TELEGRAM

 ABRAHAM VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM: TO JONATHAN HARKER, EXETER.

MY FRIEND, PLEASE BE ADVISED TO EXAMINE PETER 5:8. SUCH WILL BE MY ADVICE TO YOUR QUERY.

*      *      *

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL (typewritten)

7 November. At dinner, I braved starting a conversation with Jonathan concerning our guest and the notion of hospitality— "Darling, I think  you would make an invitation to Arthur to join us for dinner. I realize the two of you—"

"Why do I have to make an invitation?"

"Courtesy, dear."

"I’m not courteous, is that it?"

"That’s not what I’m saying. You are the master of this house, and it is proper etiquette for you . . ."

"Oh, I see. We have to elevate our standards because of our guest. I mean to say, your guest."

"He’s our guest, dear."

"I did not invite him."

"This is what I mean. I sure he senses your displeasure at his presence. If you made a small effort, a minimum effort to invite him to have dinner with us, it might make things a little more comfortable."

"I certainly don’t feel any discomfort; if our house is unbearable for His Lordship, Exeter certainly has several hotels that he may find more suitable. I’d be happy to recommend one and have Rufs bring the Gladiator around."

"You are a bore. Arthur is your friend, too, and in his time of strife, you should put away your differences and lend him some comfort."

"I’m lending him a place to hide, and I’m also feeding him. It’s my opinion that He and His whole bloody lot should be well served with interment at Jack Seward’s. It’s the best place for some afflictions."

 "Jonathan!"

"I cannot abide by his actions. This, this business, this albatross hanging around his neck is a direct result of his choice and actions."

"That may be, however . . ."

"Beware of false prophets for they are ravening wolves and come to you in sheep’s clothing."

"Please continue to butcher the scriptures. It is something that you’ve come to do rather well."

Hearing these unsympathetic expressions come out of the man I married, caused my mouth to go dry. I stared down at my porterhouse, and my mind flooded with anger at Mrs. Brady. I shouted at her with a vengeance I should have directed at my poor, misguided husband of whom I cared not to look directly at, at that moment in time.

Mrs. Brady appeared from the kitchen wide-eyed and ashen. I unleashed my sharp edges. "Did I not say I wanted my steak rare?"

"Yes, mum, you did."

"Did I not say I wanted it bloody to feed my blood?"

"Yes, mum."

"Is this toughened piece of a shoe rare? Do you see any juice at all? I’m curious, what part of my request did you not understand?"

"I’ll fix up another, mum."

"Start all over and throw this one out?"

Jonathan piped in with, "At least save it for the dogs."

I took a breath, and that’s when I noticed that I was not as warm with anger as I thought I might be. I knew my anger tended to raise the heat in my cheeks, that my ears would be ablaze, and my neck spotted with unsightly blemishes. I did not feel this emotional heat. I felt cold. Unbelievably cold. I noticed, too, that my heart was not thumping, nor was my breath quick. I was uncharacteristically, calm, and arctic.

The looks upon Mrs. Brady and Jonathan’s face brought me in to check. Even being embarrassed, I felt no blood rise.

"I’ll fix another, mum, right up," said Mrs. Brady, who took my plate and disappeared behind the swing door into the kitchen.

Jonathan could not take his piercing eyes from me, and I began to feel very self-conscious. I shouldn’t have let his ugly disposition fuel me into anger, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on Mrs. Brady. I needed instant absolution so, without much hesitation—I did linger for a few long moments under Jonathan judgmental gaze—I followed Mrs. Brady into the kitchen.

She was trimming the fat from a cutlet at the butcher’s block. I could sense she was misty-eyed. I dare say I smelt the salt.

"Mrs. Brady, I’m so very sorry for being brusque."

My voice startled her, and the boning knife sliced through her finger. She froze in shock as blood gushed onto the meat already red with juices. I quickly grabbed a hand towel and rushed to her aid. I wrapped the edge around her finger and applied pressure, but it was a deep cut, and the white cloth quickly turned pink and then red. I’ve never realized blood had a unique scent. Not like the aroma of roasting pork or the comfort of a baking pie. If something could smell like a copper cooking pot, then Mrs. Brady’s blood ponged precisely that way; a metallic scent I then began to associate with a sugary taste causing a confusing sensation in my mouth. (It is such an odd comparison as I think about it now. The experience was like the way you think of a sweet you very much enjoy, and then your mouth begins to salivate.) The smell caught in my nose and for a moment, I am shameful to admit, I was intoxicated (for lack of a better word.) I could feel Mrs. Brady resisting my hold. I didn’t realize until Jonathan caught her, that she had fainted.

