The Mammoth Book of Dracula (8 page)

It was when I studied his travelling clothes that I realized the truth. His boots and oil-cloth cape lay across the back of the chair where he had supposedly deposited them on his return. As soon as I saw that the boots were new, the soles polished and unworn, I instinctively intuited that the Count had not been away, and that he had spent the last six months here in the castle with me. I knew I had not imagined what I had seen and done. We sat across from each other in two great armchairs, cradling our brandies, and I nervously pondered my next move, for it was clear to me that the Count could sense my unease.

“I could not approach you, Jonathan,” he explained, divining my thoughts as precisely as an entymologist skewers a wasp. “You were simply too English, too Christian, too filled with pious platitudes. The reek of your pride was quite overpowering. I saw the prayerbook by your bed, the cross around your neck, the dowdy little virgin in your locket. I knew it would be simpler to sacrifice you upon the completion of your task.” His eyes watched mine intently. “To suck your blood and throw your drained carcass over the battlements to the wolves.” I stared back, refusing to flinch, not daring to move a single nerve-end.

“But,” he continued with a heartfelt sigh, “I did so need a good man to tend my library. In London I will easily find loyal emissaries to do my bidding and manage my affairs, but the library needs a keeper. Klove has no feeling for language. To be the custodian of such a rare repository of ideas requires tact and intellect. I decided instead to let you discover me, and in doing so, discover yourself. That was the purpose of the library.” He raised his arm, fanning it over the shelves. “The library made you understand. You see, the pages of the books are poisoned. They just need warm hands to activate them, the hands of the living. The inks leaked into your skin and brought your inner self to life. That is why Klove always wears gloves in this room. You are the only other
living
person here.”

I looked down at my stained and fragrant fingers, noticing for the first time how their skin had withered into purple blotches.

“The books are dangerous to the Christian soul, malignant in their print and in their ideas. Now you have read my various histories, shared my experiences, and know I am corrupt, yet incorruptible. Perhaps you see that we are not so far apart. There is but one barrier left to fall between us.” He had risen from his chair without my noticing, and circled behind me. His icy tapered fingers came to rest on my neck, loosening the stiff white collar of my shirt. I heard a collar stud rattle onto the floor beneath my chair.

“After tonight you will no longer need to use my library for the fulfilment of your fantasies,” he said, his steel-cold mouth descending to my throat, “for your fantasies are to be made flesh, just as the nights will replace your days.” I felt the first hot stab of pain as his teeth met in my skin. Through a haze I saw the Count wipe his lips with the back of a crimson hand. “You will make a very loyal custodian, little Englishman,” he said, descending again.

~ * ~

Here the account ends. The library did not accompany Count Dracula on his voyage to England, but remained behind in his castle, where it continued to be tended by Mr Harker until his eventual demise many, many years later.

<>

~ * ~

THOMAS LIGOTTI

The Heart of Count Dracula, Descendant of Attila, Scourge of God

THOMAS LIGOTTI is one of the foremost contemporary authors of supernatural horror literature. In this genre, he has been classed with Edgar Allan Poe and H. P. Lovecraft.

His first collection of stories,
Songs of a Dead Dreamer,
was published in 1986 (revised 2010). Other collections include
Noctuary
(1994) and
Teatro Grottesco
(2007). The recipient of numerous awards, including the Horror Writers Association’s Bram Stoker award for his collection
The Nightmare Factory
(1996) and short novel
My Work Is Not Yet Done
(2002), in 2010 Ligotti published
The Conspiracy Against the Human Race: A Contrivance of Horror,
a study of the intersection between pessimistic philosophy and supernatural fiction.

Count Dracula travels to England, where he is about to lose his heart...

~ * ~

COUNT DRACULA RECALLS how he was irresistibly drawn to Mina Harker (nee Murray), the wife of a London real estate agent. Her husband had sold him a place called Carfax. This was a dilapidated structure next door to a noisy institution for the insane. Their incessant racket was not undisturbing to one who was, among other things, seeking peace. An inmate name Renfield was the worst offender.

One time the Harkers had Count Dracula over for the evening, and Jonathan (his agency’s top man) asked him how he liked Carfax with regard to location, condition of the house and property, and just all around. “Ah, such architecture,” said Count Dracula while gazing uncontrollably at Mina, “is truly frozen music.”

