STOKER: Evolution of a Vampire

Chapter 1

A Close Encounter

There are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely.

—Dracula to Jonathan Harker

It was a typical Sunday evening at the Stoker household: Bram, who was seated at the kitchen table, held up the Dublin Evening Mail insomuch it concealed his entire face from his family. His nostrils flared and his brow contracted in heavy wrinkles while his eyes darted over every headline. Seeing his father’s focus was concentrated on the words of the paper, Noel Stoker decided to disrupt the silence by making some of his own.

Papa, the young lad yelped as he tugged harshly at his elder’s trousers, pulling himself up into his lap, May I have permission?

The boy’s eyebrows gathered together impatiently when he received no response and he began groping his way up the chair, reaching for the paper that stood in the way between father and son.

Florence Stoker, who was not used to having her husband home from the theatre this early on a Sunday, motioned Noel down from the chair with an imploring wave of the hand as she began to clear the supper table.

The Irish author, who invariably maintained a faraway look in his steely gray eyes, had lowered his face over the paper and was oblivious to all other causes. His dour characteristics and disproportional features were profoundly noticeable at the moment: his wide forehead, which centered itself above his otherwise small almond-shaped orbs and revealing curious visage. Likewise, Mother Nature had granted him a queer large bump over his eyebrows—a birth feature he spent his entire lifetime in embarrassment of—and he stroked it discreetly with his left hand as he flipped pages with his right. His thick reddish beard seemed to be an indicative symbol of his scrutinizing study and rendered him in control of the table before him.

Papa! Noel called out again, this time with a higher and louder pitch tone that resembled the sharp pang of a whistle. Bram slowly lowered the news to his eye level, and without words, his intense look communicated the message he wished not to be disturbed at the moment. Feeling dejected, Noel shifted his energy to his mother’s attention, which jumped from beverage preparation to her son as he tugged impatiently at her dress.

I want it, Mama, Noel Stoker pleaded, with scowling face and wrinkled nose.

Noel, please . . . not now, his mother interjected before her husband rose from his chair.

Florence, who was born Anne Lemon Balcome, looked on as she poured herself and her husband a spot of tea from the fire. She was a frail and small woman but managed to hold court wherever she was. At five feet eight, she was delicate where her husband was hardy, she was chatty where he was reticent and she was inquisitive where he was unconcerned.

She sat at the kitchenette wearing an English bonnet and day dress, quietly sipping a cup of hot tea. And seeing that Bram was reading his own review of Hamlet, being another great follower of the cinema and the work of William Shakespeare, she lifted the paper from under her husband’s hands in complete silence. The writer watched his spouse’s face as she quickly read the piece and could tell from her beam she was so enthralled by what Abraham had written analyzing the performance of Henry Irving as Hamlet for the Theatre Royal.

I do believe your stamp of approval gives Mr. Irving’s ability the credit he so desires and deserves, Florence said cheerfully.

Bram grunted in a neutral sort of way that caused his wife’s mood and tone to drop to a laconic manner. He took another sip of his tea before taking the paper back from Florence. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his son begin to climb up on of the chairs and reach for something that was on the top shelf of the cupboard.

Alas, Florence continued, "I would fancy to accompany you on the opening of Faust if Mother minds Noel for a night—as it would be such as the lovely evening we met! She said this in a dreamy sort of way that made Bram smile as if he recalled that evening too. Can we not be fellow spectators for one night only? I do get awful weary of you keeping up the front of the Lyceum and wish you in the audience with me."

A genius! Autocrat! The man was better than ever, her husband replied as she looked up in a distraught sort of way. Henry’s portrayal of the wild, fitful, irresolute, mystic, melancholy prince that we know in the play was spot on, but given with a sad, picturesque gracefulness which is the actor’s special gift—

Did you not hear a word I just said? Florence interrupted bitterly.

Indeed, now working also as Irving’s agent and acting manager at London’s Lyceum Theatre, Stoker’s time was divided, and on occasion, Bram and Florence found themselves somewhat estranged. The emotional distance between the three family members was so thick in the room at that very instant that it was only ironic when Noel, who suddenly leapt from the cupboard with a dagger, began to make pretend stab marks at the air asking, May I take it to school for show?

Are you daft? What would the headmaster say to this? Florence Stoker replied crossly, looking like a half-concerned mother and a half-astonished Victorian princess. Can you believe such nonsense, Bram? Taking a butcher like that to class would be absolutely dreadful!

Like Florence, Irving Noel Thornley Stoker was a talkative lad; thus he seemed to get along and relate to his mother better than his father whom was absent a majority of his early childhood. In contrast to his father, the lad had grown up to loathe the theatre, comparing it to a thief that stole his Papa’s days and nights. Noel’s most frequent contact with his father was mainly watching the elder dress in making ready to spend long hours at work whilst he listened to the retelling of Charlotte Stoker’s tales, Stoker’s own stories of Irish pixies and supernatural horror myths that would become the center of several of the author’s works.

Bram Stoker, who was a large, burly man, was once referred to by his son as a red-bearded giant who used to lie at full length on the drawing room carpet, and let me climb about his chest after his father would come home at night for a solitary late supper that would be warmed on the kitchen coals. But even though Noel was raised in solitude and was somewhat deprived of fathering during his formative years, the Irishman did not refrain from making comments about his son’s peculiarly handsome looks.

Look at the little chap, Florie! He resembles a cupid with his arrow!

Master Noel held up the impressive blade to his father, who in turn placed down the news. Abraham pointed the knife toward the ceiling of the kitchen as if it was an object of study. You acquired this at Godalming’s shop, I presume? Excellent craftsman work, but alas . . . no doubt you somehow talked the Old Man out of it without his approval. Nay, it be certainly not for classroom show-and-tell. And certainly not at your age! You better get along without it!

Humph, sighed eleven-year old Noel as he lowered his head in disappointment.

