might get him attacked, or worse, I would abandon him here and get back to whatever marriage I have left.
Chapter Three: The Trail of Jonathan Harker
Dr. Watson’s Journal
August 10, 1890
If the villagers are to be believed, Sherlock Holmes and I face our doom tonight, for as I write this we are the uninvited guests of Count Dracula. Holmes is poking about in the castle.
I don’t see anything to fear. The castle, at least on first inspection, is completely deserted. There are no signs of activity. Dust covers the furniture, chickens roam freely in the courtyard, the gardens are overrun with weeds.
There are signs of recent habitation, however; we found a full larder, a functional kitchen and a cellar thankfully free of Roumanian wine.
But I will elaborate on the castle in due course. We are here a day later than we planned. The villagers flatly refused to take us, nor would they rent us either horses or the leiter-wagons that are the common means of transportation here. Though he won’t admit it, Holmes’ habit of deducing the details of a man’s life from a few casual observations put the fear of Satan into them and cost us any allies we might have found. Many have been crossing themselves on our approach, and making gestures Catherine told us are meant to ward off the evil eye. Holmes, deaf to my personal agony, has been taking all this in good humour.
“What would they make of modern medicine?” he said. “Cure someone, Watson, and they’ll burn you at the stake.”
“Not before they drive one through your heart,” I replied sourly.
No fewer than ten people offered us crucifixes, which we accepted to prove that we are not the spawn of Hell. Idolatrous though it may be, I find the one around my neck to be somewhat comforting. But if they trust in the crucifix so much, why do they still fear the Count?
Fortune smiled on us as the evening s
et, for it was then we found gipsies setting up camp on the outskirts of town.
“You seek the Count?” asked their bemused leader, a swarthy man with an imposing black mustache. He spoke English with a thick Hungarian accent, and gave his name as Janos.
“It may be necessary to speak to him,” Holmes replied.
This caused much mirth among the gipsies.
“Then you should have stayed home,” Janos said as the laughter subsided. “He left for London weeks ago. I myself prepared his shipments.”
“Shipments?”
“Yes, yes. Gigantic boxes filled with common dirt. Where it took four of us to load one onto the wagons, the Count tossed them up like sacks of potatoes. He is a powerful man, Count Dracula.”
“How many?”
“Forty, fifty, I don’t really remember.”
“Are you sure there was nothing else in the boxes?”
“We dropped three, and all that spilled out was earth and rocks. The Count said he planned to use them for agriculture on his new English estate.”
“Did you see anyone else at the castle?”
Janos hesitated for a moment, and that’s when we knew he’d spotted Harker.
“Staff? Servants?” prompted Holmes.
“We saw no one who should not have been there,” he replied blandly.
Holmes suddenly displayed Harker’s photograph, at which the gipsy blanched.
“We know he was there,” Holmes said. “Was he alive?”
“Very much so,” Janos said, slightly relieved. “The Count said he was an honored guest, and not to be put to work. He threw letters to us.”
“Oh? Where are these letters now?”
“We gave them to the Count. We were not going back to the village for days, while the Count makes frequent visits. He knows where they can be posted.”
“You handed them over without reading them?”
“Of course.”
“And you haven’t been back to the castle since?”
Janos shook his head.
“We must go,” said Holmes. “Can you take us and bring us back?”
“Have you gold?”
The haggling began, but when it comes to money, not even the greatest deductive mind is a match for a gipsy with an empty purse. We eventually settled on an outrageous price, and agreed to travel at the dawn.
“It is best,” he said. “You will only need one night?”
“No more than two.”
“Then we will stay with you.”
“You’re not afraid?”
Janos shook his head. “He is not at the castle.”
And so we made our way through the forbidding Borgo Pass and into the green, beautiful, and imposing mountains called the Carpathians.
The rather bumpy roads took us first past green farm plains, orchards, and peasants toiling in the fields, and I found it difficult to reconcile the warm golden sunshine and the sweet aromas of ripening plums and pears with the climate of fear in the village we left behind.
These eventually gave way to magnificent forests of oak, beech and pine as we ascended into the mountains themselves. Though not so immense as the mighty crags of the Kush Mountains which tower miles above Kabul, the Carpathians are solid and forbidding, the trees like rows of soldiers keeping eternal watch on this territory.
We barely spoke. Holmes sat in silence, glancing occasionally at the countryside, his brow furrowed, his mind lost in ratiocination. Even the gipsies, normally a chattersome lot, stilled their tongues as we clip-clopped through the forest shadows. The horses seemed reluctant, but they never faltered as we made our way slowly along the bumpy dirt road.
As the mountains grew ever higher on either side of us and began to intrude on the sun, I felt as though thick stone walls were closing in. The balmy temperatures of August diminished as we made our way, and by early afternoon it might as well have been November. I longed for my overcoat.
