LORD GODALMING’S AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTEBOOK (in calligraphy)

November 1. 27 days until the Workings.

Exeter—I shall not provide any details as to the rather treacherous journey to Exeter other than to say it was akin to a painful tooth extraction. The Midland countryside is as bland and boring as the snaggletooth inhabitants populating the stone and thatched-roofed hovels that scab and scar the geography.

Remember to embellish this a bit more when in a better mood.

Don’t forget about Wiltshire. Make it more charming than it was. Don’t forget the magnetic vibrations one felt in the Cove of the Inner Stone Circle. Ashford confirmed what he believed, also—

Remember to record more of his thoughts and feelings during the Devonshire Workings, as it will help establish authenticity and credibility.

*      *      *

Later—There is a fascinating Entity in this house. It occupies my sitting room and has, on two occasions, circled me like a hunter sizing up the prey. The first time was mere moments after Mina and the Between Maid, Gertie had taken their parting to allow me a measure of time to repose before the obligations of being social arrived. I felt a very distinct sensation of being intrusive. An invisible glowering directly in my face head to head, as it were, much like heat from an oven upon opening. A brief moment of heat, then the coolness of the air. I have an impression of black eyes without pupils. Black on black is offering a mirror’s reflection. Not soulless, as one would expect something so pitch dark, but prosperous and bursting with knowledge. Hermetic, unless you know the apposite treacle coos. I felt a tickling on my ear. I turned when a whisper of air followed. I thought I saw a wisp disappearing beneath the door. I shook a chill of such degree I haven’t felt for years.

The second occurrence had a similar effect. I had awakened in the night with an immense weight pressing against my body as if I were being extruded through the mattress to the floor. The Entity was lying on top of me. I felt it glowering, felt its hot cheeks against my own, felt its blast of stale breath followed by the sensation of being licked. Hot, sticky, then a moment’s
release of coolness as the moisture dried on my skin. Damned black eyes—empty holes into sweet, sweet nothing. Such secrets they must conceal. As soon as I became aware, which is to say, the moment I realized I was not dreaming, the Entity evaporated into the air above me, and I felt an instantaneous release from the pressure of the mattress adjusting to the reduction in weight.

*      *      *

Larkbear Hill—Not a hill, but a house, which has been afflicted with that rather odd tradition of aping the upper class and branding your home with a moniker. "Larkbear" is far better than some, though the name doesn’t have anything, as far as I can tell, to do with ancestry or family titles. It’s a location related title. I am curious and will research the name if the thought lingers for more than three days. I do think the name is rather fanciful and conjures a legion of dancing bears frolicking upon the hillside.

Still, it’s cozy but cramped. Quaint. On the smallish side in comparison to my estate Perdurabo, but then, it was built with meager means. The Mistress of the house has a rather acquired decorating sense. The type of which never works even when the Bohemians take a stab at it. It’s a lingering Victorian attitude. It is my impression—from the frayed hems of the faded curtains in the drawing-room, and balding patches on the velvet upholstery—that the current approach towards worldly possessions is only when an object can no longer be useful and has become hazardous and dangerously ugly are they replaced. The curtains are perfectly acceptable as long as they block the light, and one is careful not to tug firmly when pulling them closed. Changing one’s decor to be currently fashionable is not practical. A good, solid chair should last one’s lifetime if appropriately crafted.

I realize my thoughts are projections, and there’s nothing wrong with Mina and Jonathan being practical. I sometimes admire those sensibilities. I understand there have been times that I have wriggled out of the responsibilities of my title and just had a go at the world—(the Iztaccihuatl adventure possesses a few amusing tales, which are rather begging to be in black and white.)

There is a residue of the previous occupants and a strange habit—call it a "need"—to hang on to musty treasures.

The house proper is a detached Georgian all boxy and squat-looking even with three floors above ground. A low-pitched roof, near flat as I can tell, with twelve-pane sash windows all around—except on the third floor, the Widow’s Chamber, where the windows are low nine-panes, which is already in disagreement with my senses. The brickwork—locally made, no doubt—is covered in stucco—a façade. The delicate-looking iron window guards are lovely. A hint of Greek Revival in the pilasters on a porch that is up a few steps to make it seem more imposing.