Mind your father. He knows best, Mrs. Stoker pleaded as she placed the dagger back in an aged brown leather bag and secured in the cupboard.

Having been born into a military family she was socially ambitious and frivolous all the same. Though she was eleven years younger than her husband, this did not make her any less courageous than he, and if Abraham considered himself the most masculine man, then Florence Balcombe was indeed his grand feminine counterpart. Despite the fact she was penniless when they met, she was born into the Victorian era and she fit the description well. She was strikingly pretty—one that loved to test wits—and was considered admirable by everyone she came in contact with. And even though her beauty attracted too many promiscuous gazes for Bram to deal with, she thrived on these reactions. For all intents and purposes, she could have been classified as a lady-in-waiting, but tonight, she was pleased that her husband was home.

Now bugger off to bed, little man! the writer said, swatting his son on the bum.

As Noel inched out of the room, Florence Stoker hesitated a moment and then whispered assertively in Abraham’s ear. No more bloody stories! Florence insisted. He probably feels he needed to purchase a knife for protection from all the ghosts and ghouls that your mother poisoned you with . . . ’tis no wonder you have been waking up every night for the past week in cold sweat! Stop this madness now before you spread your night terrors on to the rest of the household!

The author stood up with a sigh and then walked to the front window and looked out upon the ray that was sinking fast. The residence, which overlooked a private garden, featured a setback that allowed hansoms and broughams to drive to the front door. The man studied it as if he expected company. Though Florence felt this orchestration suggested a high-class level of importance, she secretly loathed when unwanted visitors would call on her husband, especially Henry Irving, for he would call on him all the time and at the most inopportune moments.

Now really, Florrie, the lad is just being an eleven-year-old, and I am sure some chap at school had one like it, the Irishman answered. I think it is more of him wanting to fit in than protecting himself on my account from the fiends that could be haunting his nightmares.

Florence Stoker was commonly referred to one of the three most beautiful women in all of London (Lady Hare and Marie Spartali Stillman being the other two) and was nicknamed the Beauty by several. However, whenever Bram called her, he simply referred to her as Florrie. The nickname came about soon after he met his wife in 1876 shortly after becoming employed as a theatre critic for Dublin’s Evening Mail. The two made a striking couple and together longed to go to the theatre with fellow Victorian couples. In addition, they were equally unhappy with their social standing at the time, and so, on December 4, 1878, in the harsh but in vogue St. Ann’s Protestant church on Dawson Street in downtown Dublin, nineteen-year-old Florence Anne Lemon Balcombe wed thirty-one-year-old Abraham Stoker. But in setting precedence, Henry Irving called her husband away immediately after their wedding, canceling any chance for a honeymoon in lieu of business.

As Bram stood at the window reflecting on these days of old, he watched the assembly of people proceed past the window and neighboring streets while Florence stood at a distance, pondering if her husband was hoping Irving was amongst them.

’Tis a new season at the Lyceum—opening night is upon us! the manager said as if he were disclosing a terrific secret his wife did not already know. In return, she nodded silently to appease him. After all, he had been away every evening for the past month and a half for its preparation.

Being the positively feral lady she was, Florence was enough of a pragmatist to make the most of things occupying the evening hours in other ways than being in her husband’s company. And she prohibited to allow marital negligence turn her into a withering psychoneurotic that often plagued live-in servants of the time. Therefore, she used her husband’s notoriety to surround herself with popular people and resurrected herself beautifully by having and attending to formal dinners, often escorted by someone other than her husband. She remained intact, refused to be soothed by laudanum, and strategically saw that her entourage was not made up of one boring individual.

As the thespian couple had many dealings that had befallen them in their respective spheres of life, the events, peril, and stress collectively worked themselves up into a collection of conflicting turmoil that kept both of them quite worked up and often prevented time to dwell on the mundane tasks and trivial details others appreciated in a common family life.

Perhaps you could join me for the premier act? asked Bram. She hesitated for such past occasions had proven to be awkward, where they did not arrive together, sat together or left together; and Noel’s dislike of actor Henry Irving—coupled with his juvenile impatience—planted second thoughts in Florence’s head.

We will see, was Florence’s neutral laconic answer. Good night . . . I suggest you not stay up too late.

On this particular night, after spending most of the day handling the paperwork of Irving’s affairs at the theatre, he retired to his bedroom exhausted. In two days, the Lyceum’s production launch of Goethe’s Faust would prove most eventful, and he was looking forward to writing what he anticipated to be a positive review for his column in the Dublin’s Evening Mail. Not only would his employer star in the show, Stoker would up the ante by writing what he expected to be a rave review of the play.

Theatregoers will be cueing for hours opening night! he thought to himself as he as undressed and laid down next to his wife. As he overheard the occasional carriage or passer by project, the silhouette of a horse or English gentleman on the wall of the room, he thought about how it was always a challenge not to be biased when critiquing his own client’s work. Times were good, and he expected that the staging would embark on another six-month tour of America. The last time this happened Florence and Noel left their London flat to send the summer months with Grandmother Balcombe in Dublin and Noel missed his father terribly. However, Abraham did not reflect on this thought long, and within moments, his eyes grew delusional from fatigue and closed while his thoughts drifted back to his own less pleasant memories and strange world of his youthful straits.

* * * * *

Charlotte Stoker leaned over, gently pressing her lips quietly on the cheek of four-year-old Abraham Stoker after carrying him to his nursery. Consequently, she stepped back and stared at the lad with grave worry. Having grown up in times of desperation, famine and epidemic fear herself, the lad’s mother was deeply concerned about the outcasts of society, and she remained secretly afraid her invalid son was on the verge of joining the ranks of Dublin’s misfits. As a result of an unknown infirmity—a childhood condition that often brought young Stoker to the point of death—Abraham was usually the center of attention and constant worry of a family of seven.

