Night of Dracula Read online

  Jonathan chuckled, but only to reassure Carl. “It was a nightmare, that’s all. A terrible nightmare, brought on by the fever. You mustn’t alarm yourself.”

  Carl looked up at Dr. Steward. His right hand reached for the neck of his blue hospital gown. He shook all over, as if cold. Renfield slowly pulled down the gown and pointed to a small, red mark on his neck, just below the jawline. “Does this look like a dream to you, Doctor?”

  Jonathan’s eyebrows rose. That single puncture wound to the neck. “My God,” he whispered.

  “God? No,” Renfield replied. He suddenly started sobbing like a child. “I think I’ve made a deal with the devil!”

  FIVE

  By night, Carfax Manor was a mausoleum—a gruesome, dark, forbidding place, the domain of rats, a tomb with an atmosphere of dread that permeated its fieldstone walls. Yet Heather wasn’t the least bit afraid, despite whistling December winds that seemed to whisper a warning for her to go back—to leave this godforsaken place at once and never return. Vladamir had promised she should never have to fear the night again. She believed him! Still, she couldn’t help thinking of her husband, Ron. What would he think if he knew what she was doing? Heather started to reach for the lion-faced knocker on the oak door with her right hand, adjusting the weight of the tote bag in her left. Then she pulled her hand back. No, she couldn’t chance having Ron learn of her visit to Carfax alone, and so late at night. She turned to walk away. Then the oak door creaked open on its hinges, as if to invite her in.

  Heather carefully inched her way inside, driven by curiosity. She called out for Vladamir. There was no answer, only a shroud of dim candlelight and the scratchy sound an old waltz being played on a gramophone to greet her. Heather felt as if she had stepped back in time.

  Heather braved her way deeper into the old estate, umtil she stood in the center of what was once the grand hall. Her eyes drifted left to right, as she studied the cobwebs draping walls and furniture. Tilting her head up, Heather glimpsed a man seated at a desk on a landing at the top of a long flight of ornate stairs.

  An echoing voice called out to her. “Welcome to my home.” Vladamir invited her to join him at his desk.

  When she reached the top of the stairs, he rose, then bowed his head. Vladamir motioned for her to take a seat in front of the antique desk, which was masterfully carved with dragons and twisting serpents.

  “I should have called first.”

  “That would have been quite impossible.” Vladamir grinned. “There is no telephone. But you need no invitation. I only wish I could have prepared for your kind visit. As you see, I have yet to secure the services of a maid.”

  “It’s all right.” Her smile suggested she wasn’t simply being polite. Heather was strangely attracted to this primitive setting. Suddenly her smile faded. She glanced around the room, then turned to meet Vladamir’s eyes. “For some reason . . .”

  “What?”

  Heather shook her head, then rubbed her face. “I can’t explain, but it almost seems familiar. The stone walls. Those tapestries.” She pointed to a wall behind Vladamir. “It almost feels as I’ve been here before. No! Wait. It was someplace just like this house.”

  Vladamir quietly slid a candle over the top of his desk. The light from the burning wick highlighted his intense stare. “Yes. Think back. Look deep into the flame and try to remember. Concentrate! Let go of this world, and remember a time long ago.”

  Heather felt her strength slip away. She seemed to float. She shook her head a second time. “Nothing,” she said in frustration. “I could see something . . . images, but unfocused.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry. You must think me foolish.”

  Vladamir dropped back into his chair. He glanced at a small portrait of his dear Alyssa, on top of his desk. “Not at all.” He sighed and slipped into a brooding silence.

  Heather glanced down at his desk. “Poetry, Vladamir? Were you writing poetry?”

  He picked up one of the sheets of parchment and handed it to her. “I would consider it an honor . . . please.”

  Heather gratefully accepted the piece of paper. “How beautiful,” she said. The calligraphy was absolutely wonderful. Then, she read:

  Frightened like a very child

  At the wicked Carpathian Mountains,

  Creatures who by night run wild.

