Reckoning (5 page)

Journal of
Quincey Harker

E
XETER
26TH
S
EPTEMBER 1918

They hunt me. I know they hunt me. But they will not find me here. The cavernous dark of the catacombs beneath the city of Exeter shall conceal me. For who apart from the rats would dare enter the dank shadows of such a place?

The city rats are different from those that inhabited the wartime trenches: less fat and sleek. There are no fallen men for them to gorge on here—or for me, either. The only sustenance to be had is the water that drips slowly from the curved stone ceilings. It is not enough, of course. My soul howls for blood.

L
ATER

There was scarce enough to draw from such a tiny helpless creature, but sufficient to sustain me as I bide my time. Soon I shall seek out Mary Seward.

I should never have let her go.

Journal of
Mary Seward

30TH
S
EPTEMBER 1918

I was late for my shift at the sanatorium this morning; I had to wait for Mrs. Frobisher to arrive. Seven o’clock came and went with no sign of her, but I won’t leave Father unattended. I was very glad to see her when she finally came hurrying around the corner into view.

“Sorry, miss,” she puffed, sweeping through the front door and unfastening her hat. “My youngest had croup and I was up most of the night tending to her.”

“Not to worry,” I assured her. “I do hope little Amy is fully recovered?”

Mrs. Frobisher nodded gratefully. She has such a large family, I sometimes wonder how she finds the time
and energy to come to us as well as tend to all their needs.

I am forever appreciative that she agrees to remain the day as nurse and companion to Father once her housekeeping duties are completed, thus freeing me to work at the sanatorium. Though he needs constant care himself, Father insisted that I resume my post there as a VAD nurse. “Wounded soldiers continue to arrive there and have far more acute need of your tender care than I, my dear,” he told me. “I shall continue to muddle along with Mrs. Frobisher during the day and look forward to your company in the evenings.”

Mrs. Frobisher has proved such a blessing. She nursed Father valiantly while I was away in Transylvania. The doctor seemed to think that he’d stubbornly hung on to life just to see me safely home. But in so doing, Father had rallied—and here he is, all this time later, still with us—though his health will always remain delicate.

I would find it so hard to entrust Father’s care to someone other than Mrs. Frobisher now. Especially having heard Lily’s tales of her treacherous guardian and housekeeper, Antanasia.

I am glad, though, that Father persuaded me to resume my VAD duties. The routine and sheer hard work at the sanatorium distract me from my anxieties for at least some of the day. And little by little, I have steeled myself to bear the sight of blood-stained bandages and drenched swabs. I
remind myself that this is blood nobly spilt for king and country, not by evil vampires gorging on it out of greed and lust.

I have digressed. My thoughts wander so these days. I used to pride myself on my clear thinking. But now it is rare that I follow a thought from beginning to end without distraction. It must be the lack of rest. My nightmares continue to rob me of sleep. Where did I begin? Oh yes . . .

When Mrs. Frobisher finally arrived this morning, I hurried from the house and reached the sanatorium flustered and breathless from running. The ward gleamed in the autumn sunshine that flooded through the windows and bathed the long rows of beds in warm light. The astringent tang of antiseptic filled the air. A group of patients—those well enough to leave their beds—were seated around the table in the bay window, drinking tea from white enamel mugs and laughing and joking among themselves.

“I’m so sorry, Sister,” I called across the ward, straightening my cap. “Mrs. Frobisher was late, and I couldn’t leave Father. . . .”

Sister nodded curtly. “I trust this won’t become a habit, Nurse Seward,” she replied.

Sister detests lack of punctuality—she sees it as a lack of discipline.

“Fortunately, the new VAD nurse arrived on time,” she added pointedly. Her sharp blue gaze flicked across the ward
to a uniformed girl I hadn’t seen before. She was bent over a bed, busily tucking in a neat, blanketed corner.

I felt my face burn with mortification. I had forgotten that a number of new VAD nurses were starting—and one of them was on my rota. It was my job to show her around and help her settle in.

Having finished the bed, the new nurse straightened and turned toward Sister with an eager smile, as though awaiting her next instructions.

“This is Nurse Mary Seward,” Sister informed her. “You’ll take orders from her—now that she’s arrived. I have paperwork that needs attending to.” And then she turned on her heel and swept into her office.

“All clear!” called one of the patients seated by the table. “At ease, everyone.”

The other patients laughed heartily.

“Sergeant Hopkins!” I chided, but couldn’t prevent a smile at his comment as I hurried past him to greet the new nurse.

She flashed me a rueful grin. “I think Sister must have got out of bed on the wrong side this morning,” she said, holding out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mary. I’m Helen Pargeter.”