Young Bram’s tiny bedroom on the third floor of the modest Georgian terrace house overlooked Dublin Bay. His almond-shaped eyes were weary after watching the stormy high tides lick the roadway long into the evening. This fantastic view was everything to him: a secret world especially built for a sickly child—one with a keen sensitivity to nature’s unexplained wonders. Whilst his older brother and sister ran about the house or played games in the sprawling leafy park outside his window, Master Abraham remained in bed daydreaming about the great unknown. Between extreme spells of introspection, his mother would check up on him as the periods of silence disturbed her; so she would often pick him up and carry the child from room to room.

One could say his inability to walk isolated him from the womb and this unspoken discrimination brought about a secretive nature in the boy that fed an indulgent supply of dark thoughts. Indeed, his solitude ordained his intelligence as the undefined illness confined him to the room, which furnished his mind with an assortment of fears such as death and abandonment.

On this particular night, young Stoker set his mind on William Stoker, his father’s older brother, who was associated with Dublin’s Fever Hospital and House of Recovery. And like other doctors of the time, this uncle practiced the art of bleeding as a cure for organic diseases.

Will Uncle William bring on the leeches? asked the boy quietly with a startling glare in his now saucer-like eyes.

Good heavens, certainly not! his mother sharply responded without hesitation, though the man seldom hesitated to take blood freely on a whim in hopes to cure his nephew with no advance warning. Your uncle has yet to prove this theory does anything but alarm you, weaken your body, and shake your spirits! And I dare to say, your father is in agreement!

Abraham Senior was a civil servant that drudged away in the parliamentary section at Dublin Castle. Though he provided a middle-class income to his family, they were not isolated from the hard times that lurked outside their home. After all, young Bram was born during the nightmarish years when crops failed to the point that many assumed that the whole food of the country was gone. There were riots, looting, and marches that took place below his son’s window, and the sounds of landlord’s evicting tenants too weak to tend their crops wrung his heart. Overcrowded poorhouses locked out the homeless, and the distant cries of starving families roaming the countryside would sometimes lull him to sleep at night.

Charlotte, who was a determined-looking Irishwoman with a round, quizzical face, put out the wick of a lantern positioned on an English oak stand next to the door. She wore a traditional native bonnet framed by a definitive visage and lighted by a suggestion of a smile. Positively, she provided the flamboyant genes in the Stoker family, and she presented herself with an independent stature and an intimidating quality that caused some folk to question her motives or avoid her altogether. Likewise, she was intelligent, hardworking, and literate—well read for an untutored Sligo girl.

Bless you, child, she whispered in a soft, comforting voice as she peacefully sat out to leave the room.

Having been born into a family consisting of constables and military members that went back three generations, Charlotte saw that her seven children—consisting of five sons—were weaned on the rough and tumble. As all of Bram’s siblings, including himself, were bore in a ten-year span. If it were not for Bram’s unique and puzzling disability, his parents’ attention would have been more diversified; however, it was not until Abraham was seven years old until he knew the true import of being able to stand upright and the everlasting consequences of being the household’s main event. Indeed, in all sense of fairness, he was outright negated the paramount rites of passage from infant to child. He never crawled on the parterre to retrieve a toy, never pulled himself up using a piece of furniture or wobbled his way in the direction of his mother’s outstretched arms. In contrast, he discerned the distress in her voice when the doctor came to examine him.

Having lived through the cholera epidemic that beset the West Country population, one of Charlotte’s worst fears was losing her eyesight and being forced to dwell out her senior years in utter darkness. This thought terrified her, and she was equally concerned about Bram’s wellness, having vowed to Abraham Senior that all her children would attend Dublin’s acclaimed Trinity College with the sons of the aristocracy.

Tell me about the sickness, the half-awake young Irish boy called out to his mother, as she was about to crack the door. She turned and smiled in his direction and then paused before answering.

Alas, she sighed, more than one and a half million people died from starvation and disease while an equal number immigrated. It was said to have come from the east, rising out of the Yellow Sea, growing nearer and nearer until it was in Ireland. And Mrs. Feeny, a very fat woman who was a music teacher, was buried an hour after, and men looked at each other and whispered ‘Cholera,’ but the whisper the next day deepened to a roar . . . for in many houses lay one—nay two or three—dead! One house would be attacked and the next spared! There was no telling who would go next, and when one said ‘goodbye’ to a friend, he said it as if forever.

She then pulled the bedsheets tightly up close and around his neck and continued, Now that is all for tonight, my dear. Those terrifying days are far behind us . . . good night and pleasant dreams.

As his mother left the room, a worried look fell about his innocent face as he turned over on his pillow toward the window and looked out at the quiet November sky of Clontarf, Ireland. He stared at the twinkling stars outside hovering over nearby Dublin. Within minutes, his gray eyes began to grow tired and the orbs seemed to glow brighter. He gazed at two stars in particular and became fixated with them, as they appeared to outshine all others. He thought to himself that these two objects were actually guardian angels of Ireland, protecting everyone from the famine and diseases of yesteryears. This was not an unusual assumption, considering Bram had developed an overactive imagination—a trait he no doubt inherited from his mother, who was the most elaborate storyteller of the unusual and bizarre of anyone around Clontarf and beyond, from days lying in bed with only his imagination for comfort.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, he saw the two lights began to evolve from a bluish haze, transforming shape and changing colors from white to yellow and then from yellow to red Abraham continued to peer out from under his blanket, letting the images lull him peacefully to sleep.

Suddenly, his breathing alluded to heavy, strenuous gasps as young Stoker became still with fright under the realization that the lights were directly outside his window. Stricken with horror and unable to scream, the lad began to shake uncontrollably as he watched two eyes stare back at him, illuminating a deep hypnotic red.

The phantom shape outside focused on the boy for what seemed several minutes until finally the young invalid was able to muster up enough courage to grab hold of the string that was attached to a bell above the bed. This homemade contraption was the handy work of Abraham Senior who assembled it to primarily alert family when the handicapped boy was in trouble. Master Bram rang it wildly; and almost immediately the rampant sounds of footsteps filled the home. As the door to Junior’s room flew open, the glowing eyes outside had disappeared, and only the calm star-filled sky was there, the occasional gust of wind and the distant sounds of Dublin’s streets.

