Dracula's Ghost - Afterimage: Chapter 17

Part III: The Witch of Endor

I.

Budapest

The fog embraced them, and Rudolf Diels shivered at the sudden drop in temperature. To his right, Cristofor began to pray aloud, his voice distant in the heavy air. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…”  Sarah fell, dragging her son downward as her legs gave way, and the fog that surrounded them swirled, thickened, and coalesced into the shape of a man. A flare, fired from some distant cannon, burst overhead, and Rudolf Diels found himself paralyzed by fright, as if two decades of horrors had been focused into a single point at the base of the ruined statue and given shape, a perfect vision of hell.

It was tall and thin, an evening shadow given substance, and its bulging eyes reflected redly in the flare’s light. This is what Heydrich saw just before he died, Diels thought, stabbed by a pang of horror and pity for his old enemy. A foul odor emanated from the body, and it smiled with long teeth as Archie Spencer fired a shot from his pistol. The white hand cuffed at the boy’s cheek, and Archie’s head snapped backward with such force that Diels was certain that the blow had killed him. It seized mother and son, and all three were enveloped in a thick cloud of swirling mist.  The fog lifted an instant later, and they were gone.

“What the hell was that?”  Diels stared at the empty space where Archie and Sarah had fallen.

“Vampyr. Like the thing from Hof, only much worse.”  Cristofor’s face was ashen. “A thing with no life of its own, which can only exist on what it steals from others. Perhaps it was a man once, someone like Faust, who sold his soul for magical power…” 

“Can we kill it?” Diels asked.

“I don’t know.”  The priest stared into the retreating fog as Diels thought of Hof. “Lichtenberg died here on the way to Dachau.” At the end, he had asked to be deported to the east, to comfort the remnant of German Jewry as they were driven to the gas chambers. But what he is thinking now is madness…

“Let’s get back to the embassy,” Diels said. “I think that we’ve done all that we can.” 

“You go.”  Cristofor watched as the fog receded in the direction of the cemetery. “If we survive the night, we’ll need your help getting out of Budapest. I’m going after them.” 

“Have you lost your fucking mind? If you follow that thing to the cemetery, you’re going to die, and not pleasantly.” 

“You said it yourself, Rudolf – a priest should be ready for the next world.  How could I protect my life at their expense?” 

Diels watched him depart, ashamed of the relief that flooded his body. I’ve done enough, he thought. I survived two wars and helped to rebuild when Germany seemed beyond repair. For the love of God, isn’t that enough for one man? He hesitated for another moment then began walking at a fast trot, panting a little, until they fell in together.

“You’re sure about this?”  Cristofor raised an eyebrow.

“Not really,” Diels said. “But I’ll stand behind you for moral support and start running if things go badly.”   

II.

Purfleet

The wind whipped at his coat, and flashes of lightning illuminated the darkness as he worked. Acwulf was grateful for the lightning, not for his own sake – his night vision was quite good – but for the woman. I want her to see what is coming. He drew a circle in the soft earth, stepping carefully over the sodden ground, then slit a vein in his wrist and let the blood drain into the soil. 

“Get up.”  He prodded her with the shotgun. “When the door opens, you will step through into another world.” 

He took another drink from the flask and watched with bated breath as the minutes ticked by, going over the preparations in his head. He must have searched for centuries to find this place, a twin to the old castle. Another flash of lightning illuminated the sky, and a single pinprick of phosphorescent green appeared in the center of the blackness.

“Do you see, Fraulein Morris? It’s working.” 

III.

Budapest

The soldier’s throat was torn out, and he lay in the grass with his boots pointed upward in a miniature pantomime of the cemetery’s tombstones.  The dead woman that hovered over his torso looked up at the sound of their approach, and Plekhanov nearly fainted – blood was smeared across her lips and chin, and she watched them pass with unblinking eyes. He had a moment of terrifying clarity – this is what I saw.  What I couldn’t remember.

“Keep moving.”  Holmes gave him a gentle nudge. “She won’t bother us if we leave her alone.” 