A stunning effect could be achieved with an abundant planting of Hedera. I shall suggest this idea to Mina so that she may inform her Head Gardener to have a Grounds Keeper plant the ivy and let it grow to monstrous proportions. Larkbear Hill positively begs for ivy. It’s one of those houses where such a simple touch would add so much elegance.

The house is set on a slight rise a goodly distance from the main artery leading into the fabled walled city. Holloway is the street name.

Not far in a southerly direction is a Vicarage, and then beyond that a cluster of crumbling of old lime kilns, and then the Exe. To the west, our neighbor, Bull Meadows, which I’m sure, will be self-explanatory once the wind shifts.

Larkbear Hill is surrounded by a lush and well-kept swath of garden, which is hedged—tall and thickly, east and west sides—to the Mews and which offers a solid cover to the ugly Exeter residential housing creeping out from the city.

There is a garden-walk lined with an overabundance of dead hydrangeas. (I have a memory of a rather amusing story about Mother and hydrangeas that needs to find a place later on.) The Walk snakes through well-tended plantings, some of which are pedestrian and some which are unusual enough to be a curiosity as to how and why they are there. Leftover, I’m assuming, from the late Widow Hawkins’ green-thumb forays against Devon’s dull geography.

The conservatory is packed with climbing roses, and I find this to be odd. They are pruned and clear of dead blooms and leaves. Pleasantly scented. Not overwhelming as one would expect from so many blossoms filling up a glasshouse. However, why not plant them outside, why keep them in the conservatory where they crowd out space? Wouldn’t the conservatory be of more benefit for cultivating orchids or something more exotic than common Ramblers?

The Widow’s Chamber—It will serve a purpose for the Workings. Rather like a camping excursion without all the Kashmiri Porters or the exotic appeal. Old Window Hawkins’ abode will serve well. I do feel her presence, perhaps because so much of the "decoration" lingers with her touch. I will need to put some of these things away so that they don’t interfere with my work. I will also need to do this in a manner that doesn’t offend Mina. Though I’m sure a gentle inquiry as to the possibility of removing a few "treasures" to achieve a more harmonized esthetic copasetic with my advanced studies in pranayama, will be sufficient.

Windows all around mean an excellent place to watch and good light. I’ll be able to feel the sun and see the moon.

"There is a view of the Cathedral and those great towering elms," however, this is a statement from my dear friend, who needs the qualifying words "in the distant," for it is genuinely in the distance. If I had not known what I was looking for, or in what direction my eyes should seek—

I will be able to fashion a "white" closet and a "black" closet, keeping both opposites of each. I am delighted with this arrangement, as it will make the rituals easier.

Now, let’s pack up Old Widow Hawkins and then ring for tea.

*      *      *

Mina and Jonathan—Mina and Jonathan sleeps in separate chambers. It was my impression they held a healthy relationship brimming with mutual respect and sexual attraction. I can remember a time when they needed prying apart to gain their attention. Never was there any overtly public cuddling that young people are prone to exhibit, the Harkers were better bred. However, if one were to stumble upon them unawares, one would discover how ablaze their private affections were. Their sexual energy sizzled in the air around them. It was apparent they enjoyed each other’s company, naked and otherwise.

I’m not sure this is true today. Each of their rooms is oddly absent of any residue of the other. Each clearly defined as an individual inner sanctum. Personal tastes are evident.

Jonathan’s room is a single, mid-sized room with a thoroughly modernized bathroom and water closet. The bathroom is where his pride is on exhibition. Here there is no expense spared; a combination shower and bathtub—much better than what we have in Northamptonshire. The same could be said for the water closet.

It is a man’s room, that is sure. It is warm and inviting, but only of the bare necessities, many of which are in a second life. This ragtag collection helps define the comfort of the room. It has a feeling of familiarity as if you’ve been there before. Not quite a déjà vu—

The walls are cheaply papered—hand-printed and done so with a shaky hand—pheasants with awkwardly angled heads in native grasses, rendered in ambers, browns, and creams. There is water damage and peeling—though, I guess others wouldn’t notice such things. A slightly brighter brownish dado emphasizing the lower half of the room helps establish a sense of intimacy, which is a nifty trick in such a high-ceilinged room. I wouldn’t have considered houses of this size to have such high ceilings. The north-facing window towers and would divert attention were it not for the draperies that hang from ceiling and pile at the hem on the richly patterned Oriental.

