Chapter Text
10 May. Early.
I have had such a night that it is difficult to know how to begin. When I have slept, I may take these notes for misremembered dreams, and yet there is nothing so outwardly extraordinary described within, only countless mysteries upon mysteries which I cannot begin to unravel.
It began with a fright. I was concluding my last entry in this selfsame journal, sitting up in the library by candlelight. Each flicker of the shadows of the stacks of paper that litter the floor seemed to me to betray a human-like figure in the darkness. I peered deep into the dark, searching for any being which may have lurked there just out of sight, but I swear that there was truly no one, only my weary nerves. Each time I returned to my writing, only to glance up once more at movement more imagined than real.
As my eyes darted away from the page again, I started with a jump, and my pen ran across the paper.
A man stepped out of the shadows as though he had materialised from the darkness itself; it seemed to cling to him in the black of his shirt and trousers, and in the long, heavy cape which hung from his shoulders. Moments before, I would have sworn that the room was empty despite the crawling of my skin in the dark and there had been not a sound but the wind against the windows and the nervous rhythm of my heart. For an instant I wondered if he was not a ghost come to dispel I who had trespassed upon his sacred domain, his gaunt features were so devoid of any colour, and hauntingly familiar.
I opened my mouth to plead my case.
Then he spoke, “Good evening, Doctor.”
I leaped to my feet as though struck, the stranger’s words only an afterthought. I stumbled through the beginnings of half a dozen phrases.
He chuckled. “Welcome, Doctor, to my humble domain. Enter freely and of your own will.” I expected him to hold out a hand in greeting, but for an instant he seemed to be frozen in place, as though bound, waiting for my reply.
Then, I held out a hand to him and it was as though the strange spell were broken. “Thank you, my apologies for my thoughtless trespass.” As I fumbled through the ordinary formalities, I abruptly recalled that I was hardly in a presentable state, my travelling clothes badly worn from days on foot, but my host kindly paid my bedraggled state no heed.
He grasped my hand with astounding strength. His fingers were icy cold, as though all of the life had gone out of them. Rather than shaking my hand, he briefly bent over it and his lips only just brushed my knuckles, sending a shiver down my spine, and then he dropped my hand no less abruptly.
“You are welcome to my home,” he said with a sweeping gesture toward the rooms beyond. “Come freely, go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring. I only regret that I have no food to serve to you for supper tonight.”
“I do not mean to impose. I can make do with my provisions; I have more than enough to reach the next town.”
“You are my guest and tomorrow I will ensure that you have a worthy feast.”
I cannot remain, but in his masterful presence I could not bring myself to argue. Left with no choice, I allowed him to usher me out into the ornate dining hall; suspended in a perfect untouched state as though it were a painting, just as it had been when I had passed through it before, but now in stark contrast with the library that was strewn with all manner of papers and books and the ordinary effects of life. However, when my host had taken my small candle to light the candelabra on the table and started a fire crackling in the hearth, the hall became remarkably comfortable, illuminated by a warm, cheery light, and slowly the cold stones began to soak up the heat of the growing fire. I wondered what effect the warmth might have, if any, on my host’s frigid grip.
I took the carved wooden chair at the foot of the table and, once he had ascertained that I was comfortable, my host seated himself across from me in the gilded chair at the head; like a throne for the master of the castle. Though the gold shone with even the slightest glimmer of candlelight, his black suit and cloak gave the impression that my host remained wreathed in shadows, and that I sat across from a ghostly figure, no more corporeal than a shade, remarkably like the austere figure which looms in my restless dreams—indeed, it all felt more like an uncanny dream than reality.
I believe I could have remained for eternity in an entranced silence, sitting at that fine table, I eating my meagre provisions while my host ate nothing at all.
“You eat at my table, yet I do not even know your name.”
I flushed with embarrassment at my lapse in manners. “I am Dr. John Watson, though I cannot say how you knew of my profession; I have not practised in some time.”
He gave a dismissive wave of his long, delicate hand, though I had some feeling that he was pleased by my surprise. “It is a pleasure to meet you Dr. Watson. I have gone by many names in many times and places, but you may address me as Sherlock Holmes.”
It was a peculiar feeling, hearing my name upon his lips, and his own name is a striking combination of the ordinary and the uncommon. He speaks perfect English—I believe he must be an Englishman—but with an unusual manner, which I have never heard before.
“You have come a long way from your native soil, and by an even longer path, if I am not mistaken. What is it that brings you to these distant, foreboding mountains?”
I faltered—in English I could not feign uncomprehension as I had in German.