The dead moved among the graves as they walked, and Plekhanov counted at least a half dozen dressed in soldiers’ uniforms, tailored suits, and peasant garb. They passed the elaborate mausoleums and entered a smaller, plainer section of the cemetery where the graves were marked by simple headstones adorned with the Star of David. His eyes swept across the field of stones, and Plekhanov’s breath caught as he fixated on a specific point. Quincy Morris stood at one of the tombstones, the long coat flapping around the body. Plekhanov drew back, but Rupert Holmes walked forward without hesitation, and the dark figure raised at hand in greeting at his approach.

“Where is Sarah?” Plekhanov asked, his voice trembling. “We need to find her.” 

“She is with Him now.” Quincy Morris shook his head. “For the moment, there is nothing that we can do.”

“You said you would take me to her!”

“Perhaps I was not entirely honest,” Quincy said.  “All the same, she is stronger than you know, and perhaps that will be enough.”

“Will be enough?”  Plekhanov’s face flushed with rage. “You’re leaving her to die!”

“If need be – then yes.”  Quincy’s eyes, locked upon his own, and his voice deepened, a dreadful chorus that echoed from the depths of the earth. “The matter at hand is larger than a single life. He is stronger than me, and he thought to play us for fools, but everything has been put into place – if not for his undoing, at least to buy time. The final piece approaches as we speak.” 

Plekhanov turned, his face ashen. Captain Sokolov was still dressed in his soldier’s garb, though the tunic was bloodstained, the trousers torn in several places. Much of the color had been bled from his face, and he walked with an odd gait, as if each step required concentration and effort. An odd backpack – an arrangement of cylinders connected to a hose – was strapped to his torso, and as the light flared, Plekhanov felt an overwhelming urge to rush forward, to guard his friend from those who would do him harm. Rupert Holmes grabbed his wrist and Plekhanov fell, skinning his knee on a tombstone, as Sokolov pressed the trigger on the flamethrower. Quincy Morris screamed, a ululating wail of pain as he was engulfed by the flames. The dark hair singed to nothingness as the skin of the face blistered, cracked, and fell away. The lips peeled back to reveal the jagged teeth as the eyes burned away from the skull, and as the dark coat ignited, the thing that had been Quincy Morris took a staggering step in her direction, stumbled, and toppled to the earth. Sokolov pressed the trigger again, and the remains were reduced to ash.

Plekhanov stared in disbelief as the vampires emerged from the shadows, their eyes shining in the pilot light of the flamethrower. Perhaps this is my final punishment, he thought as he drew a bead on a pale face, or the final absurdity of a pointless existence. Either way, you still have a choice. The dead closed in, cutting off their escape, as he placed the muzzle of the rifle beneath his chin. Rupert Holmes stared impassively at the pallid faces, his own thoughts unreadable, as Plekhanov’s thumb reached for the trigger.

IV.

Purfleet

The light from the pond grew brighter and filled the circle, and Evangeline shrank from the effervescent glow as alien thoughts flooded her mind. Jonathan and Mina, Arthur, Seward, Van Helsing, and Lucy – especially Lucy – and myself, all connected to this place. Lucy sickened and died because of him, and we gambled our lives, our very souls, for vengeance. She closed her eyes and screamed, desperate to exorcise that whispering voice from her head. For years, they thought it was over, but he made his plans and bided his time. She stood near a deep precipice, and Acwulf nudged her forward until she teetered on the edge of the void. Far below, she saw another light, a pinprick of orange that grew, expanded, traveled upward at incomprehensible speed. Life comes at you fast.

“You should be grateful.” Acwulf’s eyes shimmered in the eldritch glow. “Many have delved into the dark secrets beneath the earth, hoping for the barest glimpse of what you are about to see. In your new existence, I imagine that you will see much.” 

The portal exploded, a brilliant flash of yellow and orange as the fireball exploded upward and outward.  A gust of hot wind buffeted her, and Evangeline was thrown back as the flames surged about her on all sides.