* * * * *

Abraham Stoker was abruptly awoken from his sleep in a cold sweat. Indeed, childhood fantasies bred adult nightmares. But seeing he was in his London flat lying next to his beloved, he inhaled and exhaled quick, short breaths for several minutes until full control of his respiratory functions returned and his nerves fell back to regularity. By God’s cross! the man thought to himself, sitting up in his bed broad awake. Can it be a terror I imagined as an ill young boy be making a cruel attempt to steal my mental health as a full-blown man? Concluding several efforts to revert back into a slumber in vain, he stole remotely to his study where he decided he would write in his diary again, expecting that the act would quiet him and soothe his mind into a more pleasing dream in time.

This psychological connection from youth is a manifestation of our own fears within, he began. The city sleeps—wharves, ramparts, and bridges are masked by the miasma that has crept up from the deep, the brazen filth of the remote streets is engulfed in the bluish mist, but above them and shadowy against the sky, the castle extends its arms as if for some monstrous hold.

Such a recollection of Dublin Castle connected him immediately back to his childhood paralysis, forcing him into an almost powerless state of being. However, seeing himself outwardly as a muscular Irishman, he chuckled at the absurdity of such a train of thought. By and by, he placed his pin back in the ink jar and approached the window of the study. It was now 1:00 a.m., and still slightly shaken from the nightmare recalling this terrifying childhood experience, he watched the blinding rain fall harder. The darting sound, however, shrouded the presence of a creature on the rooftop. A mysterious animal spread its cape-like wings, shielding the fitful rays of the moon the rain had not already claimed. The night turned completely dark as the apparition flapped its way into total blackness.

But the author was unawares of such a presence, and regaining his composure, Bram returned to his desk and reclaimed his space in his diary. Dunking his pen in the ink jar, his thoughts shifted to a more recent and even more horrifying account of what was yet to pass. And the beast lurked night after night thereafter; whence it would soon begin to invade his dreams henceforth. Someone—or something—would cause the writer’s every childhood fear to surface once again. Indeed, the aspiring author was being admired from afar by his most livid nightmares. But without his conception, an underdeveloped mutual attraction was transpiring: Stoker was attracted to this monster—for the very strength it possessed back then, a young invalid prayed years for and the grip it held this day, a detached husband and father was striving to overcome.

Chapter 2

A Doll of Crimson

Listen to the children of the night. What wondrous music they make.

—Dracula to Jonathan Harker

April 18, 1888, was an eventful evening for Abraham Stoker. Though every opening night of a play spawned excitement, the debut of Faust was particularly special for three reasons: he managed the leading man, he was a colossal disciple of Goethe’s work, and Bram himself was asked to critique the premiere for Dublin’s Evening Mail .

What a bloody honor, the Irishman thought to himself.

It ’twas no secret that the author was exulted in having his name and picture in the newspaper, and he had an odd infatuation with men of power. Noel recalled how his father’s sentimental idolatry allowed for opportunities to rub shoulders with the great: from poet Walt Whitman to James McHenry, an Anglo-American who amassed a fortune from the Lake Erie New York railway, such adulation stroked his own ego while gaining benefactors to the theatre. Though this obsession was doubtless aided by his growing insecurity over Irving’s affection—or lack thereof—the fledgling writer anticipated adventure; and his coming ’twas like a charge of cavalry whose intelligence and insightfulness placed him at the social nexus of Victorian society. Though Irving failed to consistently express his own appreciation for his employee’s faithful and loyal service—for his overwhelming demands accounted for countless days and nights away from home with little or no monetary return or personal accommodation—society as a whole respected his position at the Lyceum and fellow novelists, playwrights, and poets alike, crossing all genres, were in awe of his ability and overtly courteous and gallant demeanor.

The attendance that night broke all recent records, and Irving gave an award-winning performance as Mephistopheles. Florence and Noel conveniently stayed home for Mrs. Stoker swore to it that Noel was not feeling well. Despite the fact that the boy had matured amidst a backstage of elaborate props and Shakespearean costumes, over the years he did frequent and while away many hours in the Lyceum’s painting room, which had become a fantasy nursery where the lad helped Joseph Harker paint scenes and gold leaf on drop curtains. Noel kept company that night with his mother.

Though mother and son were well (that is, in the sense they were spared of any physical ailment), they were hurting emotionally due to excessive loneliness. Evening after evening, the two waited keeping each other company while Bram attended to the theatre. The family maintained an outward appearance of closeness in public; however, within the confines of their own home, the truth was apparent by emotional distance. Indeed, Florence was not all together truthful with the people she chose to surround herself with, including her own mother. In fact, she became so bored with herself when Noel would be at school, and Bram would take to the theatre that she took singing lessons as a fashionable escape from her desolation. However, in a letter to her mother, she said, [The] master describes me as ‘earnestly progressing;’ it is nice to find oneself appreciated. It’s the only amusement I indulge in as I have so much to do now for Bram. On the contrary, she was eagerly filling a full social calendar, often escorted by W. S. Gilbert, a popular playwright, who shared in her dislike of the overconfident actor who engrossed her husband’s time and energy with an iron fist. Ironically, it would be true to state that while Irving was controlling Abraham Stoker, his wife was beginning to join forces with the English female by beginning to rally one another to break free from the chains of a male-dominated society and advocate for the new woman, in addition to speaking out at public meetings to improve economic issues surrounding immigrants, poverty, and overpopulation.