Before I had the chance to conjure up some explanation, however, he interrupted, “You are correct, the question was an idle one. I will come to know you in good time.”
I breathed a faint sigh of relief and hastily resumed the conversation, “You have come from England as well?”
“I have lived in London, though it has been many years,” he answered evasively—I realised my hypocrisy in inquiring after his past after hesitating to answer with my own, but he was kind enough to ignore it. “Tell me, how is fair, old London?”
“I only studied at Barts—the University of London,” I admitted. “Now I prefer somewhere quieter.”
“The city is the heart full of the very lifeblood of England. I have never known another like it, but for me as well its pulse proved to be too strong,” he said with a wistful air. However, his cordial manner quickly returned. “If you have finished supper, shall we retire to the parlour?”
My supper was a simple one, of provisions meant to be quickly eaten and, having done so, I assented and rose after him.
He took the candelabra from the table and led me down one of the dark corridors which branches away from the dining hall. As master of the deep, dark castle, he did not falter and I had to hurry to keep after him, so that I did not stray too far from the light which he carried. His strident voice echoed like countless whispers against the close stone walls as he urged me on.
It was not far, just into the other room. He set down the candelabra upon a table and lit the hearth. In the golden light, vague, dark shapes and long shadows gave way to more ornate wooden furniture; on one side a table surrounded by a set of intricately carved chairs, on the other a sofa with cushions like a small tapestry, a winged dresser against the far wall, and, most inviting of all, a few plush chairs beside the fire. However, for all its comforts, the room seemed to be just as lifeless as the dining hall. I believe no one had set foot inside for years, and there was no evidence that anyone had ever done more than arrange the furniture and clear away the dust. But perhaps it is inevitable, in such an immense castle, that there are many more rooms than a lone gentleman could possibly use.
The fire was no less warm and inviting for its bereft surroundings, and I was grateful to settle in one of the chairs beside it as my host drew open the heavy curtains. The bright light of the moon streamed in through a lone high window and I could hear the howling of the wolves, nearer than I had heard them from the library.
“Hear the music of the children of the night. Theirs is a symphony like no other.” I had to twist in my chair to see him, regarding me in turn with his keen gaze. “It is not to your liking?”
I hesitated. “Anyone who has travelled through the woods on foot alone would be wary of such a sound.”
He observed me with such intensity that I felt nothing could escape him, least of all myself. I do not know if I could have moved from beneath that burning gaze had I willed it with all of my being. I believe I was still capable of thought, but every corner of my mind was filled with him and the sheer force of his presence.
“Of course,” he said at last, dismissively, and the spell was broken. He immediately turned to other matters, “I have come into possession of a very fine cellar, and tomorrow you will have some tobacco.”
I protested that it was hardly necessary, but he would not hear of it and went to retrieve a decanter from the cellar. Only once he had poured me a glass of a very well aged liquor did he sit down in the chair opposite mine, his own hands empty.
“I have found it better to forswear drink,” he explained wryly, in answer to the question which I had not yet thought to ask.
In the light of the dancing flames, I was at last able to plainly see the man who had generously welcomed me into his home. Even in the golden light, he had no trace of colour, his features almost waxen and his short hair like pitch. I had already observed that he is of considerable height, and so austere that he appears taller still. In the light I could more clearly make out a sharp, prominent chin, aquiline nose, narrow cheeks, and ears that nearly come to a point—even his teeth, protruding slightly, seemed unusually sharp. His thin lips quirked in a wry smile, long, delicate fingers with tapered nails, tented before him. And those eyes—I can still see them before me—with a piercing intensity which cut me to the core.
I know him. It is impossible, but it is his austere figure, his wraithlike form, and his burning gaze which has haunted me these past nights from the depths of the shadows of my darkest dreams. It must be a coincidence, but it is an impossible one. And now he haunts me still from every shadow.
Of course, even in that moment he saw the effect which he produced over me; with those eyes, I cannot imagine that anything eludes him, but he humoured my entranced silence and only when he had his fill did he offer me some subtle encouragement, “I have spent much too long inside this dreary castle, I fear you will find it stagnant in contrast with your farflung travels.”
“Not at all. I have seen nowhere so fascinating,” I answered honestly, remembering myself.
“Surely, that cannot be so for all of your travels in Romania, which you have come to by way of Austria, and Germany, and before that France—if I am not mistaken.”
“You are right,” I said, again surprised, though perhaps I should not have been, under that keen gaze.
“Surely, there must be more of interest in all the great empires of Europe than a remote castle.” He touched my sleeve for emphasis.
