Dracula's Ghost - Chapter 18 (Part 1)
A Ruined Tomb in an Unknown Land
1893
Somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains
Once upon a time, there was a great castle by the sea. She remembers little, and cares even less, of what came before, but she remembers the story. When a great storm came, the boyar shouted that the castle would stand, and that neither the sky gods nor the gods of the sea could destroy it. The storm raged all night, the earth shook, and waves a hundred feet high crashed upon the rocks, but the castle stood.
When the waves subsided at first light, men went out to survey the damage. The fleet was destroyed on the rocks, and panic set in when the first man set foot into the harbor and found the water no more than knee-deep. So it was for ten miles out to sea, the deep waters replaced by an expansive mud flat. When the boyar saw the shallow water where the great harbor once stood, he began to laugh, and he was still laughing when he cast himself from the wall.
I told him from the beginning that he was a fool.
His presence grows stronger with each sunset, and though she recognizes her own failure - Jonathan Harker’s escape at the river makes her howl with the rage of unsatisfied appetite - , it is His imprudence that brought the enemy to their door. Now he is returning, his tail between his legs like a whipped dog. This was our stronghold, our place of power, she thinks. It matters little that her gnawing hunger grows worse as the centuries pass, or that the peasants that wander the mountains grow more difficult to ensnare. It matters little that the castle is crumbling about her, and someday, nothing will remain but a disordered pile of stones. She sees only now and can scarcely imagine anything else. If you had remained here, we could have been safe for a thousand years.
When they ventured out last night, she hissed at the old man and whispered seductively to the woman at his side, but the display did little to cover her own fear and helplessness. At least we slaughtered the horses. Perhaps the old bag of bones and his little slut would freeze in the darkness. Still, their lair has been discovered, and others follow hard on their path.
The next morning, Abraham Van Helsing arrives with his hammer and stakes. Helpless in her coffin, she hears the screams as the others are cast into the void, and when the old man finally peers upon her own face, she feels something nearly akin to relief.
I.
Jonathan’s heart pounded as the gunshot startled him awake. He stared around the empty room, the crucifix held tightly in one hand, as the second shot followed. A few rays of light penetrated the shutters, the early morning gloom of not-quite sunrise, as he tucked the kukri and pistol into his belt. I need to get moving.
A half-mile downstream, the quiet babble of the river became a roar as the channel passed into a gorge at the foot of the stone stairs. A thousand steps and a thousand feet, he thought. The last forty years had sapped much of his vigor, but Jonathan was certain that he could reach the castle by noon. If Sarah was still alive, they would have plenty of time to return before sunset. The gunshot and its implications were problems for later.
II.
They had no flame or electric torch, and Gabriela held his arm as they moved through the forest. It had taken two hours to descend the steps, but he did not feel tired after the long walk. Holmes marveled at the sharpness of his senses as he listened to the babble of the water, and his nostrils took in her scent – an aroma of lilac with hints of freshly cut hay and evergreens after a spring rain. He carried a glass jug in each hand and a rifle across his shoulder.
He could see everything in the darkness.
They had emerged from the vortex into a large room, where the moon and stars shone through a break in the ceiling, and Quincy’s voice reverberated across the stones. “You are in the old chapel where the Drăculești buried their dead, a resting place used by the previous resident of my lovely abode.” He gave them fuel and weapons, a pair of lever action Winchesters, and sent them away with two instructions. Holmes understood the first well enough - stay out of sight, especially if you pass Jonathan Harker. The second made no sense, but Gabriela blanched at the command.
“Harvest what your father planted.”
At the top of the stone steps, Quincy Morris had vanished into the darkness. He’s wandering the forest now, like a prowling lion. The notion filled him with a peculiar longing, and to occupy his mind, Holmes pointed to the old jugs.
“What are we doing with the lamp oil?”
“There is a cemetery past the empty village.” Gabriela’s muscles were tense, and there were prominent lines of strain beneath her eyes. “In 1918, my father planted hawthorn there, a service rendered to cover up old crimes.”