“Glad to have you here, Helen,” I said, taking her hand.

“Come on, Nurse Seward. You’ve got to admit Sister’s a bit of a stickler,” Sergeant Hopkins went on.

“But I bet under all that starched cotton, there beats a feisty heart!” Corporal Croft crowed.

“You’re right, Crofty, and I bet you wouldn’t mind loosenin’ ’er apron a bit and findin’ out.” Corporal Tandy laughed.

I looked at Helen to see how she was taking their bawdy bantering, concerned she might be embarrassed. But she just rolled her eyes.

“I have brothers just like them,” she told me with a grin. “It’s all talk. Besides, Stella and Becky mentioned there were some shenanigans last night, so I was prepared for these troublemakers today.”

“Stella and Becky?” I echoed, confused.

“I share digs with them. They’re new VADs too,” Helen explained. “They both had their first shift last night, and we had a brief chat when they arrived home.” Mischievously she winked over my shoulder at Hopkins. “They warned me about you, Sergeant, and I’ll be having none of your tomfoolery.”

I smiled, pleased to find my new colleague so good-natured.

A clatter at my back made me start and I spun around to see Sergeant Hopkins sprawled, laughing, on the floor. “Sorry, Nurse Seward!” he shouted as the other soldiers cheered and whistled at him. “One of these days I’ll get the hang of these damned crutches.”

Helen and I hurried toward him to help him to his feet. “For goodness’ sake, be careful, Sergeant!” I called anxiously. “We don’t want your wound to open again!”

L
ATER

“A new face!” Father smiled that night when I told him about Helen’s arrival. “Good, good. Let’s hope she becomes a friend as well as a colleague. It’s high time you got out a bit and had some fun.”

I nodded but could not help frowning down at my needlepoint. Dear Father. I know he worries about me and fears my life has become too secluded. I wish I could go back to being the spirited, cheerful daughter I used to be. But how can I after all I have seen?

I must finish writing now and try to get some rest—try not to think of the night beyond my closed curtains that makes panic rise and fall in my breast like the sea pounding on the shore. How envious I am of people who still go about their lives, free from the iron grip of such nighttime terrors, blissfully unaware of the horrors that stalk the earth in the hours of darkness.

Journal of
Mary Seward

3RD
O
CTOBER 1918

Tonight at dinner, as Father’s unsteady hand brought his wineglass to his mouth, a trickle of its ruby red contents spilled down onto his beard.

I leaned forward to dab the crimson spots from his mouth with my napkin and then stared down at the red stains; so like John’s blood-soiled collar after Mina Harker had bitten him. . . .

Father must have realised the drift of my thoughts, for he reached out and squeezed my hand. “Mary, my dear,” he began, “I understand your fear. I have been aware of it since you returned. Like you, I know that once one has seen the face of evil, it is impossible to drive it completely from one’s mind. We both now share the certainty that it exists, and in a form more dark and cruel than we could ever have imagined.” His
voice was quivering and breathless, weakened by infirmity and emotion, but he pressed on. “However, it must not stop us from
living.
Knowing it exists cannot make the evil stronger—it must make
us
stronger.”

His heartfelt words awoke in me an urge to confide the feelings that had plagued me for so long. “But I don’t feel strong, Father!” I cried, placing my hand over his. I bent my head, feeling tears well in my eyes. “I cannot bear knowing that such horror lurks out there.”

“But Mary, my dear, you do have that strength. You have faced that horror and survived—and you must find it within yourself again,” Father urged.

“But how?” I protested. “When the nightmares come, I am powerless to fight them!”

“You are not powerless!” Father’s voice cracked as his eyes burned into mine. Was it anger I detected in his voice? I hadn’t seen this kind of fire in him in years. “You have hidden away from the world since your return and indulged every hideous imagining,” he scolded. “Your evenings are empty because you will not venture out. You shun society. Is it any wonder dark thoughts fill the void you yourself have created?”

His words stung me. “Of course I am reluctant to trust others!” I replied. “I gave my heart to John Shaw—only to find that beneath all his sweetness slumbered the soul of a fiend!” Tears streamed down my face now, but I did not try to hide them.

Father lifted his own napkin and, with no little effort, leaned forward to gently dab them away. “Oh, Mary,” he whispered. “I too loved one who turned to the darkness. You remember, from my notes, Lucy Westernra? I worshiped her even while Dracula drained her blood and turned her into an evil harpy.”

I nodded, feeling a prick of sorrow at the thought of his own loss. It was strange to imagine Father as a handsome young man, with a life before I existed, when now he was so old and fragile.

