Dracula Lives (2 page)

Quinn lingered at the bottom of the stone steps that led up to the door. He took one last look around before his surroundings surrendered to the embracing cloak of darkness. A light fog was creeping in. From somewhere close an animal howled, its shriek either a protest or warning against this intrusion into its domain. Quinn cocked his ears.

Coyote?

Wolf?

A flash of lightning cast a shadow on the wall. Canine. Large. Not quite right for a coyote or wolf.

Quinn jerked his head around, peering into the fog to find the source.

Nothing there. The lightning and boom of thunder might have scared whatever it was away. The rumbling across the sky died out and silence returned.

Thinking of Tilton’s movie background, and the obvious pains he’d taken to replicate the
Dracula
setting, Quinn wondered if machines were providing the special effects. Whatever the case, the creepy atmosphere heightened the feeling that he’d actually stepped into the classic horror movie.

A creaking noise made him look up. The huge door was opening, slowly. Cobwebs hung in the nooks and crannies around the entranceway.
Set decoration?
Spiders were rare this far north, even more so as winter approached. Tod Browning, director of
Dracula
, had used spider webs often in his movies as an atmospheric touch.

Quinn grabbed his bags and hurried up the front steps, curious to see if, in keeping with the theme, the door had opened itself.

He reached the doorway. No one was there.

“Enter freely and go safely.”

The strong resonant voice came from a considerable distance beyond the threshold.

The speaker was paraphrasing Dracula’s greeting from the novel. Quinn looked past the open door before entering, almost expecting to step onto a movie set.

He crossed the threshold.

The groan of the door closing sounded like a moan of despair. It sent a chill fluttering across Quinn’s back. Scanning the cavernous space before him, he took a moment to drink it all in.

The huge great hall was straight out of
Dracula
. A row of tall columns to the left supported arches that led to unseen rooms. High above and to the right, moonlight shone through large mullioned windows that conveyed the feeling of a cathedral. Cobwebs were everywhere.

As Quinn began walking in the direction the voice had come from, the feeling grew that he had indeed entered a movie set.

Dead ahead was a faithful reproduction of the huge winding staircase on which Dracula had made his immortal entrance. At the bottom of the staircase, a large movie camera dating from the early days of cinema stood atop a wooden tripod. A boom mike hovered in its stand. Jarringly, empty Coors beer cans were scattered about.

A tall, slender man dressed in black stood on the bottom landing of the staircase, holding an ornate candle holder. The half-melted candle burned with a steady flame. Above and behind the commanding figure, the iconic giant spider web from
Dracula
stretched across the next landing up the stairs.

Quinn stopped at the bottom of the staircase and looked up at his host. Even if Tilton/Schreck/Markov had been only a teenager in 1931, he had to be at least a hundred now. But he looked decades younger. Not much older than Quinn, who was almost fifty-five.

Tilton was not the repulsive Nosferatu of Max Schreck. He was well-groomed and dressed in an elegant loungewear ensemble of smoking jacket, slacks, socks, and slippers. All black, except for the white ruffled shirt and the gold edging along the pockets and lapels of the jacket. The material was velvet, judging from the way it reflected the candlelight. Aside from the gold trim and white shirt, a blood-red ascot was the only splash of color. Staring down with an unnaturally intense gaze, he clearly fancied himself a reincarnation of Lugosi. Although his black hair was not slicked back, there was even a slight resemblance.

“
I
… am Markov. I bid you welcome.”

Was calling himself Markov an in-joke to himself? J. Carrol Naish had played the mad Doctor Markoff in a poverty row production called
The Monster Maker
. Quinn’s confusion over the alias was superseded by Markov’s perfect imitation of Lugosi’s sepulchral voice.

“You do a great Bela Lugosi,” Quinn said.

This time Markov spoke in what was presumably his own voice, standard American with no discernible accent.

“I am not an impressionist. I am a re-creationist.” Markov let his Lugosi gaze bore into Quinn before going on. “Do you believe in monsters, Mr. Quinn?”

It took a moment to process the unexpected question.

