“Vlad …?” I had overheard the name before, when he had queried Mrs. Van Helsing. “This is the vampire?”
“One of them. There is also Zsuzsanna, and possibly an Elisabeth.” He frowned suddenly at the occurrence of a fresh idea. “Before I go—might I have your assistance with Mr. Renfield? I should like to hypnotise him again, and would prefer someone trustworthy nearby. Let me speak openly: I believe he is so strongly drawn by evil that he has established a psychic link with Vlad. Perhaps I can get from him the information I need, and my excursion to the country will be unnecessary.”
To this I agreed. When we arrived in Purfleet and returned to the asylum, I checked at once on Renfield to gauge his mood. Unfortunately, he was in something of an agitated state, so we decided to postpone our session. The professor has asked me to call for him no later than fifteen minutes before sunset.
In the meantime, I have dispatched a letter to Art giving a mostly fictional account of what Dr. Van Helsing, the great specialist from Amsterdam, has to say after examining Lucy. I’m afraid I told him so little that he might be alarmed; and I certainly could not lie to him about her symptoms or the professor’s reaction to them. So there was a kernel of truth in my epistle, enough that one looking for evidence of vampires might find it there. (When guilt rears its disparaging head, I remind myself that to have confessed the whole truth would have troubled Art even more—for he would think his old friend Jack and the great Dutch diagnostician had gone quite insane, and would not have known where next to turn.) As jealous as I may be of him, I cannot be so cruel to my old friend. For his sake, I would have withheld Van Helsing’s opinion even if the professor had not insisted I tell Art nothing.
Of course, the professor insisted in looking over my letter, and seemed to take perverse pleasure in garbling all the quotes attributed to him. Our plan is to pretend slowly to discover the signs of vampirism in order to make the others come to the same conclusion on their own initiative. Perhaps even I—if I one day do encounter solid physical evidence—might be convinced.
All I can say is this: If ever I have felt an attraction for things psychical in nature, the events of to-day have cured it. I feel as though I am trapped in a strange and fantastical dream, one every bit as disturbing as the one about the great Darkness.…
The Diary of
Abraham Van Helsing
3 SEPTEMBER. Whitby! The lovely Miss Westenra reported that the beginning of her strange malaise began around mid-August, when she was on holiday at the seaside—at Whitby, during the time when a “ghost ship” appeared! From what she said briefly about it, I have no doubt: that is where he came ashore. Her responses indicate he remained there a week before continuing on … to London, where he was drawn again to his victim.
As for John’s Miss Lucy (he thinks I do not know, but it was plain on both their faces that this was the young lady who had rebuffed him), I left her with what protections I could—a tiny silver crucifix which I had charged. She is clearly not of a religious bent, so I gave up any hope of convincing her to wear it; what logical reason could I give? When the garlic blooms come from Amsterdam, I will at least be able to cite the medicinal power of the herb.
So I did something rash, which strikes me now as amusing, though at the time humour was the farthest thing from my mind. With her permission, I put Miss Lucy deep into hypnotic trance, for as I explained it, it would permit her to give me far greater detail than she could remember consciously.
After I had asked all the questions regarding Whitby and the “large bird flapping at the window” and gotten satisfactory replies, I let her remain in trance, with her eyes closed. Meantime, I performed a mental exercise—a spell, if you will—which permits me to move about unheard by others. And with a little crucifix in hand, I climbed upon the radiator; standing on tiptoe, I wedged the protective amulet between the wooden window frame and the wall. (For all her answers pointed plainly to the window as the place he had entered.) In addition, I produced some small cloves of garlic and carefully laid them atop the narrow lintel.
Whilst I was in that ever-so-precarious position, it occurred to me that Lucy might suddenly emerge from trance and open her eyes, or that the maid might fling open the door—and then how would I explain why I was standing tiptoe upon the radiator? I should have done a spell for invisibility first, I thought, but too late.…
It makes me laugh now, but at the time I was quite frightened. At any rate, I managed to finish my simple efforts in privacy, and now I pray they will be sufficient for a time. As soon as possible, I will notify Vanderpool in Haarlem to coax some garlic into bloom; he is entirely trustworthy, and it will save me the trouble of explaining myself to an English farmer.
