MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL (typewritten)

(continued).

Now I must face the dreadful task of recounting this morning’s events, and true to the nature of investigators, I’m sure I will be called to repeat myself several times. My plan is to hand over this accounting and save myself the breath. Before I began this evening’s entry, I stopped at Quincey’s door and gave it a knuckle. Receiving nil response, against all dictates, directive and demands to cease anything resembling motherly duties, I ventured into forbidden territory to check on my slumbering sick child. His bedding was twisted, and the sheets kicked to the footboard. His nightshirt was soaked and stained with sweat and rank to the nose. His breathing was thick and congested. His chest wheezed the breath in and labored the breath out. Clear mucus running from his nose had crusted on his pillow. When I placed my hand on his forehead, the flesh was cold where I expected fever. With the exception of the color in his nose and lips, his pallor is so pale that his skin is almost transparent. Quincey has always had a milky unblemished complexion; a trait he inherited from Jonathan’s people who are, even by British standards, as pale as a peeled turnip. The bone china in the cabinet has a more agreeable and healthier looking tone than Quincey exhibits, and, I’m hesitant to say, a warmer temperature.

I am entirely positive that Quincey did not fully recover from the last bout of influenza, and that is why this new infection came on so quickly. Dr. Morgan can entertain his ideas concerning Quincey’s illness. I know through intuition, that if Quincey had listened to his mother and stayed in bed, if he had taken his medicines, if he had sipped the spoons of Valentine’s Meat Extract, if he had supped the broths that Mrs. Brady brewed, I’m sure he would be out gallivanting instead of convalescing. All Dr. Morgan offers are personally dubiously prepared ointments and salves (two ugly words), and old advice hindered by a lack of newspaper reading.

Quincey looked peaceful, even consumed with sickness as he is, and that gives me some relief from my ill spirits.

Quincey may desire his independence as a young man, but I am and will always be his mother, and it is my duty to care, even against his protests. He is definitely and defiantly no longer my Little Squirt.

Although Dr. Morgan had given me a sedative, I tried sleeping without taking it. I thought a light late afternoon nap would help calm my nerves, but all it did was make me anxious. The blackness on the undersides of my eyelids fluttered with crow feathers, and the creaks of the house settling into autumn are distant caws.

I will take the sedative at bedtime and pray it will quell the nightmares that I’m sure are brewing. I hope that the sedative will stave off an early awakening so I can get a good, long night’s rest.

The image of that savage bird plucking out Mr. Somners’ eye plagues my mind. I see it as a magic lantern show or the way those newfangled motion pictures silently flicker on the projection screen. Blood dripping. The furiously angry jerk of that black head and Mr. Somners’ eye sailing—I am eager for Jonathan’s return. For his comfort and his soft, reassuring voice.

The chiming clock in the downstairs hallway informs that it’s midnight. The comforts of Dr. Morgan’s sedative beckons.

***

14 October. Surprisingly, nothing worth reporting. Not even the slightest memory of a dream. Dr. Morgan’s sedative did the trick and spared my desperately needed slumber from any nightmarish crow attacks. The most peaceful rest I’ve had in Jonathan’s absence. Sorry, Teddy, I was hoping for some chilling revelations to start my Dream Diary. There was no walk this morning; instead, I had Rufs take me to Waterbeer Street in the Gladiator. (I do not like the smell of a motor car—whilst in the bloody thing, nor the lingering odor after it passes.) The interruption in my routine was due to the unfortunate fact that my appearance was expected at the Constabulary to give an account of yesterday’s events.

At first glance, it seemed that all the young men of His Majesty’s Constabulary were keeping up with fashion by sprouting neatened and trimmed mustaches, where the older generation was favoring something bushier. The ’trimmed set’ preferred crisp, slim suits. The ’bushy set’ was holding on to their tweeds. The lower order, the new lot learning their new footing, were confined to the black wool uniforms that look heavy and bulky and give the men small shoulders, nipped-in waists, and full hips.

I was offered tea and biscuits, which I accepted out of politeness because I wasn’t craving either, nor did I desire to have warm fluids in my system. 

