EXCERPT from JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL (in shorthand)

17 October.— Arriving home always brings a sense of relief, one that I feel entirely in my muscles as they relax beneath my weary skin and sink to my tired bones. Traveling has become something of a burden to me, one that I no longer enjoy as I used to.

It, as always it does, fills me with great pride and feelings of contentment to see my wife ever so beautiful and full of excitement as I disembark the train.

I hesitated in the compartment, spying out the window to find you. Found you there with Rufs (ever so loyal Rufs) in his shabby work clothes topped by his "carriage hat" and you in your taffeta finery. I could hear you rustle and swish from behind the glass. If I didn’t know any better, I would accuse you of spendthrift shopping in my absence, but I remember having seen that fold of taffeta (so intensely purple to be almost black) tucked in amongst the other copious folds of fabric in your sewing room. I am sure you made good use of the treadle while I was away—of course, by evidence of the elegance you wore to greet me.

Although I hesitated, although I spied, I couldn’t suppress the emotions my heart pumped when you were but a mere yard away.

***

I am greatly distressed from hearing the story of Ol’ Liam Somners and the crows. Somners was right; crows know the difference between a hunter with a gun and an old man with a cane.

I can’t imagine what it must have been like watching that kind of rabid bloodthirst and being powerless to provide any help.

I do wonder if there had been another person present, would the crows have attacked.

Another disturbing detail is in the manner in which Mina (my dear) delivered the horrific event—as emotionally retarded as the recitation of a market list—combined with her unnerving, unbroken and intimidating stare (those eyes of judgment) which sometimes can exude confidence and self-assurance. I couldn’t tell if this time I saw (sensed) hostility and contempt . . . and for whom; the crows having been condemned to being executioners (were you aware you used that word?) or Liam Somners for being a "dead weight" bore? Still, I can understand how one could distance one’s self emotionally from unpleasant events by scribbling in a diary. Ruminating into madness is easy.

Quincey appears to be recovering though the recovery is sluggish. I have concerns about his mother’s decision to allow him the excuse of using an entire term to recuperate. It is too early in his schooling to take time off. It is something one does not do during the first year at university. Once you get behind, you’ll always be behind. You will always have your chums ahead of you to remind you of poor performance.

I think Mina is overly protective, and Quincey is exceedingly dependent. I have watched the two of them together and—I watched the two of you from the doorway leading into the drawing-room, barely concealed behind the portiere. You were sitting on the sofa and you, Mina; you were clipping and filing the mollycoddle’s nails. Sixteen years old and he is unable to trim his nails. On the other hand, is it that you’ve made him dependent upon you for his grooming?

This news of Arthur Holmwood causes great displeasure. It is a test of my tolerance; that’s all that I can say about it. I’m prickly if I express my opinions, and I’m a bastard when I keep my ideas to myself. I have every right as Man-of-the-House to approve or disapprove of guests.

I pulled the edge of the bedding to my nose and confirmed my suspicions without having sniffed at the pillows. Your "fragrance" lingers the way perfume does long after the wearer has left the room. Your head makes an atypical depression in the pillow; this is always the telltale sign. I know when I crawl under the bedding and nestle beneath the duvet, the essence of your lingering will comfort me and permeate my dreams.

Although my journals appear as if untouched (you are always careful to replace them exactly) I know that they have been removed and not so skillfully replaced. I deliberately loosened the right-hand knob on the bottom drawer of my Tallboy. The knob is now snug against the face. The journals, sequestered beneath the summer shirts, have been slightly jarred. I know what I have found to be true.

I am placing my pilfered treasures between these pages . . . Perhaps their impending discovery will foster some imagination of a more prurient variation.

***

CUTTING FROM Jack Bull, 20 October (pasted in Jonathan Harker’s journal)

ASTOUNDING SECRETS OF A DEVIL WORSHIPER

Why is it that the impending threat of war always forces the crack-pot, rabble-rousing scum to the top, and the self-professed Imperial Grand Magician is the scummiest of the scum. From where this Inhuman monster came, many of you may be asking. He may have come from a cell in some Buddhist monastery, or a kef-odor tent in the middle of Algeria, or an opium dive in Shanghai, or perhaps from one of our great English Manor houses.

What we do know is he’s traipsing around the countryside with malevolent intent.

