Chapter Text
Anthony Rydinger's Journal, kept in shorthand.
3rd of May. Bistritz. Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st of May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late.
I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe.
I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Violet.
Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel, which I found, to my great delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned, for of course I wanted to see all I could of the ways of the country.
I was evidently expected, for when I got near the door I faced a cheery-looking elderly woman in the usual peasant dress. When I came close she bowed and said, "The Herr Englishman?"
"Yes," I said, "Anthony Rydinger."
She smiled, and gave me a letter:
"My friend. Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting you. Sleep well tonight. At three tomorrow the public coach will start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo Pass my carriage will await you and will bring you to me. I trust that your journey from London has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land. Your friend, Dracula."
May 4, Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in a hysterical way: "Must you go? Oh! Young Herr, must you go?." When I told her that I must go at once, and that I was engaged on important business, she begged on her knees.
It was all very ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was business to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere with it.
I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the scene as we drove along. Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses.
Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves.
When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as though urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully with his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement urged them on to further exertions. Then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each side and to frown down upon us. We were entering on the Borgo Pass. I was now myself looking out for the conveyance which was to take me to the Count. but there was on it no sign of a vehicle. The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock my own disappointment. I was already thinking what I had best do.
Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up. Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing of themselves, a caleche, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see from the flash of our lamps as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black and splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us.
He said to the driver, "You are early tonight, my friend."
As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory.
Then I descended from the side of the coach, as the caleche was close alongside, the driver help ing me with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel. His strength must have been prodigious.
Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we swept into the darkness of the pass.
I felt a little strangely, and not a little frightened. I think had there been any alternative I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that unknown night journey.
But just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair.
I called to the coachman and saw him stand in his seat. As he swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves fell back and back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness.
When I could see again. The wolves disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The time seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost complete darkness.
Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the moon and sky.
Chapter 2
Notes:
Sorry for the wait, real life got in the way, and yeah, Chapter 1 you might notice is almost word for word of the novel's chapter, but that's only as a test, from this point forward I'm gonna build upon that to let my own writing shine
Chapter Text
Anthony Rydinger’s Journal, Continued
The coach drew up in front of a vast ruined building, its great door standing within a high, arched gateway of massive stone. The driver, my strange and silent companion of the night sprang down, and before I could utter a word had seized my luggage with an ease that bespoke no ordinary strength. He motioned for me to follow.
Within, the courtyard lay half in shadow. The moonlight shone upon broken stone and patches of damp grass. No living soul stirred, no voice, no footstep save my own. The driver carried my bags up the great stone steps and placed them inside the heavy oaken door, which stood slightly ajar.
As I crossed the threshold, a tall figure stood suddenly before me, so silently that I confess my heart leapt. He was clad all in black from neck to heel, his hair slicked back, his expression calm but keen, his eyes glowing with a curious crimson warmth, and his smile... oh, that smile!, bright as though it might conceal both a welcome and a warning.
"Mr. Rydinger! At last!" he said in a voice rich with foreign music, every syllable rounded and deliberate. "Welcome to my home. Enter freely and of your own will."
He took my hand in both of his. The touch was cool, so cold, indeed, that I nearly shivered, but the grip was firm and strong.
"Thank you, Count Dracula," I replied, as evenly as I could.
He seemed delighted by my composure. "Ah, Anthony Rydinger... so polite, so punctual! You remind me of myself, long, long ago." He gestured with a theatrical flourish toward the great hall. "Come in, come in! You must be starving! A long journey, yes?"
The words were friendly, yet there was something faintly rehearsed in his cheer, as though he had learned hospitality from another age and performed it like a part in a play.
The hall was immense. Great beams crossed high above, and a fire burned in a wide stone hearth, giving off just enough light to push back the shadows. On the long table a simple supper was laid. The Count pressed me to eat, though he himself took nothing.
He stood by the firelight, hands clasped, eyes glinting as they followed me. His expression alternated between a paternal fondness and a curious, almost predatory fascination.
“I have long wished to visit London,” he said suddenly. “A city of… opportunity! Of progress! The living heart of modernity. You are lucky, Mr. Rydinger, to live in such a world.”
I smiled faintly. “It’s a fine place indeed, sir. My fiancée Violet is quite fond of it. She sketches the rooftops from our window whenever she can catch the light.”
“Ah, Violet,” he said softly, as though tasting the name. “A flower, yes? Delicate… but resilient. You must miss her terribly.”
His eyes met mine with a strange intensity that made me look away toward the fire. “I do,” I said.
There was a silence. Only the fire crackled. Then, with sudden warmth, the Count clapped his hands together. “But enough gloom! You will stay as long as you wish. The castle is yours to explore, except for… certain rooms. Old places, dusty places, no good for a guest.”
He smiled again, a flash of teeth bright against the red gleam of the firelight.