V.

Budapest

“Sarah…. Wake up, Sarah.”  There was a lilting melody to the voice, a soothing murmur that was not quite a song.  Archie lay unconscious on the ground beside her, his breathing shallow but regular.  She forced herself to one knee, then stood on shaking legs.

Dracula loomed over them like a great bird of prey. He had little of the ageless, near-human appearance of Quincy Morris – the skin drooped from the face, pale white with intermittent patches of red-brown necrosis, and bare bone protruded along the lower jaw. The white hair was an unwholesome, stringy texture, and the strands appeared ready to fall away like a drift of feathers. His body was skeletal, and with no muscle to lend shape to the frame, the apparition took on an appearance not unlike that of a large scarecrow.  Frail hands protruded from the sleeves of the coat.

“Please pardon my appearance, Madam Spencer.” The voice was soft and cultured. “I have been barred from my ancestral home for so long that my body is gravely weakened. “We have never met, but I knew your parents quite well – quite intimately in the case of your mother. So sad that she passed away before I could see her again.” 

“What do you want?” 

“I want my home back.”  Dracula said, and Sarah’s flesh crawled as a finger caressed her cheek. “And I want revenge for the wrongs that I suffered at the hands of Jonathan Harker. I intended to have your mother, but since she has departed this world, I will settle for you. But first…”

The vampire nudged Archie’s prostrate form with one foot, and Sarah groped desperately for something, anything, to save him, if only…

“I am a reasonable man, and I will give you a fair choice.”  A foul odor assailed Sarah’s nostrils as he drew her closer. “You can resist me, and I can kill him while you watch, or you can give yourself to me willingly.”

“You’re lying,” she said. “You’re going to kill him no matter what!”

“I will, in my own good time, but he will live another night if you agree to my offer. Your father was a fool and a bumbler, but he bested me once – perhaps your son will do the same.” 

He grinned as she wriggled in his grasp. Why give me a choice when all is lost? She could resist and face the murder of her son, or she could yield in exchange for a promise that, in all likelihood, Dracula would never keep. Because no matter what happens, he can savor my pain for eternity. She made up her mind in an instant.

“The answer is no.” 

“Very well, then.”  Dracula pointed with a bony finger, and where the gravedigger’s shed had stood, a hole opened in the fabric of existence. The rift expanded, swallowing the ground behind them until it was nearly touching her feet. When I fall through that hole, she thought, we will be in the old castle again.

“You first, and when our intercourse is complete, I will give the boy to you.” 

The eyes remained fixed upon her as the mouth opened, wider and wider, revealing an impossible ring of jagged teeth within. Dracula’s other hand grasped her hair, forcing her head for one side. Sarah waited for the end, nauseous from the monster’s rancid breath. There was a flash of light, and Sarah closed her eyes as white-hot pain coursed through her body. This is what it feels like to die, she thought, but the unbearable wail that echoed across the cemetery was not her own, and her heart exulted in the sound – a howl of misery and defeat.

We’ve beaten him. I don’t know how, but we’ve beaten him.

VI.

The vampires halted, milling about in confusion at the cry that emanated from the far end of the cemetery.  He thought to play us for fools, yet everything has been put into place.  Plekhanov hesitated, his thumb resting on the trigger of the rifle. The man with the flamethrower gaped, his expression marked with something akin to despair, and as the barrel of the flamethrower swung in their direction, Plekhanov made his own move.  He snapped off a quick shot from the hip, and a fine mist of blood erupted as the bullet struck Sokolov’s thigh.  He man staggered to one knee, and the vampires, freed of whatever spell had bound them, fell upon the wounded man. An image flashed through Plekhanov’s mind, of a hare torn asunder by wild dogs, and as he aimed the rifle to end the man’s misery, Holmes stopped him with an upraised hand. The dead scrambled about their prey, biting, and Plekhanov caught a final glimpse of the face as Holmes pulled the pin on the grenade.

VII.