This man is one of the most sinister figures of modern times. He is a dedicated drug fiend, the purveyor of obscene practices, a Satanist, and a cannibal at large. There appear to be no limits to the depths of wickedness his IGM will sink to squelch his wicked desires.

As an example of his depravity; during one of his mountaineering expeditions, he is said to have killed, butchered, cooked, and eaten one of his native porters. This diabolical incident wasn’t because the groups’ supplies had run out, and the fear of starvation and death became an impetus for survival. This devilish event was a morbid curiosity as to the taste of human flesh in comparison to chicken. The Culture of the Covens takes care of their own through veils of secrecy, much like the Ku Klux Klan of America.

Only the coven insiders know who is who.

The IMG is said to be a member in GOOD STANDING of the House of Lords. This publication is positively sure he’s not the only witch in that lot.

His voracious appetite for mind-altering drugs and sexual promiscuity has become legendary. The number of naked, nubile bodies of once chaste young women to be found in his Arabian Nights-like ’Den of Iniquity’ is as limitless as seeds in a fig. Others spread gossip that his sexual inclination is bent towards a stranger fruit.

As a testament to his wickedness we published here his account of the cold-blooded murder of a cat when he was a young boy of 16; "As the saying goes, ’A cat has nine lives,’ I reasoned that it must be practically impossible to kill one. The more I thought about it, the more obsessed I became to put that old superstition to the test. So, I set a trap and caught what one would call a barn cat—a feral calico fat with field rodents. Something no one would miss. After administering a hefty dose of arsenic, I chloroformed it, stabbed it, cut its throat, gouged its eyes and hanged it above the flames on an open stove. After it had been thoroughly burnt, I drowned it and threw it out a top floor window so that the fall might remove the ninth life.

"You don’t have to look to the continent for evil lurking around the corner; it’s lurking in that kind, rosy-cheeked lad living next door.

* * *

EXCERPT from JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL (in shorthand)

28 October.— Brisk air this morning on the ride to H&H. I’m not quite ready for winter. London has always been warmer; at least, that is my memory. However, being busy this trip, I was unaware of London’s climate. Trains to cabs to hotels—not much room to notice the weather and especially while playing chaperone to Baldwin and Marcus.

I do take pleasure in the nippiness of October as opposed to the blatant chill attached to December. One is crisp and refreshing; the other is biting and harsh. A good deep breath of October chill is friendlier and less freezing than a quick sniff of December chill.

Rufs was unusually quiet (keeping a stern expression and a steady eye on guiding the Gladiator along the narrow streets,) so I inquired after passing through City Wall—

"Missus Mina wants the yard cleaned."

"And this is the cause of such a grumpy disposition?"

"I keep the yard tidy as Cathedral Green."

Somewhere in my memory, Rufs was a former Head Gardener at some large estate in Wales (perhaps) or Yorkshire. A senior Brady may have brought Rufs into service—I’ve only heard Rufs speak of his father once and not in kindness. I know that the gardening beds and yard around Larkbear Hill are a point of pride for Rufs.

"The yard is lovely. I hardly think you can be attentive to every fallen leaf especially since it is autumn and that’s when leaves tend to clutter the ground."

"His Lordship is coming, and Missus Mina wants to make a good impression."

"A grand impression is more like it." I heard the pithiness in my words before I could stop them from coming out. This impending visit by "His Lordship" could become quite the bane for any length of stay. I am so beside myself that she did not consult with me and, then, becomes indignant when I am disagreeable to his visit. Why should I be agreeable to a man who only sees the world through his own eyes and refuses to accept that the rest of us do not share his views and positions? His arrogance is infuriating, and when you mix that stubborn, bull-headedness with such a developed sense of entitlement and righteousness, the whole concoction becomes anathema to any socially acceptable friendship. It further infuriates me that we could have shared so much, had such a strong bond (the closest relationship that two men can have) for it all to come down to the manner in which one practices one’s religion. I am smug (I know this) and content in the fact that I am not alone in this "infuriation." Seward and Van Helsing share the same feelings, and I’m sure, Morris, if he were alive, would be right there along with us. And dare I say it? (I will!) Lucy, if she were alive, would agree, and I’m sure Arthur would have been sent marching long before this "ailment" of his became the mindset that it has become.

