The Origin of Dracula (29 page)

Here, the sound of water plummeting down and hammering the Shenandoah River below was both deafening and disorienting. I took a beat to gather myself and to scope out the path ahead. The ledge stretched under the falls, receding and protruding unevenly from the sheer cliff wall. It was a jagged and treacherous path—and calling it a path was an exaggeration. I had to wonder if the boys from the fifties had even made it
into
the cave—they could have easily fallen from the ledge into the raging waters below.

Before moving forward, I tried to get a better view of the cliff wall itself to see if the entrance to the cave was visible. But I couldn’t see far enough under the falls. There was just no way to know if Hadley’s Cave was actually there without going under and taking a look.

I took a deep breath, let it out, and stepped onto the ledge. It was no more than twelve inches wide here, so I immediately leaned up against the wall to brace myself. Then I started to inch my way along, moving under the falls. My eyes were fixed on the path ahead, and I willed myself not to look down, tempting as it was, but also understanding that this might cause just enough vertigo for me to lose my balance.

Progress was slow, and the farther along I went, the more the temptation to look down grew. After fifteen minutes or so, with no sign of the cave, I finally gave in and took a peek below. What I saw was far more frightening than vertigo. The falls hit the Shenandoah River with such a fierce and violent force that the frenzied vortex looked like a living, vicious creature, carved from water, angry, and warning me to keep away from its deadly clutches.

I hugged the wall more tightly, took another deep breath, and continued on. I wasn’t tempted to look down again.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to. Five minutes later, the wall began to curve inward and the ledge started to widen. After a few more yards, the wall gave way to the mouth of a cave. I stood there for a few beats, catching my breath, thankful that I’d avoided tumbling into the ferocious mouth of the creature below.

Then I entered the cave.

Inside was nothing but darkness. I pulled out my flashlight and flicked it on. The cave got progressively bigger until, about thirty yards in, it opened up rather suddenly into a large and magnificent cavern. Beautiful stalactites—white crystal spikes—hung down from the ceiling, and stalagmites—small pillars of all shapes, sizes, and colors—sprang up from the floor. Tiny rivulets of water ran down the walls.

The spectacle before me, elegant geological art, made by nature and not man, led me to one thought: this was untouched, sacred land. But that was how
I
saw the cave. What mattered was how
Drakho
saw it. Was it sacred land to him? Had he killed those boys because they’d trespassed on this magnificent, unpolluted territory?

I moved deeper into the cavern, shining the flashlight across the walls and floors, in awe of the majesty before me. But this sense of grandeur quickly gave way to something else—a physical sensation of malevolence. Something was pressing on me from all sides, a dampness in the air—thick, like an invisible fog. And it became thicker the farther in I went. I rubbed my arms, trying to brush it off as if I were trying to remove some gelatinous cobwebs. It didn’t work. I was wrapped in what felt like a sentient mesh.

Then the cave suddenly pulsed—like a heartbeat.

Th-thump.

The stalactites quivered—I swept the flashlight beam across the cavern.

Th-thump.

The stalactites quivered again. What was going on? Was this the incipient rumbling of an earthquake?

Th-thump.

This time the heartbeat was stronger. The stalactites trembled violently, and I had the craziest thought yet: Was the cave alive? Did sacred land mean
living
land?

Th-thump
—

I had an even more bizarre thought: Was the cave Drakho?

With each heartbeat, the walls, ceiling, and ground shook more savagely, and the dankness clung more aggressively to my skin. The wet air turned clammier, stickier, and more viscous—and it now had a distinct odor. Metallic, like iron or copper.

Was this how Edna had killed Drakho? Had she literally entered Drakho’s very own body at Wassamoah Bay? Entered his heart?

Th-thump.

In the flashlight beam, I saw that the invisible dampness now had a crimson hue. It was turning into a dark red haze. I could taste it in my mouth, too—the tang of copper and salt and pungent honey.

The taste of blood.

Th-thump.

Frightened, I turned around and aimed my flashlight at the cave’s entrance—but it was no longer visible. The mist of blood obscured everything.

