Bram Stoker's Dracula

by Fred Saberhagen

  Sleepwalking again!

  Darting quickly back to her own room, Mina hastily threw on some clothes over her own nightgown—then picked up a big, heavy shawl, for Lucy, and ran out to the rescue.

  The wind continued wet and chill, still scouring patches of fog up from the river. Swift-flying clouds alternately hid and revealed the moon. The worried young woman had not very far to go in her search. There, unmistakable in a moment of bright moonlight, was Lucy again. She was seated on the familiar stone bench, but this time sprawled wantonly back upon it.

  But it was a sight far more shocking that froze Mina in her tracks.

  Writhing right over Lucy's supine body, actually between her spread thighs, there crouched a black shape the size of a large man—though Mina in her shock and dread could not be certain whether the form she saw was that of man or beast. Above the intermittent wind a kind of howling, sighing outcry came from one of the figures on the bench. A sound as of a woman moaning in soft hopeless pain; either in pain, as Mina thought to herself in horror, or else—

  Breaking whatever spell had for an instant held her back, Mina strode bravely forward. "Lucy! Luucyyy…

  At the sound of her voice the dark form reared up frighteningly, turned, and looked at Mina. Or at least it seemed to her that its red eyes were looking directly at her, eyes so red and fiercely glowing that she wondered for an instant how she could have imagined that it was indeed a man.

  And then a cloud covered the moon again, and in the darkness a man's voice spoke directly to Mina, a voice so low as to be almost inaudible. The voice was saying something to her—no, it was entreating, no, commanding something of her—in a foreign tongue, using words Mina had never heard before, but yet could understand.

  And the man's voice spoke a name—Elisabeth.

  Elisabeth, do not see me. A command, and it was obeyed—because Mina had just seen that which she did not wish to see…

  … Only a moment later the moonlight, coming back, showed Lucy still sprawled on the bench, but quite alone. (And Mina thought to herself: Am I mad? Why do I have the feeling that a moment ago she was not alone? Yet there is no one with her!)

  And a good thing, too, for Lucy's nightdress, her only garment, was shamefully, obscenely disarranged. She was breathing in long, heavy gasps.

  Mina, murmuring and crying in sympathy, hastened to her friend, first rearranging Lucy's nightgown decently, then adding, for both warmth and propriety, the heavy shawl, which she fastened with a safety pin at her friend's throat.

  Removing her own shoes, she slipped them on the girl's bare feet. Then she lifted Lucy, who was still moaning, only semiconscious, from the bench, got her on her feet, and began leading her back toward the house.

  Halfway there, the girl in Mina's arms stumbled and partially awakened.

  As if in muffled terror, Lucy murmured: "His eyes… his eyes…"

  "It's all right." Mina was trying to soothe her friend, and to keep her moving at the same time. "You were dreaming, dear. Walking in your sleep again. That's all."

  Lucy moaned weakly. "Please don't tell anyone—please. It would kill Mother."

  "I shan't tell anyone."

  They were crossing the terrace now, treading the wet pavement among leaves and twigs ripped down by the storm. Ahead of them the familiar house loomed strangely in the foggy night.

  "Lucy—who is Elisabeth? I have the feeling…" And an indescribably strange feeling it was, as if she, Mina, had very recently heard someone—someone she seemed to know very well—call her by that name.

  "Mina?" Lucy was lost in confusion, obviously with no idea even of what the question was about.

  "Never mind." Mina led her briskly on. "Never mind. We must get you back to bed."

  Elisabeth…

  It was no command this time, and therefore it went unheard. It was only a marveling sigh, uttered by the far traveler who watched from the cemetery, himself invisible in darkness and in rain.

  EXCERPTS FROM LOG OF THE DEMETER

  Varna to London

  13 July. Passed Cape Matapan. Crew (five hands, two mates, cook) seemed dissatisfied about something. Seemed scared, but would not speak out.

  14 July. Somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows who have sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong; they only told him there was something, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper with one of them and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet.

  16 July. Mate reported in the morning that one of crew, Petrofsky, was missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells last night; was relieved by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but would not say any more than that there was something aboard. Mate getting very impatient with them. Fear some trouble ahead.

  17 July. One of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin and in an awestruck way confided to me he thought there was a strange man aboard the ship. He said that in his watch he saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companionway and go along the deck forward and disappear.

  Later in the day I got together the whole crew and told them, as they evidently thought there was someone in the ship, we would search from stem to stern. I let mate take helm while the rest began thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns. As there were only the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when search over, and went back to work cheerfully.