Contrary to the thoughts of those foolish old dogs at H&H esq., the typewriter is a handy instrument. I had copied out the portions of this journal pertinent to the event and handed it over to Inspector Kearney, who made little humming sounds as he read and tugged on his trim caterpillar. 

"And how are you feeling about yesterday’s incident this morning, Mrs. Harker?"

"I’m hoping that that document will answer all your questions and that this little adventure won’t turn into something grueling."

"I see."

"It’s all so fresh in my mind. I’d like to do all that I can to stop recalling the details. I’ve found, through my experiences, that in the act of writing something down, I no longer have the responsibility of remembering it. Writing it down sets it into the record, and I can clear my mind for other thoughts."

"Does that actually work?"

"Mostly." There are a few loathsome recollections burned into my memory that will never be forgotten.

Here he glanced at my neatly prepared pages as through rechecking a fact or discovering a curiosity. 

"I’m very interested in hearing your thoughts, especially your thoughts concerning your actions yesterday during the attack."

I found this line of questioning intrusive, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. "I’m not sure what it is you’re asking, Inspector."

He fingered a page, pointing to a sentence or perhaps a single word; it was hard for me to see from my vantage point. 

"I’m curious about your thoughts when you started to run for safety, leaving Mr. Somners behind. Not your thoughts at the time, but your reflection this morning, on your actions from yesterday. Your thoughts in hindsight. There’s always a different perspective after the fact."

I knew what I was feeling; it had been plaguing my mind all morning. Therefore, I began to tell Inspector Kearney, "I felt like a coward for leaving Mr. Somners behind. I had no thoughts concerning his age or agility; I only had thoughts for my own safety."

"Your instinct was to run to safety, and that’s what you did. Perfectly understandable."

"I don’t know if it was because of my running, or if it was the fact that Mr. Somners was defending himself against the attack, but, in hindsight, I can’t honestly say that the crows were attacking me."

Inspector Kearney nodded, and then added in a slow, steady drone, "Crows are smart like that. They would have understood the difference between a hostile adversary and gentle nature."

"Mr. Somners said something similar when we noticed the crows gathering. He said they knew the difference between a man with a shotgun on his shoulder and an old man with a walking stick. He seemed to know about crows." Here I took a breath followed by a barely audible sigh, and in my pause, Inspector Kearney did the same. "The more I think about it, the more I feel assured that the crow’s single-minded purpose was to attack Mr. Somners and not the two of us. Once I dashed up those steps to the gatehouse, the crows were not interested in me." I did not wish to narrate the grisly eyeball episode; he could read my account as many times he chose. 

"This all seems rather fantastic, Mrs. Harker. It’s hard for me to wrap my mind around a gathering of crows attacking two non-threatening folks in a park. Hardly a threat to their roost."

"We were sitting at the time."

"It’s fantastic. There’s a—dare I say it—there’s an aspect of your story that is rather sensational. I’m just . . . I’m beside myself with thoughts, but I keep coming back to how fantastic the entire tale is. "

"I know it does." I pointed to the typewritten pages I had prepared. "But, of these facts, I am quite confident, and I’ve done my best not to exaggerate."

"Yes, I would agree. Your accounting appears to be clean and free of liberties. It’s quite impressive."

"Thank you." 

After such a tedious roundabout, I was anxious to return to Larkbear Hill, some properly brewed tea, and Mrs. Brady’s biscuits.

***

When I returned to Larkbear Hill for lunch, I started in through the glasshouse, but the overpowering scent of the Ramblers caused my nostrils to flare wickedly. So much so, that I was dizzy and when I opened my eyes, all the color drained out of the petals. The smell of rotting roses caused me to lose my appetite.