It is unfortunate that Miss Lucy is not completely accessible; knowing that the maid was just outside the door (no doubt ready to burst in at the first sign of impropriety), I dared not ask directly about Vlad and his whereabouts. But perhaps the time will come.… Until then, we will use John’s Mr. Renfield.
Dr. Seward’s Diary
4 SEPTEMBER. A terrible day all round. Dismissed the attendant just before sunrise so that I could take the professor in to see Renfield without anyone else knowing. Van Helsing thinks that our zoophagous patient is sensitive to the vampire’s movements and may be of some help in tracking it.
The patient remained quite calm when I entered, so I signalled Van Helsing to come in. He did and, to my surprise, had Renfield in a hypnotic state in less than a minute.
“Where are you?” the professor asked him, with admirable authority.
“I do not know,” Renfield replied, in a tone of surprising dignity; when he is calm, he looks quite the cultured gentleman—except for the unkempt hair and beard. (We dare not trust him with a razor or even a comb, and he hasn’t the patience to let the attendant groom him.) But comb the silver hair and shave the salt-and-pepper beard, and beneath them is a man with strong aristocratic features and intelligent ice-blue eyes beneath severe black brows. According to his wife, he is fifty-nine years old, but extremely well-muscled and fit for his age. (The attendant—and now Van Helsing and I—can confirm that!) “I think I am in a closed box. There is only darkness, and quiet—except for birds singing.”
As if on cue, a robin just outside the window burst into song; the professor and I both smiled at the coincidence.
“Are you in London?” Van Helsing asked.
The question seemed to confuse Renfield. Eyes still closed, he frowned deeply and hesitated. “No … yes … I don’t know. What do you mean by London?”
It was the professor’s turn to be confused. “The city. London, the largest city in England.”
“Yes, yes,” our madman replied irritably. “I know what London is! I simply don’t know—”
A cock crowed in the distance; abruptly, Renfield sprang to his feet and rushed the professor with alarming speed. Before I could move, he had his broad hands around Van Helsing’s neck and was throttling him, whilst the professor gripped his attacker’s wrists and tried to break free.
But already the professor’s face had turned bright apoplectic red; he could take in no air at all, could only emit the most dreadful strangled gasps. I rang for the attendant at once, then leapt into the fray, grasping Renfield’s forearms just above Van Helsing’s white-knuckled hands.
In a matter of seconds (I suppose, though it seemed hours), the attendant raced in and threw the whole of his massive bulk against Renfield, smashing him back against the wall. Soon the patient was restrained in a strait-jacket, while I tended to Van Helsing, who gulped down air while gently massaging his violated neck. I was concerned that there had been real damage done, for beneath his fingers there were dark red marks upon the skin that would soon turn to bruises. But he waved me away, and soon recovered enough to speak.
He is headed to-day for the country cottage. I am concerned about him being alone there; if his theory that Renfield is controlled by the vampires is correct, he is in grave danger indeed.
r /> 9
Zsuzsanna Dracul’s Diary
13 AUGUST. I write this on the boat, on my way back to London after a brief visit to Amsterdam. (The Dutch public transportation is so clean.) It was Elisabeth’s idea at first for me to go. We had both been out of sorts for some time; I have felt my own strength slipping, despite the fact that I have had my fill of “blue” blood. Elisabeth, too, seems paler, weaker, and so irritable that I have started avoiding her. It frightens me; I worry that Vlad has cast some sort of spell on us. London is still full of myriad marvels, but I begin to lose interest in what previously delighted me. How many new frocks can one have? I have a closetful. They are all lovely and I enjoy wearing them—but my desire for them is now sated, and I grow restless.…
Vlad has no doubt arrived at the English coast, but still he has not appeared at any of his properties—Carfax, Mile End, Bermondsey, Piccadilly. We visit them every day, hoping to find him; and every day, our hopes are crushed.