  22 July. Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with sails. No time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Passed Gibraltar and out through straits. All well.

  24 July. There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short, and entering Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet another man lost—disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate violent. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will do some violence.

  28 July. Four days in hell, the wind a tempest. No sleep for anyone. Men all worn-out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours' sleep. Wind abating, seas still terrific.

  29 July. Another tragedy. Had single watch tonight, as crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one except steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search, but no one Found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause.

  30 July. Rejoice we are nearing England. Weather fine, all sails set. Retired worn-out, slept soundly, awakened by mate telling me both man of watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands left to work ship.

  1 August. Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere. Not having power to work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower, as could not raise them again.

  Mate now more demoralized than either of men. Men are beyond fear, working stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst.

  2 August, midnight. Woke up from few minutes' sleep by cry, seemingly outside my port. Rushed on deck, could see nothing in fog, ran against mate. Tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on watch. One more gone. We may be in Straits of Dover or even in North Sea. Only God can guide us in this fog, which seems to move with us; and God seems to have deserted us.

  3 August. At midnight went to relieve man at wheel, but when I got to it found no one there. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the mate.

  After a few seconds he rushed up on deck. I greatly fear his reason has given way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely: "It is here! On watch last night I saw it, like a man, tall, thin, ghastly pale, I crept behind it, and gave it my knife; but the knife went through it, empty as
the air.

  "But it is here, and I'll find it. In the hold perhaps, in one of those boxes. I'll unscrew them one by one. You work the helm." And with a warning look, and his finger on his lip, he went below.

  There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could not leave the helm. I saw the mate come out on deck again with a tool chest and a lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is stark raving mad, and no use my trying to stop him. He can't hurt those big boxes, they are invoiced as clay, and to pull them about is as harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay, and mind the helm, and write these notes. I can only trust in God, and wait till the fog clears…

  It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope the mate would come out calmer, there came up the hatchway a scream, and up on the deck he came as if shot from a gun.

  "Save me! Save me!" he cried, and looked around on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and in a steady voice he said: "You better come, too, Captain, before it is too late. He is there, but the sea will save me from him!" Before I could say a word, he sprang on the bulwark and threw himself into the sea.

  I suppose I know the secret now. It was this madman who got rid of the men one by one, and now he has followed them himself. God help me!

  4 August. Still fog, which sunrise cannot pierce. I dared not go below, I dared not leave the helm. So here all night I stayed, and in the dimness of the night I saw it—him! God forgive me, but the mate was right to jump overboard Better to die like a man, to die like a sailor in blue water, no one can object. But I am captain, and must not leave my ship. I shall tie my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and with them tie that which he—it!—dares not touch. If we are wrecked, mayhap this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand…

  9

  On the day after Lucy's latest sleepwalking escapade, Mina ordered a carriage—trains were readily available, but her wealthy friends insisted on being generous in such matters—and went into town. In the smoke and clamor and excitement of the city Mina endeavored to distract herself from her continued worry about Jonathan as well as her new concern for Lucy. She also took the opportunity to make a few essential purchases.

  On Piccadilly and the Strand newsboys were loudly hawking papers: SUDDENEST AND GREATEST STORM ON RECORD STRIKES ENGLAND—ESCAPED WOLF FROM ZOO STILL AT LARGE—But their shouts scarcely distracted the young woman at all.

  The day was only moderately foggy, for London; but even had the weather been perfectly clear, Mina would have given little thought to her immediate surroundings.

  Thus it was that for several hours she had no idea that she was being followed.

  Heavy feeding, during the voyage and afterward, had restored to him the outward appearance of youth, as he had known it would. And today he had a strong wish to appear young; for today, after more than four hundred years of separation, he would at last, if the fates were kind, once more stand face-to-face with Elisabeth. …

  The visitor to London who followed Mina without her knowledge was dressed in the height of fashion, including an elegant top hat, but before the day was far advanced he wished he had chosen headwear with a broader brim to go with his fashionable dark glasses. The fact was that he required a certain amount of protection against even this foggy northern variety of daylight.

  To move thus, wincing at occasional direct sunbeams, through the unfamiliar streets of a large, modern city, was a new experience for him, but today he gave the adventure only incidental attention. His urgent desire was to approach this particular young woman openly by day, and in a manner impeccably civilized, if not strictly correct according to the local social codes.

  A thousand wild hopes, incoherent and fantastic, churned in the visitor's heart. Hopes that were based on a woman's face glimpsed only in a photograph, and then once more, directly, in recent time—seen only very briefly, and at night, and by sheer miraculous chance—but then, could there be, really, truly, any such thing as sheer chance in the affairs of star-crossed men and women?