***

Mrs. Brady introduced me to a young lady named Gertie Henderson, who answered our advertisement. "Advertisement" is a white lie, as I never did follow through on that directive. Jonathan put the "word" out at the Firm, and I asked Mrs. Brady and Rufs if either of them knew of someone looking for employment. Mrs. Brady knows all sorts of Service Help as that crowd gathers in the public houses on off-hours for gossip and snide remarks concerning their employers. It’s my thinking that Mrs. Brady was enough "advertising."I felt something odd between Mrs. Brady and this Gertie Henderson, but I’ve cast aside those feelings as my being jittery since I do not like the idea of having another person clean up my messes. I blame my upbringing. People should clean up after themselves. I still have a difficult time letting Mrs. Brady do all the housecleaning. That woman has taken the simple job of being "Cook" and turned it into a full-time responsibility upon which this household is now dependent. When I think back to her time here, over the years, Mrs. Brady has assimilated herself into our family to such a degree that now we can’t get on without her. Tricky, that one. It will be nice to confine Mrs. Brady once again to the kitchen, since assuming the household chores has taken a toll on her cooking and baking, which outshines my culinary skills and is the chief reason I allowed Jonathan to hire her in the first place. I understand a part-time housemaid will be a help to Mrs. Brady and finding someone she’s able to work with is more important than finding someone who eases my discomfort at having servants. Jonathan would scold me for using the word "servants."

That being said, there’s something queer between the two of them. I can’t put my finger on it, but I am sure Gertie and Mrs. Brady are not recent acquaintances. Gertie Henderson is a few years older than Quincey, but it couldn’t be much more than three or four year’s difference. She looked well-scrubbed for her "interview," and I’m sure she was wearing her best dress, which was freshly pressed but frayed at the cuffs and hem. She has a directness about her that I do enjoy. She’s not meek enough to stare at the floor and say, "Yes, mum." She keeps her head high and makes eye contact during conversation. It’s my guess Mrs. Brady gave her some pointers for the interview.

I need to have a discussion with Jonathan first, but I am ready to give Gertie the job. I don’t want to spend a lot of time interviewing and I’d like this business over and done. Gertie strikes me as kind and pleasant. It would be nice for Quincey to have someone near his age around, even if they are considered the "Help" by some of our more snooty neighbors. (That Mrs. McKracken, two doors west, makes it a point of pride to bring up her Welsh girl during Whisk whenever possible. Apparently, the child creates heavenly Flummeries out of the most innocent of ingredients even though she’s Welsh. "It’s a divine gift," Mrs. McKracken cackled in her brogue, now cackling in my head.)I think it would help Quincey with his low spirits to have her around, as she does seem cheery and thoughtful—unlike us "fogies" who are not cheerful and couldn’t possibly have thoughts in our heads worth a bean in a pot. The dear boy is surrounded by folks twice his age, though I do say, he treats them all as peers, and he seems to choose to keep the elder set as his preferred company.

I’ve settled my mind. Gertie Henderson, for the time being, shall become part of our household. Jonathan’s only choice is agreement. There.

***

Letter; Mina Harker to Lord Godalming. 14 October

"Dearest Arthur, forgive my delay in writing; I have simply been overwhelmed with the extra work at the Firm where Jonathan has found something suitable for me to do. Typewriting! It is my mission to typewrite all the past records of ’Hawkins & Harker, Solicitors’—now in simple form H&H—to include a new filing system that Jonathan is bent on bringing about to an antiquated routine long overdue for an overhaul. It is hard for him to turn away my help, even after all these years of marriage. As you know, when I am idle, I can be quite irritable.

Again, I apologize for the delay in this missive. The answer to your query is yes. Yes, my dear, dear friend. Our home is open to you for as long as you intend to stay. You will have what is essentially the third floor of Larkbear Hill all to yourself. Peter Hawkins converted the third floor into a suite years ago, as a residence for his mother. It is quite comfortable and charming. There is the bonus of a view of the Cathedral and the Great Elms on the Green. I’m sure you’ll find our humble abode to your liking though I will warn that Larkbear Hill isn’t on the same par as the Godalming estate. You’ll have to sacrifice those "Lordly" creature comforts that are second nature to you for the tenaciously frugal Harker family brand of comfort.

I am kidding, of course. Did I get away with that?

Everloving, Mina."

***

CUTTING FROM The Dailygraph, 12 September (pasted in Jonathan Harker’s journal)

WAR ENTHUSIASM RIFE WITH MOUNTING TENSIONS

Serbia gained some territory from Turkey last week during a scrimmage causing Austria-Hungary to counter with a threat of war if Serbia did not give up those newly ill-gotten gains. Experts paying close attention explained that this overt aggression from Serbia threatened Austria-Hungarian possessions in the northern Adriatic. This is how a local conflict could spark a Europe-wide war.

