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Chapter Text

6 May 1881.

At last, I believe I have come to the edge of civilization; beyond are only hills which give way to forsaken mountains. I will be sorry to leave this last town come morning, but I cannot remain.

It seems to be a very pleasant, quiet village, from what little I have seen of it; the sun had already set by the time I came in on the main road. However, as I approached the town, I saw from a distance the tall spire of a Gothic church overlooking a copse of red rooftops, aglow in the setting sun. I reached the town not long past sunset, but already most of the houses and stores were shuttered, their white facades, trimmed with dark wood, still bright in the reflected light of the waxing moon, and most of the good people had already retreated inside. I passed many a window haloed with the warm glow of candlelight around heavy curtains. The few people that I passed hurried by, eager to return to the comfort of their homes.

Though we are now in the full flush of spring, at night a chill still steals into the air and seeps through my threadbare coat, and so I likewise hurried down the cobblestone, until I happened upon an inn whose light still streamed out onto the street. I hastened inside, into the inviting warmth. I came into a tight, narrow room, its white walls golden in the candlelight, and the rafters hung with fresh flowers and drying goods. I expected the tables to be crowded with all the men of the village come to share their woes, and there were one or two men bent over their food and drink, but no more, and they kept quietly to themselves.

However, quiet though it was, the inn was not without cheer. I was greeted by a kindly elderly woman, wearing what I have found to be the traditional garb of this region: a white dress, with a bright, colourful apron. She welcomed me though I am but a humble stranger, and was so kind as to prepare for me a late supper of chicken seasoned with red pepper, which I have found to be a specialty in these parts.

While I was eating, an elderly man with snowy white hair, whom I presumed to be her husband, came to my table to greet me and bid me welcome to their inn. I endeavoured to ask him what lies in the land to the east, which to the eye appears to be only wooded hills, rising up into the distance, but which I worried might conceal a greater civilization still, hidden in its valleys—though to my knowledge, albeit limited, I am a long ways from any of the great mountainous strongholds of the East.

He answered with a shake of his head and words I am not quick enough in German to understand. He almost seemed affronted by the question, which caused me to wonder if I had inadvertently misspoken in the still unfamiliar tongue.

“The mountains,” I attempted to clarify. “Is that the way into the mountains?”

Again, he tried to communicate something much faster than I could translate it. At last, he said slowly with careful enunciation, “I would not go there.”

“You would not go into the mountains?” I asked, bewildered. “Why?”

“It is dangerous.” Even speaking so deliberately, I could see that he then hesitated. “There are wolves—and other creatures.”

“But no people?”

Haltingly, he shook his head. “No men dwell there.”

I would not impose any more upon his hospitality, especially at so late an hour, and hastily thanked him. He left me with a solemn, grave impression that I have not entirely been able to shake, even though it should be a relief that I have found somewhere sufficiently isolated in time. I should consider myself fortunate that the people here dare not travel into the mountains, so that I can be guaranteed that I will be entirely alone.

When I finished eating, I retired to my room. It is a small, simple chamber with a lone window, looking out on the hills beyond. The bed is furnished with a pile of heavy, colourful quilts to keep out the cold night air that creeps down from the mountains. I now sit beside it, writing at a plain wooden desk—but which serves its purpose well. I could ask for no more comfortable arrangements.

The pale light of the waxing gibbous moon streams in through the window and hangs in the air in a fine mist that seems to extend even into the shadows. In the distance I hear the howling of wolves in the hills, even louder now than I heard them last night. I do not look forward to camping among them in the woods tomorrow night, but I have no choice.

Perhaps even more disquieting, for all of their foreboding, I also feel a deep pull that would draw me onto my feet and out into the dark, toward the rising hills, if only I surrendered to it. I fear this unnatural feeling cannot bode well, but I mustn't delay. I should endeavour to sleep while I can and then in the morning I will depart.

7 May.

I did not sleep well last night. My ordinarily restless dreams rang with the howling of the wolves and were suffused with a thick mist that stifled my breath, and I had some lingering feeling of being watched by something just out of sight.

I have some memory of being startled awake from my tossing and turning in the middle of the night. I recall no sound, only the feeling that I was bid, Awake , and I complied.