Purfleet

The fire rose into the night sky, and though the ropes that bound her hands had been burned away, her flesh remained unmarred by the heat. Evangeline rolled to escape the flames as Acwulf groped blindly for the shotgun, his face a mass of blistered skin and his blonde hair singed to the scalp. She kicked the weapon away, and his fingers met only empty earth. Some folks say the Rougarou can be killed with silver, but if it comes to that, I would use fire. Acwulf tottered at the edge of the void, sightless eyes bulging as he groped for her, and Evangeline shoved him off balance.  He stumbled backward, overbalanced, and fell, his mouth open for one final scream as he vanished into the pit.  Evangeline swayed as the earth crumbled beneath her own feet, but the portal shimmered, faded, and disappeared, and she found herself standing on solid ground.  Dear God, she thought, let that be the end of him.

VIII.

Budapest

Cristofor fingered the rosary beads, and though his mind repeated a desperate prayer, let this cup pass from me, his feet did not falter as he walked. Ahead, the gravestones vanished into a dark chasm, and to one side, a dark figure loomed over Sarah Spencer. Cristofor opened his mouth to pronounce the rite of exorcism – Spirits depart!  I command it in the name of God! – but no sound emanated from his throat. Instead, he turned to Rudolf Diels.

“Drag them to safety, and when it is finished, find a priest to perform my last rites.” 

Its smell was rancid, sweat mingled with pain and decay, and its teeth caressed Sarah Spencer’s throat as Cristofor slipped the rosary from his neck. His mind made one final appeal – you can still turn back – then he laid the sigil against the vampire’s cheek. Flesh and bone yielded beneath his hand, and Dracula shrieked as the pungent odor of burned meat permeated the surrounding air. The monster released its grip on Sarah’s arm, and he pressed the attack, forcing it back, step by unwilling step. Just a few more steps and he will flee. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, something akin to a punch, and he reeled from the blow as he saw the vampire’s upraised hand and the wisp of smoke that drifted from the barrel.   The pistol, he thought, the one that Archie took from the guard. Dracula stared at the rosary, then at the woman, before reaching a decision. 

“Another time, my dear.” He leapt into the void, and the rift shimmered with his passage before closing fading to darkness.

Time to rest, Cristofor thought, as Sarah Spencer pulled him to safety, and he collapsed against a tombstone. She knelt beside him, and Rudolf Diels cradled his head as the pain in his side began to fade.

IX.

The fireball was glorious.

The grenade exploded in the midst of the horde, puncturing the flamethrower and igniting the high-pressure jet of gasoline that sprayed from the tanks, and Plekhanov shielded his face as they were forced back by the heat. The dead, smelling only the blood of their victim, were engulfed in the conflagration.

There was shouting in the distance, and Plekhanov recognized the voice.  A lifetime of disappointment counseled against the evidence of his senses, but he found himself running, and as he reached the far end of the cemetery, Sarah embraced him.  Alexandr Plekhanov began to cry, his body wracked by emotion that he had not felt in decades.  We made it.

X.

The pain left him nauseated, and though he tried to live by the wisdom of his mentor - if it’s hurting, you’re still alive – Archie wished that his goddamned head would stop aching long enough to make sense of things. Rudolf Diels sat with the body of the priest – he doubted that the German had wept for many years – as his mother rested against a nearby tombstone.  Her hand was entwined in that of a stranger, and Archie tried to guess the man’s age.  The newcomer’s face was haggard, and yet… Jesus, mum, he’s young enough to be your son!  She saw him watching and came to his side.

“Who is he?” 

“There’ll be time enough to explain later,” she said.

“I’m serious.”  Archie grinned at her, suddenly impish, as his mother blushed. “Are you in love?”

“Maybe,” she said.  Her face was filthy, and she smelled of blood and smoke, but Archie thought her countenance utterly radiant.  “I never would have survived without him.” 

XI.

It was over, whatever it had been, and there was work to be done. The first thing, Diels thought, was to get off the street – it would do no good to survive the night’s peril only to be swept up by a patrol of Russian soldiers. But first –

“May I? I haven’t had a cigarette in forever.”  Diels inhaled deeply, savoring the taste, and then returned the pipe to its owner.