I was unable to entirely repress a shudder at the brush of his long, sharp fingers, and he immediately pulled away.
With a measure of regret, I belatedly answered him, “I have not seen the great empires of Europe. I have passed through much beautiful country, but I have lingered near the mountains, spending the night in many a pleasant town before setting off again in the morning. The dress and the craftsmanship vary, but elsewise it is much the same. The people have all been very kind.”
“It is a long way to travel by foot alone.” For a moment I thought I saw a glimmer of sympathy in his unyielding eyes.
I cannot now recall much else of what we spoke of through the night; London perhaps, or my travels, or the enchanting fields of Transylvania. Even now I wonder if it was not all a dream. I was so occupied by my enigmatic host that it was nearing dawn when our conversation abruptly broke off.
“Pardon me,” he said graciously, “I have forgotten myself. You must be tired from your travels. Come, I will prepare your bedroom and then you may sleep as long as you like. I will be away until late tomorrow.”
He stood and, taking the candelabra which he relit from the hearth, led me back out into the corridor. I hastily followed him to the now dark and silent dining hall. We ascended up a narrow spiral staircase into a tower room, which I discovered has been furnished as a handsome bedroom, with a canopied bed and beside it an intricate table and a pair of chairs with tapestried cushions, and against the wall a stately dresser, all of a rich, dark wood. A door in the corner led into a narrow washroom.
Once the hearth had been lit and blankets procured, my host bid me, “Goodnight, Dr. Watson, may nothing disturb you as you sleep.”
He pressed my hand once more, and his fingers still felt icy in my own, even though we had both spent the evening by the warm fire.
Then he took his leave and it seemed that all the air in the room followed him out.
I know I must be tired from such a long day, but I could not sleep until I had written everything which had occurred, and even now I do not feel exhaustion’s pull. It still seems to be impossible that anyone lives in this castle at all, and its master the most improbable figure of all. Somehow I cannot claim surprise that this is the man the people of this country speak of in cautious whispers. He invites mystery; his presence a strange, powerful one, whether for good or ill, I cannot say.
Already, I feel he has some sway over me. I see his eyes in every shadow. I do not know how I will sleep knowing that I may see him again tomorrow. Or perhaps this is all a vivid dream which I do not wish to end.
11 May. Daytime.
My dreams, for dreams they must have been, I only faintly recall now, but I know that they haunted me through the night. Still I feel the lingering tendrils of a deep longing, and that strange, austere figure, who could only have been a figment of my own troubled mind, urging me onward, his burning eyes leading me into the dark.
I awoke, or else I am still dreaming now, to the bright light of day.
Pale sunlight streamed in through curtainless windows, illuminating a large, elegant drawing room. Beyond were the endless, looming mountains, carpeted with dark green conifers that gave way to jagged peaks—those, at least, I knew—and directly below, the ground fell away entirely in a sheer cliff.
I had found myself in a beautiful ruin; even blanketed in dust, moth-eaten, it was easy to imagine noble ladies in intricately embroidered dresses who once sat around the little tables, talking over needlework, or on a more formal occasion, socialising with gentlemen in ermine coats.
I turned at the flicker of a shadow out of the corner of my eye, wondering if it could possibly be that same tall, austere figure who haunted my dreams. Perhaps I had somehow merely followed him to another, strange corner of the castle which was no less mysterious than the figment who inhabited it, if indeed I had not merely dreamed his existence.
I thought I saw the swish of his cloak at the turn of my head, but there was nothing there, only a torn scrap of silk dangling from a little table, fluttering in the breeze. I was alone, my only company the lingering ghosts of the past, swirling like motes amid the dust.
Behind me, a fine wooden door, by which I must have come, stood ajar, leading into darkness beyond and, I hoped, the same castle which I stumbled upon the day before. I hesitated to disturb the resting spirits, on whom I had already unwittingly trespassed but with no other choice, I took a dust-laden candle from a table, struck a match to light it, and then I ventured out into the passageway beyond.
My only choices were left and right in what appeared to be a labyrinth of stone. I could not now say which way I took, and indeed I do not know if it would have been any different had I taken the other path. I waded through the darkness in a small pool of flickering candlelight that danced across the stone walls in an ever-shifting shadowplay.
The close, musty tunnel curved around until I came upon a simple wooden door worn and faded by the passage of time. It looked as though it might crumble at a touch, but it held fast, and it was only with some exertion that I was able to force it open with an echoing crack, leaving the edge splintered. My ears rang with the sudden sound in the silence and the dust stirred in its wake, but there came no answering noise or movement. I may as well have been entirely alone in an abandoned ruin.
