The Van Helsing Paradox
By Evelyn Chartres
(Nom de plume)
Copyright 2018
Ottawa, Ontario
Halifax, Nova Scotia
SYNOPSIS
Clara Grey’s parents once said that the world was a dark and dangerous place. There was more truth than fiction to those words. There were things that lurked in the shadows which defied the laws of nature: perversions that fed on the dead, terrorised the living, or escaped the chill touch of the grave.
Clara is a member of the Tower, a religious order of hunters who work outside the confines of the Church. As keepers of the arcane, her order takes an active role to counter these threats. The life of a hunter can be short, and many disappear before their training is complete. So, what does it take to succeed against all odds?
Explore Clara’s origin, a child born before the dawn of the twentieth century. Witness her rigorous training, how she faces adversity, and fights in the Great War to become the derringer wielding flapper she is.
Throughout her tale, keep in mind that no matter the threat, a gal has to look out for herself after all.
Contents
SYNOPSIS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
BRING OUT THE DEAD
FIRST BLOOD
HALL OF HIGHER LEARNING
HERE BE MONSTERS
A SAUCERFUL OF SECRETS
TWO SHIPS PASSING IN THE NIGHT
LES FILLES DE JEANNE D’ARC
CHEMICAL ROMANCE
SALT THE EARTH
IN FLANDERS FIELDS THE POPPIES BLOW
SAINT BARBARA’S WRATH
RAIDERS AND TOMBS
DINNER WITH THE DEVIL
THE PRELUDE TO ACTION
THE VAN HELSING PARADOX
FREYJA’S SHIELDMAIDEN
NULL AND VOID
LEXICON
ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES
ALSO FROM EVELYN CHARTRES
LICENCE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wish to thank those who helped make this novel a reality, specifically, those who were integral in helping this project come to fruition.
I would like to mention R.E. Moran for the key role she played in designing the cover. This time, she was given a clean slate to work with and produced spectacular results. In the future, I will make sure to minimise my interference.
Thank you Tina E. Williams and Pamela Belyea for your diligence which proves that no amount of revision or self-checks can purge all flaws. While there will always be errors waiting to be found, I can be certain that the most glaring offenders have been caught.
Lastly, I wish to thank Selenie Ichijo and those who read my Saturday Scenes submissions. These were the brave souls that read through the novel while still a work in progress. These are my beacons in the night; proof that I am not navigating these dark seas alone.
Evelyn Chartres (Nom de plume)
[email protected]
http://evelynchartres.com
BRING OUT THE DEAD
1903
Clara could feel it, caught in a state between reality and the dreamworld. She was still focused on the dream, but that the world was beginning to fade away while her senses bled through. She heard her sister’s slow and deliberate breathing, which meant the sun had yet to rise. In the background, she heard the grandfather clock’s counterweight swing back and forth. Alas it was that growing urge to pee that was chasing her dreams away.
She rather enjoyed prolonging her existence between realms. Clara could look upon her world, mould it as she saw fit, while her every wish was obeyed. That is until she turned around in bed, in the hopes of delaying the inevitable, but collided with Ada’s elbow.
Her eyes opened wide and forced the waking world to come into focus. Clara could barely see her sister’s elbow through the streaks of purple brought on by the impact. With her vision restored, she looked above and saw the familiar yellowed ceiling, and the fog from her breath.
Clara dreaded these moments, the early morning before her mother lit the stove. That moment in time where the hot stones placed in bed at night had grown cold. The ground outside was sure to be covered in frost this morning and judging by the view from their window, the sun would not make an appearance for a while yet.
While the urge was slowly migrating from the back of her mind to the forefront, she looked at her two sisters who were sleeping peacefully and for a moment, felt deeply envious of their situation. Alas, what was a girl to do?
Clara lifted the warm layers of linen from her body, instantly feeling the chilled morning air made contact with her bare skin. Her legs became covered in gooseflesh, and her muscles tensed before she threw herself out of bed and onto the cold floor.
“Cold!” Clara yelped.
Clara felt around for a moment to find a pair of woollen slippers. They were too big, but that was the burden borne by the youngest child, condemned to suffer the humiliation of wearing her sisters’ hand-me-downs. Nonetheless, the need to pee would not subside, cold or not, so down the stairs she went.
She crept down the stairs, careful to skip the second to last step. It had a tendency to creak and the last thing she wanted to do was wake up her father earlier than necessary. That would surely make him cranky, which had a tendency to trickle down to his children via their mother.
Clara made it to the door and noticed the sky was turning purple and red. She also discovered that the door was not latched, something that was profoundly peculiar in her mind.
