Dracula's Ghost - Chapter 18 (Part IV)
A Ruined Tomb in an Unknown Land
XXXI.
In the end, no one dies with dignity.
Their initial retreat up the stairs, an orderly retrograde supported by gunfire and flares, floundered with their dwindling ammunition and finally yielded to headlong flight. At least Helmut is safe, Hans thought sourly. As Hans and Egon stood shoulder to shoulder against the advancing horde, the tubby chemist from Berlin had moved steadily upward and outdistanced them. The bullets slowed, but did not stop, their pursuers, and as they ran, the vampires followed at a languid pace.
“Keep moving!” Hans’s ears rang from the gunfire. “We’re almost to the top!”
Egon nodded, his buck teeth visible as he panted through an open mouth, and Hans read the question in his bulging eyes. What then? He prayed that when the staircase ended, they would open ground and outdistance their pursuers. They could not hope to fight with the pitiful dregs of their remaining ammunition, and he had one final task to complete. Save a bullet for Heydrich, Hans thought. He tossed another flare, and the vampires retreated from the light. They were nearing the top, he was certain of it, but Hans was reaching the limit of his endurance, and his pace was little more than a plodding slog.
They reached the final landing, and Helmut waited at the top of the stairs. The younger man waved them upward, and Hans picked up a few shouted words. Something about an old fort or castle, he thought, and his mind raced through their options. They could hide or fortify a strongpoint, and perhaps they would find weapons. At a minimum, the sanctuary would afford him time to think, to plan, once he was no longer be working himself to exhaustion on these damned stairs. Hans began to move faster as his legs regained strength. Just get to the top, then figure out your next move. He reached the final step and came to a dead stop.
In his peripheral vision, Hans registered Sarah Spencer’s flight across the courtyard, though the sight passed through his mind without recognition. Time moved with agonizing slowness, as it had in his first experience of battle – the charging wave of French soldiers, the certainty of his imminent death, desperate prayers mingled with curses as his friends died. Hans stood frozen with fear and for the first time in his life, wished desperately that he had died in that skirmish. Beside him, Egon’s lips moved, though Hans could make out no words in his ringing ears.
The stranger that leaned against the stone wall appeared little different from an ordinary man, but Hans recognized a kinship with the ghouls on the stairs – a grinning half-devil in human form. The newcomer’s pace never exceeded a leisurely walk, but he covered thirty feet of distance in an eyeblink as he seized Helmut with a powerful arm. A piteous screech reverberated across the stones as Helmut flew over the wall, and the vampires below finished what remained.
“It’s hard to watch your friends die, isn’t it?” The half-devil’s voice was a slow drawl. “You came here with no understanding of what you were getting into, like a flock of lambs led to slaughter. Life certainly is unfair.”
Hans took a slow step to once side, and when Quincy Morris made no move to stop him, he ran, his last flare gripped tightly in one hand. He passed into the darkness beyond the portico and pressed himself against a stone wall. A deep sob convulsed his chest as Hans closed his eyes, but nothing seized him in the darkness, and after several minutes, he struck his last flare. The rifle was gone, dropped somewhere in his headlong flight, and perhaps Egon would make use of the discarded weapon. Egon. Hans’s face flushed at the memory of his own cowardice. No one dies with dignity in the end. Perhaps no one survives with dignity either.
He passed through the gatehouse, and when he reached the field, Hans located Polaris and took a bearing. West to the road, then north to Sibiu. There would be questions once he made his way back to Berlin - Heydrich was surely dead, and the disappearance of one of the Third Reich’s rising stars would attract a great deal of unwanted attention. His own downfall might still come, but that was tomorrow’s problem. Lie low for a while when you get back to Germany, he thought. Come up with a believable story, and then you can -
Hans froze as a dozen pairs of eyes stared at him from the darkness. His path was blocked by a crude skirmish line, and at either end, a pair of wolves slipped through the grass to encircle him. The discarded rifle, the sanctuary of the castle, the comfort of his companions, were out of reach now. No one dies with dignity. It was funny, if one thought about it properly, and Hans found himself chuckling despite his fear. The largest wolf growled - a signal, perhaps, to the others.
He was still laughing as the wolves leapt.
XXXII.
Egon had fought at Verdun, a ten-month ordeal in which the Wehrmacht’s strategy to bleed the French had gone disastrously wrong. Huddled in in a soup of mud and decaying corpses, under constant bombardment by French artillery, something in his psyche had ripped free of its moorings. In fifteen years of peace, the unquiet dead were ever present. They appeared, broken and bleeding, wherever nightmares held sleep at bay or thunder rolled like distant shellfire. Egon moved through a world of ghosts.
He still knew how to fight, however.
