Blood of the Impaler (12 page)

His eyes drifted up from the book, and he noticed with irritation that the box that he had dragged out of the closet for his grandfather earlier, the box that contained the dusty old collection of papers as well as the supposed first edition of
Dracula,
was now sitting on the floor beside his bureau. "Oh, Rachel, give me a break, will you?" he muttered.
Sneaking that thing into my room while I'm asleep! Come on!

He got up from the bed and walked over to the box, uncertain whether to carry it back to his grandfather's room or leave it outside for the trash collector.
Can't do that
, he thought to himself.
As stupid as this all is, there's probably stuff in here that is important to Gramps
. He decided, just on principle, to move the box from his room out into the hallway.
Let Rachel put it away somewhere
, he thought. He bent down to pick up the box. He had lifted it up halfway from the floor when the bottom of the box broke and bundles of paper dropped onto the carpet. "Damn!" he muttered.

Most of the papers in the box seemed to have been tied together, therefore making his task of picking them up easier than it might have been. There seemed to be three bound piles of papers, a number of loose sheets that appeared to be letters, and the old edition of Stoker's novel that he had seen previously.

Malcolm's curiosity got the better of his annoyance, and he untied one of the bound piles. The pile of papers had a plain cover sheet, and when he removed it, he saw the words, "Dracula: a romance by Bram Stoker." The words were handwritten in a script with something of a self-conscious flourish. Malcolm flipped through the hundreds of pages that rested beneath the first page and found that each was written in the same hand. "The original manuscript?" he whispered aloud. "Is that possible? This must be worth a fortune!" He turned a few pages until he came to the first chapter, then opened the first edition to the same place in order to compare them. In the printed first edition he read:

Chapter 1

Jonathan Harker's Journal
(Kept in shorthand.)

3 May. Bistritz
.
Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late . . .

Malcolm looked from the printed book to the manuscript, and he frowned at what he saw.

Chapter 1

Jonathan Harker's Journal
(Kept in shorthand.)

3 May.
Orada
. Bistritz - Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was hour late . . .

Odd, he thought.
The printed book says the entry was written in a place called Bistritz, but it seems as if the original manuscript used the name of a different place, Oradea, and was then changed. Could have been a revision, of course. Stoker must have written the book and then changed things around. I'm sure all writers do that
.

He looked over at the two other bound piles of paper, and sitting down on the floor beside the broken box, he picked them up. He untied one of them and saw that it was a pile of papers of different sizes and consistencies. A cursory glance through the pile revealed a variety of different handwritings and some typed pages. He looked at the first page and read the following:

Whitby, June 3, 1896

My dear Mr. Stoker:

As you requested, Mina and I have arranged all of the personal memoirs and records that are at our disposal in the proper and appropriate order. Mina has made a transcription for you both of my own journal, which I kept in shorthand, and of the phonographic records maintained by Professor Van Helsing and our friend Jack . . .

Malcolm turned to the first full page of writing and read it quickly. There was no heading, no title. Just the plainly handwritten words:

3 May. Oradea.
-
Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at
6:46,
but train was hour late . . .

His eyes moved from the book to the manuscript to the third pile of papers.

Bistritz.

Bistritz.

Oradea.

Oradea.

Malcolm frowned again, perplexed, and then he understood what he was looking at. He felt a sinking feeling in his chest as his eyes moved from the pile of papers to the manuscript to the book, from what must have been the original documents to what must have been the working manuscript that contained revisions to the final printed form.
A change in place names
, Malcolm thought.
And a change in the names of people as well? Possibly, quite possibly
. He flipped through the manuscript to search for names, then searched through the printed book until he found the same places. Then he swallowed hard as he felt his heart jump.

The names had been changed.

Not all of them, but enough of them. John Stewart had become John Seward. Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, had become Arthur Holmwood, Lord Godalming. And though the name Abraham Van Helsing had been left intact, this German professor had suddenly become Dutch.

Malcolm knew that only one logical reason explained why the author or the editor would have made such changes. The emotional aspect of his personality rejected the explanation absolutely. The logical, rational side of Malcolm Harker could not avoid the obvious conclusions.

A chill ran up his spine as he began slowly and carefully to read and compare the first printed edition with the manuscript and the source papers. When he had finished this task, he moved without stopping to the final set of documents, the old book that purported to be the diary of his great-grandmother, Wilhelmina Murray Harker.

Neither his grandfather nor his sister disturbed him as he read, and the rising and the setting of the sun went unnoticed. As the hours passed, he read without rest and without nourishment; and if at any time it struck him as odd or significant that he felt better after sunset than he felt after sunrise, that despite his hunger he had little interest in conventional food, he did not pause for reflection. Only once did he stop reading, and that was to lean back and mutter, "God help me!" in hushed, trembling tones.

Chapter Five

Mina Harker's Journal

28 September, 1896
.
- Jonathan is better today, though Jack has told me privately that the instances of recovery from consumption are depressingly few. But still I shall act in my poor dear's presence as if his full recovery were in sight, as if all were well with the world.