*      *      *

EXCERPT from JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL (in shorthand)

 7 November.— A most awkward dinner this evening. Mina insisted that I ask Arthur to join us sometime soon for dinner and noted my lack of courtesy in having not done so in a more desirable fashion. Apparently, I am not exhibiting enough proper etiquette for her liking.

I’d be happy to have Rufs transport "our" guest to the Royal Clarence (if his Mechanic isn’t available) where I’m sure he’ll find the service there to be of a more courteous nature. I am baffled as to why he isn’t staying there in the first place—I understand that Mina was polite in her offering, and he should have politely declined.

I don’t trust—

I learned this evening that I am a bore and that I should let bygones be bygones. I believe I stated my position quite firmly, and I have a strong conviction in my beliefs. I’ll repeat it again and again if I need to. Lord Arthur Godalming née Holmwood’s actions are utterly offensive to me. They go against nature and God’s teachings. It is not our place to question something so abhorrent to the sacredness.

"Whosoever lieth with the beast shall surely be put to death."

I believe in this quote wholly.

I was shocked by the childish manner in which Mina took her anger out on Mrs. Brady, who appeared with her usual doe-eyed mien—her telltale expression associated with her nasty habit of listening behind closed doors.

Mina’s voice strained for calm tones, "Did I not say I wanted my steak bloody to feed my blood?"

"Yes, mum."

"What part of my request did you not understand? This stake is positively a piece of leather."

I offered my serving, which seemed on the juicier side, but Mina would have none of it. I was completely ignored.

"I’ll fix up another, mum," Mrs. Brady’s voice flooded with well-practiced worry.

"This isn’t fit for the dogs. Don’t think that I won’t be deducting the cost of this waste from your wages." Her complexion was ghostly pale, which I found surprising as Mina tends to blush into spots when her ire is on the rise.

For a moment, I worried that your anemia would get the better of you. You certainly looked as if you were about to faint. Your eyelids were fluttering, and there was a sort of nervous twitch to your composure.

The steadfast Mrs. Brady did her best to rectify the indiscretion. "I’ll fix you another, mum . . . right up." She took the plate (her shoulders shaking) and returned to the kitchen with haste.

Mina became a blur as she left her seat so suddenly. She was through the door and into the kitchen before I could let out a relaxing breath.

I listened and pondered for a moment on how this (these spells) were getting all too strange. With a thousand fears racing through my mind, one single thought nudged ahead of all others; whatever her illness (anemia one day, the Silent Passage the next) I am most fearful it is growing into something insidious.

The tableau I witnessed when I entered the kitchen was as follows; Mrs. Brady slack in a faint as Mina (by means of unbound strength) supported the woman using a single hand positioned at the back of her neck. There was a cut to Mrs. Brady’s hand, and Mina sucked the blood in greedy gulps.

The gruesomeness of the scene caught me off guard. The more blood Mina siphoned, the pinker her pallor became. The illusion continued to the darkening of her hair, the rouge of her lips; the former richer and luminous, the latter, claret. I could physically see life passing from one to the other as Mina gained color and Mrs. Brady grayed.

My god, how voluptuous Mina looked in this altered state. So sensuous in her actions. Her lips made barely audible wet sounds against Mrs. Brady’s hand.

My urges began to rise—as they do now in my remembrance and writing.

How quickly my fascination turned to disgust. Aghast, I pulled Mrs. Brady free—I didn’t realize how far from the floor Mina supported her, and this miscalculation was unexpected—my knees buckled and cracked as I took her full weight into my arms.

Mina stood with a startled expression—like a child about to be punished without any understanding as to why—her lips stained, her chin holding a scarlet droplet.

I carefully placed Mrs. Brady on the table and kept a steady hand on her in anticipation of her awakening.

When I returned my attention to Mina (mere seconds later), she was tonguing her lower lip clean of blood.

I was unreserved; my voice wrought with disgust and rage, "Whosoever toucheth anything that was unclean shall become unclean." 

I’ve never, in all the years since it was burned into her forehead, seen Mina touch that scar with so much apprehension. Her voice was woeful, slightly above a whisper, "I am unclean."

I struggled for equanimity, and as it started to settle for a moment, I experienced a premonition; Mina worshipping at the feet of that demon from long ago. Writhing in pleasure as her hands sensually explored her curves and voluptuous beauty. I shook the thought from my head, and when my eyes cleared, the vision, as well as Mina, was gone.

The kitchen door closed silently.

Mrs. Brady regained consciousness and didn’t seem bothered at all about being on the tabletop. She mumbled some concern about cutting her hand.