I have done my best to improve the situation between us, and each attempt at reconciliation is thwarted when he opens his repugnant mouth to spew with certitude his perverted views. Even when I let him win, (I say "win" to use his ideology) he doesn’t have the good grace to keep his mouth shut. Winning and having the last word is what it’s all about to His Lordship.

I don’t know how Mina can ignore (nor see beyond) his tripe, but she does, and I do admire her for being so tolerant. I also admire the smug, self-satisfaction I see her exhibit when her dander is given to rising because of a heated disagreement. She does enjoy knowing that she is tolerated.

Toleration (sometimes) escapes me. I’m probably more prone to toleration than I would like to admit.

"I like a good pile of leaves to kick around at this time of year," I offered to Rufs.

"It’s not easy to keep up with, especially when the wind is shooting up the Exe the way it does."

We were both quiet for a moment.

"I do my best," Rufs said though it was barely audible and I may have misheard him.

"I’m sure Mina knows that you do."

He nodded. I’m not sure the nod was agreement.

As a further test of my ability to produce toleration—Baldwin, and Marcus were already having a strong go at it when I reached H&H. The whole lot of them laughing loud and boisterous at my expense.

This fraternizing soured my mood considerably, and I’m afraid I was a bit terse and stated something to the effect of "How well we all must be doing given that nobody seems to be at their desk producing anything that vaguely resembles work."

* * *

29 October.— When I came in this afternoon, early from H&H, I caught from the corner of my eye, Mina sitting in her favorite chair in the drawing-room as quiescent as the dead. Cup and saucer were on the rug, the tea making a rather large dark spot. Were it not for the fact that she was sitting bolt upright with perfect posture (as always) I would have panicked and presumed her deceased.

On closer inspection, I could scarcely tell that she was breathing. Holding the back of my hand under her nose produced no hint at all of the inhaling or exhaling of breath.

I opened my pocket watch and placed the crystal beneath her nose; this method produced no effect.

There was, however, the nearly imperceptible movement of delicate lace on her bosom that implied life. I gently pushed a stray curl of dark hair from her forehead, which caused me to notice, first; that her crescent-shaped scar was less pinkish and less pronounced, and secondly; my wife seemed to be rejuvenating before my eyes. I had noticed a change upon my return from London, but I thought this more to be the effects of being absent from each other and my perpetual state of lust. I am always excited to see her after a long trip (or any trip) and the time spent apart seems to strengthen our bond—at least that’s my perception, and of course, Mina may not share those thoughts. Nevertheless, always, the time apart invigorates my awareness, and when I see her again, I see her anew.

I scrutinized the face of the woman I married two decades ago. What I saw—the faint crow’s feet, faint brow wrinkles, and her double chin . . . though, to be honest, it was not an actual double chin, but well on the way to plumping from gravity— appeared to have firmed up a bit. There is also the marvel of a few stones in weight decrease. I brushed a finger against her cheek in an attempt to waken her gently. What I felt there, against her flesh, was frigid enough for me to draw back my hand as if touching fire. How could she be so cold as to mimic the dead, yet still be alive?

"Mina, darling—"

Whereupon your eyes opened without the startled expression given when one is awakened unexpectedly.

"I didn’t hear you come in," you said.

"Having a nap?" I asked.

Your expression became confused. "I’m having some tea. Would you . . ." and there you realized that you no longer held your cup and saucer. I dare say you quickly glanced towards the rug and the wet spot, yet I could tell that you believed that I wasn’t perceptive enough to have caught you doing so. "Did I have a spell?" you uttered whilst not looking directly at me.

I told you that you did have a spell and asked how often they occur (thinking that whatever it was that happened had happened often enough for you to refer to it as a ’spell.’)

You sat there nodding, your vapid expression.

"Do you often have these spells, darling?" I asked.

"I must be tired," was your reply and with that, the conversation and the incident concluded.

* * *

I questioned Mrs. Brady about Mina’s bizarre ’spells’ and after some gentle prodding and the assurance that Mina wouldn’t reprimand her for doing so—

"I’ve found the missus on several occasions sitting rigid, she was. In the soft chair. Cold as December. My cup and saucer on the floor."

"Have you tried to wake her?" I asked.

"Soon as I tap her shoulder, she comes awake as if nothing was out of the wrong."

