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

October 14. First Cluster recorded at 42 minutes past midnight. I was back in Essaouira; However, it was not the Essaouira of my youth. I knew I was a visitor. I knew that Mother and Father were back at our family home in Swansea and that the hovel we called home for three years was now home to strangers. I encountered some local children on the causeway I traveled many times. I found their laughter pleasing, and I paused in my journey to watch their theatrics. I didn’t understand what it was they were doing. They’d grab these tremendous flat stones, piles of which littered the causeway, and then, running gleefully, slabs held high above their heads, they tossed these flat rocks into the canal, squealing delightfully. Then I saw that which I had missed seeing from the very beginning. Small dark, gray crabs—crabs so small you could hold them in the palm of your hand and not wince from the nip of their pinchers—scurrying for cover from the low tide. As harmless as little creatures come. I suddenly understood what these gnat-nosed little bastards were doing. They were slamming the life out of God’s creatures. Giggling as the little crab-guts squirted over the rocks. Giggling behind dirty fingers.

***

The air was buzzing with Dragonflies in beautiful iridescent colors. Emeralds, sapphires, and amethysts. Deep, dark and brilliant. They buzzed all around me as if they were as fascinated with me as I with them. There were hundreds in the swarm, but I was not frightened. I knew they wouldn’t sting me or bite me. I knew they were harmless. Elegance and grace fashioned the patterns they flew. I held my palm out flat, and one landed. It flitted from finger to finger. I enjoyed the tickling of its six long legs against my palm. Its abdomen was, at least, three inches long. Every segment accented with a shimmering ring of black. It turned its big eyes towards me and seemed to "breathe" me in for a long moment. All the other dragonflies hovered. The swarm was motionless. The music of their wings softened to a whisper. At once, the swarm around me vanished. The little fellow in my palm flew to my breast where, when it landed transformed into a bejeweled brooch, I understood that a change was arriving.

The Welsh call dragonflies "snake’s servant" because they think dragonflies follow snakes and stitch up their wounds. I rather enjoy the original sentiment that dragonflies stitch up the mouths of little children who tell lies—though I don’t know what country that tidbit comes.

***

Second Cluster recorded at half-past two. I was in the scullery of a house with which I am unfamiliar. It was dank, messy, and dungeon-like, and without any modern updates. A place unused for years. I saw no tableware or pots and pans. I saw no evidence of kitchen work. When I turned to leave, the Little Girl in White Laces stood in the doorway holding a frightened hare. She extended the hare towards me. It smelled foul, and I did not want to take it. The overwhelming sadness evident in her expression caused my heart to change. As I reached towards her, the little girl and her gift vanished.

***

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL (typewritten)

16 October. Mrs. Chanderling was long-faced and gloomy about her Little Precious. She is convinced there’s a thug in the neighborhood preying on small dogs. "It’d take an ’eartless thug to do that to a poor liddle sweetie. Snapped ’er spine, he did. The only thing keepin’ ’er whole was ’er fur."I think it’s been more than a fortnight since I first heard of her little precious, but who am I to say or to make an opinion on the manner in which people grieve.

"’Ere were a mongrel found with its throat ripped open," she trilled, "over near the Exe where you are."

"I hadn’t heard."

"It should be in th’ paper this mornin’. I ’eard it from Mrs. Pritchett. She’s lost a couple-a’er pussycats."

I do take pleasure in writing these small bits down, doing my best to capture as accurately as I can the inflections of the accent. Whether I manage this or not, when I see the words and phrases, I hear them spoken in my mind with all their proper inflections and color. I do enjoy hearing the thickness of the Devon accent. I also enjoy teasing Jonathan when he is tired and drops his H’s and elongates his vowels.

***

I had Gertie beating the rugs in the backyard this morning, thinking that any day the weather will change, and the opportunity will pass. I watched from the second-floor window in the service stairs. It took quite the effort to hold back from rushing out to help her. My relentless nature to offer advice and help—well, actually to rush out, snatch the beater away and do it myself—caused me a considerable degree of anxiety. So much so, I felt warm beneath my bodice and decided I should just rest on the stairs and watch while I cooled down. The child just cannot beat a rug!

***

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

October 16. First Cluster recorded at 33 minutes past midnight. The immense raspberry bramble extended as far as I could see. Fading into the horizon. Thick and treacherous. The berries were plump and as large as quail eggs. 3 or 4 would fill a hand nicely. A deep, pleasant shade of red portended to their juiciness. Gathering my skirt into a makeshift sling, I greedily picked the berries. Soon, my skirt was brimming with red deliciousness.

I maneuvered through the bramble along animal trails. I found a small clearing and deposited my bounty, then sat beside it and devoured the berries as greedily as I had picked them. Red stained my fingers, and I knew my lips and tongue followed suit. The berries were wonderfully sweet.

