EXCERPT from JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL (in shorthand)

1 November— Arthur Holmwood (His Lordship) is in the house (my house), and I do not intend to make an effort to welcome him even if etiquette dictates that I should. As long as he keeps to himself and the stay is relatively short, and there isn’t any funny business, I shall keep my displeasure in check. If haphazardly encountered in the hallway or one of the common rooms, ordinary decency will prevail, and I will provide the briefest "good day." His company is something I do not wish to seek out. I am catering to my wife’s whims, and that is the extent of it.

I am sure that a woman who is blind to the same traits within herself will accuse me of being obstinate and pious.

I can already feel his presence in the house (like a black cloud boiling before the thunder begins) and I’m almost sure I’ve already heard murmurs—

It has been several days since my return, and I would have thought (hoped) to find an invitation shimmied between the frame and door of my bedroom.

In my eagerness, I’ve checked and rechecked the hallway floor with the thought that perhaps such an invitation had fallen, that maybe it was kicked unknowingly and propelled across the runner and lay somewhere anxiously awaiting discovery.

There is no such invitation.

* * *

My thoughts betrayed by all the primping I saw (unbeknownst to you) as you searched the platform crowded with strangers, searching for me at Queens Street Station. My expectations further betrayed by the sparkle in your eyes, the dilation of your pupils, the moistness of your lips, and the lingering of your arms around my shoulders.

How I’ve missed you. How I’ve longed for you. How I’ve waited for your smile that in itself is an invitation. So often (these days) I’ve been misled and found myself with damning disappointment and self-doubts.

Seeing you at the station, I thought we shared the same heart, fortified by absence (from time and touch) only to discover that my heart is more massive and my craving for you unrequited. A small perfumed slip of paper, a few simple words in perfect, graceful calligraphy, folded once, sealed in red wax, franked by your nipple. What sweet bliss I anticipate—

* * *

Letter; Jonathan Harker to Abraham Van Helsing.

1 November.

"My friend, it has been far too long since any communications have passed between us, so it is with the hope that this letter finds you in good health.

Here in Exeter, everyday life is as commonplace as it can be in the Midlands. It is autumn, and nature’s brush paints Larkbear Hill in elegant, vibrant colors. I remark on this remembering that your last visit a few years back had been in autumn and how you enjoyed the colors the trees had to offer. It seems each year that the seasonal changes become quicker and quicker. Autumn is pleasantly lingering. The morning temperatures are chilly, but by afternoon, the weather has returned to skin warmth.

H&H is prospering. We have reluctantly found ourselves as the solicitors of choice when it comes to managing (in all regards) the annoying laws of Entails. There is a fear (justifiably so) that the conflicts on the continent will eventually spread to England. This is causing anxiety amongst the blue blood that, in their panic, are quickly underwriting properties and titles, establishing lineage and sending heirs to America for safekeeping.

Your estate is all arranged (as well you know), and if you have any questions or desire revisions, you should feel comfortable in asking. I am your humble servant, dear sir.

The inhabitants of Larkbear Hill, for the most part, are maintaining an adequate amount of good cheer. Nevertheless, wellness is elusive.

Quincey has become quite tall and has begun to fill out from the gangly sprout that he was a mere two years ago when you last saw him. His shoulders have broadened and finally (thankfully, as you can imagine) his voice has dropped to a more pleasing pitch for the neighborhood dogs. He certainly takes after his mother more than he takes after me. You can see Mina in the shape of his face, his mouth, and his eyes. Quincey has entered a growth spurt (as you said he would and how right you were) and now the resemblance is less feminine and more masculine. He will eventually sprout a dark and full beard like his father; you can see its shadow under the surface of his pale skin.

He possesses the required insolence towards his father that all young men develop at his age. Although I might add, I, myself, never transitioned through any such period and that I always held my father in high regard. It does get bloody boring to hear how wrong you always are and how you could never understand anything—

Mina’s behavior has taken on bizarre patterns. At first, I thought she was suffering from somnambulism. When pressed, she states (with aggressive conviction) that she is merely rising early to make better use of her mornings. Her afternoon catnaps are more a "dead slumber" than a brief repose. By my observation, I’d say between retirement and rise; she is sleeping less and less at night. If this pattern continues, I’m sure she will be "entirely nocturnal" by mid-winter.

If Quincey recovered his health and returned to university, normalcy would return to Larkbear Hill, and Mina’s sleeping pattern would improve.

After several dramatic episodes of what I would call "waking dreams," I thought that transcribing one for your perusal and interpretation could be of a benefit in helping me understand the nature of what is happening not only to me but to the people I love.

I was awakened from a black dreamless sleep. The room was chilly. I usually sleep more soundly when there is a chill. In recollection, I do not remember opening the window, but my habit, spring through summer, is to keep it open without forethought. I was prostrate on the bed while letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, staring at the ceiling and listening to the night coming in from the window. The crickets were silent and the night at a standstill, absent of rustling dry leaves or creaking branches. Only now in hindsight do I find this odd. The house was at rest, lacking the groans given to homes as they settle into their foundations for winter.

My eyes detected movement in the corner crevice where the walls and ceiling meet. I wasn’t sure until the shadow moved, confirming that something was there.

I heard its insect-like rapid clicking. I could follow this sound through the darkness with my eyes. Its movements are traceable by the ever slight rasping of insect wings rubbing together.

I resisted the urge to jump from the bed and turn up the lamp or to throw open the draperies and let in more moonlight. I was sure that if I did this the thing, whatever it was, would vanish.

The clicking ceased, and in that moment of silence, I felt death in the room; a feeling of emptiness as if all that was radiant had been rapidly extracted into darkness.

I grew anxious—whatever it was, I knew it was there. Lurking. Waiting.

Then the thing began to materialize from the murkiness of the shadows. I saw an amorphous shape (mostly bulbous) hovering just below or suspended from the ceiling, spasmodically twitching.

I could feel my scream building, rising from deep inside. As I tried to push my scream past my tongue—now swollen, completely filling my mouth—my jaws froze. Fear held control over my body and kept me paralyzed.

The thing on the ceiling twitched and vibrated, vibrating so voraciously it was challenging to discern its features—I do not know how such phenomena could happen, how such an object could vibrate so much and stay in one piece.

The shape materialized into Mina. Our dear Mina, Professor—scuttling insect-like, back-and-forth across the bedroom ceiling while defying the laws of gravity and logic. A hideous serpentine tongue flickered over her fangs.

What I saw before my eyes was a reminder of that horrible night long ago when I was a captive in that castle. I remember looking out that cell-like window high above the murky abyss. I could not believe my eyes (then) as I watched pure evil incarnate crawl down that castle wall like a lizard. I shudder even now, as the image comes quickly to my mind of his cloak spreading around him, spreading into great wings.

I could no longer hold back my emotion; a scream sputtered from my frozen throat, first, in a succession of short, choked blasts, then a much longer release building powerfully into a full-on eruption.

It all ended abruptly when suddenly I found myself awake, standing in front of my bedroom window, shivering.

As I glanced out the window, in the yard below, awash in moonlight, Mina was leaving the house for her morning walk. This was nothing out of the ordinary until I noticed the crow flying (sentinel-like) above her. As you know, crows are not nocturnal.

I hope this transcript is enough evidence of the somnambulant behavior at Larkbear Hill.

I anticipate your analysis, and I hope that we will be able to find a means by which to see each other soon.

May peace be with you in abundance.

Your friend, Jonathan."

Next Chapter: CHAPTER IX