“See that one?” Janos said, as we passed a particularly notable tall mountain peak, glistening with recent snow at its summit. “If you’re Christian men, you should cross yourselves now.”
“Why?” I asked.
“That is God’s Seat. From here, they tell me, He can survey the world and decide where He is most needed. You may need His help soon, yes?”
I started to make the sign of the cross, but a glare from Holmes stopped me.
“We are not superstitious,” he declared. “There are no villagers to mollify here. If the Almighty wants to see us, then He ought to know where we can be found.”
Without realizing it, I fondled the crucifix around my neck.
“When in Roumania, Holmes ...”
He laughed, but as we progressed, we noted the occasional peasants we passed crossing themselves as we went by.
When we stopped so the gipsies could conduct some trade with farmers they knew, I joined them, needing to stretch my legs after the long climb in the carriage and to dig our overcoats from the luggage.
I spotted a cairn a bit off the road, at the base of a gargantuan boulder, and stepped over to examine it. As I did so, a young peasant woman, dressed in black linen and thick black aprons, with a black scarf holding her tresses close to her head approached me. But for her grief, she would have been lovely.
She uttered something in her native tongue, to which I could not respond. I stepped away from the stones, and she fell on her knees before them, weeping. One of the gipsy boys in our expedition touched my arm.
“She wants to know why you come here,” he said, his English thick with accent.
“We’re looking for someone,” I replied.
The young woman rose, faced me, and asked another question, including the word “Englisch.”
“‘Are you English?’“ the lad translated.
I nodded.
Another question: “‘You seek the vampire English?’“
“We seek another Englishman,” I replied. “I don’t believe he is a vampire.”
“He has been here,” the boy translated, as the young woman brushed away a tear. “I lost my little Maria six weeks ago; we have lost so many children since he came. If you come to destroy him, then you are good men, men of honour. But you must be careful. The Count has gone, and he would not simply abandon his castle. The English vampire is keeping it for him.”
I displayed my crucifix. She nodded.
“Have you seen him?” I asked.
The boy repeated my question and she shook her head.
“Maria was the last. Perhaps the monster is preying on the other side of the mountain, in Bukovina.”
She began to cry. I comforted the poor woman as best I could, left her with the boy and joined my companion in the carriage.
“Another peasant who thinks Harker has stolen her child,” I told Holmes, who was settling back into his seat. “This one was taken six weeks ago.”
“That fits,” Holmes said. “As you know, I have been asking about these child snatchings, and everyone agrees they stopped toward the end of June.”
“You have a theory?”
“Not a very comforting one, but we have very little in the way of fact. I believe the Count disguised himself as Harker, and kidnapped and murdered these unfortunate children. So, if Harker somehow escaped, he would be dismembered by these peasants in the belief they were making their homes safe from vampires.”
As we continued to ascend, I began to notice that as we saw fewer and fewer people, we saw more and more animals. Ravens seemed to mark our progress; twice I saw wolves sitting on their haunches, staring at us through the trees and following us with their bright red eyes, as if they knew we were coming and had reason to monitor our progress.
Temperatures dropped rapidly now, and the wind began to scrape o
ur faces. We donned our overcoats as the trees thinned and eventually ceded their territory to cold, jagged, uninviting boulders. Even then, we never left the sight of wolf or raven, and the sensation of being watched made its home in my soul.
“Watson, look!” cried Holmes as we rounded a curve. “There it is!”
Above us loomed the outline of a magnificent stone ruin, battlements that had repelled Turks and Huns, the seat of cruel Wallachian rulers who brooked no challenges and impaled their traitors, watching them scream and welter in agony as they breakfasted ... perhaps in the very courtyard we soon would enter.
At least one wall had collapsed, and weather-worn, square-cut boulders started to appear along the ungraded road. Only now did I notice the late afternoon shadows growing across the mountains and the valleys beneath. Perhaps a painter like John Constable could do it justice. Below us were vast, forbidding forests, fertile fields and orchards. The peasants toiling in the fields seemed as small, industrious, and uncaring as ants. Dark shadows, rich and purple, crept along the landscape, swallowing it as the afternoon waned. I felt a chill in my bones that was unrelieved even when we finally gained the castle courtyard.
The courtyard had the look and air of abandonment. The grounds had not been tended; crows, pigeons and rats ran unhindered across the tufts of wild grass and bush that dotted the grounds. The windows were as dark as anthracite, and not a sound could be heard but from the panting horses and the howling wind.
“Pitch camp!” barked Janos.
“I think we’ll sleep indoors, if it’s all the same to you,” Holmes said.
Janos stared at him in wonder.
“The Count may be gone, but he won’t leave his home unguarded,” he said. “As long as he needs gipsy labor we are safe, but how will you protect yourselves?”
Holmes pulled a crucifix from his pocket.
“A trinket like that won’t keep the Prince of Darkness at bay,” Janos said.
“I also have this.” Holmes produced his hair-trigger pistol; I displayed my trusty Webley.