It must have been a dream, but my eyes opened to the same small chamber in which I slept, dark but for the moonlight streaming in through the open window. And lurking in those shadows, I saw a strange, austere, wraith-like figure, tall and pale, almost invisible as but another shade upon the wall, but for his burning eyes which looked upon me so intently that I could feel them scorch me to the very soul. Still I feel their fire burning me up from within with an impossible longing.

He held me spellbound in his gaze, entranced to his indomitable will. I could have remained frozen in his sight forever—or had he willed it, I would have done anything at his barest thought.

But then, despite myself, I blinked, and he was gone, leaving only the shadows and the mist of the moon behind.

I have some feeling that I escaped some impossible fate at his hands, but I confess I cannot say I feel any relief at having evaded it. I can still see those eyes now as I lie awake. I cannot shake the spectre from my mind, inviting my imagination and beckoning me onward.

It cannot be a good omen.

After such a restless night, I rose early and over breakfast I spoke with the landlady about making preparations for my departure. However, she expressed some reluctance on the subject.

“It is not safe,” she insisted as her husband did yesterday evening.

I attempted to placate her, “I know it will not be an easy journey, but I must go, and with your help I will be well prepared for the most difficult terrain.”

However, she only redoubled her attempts to dissuade me, “No, you do not understand! These mountains, they are-” her final word was not in German, but in the local tongue in which I know only the most rudimentary of words, but from the way in which she said it, I was certain it had a dire meaning; I was left with the impression of something cursed or perhaps evil.

It did not please me to trouble the kindly old woman, and I was touched by her concern for a strange traveller even as it struck me as perhaps somewhat excessive. But I would not traverse these treacherous peaks if I had any other choice, and I tried to impress it upon her as gently, yet severely as I could.

“You must take another way,” she argued.

“It is too late, I do not have time to venture elsewhere. I only ask a few days’ supplies for my journey, and then I must go.”

“Will you not wait to take the coach? It is too dangerous to go by foot—the wolves!”

“I would not endanger the driver for my sake.”

At last I was able to convince her that I would not be dissuaded, and she relented and furnished me with the necessary supplies for a few days’ hike through the mountains; she assured me that they will get me safely as far as Bukovina, on the other side of the narrow mountain pass. I additionally discovered, when I paused for luncheon in the afternoon, that buried in my pack amidst a wealth of dried goods was a crucifix which she must have put there as a talisman to ward off spiritual ills, just as the other supplies which she gave me are to ward off the physical perils I face.

The people here have been very kind to me, and perhaps one day I might return. However, it was already late in the morning when my pack was finally ready, and I set off without delay, bidding my generous hosts farewell. I have done what I can to make good time, and I have only to hope that I will be able to continue at a good pace and that the days I have afforded myself will be enough to reach a truly isolated spot.

As I departed the town, continuing along the main road, looking even more like a traveller than before with my heavy pack upon my shoulders, I was followed by the gaze of many a townsperson, and I expect more whose subtle glances I did not observe. It could have been mere curiosity about the passing stranger in their midst but for their wary eyes which reminded me of the pitying look of the landlady of the inn and the danger of which she spoke.

I confess, I have my own misgivings about the dark woods and treacherous peaks that loom ahead of me, and not merely on account of the unpredictable mountain climate. If I had more time, were the danger not so great, I might think to turn back and find another remote place to hide.

I still feel that deep pull, compelling me strangely onward, deeper into these dark woods, and more worrying still, I find myself somehow reluctant to resist it, as though I am held spellbound by some strange power. Or perhaps the feeling is nothing more than an echo of my rightful urgency. All I have received are vague warnings and in any case, it is too late to turn back now. I certainly cannot afford to be frightened off by mere wolves.

In the light of day it is difficult to imagine this land as anything less than peaceful. It is truly a beautiful country; a rolling patchwork of fields, dotted with farmhouses capped by the same bright red tile as in the town. It could almost be mistaken for the bucolic English countryside of my youth, though the woods are deeper here, more than narrow hedgerows between the fields, and of dark green conifers, rather than the familiar oak and ash.

