Dracula's Ghost - Afterimage: Chapter 12

Part II - The Thieves

I.

Hof, Bavaria

February 1945

They stayed hidden from the Germans all winter, and as the Third Reich collapsed, no one noticed the lone Englishman and his odd cargo. Horace attributed much of this to His power, for they moved quietly through the shadows, and unwary passers-by overlooked their presence. The Red Army patrols were another matter entirely, and movement became more difficult as the Russians arrived in force. Soviet troops carried explosives and flamethrowers, and He was fearful of large groups, so they moved south and west to avoid their presence.

The German appeared in their hideout just before sunrise, and they made small talk as Horace shared his meager ration of food. Horace knew that his guest would be dead soon enough, but when the temperature dropped and a shadow passed by the window, the German showed no fear.

“At last, it is the man himself! The very man I came to see.” 

There was bemusement from the shadow in the doorway, and the dead eyes studied their visitor. In the silence, Horace perceived His thoughts, a multitude of options being weighed.

“What do you want?”

Acwulf tossed a battered flask across the room. “I want what my predecessor wanted in another time and place, only I wish to succeed where he failed.”

“And what do you offer in return?”

The German held up a battered leather journal – the same one that he had lost in the darkness a week ago.

“To go into the world, to act as your hands and feet, to bring vengeance against your enemies.”

“Come here.”  Horace watched in amazement as a fingernail opened a vein in the pallid flesh. When they were finished, the red eyes turned upon him. Horace felt no fear, only resignation, as he understood what came next. Lucy – the woman from the journal. Is this what she felt at the end? When the sun rose, Acwulf placed his remains into a box and secured the coffin with iron bands, but whether he did so from mercy or malice, Horace never knew.

II.

Budapest

1956

Yuri Andropov perused the arrest reports as the Major tried to conceal his impatience. When he was finished, he slipped the papers into a heavy envelope and placed the package in his outbox.

“What is it, Andrei?”

“The other one – Plekhanov.”  The major made a sour face. “We don’t need him anymore, and we should handle the matter administratively. Kiev is already furious over your orders.” 

I can hardly blame them, Andropov thought. She murdered the men sent to apprehend her, then gave herself up without a fight. The Interior Ministry demanded her summary execution, for Sarah Spencer was considered too dangerous to keep in custody, but if Andropov wanted a show trial, he needed her cooperation. Her companion, the traitor, would ensure just that. 

“Not yet. Her son was taken this morning in Czechoslovakia, and until we have him safely in Budapest, I want Plekhanov alive and unhurt. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ambassador,” the Major nodded. “Still, when we have her son, the Interior Ministry will rest easier if we have him liquidated.” 

“I’ll consider it.”

III.

Nýrsko, Czechoslovakia

“I expected a man with more military bearing.” The interrogator’s tone conveyed menace, but Archie had been present at the liberation of Buchenwald, and the jail did not frighten him. “You don’t look like a soldier, but I’ve been told that your war record is impressive. A daredevil – I believe that’s what the English would call you. Is that why you crossed our border illegally?”  

“Actually, I crossed the Czech border illegally. Why am I speaking with a Russian?” 

“I ask a question, and the boy answers with a question of his own. Not surprising – you are English, and the English have rights.”  The interrogator looked at his feet, a pantomime of regret at the world’s harshness. “Do you understand what is going to happen to you? So far, I have not touched you or even spoken a harsh word. The next man that walks through that door will not be so gentle.” 

“I understand. Now answer my question, please.”  Those were insolent words, and Archie half-expected a slap in response, but the interrogator merely raised an eyebrow.

“Because we have your mother. If you cooperate, perhaps you will see her soon.” 

IV.

She pushed open the gate to Carfax Abbey, her head spinning. Rupert Holmes told a wild tale of a young woman’s murder, but he danced around the truth, never quite answering her questions. Murdered how, and by whom? Jonathan Harker and Quincy Morris extracted vengeance for the crime, but that only raised more questions. Is that why Quincy never came back to Texas? Holmes would only say that all would be made clear in due time, but for Christ’s sake, how did he know?