Consequently, these same conditions were beginning to produce a wave of crime, which led to gender- and stereotype-based crimes, and as of late, promiscuous women were often the target audience. Indeed, for weeks an unknown killer, deemed Jack the Ripper, had been brutally slaughtering prostitutes in the White Chapel district. Albeit Abraham felt that his review of the Lyceum’s latest production might be overshadowed by the ongoing saga, he proceeded and hoped his client would engulf enough acclaim to see a successful run that could lead to greater promising stage opportunities and funding for the theatre. Notwithstanding, the Whitechapel investigation plastered the main headline and kept the community up in arms, suggesting women to stay inside at night.

Wherefore this rogue shall indeed take feign stabs at future receptions! Stoker wrote. For every murder, there is at least three score in missed attendance that are shut in—afraid to leave their abode for weeks on end! Furthermore, there was an unspeakable perception that men who left their wives alone at home—at night, for that matter, and without a man’s protective hand—were considered ungentlemanly and outright cowardly. In any event, Noel was once again in the position of being the defender of the Stoker domicile while Irving kept Abraham immersed in other affairs.

Henry Irving, a tall, dark-haired, dignified Englishman, fifty-two years of age, carried a wealth of knowledge about many topics. Wherever he seemed to go, the spotlight somehow always managed to shine in his direction, and he had an intrinsic need to always be in control of the situation. Though he seemed to always be the dominating presence when in a room full of people, he was actually reserved when amongst a crowd but always quite theatrical in one-on-one conversation. Moreover, there was a macabre aura of mystery and loneliness about the man, which often caused him to come across in a cold and harsh sort of way, resulting in many actors’ retaliation. But as time proved to show, Bram wrote more about this peculiar man in a separate diary—one which was often higher priority than his own journal, providing more detail than he did about his own wife and son.

Noel, who was born Irving Noel Thornley Stoker, actually dropped his first name in his maturity, saying he resented Irving for having monopolized his father for years on end. Recalling his father’s special diary, he commented by saying, It is, I think, another sign of his love and devotion for his friend, that however long had been the day—or night—the record in that diary was never deferred.

On this particular opening night as acting manager of the Lyceum, Bram lingered an hour after the show to total up earnings and to discuss business with Irving. Since the high-strung actor was always excitable after a show and thrived on audience reaction, the man who was the center of attention preferred discussion, recognition, and feedback in lieu of sleep. Thus, Stoker, who was his own center of attention in youth—though by chance and confined to home by fate—understood this, and it was not unusual for them to visit after shows to discuss finances, current affairs, or their careers.

The actor socialized backstage with a few of the lingering patrons and cast whilst the Irishman tallied up the revenue for the evening. As everyone left the building, Irving poured two glasses of wine and handed one to his manager.

By Jove, we took in about three thousand pounds tonight, sir! stated Abraham, who was in the process of retrieving his overcoat to exit the theatre for the night.

Aye, and you were quite impressive tonight, he quickly added. The acting, wardrobe, props, makeup . . . they were all remarkably astounding!

Nevertheless, we seek our reward in the approval of audiences. I trust the public will harmonize with your testament, Irving answered.

Though the Irishman wanted to be a literary man, still in his forties, money and loyalty bound him to Henry Irving. But this did not seem to discourage Bram from handling his employer’s affairs in the most professional way possible. In fact, despite Irving’s often unreasonable and sometimes outrageous demands, it could be said that the fledgling writer went above and beyond any rational person’s expectations: every well-received speech the actor ever presented was written by Stoker; every major investment and ledger transaction was well researched and double-checked to prevent error or a negative repercussion. And with similar anal qualities, the two men seemed to feed off of each other’s insecurities as well while also sharing weird interests, mystical beliefs, and a fondness for each other’s solitary nature—a trait that seemed to gel when the theatrical gatherings had died down. Indeed, while abroad in the United States, their pastime was often spent visiting the local mortuary together where they would study the faces of death and even take bets with each other on how the corpses expired before reading the fresh tag which hung on a cold foot. They preferred to celebrate this pleasure in each other’s company, and Abraham saw Irving as a sycophant and friend whilst the actor genius saw himself simply as an autocrat with a hypnotic power over others. Indeed, H. J. Loveday, the Lyceum’s stage manager, never once tried to abate Irving’s spending on spectacular productions, and when the three men would chat late into the night, wags would often refer to the talking heads as the Unholy Trinity.

Far be it from me to make little of life in Dublin or the advantages of it, but I predict our current project and your sensational review might rouse another welcome there! winked the actor.

Stoker flashed a broad smile for he knew Irving’s self-interest-driven agenda usually meant another lofty venture was on the horizon. London in view! the writer exclaimed jubilantly. Chanting students will pay tribute and chair you through the streets—a time-honored tradition, though neither comfortable nor safe.

How so? Henry asked.

You might fall face forward being carried aloft, so always entwine your fingers in the hair of the bearers on either side to prevent them moving in opposite directions . . .

Deftly, the master stroked the servant’s own vanity by stating Ah, your accuracy and wisdom is always spot on! But enough for tonight.

Goodnight, Sir Henry, the Irishman said, touching his right hand to his large hat.

Cheerio, Stoker! said the actor, smiling. ’Til tomorrow!

* * * * *

It was after midnight when Bram caught a ferry across town. Though he had a custom-made bicycle that he ordered to accommodate his grand stature, he preferred to ride it home during the warmer months. Tonight, he decided to walk, believing the cool nighttime air would do him some good. But as he placed his hands in his pockets to warm them, prior to setting off in his direction the sound of a dog howling in the darkness startled him.

How odd such a night creature would tarry so close to the city, he thought to himself.

The author looked around to see if anyone else heard the moaning. He realized he was alone, but a sort of melancholy feeling began to swoon his body as the thick London fog started to surround his feet and crawl slowly up his legs toward his knees. He quickly proceeded to walk toward home when suddenly, out of nowhere, a man stepped out of the fog and began to gaze at him from head to toe.

At first the writer was frightened and then horrified, thinking it was Jack the Ripper in all his infamous glory; however, he let out a relieved sigh when he saw it was a homeless man—possibly in his sixties—whom was wandering around the Thames ferry in search of food. But when the vagabond saw the author approach, he grew quite bewildered and nervous.