Beyond the door was the tight coil of a spiral stairway, extending into darkness above, cut only by a thin shaft of light filtering down. Perhaps I hoped that I might find some vantage point from which I could regain my bearings in this labyrinthine fortress—I could hardly imagine that I had somehow awoken in another ancient castle from the one I entered the day before, though yesterday seems little more probable than a half-remembered dream to me now.
I do not know how long I climbed in dizzying circles, before at last I came upon another dull wooden door. It had so badly decayed that I was surprised it remained upright, and the soft wood easily gave way. My candle seemed to flicker out in an outpouring of light and I breathed in a rush of fresh air, still bearing the scent of a recent rain. I stood upon the crumbling ramparts of the castle, overlooking the deep, gnarled woods on one side and the mossy courtyard, through which I had entered the castle, on the other, strangely bright in the fading daylight.
I could almost see into those deep passageways that ran off from the courtyard, drawing me into the depths below. I swear I truly saw nothing there, but for an instant I wondered if there was not a pair of eyes burning in the darkness. A shiver ran down my spine. In the distance I heard the wolves beginning to howl.
I thought I returned into the tower from which I had emerged onto the ramparts, but when I came to the bottom of the stairs, I found myself before a pair of grand wooden doors which I had not seen before. They seemed to be very ancient, intricately carved with a scene of human figures gathered on bended knee, all reaching up, as though toward a holy light—but the object of their supplication had been burned away, so that only a slick black scorch mark remained.
I tentatively reached out to push at the doors, but they did not give, and I shuddered with a terrible feeling of wrongness as my fingers pressed against the rough grain. I could not have been anything other than alone, but still I somehow feared to disturb whatever lay within.
I hurried on through endless passageways, which seemed to curve back on themselves, time meaningless in the fathomless darkness. And then, at last, my legs tired and throat sore, I stumbled into the grand entrance hall by which I had entered the castle, and from there I was able to make my way back up to the quarters which I recalled from the day before.
I found the dining hall where I had passed my meagre supper, which I remembered grand, furnished with rich, dark wood, crowned with gold that had shone in the firelight, but was now faded and dust-laden in the waning light of day, with no indication that anyone had ever inhabited it.
The library, where I now sit to compose my thoughts, though no different from how I remember it, is likewise abandoned, and it is difficult to imagine it otherwise. It is perhaps a testament to the sway which that figure of my dark dreams holds over me that I cannot say whether I was relieved or disappointed by the absence.
There are few markers of time in the pale, half-twilight beneath a cloudy sky, and even fewer in the dark recesses of the castle. Already the sun has set, leaving me again with only candlelight and the bright shape of the moon gleaming through the thick clouds. The sounds of the night rise from the woods below, but it is so very quiet in here, amid the lengthening shadows.
It is too late to depart now. I should eat and then rest while I can, so that I may set out in the morning.
I must be hungrier than I think, for I fancy that I can smell a tempting aroma wafting in from the dining hall…
Later.
I am now alone, up in my tower room, but my heart still hammers in my chest.
It is all more suited to the pages of a fairy tale—or a horror story—than to the realities of life, even a life such as mine.
As I put down my pen to pause in writing the previous entry in this selfsame journal, I wondered if I had not succumbed to starvation without realising it, for I imagined the familiar scent of all manner of rich and savoury foods where I knew there was only dank and musty castle. The sun had already completed its descent below the mountains, but a golden glow emanated from the door between the library and the dining hall.
My hand hesitated upon the knob for but a moment before I opened the door.
It was as though the hall had been transformed. What should have been a dark, lifeless chamber was now illuminated by cheery candlelight and crackling hearth; the very air was warm and sweet. And upon the table was a true feast to behold. Perhaps it could not have fed a king and all his court as I at first fancied, but it was much more than enough for myself alone. And yet, there was no one there; neither king, nor court, nor noble guests, nor even the wraith-like austere figure whose presence seems to me to haunt this mouldering castle. There were not even servants to set the table or wait upon it.
I waited, watching the doors that led into the hall, expecting at any moment that those for whom the feast was truly intended would emerge from the shadows of the abandoned castle and take their seats. But no one came. As I neared the table, I realised that the familiar scent was no illusion; it was not set with local dishes, but rather English fare, which I have not enjoyed since I left my native shores behind—and some of which I fancy to be of an even older palate, with game prominently featured.
At last, I could bring myself to wait no longer. I still do not know whether it was my trepidation that was foolish, or if I was foolish not to heed it as I sat at the foot of the table and stole a modest portion of the fairy’s feast laid out before me. I ate quickly, still expecting some servant, or some honest guest of the castle—or worse—to come and catch me in the act.