*      *      *

 TELEGRAM: JONATHAN HARKER, EXETER: TO ABRAHAM VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM.

"BEHOLD THE BEAST THAT WAS, AND IS NOT, AND YET IS."

*      *      *

Letter; Theodosia Seward to Mina Harker

8 November

"Mina my dearest, I must insist on an audience as soon as possible. The spirits have not been idle these past days, and there is a multitude of topics for discussion, none so much as when I try to visualize you. You are obscured in my mind. Secreted. Working to get a glimpse of you is almost like spying through a dense, black thicket. The moment I can catch focus, you disappear entirely.

When I write your name, I feel something ominous hanging on each letter. Cumbersome and dreadful.

This morning my tea turned between sips. One sip was sweet and milky, the other bitter and spoilt. This happened because I was thinking of you and your dear little Lucy.

I hope that you have been keeping up with your dream diary. Bring it along, as I’m sure there is a wealth of information in its dissection.

I expect your arrival within the week unless otherwise informed.

With peace, Theodosia."

*      *      *

EXCERPT from JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL (in shorthand)

8 November.— I finally made my way to the third floor and gave a gentle knuckle to the door. This visitation (planning and execution) took considerable effort on my part, and I desire to be greatly appreciated for the effort I’ve made.

I waited, listening. I knuckled again. The sound of my knuckles on the door came back to me, hollow and silent. The room was empty.

To make double sure, I called out to Arthur and identified myself. I hoped that I didn’t sound too forced or formal. Again, I waited long enough for a reply. When none came, I announced that I was entering the room and turned the knob. The door was unlocked, as I expected it would be.

"Arthur," I said upon entering.

There was a faint, lingering tang of something fruity that I could not identify. Probably one of those Oriental incense sticks of which he is so fond. I recall a similar odor wafting through the estate house in Northamptonshire—there the scent overpowered dozens and dozens of rooms. I remember it being so strong we had Mrs. Brady laundering the clothes we had taken with us on that trip several times before the eradication of that distinctive aroma. My immediate thought turned to Mina, who would badger Mrs. Brady, to no end, to remove the smell from her draperies and upholsteries.

I searched the suite room by room for Arthur, but he was gone. I found this odd as I thought I would have heard him leave.

I did not expect the rooms to be tidy, especially being occupied by a man that employs others to pick-up after him. Although I’m sure, Mina prompted Gertie on her extended duties for our visiting aristocrat, I’m confident Mina also prompted our guest on the shortcomings of our limited household staff.

One of his steamers (there are three) was open. Neat and tidy on the inside, and filled with what I would call "daily clothes"—common threads to most, uncommon to members of the aristocracy who would consider such clothing beneath them. Tweed mustard-colored pants, several neatly pressed chambray shirtsleeves all in the same shade of blue. There was an assortment of undergarments; a pair of braces and some festive neckwear along with some other accessories on the cheap side.

One of the pullouts contained the paraphernalia for his morning ablutions. Mostly Taylor of Bond Street fares probably packaged, especially for His Lordship. I, myself, do enjoy Taylor of Bond Street. Arthur gave me my first kit several Christmases ago, and I have used their soaps and creams since.

I was, however, amused at Arthur’s apparent attempt at blending in with the locals. He certainly enjoys the fawning bestowed upon him due to his position of privilege; he’s always more gregarious when the curtsies and bow begin. Why blend in in Exeter?

I became distracted by the contents of the second steamer; a Louis Vuitton (they all were) filled with "vestments." At first glance, they appeared to be ecclesiastical, although I’m not schooled in such things. They were long tunics, tailored from fine, expensive cloth of the deepest purple, nearly black, that I’ve ever seen. All finely embroidered with a golden cross over where the heart might be.

In the pullouts were silk stoles again in that same purple-black, their ends embroidered in gold bullion with strange, unfamiliar symbols and geometric shapes; an Egyptian styled eye with radiating beams of light, the letter "A" followed with three dots in a triangle formation. Symbols meaningful only to false prophets and their followers.

"Three evil spirits came out of the mouth of the dragon, out of the mouth of the beast and out of the mouth of the false prophet."

I noticed the smell of that particular eastern incense grew stronger, emanating from Widow Hawkins’ old dressing room—a room (at best a cramped wash closet) by far the smallest in the house. The wafting scent was much stronger and suggested to me that that room was where the source originated.

I investigated, worried that the incense was burning unattended. What I found was puzzling; a small room covered in all manner of mirrors; pocket mirrors, grooming mirrors, large silver-backed panels. Some had to be personal mirrors packed in his trunks, the others gathered from around the house. I must confess as I write this, that I haven’t noticed that the mirrors around the house have disappeared.