Later, when he himself carried my heavy trunk up to the chamber prepared for me, an act that astonished me by his strength and speed, I could not help but feel that strange mixture of gratitude and unease which had haunted me since the moment I entered this place.
He left me at last with a courteous bow. “Sleep well, my friend. The night is long… but full of rest.”
When the door closed behind him, I felt for the first time since leaving Bistritz that I was utterly alone.
And yet... not alone.
I had scarcely settled to my supper when the Count joined me at the table. The firelight danced across the great hall, throwing long, restless shadows on the stone walls. The Count sat opposite me, his eyes bright and fixed, as though he were studying not only my words, but the pulse beneath my skin.
We spoke of London, of architecture, of the curious ways the city seemed to stretch itself higher and higher into the clouds. He listened with an eager, almost childlike fascination, as though the modern world were a toy he longed to understand.
“Carfax Abbey,” I said at last, unrolling the papers before him. “It is old, but structurally sound. Large grounds, good seclusion, and quite near to Purfleet. I think you’ll find it most convenient.”
He leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. “Seclusion, yes… That is important. So many people, so many noises in your London. Here, the night breathes freely. You can hear it.”
I smiled politely, uncertain how to answer.
Taking up a small loaf, I began slicing it absently as I spoke of deeds, titles, and ownership, my words flowing easily now that we were upon business. Then, as I pressed the knife through the crust, the blade slipped and grazed the side of my finger.
It was the smallest of cuts, yet a bright drop of blood welled up on my skin.
In that instant, the Count’s entire manner changed. His eyes flashed crimson in the firelight, and his lips parted ever so slightly, revealing a glint of his sharp white teeth.
“For Heaven’s sake!” he cried, rising so abruptly that his chair scraped across the floor. “Take care! That is… dangerous.”
He moved toward me with startling speed, one hand half-raised as if to seize mine, but then, as though catching himself, he drew back sharply. His breath came quick; his eyes, wide and dark, fixed on the wound.
For a moment, the air between us trembled with something unseen.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the tension vanished. He composed himself, straightening his coat with a nervous little laugh. “Forgive me, my friend. It is only- ah, this old castle, it has a way of… magnifying small things. Let me fetch a cloth.”
He vanished from the room before I could reply. I wrapped my handkerchief around the cut, puzzled but not alarmed. When he returned, he seemed entirely himself again, charming, almost apologetic.
We finished the business quickly. The Count took up the quill with a flourish and signed each document in an elegant, curling hand that looked older than ink itself. “There,” he said with a satisfied nod. “All in order. Your employers will be most pleased, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “They’ll be delighted.”
“Excellent. You have done well, Mr. Rydinger.” He smiled again, though there was still that faint, hungry glimmer in his gaze. “Now, it grows late. Let me show you to your chamber.”
He led me up a long, spiraling staircase lined with portraits whose eyes seemed to follow us. My room was comfortable, though vast and old-fashioned. The Count bade me good night with his usual courtesy, bowing low before retreating into the shadows of the corridor.
And now I sit here at the little desk, recording the day’s strange events. The castle is utterly silent, save for the wind that moans faintly through the cracks of these ancient walls.
I find myself thinking of Violet, of her calm smile and the way she always says I overthink things. Perhaps she is right. The Count’s odd behavior was doubtless only a moment of overexcitement or superstition, these mountain people are prone to such things.
Still, I cannot quite forget the look in his eyes when he saw my blood.
It was not anger. It was hunger.
I shall rest now. Tomorrow I begin to explore the castle by daylight.
End of Entry.
Chapter 3
Summary:
Tony looks more into this strange old man.
Chapter Text
Anthony Rydinger's Journal - 5 May 1897
I had the strangest dream... or so I believe it was. Though, even as I write, my hand trembles, for some dreams refuse to fade upon waking.
I awoke in the dead of night, the moon streaming through the narrow slit of my chamber window. A mist, pale and silver, crept along the floorboards like breath made visible. It swirled, coiling softly until it took on the shape of a young woman, no, a girl, barely older than myself.
She was pale, with a strange glow about her, as if she were not entirely of this world. Her eyes, deep violet, wide and glistening, met mine with a gaze that felt both sorrowful and hungry. Her lips parted, and her voice came out in a whisper, lilting with something musical, foreign, and tender.
“You shouldn’t be awake,” she said.
I could not answer. Her presence filled the room like perfume. My mind told me to run, but my body would not obey. She stepped closer, her long black hair cascading like a shadow down her shoulders. Every part of me wanted to ask who she was, why she was here, and yet I could not. She smiled faintly, brushing her fingers along my cheek, cold as marble, but soft as silk.
Then she leaned close, close enough that I felt her breath, cool and trembling, on my neck.
And just as her lips were about to touch my skin, a voice thundered through the chamber:
“MAVIS!, LASĂ-L ÎN STIL!”
The word was sharp as lightning.