In the distance, they heard gunshots. Holmes glanced at the eastern horizon, his thoughts filled with images of Quincy Morris and Lucy Westenra. What did Jonathan say? When Mina died, she was buried with a sprig of hawthorn in her right hand.
A traditional folk remedy against the rising of the dead.
III.
“Whatever you’re planning, you better do it quickly.” Heydrich turned to find Otto Skorzeny watching as he tucked the object, another donation from the harpsichordist, into his shirt. The big man raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he checked his pistol and stuffed the remaining items into his leather satchel. They moved up the old road, walking in silence until they were well away from the camp.
“What’s on your mind, Otto?”
“What do you think? One man dead, one injured, two missing?” Skorzeny lit a cigarette. “The others are terrified. Hans can keep them in line for now, but one more night in the woods and they’ll break.”
Heydrich’s lips turned downward. “They will do their duty to the Fatherland.”
“That shit works for beer hall songs.” Skorzeny laughed, a deep wet chortle. “Out here? They’ll break at the first sign of real danger.”
Perhaps, Heydrich thought. He had always considered himself a good leader, and when duty called, a good leader knew to drive his men toward the sound of the guns. After sunset tonight, their concerns would cease to matter. Besides, something else was on his mind.
“The plane, Otto. Do you think it was looking for a place to land?”
“Here?” Skorzeny looked incredulous. “Impossible.”
“But you saw it descending, correct? A plane like that could land on the open ground above us.”
“And a pilot like yourself could fly it to Berlin?”
“With a single passenger, of course.” The gray eyes stared at the horizon. “Find that plane and bring it to the castle.”
Skorzeny acknowledged the order with a slow nod. The others will do their duty to the Fatherland, Heydrich thought. Willingly or not, they will serve their purpose.
IV.
They found no trace of Sulzbach, and after a dismal breakfast, they set off for the village. Something is eating us by ones and twos, Hans thought. And what’s wrong with Klaus? He was feverish and barely able to walk, and Hans left him behind to sleep in the truck. He applied pressure to the wound on his own hand - he should have let Skorzeny apply a dressing, but it was a minor abrasion, and in the aftermath of the morning’s events, he had thought it better to let the others tend to Klaus.
You were afraid that Peter had bitten you, and you didn’t want the others to know.
The smoke was visible for miles, and at the edge of the village, they formed a loose perimeter around the square of blackened earth. They really should be more careful, Hans thought. Someone tossed a cigarette in the leaves, and it smoldered overnight. The others glanced at the empty houses and quickly looked away, and Hans forced his own eyes to move slowly. He studied the ruins with meticulous care, but no devil emerged from the empty doorways, no witch returned his stare through the broken shutters. Heydrich was tight-lipped about the details, but Jonathan Harker was connected to this place, and Hans wondered whether their misfortunes were part of some elaborate scheme of vengeance - retribution for the kidnapping of his daughter. Don’t be stupid, he thought. Whatever Jonathan Harker might have been, he’s an old man now.
Hans bent and touched the bare soil, still wet from yesterday’s rain. His right hand began to bleed again, and Hans applied pressure with his left. He scanned the forest as a drop of blood fell from his fingertips and landed on the charred ground at his feet.
V.
Sarah’s head ached, and the throbbing pain in her leg sharpened as she made her way to the great hall. Several tins of canned meat were laid on the table, and she ate, pausing between bites to examine the German writing on the labels. The morning sunlight shone through the casemates.
When her hunger was satisfied, she headed for the courtyard. Her father was on his way, if one believed Quincy Morris, and they had plenty of daylight left. Get back to London, and we can turn away from this place forever. Dracula could go to hell, and Quincy Morris could go with him, for all she cared. If the Germans ever stumbled across this wretched place, they could have the whole thing.
“Sarah.”
“Let me go!” Sarah’s limbs began to feel heavy, and she fought the urge to sleep.
“No, Sarah. I have one more thing to show you.”