Th-thump.

Panicked, I hurried toward where I had last seen the entrance, but the blood had become so thick I started choking on it. I was breathing blood in, and also trying to spit it out. Gagging, I picked up my pace. It felt like I was running through a reservoir filled with blood.

My coughing turned spasmodic, and I doubled over. My breathing was now so labored I didn’t think I could make it out alive.

In desperation, I suddenly pulled the D-Guard knife from its sheath, ready to attack Drakho, but without a plan as to how. I swiped at the air, whipping the knife wildly through the crimson mist, hoping I was slicing through some sort of living tissue—slicing through it and killing it.

Th-thump.

My wild stabs at the mist were futile. I needed to cut through
real
tissue—Drakho’s heart. Did that mean going for the walls? Were the walls his flesh?

I couldn’t even see the walls through the crimson miasma. If I ran at them, I’d be charging blindly, an aimless attempt to lash out at an invisible enemy. An enemy who had somehow been able to engulf me completely.

Choking, fearful, and defeated, I knelt down, ready to give up—but when my knees hit the ground, I realized: there
was
flesh to stab.

Th-thump.

I raised the knife and drove it down into the ground with all my might.

The bloody mist instantly began to swirl all around me. Huge eddies cascaded over each other, surging forward, then retreating in fierce waves. Over and over again the waves swelled and rolled and churned around me. It was as if by stabbing the ground, I’d created a raging sea of blood.

Then Drakho stepped out from this raging sea. He appeared exactly as Edna had described him: thin and unusually tall, with a narrow face and deathly pale skin. His large, black eyes radiated cunning and intelligence.

I was too shocked at his sudden appearance to move. Now it was my own heart that was thumping violently. So violently I could hear it. I was still kneeling down, so it looked like I’d come to Drakho as a supplicant. Except my hand was clutching the knife, its tip buried in the ground.

I had no time to weigh my next move. I could either tell him his name and hope that he’d keep his word and give Nate a reprieve, or I could follow through with what I’d come here to do: kill him and end this forever.

Th-thump.

I made my decision in a split second. I wrenched the knife from the ground, lunged to my feet, and sprang at him.

He partially blocked the knife with his hand; it sliced his palm, and blood seeped from the wound.

I continued to drive forward and plunged the knife into his chest.

He stumbled back, so very human in that moment. I was ready to press my advantage—to drive the knife into his flesh again—when I saw something so unfathomable it stopped me.

Blood wasn’t oozing out of the deep cut in his chest. Instead, the thick mist of blood that hung in the air, surrounding his wound, was oozing
into
the open laceration.

I looked up at Drakho’s face. His pale skin glowed with a healthy, rosy hue, as if he was more alive than before I’d stabbed him, not less—and his black eyes shone brightly. His face wasn’t contorted in pain, but was instead serene.

Then the miasma of blood that filled the cave, still churning and ebbing,
all
of it began to flow toward him, slowly at first, then gaining speed.

Th-thump.

The blood was streaming into the laceration in his chest
,
past the torn flesh.

Th-thump.

With each beat of the cave’s heart—or was it Drakho’s heart?—the blood in the cavern drained into Drakho, until the crimson mist, along with its cold and clammy weight, was completely gone.

The cave was majestic again, just as it had been when I’d entered. The ancient stalactites and stalagmites were undisturbed, watching over the sacred land.

My eyes went to the cut in Drakho’s chest. It had healed.

Drakho swept toward me then—and I ran. I felt a cold wind at my back, as if the monster was on my heels. I picked up my pace and considered swinging around and stabbing him again. But that would have been an act of desperation. The amber weapon had failed. It was nothing but a symbol of my futile attempt to save Nate.

Still, what choice did I have? I could either die as a coward on the run or die trying to save Nate. I slowed down, clutching the knife, ready to swing around—when I saw daylight up ahead. The mouth of the cave. A way out.

I sped up and felt the web of dankness engulf me again, returning as if commanded by Drakho. I was still “it.” He wanted to play more of his game, but daylight was just a few yards away—and I was sure that my momentum was strong enough to carry me forward out of his dank web and into the oblivion of the falls.