  Suddenly Alyssa’s sweet voice ceases;

  startled with a strange surprise.

  At her own words straight my maiden

  covers with both hands her eyes.

  Fear not, my wife, nor tremble

  At the evil spirits’ might;

  Angels, our dearest child, are keeping

  Watch around thee day and night.

  A single teardrop traveled down the side of her blushing cheek. “You’ve lost more than a wife, haven’t you?” she asked softly.

  Vladamir tilted his head, staring into the darkness that surrounded them. “The child died shortly before my dear wife. But that was a very—very long time ago.”

  Heather wiped away her tears and quickly changed the subject. “Oh, my, I nearly forgot to give you this . . .” She pulled a brightly wrapped gift from her canvas tote bag. “It’s a housewarming present. We wanted to give it to you last night, but . . . Jonathan is truly sorry for what happened. He asked me to extend his deepest apologies.”

  Vladamir smiled and took the gift from her, secretly cherishing the brief touch of her hand. He opened the package carefully. “How wonderful,” he said. “Such a beautiful clock.”

  “It was made right here in Atlanta,” she replied. “Listen . . .” Heather turned a switch on the back of the brass mantle clock. It tinkled out the delicate tune of “Music of the Night,” from Phantom of the Opera.

  Vladamir listened to the clock with an expression of melancholy. How appropriate, he whispered to himself. Yes—the night—a world Vladamir had come to know all too well.

  Vladamir reached for a small table behind his desk. He handed Heather a single red rose from a crystal vase. “May your nights always be filled with the sweet scent of roses. Scents are the feelings of a rose, just as the heart feels more strongly in the night, when it believes itself lonely and unobserved . . .”

  “So, the rose, with a sensitive bashfulness, seems to wait for the veil of darkness to give vent to its feelings and breathe forth a sweeter perfume,” Heather whispered. Somehow she knew the second verse of a rhyme she had never heard before. Vladamir’s smile faded, replaced by an expression of deep passion. He thought of Alyssa. “She merely sleeps, and at her feet knelt the angels. Behind the silken curtains of those beautiful eyes, the sun has truly set forever.”

  As he continued staring into Heather’s eyes, Vladamir reached into the side pocket of his black coat. He retrieved his cherished gold locket with the hand-painted portrait of Alyssa. “This belongs to you,” he said, placing it gently into her soft hands.

  “I couldn’t,” Heather said. “I only ask that you look into Alyssa’s eyes from time to time. You’ll do that—please?” he pleaded. “Say that you will come to know her face as well as your own.”

  SIX

  “You may cut all you’d like, but I’ll save you the trouble,” a voice said from behind Jonathan, as he prepared to perform the autopsy on Jerry Randall. He set his scalpel down on a stainless steel table. Looking over his shoulder, Jonathan saw a man dressed in a musty three-piece suit, standing by a set of double doors. He was old—very old, with bags under his eyes that hung down to the tops of his cheekbones, barely covered by a thin, white layer of skin. His clouded eyes stared at Jonathan. His head bobbed, as if the neck could barely support the weight of his head. “How did you get past security?” Jonathan asked.

  The old man ignored Dr. Steward, strolling over to the stainless steel table on which Randall lay. His wrinkled hand lifted the sheet from his face. “You were a terrible person, Mr. Randall,” he said, shaking his head, with a tsk-tsk expression. “But now you’re in Hell, where you belong.”

/>   The old man dropped the sheet and slowly turned back to Jonathan. “My name is Van Helsing, Dr. Van Helsing, from the University of Stockholm. I was asked to come here by the Atlanta Center for Disease Control.”

  Jonathan stretched off his rubber surgical gloves to shake Van Helsing’s hand. “My apologies, sir. No one told me you would be assisting on the case.”

  “Tell me, Dr. Steward, what do you know of the Nosferatu?”

  Jonathan blinked. “The what?”

  “The vampire. What do you know of the vampire?”

  “What? As in Bela Lugosi?” Jonathan chuckled. Van Helsing wasn’t the least bit amused.