Now, in the full flush of spring, the sloping hills seem to be painted with all manner of colours, which on canvas would appear thoughtless, but in life evokes a much greater design. Each distinct hue is another flower, carpeting the ground or crowning the plentiful orchards, each blossom brighter and more varied than the last, all of the likes of which I might have sworn I had never seen before, though in truth I was never so well versed in English flowers as to be able to swear anything of the sort. It was not only flowers; the entire valley was abuzz with life, teeming with bees beyond number collecting their sweet nectar and pollen for their hives, the air already honeyed with their scents. I can but presume the life of a farmer here is an easy one.

However, for all the beauty of the landscape and as much as I longed to savour it; to lay down my head among the flowers and surrender myself to the soft buzzing of the bees, the mountains loomed as ever upon the horizon, their stark peaks a constant reminder of my grim purpose and the need for haste. I stopped only briefly for luncheon and otherwise continued on at a steady press, and by evening I made it deep into the foothills. Already the woods had become deeper and darker, and the fields smaller and further between.

The sun had already passed out of view and the sky overhead was beginning to colour with the final, brilliant bursts of the dying light when I passed a charming young woman upon the rustic road, dressed in white with an apron as bright as the flowers upon the hillsides. She was working on the farm nestled beside that stretch of road, bringing the livestock in for the evening, when she stopped and called out. At first I did not realise that I was the subject of her address—I, a stranger, and even her words were foreign to me.

When she called out again, I turned and found that her gaze was directed at me, and indeed there was no one else upon the road for her words to be directed toward. I answered in German and with some difficulty on both of our accounts, we were able to converse after a fashion.

I was able to glean that she meant to inquire as to my purpose and I endeavoured to explain, “I am only hiking through.” I gestured toward the far off mountain peaks, mostly concealed beyond the woods.

After another faltering attempt, or two, she insisted, “It will soon be dark, you must come inside.”

I could not impose upon her generosity, but she held firm, and when it was made clear to me that it would be ungracious, or even unkind of me to refuse, I at last accepted and allowed her to usher me across a small pasture, first to a barn, where the livestock were put to rest for the night, and then into the adjacent cottage.

It is a humble abode, but tonight I can think of nowhere more welcoming. There was already a chill creeping into the brisk mountain air, but as I entered it was overwhelmed by a rush of warmth, imbued with the rich aroma of a heavy stew, bubbling over the fire. I have seen only one room—I believe the only other to be a small bedroom—at the centre of which is a large hearth for cooking and warmth, surrounded by all the dishes and implements one might need for cooking over it. Just out of reach of the flames is a well used, but still sturdy wooden table, where we ate the evening meal, and on the other side an assortment of chairs with bright quilted cushions, where we sat and talked afterward.

When we entered, the lady of the house immediately went to the hearth to tend the stew, and I followed after her, drawn by the nose. We were shortly joined by a rustic young man—in truth, not too many years younger than myself—who greeted his wife warmly. They are a handsome young couple, plain, but devoted in their simple life. The life I once could have had would have been very different, but still my heart ached at the sight with a vague longing.

They exchanged a series of quick words which went by at such a pace that I would have hardly understood if they were in German, but which were in fact in an even more unfamiliar tongue. I could only guess that some explanation of my presence was provided, for the man seemed to accept the stranger who had come into his home, and stepped toward me with an outstretched hand.

We attempted to converse in German as I had with his wife, but I believe his command of the language is even rougher than hers’ and over the course of our conversation, she frequently acted to translate between us, though even she and I were often forced to resort to gestures and crude approximation. He got so far as making me know that I was welcome in his home—I fear I have still hardly done enough to express my gratitude for this unexpected generosity—before we all sat down to eat.

They, of course, had many questions as to my origins and destination and I did my best to answer them as they endeavoured to ask them. I gave them a brief account of my history; an English doctor, travelling the continent. It is poor repayment for their generosity, but I count myself fortunate that we could only communicate in rough phrases, for even so, I wonder if they are not already dubious of all that I neglected to say.

I could not avoid talk of my destination had I tried; I am nearly into the mountains, there is nothing I can do to conceal it. Both husband and wife exchanged a frightened glance as I confirmed their suspicions and then they spoke quickly in their own tongue. I wondered if they might suggest I leave, as my bowl was already empty, and it was plain I could bring no fortune into their home.

At last, it was the husband who said to me, “You cannot go.”

I wondered if he had misspoken or I had misunderstood, but he spoke with the same conviction as the landlady at the inn in the town below.