I blinked, and the mist was gone. The girl was gone. Only Count Dracula stood in the doorway, his tall frame casting a monstrous shadow across the room. His eyes burned, not with rage, but with something else, fear perhaps, or grief.
He spoke no more to me that night. He merely glanced at the window, muttered something in a language I could not comprehend, and left. I did not sleep again.
The morning came with a heavy silence, broken only by the howling of wolves beyond the walls. I resolved to explore more of the castle today, for I could no longer bear being confined to my room and the Count’s long, unsettling conversations.
I wandered the corridors, grand, yet lonely. Every hallway seemed to stretch endlessly, lined with portraits that all bore the same striking resemblance: pale faces, black cloaks, and eyes that seemed to follow.
I found no trace of the Count. Nor of the mysterious girl.
My curiosity, perhaps my foolishness, led me down a winding stone stair I had not noticed before. The air grew colder as I descended, the scent of old earth filling my lungs. The steps ended at a heavy oak door, half-rotted and bound in iron. It yielded to my push with a reluctant groan.
Beyond lay the castle’s undercroft, an ancient crypt, dimly lit by the light filtering through the cracks in the ceiling. Dust and cobwebs veiled everything like shrouds. I could hear my heartbeat echoing against the stone.
And then I saw him.
The Count.
He lay within a long, ornate coffin, his arms folded across his chest. His face was deathly still, as if carved from wax. Only now did I notice how different he looked in slumber, more aged, the lines of time marked across his features. His fangs, faintly visible between parted lips, gleamed in the half-light.
The air around him felt colder still, thick with something… wrong. I dared not move closer, yet I could not look away.
The realization struck me like thunder, this was no dream.
Dracula does not sleep as other men do.
I fled the crypt before my courage failed me completely.
As I write these words, I can still see his motionless face in my mind’s eye, and I know not what to believe anymore, dream, nightmare, or some terrible truth that defies reason.
End of Entry.
LETTER FROM ANTHONY RYDINGER TO MR. HADDOCK
7 May 1897
My dearest friend, Mr. Haddock,
I pray this letter finds you in good health and brighter company than mine. It feels strange to be writing you from this strange and solemn land, where the sun feels weaker and the shadows linger far longer than they should. Transylvania is as beautiful as it is unnerving, ancient forests that whisper as though they remember, mountains that seem to brood, and a castle that sits like a stone crown upon the world’s edge.
You would adore the architecture, Hiccup, so intricate, so madly ingenious that I cannot discern where practicality ends and enchantment begins. Yet, the longer I stay, the more this beauty feels like a snare. The Count, my host, is most hospitable, eloquent, refined, and a gentleman in every manner, but there is something in him I cannot name. A strange stillness, a gravity that pulls at the very air.
At first, I thought his eccentricities were those of a lonely nobleman. He speaks often of England, of its bustle and “fresh, beating heart,” as he calls it, yet his tone carries envy more than admiration. He asks questions about our customs, our commerce, even the nature of our laws and cities, as if studying prey rather than visiting friends.
I confess, dear Hiccup, that these walls have begun to close in around me. The Count is rarely seen by day; I breakfast alone and dine by candlelight. No servants dwell here, he insists he keeps none, though I hear footsteps above and below, faint and fleeting, when the night grows late. Doors are locked that once were open, and windows bar themselves as though the castle itself wishes to keep me within.
Two nights past, I had a dream, or something like it, that troubles me deeply. I awoke to find a young woman... no, a girl, perhaps near Violet’s age, with hair dark as ink and eyes that seemed to pierce right through me. She spoke softly, almost sadly, before she leaned close as though to kiss my throat. Then came the Count’s voice, furious, echoing through the room, and I awoke (or believed I did) alone, trembling.
I told myself it was only a fancy of my mind, a trick of loneliness and exhaustion. Yet yesterday, wandering the lower halls in the daylight, I found the Count sleeping, or something like it, in a great coffin of polished blackwood. I dare not say more, for I scarcely trust my senses, but I swear upon my honor, Hiccup, that he did not breathe. His skin was cold and his eyes… even closed, I could feel them watching me.
I mean to find a way out, though every door I try yields only to a wall or drops sheer into the mountain below. I shall try again tomorrow, though I fear the Count already knows my intent.
Should I fail to write again, think kindly of me. Tell Violet that her face was the last light I saw in my dreams, and Merida that her laughter kept me brave when the walls began to whisper.
Give my regards to Dr. Dicker and Mr. McQueen, tell them to keep an eye on Ercole, that peculiar clerk from Whitby. I fear his behavior may be… contagious.
Yours, in earnest friendship and with unshaken faith,
- Anthony Rydinger
Chapter 4
Summary:
Shifting perspectives
Chapter Text
Dr. Richard Dicker’s Journal - 7 May 1897
Today marks another long and somewhat puzzling afternoon with my patient, Mr. Ercole Visconti. I have grown accustomed to the peculiarities of the human mind, the nervous tempers of the business class, the overstimulation of young romantics, even the grief-tangled delusions of the lonely, but this young man continues to unsettle me in a way I cannot easily define.