She bypassed the front door, checking that the lock was securely in place, then walked to the back of the house. The silted-in pond must have been pretty at one time, but now it was little more than marsh, neither water nor dry earth. It had an odd smell that Evangeline disliked, and she bypassed the soft ground as she walked through the trees, using the stone fence as a guide. The neighboring lot was in even worse shape than her own, and somewhere beyond the tangle of saplings lay the burned-out ruins of an old madhouse. Murderers and madmen, she thought, but Holmes’s story hinted at something darker, which she could not put her finger upon. She did not believe in ghosts, and the world beyond this one – spiritualism, mesmerism, astral projection – was the stock in trade of thieves and grifters who preyed upon the gullible. Perhaps Rupert Holmes was such a man, she thought, but he had no need of subterfuge – he could have stolen her money outright if he wished. Instead, Holmes had been scrupulously honest in all of his dealings. The living descendant of Quincy Morris must retain possession of Carfax Abbey.

She returned to the house and unlocked the front door. The hallway smelled vaguely like the old pond, and a rat scurried past her foot as she entered the old chapel. Why would anyone bury their relatives under the floor of their own house?

“Hello, Frau Morris.” 

Acwulf stood in the doorway, a single-barrel shotgun held loosely in one hand. It was a cheap weapon, a type that one might find in a hardware store, which she recognized instantly.  

“That’s not possible,” she said, her voice quivering as she took an uneasy step backward. “I killed you.”

“But as you can see, I am not easy to kill.”  Sunlight glimmered through the high windows, and the grey eyes caught the light. "One might say that it’s a kind of magic trick.” 

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m taking you to meet the man that you came to meet.”

V.

Békéscsaba, Hungarian People’s Republic

The land around the outpost was flat, but when they let him out of his cell, he could see hills on the horizon. Plekhanov wondered if Sarah was all right. We’re turning you over to the KGB to make your English bitch behave, the thieves had told him. The guards watched him closely, but he was treated well, with adequate food and no interrogations. Perhaps they were dangling his life like a carrot to ensure her quiescence, but Plekhanov thought this doubtful. It was more likely that Soviet justice had discovered just enough mercy to give him a last respite before his execution.

To the west, the sun began its descent toward the horizon.

VI.

Budapest

It was nearly midnight when the Major left the Embassy, and though his mind was exhausted, his body was not ready for sleep. He walked the river’s edge, where the ruins of Buda Castle rested on the far bank of the Danube. The Germans had made a last stand there in 1945, before Soviet artillery had reduced it to a smoldering ruin, and it rankled him that the Hungarians were still bitter about the damage. We liberated them from fascist rule, and what do we get in return? Soviet architects and construction crews were busy restoring the original structure, and when the work was finished, the Hungarians would hate them no less.

The thought soured his mood, and he turned away from the river, walking north until he reached the edge of the Városliget. If he turned southwest, he could walk to the statue of Joseph Stalin, and a moment of homage to the leader’s memory would make him feel better. The Major was not a stupid man, and he was old enough to remember the purges, but his own worldview had been formed in the crucible of the war, where the Soviet Union had made sacrifices that the western democracies could not comprehend. Because of Joseph Stalin, we freed Europe from fascist tyranny. The Major, perhaps longing for a simpler time, understood and accepted the contradiction of these views.

He passed Hero’s Square and stopped dead. On the stone arch, someone had written STALIN - MURDERER in whitewash. Below the writing, a crude drawing equated the hammer and sickle and the swastika, and the Major stared in disbelief at the blasphemy. You ungrateful bastards… The shrill cry of a woman’s voice cut through his thoughts, and a pang of fright lanced the Major’s body. He crept forward, crossing the pedestrian bridge that bisected the ice rink as his hand slipped to the revolver in his coat. At the far end of the bridge, the path continued into the forest, and smaller trails branched from the main route like tendrils from a vine. The Major fought the urge to call out, to fill the silence with the sound of his own voice, as he listened.  Twenty yards ahead, he heard a low moan.