Some evenings ago, Elisabeth approached me smiling for the first time in many days, with a look of determination on her face. “Vlad is delayed,” she said, “and we are both growing terribly anxious waiting. But why must we? You say that you know where Van Helsing lives. Why not surprise him there during the daytime, and bring him here? For if Vlad knows we have Van Helsing, he will be forced to deal with us.”
“Why not simply kill the doctor?” I countered, for I was eager to do so, and have my revenge upon little Jan’s murderer.
She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “But what fun is that, Zsuzsanna? If Van Helsing dies, Vlad merely crumbles to dust. No, we must use Van Helsing to draw him to us. I, for one, intend to witness both their deaths, and to inflict as much suffering upon them as they have upon you!”
“Very well,” I agreed—though I was secretly determined to kill him anyway. “When shall we leave?”
“Not both of us, my pet. You go; you alone know Van Helsing and his house. I know Vlad, and so I will wait here for him; someone must check his houses every day.”
The idea of leaving her alone gnawed at me. From Dunya, I knew that she was capable of infidelity; even more distressing was the thought of the torture-chamber beneath the house. Was her irritation due to her eagerness to test it? She had sworn to me that she would not, that she merely “collected” such horrific devices for amusement; and certainly, I had yet to find them used.
Still, I did not trust her.
Trust or no, logic won out. Within a day, I found myself standing at Van Helsing’s door. I did not disguise myself, merely wore a hat with a bit of a veil, so that if he peered out, he would not immediately recognise me. All I needed was for him to open the door a crack—no more—and I would easily strike a killing blow.
I rang, and a full minute later, the door swung open; the woman who answered was steel-haired and square of jaw. Mary? I almost asked, but this could not be she; this woman was far too heavy and tall. For an instant, confusion reigned: Had I come to the wrong house? Or had the Van Helsings moved?
No; this was the house, and the brass nameplate on the door proclaimed A. VAN HELSING, M.D., with a phrase in Dutch I could not decipher.
“I am looking for Dr. Van Helsing,” I said tentatively in English; the woman frowned sternly at me and shook her head. I then translated the phrase into French, without success; but my German evoked a warm smile.
“Ah,” she said, with a native accent and obvious relish to hear her own tongue spoken, “your German is excellent! But I am afraid the doctor is not taking appointments at this time.” And she pointed to the brass plate above the bell, then laughed at herself. “But of course, you do not speak Dutch!”
I smiled prettily and drew back my veil a bit to expose her to both my beauty and entrancing eyes. “I am not a patient, but a relative, here to visit.”
She clicked her tongue. “Ah, poor dear! I hope you have not come a long way—”
“From Vienna.” I knew before she told me that the professor was not here; my heart sank at the realisation.
“He has gone”—she paused, and seemed to catch herself. I tried my best to put her in a trance, but she kept glancing away uncooperatively. This was a very willful woman—“abroad.”
I did not hide my bitter disappointment. “May I ask where?”
She averted her eyes—lying, of course. “Many places. I do not have an itinerary.” And then when she glanced back at me, I detected a sudden spark of suspicion in her gaze. “You are a relative? How so?”
“His sister-in-law.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I have lived in Amsterdam many years, and have known of the doctor for some time. He has no siblings.”
I sighed in honest frustration, deciding that if she did not let me in within a matter of seconds, I would break her thick neck. “I know it sounds strange—but I am actually his mother’s sister-in-law. You see, Mary’s brother was much younger than she, and—”
The ice melted away, leaving her with a more welcoming but oddly tragic expression. “Ah, poor Mary.…”
I feigned alarmed interest. “Has she died? Bram is such a dreadful correspondent; he never tells me anything. I wrote him weeks ago telling him I was coming, but he never replied—”
“My poor dear! How dreadful for you to learn this way. No, poor Mrs. Van Helsing—Madam Mary, as I call her—is not dead. But I am afraid she is not far from it. She is mortally ill with a cancer.”
I put my lacy-gloved hand to my mouth and gasped in horror. “So she is here?”
“Yes, yes, would you like to see her?”
