on the other side must know he is near, for the breathing ceases momentarily, then resumes again, this time with more haste. Bram lowers his face to the floor and tries to look under the door, but there is little space, only a hair’s breadth between the stone floor and bottom of the thick oak barrier. Then comes another exhale, and Bram shuffles back; the air is hot and filled with moisture, and the dampness brushes against his cheeks as it rushes past, followed closely by the most abhorrent of odors. His eyes water just at the scent of it, and he tries to back away farther still, until his legs clatter against the chair he had occupied moments earlier. The stench enfolds him, and he wants nothing more than to leave. Instead, he rises and goes to the window and sticks his head out into the cold night air, taking it in until the stink washes away from his nose and lungs.
At the door, the breathing continues, louder still.
Bram reaches into the pocket of his coat and retrieves a small vial and holds it up to the flickering light of the oil lamp. Vambéry had filled the vial, along with four others just like it, only two days earlier from the font at St. John the Baptist. Two are gone now; after this one, only a single vial will remain—and Bram will have no means to get more. Carefully, he removes the stopper and crosses the room.
Again, the presence on the other side falls silent for a second as he approaches, then resumes its rhythmic breathing. A low growl follows, then a scratching at the stone, a single, tentative scratch, as if its maker is testing the strength of the stone beneath its feet.
Bram kneels at the door and cautiously tips the vial, spilling the holy water in a straight line, from one end of the threshold to the other and back again, until none remains. The slate seems to drink it up, for the moment it makes contact the liquid vanishes, leaving nothing behind but a thin trail. Behind the door, the creature scuttles back. Then comes the deep wail of a great wolf.
THE JOURNAL of BRAM STOKER
October 1854—I woke to muted light, gray beams of sun streaming in through my three windows and flooding my little attic room with a glow that was neither daylight nor dusk. I assumed fog had rolled in off the harbor; this time of year, it was known to do so. There was a moistness in the air, too, and although someone tucked the bedsheets in around my entire body, they did little to fend off the bite of the sea as it snatched at me.
The birdsong told me it was early morning. It hurt to open my eyes, but I did so anyway. The bowl that Ma had used to moisten my brow sat on the table at my side along with the cloth, but the chair beside my bed was vacant. I expected to find Ma there, or Matilda, but neither occupied it. I was alone in my attic room. If Uncle Edward was still in the house, there was no sign of him. His bag was gone, and along with it the horrific jar of leeches. I brushed the bedclothes to the side and forced myself to sit up, holding my arm up to the light. Marks began at my wrist and worked up to the shoulder of both arms, dozens of three-point punctures. I found similar marks on my legs, beginning on my thighs and continuing to my feet. How many leeches had he used? I could not help but wonder. I thought I might be ill but forced myself to choke back the vomit.
Although I was cold, it was not the cold I had known the night before while fighting the fever. In truth, I only assumed it was the night before, for I had no way of knowing for sure. The last time I succumbed to such a violent attack, I slept for three full days before regaining consciousness and rejoining the living. When I awoke after that episode, I was famished, as if I hadn’t eaten in days. What little energy my body typically harbored had abandoned me; I could barely sit up, let alone stand. This time I felt weak, to be sure,