“Let me GO!” she shouted aloud. Her vision grew hazy as she reached out to steady herself. As she lost consciousness, she heard Quincy Morris again, speaking gently but with absolute certainty.
“Sleep now. One more piece of the puzzle, and you will be reunited with your father.”
Something touched her in the darkness, a bizarre, crawling sensation that resonated throughout her body. As the alien thoughts of Quincy Morris invaded her mind, she saw the glow of a lantern, a distant point of light that grew larger as she approached. A man was working in the darkness, and she recognized the face from an old photograph. Arthur Holmwood. Papa’s friend, who died before I was born. Quincy Morris called to him, his voice distant, like a radio transmission at sea. The box… tell Jonathan… come back… have to find… The light vanished as Arthur closed the box, and voices filled her head.
“I figured it out John – the Demeter. The entire crew is lost, one after another - remember? Why, John? He took a month to drain poor Lucy of her blood - why would he feast on an entire crew - seven strong, healthy men - in a three-week voyage?” There was silence, and Sarah heard a voice - presumably her father’s - but could not make out the words. Arthur continued. “He was ahead of us the whole time, and he accounted for everything, even the possibility of his own defeat.” The voices were cut off by the sound of a gunshot, a distant echo that filled her with cold dread. Arthur’s nightmare ended and our own began. In the shadows, she heard another sound– a malign chuckle of satisfaction.
She sat up and stared through the branches at the twilight. There was grass in her hair, and she was surrounded by overgrown tombstones. The old section of Highgate Cemetery. I’m in London again. Beside her, Quincy Morris leaned against a tombstone, testing the edge of a long knife with his thumb. In the distance, she heard pounding, the sound of a nail driven into wood.
“Am I still dreaming?”
“Something like that.” He helped her to her feet. “Do you understand what you saw?”
“I’m not sure.” Sarah closed her eyes, and pieces of the vision, like the afterimage of a flashbulb, appeared in her mind. “Arthur Holmwood, the box, and…”
“And?”
“Someone else was there.” She trembled at the memory of that evil laugh.
“Dracula excavated fifty boxes of grave soil from his tomb and brought them to London.” Quincy stared thoughtfully at the fading twilight. “The dead must rest in their grave by day, but Dracula was clever, and he brought the grave with him. In the old estate next to Seward’s madhouse, he made a fifty-first box - a tomb unknown to any of us with a little soil from each of the others. He fled England when we got too hot on his trail, but he always had a plan to return. The box was the doorway. Your mother was the key.”
“My mother?” Sarah stammered. “How?”
“Dracula forced her to take his own blood, and it created a link between them, something that he could exploit from the safety of his castle. With both Mina and the unknown box in London, he could cross the barrier of space like this –” Quincy snapped his fingers – “and return. He could have murdered us in the night and carried your mother back to Transylvania. Doubtless he would have infected a few others along the way - enough to allow his return to London whenever he wished. Instead –”
“Instead, papa killed him,” she whispered. Sarah peered through the trees. The distant pounding was growing louder.
“Mina tracked him to the very gate of this castle, and Jonathan cut off his head.” Quincy waved the knife, “I stuck this in his heart, but he spat blood on me as I died and made me what I am today.”
“And Arthur went mad,” Sarah said. “What does this all matter if Dracula is dead?”
“An excellent question.” Quincy gazed up at the twilight sky. “What do you know about necromancy?”
“It’s a kind of black magic - using the dead for divination.”
“That, and so much more. The crew of the Demeter, the ship that brought Dracula to London, disappeared. We assumed that they were murdered and thrown overboard, and no one considered the fragments of old bone that we found. He drained the crew of their blood and divided their remains among the boxes. Flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. A repository of mortal remains for use as a contingency.”
“Are you saying that he could use them to… come back?” Sarah asked.
“I think so,” Quincy said. “Your mother’s death may have foiled his plans - Mina is the key, remember? If we are fortunate, the death of his last surviving victim severed the bloodline and removed that key forever. And when Arthur opened that box, he opened up a link to me, and through me, to Dracula. His plans were no longer a secret, though Arthur’s death and my own isolation made it impossible to find the box.”