When Hans’s nerves had broken, Egon had snapped off a shot as the dead man’s eyes followed his fleeing companion. His eyes registered a puff of dust from the black coat, but Egon was already moving as he worked the bolt of the rifle. He knew that his bullets would not kill, but if he could get close enough for a head shot, perhaps he could injure it badly enough to escape. He brought the rifle to his shoulder, and something slammed into him with bone-jarring force. The rifle flew from his hands, and his shot sailed harmlessly overhead as Egon was thrown backward. He tasted blood in his mouth as a black leather boot stepped into his field of view.
“Not bad,” it said in perfect German. On the stairs below, the dead watched with hungry eyes. “You got me with a perfect shot, dead center of the chest. Do you want to live?”
Egon stared at the monster, not fully comprehending. He knew that people made deals with the devil, and those bargains worked out poorly in the end. Still… He watched as Helmut sat up and joined the others. Egon nodded, reluctantly, then with greater vigor.
“Good,” Quincy Morris said. “The dead will not harm you, but I give nothing for free. You’re in my debt now.”
It stared for another moment longer, perched on the stair like some enormous bird of prey, then vanished into the darkness. The others moved reluctantly away, and Egon was alone again. Something grated in his spine as he pushed himself upright, but he was able to sit, and after several seconds of painful effort, to stand. You’re in my debt now. Moving slowly, Egon climbed the steps to the courtyard and contemplated the deal that he had made.
XXXIII.
At the far corner of the roof, a rotted door hung askew on its hinges, and Amy plunged through the opening into a winding staircase. The passage was narrow but well-lit, and her boots clacked upon the stones she moved down the stairs. Dangers might lurk in the darkness below, but at least she would die with her feet on solid ground. Isn’t that something? A bloody pilot who’s afraid of heights. The staircase ended in an unlit hallway, and Amy paused to listen. Somewhere to her left, the precious scent of the outside world wafted from a doorway or opening, Amy considered the scent, then turned right, following the downward path toward the chapel. One task at a time until you land or crash. Old castles were mostly thick walls with little interior space, and the plane could wait until she found Sarah. And Jonathan? The eyes of the man on the wall told her all that she needed to know. When I get back to London, I’ll cry like a schoolgirl while I drink to his memory. She paused and allowed the wave of grief to settle.
The floor of the chapel was cluttered with the broken remnants of the stone vaults, and bone fragments, leached white from years of exposure, littered the ground like discarded rubbish. The broken wall allowed fresh air into the room, but the breeze could not dissipate the aroma, dust and mold with the faintest whiff of putrescence, that permeated the air. Amy peered over the edge of the crumbling wall and retreated, slightly dizzy.
“The drop – is it far?”
Amy Johnson turned toward the voice, moving with deliberate slowness to conceal her panic. The thin man rested one foot atop an open vault, watching her. Did he sneak up behind me, or did I miss him in the darkness? Reinhard Heydrich positioned himself between Amy and the doorway as he peered over the edge.
“Jonathan Harker has a bad habit of involving careless young ladies in his business - his wife, his daughter… his pilot, I presume.” He caught her upper arm, and the thin fingers were surprisingly strong. “I knew there was no escape when I saw the wolves, so I will pull down the pillars of the temple in my final agonies. Perhaps you will survive the fall with a few bruises, perhaps a broken leg, if the branches don’t impale you on the way down.”
His fingers dug into her upper arm, and Amy fought with gritted teeth, determined not to plead for her life. As her foot touched the edge of the precipice, a trickle of pebbles fell from the broken ceiling. They struck the stone floor with a hollow clatter, like the rattle of dry bones, and her eyes began to water as dust floated about the room. Reinhard Heydrich looked upward, mouth agape, and she registered the fear in his eyes.
“Gott in Himmel…”
Amy Johnson dove, a twisting half-lunge that broke the grip on her arm, as the clatter of stones became a loud roar. Her brain filtered out all light and sound as she moved in a clumsy, stumbling run toward the chapel doorway. As the ceiling continued to disintegrate, a single upward glance revealed a terrifying apparition, descending upon them like some dark angel.
She made it halfway across the floor before the roof collapsed around her.
XXXIV.
The light from the torches winked out, and Sarah continued to run in the darkness. She could feel Richard behind her, his darkest thoughts given new life and amplified as he probed at her mind. I’m going to hurt you like you never dreamed possible, and then we will be one flesh, together forever. She ran until the malignant thoughts faded, then paused to take her bearings. The passage was unfamiliar, but it had to lead somewhere, and she followed it into the interior of the castle. Sarah passed through another doorway, and her eyes widened in recognition. She was standing outside of the deserted library, and the junk room, with its opening to the forest, lay at the end of the hall. Her skin crawled at the memory of her father’s abandoned body, but the hidden path seemed preferable to the obvious route, and she crept into the hallway. The feeling of unease returned as she passed the sitting room - something was watching her in the darkness, and the feminine sound of laughter echoed through the ether like the tinkling of silver bells. You are first and we shall follow. Sarah quickened her pace to a trot, anxious to be away. Once she was safely outside, she flee to the river. She would be safe there, bathed in a torrent of clear, cold water, if only -
No.