  “Bats, flapping their wings—graveyards and coffins—lips dripping with blood—a fiend with sharp teeth drinking blood in order to perpetuate himself—black capes. Is this what you’re thinking of? If so, you are a fool, Dr. Steward. A true vampire bears no resemblance to these things. Oh, he may have fangs, but they are not used to drink the blood of his victims. They are only for the attack.”

  Jonathan chuckled again. “You’re saying this man was murdered by a vampire?”

  Van Helsing raised a gray, bushy eyebrow and smiled from the corner of his wrinkled lips. “What a pity. I expected more from a man of your reputation, Doctor. Believe what you will!”

  Jonathan slapped his forehead. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of it sooner? The puncture wound to the neck . . . yes, a vampire from Transylvania.”

  “Go ahead, Dr. Steward, make your jokes,” Van Helsing replied patiently. “However, you are dealing with a vampire. And he is Romanian. Transylvania is only a province of the Carpathians.”

  Jonathan was no longer amused. “You said Romanian?”

  “Yes . . . why?”

  “It just so happens I met a gentleman from Romania recently. A Mr. Vladamir Tepevich.”

  Now it was Van Helsing’s turn to laugh. “Tepevich? He toys with you, Dr. Steward. The name Tepevich is derived from tepes: a word in Romanian that means ‘to impale.’ With ‘evich,’ it means ‘one who impales.’ ”

  Van Helsing pulled a leather-bound book from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was a very old journal, with faded gilt letters on its cover. Van Helsing turned away from Dr. Steward as he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. His trembling, aged hands carefully turned the pages. After a minute, he held the book up to the fluorescent surgical light overhead and read aloud:

  “ ‘I heard a heavy step approaching behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud, grating noise of long disuse, and the great door swung back.

  “ ‘Within stood a tall, handsome man, with curling black hair, clean-shaven, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of color about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned without a chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long, quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open door. “Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will! Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring!” He bowed in a courtly way as he said: “I am Dracula!” ’ ”

  Van Helsing closed the book with all the reverence due a bible. He retrieved an old tintype photograph from his side pocket with his free hand, then met Jonathan’s captive eyes. “Dracula!” he said firmly. “What I have just read is the account of a young solicitor named Jonathan Harker. He had the misfortune of meeting your Vladamir, many years before your mother was even born, Dr. Steward. This man is Dracula!”

  Van Helsing held up the faded photograph. “Is this the man you met?”

  Jonathan studied the picture. Yes, it was Vladamir, standing next to a woman who greatly resembled Heather. He nodded, but said nothing.

  “This picture was taken on December 2, 1894, Dr. Steward. It was taken on the day of his wedding to Alyssa.”

  “No! It’s not possible! The man I met is no more than—”

  “One hundred and thirty years old, Dr. Steward,” Van Helsing said.

  Jonathan grew impatient with Van Helsing’s ridiculous tales. “You’ll please excuse me, Dr. Van Helsing. I have an autopsy to perform.”

  “Of course.” Van Helsing turned to leave the room. As his hand touched the cold double set of stainless steel doors through which he had entered, he said, “Doctor, have you ever seen this man, Vladamir, in the daylight?”

  Van Helsing waited for an answer, but Jonathan remained quiet.

  “No, you haven’t, have you?” Van Helsing’s smile broadened. “He is Dracula! If I’m wrong, then this man, Vladamir, will have no objections to meeting you during the day. But he won’t, I assure you, Dr. Steward. Dracula is unable to step into the sunlight—a price he must pay for his immortality.”

  SEVEN

  By 8:30 P.M., Jonathan had returned from Columbus to his office at St. Mark’s Hospital. He poured a cup of coffee, then sat behind his desk to work on the autopsy report for Jerry Randall. He was well into the task when, from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a dark figure standing in the center of the mahogany-paneled room. Jonathan slowly turned his head to take a closer look. The wild black hair and long black overcoat startled him. Vladamir. Jonathan dropped back in his leather chair. He sucked in a deep breath, held back his pounding heart with a trembling hand. Then he smiled. “I didn’t hear you come in. You scared the dickens out of me.”