“It is not good,” he insisted.

I sighed, and tried to explain as I had with the landlady, “I must, I have no other choice.”

Again, the young couple exchanged a glance.

It was the wife who elaborated, her words carefully chosen in the foreign tongue, “You are not going to the old castle atop the mountain? It is said there is a man who lives there now… There are rumours that he is not good company.”

I hoped that these foreboding mountains would be sufficiently remote that I might avoid any human presence, but I should be able to evade a lone man locked away inside a fortress. However, there was something in the woman’s tone which made me hesitate.

I tried to ask for some elaboration, but she quickly recanted. “We have not seen him, and I am fortunate that I do not know anyone who has. It is only said…” There was a dire foreboding in her silence.

It should hardly matter, as I would keep away from any dwelling even without such warnings, but I can but wonder what it is that is said about this gentleman who locks himself inside an ancient castle, apparently little more than a stranger like myself. However, what inquiries I attempted were met with only more vague warnings, fettered by my hosts’ reluctance and our rudimentary German, and I was hardly in a position to press further, even as it made me wonder all the more what it is that hides beyond these woods which I must soon traverse.

After dinner, we briefly retired to the chairs on the other side of the fire and talked a little longer with some effort, but it was already late, and I have had a long day’s journey, and an even longer one awaits. For a short while, I merely sat and allowed the melodious sound of an entirely unknown language to wash over me as the husband and wife talked together in hushed voices, content to not need to translate. I wondered a little at the subject of their discussion—under the circumstances, I believe it is not vanity to presume that I featured in it—but on the whole I was pleased to listen and to, if for just an evening, savour the quiet pleasure which I imagine is the ordinary rhythm of their life together.

Not long afterward, they retired further into the cottage, though not before ensuring that I was provided with a cot and plentiful blankets, which have soaked up all the warmth of the fire. It is a rare comfort, especially so as I expected I would spend the night upon the hard dirt.

And yet, perhaps it is this warm, homey comfort which brings into stark relief how solitary my life is. The only company I share is the distant howling of the wolves, the mist rolling past the windows in the bright moonlight, and the lingering feeling of a looming presence; that austere, ominous figure that still lurks in the back of my mind, which I fear has merged in my subconscious with the vague rumours of the man who haunts the castle atop these mountains. It will not be much longer now.

I can already feel that I will be reluctant to leave here in the morning, but last time was much too close a call, it would be a cruel repayment indeed if I were to remain.

9 May.

It was midday when I came upon the castle.

The sun was high in the sky, but only a dim light filtered down between branches thick with countless long needles, casting the woods in an eternal twilight. At the crest of a steep ascent, I found my path suddenly blocked by a sheer wall, which cut sharply through the dense forest. From the ground, I could only just make out the pointed tip of a tower piercing the bright, stormy sky, the ancient stone crumbling before my eyes.

I trailed along the weather-eaten wall; the trees closed in tightly on my other side, as though to reclaim the rocky ground, but I saw enough to envision the ramparts of what had once been an impenetrable fortress. I can only presume that this must be the castle of so many uncertain rumours, but I can hardly think that it could possibly be anything but a long abandoned ruin.

And yet, perhaps I should be more wary. I did not pause to think it strange in the light of day, but now I can but wonder if it was more than curiosity or the promise of some shelter for the night which drew me along the ancient ramparts, pulling me deeper as though bewitched. And I still cannot dispel the lingering feeling of that strange, austere figure whose burning eyes have haunted my dreams.

I stumbled and only just regained my footing as the outer wall abruptly came to an end and the ground dropped off into a sheer cliff. Below, the dark, coniferous woods stretched on for miles, and in the distance, the slope of another mountain rose up to a sharp, icy peak. The wall which extends up above the cliff has become so worn with time that a desperate man might be able to climb it, his hands and feet in the craters that riddle the stone, but he would be desperate indeed to attempt it. A bloody history seems to take shape from the ruins themselves; I can think of no more fearsome place to lay a siege, or to wait one out.

I turned back, but could not bring myself to stray. Instead, I circled the other way around the castle, past where I first came upon it, until I happened upon a narrow crack, bored roughly into the stone, by weather or man I cannot say, hardly wide enough for a man to pass. At the time, I did not think twice.