We took our tea at three, as is now our custom. Ercole insisted on pouring it himself, his hands moving with an elegance that seemed rehearsed rather than sincere. He was impeccably dressed, as always, white shirt, pressed waistcoat, hair gleaming with oil, his posture upright as a soldier’s. Yet beneath that polish lies a restless disorder. He smiled constantly, but never with his eyes.
He spoke with enthusiasm about freedom today, freedom of the spirit, freedom from rules and walls. His tone was more fervent than usual, almost… evangelical. “You keep everyone here locked up,” he told me, laughing, “but the true prison, Doctor, is in your heads. You cage the wrong creatures.”
I asked him, gently, what he meant. He only stirred his tea, no sugar, no milk, and muttered something about “the coming of the Master” and “how England would open its doors at last.”
When pressed further, he grew agitated. He dropped the cup, quite deliberately, I think, and crouched to pick up the shards, slicing his palm open. But instead of wincing, he stared at the blood as though mesmerized. “Life,” he said quietly, “real life, it’s in the red.” Then he licked it clean before I could stop him.
I called for the attendants, of course. He resisted mildly, smiling all the while, insisting that I “not trouble myself” because “He would soon be here to make things right.”
I cannot determine whether this “He” is a product of mania or some delusional attachment formed during his recent disappearance, the one that ended with him being found wandering the docks, exhausted and half-starved, murmuring in a language none of the orderlies could identify.
There’s something aristocratic about Ercole, even in madness. He carries himself as though he still believes himself admired. I sometimes wonder whether his mind broke not from fear, but from pride. Perhaps he looked upon something greater than himself, and could not bear to be small again.
His appetite remains erratic. He refuses cooked meat, eats only insects or small birds when he can catch them, a habit that disgusts the staff but which he performs with ceremonial dignity, as though obeying a higher order. I once caught him whispering Latin as he did it.
I have written to my colleague, Professor Carl Fredricksen, for his thoughts on cases involving “zoöphagia,” a term he once used to describe patients who consume living creatures to absorb their vitality. It sounds archaic, yet I cannot deny its relevance here.
As I pen this entry, I hear Ercole in his room, humming. Not a tune I recognize, but something rhythmic and old, with a strange rise and fall, almost like the chant of a sailor at sea.
I will increase his observation schedule for the week. There’s a pulse to his madness, something deliberate beneath the chaos. And for reasons I cannot yet explain, I feel the faintest sense that whatever moves him is not entirely his own.
- Dr. Richard Dicker, M.D.
Letter from Dr. Carl Fredricksen to Dr. Richard Dicker
8 May 1897
My dear colleague Dr. Dicker,
I received your letter this morning, and I must say, your description of the patient Visconti gave me pause. You’ve seen your share of disturbed minds, I know, I’ve read your papers on hysteria and the role of trauma in delusional projection, but this one sounds like something that runs deeper than nerves or melancholy. You mention he calls himself a servant to some “Master.” That word carries weight in certain circles of superstition, particularly those rooted in the folklore of the Carpathian regions.
You and I have spoken before about my work on obscure central-European traditions. The peasants of Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina have a remarkable consistency in their beliefs surrounding what they call the Nosferatu, an unholy being, feeding on life itself. To them, blood is not merely a symbol of vitality, but the very vessel of the soul. That your patient associates blood with “real life” suggests he’s either studied these legends, or, more chillingly, come under the influence of someone who embodies them.
The zoöphagic impulse you mention, consuming lesser creatures to draw from their essence, fits the pattern well. There have been scattered cases in my own notes where patients displayed similar appetites after foreign travel or extended exposure to those regions. Whether coincidence, suggestion, or something older at work, I cannot yet say.
If I may make a recommendation: observe carefully, but do not dismiss what the man tells you, however absurd it sounds. Madmen often speak the truth in fragments, and the key to understanding their illness is often hidden in the metaphor. Should he ever name this “Master” aloud, record it at once. Certain names, if they recur across independent sources, may prove invaluable to my current study.
And one more point, old friend: you mention a peculiar phrase about “England opening its doors.” That detail troubles me. The people of those far mountains believe their creatures cannot cross a threshold uninvited. It is, of course, pure superstition, and yet, history has taught me that superstition often grows from some ancient truth we no longer have words for.
Keep him under watch, and for heaven’s sake, take care. There are forces in the world, moral, psychological, even biological, that prey upon weakness of spirit. The line between sickness and possession, I’ve found, is thinner than the rational mind cares to admit.
I would be most interested to visit your asylum before the month is out, should your patient’s condition worsen. It has been too long since our last collaboration, and something in your report has awakened the old curiosity in me.
Yours faithfully,
Professor Carl Fredricksen, M.D.
