time’s careless caress. I looked down at her writing, faded but still readable:
END HIM
LATITUDE 47
LONGITUDE 25.75
My arm has not itched in some time, but today it has, and the itching has not ceased. For after Whitby, I knew where I was to go next, my path decided for me long ago. My words the only bread crumbs I leave behind.
It was finally time I paid Dracula a visit, long overdue, the sharpest of stakes in hand.
—Bram Stoker
EPILOGUE
PATIENT # 40562
CASE RECORD
WM. THORNLEY STOKER, M.D.
17 October 1890—The walls bleed water; that is the cause of the musty odor and stink in the air, of that I am fairly certain. At least that is what I tell myself whenever I take the stairs down to this level and traverse the halls, a walk I undertake religiously every Tuesday and Friday, and have for more than twenty years now. Years that have not been kind to me, for I feel them with every ache and pain in my bones. Today, this festering comes from my right leg—a bit of gout, I am afraid, but it is too early to tell.
I brought her dinner with me. Perhaps this is the real purpose of my twice weekly visits—knowing only I can bring her dinner. Of course, plates of food are presented to her daily by the hospital staff, but they are rarely touched; it is my dinners that sustain her.
Her door is at the far end of the hall, a large, heavy monstrosity with only a small slit to pass the tray through at the very bottom and a simple wall vase mounted to its center holding a single wild white rose. I pluck out Tuesday’s blossom, now dry and quite dead, and replace it with a fresh one from the garden I maintain. The walls of her room are constructed of thick stone, with no windows to speak of.
She has not tried to escape for some time, but I take comfort in knowing that the white roses seem to keep her contained, although I will not pretend to understand how.
I slide the tray under the door through the slit. She grabs it quickly and pulls it through. This action is followed by a thin slurping I wish not to hear. When she finishes, she speaks to me, her voice so clear and perfect an angel could sound no better. “I have something to tell you, Thornley. Something best told in a whisper. Let me out so I may find your ear?”
I lean against the door, placing my hand on the wood. I long to touch her, to feel her touch on me, the tenderness of her kiss. And yet I know it can never be.
“You know I cannot.”
“But I long for your touch.”
“And I for yours.”
She slips her fingers through the slit, and I lower myself to the floor so I may rest my hand on hers. She is cold, always so cold, but this is my Emily, and I care nothing about that; it is the contact I long for.
You can tell much by a person’s hands, the smoothness or roughness of them, the color of their skin, how they groom their fingernails. As I glance down at our hands intertwined on this stone floor, the differences between us glares back at me. While admittedly I do not possess the hands of a worker but those of a surgeon, time still shows upon them. My skin has taken on a patchwork of colors, the start of age spots and thick veins. My fingers have grown plump. They are not my father’s hands, and I sometimes wonder if they are even my own, they have changed that much over the years.
Emily’s finger twitches in mine; she likes to do this when we hold hands, her fingers rarely still, perhaps her way of letting me know she is still there, thinking of me. Her finger twitches, and I look down upon it, so smooth and soft, the skin of a child untouched by time.
It is when we hold hands like this I see the years between us grow, the distance between us lengthen. We will grow old together, our hands ever entwined, but only mine will age.
“Will you stay with me for a while?” she asks softly.
“I will stay with you always.”