I was so preoccupied with my solitary meal that I did not notice my glass refilling of its own accord.
I did not realise that I was no longer alone until I was startled by the murmur of his voice, his breath nearly prickling at the nape of my neck. “Good evening, Doctor Watson.”
I started and a shudder coursed down my spine. It was him, his sharp features like the crescent moon, wreathed in shadows; his eyes no less fiery half-concealed beneath heavy lids. He stood just behind me, a bottle of deep red wine in hand.
I made to stand, but the fleeting press of his hand upon my shoulder stayed me.
“You are my guest. And do not trouble yourself upon my account; I dare not indulge in such rich delicacies.” A wry smile tugged at his thin lips, so that I thought I saw the slightest flash of white. “I am pleased that you have already felt at liberty to avail yourself of my humble home.”
His burning gaze has lingered in my mind’s eye, always upon me, and it is easy to imagine it watching from every shadowy corner, but still I was startled by the possibility that I had truly been observed.
“How ever did you know? Was it you who brought me to the drawing room?”
He seemed to be pleased by my astonishment. “You yourself confessed that for you nowhere else has held such a fascination.”
The fire in his eyes danced like will-o-wisps, as though to lead me on into the fathomless dark where the answers to my questions lurked if only I dared follow.
“The people of the village said…” I faltered, whether out of courtesy or fear I cannot say.
He leaned toward me, his long, narrow frame bent slightly so that his face was an inch or two nearer to my level. That time I was certain that I saw the white of his protruding, unusually sharp teeth.
“What is it that the people of the village say?”
I wondered if I felt his breath upon me, like a tendril of the close, musty air that rose up from the darkest passageways of the castle. My hair stood on end, my every sense preternaturally alert, attuned to his ethereal presence, which seemed to fill the air around me. I do not know if I so much as breathed, held transfixed by his fiery eyes.
I swallowed, my throat abruptly dry. “They believe there’s something here, something…”
“Unnatural?”
I nodded despite myself. “Something dangerous.”
I was startled as he threw back his head and gave a sharp, barking laugh, which would not have been out of place among the howling wolves whose chorus I have heard every night since my arrival in this country.
Then he lowered his lips to my ear. “They are not wrong.”
I turned, but he was already out of reach, standing statuesque in the shadows on the wall, as though on the cusp of dissolving back into the darkness.
My appetite gone, I concluded the meal and stood. He took the candelabra from the table and led me to the spiral staircase, which ascends up to my tower room. I do not know if I was disappointed or relieved that he did not invite me to join him in the parlour.
“Goodnight,” I said, as I lingered upon the stair, belatedly remembering my voice and my manners.
“Yes, goodnight, Dr. Watson.” Again I saw a white glint beneath the upward turn of his lips. “Take care.”
As I climbed up into the tower, he remained precisely at its foot, the flickering candelabra in hand. Wreathed in black, he faded into the darkness below, all except for his burning eyes, which seemed to glow perhaps even more brightly than the candlelight.
Even now, as I sit alone in my darkened chamber, still I feel as though I were beneath his heated gaze, a shiver lingering along my spine at the thought of the danger of which he spoke.
12 May.
It is already late in the day and I have only just breakfasted. It is too late to depart now, but my time is nearly out. I am not being kept prisoner by lock and key, but I feel as though I am being kept from leaving all the same. Perhaps it is my own secret reluctance which restrains me—I have been confined to solitude much too long—but no matter what is keeping me, I must go. The danger is too great for me to remain.
I passed the night restlessly to the howling of the wolves, dogged by dark, uncertain dreams of fear and longing which lingered in my mind, making it difficult to be assured that I was out of them even when I briefly tossed into wakefulness.
I finally opened my eyes to a pale grey light streaming in from high, narrow windows. I awoke in a fine bedroom, which I recognized as though from another dream, but the once rich, dark wood was now washed out and worn with age in the light of day, and everything was layered with dust, as though I had indeed merely fallen asleep in an abandoned ruin. Yet, the memory of that austere, wraith-like figure of my dreams and perchance reality still lurks in every shadowy corner of my mind.
The chamber seemed truly to be deserted but for one thing which was not as I had left it; folded atop the dresser, untarnished by dust or time, was a fine white suit, intricately and colourfully embroidered in the style of these parts. I can swear to it that it had not been there when I retired for the night.