A pile of pillows arranged on the floor was for sitting Oriental style. Just before the pillows and slightly to the left; a butler’s tray I recognized from our kitchen fashioned as a little table, propped from the floor with books from the library. Balanced across the butler’s table was a polished and spotless silver sword and some items arranged to mark compass points; north, a small vial of what appeared to be oil; south, a silver jigger; east, a golden disc with an embossed pentacle; and west, a little brass bell.

There were several pieces of paper adorned with what I’ll call cabalistic markings.

On a small square of translucent parchment, again covered in mystical markings, I found a folded sachet of the same paper. I contemplated picking it up for further examination. I could see that the sachet was filled with something, but I couldn’t tell what that "something" was.

Unfolding the parchment carefully, I discovered a collection of several dozen hairs (human, I assume) tied together, curled into the packet. I was thrown off (stunned) by the oddity of the discovery.

Then a hundred questions as to "Why" came into my mind. As I replaced the sachet, I shifted the square of parchment, revealing a second envelope containing a likewise prepared cluster of red hairs pubic in nature. Immediately I thought of Gertie.

Of all the odd objects that created this altar, my eyes were drawn to a cluster of black, iridescent feathers (three of them) on which sat the small cloisonné jar Mina used to conceal her freckle cream. She will blame Gertie; she would never consider that Arthur pinched it, or for that matter, that Arthur was lurking around the house, snooping through rooms and personal items.

When I snatched up the jar, the sudden movement sent the glittering feathers airborne.

I paid them no mind; I cared not where they landed. I knew my actions (the results thereof) would send a message to our guest that, at least, someone in this house was aware of his antics. I had already decided to find a time to ask him (calmly) to go away quietly. He can make his excuse to inform Mina, or I will provide one for him. I fear I shall become the villain, and I will gladly assume that position if it achieves my desired results. I want this man (once a friend) to remove his blasphemous trunks and detestable practices, views, and ideas, and leave our house. I do not wish to hear any of his religious blather, and I no longer have any tolerance or friendship for him, nor will I ever.

"He shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels—"

 *      *      *

Letter; Mina Harker to Theodosia Seward.

13 November

"Dear Teddy, nothing would please me more than to visit London and, in turn, my most unconventional dear friend. As you can imagine, the days here in Exeter are dreary, gray, dreary, gloomy, and gray dreary. Being greeted with your summons—I mean sweet epistle—has put a badly needed gaiety in my gait. I will plan the trip immediately. Jonathan mentioned having H&H business—doesn’t he always—that he needs to attend to in London, so I think we’ll both make a holiday of it and a badly needed holiday at that. I have been keeping up with my dream diary though it’s not as copious as you would prefer and I’m sure not as fascinating. My daily life is turning out to be stranger than my dreams and is nothing I wish to write about in this short note. I do expect several cups of your exotic imported tea and a few of those wonderful scones you concoct as I bend your ear in person. Perhaps you’ll be able to make sense out of the happenings I’ve been enduring when I tell you about every incident in agonizing detail. There is so much to tell, and possibly, it’s key that my dreams are so pedestrian in comparison to my everyday existence. I do miss your untamed "joie de vivre" and have been wondering about your newest eccentric explorations, so I expect more out of this visit than me blathering. We’ll go Tit-for-Tat old chum.

I hope this note finds Jack well and that his work continues to impress the scholarly acolytes of mental health reform that he so desires to do. I’ve read in the papers a few articles that have been very positive about the advancements he has made at the asylum. It must be exhilarating for both of you.

Ever yours loving, Mina."

*      *      *

LORD GODALMING’S AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTEBOOK (in calligraphy)

November 13. 15 days until the Workings.

I was partaking in the ritual Solitary Operation when the phantasm began. "Arrrthurrr. Arrrthurrr." The sound was like an intake of air as if catching one’s breath. "Arrrthurrr. Arrrthurrr," the white streak cooed sweetly. Though for twenty odd years, I had only heard her voice in memories and dreams, it was unmistakably my dearest Lucy’s voice.

My transportation was instantaneous. I thought that I had perhaps achieved an instance of astral traveling during my intense absorption with the Solitary Operation. I was no longer at Larkbear Hill. I was lucid. I was not dreaming or hallucinating. Nor was I under the influence of any opiates previous or current. I was in—what I have later decided—a premonitory altered stated of consciousness.