“Odd,” Clara murmured. “Someone went out to the outhouse?”
The last thing Clara needed was to wait for her turn. Just thinking about freezing longer than necessary made her teeth chatter!
Clara slowly opened the door and attached screen to avoid making a racket. Then with all due haste, she ran along the frosted patch of weeds, hearing them crinkle with every step. It was a shame that she needed relief. This might have been a pleasant experience had she been appropriately dressed!
A moment of inattention caused Clara to slip on a sheet of ice. For a moment she managed to keep her balance, but gravity ultimately proved the victor and sent her down onto her rump.
“Ow,” Clara complained.
She looked down and saw her reflection in the ice. She was momentarily mesmerised. Her hair was short and light brown, just like her mother wanted.
“Any longer and those dreaded curls will make an appearance and turn your hair into a rat’s nest,” her mother often said.
She had the near-rounded face of a child with a cute button nose. Her cheeks were a bit sunken, wages had been lean this year, and that translated to smaller meals. Of course, nothing could shake the light from her steel-grey eyes.
The gust of wind sent a shiver down her spine and reminded her why she was outside. With the outhouse in view, she saw that the familiar half-moon opening was dark, a good sign that it was unoccupied. Clara smiled as she approached, reached for the thick wooden handle, and pulled open the door. While the door gave way easily, she was unprepared for the discovery.
At first, she was confused, seeing her father there in his long johns, butt flap open and seated over the opening. He seemed to be going about his business and yet his eyes were closed. Frost had built up on the exposed skin and his lips were blue.
“Papa,” she said softly. “I have to pee,” she whined in the hope that he would just get up and walk away.
There was no response, no hint that her father heard a thing despite the urgency oozing from Clara’s every word. Odd, he was sitting at a peculiar angle. It was as though he had been pushed against the wall.
Clara continued to examine the scene, waiting as patiently as any child could under the circumstances
. Only after a few moments did details from the scene seep in.
First and foremost, she noted his lack of breathing. While Clara saw her own breath, his was not visible nor could she hear the rattle in his lungs that seemed more acute in the morning, especially after a double-shift at the mine.
“Papa,” she said with more urgency before her mind realised that her prompting would get her nowhere.
On the wooden planks that made up the outhouse floor, she saw blood. Some of it was black like tar, thick and frothy, a sign that her father had suffered through another one of his coughing fits. However, there was more blood, a bright crimson. Her eyes followed the trail until she spotted a gaping wound where his calf should have been.
Her perceptive mind saw every detail of the wound. She saw how the flesh had been cut and torn off simultaneously and conjuring up an image of a pack of wild dogs devouring a carcass. In that moment, Clara should have been quivering, but her mind kept running over the details, busy committing every detail of the scene to memory.
That is, until she heard something. It was faint, almost unintelligible, but the sound persisted. It took a moment for her mind to register what she heard, but sure enough, she made out the distinctive chewing sound originating from within the depths of the outhouse. It was not until she heard a loud and guttural belch that her need pee took care of itself.
In a small company town, where everyone worked and lived together, a screaming child certainly got attention. The first on the scene was their neighbour who came down in his camisole. Wild eyed and alert, it took him no more than a minute to size up the situation and close the door to the outhouse.
As the rest of the community woke up from their deep slumber, Clara’s mother ran out of the side door. She had the same bewildered look in her eyes as their neighbour, however she never got the opportunity to approach the scene. The neighbour cut her off and before she could protest and they exchanged some words.
Clara was not sure what had been said, but the effect it had on her mother was immediate and brutal. At first, her eyes darted about. She seemed restless but soon fell into a dramatic pause as she was consumed by shock. Her onslaught of tears and slow collapse to the ground informed Clara that her father would not be walking away from that outhouse.
“Martha, get Clara out of here,” the neighbour ordered his wife.
Clara turned around to find the wife, still in her nightgown, reaching out from behind. However, she had no intention of complying just yet.
“No!” Clara exclaimed. “There is something in there with him.”
“What do you mean?” Martha asked while shooting a glance at her husband.
Clara saw the hidden exchange between the couple and wondered why neither seemed particularly concerned.
“What do they know?” Clara wondered.
Martha got on a knee to be at Clara’s eye level before asking, “What did you see love?”
“There—,” Clara paused unable to formulate her thoughts. “Something— Ate papa,” she managed to add although the words were by now nearly a whisper.
Martha’s face lightened up, before she hugged Clara. It was bizarre how relieved this woman was to hear those words.