I delicately unfolded the articles and, upon seeing what they were, my first thought was to return them to their place and leave them to their rightful owner. The suit could not be my own—I may have once endeavoured to appear as a respectable gentleman, but all of my clothing has since been thoroughly ravaged by wear and misuse. However, the room was otherwise plainly abandoned, with no evidence of any other inhabitant. I had not noticed any trespass in the night, but the intent of the delivery was plain and it may have been vanity or greed, but I could not bring myself to refuse.
I dressed quickly, feeling as though his burning eyes were watching me from the shadows, always just out of sight. The rooms were lacking in the simplest necessities; there was not so much as a washroom mirror, so instead I shaved by my small travel mirror and perhaps I am fortunate that there is no one about to observe the consequences.
I descended the stairs and found the dining hall cold and empty, but for the grand table, which was still laden with the remnants of the rich dinner from the previous night, untouched aside from what I had taken of it. I ate a small portion and have now returned to the library to consider my predicament.
Though I have only just awoken, I now find myself lethargic. It must be the consequence of these restless nights, yet I feel as though it is something deeper which has a hold on me, keeping me in place. But I must leave while I still can. I will rest briefly and then I must go to get as far as I can from any human soul while there is still time.
Late
I fear it must be a fresh kind of madness. I dare not sleep. I have locked myself away in the tower room to the extent that any door can be closed in this castle. Come dawn, I must flee. The true madness is that I do not wish to go, but I must.
I dozed in the library. Of that I am certain. Were that all, it would be easy to explain, but it cannot all be dismissed so easily as my own fevered imagining nor blamed upon the strange dust of this abandoned castle. I swear that it was as real as the words which I write here.
The truth is that I did not merely doze, as I had intended, but slept, indeed for some hours, for when I next came into a sort of dazed awareness, the sun had set, and in its place the moon, nearly full, shone brightly through the window, and I was not alone. Yet I felt no fear. It had the unreal feeling of a dream, and yet I swear that it was not one.
Through my half-lidded eyes, I saw him standing in the light of the moon, as though he had materialised from the silvery beam. He looked to be no more corporeal than a ghost, entirely bloodless, yet somehow more entrancing than I had ever beheld him—and he has already so utterly captivated my imagination. I was caught in his gaze, which held a fire the likes of which I had never seen, and upon his thin, pale lips was the most delicate of smiles, wry yet tentative and soft, that burned into my very soul.
Yet I did not move, nor make a sound, even as he drew nearer with no movement I could perceive. I lay quiet, looking out under my eyelashes in an agony of anticipation. He knelt down and bent over me, till I could feel the movement of his breath upon me, sending a profusion of shivers down my spine. There he lingered, simply savouring, and I wondered if there was not a hunger in his preternaturally bright eyes. His tongue darted across his thin lips, to wet them, and lapped around his sharp teeth.
Slowly he lowered his head until all I could see was his hair of pitch, and his mouth settled just above my throat. I could hear his tongue at his lips again and feel the hot breath on my neck. The skin of my throat began to tingle as I felt him approach nearer—nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited—waited with beating heart.
At that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as lightning. I was conscious of his presence as if swept up in a storm of fury. As my eyes involuntarily opened I saw him throw himself back with inhuman force, away from me. Never did I imagine such wrath and fury. His burning eyes were lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind them. His sharp teeth bared, his cheeks still coloured with passion, but the lines of his face were hard like drawn wires of white-hot metal.
In a voice which, though low and almost in a whisper, seemed to cut through the air and then ring round the room he said, “Go! Hide in your rooms until dawn, and then flee at once! Do not come here again if you value your life!”
I could not compel my body to disobey. I fled to the tower where I now hide, and come dawn, I will leave in due haste. I only fear that it may be too late.
13 May
The madness is unending. I must quickly recount how I came to this point or else I fear I will dismiss it all as a wild dream, but I do not have long.
I cannot have slept in the night. When morning came, I rose, changed into my travelling clothes, gathered my meagre belongings, and departed as I had entered; through the dining hall, the table still adorned with the remnants of a feast, down the corridor lined with arches on one side and a deep red curtain hanging on the other, past the immense cobweb draped across the grand stairwell, and through the ruins of the great hall, into the mossy courtyard.
It was there that I paused. In the darkest tunnel leading off of the courtyard, from which rose the thick must of decay, I thought I saw his bright eyes, burning in the darkness, drawing me into the depths. I blinked and they were gone, but it was too late; my will was no longer my own. He beckoned, and so I descended into the tunnel.