(University of London, Department of Philosophy and Preternatural Studies)
Chapter Text
Violet Parr’s Journal - 8 May 1897
It has been several days since Tony’s last letter, and though I try not to worry, I cannot help it. He wrote from Bistritz before traveling to meet Count Dracula at his castle. His tone was light, cheerful even, and he promised to write again once he settled there. But the days stretch longer now, and with each morning I feel the silence like a weight upon my chest.
Hiccup came by earlier, he always does when he senses I’m fretting. He brought flowers (wild ones, from the field behind the college), and tried to cheer me by making light of Transylvanian counts and crumbling castles. “Probably just some eccentric noble with too many bats in the belfry,” he said. I laughed, but not because it was funny. I think we both needed the sound of laughter.
Still, I can’t shake this feeling. The weather’s turned grey again, the sort that presses against the windows and makes the world outside look unreal, like a watercolor blurred by rain. I went walking along the river this afternoon, and even the water seemed restless — the current stronger than usual, the gulls shrieking as though warning of some unseen change in the air.
Our dear Merida is back from Whitby, and she’s as full of life as ever. I envy her ease of spirit. She speaks of the sea breeze and the open cliffs, how she could breathe freely there. She insists I visit with her next month, that it would “do my nerves good.” Perhaps she’s right.
I read through Tony’s last letter again tonight. His handwriting looked hurried near the end, perhaps from travel, but there’s one line I keep returning to: “He asks questions about our customs, our commerce, even the nature of our laws and cities, as if studying prey rather than visiting friends.”
“studying prey”
I know Tony too well; he doesn’t use such words lightly. I can almost hear the hesitation in his pen, the way he’d pause before writing it down. It’s as if he saw something that unsettled him but chose not to alarm me. He’s always tried to protect me from worry, even now, halfway across the continent.
I lit a candle before bed and said a quiet prayer for him. Not just for safety, but for peace of mind. I have faith in Tony; he’s brave, stronger than he gives himself credit for. But even so, I wish he were here. The nights feel longer without him.
And tonight, there’s something else — a strange heaviness in the air, as though the world were holding its breath. Perhaps it’s only the storm coming in from the east. Still, I find myself glancing at the window more than usual.
I hope his next letter comes soon.
- VP
Anthony Rydinger’s Journal - 8 May 1897
When I awoke this morning, I found that my clothes had been laid out for me, neatly brushed and folded by unseen hands. I do not know whether this should comfort or disturb me. Count Dracula, as always, was nowhere to be found during the day. I have now grown accustomed to the strange arrangement of our meetings, he appears only at night, gliding in like a shadow, never seeming to use the great doors that echo through the halls.
At breakfast, there was food laid out, bread, cheese, some fruit, but the Count himself took nothing. He spoke with me long last night about the property at Carfax Abbey and its “fine old soil,” which he seemed particularly interested in preserving. He had a fascination with the ancient, with things that endure after men and empires pass away. I remarked, perhaps foolishly, that England was a land of change, and he smiled in a way that made me feel cold.
The more time I spend in this castle, the more it feels less like a home and more like a vault, a great stone tomb holding the memories of centuries. There are no mirrors anywhere, save for the small shaving glass I brought in my bag. The Count seemed to dislike even the sight of it; he reached for it once, only to pull back his hand as if burned. I laughed at the time, but I do not now.
After the sun had set, he then led me, candle in hand, down a long corridor to a room prepared for me, a comfortable enough chamber, though the walls feel oppressively thick. The Count bade me goodnight, smiling with a kind of weary politeness. Yet I noticed as he turned away that his reflection did not appear in the window glass, though the candle he carried cast its glow plainly.
I tell myself it was a trick of light. It must have been.
Before retiring, I opened my window for air. The night was silent, save for the faint howling of wolves somewhere far below. I cannot see them, but I can feel their presence, the sound echoes off the cliffs like a call to something ancient and wild.
I have locked the door, though I feel foolish doing so. Still, there’s something in the Count’s eyes I cannot forget, a strange, almost fatherly fondness, twisted by something darker beneath.
I will write again tomorrow. Perhaps I am simply overtired, my mind playing tricks. The Count has been nothing but courteous, even if in his own unnerving way. Still, as I set down my pen, I cannot help but feel the weight of this place pressing in from every direction, as if the castle itself were listening.
End of Entry.