Richard waited at the end of the hall and watched her with unblinking eyes.
The thought of surrender, of acquiescence to the inevitable, gripped her mind. I love you, Archie - have a good life, and don’t come looking for me. Richard glided toward her, seeming nearly to float above the stones as the dead face twitched with excitement. One arm, impossibly long in the darkness, reached for her, and pain blossomed behind her eyes as Richard jerked her head to one side. The laughter of ghostly women reverberated through the hallway her as Richard’s lips curled back to reveal the long teeth.
In the months and years that followed, Sarah would struggle to piece together the memory of those crucial seconds. Her conscious thought was swallowed by the dead eyes that fixed upon her, but her father’s knife was in her hand, and she thrust outward and upward with desperate force as Richard pulled her into his embrace. The knife passed through his body like a stab at the empty air, but Richard screamed, an agonized cry reminiscent of the dead woman in Vienna, as the blade opened him up from collarbone to pelvis. Sarah fought the urge to retch as putrescent liquid, the decayed organs of a week-old corpse, poured from the wound. The grip that held her weakened as the muscled arm withered, and the dead eyes faded and sank into the skull. Richard tottered on unsteady feet, then overbalanced and toppled to the floor, his body a moldering ruin. Deprived of the spectacle of her damnation, the ghostly women fell silent.
She heard a distant roar, the collapse of the chapel ceiling, and an image of her father rose in her mind. Three women bent over the form of a sleeping man. Sarah Spencer understood, and then she was running, compelled by sick fear and heedless of her own safety, toward the courtyard. From the shadows of the sitting room, the ghosts watched, but if they derived satisfaction from her pain, they gave no sign.
XXXV.
Reinhard Heydrich tried to breathe through the haze of dust. Caught between the gauntlet of wolves and the screams of the dying, he had slipped through a side entrance and found himself in an old chapel. Skulking among the tombs - the worst place imaginable to hide from the dead. He had been working up the nerve to scale the broken wall when the red-haired woman had surprised him. And then what? There had been dust, billowing from the center of the room in great clouds, and falling stones. A trickle of blood ran from his lacerated scalp, and he wondered if someone had detonated a bomb. And something touched me in the darkness.
The red-haired woman was appeared dazed but uninjured as she struggled toward the exit. It was unfair - he had been snubbed by Jonathan Harker, outwitted by Sarah Spencer, and now this red-headed bitch had taken away his hope of escape. He had lost his pistol when the roof collapsed, but the belt around his waist would serve well enough as a garrote. She saw him, and a tiny squeal emanated from her throat as he stepped forward.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Reinhard Heydrich jumped, and Amy Johnson screamed aloud as Jonathan Harker emerged from the whirling cloud of debris; his coat covered with chalky dust. He moved with the vitality of youth, and the malevolent hunger of the dead was absent from the eyes. No, it was far worse - Jonathan’s stare was filled with deadly purpose, a vengeful spirit returned to life. The dead man held up the flask - his flask - and the magnitude of his defeat became clear. One final card to play. Heydrich’s right hand crept upward to his throat.
“I removed this from your pocket when the roof fell in.” The blue eyes fixed upon his own, and Heydrich fought the sudden lethargy that weighed his limbs. “I could have lived out my days in London, but my fate was sealed for the love of my daughter. I can accept that, if it means her escape and your downfall.”
“When the master of this castle was defeated by the Turks, he retreated, only to return again and again.” Heydrich’s lips spread into a broad grin. “I will be back, Herr Harker - you can count on it.”
“No. I think you will not.”
The dead man’s movements were impossibly fast, but Heydrich was faster as he reached for the object at his throat. There was a blinding flash and searing pain, and he was falling, tumbling head over heels into the forest as the castle receded in the distance above.
XXXVI.
Dust billowed from the doorway to the chapel, but Sarah passed through the haze with the skill of a ship’s pilot. She heard Amy’s scream and the high falsetto of the German, but it was the other voice that filled her with dread. The words were indistinct, but a single thought forced its way into her head -
I love you, Sarah.
- and she was blinded by the flash. Sarah fell to her knees and covered her face as waves of light, intense and radiantly blue, burned her eyes. Searing pain assailed the wound in her leg, as if she had been branded with hot irons, and her father’s voice echoed in her psyche, a final cry of anguish and rage. Then it was over - the afterimage faded, and Sarah eased her body to the edge of the broken wall.