“The box would be somewhere in London, if it exists at all.” Sarah said.
“It still exists,” Quincy said. “A bit of him lingers within these walls, but his spirit is tied to the box.” He cocked his head to one side and listened. “But these are questions for later. Find your father and stay alive until sunset. You’ll see me again soon enough.”
VI.
Jonathan reached the landing, where the steps turned upward in a sharp switchback. His legs burned, and his breath came in short hitching gasps. My God, am I even halfway yet? A few minutes of rest only stiffened his aging muscles, but he pushed his body onward, one painful step after another. From above, he caught a whiff of decay on the shifting breeze. Jonathan thought of the women again, pinning him to the earth as their lips fastened upon his throat. He rested until the dread subsided and began walking again. When he reached the top, he passed through the courtyard toward the great hall.
The great hall was empty, its large dining table and ornate furnishings spirited away. Jonathan walked the perimeter of the room and marveled at its emptiness. Perhaps it was an illusion all along. Perhaps I sat on the floor and dined rats as Dracula grinned at my foolishness. When he spoke, his voice echoed about the room, thin and reedy.
“Sarah? Sarah, are you here?” Jonathan stood perfectly still as he listened, but there was no response.
He wandered to the library and stared at the empty shelves. Forty years ago, the room had been filled with books, and Jonathan felt an odd twinge of nostalgia at the memory. Who would dare enter, even in daylight, to carry off a bunch of old books? At the sitting room, Jonathan paused to confirm Sarah’s absence then retreated quickly, his mind recoiling at the memory of the ghostly women. The locked door at the end of the hallway confounded him, and Jonathan retraced his steps to the staircase.
The locket lay halfway up the stairs, and Jonathan held it up to let the chain catch the sunlight. The portraits inside would be yellowed with age, heart-shaped miniatures of a young couple with a future of sunshine and happiness. Mina had given it away in her final weeks, a token passed from mother to daughter with a dying hand.
He continued upward, his limbs heavy and leaden. There was another door at the top, and beyond, the room where he had been held prisoner. Images flashed before his eyes, of Sarah, bound and gagged or weak from blood loss. Or perhaps something worse. Darkness was never truly banished within these walls, and perhaps Sarah waited beyond the doorway, pale and red-eyed. Jonathan’s right hand squeezed the handle of the kukri, and he reached for the door with his left as a desperate thought rang in his mind - In the name of God, I command all evil to depart from this place.
The door was locked from the inside.
“Sarah! Sarah! Answer me if you can hear me!”
There was no answer, and Jonathan pounded at the door. After a thousand-mile journey, the exhausting march from the river, after enduring a lifetime of pain and fear, only to be foiled at the end by a bloody door… The scream poured from his throat like blood from an open wound.
“Sarah! For the love of God, if you’re here, please answer me!”
Jonathan hacked at the wood with the knife, his movements growing more frenzied even as his cries weakened. Finally, the knife slipped in his hand, cutting a deep gash in two fingers. Jonathan collapsed against the door, and the stones at his feet drank greedily from his wounded hand. The wooden doorway held firm.
The thought struck him with miserable finality that Sarah was beyond his reach. To the chapel, then. Jonathan’s footsteps echoed as he moved down the stairs. If a search of the chapel yielded nothing, if Sarah was hidden away in some locked room or secret alcove, he would wait outside until the sun’s glow faded in the west. He would use the pistol when all hope was lost, but he would wait until sunset, when he could see the truth with his own eyes.
Overhead, the sun crossed its apogee and began its long descent toward the horizon.
VII.
He could have caught the old man by midmorning, but Reinhard Heydrich followed from a distance and remained out of sight as Jonathan Harker moved up the stone steps. The bitterness of his defeats notwithstanding, curiosity outweighed his thirst for vengeance, and Heydrich found himself musing over the lessons that he might learn from the Englishman, this frail shopkeeper that had bested him. A superior man keeps his pride in check and learns from his enemies. He reached the top of the stairs and paused to take in his surroundings.