I kept my lips covered an instant longer, lest she should see them curve slightly upward in a smile. “Very much. I am sad to miss Bram, but …”
But I could learn a great deal from his mother, who was no doubt privy to where he had gone. This nurse was clearly operating under basic orders, and probably had no idea of our beloved Bram’s true vocation.
So she swung the door open and let me inside, where she squeezed my hand with Germanic force, and vigorously pumped it while introducing herself as Frau Koehler. The shadowed foyer was lined with bookshelves, all filled beyond capacity, some tomes lying atop rows of other volumes. The good Frau led me back through another dusty, book-lined room to the staircase, where she hesitated.
“Let me go and tell Madam Mary you are here.” She blinked at me for a moment before I realised she was awaiting a response from me.
“Tell her”—I paused, searching my memory for my sister-in-law’s maiden name—“tell her Mrs. Windham has come to visit.”
Frau Koehler nodded, then lifted her skirts and climbed heavily up the groaning stairs. I heard her move across the creaking wooden floor, then pause to murmur a soft question to her charge.
But I detected no reply. As I waited, I espied between all the shelves a closed door, and felt inexplicably drawn. I slipped through the crack and found myself in the good doctor’s study, surrounded by more books—these all esoteric in nature. Our brave vampire-killer, it seemed, had made an extensive study of magic in order to better accomplish his work. There was also a large oaken desk, with a number of papers and telegrams in the cubicles; I longed to look through them all to gain some clue as to Van Helsing’s whereabouts, but above my head came more creaks, and the frau’s heavy footfall.
I immediately slipped through the door again and by the time she smiled down from the top of the stairs, I was in the exact spot she had left me.
“Madam Mary is awake and will see you.” Whilst I dashed up the stairs to join her, she added: “I cannot promise you that she will entirely understand who you are. She speaks little, and when she does, she is generally confused; I gave her an injection of morphia for the pain not long ago, so she is sleepy as well. Be patient.”
“I shall,” I answered warmly, though at the moment I was thinking of Mary not at all, but rather how I might convince Frau Koehler to leave. I was quite sated from the night before, to the point that the thought of dining upon her stalwart German b
lood made me queasy. So I was not inclined to use supernatural force upon the Frau; one quick drink from Mary, that was all I could manage, and then I would be gone.
My cavalier attitude vanished once I stepped into the room and was greeted by the duelling smells of piss and foul shit. Frau Koehler had done what she could to minimise it: the window was open, a candle flickered in the slight breeze, and a bedpan soaked in a tub full of soapy water.
It was all I could do to keep from covering my nose with my kerchief; but Frau Koehler seemed to notice it not at all. She stepped over to the bed, smiled with genuine affection, and took her patient’s thin, limp hand. “Mary. Here is your sister.”
I moved forward to take the German nurse’s place, and clasped the dying woman’s cold, bony hand. Her eyes had been closed, but at the sound of Koehler’s voice, they fluttered open and gazed upon me. I was prepared at once to put a glamour upon her, and make her see an entirely different woman, so that she would not cry out in fear and alert the nurse—
Oh, Mary! When last I saw you, you were strong and young and beautiful, with shining gold hair and smooth skin, and your little son Bram in your belly. I loved you then; loved you even after my Change, for you had been so good to me in my life. I have come to realise that you and Kasha and Papa were the only ones who truly ever loved me—me, the homely cripple, the spindly spinster who evoked from men nothing but pity.
Now you are struck down by cruel Time. I have killed many in my strange existence, and stared often into the eyes of Death Herself; but I had never before seen Her linger so long.
This would be me, I thought, had I not received the gift of immortality. An unlovely old woman, dying. I looked upon the crone in the bed and did not recognise her, she with her coarse white hair knitted into a long braid that lay from shoulder to waist; the hair on the scalp, however, was broken off in places and had come partially undone, giving her a wild, unkempt air. The image came to me of a delicate bird perishing from starvation. Her smooth skin was sallow, sunken skeletally at the cheeks, pinched at the nose, and lined with wrinkles, especially beneath the eyes—eyes still blue as the sea, though the whites were jaundiced.