  Vladamir made no reply. He showed no emotion whatsoever, but stood like a statue, staring into Jonathan’s eyes.

  “Actually, I’m glad you stopped by. I wanted to speak with you.”

  “Really?” Vladamir cocked his head, continuing to stare. “What exactly did you want?”

  Jonathan stretched back in his chair and crossed his legs, trying hard not to show his uneasiness. “I wanted to apologize for the other night.”

  Vladamir stepped forward into the dim circle of light that formed an island around Jonathan’s desk, continuing to stare wildly into his eyes. “No need to apologize, Doctor,” he replied coldly.

  “No, I really want to make it up to you. Say—lunch?”

  “Impossible, I’m afraid. I have a prior commitment.”

  Jonathan leaned forward, resting his arms on the top of his desk. He threw Vladamir a passing smile. “I didn’t mention a date.”

  “I naturally assumed you meant tomorrow,” Vladamir countered.

  “What about Wednesday?”

  Vladamir slowly shook his head.

  “Thursday?”

  “No!”

  It was Jonathan’s turn in this chess game of words. “All right. You pick the afternoon.”

  Vladamir laughed. “The spider spinning its web for the unwary fly.” He appeared more amused than annoyed. “Tell me, Doctor, who is the spider, and who the fly?”

  Jonathan cocked his head. “I don’t quite follow you, Mr. Tepevich. Or should I say . . . Dracula?”

  Vladamir tilted his head to look at the ceiling, continuing to smile. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time. So, you’ve met my old friend, Dr. Van Helsing.”

  “I did,” Jonathan replied quietly. “I don’t believe a word he said.”

  “What do you believe, Doctor?” Vladamir lowered his head. “Surely not in vampires?”

  “No.” Jonathan’s voice was restrained, and he looked at Vladamir with concern. “But I do think you’ve gotten yourself into a great deal of trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Vladamir chuckled. “No, Doctor. It is a holy crusade. The world is filled with disease, but I have found a cure. I am only interested in those who would inflict pain and suffering. I present no danger to you whatsoever.”

  “Then, you are responsible for the deaths aboard that yacht and in Columbus,” Jonathan said. “You murdered four people.”

  Vladamir laughed again. “I’d hardly call it murder, Jonathan. A man who attacked a crippled child? Drug dealers? No! Hardly what I would c
all murder. More a service to humanity. Yes!” Vladamir nodded confidently.

  “That’s not what the police will think,” Jonathan replied, but with compassion.

  Vladamir shrugged. “I couldn’t care less what they think. The authorities are of no concern to me.” Suddenly, Vladamir’s head snapped to his right, as if he heard something that alarmed him. Vladamir moved slowly toward a window, and the sights of the city outside. His eyes darted right to left. “No . . .” he whispered.

  “What?” Jonathan looked up at him. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  Vladamir’s expression bordered on uncontrollable rage. “Bastards!” he exclaimed, holding up his fists. “No! I won’t let them do it!” He stormed out of the room.

  “Wait! I want to help!” Jonathan pleaded, following him.

  “Sorry, Doctor.” Vladamir raced down the hall. “I have no time to waste!”

  Jonathan picked up his speed, but as he came within grabbing distance, a burst of smoke erupted in front of him, thick, red smoke that quickly settled in the hallway like a dense fog. Just as suddenly, the smoke cleared. And Vladamir had vanished.

  Jonathan continued down the hallway until he reached the nurses’ station positioned by the only entrance to the ward.

  An elderly nurse looked up from behind the counter. “You’re working late, Dr. Steward.”

  “Where did he go?” Jonathan’s voice resounded with panic.

  “Who?”

  Jonathan pointed to the hallway. “That man, dressed in black! Where did he go?”

  “You’re the only one I’ve seen in the last fifteen minutes.” She shrugged.