As I emerged into the heart of the fortress, the first thing that I observed was the absence of any stirring of the wind, which outside had been a constant presence. It was as still and silent as the grave. The dust of the ages seemed to hang in the air, undisturbed except by the swirling eddies of my breath. My feet echoed obtrusively against the stone ground.

I was in a courtyard, surrounded by towering walls. It branched off into half a dozen tunnels which vanished into darkness, as though I had come into the heart of a labyrinth. I was hemmed in with stone on all sides, but through the cracks emerged shoots and mushroom caps, and moss grew over it like a green carpet. It made me feel all the more as though I were a trespasser upon ground which no longer belonged to the living. There was a subtle must of decay which seemed to grow stronger the longer I stood in place.

I was cognizant then of that strange, deep pull, urging me on, into the dark tunnels from which the dank, stale air seemed to rise, spots in my vision like burning eyes boring into me from the depths, but I faltered at the yawning mouth. Yet, I could not bring myself to leave the ruins.

Instead, I turned to the only wall which did not give way to darkness; it projected out into a rough surface which I only belatedly realised to be an immense, carved door, like the solemn entrance to a mausoleum. It must have once been intricately carved, but the pattern has been worn away by the ages so only a faint impression remains.

Hanging from the door, just left of the centre, was a circle of rusted iron which had once been a handle. I gave it an experimental tug and, to my surprise, it did not crumble to dust in my fingers. With some effort and a tremendous creak, I was able to pull the door open just wide enough that I might eke through. I waited upon the threshold, not daring to move as the sound faded, expecting some consequence of breaking the seal which had stood for ages innumerable, but if there were ghosts, they did not stir. I was indeed truly alone. It ought have come as a relief, but I could only regret it.

At last I left the courtyard in peace and slipped through the narrow crack in the door, into the darkness beyond. Air thick with dust caught in my throat and I doubled over coughing, only stirring up more dust with the echoing sound, until I felt as though not an inch of the castle had gone undisturbed by my presence. Even after I regained my breath, I wondered if I did not hear a distant answering noise still resonating in the ancient corridors.

Slowly, I blinked away the lingering light of the bright grey sky, and dim shapes took form as a grand hall, lined with enormous columns, supporting a high ceiling that disappeared into shadows above. It was not all dark; high overhead were a pair of windows, through which streamed the grey overcast light, casting pale shapes upon the floor and up the walls.

The outer wall of the castle had been slowly chipped away by the elements and the courtyard reclaimed by nature, but inside nothing penetrated, leaving only the slow ravages of time. For all of the disturbance I had brought, dust still hung heavy in the air and blanketed the floor. Scattered around me stood the remnants of life long forgotten; a decaying table with throne-like chairs and a grand chest, all haphazardly strewn across the chamber as though left in a hurry, covered by what I had at first taken to be protective sheets, but which were in truth ancient cobwebs coated in dust. The enormous hearth, like a small cavern in the wall directly before me, which may have once, in life, crackled at grand banquets, stood cold, buried beneath centuries of dark and silence.

I wondered how long it had been since the thick dust had been stirred by the slightest breath or even the softest of footfalls; my every cautious movement echoed in the stillness, and each sound made me falter, though there was no one else to hear it. I had two paths onward, deeper into the castle; to the right of the door by which I had entered, just beyond the hearth, was an arched passageway leading into musty darkness, and above it a grand staircase, framed by a pair of immense columns, its destination no less a mystery.

I came to the foot of the stairs. There I saw that what I had, from a distance, taken for light dappled across the wall, was indeed an immense cobweb, stretched from one column to the other so that it crossed the entire height and breadth of the stairwell, so that none could pass except by tearing through it. The web had been left undisturbed for so long that it too had been abandoned and left to become thick with dust. With a sweep of my arm, I brushed it aside so that I might pass, opening only a small tear in the bottom of the faded silk, and ascended the rest of the way up the stairs.

At the top, I came into a corridor lined with arches which struck me as being in a Byzantine style, and opposite them hung heavy, dark curtains. After the grand hall, the passageway seemed narrow, the walls close around me, the air somehow lighter, but chillingly so. At the far end was another stairwell, which led me higher still into the castle.