So much of the room is a direct reflection of Jonathan.

Austerity in the personal items speaks volumes about their owner. Fundamental and straightforward, nothing overly extravagant. A Griffon Straight Edge Razor. A neck brush of badger hair. A new tin of Williams Violet Supreme Talcum Power. A tin of Williams Dentifrice Powder. A curling sliver of bar soap. The usual Taylor of Bond Street gentlemen’s miscellanea.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear an invisible footman was bustling about, seeing to the needs of his gentleman; measuring, polishing, arranging, and keeping everything just so perfect.

The cold austerity of a clergyman’s vow of poverty—without complete surrender or devotion.

French postcards hid in a drawer! Naughty boy. Such perversions placed beside your well-thumbed, pious and hypocritical Christian Bible. Well done, Jonathan Harker.

*      *      *

Mina occupies two rooms, her bedroom, and her boudoir. Both are elegant, which isn’t a surprise. Brightly painted and filled with light. Gilded moldings on every surface, but not as gaudy as one of those bedecked French palace rooms.

The highlight of the room is a Venetian window with a tall semi-circular center pane and two square-headed sidelights all in gloriously leaded and stained glass. Sexy curvilinear shapes; symmetrical, but fluid. As my discovery of this window was in the early morning, I am sure Mina’s room is flooded with warmth and brilliance throughout the day, being as her window faces south. Rich, golden dapples, smears of crimson invariance, drifting amber stains, hauntings of sienna shades—perpetual autumn in glass.

I sank into the mattress of her four-poster and sunk further into bliss. I could have easily slept there for a thousand years. The goldenrod-dyed curtains are delightfully patterned—printed, not woven—with, of all creatures, hares springing, nibbling, and gazing with wide eyes.

I smile, even as I write, at the thought of Mina slumbering, surrounded by the wild relatives of bunnies. She seems to be of the ilk of the Hare.

I discovered "volumes" of secrets in Mina’s boudoir; however, the Between Maid interrupted me. I absconded at the side of a tall wardrobe and steadied my breath to an indecipherable degree. I was able through sheer self-control to become invisible.

I watched as she sifted through drawers of silkiness, peeked in velvety boxes, pulled crystal stoppers off perfume bottles and dabbled and daubed; I watched her rummage and fuss and sniff through Mina’s private chattel to her heart’s content.

*      *      *

Notating—the Between Maid did not enter the room on any mission of domestic duty—so revealed by my Higher Awareness. She marched in with a purpose fixed upon her face—commencing to finish her petty crime of rummaging as if inconveniently interrupted beforehand. My advance intuition allowed me to see—

She left too many felonious traces for my taste.

As if an imaginary clock chimed in her head, she replaced a small cloisonné vessel, turned on her heels and leisurely strolled from the room. She pilfered nothing.

I pocketed the cloisonné—a mere disguise for a jar of freckle cream . . . Mina’s beautiful vanity discovered.

*      *      *

The Between Maid—known as Gertie Henderson. A bright young woman. Coarse and hard looking. In service, I assume, since birth. She makes herself as attractive as she is able and in which her means can afford. When she reaches her middle age, she’ll plump into the Mother Hen hinted at with her bone structure. She has the good sense to keep trim, and this is a good sign of courage on her part to achieve a better station in life. There is something bilious about her personality, and I can see that she struggles to keep herself in check when she hears that in which she is in disagreement. She is not a natural submissive.

Her blue eyes twinkle with a hint of madness. It is my guess there is mental instability in her bloodline. I have seen the same stare in lunatics at Jack Seward’s asylum.