I know that we all face the same fate in the end, and that though it will be a crushing sorrow to me if Jonathan dies, I have nonetheless been privileged to love and be loved by a great and good gentleman, and thus must not allow myself to grow bitter. And yet I cannot keep from asking why he was spared in our battle with the Count only to fall victim to the prosaic scythe of so common a reaper as this disease. The Professor says that we must not question the infinite wisdom of God, and he is of course correct. And yet, still I wonder and still I ask, and still I pray for Jonathan's recovery. I do believe I would gladly die in exchange for the opportunity once again to see him robust and strong and quick, once again to see that warm and happy smile. I have never said this to him, nor shall I ever, but his aspect today is depressingly similar to his aspect as it was when first I saw him again after his escape from the castle and his subsequent stay in hospital in Europe. Oh, the poor, dear man! Give him leave to stay with me, dear Lord! Please!

3 October.
- How
fortunate we are—Jonathan, little Quincey, and I—to have so steadfast a friend as Jack Stewart. He is as an uncle to our little boy, as are Arthur and the Professor, but Jack comes daily to visit with Jonathan and to spend precious
time with Quincey. My sweet little boy so desperately needs a father, and Jonathan is simply too weak to play with him and talk with him. This makes Jack's daily visits so important to us!

I know that Arthur and the Professor would do the same if they were here, but of course they are not. No Duke of Wellington could remain here in England in ease and comfort while such trouble is brewing in South Africa, and so Arthur has gone to the Cape Colony to serve his Queen. "My great-grandfather did not shrink from Waterloo," he told us before his departure, "nor shall I shrink from whatever warfare to which the Crown calls me." Such a brave man! Braver even than the great Duke, for he faced only Napoleon, while Arthur has faced the Devil himself.

And the Professor is too old now for much traveling. He lives in a pleasant cottage not far from Rostock in Mecklenburg, enjoying the retirement he so greatly deserves. He has written that he shall visit us soon, no later than the end of November, and hopes to be able to stay past the new year, "if you will have me," he asks. If we will have him! Sweet, beloved old man! What would I or Jonathan or any of us be, had not Professor Van Helsing come to open our eyes to what was happening to us?

28 October. -
I am greatly disturbed by the behavior of my son. Quincey has always seemed a bit headstrong, even in infancy, and Jonathan and I always joked that the child had inherited some of Quincey Morris's brashness and brave impetuosity, but little Quincey has never before been rude to
his elders.

The child has not been eating properly. When he was an infant, he ate poorly, so his recent problems did not surprise me at first. I remember how much difficulty he had in taking the breast, how his little teeth bit and nipped and caused me to bleed so that he could not get the milk, and I remember how great a dislike he evidenced when we introduced him to solid food. But the past few years have seen no reluctance on his part to eat heartily and healthily, like any strong and normal six-year-old.

And then yesterday he would not eat his mutton, and Quincey has always loved mutton! I coaxed and then demanded, but he would have none of it. He pushed his plate away so forcefully that it fell from the table and broke upon the floor, the gravy staining the carpet and a good set of china now ruined. I must admit that I most likely grew too angry and spoke to the child too sharply, but it was the look in his eyes that startled and unnerved me. For a moment it seemed as if a stranger were sitting at the table and staring at me, a look of hostility and resentment suffusing his face. I blush to admit that I began to weep, and my tears made him again my little Quincey, and he ran to me and embraced me and begged me to forgive him.

I am being foolish, I know; but for an instant, I was frightened of my own son! I have mentioned none of this to Jonathan, of course.

Perhaps the child is ill. I pray that he is not, for I am growing weak and worn from caring for Jonathan and could not abide yet another charge of ministration.

How
cold and cruel and selfish that sentence reads! Do I begrudge my beloved the attention he needs in his illness? Would I account myself ill-used were I to have to nurse my own darling boy back to health? Never, never! They are my life, my husband and my son, they are my very life! I fear that I am in dire need of rest. My nerves are frayed and threaten to shatter.

12 November. -
Mr. Stoker has come and gone, and how greatly conversing with him has lifted poor Jonathan's spirits. The book, the "romance," as Mr. Stoker calls it with a twinkle in his eye, will be published early next year, and the publisher has great hopes for its success. Our financial situation is not yet desperate, but though neither Jonathan nor I ever discuss the problem, it may become so presently, so that we dare to hope the publisher to be correct in his projections.

Mr. Stoker came to tell us that the revisions and changes have all been made, and he told us that he plans to return the papers of our little band as soon as possible. My Jonathan, ever the bibliophile, asked if we might have the manuscript as well, and Mr. Stoker has promised to see if that is possible.

I must admit that I cared for Mr. Stoker not one whit when first I met him, but I have come to feel great affection for him in the past year. Jonathan says that I merely mistrust anyone so intimate with the life of the popular theatre, and the Professor jokes that I suffer from a dislike of the Irish so common to the English petite bourgeoisie. They are in all likelihood correct, for my mistrust and dislike have been conquered by Mr. Stoker's charm, courtesy, and consideration.

He explained to us the changes he made in the text in accordance with the wishes of our friends. Jack fears that his professional reputation may be compromised by a public association with so bizarre a tale, and so John Stewart shall become "John Seward" in the book, even as his hospital shall not be St. Anseim's, but rather simply "Seward's Sanitorium." In like manner, Arthur told us that he had no desire to explain to his peers in the House of Lords the role he played in what must appear to be the cold-blooded murder of a Rumanian nobleman, and so the Duke of Wellington shall become Lord Godalming. He assumes that the Lords will reject out of hand any reference to vampires, and he is correct, of course. Would we have believed, had we not seen, had we not suffered?