The courtyard was paved with flat stones and surrounded by a low wall. It afforded a panoramic view of the mountains, a surprising touch of beauty that belied the nature of his surroundings - the perfect location for a garden party or afternoon picnic. Scholars claim that the Impaler executed thousands in the shadow of this very castle, Heydrich thought. He ate his dinner amidst their dying agonies and let his children play among the corpses. Heydrich imagined his own son running through a forest of stakes, and the thought discomfited him a little. Let the boy have his childhood. He will see the real world in due time.
A distant voice interrupted his reverie, and he crept through the portico to the great hall. Somewhere above, Jonathan Harker cried out for his daughter as he pounded at the walls. Heydrich slipped into an interior passage to wait. After several minutes, the pounding ceased, and Jonathan Harker passed, mere feet from his hidden niche, as he moved toward the portico.
The change in the old man’s demeanor was shocking. Ascending the mountain, the Englishman’s pace had been slow but steady, his posture ramrod straight as he walked. Now, with his bent posture and shuffling gait, Jonathan Harker appeared broken, a man who had aged twenty years in the space of an hour. At this point, death would be a blessing for the old man, and Heydrich’s thumb loitered at the safety of his rifle.
No. Let him wail a little longer.
He heard the creaking of hinges above, and Heydrich retreated deeper into the shadows. The apparition moved glided across the floor of the great hall, so stealthy that for an instant, he was certain that he looked upon a ghost. She moved toward the portico, and Reinhard Heydrich followed, scarcely believing his good luck.
VIII.
The chapel was semi-detached from the castle and accessible through a passageway in the courtyard. Jonathan paused to check the sun’s position and passed into a downward-sloping tunnel. At the far end, he stepped through another broken door, and for the first time in four decades, stood in the chapel. Devoid of Dracula’s presence, the room lacked the malignant atmosphere of his nightmares, but Jonathan moved quickly as he opened the vial of holy water and anointed the blade of the kukri. A few rays of sunlight passed through the broken ceiling as he set to his task.
Most of the graves had been disturbed, but three tombs appeared relatively intact. The stone lid of the first lay shattered on the floor, and the vault was filled with brightly-colored leaves, freshly fallen through the ceiling, and a dark layer of composted soil. Jonathan turned the soil with his knife but found nothing hidden in the black earth. The lid of a second grave was askew, but the vault was better protected from the elements, and Jonathan peered inside. Nothing remained save for bone fragments and a wooden shaft, as thick as his arm and weathered with age, and Jonathan’s skin crawled at the sight. Van Helsing’s stake.
The final tomb, greater than the others, had a single word inscribed at the foot.
DRACULA
The stone lid refused to budge, and Jonathan wedged himself against the slab, his legs straining as he drove his body forward. A muscle in his back let go, and he cried out in pain, but the slab shifted by several inches, its resistance broken. He pushed again, and when it teetered at the edge of the vault, and Jonathan slid his fingers beneath the edge and lifted. The slab crashed to the floor, and Jonathan peered into the vault, dreading what he might find inside.
The tomb was empty.
Jonathan ignored the pain in his injured back as the knife slipped from his fingers. He had failed, and there was nothing left now but to step into the courtyard and wait. Perhaps a risen Sarah, or Arthur Holmwood, or even Dracula himself, would meet him as the earth passed into shadow and he performed is final act. Perhaps the castle had, somewhere within its bones, the malignant power to raise the dead, and death would not end his suffering – Dracula’s brides had marked him in the shadow of these very walls, and if the curse lingered anywhere, it lingered here. In the end, it hardly mattered. I’m sorry, Mina. I can’t go any further.
A footstep echoed behind him, and Jonathan turned, suddenly fearful as his eyes cast about for his knife. A shadow watched him from the doorway, perfectly still, then stepped into the light. Jonathan gaped, scarcely trusting his own eyes, and wondered whether he had fallen asleep.
“Why do you seek the living among the dead? Hello papa.”