I did my best to gather my bearings both physically and mentally. I could feel the cold dampness with my feet and the slime of the sodden mold with my toes. My olfactory senses confirmed the putrid stench of rot, human and otherwise. I held total recall of the surroundings; the damp Westenra crypt in Hampstead and Lucy’s cold, impersonal marble tomb.

My surroundings were physical, centered in the elemental dimension. I could touch and smell.

I had vision and hearing—

"I know you’ve studied the Kama Sutra," the voice breathy; a love-pant pursued by devious giggles. "We can try all the positions, my dear, dear Arrrthurrr."

The wraith materialized upon the tomb’s lid in the likeness of my Lucy, but not my flesh-and-blood, vivacious Lucy. Not the Lucy with a stake of ash through the heart returned to God’s grace, but an imp and succubus; a voluptuously exquisite corpse with arms wantonly outstretched, grasping at the air.

Naked, dead white and writhing, panting and gasping in rapture, "Would you like me widely open?" She lowered her head and raised her middle parts impossibly high so that her sex was exposed. Her lips, her nipples, and areoles, her labia, all the color of dead roses. "Or is yawning more to your liking?" Resting her backside against the tomb, she raised her thighs, and spread them wide, spreading and flexing with double-jointed madness until they were virtually parallel to the tomb’s lid. Her sex gleaming, glistening, beckoning, hungry—

Ever elegantly, amazingly she positioned her thighs with her legs doubled on them at the side of her ribs, grasping her knees to raise her sex ever so slightly. "Or more like this for High Congress?"

She was at once obscene and erotic, prurient and lustful, shameless and sensuous. I was intrigued, transfixed, apprehensive, and altogether confused.

"Arrrthurrr. Arrrthurrr," she purred, "I want you inside me. I recall how you slid your fingers into my mouth as I lay dying. I anticipated . . . I relished something with heft. Do you remember? Oh, how I loved tasting your fingers. You didn’t know I could, did you? Well, I could." She writhed as her memories took on clarity. "Your flesh tasted of oysters . . . salty and extraordinary." Here, her tongue slid over her lips sensuously, as if savoring the memory. "A taste, unlike any other flesh."

I was compelled—driven—to climb upon the tomb, and then upon Lucy. As the True Will I held over my elemental body ceased being; my mental awareness unfolded like a lotus flower. I could not control my form, but I could control my thoughts and all of my senses. (After the guillotine blade, when the head is held high and shown the body—and they say there is still enough blood pumping for lingering thoughts—does the mind recognize that it is no longer connected to its source of sustenance? Without the body, does your mind have True Will? Does True Will reside in the body where the heart rests beside vital organs or in the head with the brain and the core of your personality?)

I expected a chill upon contact. However, the Wraith’s flesh was warm—alive—in spite of its icy facade.

"Arrrthurrr, shall we cross our thighs and twine?" She rolled me on my back, slipping her leg over mine and then tangling our ankles. "You’re not very verbose this evening, lover."

 "You have taken my breath—"

My distorted recollection of the Phantasm . . . flickers of blackness and flashes of vivid images . . . I on my knees, the Wraith spread before me, her limbs animating her descriptions. "I could place my left leg on your right shoulder," she cooed, "and stretch my right leg to your left shoulder, and then extend my left leg, and continue doing as you split bamboo."

Flicking blackness, vivid images (or are these memories?)

I forcibly mounted the Wraith. She barked like a dog—not a human making barking sounds, but actual barking. Then the same effect with the bleat of a goat, the whinny of a horse, then the bellow of a stag—this produced a steady gush of steam as if from a snout to further enhance the effects of the sound. "You were the one I wanted the most," came between the grunts and snorts. "I choose you over all the others, Arrrthurrr. You, Arrrthurrr."

Flickering blackness—

We were no longer in the tomb, having astral traveled back to my bed at Larkbear. I was then in Lucy’s arms and felt her tongue at the side of my neck, a tickle along the length to my ear, and then a nibble on the lobe. A playful bite.

Flickering—

Lucy’s anxious and hungry mouth upon my chest. Wispy kisses down, down and further down—My emission was long and satisfying and caused me to empty out in beautiful agony, what felt like my soul.

"My dearest," I said as I pulled her body up so that we could be together face to face. Her mouth instantly found mine. Our tongues entwined. The taste was a gorgeous combination of salt and metallic.

When I brushed back the hair concealing her face, blood dripped from her mouth, and she held a crazed gleefulness in her eyes. A blistering hot sensation started in my groin—cauterizing would be a better descriptor—and this searing brought comprehension to the forefront. I recognized then that it was not Lucy’s mouth dripping blood . . . it was Mina Harker’s.