Dracula Book ©

Carmella Burns' Journal, August 9, 2004

I went to see Lucy today. She is such a good friend and a sweet girl. I really wish we could get together more often, but we do try. I am busy at the university. Well, Lucy has just started this business, the Paranormal Investigation Society. She has always been more of the artist type, and am definitely the scientist. She actually believes in ghosts and such, and of course I do not. But, I respect her lifestyle and beliefs, because we have been good friends since our childhood. We get along really well actually, for two people with such different worldviews.

I met her at her place of business. It is located west of Vine Street, but not far, sort of in the vicinity of the older parts of Proctor & Gamble, the warehouse district of Cincinnati. I walked in and was stunned by the shear size of the warehouse. It was enormous! Why, she could have fit several trains in there if she had wanted! Fortunately, her “office” consisted only of the very front portion, behind which is a partial wall, so that it gives the illusion of a small office. When I walked in, Luce was on the phone. She was apparently talking to a client, at least from what I could tell.

“...yes..yes..yes, Sir, I understand. Hmm that's very interesting. Well, it's hard to say without..but Sir, but you see..yes, yes I understand..noises and spectres and..but Sir, please understand, I cannot say for sure until..yes, yes..but see, I have to investigate first, and then we..wait, Sir! Now that's just not fair! I'm not a psychic you know! Yes, yes, you are the..yes, I understand..now listen, that was uncalled for. If you want me to investigate, I will. If not, then go on and live with the ghost.” She hung up the phone hard.

“Well goodness, Lucy!”

“Heh. Sorry about that. This guy is a real ass. Listen to this. He sees dark figures walking in his house, he hears footsteps and voices, and he wants me to tell him over the phone that... Oh dear. Where are my manners? Carmella!”

Lucy ran over and hugged me very snugly. We kissed on the cheek, and she invited me to sit down, but not before pouring me a glass of 1997 Brunello. Lucy, although not rich at all, had inherited a small amount of money, a few thousand dollars, from an uncle, and since she is an oenophile, she spent most of it on wine. I must admit, though, that the Brunello was fantastic. 1997 was apparently a great year for Italians.

“So, Luce, this is all very interesting. Your office is so large!” She giggled.

“Yeah, I know. But it's so cheap! You wouldn't believe how low the rent is on these old storage warehouses on the West Side. Some of these old places were thriving in the 40s and 50s, but you know how Cincinnati went, the way of all flesh. The technological revolution shut down all of the old factories, except Proctor of course. Carm, I'm only paying two hundred a month!”

“Geez, that's cheap! Even my rent is five hundred, and I live in the Mount Storm slums.”

We both laughed. Cincinnati, like Rome, was built on seven hills. Cincinnatus, in fact, was a Roman farmer who was called to be a dictator-general in a particularly severe war. He agreed, won the war with incredible valor and bravery, and then, instead of accepting honors, he returned to his humble farm. He was seen as a symbol of Roman virtue and humility.

The first hill of Cincinnati is called Mount Storm or University Hill by the locals. This is because the University of Cincinnati is on this hill, and also because this hill takes the brunt of storms and tornadoes. Mount Storm is directly north of downtown and Over-the-Rhine, the old German neighborhood that has become Cincinnati's high-crime area. Mount Storm was, in the Victorian Era, a place for the wealthy to build houses outside of the city proper, and you only need to look up at the balconies and details to see that these people put lots of money and art into their homes. But, like most large American cities, the neighborhood became worn out, and so now the gorgeous old Victorian houses are divided up into student apartments, and are in need of a good paint job.

I was lucky enough to find an entire house for rent, and to have a landlord nice enough to give me free reign. I had repaired much of the house, decorated and painted the inside and outside, and planted a neat garden, so that my house stood out among all the rest. Plus, I sort of liked the adventure and unpredictability of a student neighborhood. I was only a block off of Short Vine, the old Vine Street that had been cut off for the new, Short Vine bring the site of several popular student bars and cafés. My professional world was so ordered and straight, with my math, physics, department heads, students, and grant-writing, that I needed some adventure in my personal life I guess.