Jonathan Harker fell into his daughter’s arms, and they held each other for a long time. Happiness washed over him like the tide, forty years of pain erased in a single moment, as his body was wracked by sobs. Sarah whispered soothingly in his ear and stroked his thinning hair as the sun shone into the chapel, warming them both as it continued its westward journey.
IX.
The sun was behind them now, and the first shadows of evening gathered among the trees, and Holmes pushed himself upright as he watched the fire. Good riddance to those bloody weeds. The vehemence of the feeling surprised him, but the hawthorn patch provoked a visceral reaction that he could not explain. At the periphery of the smoldering earth, the Germans cast uneasy glances toward the empty houses. How many have died already? He shook Gabriela’s arm.
“What have our friends been up to?”
“I lost sight of one of them, a tall thin man, not long after they arrived. The others have been idle, and every so often, one of them works up the nerve to peek through an open door.”
“See that one?” Holmes directed her attention toward another man. “He has a big scar on his left cheek and another one just like it on the right.”
“How can you tell at this distance?”
“I can’t. I met him in Sibiu, and he put two bullets in my chest.”
The big man moved away from the others and disappeared into the trees. Gabriela slung the rifle over her shoulder.
“We should follow him,” she said.
Yes, we should go, Holmes thought. The big man had wounded him - had killed him, he reminded himself - and he should mete out vengeance for his own murder. At the edge of the village, one of the Germans spoke, the high quaver of a pubescent boy, and gesticulated toward a ruined shack. The others moved toward the village and disappeared from view.
“You go,” he said. “Something is happening, and I want to find out what they’re up to.”
Gabriela stared into his eyes, then checked the horizon. “We have an hour of daylight left. Get away from here before the sun sets.”
His eyes followed her as Gabriela vanished into the trees. We should stick together, he thought, but perhaps it’s not safe to be with me when it gets dark. The thought troubled him little, but something big was happening, and Holmes would not have missed it for the world.
The Germans did not return, and when his patience was exhausted, Holmes slipped closer for a better look.
X.
The water’s edge alternated between sheer rock walls and debris-strewn flood plains, and the German had avoided this route. Instead, his path transected the smaller ridges and eroded hollows that protruded from the mountain like fingers. Gabriela moved as quickly as the terrain allowed, and her eyes alternated between the tracks in the fallen leaves and the bare trees to her front. Overhead, the hard blue of afternoon held firm, but she could feel the encroaching sunset, a perceptible cooling of the air on her skin. Gabriela quickened her pace, a pang of anxiety stabbing her belly - the German was ahead, perhaps waiting in ambush, and Holmes was behind, alone and defenseless. Perhaps he’ll be all right. Perhaps they won’t touch him.
Fifteen minutes later, she crossed the final ridge. Below, the river widened, a mile-long run swollen from yesterday’s rain. In the center of the channel, a plane rested on a sandbar. Jonathan Harker? Gabriela took a tentative step forward as a twig snapped to her left and Otto Skorzeny, concealed by the trunk of a large beech tree, slipped behind her.
Her finger tightened on the trigger as she turned, but Skorzeny swiped at the rifle with a huge hand, and the shot went wide. Gabriela felt a hard punch to her stomach and a rough shove, and the weapon slipped from her grasp as she careened down the hill. Behind her, Skorzeny heaved the rifle toward the water’s edge.
“Hello, Fraulein. You’re the woman from Vienna, aren’t you?” Skorzeny drew a knife as he loped down the hill. “I recognized you when I caught sight of you in the woods.”
Her head throbbed as Gabriela staggered to her feet and retreated to the water’s edge. The freezing current caressed her skin, and she cried aloud as she looked desperately toward the sandbar. I’ll never make it across. Dread washed over her body, then quickly passed as she plucked a stone from the riverbed. If you’re going to die, then sell your life dearly. The German leered at her as his thumb tested the edge of his blade.
Otto Skorzeny charged, and cold water lapped at her calves and ankles as Gabriela braced for the final onslaught.
Thanks for reading! Part 2 comes out tomorrow.