Count Dracula is descended from the noble race of the Szekelys, a people of many bloodlines, all of them fierce and warlike. He fought for his country against the invading Turks. He survived wars, plagues, the hardships of an isolated dwelling in the Carpathian Mountains. And for centuries, at least five and maybe more, he has managed to perpetuate, with the aid of supernatural powers, his existence as a vampire. This existence came to an end in the late 1800s. “Why
her?”
Count Dracula often asked himself.

Why the entire ritual, when one really thinks about it. What does a being who can transform himself into a bat, a wolf, a wisp of smoke, anything at all, and who knows the secrets of the dead (perhaps of death itself) want with this oily and overheated nourishment? Who would make such a stipulation for immortality! And, in the end, where did it get him? Lucy Westenra’s soul was saved, Renfield’s soul was never in any real danger ... but Count Dracula, one of the true children of the night from which all things are born, has no soul. Now he has only this same insatiable thirst, though he is no longer free to alleviate it. (“Why her? There were no others such as her.”) Now he has only this painful, perpetual awareness that he is doomed to wriggle beneath this infernal stake which those fools—Harker, Seward, Van Helsing, and the others—have stuck in his trembling heart. (“Her fault, her fault.”) And now he hears voices, common voices, peasants from the countryside.

“Over here,” one of them shouts, “in this broken down convent or whatever it is. I think I’ve found something we can give to those damned
dogs.
Good thing, too. Christ, I’m sick of their endless whining.”

<>

~ * ~

MANDY SLATER

Daddy’s Little Girl

MANDY SLATER has lived most of her life in Canada, but in 1994 returned to her native England and presently lives in North London. Mandy Slater’s anthology appearances have included
Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, Sex Macabre, 100 Twisted Tales of Torment, The Tiger Garden: A Book of Writers’ Dreams, Dark Terrors: The Gollancz Book of Horror
and
Zombie Apocalypse!

Additionally, she was the dialogue scriptwriter for the BBC’s
The Animals of Farthing Wood
CD-ROM and a contributor to the 2001 World Fantasy Convention CD-ROM.

She has also worked as an assistant film publicist in Romania (on
Last Gasp,
starring Robert Patrick and Joanna Pacula) while, as a media journalist, researcher and photographer, she has contributed to
X-Pose, Secret City: Strange Tales of London, Locus, Sci-Fi Entertainment, Sci-Fi Wire, SFX, Science Fiction Chronicle, Sci-Fi Magazine
and several volumes of
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror
series.

She lives in North London and currently works in PR & Communication for a well-known mobile phone company.

The decades pass, and Dracula travels widely, never staying for more than three or four years in one place. But now his past is about to come back to haunt him ...

~ * ~

THE CALL OF the night beckoned, but I ignored it and hailed a taxi instead.

The streets were empty tonight. Only the sound of a few motor cars, and the occasional
clip-clop
of a horse-drawn carriage interrupted the silence. Although I was tempted to book a room at The Grand and ignore my problems, I had to leave the city. The dank smell of the metropolis left a foul, acrid taste in my mouth, which was a further blow to what was rapidly becoming the worst week of my existence.

The previous night’s excursion had left me mentally drained. That despicable man Crowley had stared at me all evening. There was something about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He spouted nonsense about magic and religion—obviously a self-deluded crackpot. It was no wonder that his last mistress had committed suicide. I should have known better than to frequent such an establishment as the Gargoyle Club. Places like that always brought out the worst dregs of society. Nowadays, nightclubs like the Kit-Cat were more to my taste.

The taxi dropped me off at the train station and I could barely see the driver speed away in the rapidly descending gloom. I hastily purchased my ticket, and found my train quickly, climbing into the comfort of the first class carriage with a sense of relief. Moments after I closed the door with a hollow
thump,
the train began to move forward.

I couldn’t stop thinking about
him.
And at the end of my journey he would be waiting. He was tangled in my thoughts like a spider in a web. Why here? Why now?

Our disagreement had been a stupid one; they always were. I hadn’t seen him in years. He said he’d contact me, but he never did. I wrote a few cards, posted a letter or two, but there was never any reply, never so much as a hastily written scribble or a wispy voice on the other end of a telephone line.

I’d tried to justify his behaviour in my mind. I kept telling myself that I moved a great deal—perhaps the mail was never forwarded? He was always busy, ruling his empire with an iron fist, manipulating the masses, commanding the multitudes. The powerful ones never had time—or so they said.

I guess you could say I gave up on him after a while. Or maybe, just maybe, he gave up on me. Perhaps I never really lived up to his expectations. Following in his footsteps had always been a nightmare. There was such a mystique surrounding him.