“Luce, that is fantastic rent. You should just live here.” Giggle.

“Yeah you know, that is actually a good idea. But, I would get really spooked out at night. My God, can you imagine me sleeping in this monstrosity all by myself?”

“I could some sleep with you and protect you from the ghosts.”

“Ha! You would be scared too.”

“Nah, I don't believe in ghosts.”

“Well, that doesn't stop them from being real.” Giggle.

“So, tell me more about this mysterious man.”

“Oh Carm, he is just gorgeous. I am going over to his house tomorrow to investigate. Dr. Michael Roy. How does Mrs. Michael Roy sound?”

“You goof.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, tomorrow I get to see his house, which I'm sure will be just beautiful and grand. Hey, Carm, I have a great idea!”

“Oh, Lord. That usually means something odd.”

“Hehe. Well, I was thinking that maybe you could come to Dr. Roy's house with me! We could spend the night and have so much fun.”

“Luce, now you know that if my colleagues found out that I was hunting ghosts, that would be the end of my career.”

“Yeah, but if you're only visiting a friend while she is at work, since that is the only free time she has..get my drift..then it's not a big deal, right?”

I chuckled. “Well, I guess they don't have to know about it.” I really wanted to join her, just to be around her, since we always had such a great time together. “Ok, ok. I'll go ghost hunting with you, and I'll meet this mysterious doctor who you seem to be attracted to. No, don't blush. You know you like him! I know you, Luce, like I know myself. So, where do we begin? You know, I've never had any paranormal experiences. I wish I could, so I could believe. Come on spirits, come and get me!”

Jonah West's Journal, August 7, 2004

As I write this journal, I am at the edge of sanity. I know that I am a rational man, an artist granted, but nevertheless trained and versed in logic and rational thought. But the events that have transpired last night and today, they are, by all appearances, beyond the realm of ration and reason. I know this cannot be! For the universe is governed by rational laws, by the laws of physics, by that which has been tested and empirically-verified, and reduplicated in laboratories. What, then? Have I discovered some new, natural law? Or, have I – as I am terrified to admit, and loathe to entertain – stumbled upon some exception to natural law? No, this cannot be! But let me record in this journal, a journal which I now must hide for my own safety, the events of the last day and night, and, if I shall not survive – which I fear must be the case – let the rational reader consider these things, and decide for himself if I have lost my sanity, or if I have somehow found the supernatural, that Holy Grail of thinkers, but the Tower of Flies for the scientific, such as I am.

Sjeklia and I left the library not far after we spoke, as recorded in my last journal entry. She was positively shaking in my arms, and I did my best to console her and steady her nerves. I insisted that she drink the glass of brandy that I had ordered along the way, as a medicine, and she did. As for me, I also swallowed some brandy, if for no other reason, then to guard myself against the strange chill in the air. Though it be Summer in the Northern Hemisphere, it was appallingly cold last night, as if Nature herself were shivering in fear of the dread to come. Moreover, there were storm clouds in the sky, and I feared rain and sleet.

I purposely hailed a hackney with two horses abreast, as I desired to enter the atmosphere of the outing. Just as Jonathan Harker had climbed the steep slopes to the pass and then to Dracula's castle in Stoker's fiction, so I longed to recreate the mood and emotions of that night so that I might write a more accurate, and enthralling, novel. The horse-driven hackneys are common enough in Transylvania, and especially in Borkozviok, and not merely as a novelty for tourists. For Western tourists are, if not rare, then at least uncommon, in this part of the world. No, the hackneys were common transportation for any resident who wished to avoid the exorbitant fees of the taxis. So, it was not out of place that we climbed the hills to the west of town with the clopping of the horses' hooves in our ears.