Are you all right, dear sir? Abraham asked.

As the Irishman confronted the vagrant, as if to hand the man a shilling or two, the fellow glared at him in a most unusual fashion that was both surreal and mind-boggling to watch. A look of terror seemed to spread across the man’s face as he bellowed out, I see the eye—the evil eye! Right here! And it is upon you!

The dog howled again in the distance; only this time, it appeared at closer range. In reaction, the man grew more apprehensive at the noise.

He is coming for you! Aye, might God have mercy upon your very soul!

Who? Bram asked, "Whom do you speak of? Who is coming?"

Look for yourself! the man said in a low, raspy whisper—as if a third party might eavesdrop on the conversation. At this moment he placed his left hand on Stoker’s shoulder and pulled the Irishman toward him. And with his right hand, the stranger took up Bram’s right. In the moonlight, a passer-by could have mistaken them as a couple dancing; however, a closer glance would reveal a gentleman and an unfortunate both seemingly terrified of the other.

Look for yourself! the man repeated as the strands from his shattered split-ends, cascading down his grimy face, were brushed back from his eyes. He was watching you then, and he is watching you still! At this, he gripped the author tightly by the head, covering each ear with a calloused hand, and met him eye to eye.

Look!

The vagrant’s eyes seemed to flash like an eclipse from the sun while they released an energy force, which magnetized the writer completely, leaving him totally helpless and vulnerable. And then a scene was reveled before Abraham Stoker from long ago, one that was set in his native soil while he was still in the womb—a tragedy that he learned of through second or even third-hand murmurs, a travesty that he often tried to forget . . .

The Stephensons, who lived on a Dublin farm about a quarter of a mile from the Stokers, went though a devastating and terrorizing trial while Charlotte was in labor with Bram. The wood that surrounded their country farm also posed the dilemma of roving woodland creatures that were equally ravished. Thornley, Bram’s older brother, frequently visited to play with their son Jack of the same age. Early evening on September 10, the Stephensons placed their two-year-old daughter, Emily, down for a nap while Neil Stephenson went into town in search of affordable food. Jack, who wanted to be the first to bite into a currant bun, tagged along to keep his father on the straight and narrow. Indeed, it had been several days since the family had sat down for a decent meal, and Emily, especially, was weak and fatigued. It was that same evening that Sarah Stephenson closed the screen door to the kitchen and stepped outside to the back of the house with a laundry basket in hand.

With the full moon illuminating the backyard, the frail woman unclipped garments on a long piece of cord strung between two hardwood trees. She hummed softly to herself for several minutes to pass the time and to ignore the hunger pains that were beginning to claim her body. As the sun sank down into the valley behind her, a sinister silence seemed to settle in the air around her. And in a matter of seconds, a sort of paranoia began to take control of her faculties. She became increasingly frightened—first worried about her husband and son returning safely with food, and then an immediate concern for her own safety and that of her daughter. Sarah quickly unclasped the remaining garments to the lengthy narrow fiber and then shuddered slightly as she gathered her basket and turned abruptly to walk back inside.

Suddenly, she froze in fear as a low growl came from behind her. Clearly, it was a snarl of danger, and Sarah slowly turned her head to view the silhouetted profile of what appeared to be a large malnourished dog through a piece of clean white linen flapping in the wind. The beast circled Sarah, dripping what was seemingly fresh blood from its mouth.

It continued to bellow an ominous gnarl, snapping and champing its razorlike teeth together like a malevolent hungry fiend as it thrashed its head side to side causing droplets to fly, soiling the clean, dry linen that was waiting to be reclaimed.

And then Sarah’s own life’s blood rushed to her head as she came to the ghastly realization of the horror that was unfolding before her very eyes. Her sight became dizzy, her limbs became weakened, and her mind swam wildly as she dropped the laundry basket, causing the contents to scatter about the ground.

"Emily!" she screamed.

With the sudden outburst, the dog trotted off toward the woods while Sarah Stephenson raced inside. Her weakened, trembling legs must have been a bad omen passed down in Charlotte’s delivery; for the frantic mother tumbled to the grass numerous times as her legs became numb and weighted down while she gasped away the feeble breaths that somehow continued to mobilize her body toward the house. With every occasion, she forced herself up from hands and knees until she was at the entrance of the back porch.

The screen of the kitchen door had been ripped to shreds. She swallowed hard as her heart began to race, and at last, a shrill cry escaped her mouth as she noticed the animal’s red footprints that winded their way from the direction of the bedrooms, through the kitchen, and out into the back lawn. The woman’s eyes bulged into a fit of nervous fear as she shook rashly and followed the trail of blood through the kitchen and hallway, onward to Emily’s room, where she finally fell to her knees and saw the ghastly, disturbing sight.

Pieces of her daughter’s body were scattered about the room that was in complete disarray. A small rocking chair was turned over on its side and was covered in gore. Next to the wooden legs laid a girl’s baby doll. The clothes it wore were mangled, and the gold locks of yarn were frosted crimson. A pillow sat in a large red puddle that stained the floor in front of the small iron bed. The wall behind it was smeared with vital fluid and what appeared to be part of a small arm was jutting from the corner of the blood-soaked frame.

"No!" Sarah Stephenson sobbed.

The poor woman fainted on sight; nevertheless, she was awakened several minutes later by her husband who was in the process of ordering Jack to say outside with a loaded shotgun.

Shoot only if you are in danger! Mr. Stephenson called out to him.

Sarah had fallen upon the bed in a helpless gesture as the tears began to stream down her face like a heavy rainfall. Her husband gathered her up in an awkward form of comfort as they shook uncontrollably in each other’s arms.

A blinding flash caused Abraham to whence, thus releasing him from the drifter’s haunted glare. The Irishman fell back in fear. Shaking and wild-eyed, he gathered himself up from hands and knees, sweating profusely as he managed to speak in broken gasps.