Chapter Text
Recovered Note from the Cell of Ercole Visconti
(Discovered folded beneath the bedframe during morning rounds, 9 May 1897)
they said I was mad
but the madman sees clearer than the blind doctor with his silver spoon and sleepy eyes
he doesn’t hear it, the heartbeat in the walls
the whisper under the floorboards
the Master speaks
He came through the window in the wind
not flesh, not shadow, but both
he said “eat, and be strong” and so I ate
flies at first, then spiders (fatter ones) they hum with tiny souls inside
warm, sweet, squirming LIFE
LIFE! oh, that word is honey in the mouth
each one a spark, each one a swallow of dawn
I feel them burn in me when I sleep
and He watches, He smiles, He says soon, soon, soon
I told the doctor (the one with the gray eyes and tired tie)
that the Master was near
but he laughed
they all laugh, because they can’t hear the wings in the dark
Blood is better than air
air fades
blood stays
He said there are oceans of it waiting behind walls and windows,
and I am to open the door when He knocks
He will come to the red city,
the one with the fog and the bells and the graves
He will drink the sun from their veins
and I will laugh because I let Him in
(the spider is watching me now, on the ceiling)
she knows. she knows.
they think I’m locked in
but the lock is on the wrong side
LIVES
LIVES
LIVES
End of note. The handwriting becomes increasingly erratic toward the end, letters slanting upward, words overlapping. The last line trails into what appears to be a crude drawing of a pair of fanged eyes.
Dr. Richard Dicker’s Journal - 9 May 1897
The attendants found something under Visconti’s bed this morning, a note, or what passes for one. I can hardly call it writing in any rational sense; it’s more a torrent of thought poured out by a mind that’s fraying at every seam. I have transcribed portions of it for my records, though much of it is illegible or too rambling to preserve.
I hesitate to call this delusion ordinary. There is a coherence to it beneath the madness, a pattern emerging in his chaos. He speaks again of his “Master,” of blood and life, of “opening the door when He knocks.” These are not random obsessions. They form a system, grotesque, yes, but internally consistent, as though he were following a doctrine whispered in his ear.
It is the tone that unsettles me most. There is reverence in it. Worship.
In previous cases of mania, my patients feared their voices, or argued with them. Ercole does not. He obeys his. He takes comfort in it, as though it fills him with purpose. When I confronted him with the note, he smiled and said, “He wanted you to read it.”
I asked him who “He” was. Ercole tilted his head, eyes bright as glass, and replied, “The wind will tell you.”
He said it so calmly that for a moment I almost believed him.
The medical explanation would be one of auditory hallucination combined with religious mania, perhaps influenced by his upbringing in a superstitious household. Yet there is something… foreign in his phrasing, an echo of ideas I cannot trace to any Western theology. “Drink the sun from their veins,” he writes. “Open the door when He knocks.”
I find myself thinking of Carl Fredricksen’s last letter, his talk of the Nosferatu and the folkloric restrictions surrounding invitation. I would normally dismiss such folklore as harmless myth, yet there are phrases in Ercole’s note that mirror it too precisely to be coincidence.
And then there is the smell. His cell reeks faintly of earth, damp, old, and mineral, like a freshly dug grave. We clean it daily, yet it returns by morning.
I have ordered the note sealed and placed in the records room. Still, I cannot shake the feeling that this is more than a fragment of madness. It reads almost like a message, not from the patient, but through him.
I have written again to Professor Fredricksen, asking that he visit sooner than planned. Something is coming through the veil of reason here, and I would prefer not to face it alone.
- Dr. Richard Dicker, M.D.
Chapter Text
Anthony Rydinger’s Journal - 12 May 1897
(Written from the presbytery of the Church of St. Agnes, Borgo Village)
I hardly know how I am still alive to write this.
I woke two mornings ago in my room at the castle, though I remember nothing of how I came to bed. My head throbbed, my throat dry as dust. The window had been left open, the shutters trembling in the wind. For the first time since my arrival, I felt truly alone. No footsteps echoed in the corridors. No voice answered when I called.
At first, I thought it a trick of the Count’s, another of his strange vanishings. But when I went to the great hall, the fires had gone cold, the lamps burned out, and the doors that once opened at his will were bolted fast.
I tried every handle, every gate, but the castle would not yield. I was a prisoner still, only now without a master.
I resolved then to climb down the outer wall, for I could endure that silence no longer. I tied my bedsheets together, fastening them to the iron ring of the window, and lowered myself into the mist. The stones were slick, crumbling with age, and the drop below too dark to judge. I thought of Violet then, her face, her laugh, and how absurd it would be if I perished before I could tell her what I had seen.
Halfway down, my hand slipped. The sheet tore.
I remember falling, branches, the taste of blood, then nothing.
When I awoke, I was lying in the grass at the foot of the hill, the castle a black tooth against the morning sky. My journal, by some miracle, had fallen beside me, pages soaked through with dew but intact.
Villagers found me near the riverbank and carried me here to the church. The priest, a kind man with kindlier eyes, has tended to my wounds. He will not let me leave the bed yet, though he allows me this writing.
From what I can gather, Count Dracula has left the country. A cart was seen passing through the lower roads two nights past, the driver silent, the horses dark as pitch. It bore a single large box, long and heavy, bound in iron. A local trader swears he saw it loaded at the port of Varna onto a vessel called The Demeter, bound for Whitby.
England.