Unlike poor Jonathan, our driver was not a vampire in disguise, but a jovial fellow, a Bosnian immigrant, who had made a living in the transport of people in his lovely carriage. At first, when we entered the cab, he had made jokes, attempted to speak English, and sang as we tripsied through the town. But, when I at last told him of our destination – Castle Dracula – he had stopped the horse and refused, telling us in a stern voice to please exit his cab, and to never again hail him. I had argued and haggled with him for a full five minutes, finally convincing him to go, not through reason or logic, but through that universal reason, money. I had offered him thrice his regular fare, and he could not refuse. But he absolutely insisted that we both wear a crucifix, and as I still wore my rosary from the day before, it was only Sjeklia who had to don hers. Then the driver crossed himself, pointed the two fingers at us (which the read shall remember is the general Slavic means of canceling the Evil Eye), and prayed the Lord's Prayer in Bosnian.

I of course was quite annoyed by this time, that these two poor, superstitious fools, behaving as if they were in the Middle Ages, had wasted so much time and effort over a simple trip to the Baron's home for a dinner party! I told Sjeklia so, and she frowned. I put my arm around her (God help me, what am I doing to Carmella?) and we bounced as the carriage made its way up the hill, on the gravelly path. It was not without a grin from me, a grin of familiarity and excitement, that we heard the howl of wolves in the distance.

About halfway up the hill, or mountain as it were, we came upon an encampment of Gypsies, who had quite blocked the path with their carts and horses. I suspected trouble, but I was not at all unfamiliar with the Gypsies, as I had read about them profusely. I knew that they were a troublesome and deceptive lot, and that there were only two ways to avoid them: to either physically assault them, or to pay them a bribe. Not desiring a fight, I told the driver to please stop, and I dismounted the cart. Sjeklia appeared frightened, but I told her to allow me to handle matters.

I approached the oldest male Gypsy, knowing full-well that they all spoke German, and, with my best Berliner accent, called to him: “Good evening, Sir. What good fortune brings us together on this chilly night?”

“Ah, hello my American friend. I recognize your accent, though your German is very excellent. My family and I, but poor travelers, are stopped on this road so that we may rest and refresh ourselves and our horses. It is a pity that we have straddled the path, so that you may not pass.”

“We may not pass? But my friend, are you not aware that this is a public road, and that the Transylvanian Parliament has given me the right to pass?”

“Ah, yes. Well, if you can summon the Parliament, then I shall certainly heed their wishes.” I saw that it was futile.

“Well, anyway friend, perhaps I may make a donation to your poor family, and perhaps it may help you to find a more suitable place to set camp?”

“Ah, a donation? That is most gracious of you! And, what might this donation be?”

I handed the man 30 Euros, which is quite a sum in Transylvania, but like Monopoly money to me against the US dollar. His eyes brightened, and he smiled.

“Quite a generous donation! I firmly believe that my poor family and I might be able to find a more suitable place to camp, with this sort of donation. Here, let us move our horses, and allow you to pass, friend.”

“Yes, thank you,” I retorted sarcastically.

I thanked him and hopped back into the cart, assuring the driver that all was well. As soon as the Gypsies moved, we continued on. I suspected strongly that they would do the same for every guest of the Baron tonight, and that they would make quite a fortune with this sort of intimidation. I for one was not about to challenge them, as I could clearly see several stout men in the camp.

The driver continued on, and he was manifestly disturbed by the darkness and the fact that the howling of the wolves was becoming not only more pronounced, but closer. He had taken to singing an old Transylvanian song in a low, smooth hum, which was actually very beautiful. As I did not understand the language, I could only imagine that he was singing of old times, of castles and maidens and valiant men of war.

Sjeklia was also frightened by the wolves, and she was shivering against me. I, however, was quite enchanted for two reasons. First, as any read of Stoker's Dracula will know, when Jonathan Harker traveled up to Castle Dracula for the first time (along this very path!), the wolves began to howl at Dracula's appearance. Second, I happen to know for a fact, because of a Summer spent volunteering at the local Wildlife Rescue Foundation in Ohio, that wolves are actually not really dangerous. Sure, when in a pack and hungry or threatened, they may bother humans, but for the most part, they are stupider than dogs, not half as cunning or clever, and wish to avoid man at all cost. After all, a standing man is four times the size of a wolf, and even the dullest animal knows that a small prey is easier to catch than one several times his size. Moreover, wolves always howl at night, and so there was no supernatural omen to this night – I would wager than any traveler on this road any evening would hear the wolves.