And that was the new choice. Hurtle off the ledge and risk death in the furious, violent waters below, or face Drakho and
surely
die.

I sped up and leapt off the ledge.

The sensation of plummeting down while embedded in the waterfall wasn’t thrilling, like I’d seen it depicted in countless movies; I didn’t feel like a triumphant hero who’d braved a great escape and found it exhilarating. It was agonizing and terrifying to know for certain that I was going to be fed to the frenzied vortex below.

Which was precisely what happened next. The falls threw me violently into the raging maelstrom, burying me deep in the waters of the Shenandoah River. There was no way to fight back. The falls were pushing me down with brutal force, so I just held my breath, hoping that force would relent. And all along I feared that my death was yards away—that the falls were about to drive me into the river bottom and break me into a thousand pieces.

But the force abated, and as soon as it did, I began to kick and swim, not up against it, but laterally, away from it, parallel to the river bottom. At least I hoped that was the direction I was moving in; I was too disoriented to know for sure.

After thirty seconds or so, I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, and I reflexively inhaled—and water flooded my lungs. I gagged and lost my bearings. A wave of dizziness coursed through me and I realized I was about to lose consciousness.

I had to make a move if I was going to live through this.

I inhaled again, lightheaded, taking more water into my lungs, then kept my mouth shut and frantically glanced around. A few feet to my right, the water appeared lighter in color, so I kicked in that direction, hoping it would lead to the surface.

My lungs felt like they were going to explode. I forced myself to keep swimming, but my body was leaden and my kicks weak.

My thoughts turned hazy as my lightheadedness bloomed. My vision left me, and I saw only white. Giving up was the best way out. Breathe in, let the water flood my lungs, pass out, and let the Shenandoah River carry my body to the dead world.

I broke through the surface and immediately spit out water, gasping and coughing, while fighting to suck down air. My arms and legs felt like dead weight, but I forced them to move so I wouldn’t sink. My vision returned—I saw blurs of color, then the river came into focus.

I treaded water as I caught my breath and got my bearings. As soon as I stabilized, the pain from my collision with the river came roaring back. I felt as if I’d been used as a punching bag. Still, though bruised and battered, and aching from head to toe, I was thankful to be alive.

I swam slowly toward the Deer Hill Trail side of the river, then climbed out, sat down on a boulder, and stared back at the falls. My thoughts were on the D-Guard Bowie knife. Not because it was lost somewhere in the river, but because it hadn’t done any damage at all. Instead, it had been part of some supernatural extravaganza, some ritual in which Drakho and the ancient cave had become one living thing.

The amber weapon had no power.

I’d misinterpreted Edna’s story.

As I hiked up the trail, toward Harry, I turned
The Forest
over in my mind. Had Harker gotten it wrong? Had he misinterpreted Edna’s story and filled in the missing pieces with useless knowledge? Or had the amber weapon failed Edna, too? Or maybe Edna’s story
had
once told you all you needed to know, but all you needed to know was now forever lost in those missing pages.

The hike back up was hard. With every step I took, weariness and soreness coursed through my body. With every breath, my throat and chest burned—the residual effect of choking on the mist of blood and on river water.

As I approached the cluster of rocks where I’d left Harry, I had a sudden fear: he wouldn’t be there. And as soon as I stepped off the trail, that fear was realized. My eyes fell on the gray rocks that bordered the falls—Harry was gone from his perch.

I scanned up and down the falls. Surely he hadn’t tried to drag himself back to civilization. I hadn’t been gone that long. Or was my impression of time warped? The events in the cave had unfolded in that other world, the one beyond the shadows, and maybe time in that world had its own scale. Maybe my supernatural meeting with Drakho had unfolded over hours and not minutes.

A quick look to the sky, and the position of the sun, confirmed that everything had passed in “real” time—it was still late afternoon. I hadn’t been gone very long. So I climbed up onto the rocks to get a better look around, and immediately spotted Harry. He’d scaled some of the boulders and was now perched closer to the edge of the falls. His vision was fixed on something below.