Subsequent to the Austria-Hungarian threat – Austria-Hungary being the weaker of the Central Powers – Keiser Wilhelm II issued a guarantee of Germany’s military support.

It was expected that such a brazen move would prompt a Russian response, thereby drawing in France, and Britain – the Triple Entente. Diplomacy saved the day as the conflict resolved itself when Serbia backed down.

In additional news, unofficial reports confirm Russian troops have been secretly stationed as far south as Romania with encampments in some of the darker, Slavic regions, such as Transylvania.

***

From THEODOSIA SEWARD’S DREAM MEMOIRE (kept on phonographic cylinders, transcription by Jack Seward)

October 13. First Cluster recorded at 23 minutes past midnight. Roses. The Ramblers were thick. The thickest I’ve ever seen. Thorny. I do not know their variety. The profusion of blood-red petals oddly reminded me of pillows smelling of sweet rot. The odor made me lazy, and I wanted to sleep. I knew the thorns would prick my skin, and my blood would feed their roots. I was fearful in a way that I’ve never been fearful.

***

In a shimmering grove of aspens, a little girl in white lace gestured for me to come nearer. Winking fingers. As I got closer, she diminished into the shimmering. When I reached the spot where she stood, she was no longer there.

***

In the Asylum Chamber—cobwebs and rot—Jack and I experimented on a dog. Jack injected the dog, a Dalmatian, with a pancreatic extract. The dog convulsively became a blur. Then Jack administered a "sugar syrup" injection, and the Dalmatian quelled. Jack was jubilant and blathered about his newest paper for the Society and the advancements his pancreatic extract will make on mental health. My husband failed to notice the Dalmatian was dead.

***

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL (typewritten)

15 October. I do not like spending time away from Jonathan. When we are together, I can breathe with ease. When we are apart, I am incomplete. Of course, I know that he will return, but my feelings of abandonment are so intense and so overwhelming that I can virtually do little more than worry. Even though his postcard will arrive in this mornings’ post, I will doubt its existence until I hold it in my hand, flip it over and identify the handwriting. Once I am sure that it is Jonathan’s postcard, once I’ve identified the correct shade of ink from his Conway Stewart fountain pen, I will be at peace until the morning of the last day of his visit to London when I will expect his telegram informing that he is on his way home. Then I know that it will be four hours from Paddington to St. Davis if the train is running on time, and there’s no reason it shouldn’t be. Another twenty minutes from St. Davis to Larkbear Hill and all my doubts and fears will become extinct when my love comes through the front door.

I heard Quincey roaming about early this morning. I heard him cross the hall. I heard the stairs squeak. Not the first night in this past week that I’ve heard him roaming around before sunrise. He is not afflicted with sleeplessness as I am. His insomnia is brought on by influenza. I am not sure what the root of my restlessness is. I can hardly hold my eyes open as the clock ticks past ten post meridiem. I sleep soundly until two ante meridiem. At two ante meridiem, I am awake, but not wholly rested; I’m always agitated, and my mind is restless. I’ve tried all the remedies and concoctions brewed for sleep published in women’s magazines. Nothing works. Around four ante meridiem, I catch another two-hour nap. However, at six ante meridiem, I am wide-awake. My body desires no rest. It is painful for me to lie in bed; every muscle aches to be stretched into life. I start my day with my early morning walk. If I track it back in my mind, which I can corroborate with my journal, I have been trapped in this pattern of sleeping for seven months.

After I’d risen, I checked his room and found Quincey curled under his blankets sound asleep and shivering from an open window. I’ve told him several times that drafts are bad for fevers and not to open his window. These days, everything is a constant fight. I don’t remember fighting with my parents at that age, but I’m sure if they were here, bless their souls, they would remember differently.