A hand touched her shoulder. Amy comforted her as she began to weep, and though Sarah would forget the words, the sensation would forever be linked to another, older memory – she had done the same for her father when Mina died. She gradually became aware of another presence, unseen but definitely there, within the room. It lacked the softness of Amy’s embrace, and when it spoke, the words were devoid of tenderness. All the same, she found them comforting.
“It’s all right, Sarah. It’s better this way.”
XXXVII.
The drop to the river was not quite a cliff.
Reinhard Heydrich lay in the shallow pool. His side ached with each breath, and right eye began to swell. Gingerly, he moved the fingers of his left hand, and though he felt a grinding sensation with each repetition, the limb retained its basic function. The pain in his right hand was excruciating, and he held it in the water to cool the burn. At the water’s edge, Jonathan Harker lay dead, transfixed in mid-fall by the branch that protruded from his chest.
“I have a riddle for you, Herr Heydrich. What happens when a holy object is wielded by an unholy man?”
Quincy Morris stood at the bank, the toes of his leather boots a few inches from the current. Heydrich scuttled backward into deeper water, but the vampire made no move forward. He held up the chain that Heydrich had worn about his neck, and the crucifix was an utter ruin, blackened and twisted beyond recognition.
“Not many are brave enough, or foolish enough, to confront the dead, and fewer still are righteous enough to prevail. Jonathan was all of these things, in some measure.” He let the chain drop into the water, slightly wistful. “But a madman, or an evil one? The very power that you used against poor John reflected back onto yourself.”
A hand slipped beneath the long coat. The flask, the prize for which he had shed so much blood, was dented and dirty, and the metal surface had lost much of its luster, but it was tantalizingly close. Heydrich’s mouth watered at the sight, and he found himself inching forward, the movement of his limbs at odds with the judgement of his mind. He caught himself at the water’s edge and stopped, not daring to breathe.
“Jonathan thought it best to deprive you of this, but I’m not so sure - do you want it?”
Heydrich nodded eager assent - the shame of returning empty-handed to Germany was nigh-unbearable. Quincy gave the flask a gentle underhand toss, and it sailed through the air in a looping arc. Heydrich caught the flask with his uninjured hand.
“May it bring you the joy that you deserve.” Quincy Morris smiled, perhaps bemused by the folly of the living. “The dead cannot enter running water, so you won, or escaped with your life at any rate. Maybe we’ll meet again someday.”
Quincy lifted the body of Jonathan Harker and disappeared into the shadows. Reinhard Heydrich remained in the water for a long while, his bones aching from the cold as he waded upstream. When he could stand no more, he moved ashore, and the children of Quincy Morris, if they saw him pass, paid him no heed. On the eastern horizon, the sky grew lighter as he made his way up the mountain toward the camp.
XXXVIII.
Amy slept in the plane, and Sarah was left alone in the great hall. The blanket that held her father lay at her feet, and as her eyes became heavy, she unwrapped the body and gave the bloody forehead a final kiss. A feeling of loss, akin to the amputation of a limb, overwhelmed her. Mama, papa, John Quincy - all gone. Only I am left. She pulled her own blanket about her shoulders and wondered whether Quincy Morris, the lonely ghost of an abandoned castle, felt the same grief. Sleep finally came, a dreamless slumber that, for the first time in weeks, held no terror.
Shortly before daylight, she stirred awake to the glimmer of candlelight. Quincy Morris had been a young man at death, but his hair remained lustrous and his skin unblemished. Only the eyes gave any sign of his true age. Sarah wondered what those eyes had seen as he sat next to her father’s body, lost in contemplation.
“What are you thinking, Sarah?”
“When I was a little girl, I was never afraid of the dark.” She stared into the flame. “I always knew that someone – Mama, Papa, John Quincy – would keep me safe. Now I’m alone.”
“And the monsters are real.”
“Yes.” Her hand wandered to her right thigh. “Some of them are quite ordinary, aren’t they?”
“I suppose they are. Whited sepulchers, filled with dead man’s bones. Do you have children, Sarah?”
She nodded. “A son.”
“John and Mina are gone, but they taught you everything that you needed, and you will pass those things along to your son. I think they would be pleased with what they left behind.”
They sat in silence until the first hints of light appeared in the east. Quincy rose to leave, saw the expression on Sarah’s face, and paused.
“Something else is bothering you?”
Sarah’s leg ached, but the question that gnawed her mind was too great to pass through her lips, and she changed the subject. “Is Heydrich dead?”
“No.” Somewhere above, a bat fluttered through the window, and Quincy smiled at the unexpected guest. “But I will deal with him in due time.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Of course, I’m sure.” Quincy smiled again; infinite patience tinged with cruelty. “After all, time is the one thing that I have in abundance.”