I need to attend to some correspondence. I am not altogether sure my missives are received with anticipation, but I do my part and if—

*      *      *

"Hold on there," I said to the young man in the hallway. Broad-shouldered and trimmed at the waist. Slender looking in his properly fitted waistcoat and trousers cut from black wool, which was showing a reddish tint in the gaslight. A fashionable Decadent from the late ’90s. Elegantly long is another way I would describe young Quincey Harker.

"I am not a Footman or a Tea Boy." His intonation was proper and crisp, free from any hint of Devonshire brutality. He kept his back to me though he stood still.

"I wasn’t suggesting, I merely—"

"Lord Goddamning."

"Godalming. Less damning."

He turned on his heels, his boots glistening with polish, reflecting light from the lamp above.

"Sorry."

He was a perfect amalgamation of Jonathan and Mina. Her beautiful eyes—dark, cold pools—and the mouth of the same shape. Thick lower lip, and slender upper lip that when slightly opened formed an invitation. He wore Jonathan’s pallor along with the strong chin and high cheekbones. The luxurious, dark hair of both parents; black, but also midnight blue.

His smile was a secret; a slight, but a quick flicker.

"You’ve grown so much."

I reached to place a hand on his shoulder, but his glance suggested I should think better of the intention.

"It’s what young people do. Grow."

"And quite cheeky," I said, hoping my smile would cut the bite.

We matched each other smile for smile. After those smiles were held a moment too long, young Quincey said, insipidly, "You climb mountains." Not a question, more a forced, polite fact.

"I am a member of the English Alpine Club—"

"Odd. Very prestigious, isn’t it?"

"Quite."

"I’ll have to check the charter; I don’t recall seeing your name. Are you listed as Godalming or as Holmwood?"

I wished instantly to diffuse this line of discourse. "Do you aspire to mountain climbing?"

"I’m not sure I aspire, but I am intrigued."

"When I was at Eastbourne, I joined the Scottish Mountaineering Club, and when we took our first trip to The Alps, I became so enamored that I devoted myself with earnest to making an alpine climb my most favorite vacation destination. Monch, the Trifthorn, Mont Collon."

My attempts to impress the lad gave rise to his cheeks and a phony smile. His lips pressed into a hard line. I had the impression he could hold this expression for a considerable amount of time.

"If you’re interested in climbing—"

"I’m not much for memberships in clubs. I’m not a Team-Sports sort of fellow. Individual achievements are far more interesting to me."

"Mountaineering isn’t—"

"One hardly climbs a mountain on his own. You have your gaggle of colleagues and cronies, and their personal servants, three or four local guides and an endless string of porters. Several dozen is a nominal guess. What kind of achievement is it with all those helping? Long-distance running, that’s just you, the path and a pocket-watch."

"I have climbed Iztaccihuatl, Colima, Nevado, Toluca, and Popocatepetl all in Mexico. There is, I assure you, a tremendous sense of personal achievement."

That icy stare persisted through the false smile fixed upon his face—the smile of a great white shark, that perfect killing machine of the open waters. It was an entirely disconcerting facial expression. That fixed expression—that mask—caused a stumble in my thoughts and for a moment, the house creaked.

"They’re impressive climbs," he finally offered in a monotone.

"I have plans for an expedition to the Himalayas. Chogo Ri—"

"K2. Twenty-eight thousand, two hundred and fifty feet. The second highest peak in the world." A lackluster recitation of facts.

"You’re rather precocious."

"Yes."

"I was too, at your age."

"Were you?"

"Ever so much."

"—ever my age?"

"I should think that I was, once."

"Should you? You either were, or you weren’t."

"Oh, I follow you—"

"Now, that’s the most interesting thing you’ve said so far."

I knew not how to respond. This repartee was more tiresome than witty. I can remember, with some irritation, speaking to my father in such tones, but I would never dare speak to a guest in such a manner.

The young man languidly examined me—or was it an inspection—from toe to head. Our eyes fixed together, and I felt a vibration in my inner awareness. I observed the sclera of his eyes brighten into a blaze as his irises fluctuated in hues and his pupils expanded into pitch black.

"I’m sorry, I thought there would be an improvement with age, but I was wrong. We could give it a few more moments, but I have doubt," he said rather dryly.

I let the statement rest in silence. His smile became more than irritating.