The room was cold, and I could see my breath. It took a moment and some effort to close the window because I was trying to be as quiet as possible, but I managed to get the window down. This encounter with the window, however, was long enough for my hands to become cold and when I returned to my room, three fingers on the right hand and two fingers on the left hand had turned white and chilly. Not the first time this painful transformation has occurred, but it is becoming more frequent this season. It isn’t even the dead of winter, so no real need for mittens, but I think I need to be more careful. With some dutiful rubbing and messaging, the fingers filled with blood and don’t look so ghostly. I’m sure this is some indication of impending circulatory problems. I keep my feet bundled, so no worries there.

***

The window was open again in Quincey’s room. It’s become my habit of glancing in that direction upon entering. At first, it was very aggravating—he can open the window, why can’t he close it? I suppose that once he’s fallen asleep, it doesn’t matter much anymore. I like the cold, crisp air of autumn. I also love my bedroom chilly; I sleep much better if it’s a little cold. That’s all very well, but I am not recovering from a severe bout of influenza, and I find myself reminding myself of that fact, and then I become aggravated again.

Quincey is curled beneath the duvet like a cat against a favorite sham. His face tucked under the edge, his forehead peeking out. At least, it’s goose-down, and an excellent shield against autumnal drafts—that is until he kicks it off when he’s too hot or lost in a dream.

I sat on the edge of the bed admiring his hair; the shimmery of blue hues on polished ebony. My hair used to have the same character, but I’m afraid it’s rather dull now with a hint of age.

He was sleeping soundly, and I listened to make sure his breathing was steady and proper, that his inhale was as unrestrained as his exhale.

His forehead was not overly warm.

Even though being careful not to wake him, as I stood to leave a black book fell from beneath the duvet, making a dull thump on the floor. I recognized right away that it wasn’t from our library, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t in the house. We never did get around to removing Peter Hawkins’ books, and our own have assimilated into his collection.

The book, however, looked new, and I am now assuming that Quincey picked it up at the bookseller’s for leisure reading, and he wasn’t fulfilling an assignment from school. Glancing at the title made me wonder where he had heard of the book, and I must remember to ask him while being as subtle as possible.

Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal. It’s my duty as a mother to keep my shock in check and yet do my best to discover how such a disreputable and offensive book should be in my son’s possession. Two bent corners marked poems, whether of interest or favorites I can only guess; Remords Posthume and Les Litanies de Satan.

I decided not to let my shock of those titles get the better of me. I will read those poems later when the likelihood of being caught will have diminished. After I have a clearer understanding of their content, I will decide whether or not to broach the subject with Quincey. I carefully re-tucked the book beneath the bedding and double-checked the window. (I have half a mind to nail those bloody things shut.)

I must remember to ask Jonathan about the volume. It may be a Father-To-Son gift from London that my clumsy treading will render into embarrassment.

***

I do not know what is happening to my body.

Or rather, inside my body. I suppose that all women have these thoughts, and think that they are the only one going through these changes. That their change is different from all the women that have changed before them. Special in some way. Different. I hear the commonalities and recognize having them. It starts with that all too brief chill followed by the sudden, intense feeling of suffocation. The life drains out of my body so quickly that the weakness I feel is so overwhelming it produces dizziness, followed by nausea. My heart beats rapidly as the hotness erupts on my upper body and proceeds to color my face. I soak whatever I’m wearing with sweat. Sometimes I have a soaker, and sometimes I have a moist upper lip, but, always, there’s an uneasy sensation just before heat that lets me know what is coming.

It is hard not to feel shameful, and since I wouldn’t consider myself an erotic object to Jonathan (having given that up years ago) and since I have no anxious thoughts about not being able to reproduce, it is still difficult not to think that life, as I know it, is over. I’m joining the ranks of those unhinged women who whine about being deprived of their personal charm and then become invested in movements, social causes, and parades.

***

Letter; Mina Harker to Theodosia Seward (unfinished) 15 October.

"Dearest Teddy; Perhaps as my dear friend, you may be able to tell me what I am to expect as the Silent Passage ravishes my body. I’m only asking because you may know better due to your work at the asylum. If my mother were still with us, she would be whom I’d turned to with my questions and curiosities. I do not mean to suggest that you, dear friend, are old enough to be my mother, or even, old enough to experience the Silent Passage.