There was little light to guide me, but I hardly needed it. Around me, a storm of bats erupted into a cacophony of screeching cries, the air ripe with the deathly odour of blood and decay, but I forged on, deeper and deeper into the dark. I passed out of the ken of the bats and the air grew close, like turned earth. At last I came upon a heavy door, which stood ajar. I pried it open and found myself in an old, ruined chapel.
It was a large, wide chamber with a dirt floor and low, vaulted ceiling, supported by heavy stone arches. It must have once been used as a graveyard, for in two places there were stairs leading down into burial vaults below, where the dim light struggled to penetrate. I descended into the nearer vault. It was like a buried mausoleum, large enough to fit generations of caskets, but inside there was only one; a simple wooden box, whose lid sat ajar. The only decoration was an inscription which bore the name, “Sherlock Holmes.”
I pulled the lid aside, and inside I found the man who has haunted me body and soul, but not as I have known him. He lay as still and stiff as the grave, his eyes open and stony, but without the glassiness of death. There was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. This must be his true nature.
I sit now upon the stairs which lead into the vault, frantically inscribing these words in the hope that I may make sense of them upon the morrow, but now I have lingered much too long. Even in this death-like sleep he holds me still. I must run. It is not safe. I do not know how long has passed, but the sun will soon set, and then it will be too late.
I pray—but what prayer of mine would be answered?
14? May
I am back in the tower room in the ancient castle. It is day, evening, I believe. How many days it has been I cannot say, but it is over now.
I fled from the crypt, out through the courtyard and into the woods. The vision of that austere figure, lying in his coffin, frozen in unnatural half-death was seared into my mind, but still I feared for him. I ran without any aim or true direction, I only stomped through the undergrowth as quickly as I could, to gain as much distance in as little time. It was not enough.
Night fell too soon and the full moon rose, and despite all of my struggling, the wolf emerged into the night once again with a piercing howl. After that, I have only the hazy and distant memory of the wolf. There is the uproarious freedom of the wild; the woods racing past in a vibrant explosion of smells and sounds I, returned to form of man, cannot begin to describe.
And then there came the call, sharper even than the howling of another wolf. It bid me Come , and so I arrived. And there he stood, wreathed in the scent of all things ancient, so small and vulnerable to sharpened teeth and long claws, but his burning eyes held even the beast transfixed. He bade me Stop , and I halted at his feet. He approached without fear and held my muzzle gently with his long, sharp fingers. I would have done anything at all which he commanded—I wonder now if I would not still.
However, all he said was, Sleep .
And I knew no more.
Later
I awoke, and at once I knew that I was not alone.
The scent of all things ancient filled the chamber. It was dark, the waning-full moon out of sight, hidden behind a cloud. He stood wreathed in shadows; shrouded in black and even his ghostly pallor took on a dusky hue. He stood statuesque, but no longer with the rigor mortis of the grave. The only light seemed to come from his fiery eyes, which shone dimly in the dark.
I had but a brief moment to take in the sight of him, for as I began to stir, he in turn was jarred into motion. My heart floundered in my chest as I realised his intention to depart without so much as a word, and in defiance of all the power of his indomitable will, I threw myself from the bed at him, as though to hold him in place by my own strength.
“Wait!” I cried, but he faded from my grasp like a fine mist evaporating in the light of the nearly full moon.
I flung myself halfway out the window after him, but it opened on a sheer drop onto the ramparts below, and I saw not a soul in the dark, only a lone bat circling the eaves.
Instead, I rushed to the chamber door. The knob turned, but the door only creaked and held fast as I struggled against it. I shoved with all my might, until the door swung open with a resounding crack .
I stumbled and only just caught myself at the top of the stairs, which spiralled into darkness below. The sharp sound of my egress echoed down, and as I caught my frantic breath, I peered into the dark after it. I saw no one there.
I took a candle from my chamber and cautiously, I crept down the stairs, into the dining hall below. The shadows flickered in the candlelight. But that long, austere figure was not among them.
I pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the dining hall. I could only think to descend the stairs back into the lower reaches of the castle, to the narrow corridor, lined on one side with a heavy red curtain, black in the darkness, and on the other with byzantine arches. Something drew me on through the arches into a low stone tunnel through the heart of the castle. I waded through the darkness surrounded by a small pool of light that danced across the low ceiling.
At last, the tunnel ended at a door, which may have struck me as familiar, made of what must have once been a very fine wood, now old and weathered. The handle was icy to the touch. It opened on the ruins of the elegant drawing room in which I awoke some days ago, now aglow in the moonlight, the windows flung open so that the torn silk fluttered in the night air. Standing in the centre, like a living shadow, silhouetted by the moon, was a tall figure, no less ethereal than the ghosts that seemed to swirl around him.