“Oh love,” Martha exclaimed. “You let your imagination get the better of you.”
Martha took Clara by the hand and led her home. From the corner of Clara’s eye, she observed her sisters looking down over the scene from the bedroom window. She saw how their faces were ashen grey as though they had seen a ghost.
“Now let’s get you cleaned up,” Martha said while they left behind a town full of gawkers and her grief stricken mother.
It seemed odd that no one had bothered to look inside the outhouse. Did they assume she was just another child afraid of what lurked beneath her bed? Or did they already know what they would find?
* * * *
Two years after the incident, Clara’s life had gained a bit of normalcy. At least, as much as could be expected when living in a company town without a breadwinner.
Clara remembered how the company men had come to evict them shortly after the funeral. It had been fortunate that the townspeople had steeled their support and forced the company to relent. While grateful, she never learned how the leaders of that coup had been beaten to within an inch of their lives the following week.
Without their father’s income, the entire family had to work. Clara and her sisters spent the bulk of their days doing laundry for the neighbours. On occasion, they would take random jobs from those who had a few pennies to spare.
Her mother helped as best she could. Her children were fed and clothed even if it meant more hand-me-downs. Come shift change, men would come to their door covered in coal and ask if her mother was free.
Ada and Maria were clearly bothered by the procession of men coming to their door. Clara did not know their reasons, nor did she understand why the bed rattled upstairs.
Despite her inability to attend school and devoting her days to monotonous work, Clara was quite happy. Children had an incredible ability to recover from trauma. The events of that day were dreamlike, distant, and few details remained of what happened that morning.
Now if only her mother would get better. To think it began as a benign sore throat, followed by a fever, headaches and a vile rash.
Times were lean that month, so the children had to work twice as hard to put food on the table. Nonetheless, their mother had gotten better and things returned to normal for another year or so.
Eventually her mind began to go, starting with her balance. It was one thing to see one’s father slowly succumb to whatever was eating away at his lungs. At least his wit remained sharp until the day he died. It was another matter entirely to see someone lose not only her ability to take care of herself but also shed her identity. This stage of the disease had been hardest on the children and haunted Clara well into her adult life.
In time, a series of deformities developed near the surface of her skin which later turned into putrefying ulcers. Clara could not help but turn away when called up to assist their mother. No matter how bad it got, miners would still find their way to their door. Helmet in hand, they asked to see their mother and were disappointed to learn that she was unavailable. In the back of her mind, Clara hoped that whatever afflicted her mother turned out to be catching. That would have been the only way to stem the tide of eternal visitors, especially this last one.
During the last vestiges of sunlight, there came a knock at the door. Since her sisters were busy making supper, Clara answered the door. She took a quick glance through the window and found a tall slender man whose proportions seemed off. The man had the figure of a ferret or perhaps a slithering snake. Clara could have sworn that his eyes were glowing like dark embers in the fire. If it were not for the dark clothes, hat and distinctive white collar the door would have remained locked. Alas, her parents had always been clear that men of the cloth were to be obeyed. So what was a girl to do?
“Hello Clara,” the priest said as soon as the door swung open.
“Good evening,” Clara said in reply. She then thought it best to add, “Father.”
All the while Clara wondered how this man knew her name. At least his eyes were no longer glowing although they were black as coal.
“Is your mother at home?” he asked.
Now that question came as a bit of a surprise. This was a man of the cloth, not some worn out miner who had been worked to the bone. Still there was something peculiar about this whole affair, but Clara could not put a finger to it.
“No,” she said without elaborating.
“Really?” he asked while sniffing the air.
Clara merely nodded in response. Fortunately her sisters were in the kitchen, so they could not overhear her fibbing.
“Why is he smelling the air?” Clara wondered.
For whatever reason, that seemed sufficient to confirm she was lying.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Clara loo
ked him right in the eyes and said, “Of course.” There was a momentary pause before she added, “She left a few moments ago to attend evening mass.”
Normally, such a flagrant lie would have been discovered, since the priest should have known that evening mass was not for a couple of hours. That being said, priests typically referred to her as child and so far this one had not.
Once more, the man smelled the air, but it was his reaction afterwards that got her attention. The man smacked his lips which brought forth a half-forgotten memory from years back.
“You wouldn’t happen to be lying to me would you?” he asked.
Clara should have lost all composure by this time, but the fact that she was right invigorated her. She looked directly at the man with her steady steel-grey eyes.
“Of course not Father,” Clara said. She then looked down towards the kitchen before adding, “We are about to have supper if you’d care to join us.”
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