I can scarcely bring myself to write the word.
If it is true, if the Count has indeed gone there, then he carries with him something more dreadful than I can imagine. I think of the villagers’ fear, how they crossed themselves whenever his name was spoken, and I begin to understand.
The priest tells me to rest, but I cannot. I see the Count’s eyes when I close mine, those strange, burning eyes that seemed to see through me. The memory of his voice still echoes in my head: “My friend, the night is young, and so are we.”
If The Demeter sails swiftly, it may reach the English coast within the fortnight. I must warn Violet. She must know what danger approaches her land.
I will send a letter as soon as I am able to stand. For now, I must sleep... though I dread what dreams may come.
End of entry.
The Captain’s Log - Demeter, 12 May 1897
(Recovered from the wreck and translated from the original Russian manuscript found lashed to the ship’s wheel)
May 12. - We set sail from Varna three nights past, fair weather and calm seas. The cargo is light but strange: fifty boxes of earth, consigned to a London solicitor by the name of Hawkins. Each crate is sealed with iron and marked with a sigil none aboard can read. The men joke it is the soil of some noble’s grave. I do not laugh with them.
The first mate reports that two boxes bear signs of having been opened and resealed. He swears he heard movement below deck the first night, scratching, like rats, but heavier, slower. I have sent him down to inspect, yet he found nothing. The men are uneasy.
May 12, evening. - Weather still holds, though the sea feels wrong. I cannot describe it, but there is a heaviness in the air, like the calm before a storm that never comes.
We lost Petrov today. He was on watch near the hold. No cry, no splash. His oil lamp lay burning on the deck, glass unbroken. We searched the waters for hours, but there was no trace of him.
Later, the cook said he found blood by the hatch. A trail, as though something were dragged down into the dark.
The men whisper now. They speak of the cargo, of a shadow moving in the hold when all else is still. I have ordered the hatches nailed and sealed, and I keep the key in my coat. I told them it was rats. I told them it was nonsense. But I saw the fear in their eyes, and in truth, I feel it too.
One of the sailors swore he saw a tall man by the forecastle in the moonlight. No passenger is listed on the manifest. He vanished before we could reach the deck.
May 12, night. - I hear it now myself. The sound below, like something shifting in its box, slow, deliberate. I have prayed, though I have not prayed in twenty years.
I will keep watch through the night. If I do not write again-
The final lines trail into illegible scratches, the ink smeared and pressed hard into the page as if the writer’s hand had been seized mid-sentence. The last discernible word, written in a trembling hand, is simply “Бог”-God.
Chapter Text
The Whitby Gazette
Saturday, 15 May 1897
TERRIBLE MYSTERY OF THE SEA - RUSSIAN SHIP FOUND ADRIFT, CREW DEAD
Strange Vessel Runs Ashore at Whitby - A Cargo of Earth and an Empty Coffin
A most extraordinary and dreadful event occurred early yesterday morning when a foreign schooner, identified as the Demeter of Varna, was discovered run aground beneath the East Cliff of Whitby. Local fishermen, arriving with the tide, were the first to notice the vessel drifting listlessly toward the shore, her sails torn and her helm lashed fast, yet without a soul to guide her.
Upon inspection by the coastguard and police authorities, the scene aboard was found to be one of most appalling desolation. The decks were deserted, save for the lifeless body of the ship’s captain, discovered lashed to the wheel with cords and cruciform beads clutched between his fingers. His face was set in an expression of unutterable terror, and his sightless eyes gazed toward the horizon as if upon something unseen.
No trace of the remainder of the crew has yet been found. The ship’s log, written in Russian, was recovered from the captain’s cabin, its final entries scrawled in an unsteady hand. Experts are presently translating the contents.
The cargo of the Demeter consisted of fifty boxes of earth, each plainly marked and sealed, addressed to a solicitor’s firm in London. All were accounted for, save one. The hold’s forward hatch was found forced open, and a single coffin, the only one upon the ship, lay empty, its lid splintered.
Several witnesses claim to have seen, at the moment the vessel struck, a tall figure leaping from her deck onto the sand below and disappearing toward the churchyard atop the cliff. Authorities dismiss the account as imagination, though the dogs of the neighborhood were reported to have howled throughout the night.
The coroner’s inquest is to be held on Monday next. The incident has caused great sensation among the townsfolk, many of whom recall the legend of the “ghost ship” that haunts the North Sea in times of ill omen.
For now, the mysterious schooner Demeter rests beached and broken beneath the abbey ruins, a grim relic of the sea, and of a secret the waves refuse to tell.
Violet Parr’s Journal - 17 May 1897
It has been a strange, glittering evening, one that I cannot decide was charming or foreboding.
Dr. Dicker had insisted that an evening at the opera would help lighten our spirits, and Merida, as ever, needed little persuasion. So we went, the three of us, ascending the grand staircase beneath chandeliers that glowed like captured stars. I confess, I was not truly in the mood for such society. It has been many days now without word from Tony, and though I tell myself that foreign travel is slow, that letters are delayed, I cannot help but feel a quiet dread gnawing at the edges of my heart.