The woman lay at the edge of the path, one shoe missing and her blouse in disarray. Her fingers brushed his hand as he bent lower, and the Major recoiled at the dead, clammy feel of her skin upon his own. Gingerly, he touched her face and felt the sticky wetness of congealing blood. Her breath came in a rapid-fire series of hitching gasps, and in the darkness, the Major imagined the spots of cyanosis forming in her fingers and toes. She’ll go into shock from blood loss. He wished desperately for an electric torch to banish the darkness.

“What happened to you? Who did this?” 

“Korzh…”  Her voice was distant, like one recalling a dream. “I was alone and then… Korzh came to me.” 

“Korzh is dead,” he whispered. The Major had been called to the scene when they found the body, yet a touch of hesitation crept into his mind, as if he doubted his own memory.

“Not dead.”  A keening whimper escaped her throat, and she gripped his arm with surprising force. “Korzh is here.”

A twig snapped to his left, and the Major’s head snapped upright. Vladimir Korzh was standing in the path, not five meters away, watching him. His pallid skin, nearly luminous in the starlight, contrasted sharply with the dark smear around his mouth, and his smile revealed a mouthful of sharp teeth. Korzh moved, or perhaps floated, in his direction, but even as the blackest fright washed over him, the Major’s fighting instinct remained intact. The gunshots barely registered in his ears, but the revolver bucked in his hand as the Major squeezed the trigger. Did I hit him? A dog – perhaps a wolf – howled in the distance, and Korzh regarded him for another heartbeat before fading into the brush.   The injured woman became quiet, and the Major began to prioritize his tasks. He would see to her wounds, but he had to deal with the assailant first. Once Korzh was dead – 

Korzh is already dead.

The Major pushed the thought from his mind. Once Korzh was no longer a threat – whatever that means – he would get her to a hospital. He slipped into the woods, wincing at the crunch of his own footsteps in the fallen leaves. Korzh had moved over the same ground with a silence that defied all sense, and the Major’s logical mind refused to accept the whispers of his subconscious. He made no sound because he is a ghost. He stumbled through the trees until he reached another path, which circled the western edge of the ice rink. There was no sight of Korzh, but the Major knew that he had come this way – the breeze that wafted to his nostrils carried a whiff of reeking flesh. The Major picked up his own pace, vectoring southwest toward the statue of Joseph Stalin.

The statue faced the open parade ground, and the wide tribune lay shrouded in fog. At the stone base, tendrils of mist entwined the great leader’s boots like snakes and caressed the relief sculptures below Stalin’s feet, so that the very stones seemed to move – workers slung tools over their shoulders, farmers ceased their harvest, and the peasant women lay down their burdens – all turned to regard him as the Major took a halting step forward. The weather was clear when I left the Embassy. There should be no fog. The mist began to thicken, a whirling kaleidoscope of shapes that reminded him of a childhood game. What shapes do you see in the clouds? That one is a rat. That one is a wolf. That one is the Englishwoman. He visited her in the night, and she lay restless ever after in her tomb. That one is a German soldier, the first man that you killed…  A pair of red pinpricks appeared in the mist, and the air became foul – the charnel house odor of Korzh, only much stronger. The cloud began to coalesce into an anthropoid shape, impossibly tall and clad entirely in black, and the Major understood at last why Korzh had not been killed by his bullet. He took in the heavy mustache, the long fingernails cut to a point, the sharp teeth and burning eyes. Those eyes willed him forward, and with horror, the Major realized that his feet were moving of their own accord. With the last vestiges of his own willpower, the Major raised the revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger.

The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

He stood rooted to the spot as it came closer. The smell was overpowering, and his belly heaved as the dead hand caressed his cheek. Its body radiated pure malice, but the Major found it oddly beautiful, as if he had walked into a dark forest and encountered a goddess. It spoke in an unknown tongue, yet he understood the words perfectly.

“I am Dracula.”