The boy motioned with his finger leaning in towards me. I mimicked his behavior, shifting my ear towards his lips to hear his whispers. "You desire her, don’t you? Gertie. Gertie Henderson. Do you want to fornicate with our Gertie? Make our Gertie all slippery. It doesn’t take much to make her moist. That’s my Wink-And-A-Nod to you.  My Man-to-Man, as they say."

I wasn’t about to take his bait though I did rather want to bash him in the teeth.

"Oh, don’t feign offense, Your Lordship. I’m not winning a prize at the funfair with that bull’s eye. I’ve heard my mother and father gossip about you and your wicked ways, which, by the way, I don’t find fascinating. It doesn’t shock me that a ripe, old bugger like you wants to fornicate with the hired help. What is shocking, or rather, astounding is how you don’t want coitus; you intend to incinerate our Gertie with your sexual prowess in some deranged, albeit magnificent, Workings."

"That’s an interesting assumption young man; deranged, magnificent bewitching."

"Albeit magnificent."

I nodded a graceful acknowledgment of my mistake. "And, please, if you would, kindly enlighten me as to the magnificence."

Again, he smiled pearly whites curtained with sanguine lips. I fixated on an impression of "predatory" and then, "dangerous."

"I’ve heard you and our Gertie chattering and cooing. I’ve heard the same sugary words slipping and sliding out of her mouth, but with far more eagerness and urgency."

"Are you suggesting—"

"I’ve heard your sweet baritone songs with their intentions of conjuring candy and Christmas promises. It takes more than divination to enchant the supple and juicy to an old carcass of bones and chicken skin. That’s the bewitching I would find deranged, albeit magnificent."

There followed tidbits of pleasantries painfully polite and squeezed through clenched teeth and achy smiles.

What an odd child. Oozing entitlement and privilege. Precocious; certainly.

I’m sure I shall formulate a more definite impression as the days tumble towards the Full Moon of Ankh-af-na-khonsu.

*      *      *

 Shortly before dawn, Ashford was waiting with the motorcar. He followed his instructions correctly, as is his nature, and waited for me on Holloway Street with the engine quiet. Movement caught my eye as I climbed into the motorcar—a figure in what appeared to be a dark cloak disappearing into the shadowy hornbeam hedge of Larkbear Hill. It was difficult to discern the size—height, girth—of the figure for the movement was quick, and something an untrained eye would miss.

Ashford confirmed the sighting, and that was enough for the moment. Our presence was imperative at the Nonconformist side of Lower Cemetery for the sunrise.

*      *      *

November 3. 25 days until the Workings.

I was the recipient of a "memory-dream" last evening, early this morning. Professor Van Helsing was calling me into Lucy’s bedroom in the Westenra house long ago. There Lucy was a vision of wasted beauty, emaciated and hardly weighing enough to do anything more than float on the goose down mattress. She was asleep having been administered narcotics in preparation for a transfusion of my blood into her body.

"You may take one little kiss," I remember Van Helsing said in his odd accent, which has gained more color in my dreams over the years—(I have not the occasion to see the old Professor for at least 15 years. Double-check this possibility. There’s a memory of an unattended Christmas invite lingering in the back of my mind. There is the possibility that the snub arises from that argument concerning the leaving behind of Quincey Morris’ body. There was a social gathering in Northamptonshire. ’94. Mina was pregnant; the child stillborn. The company was a mixture of old friends, new friends, Adepts and members, and fringe dwellers. Godalming Hall was rechristened "Perdurabo." The installation of the iron ram’s head on the gate had been completed the day before. We were all still dealing with scars—more thoughts on those later, please.)

Back to the dream—I did precisely that which was asked of me. I leaned in for a kiss; however, using my thumb, I slid up the edge of her lip and took a closer look at her extended canines. White, sharp spines protruded from receding gums, which took on the ghastly appearance of clams that had the life steamed out of them.

Further, I opened her mouth with my thumb, and studied the orifice into her body; the pale lips that should have been red with life, the lump of a tongue, the shriveled uvula and the glistening cavern that disappeared into the darkness of her body, all gray and dead. The life-giving blood sucked out of her. As I pantomimed kissing Lucy, I slid my forefinger into her mouth, quickly running it over the edges of her teeth, then in further, atop the withered tongue, to the knuckle.