There was a time, several years back, when I turned into a physical replica of my mother. My waist had thickened, my bosom dropped, my face became fuller. I do not know what to expect, and I am sure that the horror, as I have become to address it, which is happening to my body is something beyond a natural process. Dr. Morgan is helpful, but he is a man, though a doctor and a good doctor at that, he is still a man and given all his scientific knowledge and medical training, he is not a woman. I simply cannot believe that he understands. Period. How could he know—of course from a medical view, an opinion, perhaps even a subjective view, but what about from a spiritual perspective?

My habits have all changed drastically. I have insomnia that is persistent and devilish; this causes me to catnap fitfully all through the day. My dreams, when I dream, have taken on a disturbing nature. Often when I awaken, I have the sense that my dreams were real. By that, I mean that the events I dreamed took place, and my memory recorded them as realities and not merely nocturnal thoughts. I have yet to start jotting them down in a diary. They are disturbing with bizarre narratives and unsettling, dark nature. Recording them physically in a diary is not a task I am anxious to perform.

My mood swings are drastic; gleeful at the top and spiteful and horrid in the depths. I know this is difficult, harsh, and obscene on Jonathan and Quincey.

The household staff stays clear of me, often making a quick exit when I enter a room.

What is happening to my body? I accept that we are all different, and this experience is unique to each of us. The few ladies I’ve spoken to—brace yourself—a few of the ladies of the Rose Society, and I know that you are rolling your eyes and shaking your head with that sly smile—suggest that I yield to the change. Well, I don’t know whether to yield to it or fight it, but I know that I cannot meet it halfway. It wants a release. I am at such a loss—"

***

CUTTING FROM Phenomena News, 10 October (pasted in Jonathan Harker’s journal)

MYSTERIOUS ANIMAL MUTILATIONS IN DEVON

Farmers are demanding action after several sheep were discovered slaughtered on farms near Broadclyst and Stoke Hill this past June. Mr. Geoffrey Herriot, RSPCA Inspector, pointed out that the Broadclyst and Stoke Hill animals were killed in locations that are difficult to reach without being detected.

Mr. Herriot added, "Ewes were found with their throats ripped open, tongues torn from their mouths and eyes removed." Reading from his copiously annotated field notes, Mr. Herriot says, "There are some other oddities. For instance, the curious lack of blood or footprints at the killing locations, despite the elimination of large amounts of viscera is very suspicious. We do find dead sheep. When we find them, they were killed by the natural instinct of wildlife or died of natural causes. Nothing quite like the small lamb I found which had had its skull crushed as if placed in a vise grip. That was a deliberate action with cruel intention."

Quoting Jack Duggan, a farmer whose acreage is near Newton St. Cyres, "Our farms have never seen anything so atrocious as these mutilations."

RSPCA Inspector Herriot added this curious observation; “We don’t know what can walk into an isolated area, commit such heinous acts, and walk out while not leaving a footprint or any trace of its actual presence.”

Mr. Herriot also claims the Newton St. Cyres mutilations are too “sophisticated” to have been caused by predators.

It should come as no surprise that there’s an increase in occult activities involving the ritualistic sacrifice of sheep to desecrate church cemeteries.

Jack Duggan found his prized Texel ram with its head and heart removed. The ram’s body was hanged in a manner to drain all its blood. This shows a type of sophistication. There is a purpose for what has happened to Duggan’s animal. Over in Triverton, sheep went missing on a Friday morning in June, which is the 6th month of the year. That particular Friday was the 6th day of that month. An interesting arrangement of numbers. Those Broadclyst and Stoke Hill mutilations are utterly barbaric, almost, as if to satisfy a pang of hunger.

There is something unquestionably abnormal going on in the Midlands. Farmers and residents are concerned and frightened.

One old farmer’s theory has German military saboteurs trying to stir up hostilities between farmers with the intentions of building a lack of trust in the government’s ability to protect its people by killing sheep. The old farmer offered no theory as to how these saboteurs got past the Royal Naval Forces defending the empire with dreadnought battleships and battlecruisers superior to Germany’s High Seas Fleet.

Start Writing!

Next Chapter: CHAPTER III