By God’s holy cross! What in the blazes did you just show me? Who in the devil are you? And how do you know of me? Speak to me, man!

Suddenly a low, lengthy, familiar howl—one extremely close in proximity—caused the stranger to abruptly turn and face the landing. Starting back, he trembled at the knees and blurted out excitedly: Heed the nocturnal melody of beast! Repent of your contact! And save thou soul whilst time allows! I must free myself from him . . . just as she!

Stoker was thunderstruck at what happened next. The man sprung to the ledge of the ferry and flung himself feet first as if it was the only recourse of self-protection. I was simply bewildered by the entire ordeal, the author explained in his journal. The whole predicament happened so quickly, and in such a time that light was scarce, that I even wonder now if what I witnessed was not some trickery of the moonlight: for the silhouette of the drowning victim appeared to be that of a female—a woman with long, flowing dark locks—but as I grew closer to the water’s edge and gained a better view, I saw only a helpless unfortunate, raving about ‘The eye—the eye!’

Immediately, realizing that the beggar was unable to swim, the writer jumped after him and pulled the drowning man to safety, fighting in protest every inch of the way. The cries alerted a patrolling officer who took a report of the event and followed up the next day by notifying the Royal Humane Society. Although the strange rescue awarded the author with a bronze medal for saving the suicidal victim, it was the weird last words of the vagabond that struck a cord with the hero:

Beware, mate . . . he was the Prince of Evil. Now he is a king—the King of the Un-Dead!

* * * * *

It was a brisk ten-minute walk home before Abraham could escape out of his wet clothes. The household was asleep, but he was distressed over the disturbing affair and the odd words and puzzling reaction the man demonstrated. On conclusion of dining late on a hearty crab dinner his Mrs. Stoker left on the hearth, the writer turned in quietly hoping not to disturb Florence, who would have surely been alarmed by the event, as was the patrol officer. This ordeal, coupled with the nightmare from several nights ago, caused Bram to have difficulty falling asleep. Recalling his juvenile encounter with a creature with beady red eyes and the screaming drowning man—who seemingly was more frightened by the author than the deep water—the Irishman’s restless mind lapsed into a vivid, livid recollection of everything that had been.

He was watching you then, and he is watching you still. These mysterious words of the vagrant suddenly struck a cord with the Irishman. Ohhhhhh! Abraham Stoker screamed, awakening his wife. It ’twas not a dog at all! Nay, it was a monster—the same monster! The same red eyes! he cried out to anyone who could hear. Aye, I witnessed the entire horrid act like I was actually there!

He thrashed wildly.

Noel, who was awakened prematurely from the sudden outburst, also rose and burst into the room as Florence was placing her arm around Bram and whispering words of comfort. The writer had beads of sweat covering his brow, and it was all too clear for him to doubt what killed poor Emily. And realizing that those same lurid eyes would haunt his own bedroom window years later set his teeth on edge. The pieces were slowly beginning to fit. Notwithstanding, how could a creature disappear and return many a passing year but with unexplained gaps that questioned and failed to account its own demise?

Great Scott! Stoker thought to himself. When the drifter spoke of repenting of my contact, was he referring to that godforsaken séance? His racing mind blasted his thoughts to the dreadful piece of correspondence he had hidden from his wife and vowed to never revisit. Could there be some form of diabolical connection to all of these harrowing events? "At that moment, the serenity of conscience propelled me headlong into a state of clarity and relentless torture," the Irishman described.

The flaring nostrils and contorted brow informed Florence her companion’s heart was sickened about something; however, his words were driving her into a world of confusion.

Bram! Come to at once! Florence shouted. "You are distressing me! From the perplexed look upon his face, she expected he was confused and bewildered by a vision he had just witnessed so profoundly in his sleep. His reaction was as dreadful as if witnessing a live murder while involuntarily relinquishing all personal means to prevent it. Realizing the scene was no place for a child, Florence signaled Noel to go back to his room.

Mother always said it was someone’s famished dog . . . but I tell you, Florrie, I looked into its awful eyes! It was the devil in wolf’s clothing! Stoker cried. You should have seen what he did to that innocent, tiny girl!

As Florence had taken to socializing with the wives of the tycoons of Colmman’s Mustard, Bovril, Horlicks, and Coats Thread, the thought of such outlandish nightmares and horrors—ones that the writer accepted as fact intertwined with supernatural hype—would prove to be a source of scandalous gossip that could damage her own social standing. Thus she quickly decided to dismiss the event as a multitude of false beliefs prompted by food poisoning.

Dearest husband, it was another dream, and Charlotte was not there! Neither were you for that matter, Florence said reassuringly. She should never have told you such stories . . . and for the love of God! You must quit eating shellfish in the evenings! The food must be contaminated, and it is poisoning your stomach and your brain!

The woman’s attention was diverted to an awkward Noel, who was still positioned in his parents’ doorway, rubbing his eyes aimlessly as if part asleep and part giddy by his father’s raving and his mother’s firm tone at such an knotty time in the night. She was equally perturbed by this event, and with rolling eyes, she waved her left hand in a motion to suggest disapproval.

You fail to understand, Florie, explained the writer. I rescued a man tonight after he showed me a vision! Nay, it was no dream—for I have yet to fall asleep this night in lieu of dwelling and pondering over its dire significance!

Florence Stoker was at a loss for words. Suddenly, another voice broke the silence.

What is wrong, Mama . . . Papa? the boy asked wearily, shifting from side to side in his nightgown. The author did not have the wherewithal to even notice his son, let alone answer his call. On the other hand, Florence quickly sent him back to his room with a firm order to cease and desist.

Shush! Haven’t I told you that little boys should be seen and not heard?

Food poisoning or not, to Abraham Stoker his vision was as real as the hell that the beast had come from. Nobody could convince him otherwise; and deep within the recesses of his mind, he feared it would return again. Though it was not clear when it would happen, what it was, or what its exact mission was, to him two things were for certain: it had something to communicate and it was, indeed, baneful beyond all human consideration and lacked respect for anthropological life.