Yesterday, word reached London of a shipwreck at Whitby, the Demeter, a Russian vessel found adrift, her crew all dead. Merida recounted the tale with some dramatic flourish at tea, declaring it “spooky” and “romantic,” but Dr. Dicker frowned and said nothing. I tried to laugh it off, yet when she mentioned an empty coffin found aboard, I felt something cold pass over me, though I could not say why.
The opera tonight was Faust, of all things, how fitting that a man should sell his soul in exchange for fleeting pleasure. Merida adored it, humming along with the arias, while Dr. Dicker leaned forward with his usual clinical curiosity. I tried to lose myself in the music, in the voices and the light, when Dr. Dicker nudged my shoulder.
A gentleman had entered the upper balcony. Tall, dark-haired, with a most peculiar presence, not threatening, but commanding. His attire was exquisite: a fine black suit, gloves as white as snow, and at his neck a red jewel that caught the light like a drop of blood. He introduced himself with an accent most unusual, deep and rolling, as if from some far eastern land.
“Count Dracula,” he said, bowing with a grace so old-fashioned it seemed to belong to another century. “A new arrival in your beautiful England. I hope,” he smiled, “to find a fresh beginning here.”
Merida, ever bold, laughed and told him that London could always use more of his kind, “the mysterious sort.” The Count chuckled softly, and there was something both kind and chilling in that sound.
He spoke of Whitby, of the sea voyage, of how foreign lands hold both beauty and sorrow. His gaze drifted, for a moment, to me, and I cannot explain it, but I felt as though he could see the worry in my heart. I dropped my eyes at once, telling myself I was only imagining things.
Dr. Dicker asked him a few polite questions, but the Count’s answers were vague. He spoke of heritage, of family lost, of a home in ruins. When the music swelled again, he excused himself with another bow, saying he hoped to call upon us soon.
After he left, Merida sighed, calling him “strangely handsome.” Dr. Dicker merely adjusted his spectacles and muttered something about “foreign nobility and theatrical manners.”
I try to think nothing of it, merely an odd encounter among London society’s many masks. And yet… something about him lingers in my thoughts, even now as I write. His eyes, dark and glimmering like storm clouds before lightning.
I hope Tony writes soon. I find myself praying for it. I am tired of mysteries.
- VP
Merida’s Journal - 17 May 1897
Och, what a night that was! I dinnae ken if it was the opera or the company that made it such a grand time, but I cannae stop thinkin’ about it!
Dr. Dicker said it’d do us all some good to get out, so off we went, me, Violet, and the good doctor himself, to the big fancy opera hall in London. The lights, the crowd, the smell o’ perfume thicker than the fog outside, it was all a bit much at first, but I loved it! Folk all dressed to the nines, whisperin’ in their boxes, and me tryin’ not to fidget like a bairn in church.
They were performin’ Faust, which Dr. Dicker said was “culturally enlightening,” whatever that means. All I ken is that it’s a sad tale about a fella makin’ a deal wi’ the devil for love or glory or somethin’. The music was lovely though, and the lass singin’ had a voice like silver, gave me gooseflesh right up my arms.
Violet sat quiet most o’ the night. Poor thing, she’s still worried sick about Tony. I tried cheerin’ her up, tellin’ her he’s probably just caught up in business and bein’ all gentlemanly, but she just smiled that wee sad smile o’ hers.
Then came him.
The Count.
Tall as the stage curtains, black coat sharper than any blade I’ve seen, and eyes that’d make ye forget your own name if ye stared too long. Count Dracula, he said, from Transylvania, which sounds like somethin’ out o’ one o’ those penny dreadfuls. He spoke like every word was dipped in velvet, and I swear the folk around us leaned in without even meanin’ to.
He said he’d just arrived in England, lookin’ for a “fresh start.” I dinnae ken what that means, but I could tell he’s seen a lot... maybe too much. Still, there was somethin’ about him. Kind, aye, but also… old, like the mountains. I cannae explain it better than that.
Dr. Dicker seemed a bit uneasy, askin’ him questions in that polite, pryin’ way o’ his, while Violet sat there goin’ quiet as a shadow. But I? I was fascinated. He’s got that mystery about him, like a story ye havenae read the end of yet.
After he left, I said to Violet, “I’d like to see that Transylvanian guy again.” She just rolled her eyes at me, though I swear she was smilin’ a bit.
Now I’m back at the good doctor’s house, tucked up in the guest room upstairs. The moon’s bright tonight, I can see it through the curtains. There’s a strange stillness in the air, like the world’s holdin’ its breath.
Ah well. Maybe tomorrow’ll bring another chance to meet the Count. He’s a curious one, that man. A right curious one.
-Merida