“Human monsters, yes,” Quinn said. “I hunt them for a living.”

“Interesting. Perhaps we are kindred spirits, although I take it you do not believe in actual monsters.”

“Like vampires and werewolves? No.”

“Then we shall have much to discuss. Come. Let us get to know one another in my den.”

He turned and walked with a deliberate tread back up the stairs. Quinn followed, half-expecting the famous wolf howl from the movie, but none came. Remembering the howl he’d heard on the way in, he said, “Do you have wolves up here?”

Markov glanced over his shoulder while continuing up the stairs. “One. He is very troublesome.”

The cryptic statement registered for only a second as Quinn’s attention stayed on Markov. He’d reached the gigantic spider web that blocked his path. Would he walk through it? He stopped as if deliberating, then stepped through a gap between the edge of the web and the column to which some of its silky threads clung for support. With a hint of an enigmatic smile, he beckoned Quinn through the same opening.

They reached the top of the stairs. Markov’s black velvet slippers moved noiselessly across an expansive landing inlaid with large rectangular stones. Quinn followed to an intricately carved wooden door. Markov turned the handle and gave the door a gentle push, inviting his guest in with a theatrical sweep of his arm, made more dramatic by the groaning accompaniment of the hinges.

Because Markov had referred to this space as his den, Quinn had expected something small, but at roughly thirty yards square, the chamber was bordering on vast. His library took up the entire right wall. Rich mahogany shelves were filled with books, many appearing to be quite old. Ahead, a fire blazed invitingly from a large fireplace embellished with elaborately carved scrollwork. High-backed chairs on either side of a black granite table formed a seating area on the hearth. Dozens of candles burned in wall sconces and candelabra around the room.

Much of the wall space was taken up by framed movie posters and stills from the glory days of Universal horror. Quinn quickly became absorbed by several that were from silent films on which Lon Chaney and Tod Browning had worked together.

Markov came up beside him, and for the first time it fully registered how tall he was. Quinn stood six one, and Markov was a few inches taller.

“I hope you were comfortable enough in the horse-drawn carriage,” his mysterious host said. “I could have sent our horseless carriage, but I thought you would appreciate being transported to the castle in
Dracula
fashion.”

“It was perfect. As was your re-creation of Borgo Pass. I felt like Renfield.”

“It is nice to meet someone who can fully appreciate the pains I have taken to re-create the
Dracula
experience. In that spirit, this would be the moment when Dracula asks Renfield if he is hungry.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Drinks, then. Contrary to what Bela Lugosi might have led you to expect, I do drink … wine.”

Quinn smiled an acknowledgement of the famous
Dracula
line. “This room reminds me so much of those Vincent Price-Poe movies, it seems like a snifter of brandy is the way to go.”

“Make yourself comfortable while I take care of it.”

A tasseled velvet bell rope hung beside the door. He gave it a gentle tug and less than a minute later there was a knock. Markov opened the door a crack, muttered to some unseen person beyond, then rejoined Quinn, who had again turned his attention to the posters and stills.

“Johnny will take care of us,” Markov said. “My right arm. The one who tends to the considerable details of maintaining this estate with impeccable discretion.”

Quinn nodded distractedly, continuing to stare at the posters. “All the ones in this section are from Tod Browning movies,” he said. “
Dracula
, of course.
Freaks
.” He pointed to one of the stills. “I love this picture of Lon Chaney flashing that famous sawtooth grin from
London After Midnight
. It’s a shame that movie is lost. It’s probably the most sought-after lost film.”

“I worked on all those pictures.”

London After Midnight
had been released in 1927. How old
was
this man?

“How was working with Tod Browning?”

“We were very close. I became like the son he never had. And he was like a father to me.”

A flicker of emotion gave Quinn his first peek at the human being behind the Markov persona. George Tilton had loved Browning deeply. In an instant the mask was back.

“Once he left the picture business and moved to Malibu, he never wanted to leave his home. So as often as I could, I flew out to see him.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Markov said.