“What now?” 

“Now we get to the embassy. It may take a while to get out of the country, but we’ll be safe from arrest. Are you coming with us?” 

“No, Herr Diels.”  Rupert Holmes shook his head. “I’ve been sneaking across occupied Europe since 1939. I can make it back to London easily enough.” 

“Do we know each other?”

“We’ve never met, but yes, I know who you are.”  Holmes refilled the pipe. “I do have one question – how did she know to come here?” 

“That.”  Diels pointed to a headstone. “The one place in Budapest that she would know.”

Rupert Holmes studied the marker, and though Diels expected more questions, the lanky Englishman merely nodded. He read the inscription again, for the first time in eighteen years, below the small Star of David.

Sigmund Fredrich Wilhelm Foch

1898 – 1933

XII.

Purfleet

“Hello?” 

A policeman stood on the other side of the gate. Her dress was torn, and her face and hair were caked with mud, but Evangeline Morris greeted him with her best smile.

“We had a report of a fire. Is everything all right?” 

“No fire. One hell of a lightning strike, though.” 

“I see… a lightning strike.”  He glanced at her filthy dress. “Are you sure you’re all right? Can I take you anywhere?”

“I’m perfectly fine.”  She glanced backward toward Carfax Abbey. Perhaps there would be trouble tomorrow, but tonight, she felt positively giddy. “The house is old, but I can ride out the storm here.”

XIII.

Romania

He fell through a hole in the sky and struck the floor of the great hall with sufficient force to shatter both legs. He tried to breathe and was unable, for one lung was pierced by a broken rib and its mate was impeded by the air that flooded his pleural space. Shadows watched from the darkness as the fingers of his right hand played across the empty stones, searching until his arm was fully extended.

At the limit of his reach, he found the knife, not quite at hand but near enough that by twisting his own torso, his fingers could encircle the handle. Each movement caused excruciating pain, and a haze of red and green bloomed behind his eyes as he cut away the burned remnants of the shirt, but he worked methodically, forcing himself master the panic that threatened to overwhelm him.  The last vestiges of his oxygen were used up as he used the blade to slice at the space between his own ribs, and though his moans became a full-throated scream, the pressure that impeded the working of his good lung was eased through the opening in his chest. At last, he found that he could breathe again.

He drew one knee, then the other, to his chest and set the bones in his lower legs – the pain was agonizing, and by the time he was finished, tears streaked the dirt on his face. He prayed for death in those long minutes, and in the darkness beyond his field of vision, the shadows fed upon his pain and found it to their liking. Still, his head was a little clearer now, and the rudiments of thought returned. His left hand wandered over his body, gauging the magnitude of his injuries, probing at his scalp where the hair had burned away, and exploring the pockets of his filthy coat and soiled trousers. He could not quite remember what he sought, but he knew that it – whatever it was – had been with him when he fell from the sky and should be somewhere in the vicinity of his shattered body. When he found nothing on his person, he gingerly extended his arm. Something grated in his shoulder as the arm moved, the flapping up-down motion of a scarecrow blown by the wind, and fear nuzzled the fringes of his consciousness as he searched. Where is it? The shadows milled about in excitement as the search went on – ten seconds, then thirty, then a full minute – and he began to blubber soundlessly, one hand probing the empty space, but his mind already defeated, when he found what he was seeking.

The flask was in sad condition, scorched by fire and dented by the fall, but the lid remained in place and its seams, soldered in place by some nameless craftsman, remained unbroken. The liquid contents sloshed as he picked it up, and the shadows receded, perhaps disappointed that a new ghost would not be added to their number. He forced himself onto one elbow, and though the move wracked his body with another wave of pain, he did not cry out, for now he knew that he would survive the night. Unscrewing the lid, he held the flask to his own lips and drank, pouring the foul liquid down his throat as the stars shown overhead and the night creatures held sway.