Your interpretation is nothing more than fancy puffed up from lack of sleep, being overworked, and an overindulgence of excitement and seafood! Florence demanded. Enough of this for now. Rest presently, and we will further discuss it in the morning. Abraham Stoker sighed and said nothing in return. With a slight pause, he complied. But as the night drew onward, there came a low, gruesome growl out of the still of the night—an evil, fierce yowl that was as real as the tightness that had developed in Bram’s chest and as cold as the blood that curdled in his veins. He sank down in his bed next to his sleeping wife, pulling the covers tightly around his throat, and remained stock awake until morning.

The fear that was building up within Abraham caused him to dart his eyes at every shadow that surfaced, and though the howling subsided into the early morn, the Irishman had a sinking notion that the source of the noise had not escaped him—that the same two glowing red eyes were watching the writer’s every move. It felt like an Un-Dead spirit, suspended in time, cursed to live in utter darkness.

Chapter 3

A Mysterious Quest

Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring.

—Dracula to Jonathan Harker

The next several days were difficult for Abraham Stoker. Though he was able to fill his time with management work at the Lyceum Theatre, periodically, his thoughts were brought back to the same amoral ruby orbs that first came to him in the form of the amulet used in Golden Dawn’s séance and then as the ravenous wolf—years before Bram was even born—or as the creature that lurked outside his bedroom window when the boy was just a young invalid. And more recently, the same pair seemingly provoked the vagrant’s strange behavior, resulting in the drifter catapulting to his death off the Thames Ferry. To the writer, he was encompassed about with peril for it appeared as if the burning eyes were haunting him to no avail.

"The vagabond spoke with so much terror and passion in his voice that I genuinely believe now that he actually feared for his life! It was as if whatever he was afraid of was somehow working its way though himself by the likes of me! the Irishman wrote in his journal. Could it be that the homeless fellow was reading my dreams—that the ‘evil eye’ is real—that he had a vision of consternation that was to appalling to speak of?"

Still unable to sleep soundly, the fourth night found the author up and about the study, watching the rainfall and beginning another piece for the Dublin Evening Mail. However, at the stroke of midnight, the sound of the rain pounded even harder on the roof of the South Hampton flat and distracted his concentration. A gust of wind outside the window interrupted Bram Stoker from his writing, and he hesitated in his chair for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

The Irishman began to think about the Yorkshire location of Whitby—a medieval fishing village that that had grown into a Victorian resort. The creepy atmosphere of the study at the witching hour, coupled with that of the fleeting storm, provided a dreary and melancholy effect on his usually set of iron nerves. The lingering aftermaths of the numerous nightmares combined with the earlier event at the ferry caused him to long for the misty, mystical port where he and his family would sometimes go on holiday for up to three weeks at a time.

The writer’s reverie was roughly disturbed by the draft from the broken windowpane, which caused the candle flame to flicker. After dancing madly for a few seconds, while projecting vast exaggerated shadows across the study, it commenced to glow a bright orange, illuminating the several paragraphs Abraham just authored. He baptized the end of his ink quill in the black jar, just before pushing himself away from his desk in complete awe.

Something did not feel right.

The man’s heart began to pound in his chest as he watched the puddle of rainwater that had been collecting on the floor directly under the window suddenly begin to evolve. He slowly approached the substance and kneeled down to place his finger in the transformed vile matter. To his disbelief and frantic horror, the cool rainwater was now warm blood. He fell over backward, slipping in the fluid, while grabbing hold of one of the wooden legs of his desk chair. Attempting to stand, plasma began to flow freely from the cracks of the windowpane, down the adjacent wall, and onto the floor beneath. Collapsing into his chair, the legs snapped, and Bram’s grand frame struck the deck with a mighty thud.

As the vital juice continued to stream out of the window seal, the red pool grew and crept closer to Abraham. He closed his eyelids is disbelief, and when he opened them again, the matter was gone.

I simply slipped in a puddle of rainwater that collected on the floor—nothing more, nothing less . . .

The writer’s diary recounted, "I lay hushed and motionless on the divan, closely mimicking the decisiveness of a corpse, as I harkened attentively to the chorus of the night. The breeze outside coiled and buffeted its current off the windows; the only ray of light came from a single sconce that hung adjacent to the pane. Every few seconds, the force of the bluster against the glass caused the flame to vibrate—casting a series of ghoulish shadows that seemingly crawled across the floor, lengthen in height, and sprouted arms and hands with dagger-like talons that reached out and vanished as the candle flickered again.

"As this panorama played out repeatedly over the course of half an hour, the light eventually grew dimmer, and then the entire room was swallowed in complete blackness. This pitch left my senses to home in on the beating of my heart, and with every gust of wind, the dull, steady pounding in my cheat would quicken and swell to an almost deafening volume.

"According to my internal clock, at least an hour had past since I lay down, and my thoughts had been racing with images of mystery and horror. Nonetheless, after a few more minutes, my tired mind and overwrought body began to drift into delusions of fear until I succumbed to sleep.

"Before I fell into total reverie, however, I was jerked abruptly awake as an icy cold sensation froze my body to an immobile state of terror: a draft suddenly passed over my body—much like a front door that had been swung open and only to be quickly shut again. My breathing became intensified, and my bulging eyes darted about the obscurity of the room.

I was not alone!

A sudden rustle on the roof then startled the Irishman, and he could see a large dark shape flying swiftly toward the window.

Heaven help me! Stoker cried out loud helplessly, making the sign of the cross about his chest. At length, a white mist began to fill the room, surrounding Bram’s tumultuous body. Suddenly the author heard someone call his name from outside the window.

Abraham Stoker.

Silence.

The writer turned his head toward the window, squinting through the London fog. Slowly taking his arm behind his back, he felt a leg of his chair and