  There she went, crossing the Strand… With an effortlessness born of centuries of experience the hunter stalked his quarry among the crowds.

  At last, having deftly maneuvered himself into a position in the moving throng where she would be able to see him clearly, he murmured, almost inaudibly: "My love… see me now."

  And somehow, as tense and preoccupied as Mina Murray was, in the midst of her concentration upon her worries and her errands, the message was silently conveyed.

  Her eyes met the unfamiliar gaze of her pursuer—he was just, at that moment, removing his dark glasses—and like any well-bred young woman of her time and place she immediately looked away.

  But then something compelled Mina to glance again at the well-dressed, youthful-looking man, his glossy brown hair hanging to his shoulders.

  Disturbed more deeply than the incident seemed to warrant, she broke off eye contact—this time, as she thought, for good—and entered an apothecary shop.

  Impatiently Dracula crossed the street to look in through the shop window, avoiding the common obstacles of pedestrian traffic by movement at speeds and in ways available to no ordinary human.

  None of the many people who hurried past along the pavement, intent upon their own affairs, took notice of these movements, nor did they observe that the window did not reflect the young man's image; it only mirrored, rather faintly, the newspaper he was holding, with its front-page stories about the storm and the escaped wolf.

  Inside the shop, Mina was concentrating for the moment upon her purchase of a bottle of laudanum—the tincture of opium and alcohol, commonly available, might be just what Lucy needed to fight the tendency toward sleepwalking; and Mina's own worries about Jonathan were keeping her awake nights, too.

  As Mina emerged from the shop the one who had been following, staring at her hungrily, able to hear her soft voice even through the thick glass window—that one intercepted her, his sudden immediate presence startling her so much that she dropped the bottle.

  Swiftly and gracefully he caught the fragile glass out of the air. Politely he held it out.

  "My humblest apologies," he murmured, in his lightly accented English—not nearly so accented as it had been a few months past. "I am recently arrived from abroad and do not know your city. Is a beautiful lady permitted to give a lost soul directions?"

  Mina put out her hand, on the verge of accepting the bottle, then hesitated absently; her eyes were probing at the figure before her, puzzled by some hint of familiarity… but the first command he had given her—Do not see me!—had been strong enough to make it—almost—impossible to overcome.

  Her first conscious response to this bold stranger was quite cool. "For lost souls I would suggest any of our many churches. And I believe that sixpence will purchase a street guide—good day."

  With that Mina began to turn away—only to realize that the stranger's white-gloved hand was still in possession of her medicine. She turned back.

  Once more he offered the dark liquid. "Laudanum, I see." Though he had not really looked at the package. "Forgetfulness in a bottle. For a sick friend, no doubt?"

  "That is hardly your business."

  The stranger managed to seem confident and contrite at the same time. "Now I have offended you. But I am only looking for the cinematograph; I understand it is the wonder of the civilized world."

  "If you seek culture, visit a museum. London is filled with them. If you will excuse me?"

  He bowed politely, touching his hat's brim, and courteously allowed her to pass.

  But before Mina had walked many yards, she entered a patch of denser fog and encountered him again. How could he possibly have gotten ahead of her so fast on the crowded pavement?

  Again he touched his hat. "A woman so lovely should not be walking the streets of London alone. I even fear it may not be safe."

  Mina walked on, ignoring him. She was astounded at the degree of effort that was required to do so.

 
; He offered his arm, but the offer was ostentatiously declined. Undeterred, he fell smoothly into step beside her.

  Mina, angry, stopped.

  "I most certainly will not allow myself to be…" Inexplicably, as she met this stranger's eyes, her anger weakened; lamely she concluded: "… to be escorted by any gentleman who has not been properly introduced."

  Or was he a stranger, truly? Certainly something about this man was exerting a tremendous attraction.

  He smiled at her. "Such impertinence. I am really not accustomed to it. How refreshing! A quality that could cost you your life in my homeland."

  "Then I should hope never to visit."

  Dracula laughed appreciatively, delighted with her spirit.

  "Do I know you, sir?" There was now a growing desperation in Mina's attitude. "Are you acquainted with my husband? Shall I call the police?"

  The stranger's smile broadened at the sequence of questions; then it went away, leaving him quietly serious, perhaps even chastened.

  He said: "Forgive my manner of rudeness. I am but a stranger in a strange land—you must not fear me." The last five words were delivered softly but with great emphasis.

  "Sir… I… perhaps I am the one who has been rude."