Dracula's Ghost - Prologue
The Box
Of them who running on that last high place
Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up
On the hot blast and fury of hell’s upsurge,
Or plunged and fell away past this world’s verge,
Some say God caught them even before they fell.
But what say such as from existence’ brink
Ventured but drave too swift to sink.
The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,
And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames
With superhuman inhumanities,
Long-famous glories, immemorial shames—
And crawling slowly back, have by degrees
Regained cool peaceful air in wonder—
Why speak they not of comrades that went under?
Wilfred Owen, Spring Offensive
“But the life that was in me was stronger than the life of common folk, for it partakes of the essence of the forces that seethe in the black gulfs beyond mortal ken.”
Robert E. Howard, A Witch Shall be Born
London, 1897
Arthur Holmwood could not sleep, so he drove the carriage through the fog. He rode south and east toward Purfleet, and the sulfurous odor of the coal fires faded into the background as he left the city proper. His valet questioned the lateness of the hour, and Arthur had replied that he was going out for fresh air. The mustache, an adornment grown in memory of an old friend, gave him away - Arthur frequently tugged at its corner when nervous. Still, it was not the valet’s duty to ask questions.
Harker and Seward thought him happy, fully recovered from the darkest days of 1893. And, truth be told, he was happy. His courtship of Kate Reed, and their upcoming marriage, rekindled a touch of the old fire that had seemed forever lost. Even Mina, with her sidelong glances and polite words of caution, would come around soon enough. A wonderful woman, but Mina worries too much, he told himself. Lucy was four years gone, and though Arthur had loved her deeply, she rested in peace now. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Besides, the dreams had stopped months ago. Lucy was dead - Arthur knew because he had killed her.
Still, the dreams had been so vivid.
It was nearly midnight when he reached his destination. The horses, a pair of handsome coal-black geldings, stamped and nickered as he unlocked the main gate. Clouds of steamy condensate emanated from their nostrils as Arthur drove the carriage up the tree-lined path. Strange that he should end up here, of all places. When the accumulated duties went unpaid after 1893, the town council had taken possession of the property, and Arthur had purchased the house at the insistence of Harker and Seward. He had not been inside for four years.
No - not strange at all. Inevitable. Carfax Abbey loomed before him in the darkness.
The large door, built into a crumbling stone arch, functioned as a crude gatehouse, and Arthur turned the key in the old lock. The chapel was somewhere to the left, so he turned right and wandered through the unexplored portions of the house. The hallways were covered with cobwebs and dust, and an occasional rat, frightened by the glow of his lantern, scampered into the darkness ahead of footfalls. Arthur peered into each room and noted its function - dining room, drawing room, servants' hall, and the exercise took his mind off the past. The larder was located at the rear of the house, behind a small door so unobtrusive that he almost missed it. Arthur shined his lantern into the room, and his eyes widened in surprise.
The oblong box sat in the center of the stone floor, and Arthur marveled at its presence as he caressed the wooden surface. There were fifty boxes. We destroyed forty-nine destroyed in London and found the last one in Transylvania. Arthur tried to push away the image that formed in his mind, but the idea metastasized even as rational thought rejected the possibility. Lucy is in there. She had survived through some malevolent providence, hidden away in Carfax Abbey. Arthur could see her when he closed his eyes - pale skin that contrasted sharply with her dark curls, red lips, and a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. She would smile with joy at his return, and her eyes would flash in the lantern's glow as she pulled him forward into her embrace. Arthur was pierced by a pang of ecstasy as his hands, moving of their own accord, fumbled with the lid. God, Lucy, I've missed you so -
The box was empty.
No - not empty. The box was half-filled with moldy earth, and the faint odor that emanated from the soil brought back memories that turned his stomach. Fifty boxes, forty-nine in London and one in Transylvania. A few handfuls of soil from each would be enough for a final sanctuary - a sanctuary which had, until now, remained undiscovered. Arthur touched the soil, and the desiccated earth left a crawling sensation on his skin, as if he had plunged his hand into a box of worms. He used a handkerchief from his pocket to clean his fingers, but a sickening tingle remained on his skin, and he wished desperately that he had never touched the corrupted soil. The stench was stronger now, and Arthur found it difficult to breathe in the dusty confines of the pantry. He shut the lid, and when he returned to the horses, Arthur was certain that they shied away, disturbed by the scent of befouled earth. The handkerchief lay on the stone floor of the larder, forgotten.
Arthur returned home, driving the horses relentlessly through the fog. He did not sleep for a long time, and his rest was troubled by bad dreams.
Thanks for reading! Chapter 1 will be posted January 1, 2023.