Johnny was thick through the chest and walked with a pronounced limp. The sole of one slipper was a few inches thick, apparently compensating for one leg being shorter than the other. The shorter leg seemed to bend at an unnatural angle, but it was difficult to tell through the baggy legs of pantaloons that gathered at the ankles. A loose-fitting blouse with decorative stitching combined with the pantaloons to form a kind of uniform.

Despite the attendant’s hitching gait, the silver tray with two snifters of brandy and a carafe of water remained rock steady on an upturned palm, while a garment draped over the other forearm never fluttered. As Johnny deftly placed the brandies in front of the two men, Quinn noticed a cauliflower ear and wondered if the servant had been a boxer in a previous life.

With a flourish Johnny set the tray aside and held out the garment for Quinn to slip into. The burgundy smoking jacket had black silk lapels and pocket flaps, trimmed in gold. Quinn ran his hands over the impeccably tailored velvet, admiring the styling and craftsmanship. It fit him perfectly.

“Excellent,” he said. “Thank you.”

Johnny made a slight nod and withdrew.

Quinn and Markov swirled the amber liquid, clinked snifters, and drank. Markov cut an elegant figure as he relaxed into his chair, crossing his legs at the knee and cradling his brandy. “How did you come to believe in human monsters, Mr. Quinn?”

“My answer to that would be a long and rather dark tale.”

“We have brandy, a warm fire, and nowhere else to be. This is our time to get to know one another, and I’m sure your tale can hardly be darker than mine. My home was built for dark tales.”

“A House of Dark Shadows?”

“Indeed. I could have been the script consultant for that show.”

“As someone who worked in Castle Dracula, with the greatest of all vampires, I’m sure you could have.” Quinn held up his snifter. “To you and your house of dark shadows.”

Markov held up his glass in acknowledgement.

After they had taken a moment to savor their brandy, Quinn began. “The answer to your question begins with my love of horror movies. Since I was born on Halloween to a father who loved them, it seems I was destined to become a horror fan.”

“Did you inherit your love of the old classics from him?”

“Absolutely. He was an English professor, with a very keen critical mind. Among other things he taught classes on horror literature, which always included showing the movie version, if there was one. I was six when he started my horror film education. This was in the early ’60s, before home video, so my introduction to the old classics was through Shock Theater on television. Dad and I watched them so many times over the years that I just about knew every line by heart. When I was little, he got a kick out of having me get up and act out famous lines when we had company over.”

“Did that embarrass you?”

“No. I loved it. I’m kind of a ham. For a while I had thought of pursuing acting.”

Quinn watched Markov centering his face in the square he’d formed with his thumbs and forefingers, a director framing his shot. “Yes,” he said, peering through the frame. “I think the camera would like you.”

Quinn gave a wistful smile. “One of the roads not taken.”

“We all have those. I’ve chosen to believe that something keeps us on the one we are meant to be on.”

Quinn didn’t agree. He’d known plenty of people who’d gone down all sorts of wrong roads. He’d been on a few himself. He said nothing, not wanting to waste time on pointless philosophical digressions.

Markov cradled his glass. “Is your father a fan of
Dracula
like yourself?”

“It was his favorite.”

“‘Was’? Is he no longer with us?”

“Sadly, no. He … passed away several years ago.”

Passed away.
Quinn had chosen the euphemism because he wasn’t ready to stir up the ashes of a burning regret that were just now starting to cool. The truth would cast its own dark shadow over a weekend he had been looking forward to, a chance to hear the experiences of a man who had worked on
Dracula
. Knowing that their time would be limited, and wanting to maximize his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Quinn had even made sure to get plenty of sleep in anticipation of lively all-night discussion. Just picking Markov’s brain about working with the legendary Lon Chaney, going back to the silent era, could take hours. Quinn didn’t want to seem impatient by looking at his watch, but it had to be somewhere around seven. They only had one more day, and Markov had said he would be using it to shoot the climax of his film.

Talking about personal tragedies could wait.

Markov held out his snifter. “Here’s to the spirit of your father that lives on in you.” After they drank to the somber toast, Markov said, “So. Your Dracula roots run deep.”