At the top, I pushed past a pair of strong wooden doors into another shadowy stone chamber, but even as I entered I could feel that it was different. Again the air was lighter, my footfalls louder against the hard stone floor, echoing sharply against the walls. There was still dust, just as in the passageway below, but in the passageway it had been thinner than in the grand entrance hall, and here it was but a light sheen.

The narrow passageway below had been lined with some odds and ends of furniture; a chair, an armoire, a vase, none quite so decrepit as the ancient, decaying pieces I had seen as I entered, and with cobwebs only discretely hung in the corners. On this upper level, the fixtures nearly shone in the weak light, which crept in from a few high windows.

The chamber was dominated by an enormous hardwood table with two chairs; one at the foot elaborately carved in wood, and one at the head crowned in gold, all the richer for the passage of time. In the centre of the table stood a golden candelabra, and behind it an intricate stone fireplace, both cold. The walls were adorned with tapestries and over the single large window hung deep red curtains, aglow from the setting sun. Even in the grey shadows I could see that it was all exquisitely ornate, but in that it was no less lifeless. It was like a painting; deliberately arranged, but empty. I can no more imagine someone inhabiting it than the ruins below.

I still do not know what to think. I glanced through each of the doorways leading off of the first chamber; one led to a tight spiral staircase ascending further still, I presume into one of the high towers, another door opened into a library, and all the rest led to corridors which vanished into deep darkness where I dare not tread. Nowhere did I see another soul.

I now sit in the library as I write. It is an extraordinary collection. I have only made a cursory inspection, but I believe there is not a scientific subject which is not addressed; medicine, chemistry, botany, zoology, geology, and there is music, most for the violin and much of it entirely unknown to me. Many of the volumes must be incredibly old, but delicately maintained. And yet, there are also ordinary almanacks and magazines and newspapers, many in English—a months’ old issue of The Times is strewn across the large, central table at which I am now seated, alongside a fascinating volume compiled of various persons of interest from over the ages—though none quite up to date.

It is plainly inhabited, just as the rest of the castle must be abandoned. The library is no less opulent than the grand dining hall from which I entered it, but one would not know it from the incredible disarray; not ruin, but the evidence of a life in motion, to such an extent that it cannot be bothered to clear away the occupations of days past. Beneath the newspapers and books are layers upon layers of papers strewn across the table, and the floor is covered with stacks of bundles of them, all written in the same quick hand. Among them are scattered various personal effects: a beautiful violin, a pair of slippers, and, most dramatically, a stack of correspondence stabbed into the table by a jackknife. Amidst it all, there is not a trace of dust, except for perhaps hidden away in the corners. And yet, there is no one to be found.

I will only remain for the night. Darkness is already fast descending and a night’s shelter is truly a great relief, though the moon is nearing full. The wolves have already begun to howl; their cries seem to beckon from directly below.

I was able to navigate the maze of papers so far as the windows to draw aside the deep red curtains and let in some light when I arrived, but now the sun is nearly set—

There has just been a sudden motion coming from the ramparts below, like a cloud rising up from the woods in a cacophony of high-pitched shrieks. I believe there must be near a hundred bats, all in silhouette across the darkening grey sky.

I must quickly fasten the window against them, and I believe I saw a candle lost somewhere amidst the books and papers…

… I did not realise how cold the outside air had turned. At least I have now ensured that what warmth remains will not escape and that no creatures will enter, and now, with a candle sitting upon the table I can even see the words as I write them upon the page.

Long shadows flicker in the candlelight. With each movement I wonder if I will be caught in my trespass. Yet even cloistered away in this library, which seems to be a snapshot of a life in motion, I cannot believe that anyone could live here; I think of the ruined hall many floors below, and even the grand dining room just outside this door, neither of which bear any trace of life. It is as though someone lives only in this library, but I have seen no one and even amid all the stacks of papers, there is not enough space for a man to hide. But then, I can but wonder whose papers are these?

I have some lingering feeling that I am not alone. Every shadow seems to conceal the spectre of the tall, austere figure from my dreams, whose intoxicating presence has grown ever stronger with each passing night. Perhaps I am dreaming now. It would explain this castle and all of its mysteries.

I feel a chill, but the windows are closed. There is something here with me, I can feel it. Perhaps I would fare better sleeping out in the woods with the howling wolves. Yet, each time I glance up, there is nothing there——

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.