"Do these ’spells’ happen more than once a day?" I persisted.

"They happen because she’s up so early in the morning, and it’s just her taking a nap, that’s all. It’s become part of her habit. She doesn’t sleep so well . . . eventually, that catches up with you."

"You commented that these ’spells’ are eerie. Could you give further details regarding that remark?"

At first, she shook her head and then shrugged her shoulders.

"It would be helpful, Mrs. Brady if you could."

She continued shaking her head, pursing her lips into a grotesque pout. "It’s her stillness and how cold she feels that makes it eerie."

I didn’t at the time but in hindsight, I did notice the emanating cold before I touched Mina.

I could gather nothing further from Mrs. Brady, so I reiterated that she need not worry.

I wonder if Mina’s body was compensating for the lack of rest. I shall keep a watchful eye—

Another stilted exchange between Quincey and myself. I thought a few days away would foster some repair, but it hasn’t. Whatever I try, it isn’t enough.

I feel so much contempt pouring from his blank-faced expression whenever I try to be pleasant, concerned, or just friendly. In the mornings (when I meet him in the hall or at breakfast,) he’s usually coming in from being "out," and I don’t ask any questions to avoid accusations of being intrusive.

This morning we encountered each other on the stairs to the upper hall; he was coming down as I was going up. I think we surprised each other. I was returning to my room for some cufflinks, and he was on his way to God-knows-where. We were reversed on the stairs in our coming-and-going.

"You’re back," he grunted.

I nodded silently, more from being caught off-guard than being a curmudgeon. The moment I took to collect my thoughts, Quincey continued his assault.

"I thought I sensed a shift in the house."

"I take it that you’re feeling better?"

Then I could clearly see that he shifted the focus of his eyes—as if he put a windowpane between us and was focusing on the surface of the glass instead of my face. The effect is that he was looking towards me, just not directly at me, or into my eyes. In these habitual moments, I must say his gaze is piercing. So much so, that it isn’t hard to believe he is looking beyond the human element and into another world. His stare can be quite disconcerting.

When he spoke, it was with slow deliberation, "It isn’t so much about who is in the photographs, or what they are doing, or why they are there, or for what purpose one would be doing such things. I don’t think one should even consider the dubious nature of the purchaser of such a captured moment; he was acting from a base of pure titillation. No, it’s more about the character of the photographist that appeals to our latent voyeuristic nature, wouldn’t you agree?"

I felt the rise of red in my face. There was some confusion between anger and embarrassment, and these emotions produced the effect of being tongue-tied. The wicked will that I’ve struggled with concerning my son returned to the surface.

A few curt (un)pleasantries followed and then that was that for today’s father and son exchange.

* * *

I don’t seem to be able to destroy my hidden treasures, nor remove them or return them to their rightful owner. The stealing was unnecessary, as I am sure Marcus would have procured whatever amount of postcards that I requested. The thrill started with stealing something coveted from someone I found loathsome. Then the thrill resided in the possible discovery of something sexually base in my possession. Now, the thrill is gone, and all I have in its place is a shame. I can blow on her feathers and expose her cheeky wonderments; expose her warm mouth and her delicate hand grasping the unnamed man’s prick; reveal the spread of her legs and her fingers disappearing into her dark crevice. I can fantasize any number of the same such scenarios with my wife in the Frenchwoman’s stead, but such fantasies are wasted in self-satisfaction. So, then, from where do my feelings of humiliation and disgrace arise? In having impure thoughts concerning an unnamed, unattainable immoral Frenchwoman, or; wanting those carnal satisfactions guaranteed to a husband by nature of being married to the woman he loves, or; taking my manhood in my fist to satisfy a natural function of the male body?

"And if any man’s seed of copulation go out from him, then he shall wash all his flesh in water. . ."

* * *

Letter; Lord Godalming to Mina Harker. 29 October

"My dear friend, your hearth and home sound to me to be what the doctor has ordered. It is so very kind of you to open your home to me on such short notice. I promise not to burden you with my everyday problems or endless complaints. I shall disappear into what I’m sure to find as charming and as inviting as any hotel suite. You shall hear nary a squeak from me. In addition, if there comes a time when I have overstayed my welcome, I need only to be told, and I will then vacate promptly as if I were never there.

Always in devotion, Art"

Next Chapter: CHAPTER VII