I could feel the tumescence of my manhood.

Van Helsing turned as he untangled the amber-colored transfusion tubes and said, "He is so young and strong of body, and blood so pure." I remember that statement being spoken during the actual incident; it resonates with me now, after the dream.

I slid my finger out and kissed her mouth.

The transfusion was quite painful because of fumbling fingers. As the fluid of life pumped from me into Lucy, my heartbeat grew rapid; my breathing quickened, my veins bulged against flesh that had sensitized into mind-numbing pleasure.           

When I tried to control the release of pleasure, to slow and steady the pace, I struggled with my dream-conscious, and because I have yet to master sustained lucidness in my dreams, it all came to an abrupt halt.

I finished with a Solitary Operation.

*      *      *

Lucy, A Pure Memory—The Westenra estate. After midnight, Jack Seward, Quince Morris, and Professor Van Helsing had retired for the evening. Westenra was tomb-like silent. I was on watch.

Lucy was asleep but fitful. Ravished by dreams or nightmares. I held a chill, but there was a fire in the grate, which I stoked, and a fresh bucket of coal, which Quincey Morris had brought up before retiring to a makeshift bed in the second-floor library. This library was two doors down the hallway. Mere feet. Our American friend referred to it as the "Bunkroom," and we British fellows embraced that twanging colloquialism with the same enthusiasm as our Cow Poke from Texas.

The night before Van Helsing had festooned the room with pungent garlic; a somewhat ridiculously superstitious custom. At the time, I held no belief in such folksy remedies, nor do I now. My complete system of knowledge was grounded upon the holy crucifix—relic—we had placed around her neck; surely, that token of silver was enough to protect her from the evil afflicting her.

For whatever reason, and perhaps with these scribbles, my memory will ajar, and I can add more clarifying details. I was sitting in the wingback by the fireplace—reading a book from the Westenra collection though I don’t remember the title. I became distracted by a tapping at the window, like a branch automated by a breeze or the wind. I remember shrugging it off for a hyperactive state of paranoia and bloody raw nerves.

A spark cracked from the fireplace. I jerked in reflex as I do with pistol shots.

The restlessness in Lucy had quelled, the riot of nightmares had run its course and was allowing her body some peace.

As I remember the puzzling episode—I am standing, the book, which I had been reading, is face down on the floor, the pages bent from the fall. Lucy had kicked off the bedding and pulled her nightgown above her waist. She was quite exposed and ghastly, but exquisite in the flickering flames cast from the fireplace.

I noticed that the window and its heavy drapes were open.

Lucy’s stomach fell from cadaver ribs, flattening into a wasteland of blanched flesh, the faintly raised blue tributary-like veins duplicating the delicate, tiny wolf-hair brushstrokes of a potter’s underglaze. Cold blue on gray-dead-white. My eyes traveled to her jutting hipbones pitching taunt parchment skin into grisly abstract tents. There I lingered, refusing to cast my eyes further upon her body. Refusing to gaze directly at the movement that was in my peripheral vision, for staring at it would be to surrender my will. To surrender was to accept all those undefined primal urges that, through the teachings of the Plymouth Brethren, I believed were base, debauched, filthy and Satan’s temptation.

Lucy murmured.

I cast my eyes at her dark mons pubis where her skeletal fingers were at play like a long-legged spider.

What I thought was shivering—Lucy shivering against the cold—was Lucy trembling, or rather, that soft, almost imperceptible writhing of pleasure.

The crucifix was gone. The dressing from around her throat to conceal her wound she held in her fist.

At the window; a quickening of reflections, of moonlight refractions. My body raced with adrenaline, my mind poisoned by the thought of having failed my love. At that moment, I realized I was being watched. My memory does not serve me well at this moment to be able to attach a creature’s form to a blurred glimpse on that night.

Real or mystical, imagined or conjured—those same eyes—black on black—are watching me at Larkbear Hill twenty-some years after . . .

Next Chapter: CHAPTER X