He turned at my trespass, his eyes burning like the brightest embers, which consumed me inside and out, scouring in search of answers.
I extended a quivering hand to him, as on that night when I first arrived in the castle.
A wry smile flitted across his thin lips, but he did not accept my hand or make any move to close the distance, nor did he flee again into the night. “You have seen that which is my true nature, and you fear it, rightfully so, yet you would come to me?”
“You have seen my true nature, and yet you came to me. Not that I would overstay my welcome to the next full moon.”
“I regret that your wolfish nature puts you at an even greater disadvantage; I can command any beast, and over wolves I hold particular sway.”
My whole body trembled, but I willed my feet forward, until I was near enough to raise my hand to hover just beside his cheek, as though to cup it. “I am not afraid.” My voice wavered.
He tilted his head to one side and then the other, examining me as though I were an object of scientific study, what manner of study I could but begin to imagine. He leaned in, toward my neck, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. I swallowed in anticipation.
He let out a sharp, barking laugh and I nearly jumped back in alarm, my heart already pounding in my chest.
“You tempt fate,” he hissed. I could see his sharp, protruding teeth, gleaming in the moonlight.
Perhaps it was my pounding heart, already riled by this game of hither and yon, or the unrestrained fire of the beast lingering in my veins, so sensitive to his presence in particular, but I was so bold as to reply, “As do you.”
He smiled, his sharp teeth still visible against his lips. “What fate would you wish upon me?”
It was a testament to the sway that he holds over me, which I cannot resist, drawing me nearer until all I could see were his glowing eyes and I felt his breath upon my lips. And finally, I lunged, capturing his lips with my own.
I felt the hard dents of two sharp teeth pressed against my bottom lip, poised to cut into the flesh. My tongue came up to lap around them, delicately coiling around the sharp edges. In all else, his kiss was soft, gingerly so, his thin lips pliable, his every movement made with the utmost care.
At last, we drew apart. He took a step back, though his fingers lingered at the base of my neck, amplifying the pounding of my heart. He circled around me, shifting closer and pulling away in turn.
“Is this truly what you desire?” he murmured in my ear. “For centuries I have abstained, but I am not strong enough to resist when you are so near, warm, alive, full-blooded, even willing…”
I waited again in an ecstasy of anticipation for his lips to fall upon my neck, the hard press of his teeth upon my tender skin.
“Yes,” I whispered, my neck arched so that he might more easily feast.
The pit of my stomach fluttered like a cacophony of moths frantically dancing toward the light.
My skin was already so sensitised, tingling with the mere thought of his approach, and the press of his lips so light that I hardly felt them before the sharp points of his teeth plunged beneath the skin, and he let out a desperate moan, like a man dying of thirst at last tasting sweet relief. I fell back into his arms in longing that I might feel him, to be nearer even as my blood now pulsed in his veins.
I do not know for how long he feasted; the skin of my neck prickled after he had withdrawn, and I remained in his arms, my veins still rushing with the pounding of my heart. I shivered against him.
“You are cold and pale,” he said softly.
I shook my head in protest, holding his arms fast around me. “My blood will replenish with time.”
“The more that I take, the more like me you will become.”
I turned to face him. The moonlight which set his keen features aglow seemed to have taken on a rosy hue, like the palest, early light of dawn. His skin was ever so lightly flushed, his lips tinged pink, even his eyes seemed to have a reddish glint, or perhaps it was merely a reflection of the tinge of blood that remained upon his fangs.
“It is my blood,” I answered, “does it not stand to reason that it would make you more like me?”
He tentatively raised an elegant hand to my cheek, to brush the skin with his long, delicate fingers. “If only I were so fortunate.”
I flushed at the brazen flattery, the blood in my cheeks all the hotter for the thought of what he might make of it. I caught his hand and brought it to my lips, so that I might kiss his knuckles.
“Come,” he said, “it is nearly dawn and I fear I cannot remain long. The least that I can do now is give you more food and rest to aid in renewing what I have taken.”
“So that I have more to give you?”
“Not at all, unless that is indeed your desire.”
“Perhaps an exchange? I will see you again tomorrow after the sun has set?”
“So long as you choose to remain.”
“Certainly.”
He bowed his head, but did not succeed at hiding his smile, and took my arm to guide me back to the living quarters of the castle, where some remnants of my feast remained, before vanishing back into the waning night.
The fiery light of dawn now licks at the grey horizon. I have eaten my fill and now grow faint; it is time I slept, for I ought be well rested for the coming night.