After a while, I had the sense of being watched. I looked all around and found no culprits. When I returned my attention to the lush raspberries—I could see, hidden in the bramble, the little girl in white lace. I coached her out with a yummy offer. We exchanged smiles and enjoyed the treat together. I introduced myself and asked for her name. She smiled but did not answer. "I am sure that someone so pretty has a lovely name," I said.

She nodded in agreement, now holding a beautiful bouquet of summer wildflowers. "Are those flowers for me, or perhaps, your mother?" Upon this question, the flowers, so tenderly clasped in her tiny hand, transformed into a frightened hare. Twisting off its head, the little girl put the carcass to her lips. I cast my eyes to the ground where trickling blood formed a sparkling pool and the raspberry bramble crumbled into dust.

"My name is Lucy," said the little girl in white lace, her lips stained red but not in the same way as mine.

***

Second Cluster recorded at half-past 6. Not really a cluster, just a vague memory of a dream in which dear Mina appeared. At first, I thought she was having trouble removing her clothing, but then I realized she was shedding her skin, or rather, extruding her body out of her skin much in the way a snake does.

***

Letter; Theodosia Seward to Mina Harker. October 16.

"Mina, my dearest; my dreams, my most sacred of stomping ground, has an intruder who takes on many disguises. Whether a cat, or a hare, or a squirrel; whether an old man, an old woman, or a lad, or a lass; it is always your little Lucy. Once I acknowledge her intrusion, she shifts into her "true" form, your dear little one. In my dreams she is very fragmented—I believe she appears in this manner because I never had the pleasure of meeting her and, therefore, do not have a clear image of your little girl stored in my memory. I know so little regarding your daughter, not even her age when she passed, or if she passed from illness or violence. She flickers between a child and a young woman of perhaps twenty years of age.

I most often encounter her in dark, dank places; a scullery or a larder, or lost in a dense forest of Ash, or hidden beneath a raspberry bramble. She appears to favor enclosures to the open air.

She is a beautiful child in my dreams, with a strong, glowing aura that Renaissance painters would have depicted as a halo. She is always magnificently dressed in lacy whites that are immaculate and crisp. Sometimes she is holding a bouquet of flowers. I recognize the many lovely varieties. I do not know their names.

Nevertheless, the flowers are symbolic. The flowers are always fresh, vibrant, and beautiful. When I notice the flowers, I always ask, "Are those lovely flowers for your mother?" I believe your dear little Lucy is trying to make contact with the physical world and that I have been chosen to be her conduit.

It will be of great interest to me to know if she has appeared in any of your or Jonathan’s dreams. I would be especially interested in reading your dream diary, which I am sure you have been recording diligently!

Thinking of you tenderly, Theo."

***

"CUTTING FROM Phenomena News, 13 October (pasted in Jonathan Harker’s journal)

SHOCKING CRIME IN NEWTON ST. CYRES.

Police are working hard to unveil a dreadful tragedy of which this small village has never seen before.

Shortly after awakening in the morning of October 3rd, Mrs. Abel Peterson-Shamp journeyed through her quiet home with good thoughts after a peaceful night’s rest. It must be noted that Mrs. Peterson-Shamp found nothing out of the ordinary in her well cared for home, which is a point of pride for this fastidious homemaker. Upon entry into the pantry on a mission to gather the ingredients for her husband’s breakfast, she discovered a most brutal and heinous tableau; her beloved dogs, Chuckie, Gimbles, and Roustabout horribly butchered by some fiendish maniac or maniacs.

One of the investigating Police Officers offered to this Reporter, "It appears as if the perpetrator crept into the house and performed the hideous mutilations and then crept out without waking the household."

Indeed, in the dark reaches of the night with all the doors and windows locked and even the fireplace flue closed, the fiend entered, executed his crime and exited without detection. How this terrible crime was accomplished in complete silence is a mystery that baffles police, neighbors, and citizens alike.

Because of the nature of the butchery performed upon the mid-sized dogs and given the recent increase in purported occult activities in the outlying areas, this Reporter’s suggestion that Satanist could be involved was snubbed as ’rubbish’ by a low ranking village official.

Fact: The three beloved dogs were drained of all blood, their jaws were broken, their spines snapped, and their stomachs split open to expose their organs.

Fact: Not an ounce of blood was spilled, nor were there any traces of blood in the pantry or any other rooms of the house. It’s highly unlikely that the ghoul, or ghouls, involved cleaned up after themselves, but it must be accepted as a possibility.

Any persons who have noticed or may have seen anything unusual during the late evening of the 2nd or the early morning hours of the 3rd are asked to report their observations to the authorities.

Next Chapter: CHAPTER IV