As we were yet upon the portion of the road that is not too far from town – in fact we were just approaching a pass that marked the end of the civilized world, so to speak, and the beginning of the true countryside – we would occasionally pass a man or group of men walking, axes on their shoulders, returning home from a day of cutting. As we approached one such group, our driver evidently knew them, for he stopped the horses and motioned for me to please wait one moment. He climbed down and the men all bowed to each other and laughed and spoke in that hearty way that men do when meeting their friends.

Again, I was at a disadvantage, not speaking Transylvanian, but I looked to Sjeklia to try to understand, by gesture, what they were saying. She was listening carefully. I could tell at one point that the men were asking about me, for they were looking and pointing, and I heard the word amerikani or something similar, so that I knew that I was the novelty, the visiting American. I smiled and bowed in my seat, and they bowed and smiled back. They greeted me with a bona, and I bowed again. The driver chuckled, and they began talking again.

But then, I heard the driver say something about Dragul, which of course is their word for Dracula, and I knew he was explaining to them our destination. At the mere mention of that place, they all stopped talking, and their eyes widened. They argued with the driver, but he shook his head and rubbed his fingers together, the universal sign for money, indicating that I was paying him well. They argued some more, but the driver stood firm. When the men understood that they could not dissuade us, they came over to the the carriage and bowed again.

One of them reached into a sack and handed both Sjeklia and me a silver crucifix each on a chain. Sjeklia was white with fear, but she thanked them in the native tongue. We both hung the crucifixes around our necks, and she gripped my hand very firmly. The man indicated for me to wait, and he pulled out a ring of white flowers of the garlic plant, but not with the fruit attached, so that they did not smell. He indicated fervently that I should put some in each of our pockets, which I did, and then each of the men pointed two fingers at us to ward off the Evil Eye, crossed themselves, and bowed again before disappearing into the night. The driver returned to his seat and, without a word, started the horses again uphill.

“See you now, Jonah? We go bad place! These men not stupid, they are live here, and they also know that the Baron bad, bad man.”

“Oh come now, Sjeklia. I respect their traditions and superstitions, and their kindness in trying to help me as they understood it, but I must insist that you cease from this talk at once, for on this dark road with the howling of the wolves, you are likely to send yourself into a fit, and that will help no one. Now please, let us enjoy the night air, and look forward to what I am sure will be a lovely feast.”

We reached the pass and the horses stopped of their own accord. The driver urged them on, but they simply reared up and snorted and champed. He had to leave his seat, take them buy the reins and pet them, and walk them into the pass. He returned to his seat and we pressed on. He turned back and smiled, and indicated with a circling finger next to his temple that his friends and the horses were crazy. But as he turned around, I could read on his face that he was genuinely frightened as well. Onwards quite a ways, the moon broke from behind the clouds suddenly, illuminating the path and the land around us, and there, before us yet half a mile, loomed Castle Dracula.

Nothing that I had ever read or seen could have quite prepared me for this stunning vision. Black as the night, seated upon a drastic cliff, the massive structure seemed to stretch forever. Towers and spires and balconies and windows and walls and rooms jutted out here and there, so that it seemed to be an entire city on a hill, one of Escher's queer cities jutting out into surreality. The black, Mongolian stones were so black that they almost looked shiny and purple, and they fiercely challenged the moon for mastery of the nightscape. A wolf howled very close to us, and a light lit up in one of the windows of the castle. A dark, slightly-hunched figure moved between the light and the window, and I recognized at once the shape of Baron Dracula. I must continue this journal later, because they are coming...

continued...