He went on. “Somehow I found the strength to turn my back on the evils I had witnessed and find your mother.” His rheumy eyes lit up for a moment. “Elizabeth . . . I could not have loved another more than I loved her.” He gave me a tender smile. “And you must do the same, Mary. What good is defeating the darkness if you do not then let yourself revel in the light?” He clutched my hands between his, and for a fleeting moment, I felt his old strength there.

My heart wavered. “You are right, Father. I know you are right,” I replied.

“Then you will try?” he appealed. “You will go out into the world once more?”

I took a deep breath and then nodded. “I will accept the next invitation I receive,” I promised, and resolved to do so, no matter how frightened I felt.

I was rewarded for my bravery by Father’s smile.

“But I cannot leave you alone,” I added. “I must find someone to care for you while I am away.”

“You must not use me as an excuse any longer, Mary,” Father chided. “Mrs. Frobisher can always sit with me.”

“Not of an evening,” I countered. “Her family has need of her then.”

Father looked at me sternly. I think he feared I was still making excuses.

“I will find someone,” I promised him earnestly.

He nodded. “Good,” he said, letting go of my hands and turning back to his plate.

I only pray I shall be strong enough to carry out my pledge. For what if the next invitation calls me out after dark?

4TH
O
CTOBER 1918

Once more, I find myself sleepless in the early hours.

I was awakened, not by the bloodsucking demons that inhabit my dreams, but by the sound of sobbing.

I opened my eyes and spied the outline of a figure standing at the foot of my bed. Cold terror gripped my heart as I sat up, a scream frozen in my throat, grasping the crucifix and pendant at my neck.

The scent of sweet violet wafted over me. Shock hit me like cold water.

“Lily?” My voice was a hoarse whisper. How could it possibly be? Lily was dead. I had seen her broken body on the rocks beneath Castle Dracula.

I fumbled for a match and lit the lamp beside my bed.

She was still in her wedding dress, her tear-streaked cheek as white as its lace. Her dark curls fell around her face, spilling over her narrow shoulders so that she seemed like a nymph raised from the sea, tousled by wind and wave. I thought of the first time I’d seen her at Carfax Hall, rushing in from the garden, fresh-cheeked and windswept, hair tendriled by the rain.

How strangely beautiful she was then. How wildly lovely she appeared now.

She moved around the bed without speaking, seeming to glide like the ghost she must be. But I was not afraid. It was relief rather than fear that flooded my heart. Lily was here with me! Not broken or bloody, but whole.

“Lily?” I called to her softly again, fearful of scaring her away.

She made no reply as she turned and glided across the room to the window.

I saw with a gasp that the window was open. How could that be? I always locked it and checked it before I retired for the night. I pushed back the bedclothes, alarmed.

Lily turned back to face me, lifting her hands to her heart, her eyes dark pools of sorrow—just as they had been when I last saw her alive.

“Quincey,” she whispered, tears streaming down her pale face.

As I watched, she climbed up onto the sill. “Lily! Don’t!” I cried, horror rising in my chest.

“Quincey,” she repeated, pointing out into the inky black night.

“No!” I shouted. I leapt from my bed and darted toward her. This was my chance to save her where I had failed before.

She closed her eyes and once again breathed, “Quincey . . .”

As she prepared to leap, I reached out to grab her hand and—

My stomach lurched. Suddenly it was me falling, not Lily! Falling down the steep wall of Castle Dracula.

I flailed in terror as the wind screamed past my ears, buffeting my face and tearing at my hair. Emptiness yawned beneath me. And then I saw the jagged rocks below, waiting to welcome me. . . .

I screamed.

And then, thank God, I awoke properly—to find myself bolting upright in bed. The other awakening had been a trick of the mind—a novel departure in my nighttime terrors.

I lay back again, panting, drenched in sweat, until the panic subsided a little. I had not dreamed of Lily before. And then, just to be sure, I threw off my covers and hurried to the window. Pulling back the curtain, I tried the latch. It was still locked.

I let the curtain fall into place, shivering as the cool night air pressed my damp nightgown against my skin.

It had all seemed so real. . . .

But it was just another nightmare.

I shall sleep no more tonight. As I write this, to while away the hours until dawn, my relief at waking up in the safety of my own room is mixed with fresh grief. Once again, I feel hit with the shock of Lily’s terrible death and am appalled anew that her sweet innocence was to have been taken for her by the abominable Quincey Harker.

May God condemn his blackened soul.

Journal of
Quincey Harker

4TH
O
CTOBER 1918

It is time to leave my dark hiding place and head for Purfleet. That is where she will have fled. Like a vixen returning to her lair.

I hope you are ready to receive me, Mary Seward.

I am coming for you.