Stephen Jones

Quand le paysan de l'Himalaya croise un ours mâle plein de vigueur,
Il crie pour effrayer ce monstre, qui souvent alors ce détourne de lui.
Mais lors d'une semblable rencontre une femelle le lacère avec acharnement,
Car la femelle de l'espèce est plus meurtrière que le mâle.

Rudyard Kipling, "La Femelle de l'espèce" (1911)

Malgré ma réputation macabre, j'ai en vérité le cœur d'un petit garçon. Je le garde dans un bocal, sur mon bureau.

Robert BLOCH

Il y a une certaine jouissance à donner forme à nos cauchemars. C'est pourquoi les auteurs de fiction d'horreur, sont paradoxalement, les personnes les plus gentilles, les plus douces et les plus drôles qui soient. (Et les auteurs de comédie des gens plus sombres, avec plus de problèmes et de démons qu'on pourrait croire)

Regarding the library: I have devised a system that allows me to create a table of approximate values, and that for now must suffice. First, I examine the binding of the book, noting the use of valuable ornamentation and pigments. Then I make note of the author and the subject, gauging their popularity and stature; how many copies have been printed (if indicated) and where; how many editions; the age of the work and its length; and finally, content, whether scandalous and likely to cause offence, whether of general interest, usefulness and the like. To this end I find myself making odd decisions, putting a history of Romanian road-mapping before the Life and Times of Vladimir the Terrible because the former may be of more utility in charting this neglected territory. Thus the banal triumphs over the lurid, the ordinary over the outrageous, the obvious over the obscure. A fanciful mind might imagine that I was somehow robbing the library of its power by reclassifying these tomes in such a manner, that by quantifying them I am reducing the spell they cast. Fancies grow within these walls. The castle is conducive to them.

She was tall and handsome rather than beautiful, with a knowing look, her auburn hair swept back and down across a dress of sheer green gossamer, with jewels at her throat, and nothing at all on her feet. She stood with her left side turned to me, so that I could not help but notice the exaggerated posture of her breasts. It was as though she intended them to incite my admiration. The effect was indecent, but nothing to the effect produced when she turned to face me directly, for the front panel of the dress was cut away below her waist to reveal - well, her entire personal anatomy.

This presents me with a new problem, for I am told that winter quickly settles in the mountains, and is slow to release the province from its numbing grip. Once the blizzards begin the roads will quickly become inundated, making it virtually impossible for me to leave the castle until the end of spring, a full seven months away. I would truly be a prisoner here in Castle Dracula.

Oh, I know there are servants, four, I think; a raw-looking woman who cooks and cleans, her husband the groom, an addle-pate underservant born without wits who is only fit for washing and sweeping (he might be the son of the cook; there is a resemblance), and Klove, an unsmiling German butler whom I take to be the Count’s manservant. I mean to say that there is someone else here. I sense his presence late at night, when the fire has banked down to an amber glow and the library is at its gloomiest. I can feel him standing silently at the windows (an impossibility, since they overlook a sheer drop of several hundred yards) but when I turn to catch a glimpse of this imagined figure it is gone.

I had not intended to begin reading any of the volumes, you understand, for the simple reason that it would slow my rate of progress to a crawl, and there are still so many shelves to document. Many books require handling with the utmost care, for their condition is so delicate that their gossamer pages crumble in the heat of a human hand. However, I now permit myself to read in the evenings, in order that I might put from my mind the worsening weather and my poor, pining Mina.

I have always believed that a building can be imbued with the personality of its owner, but never have I felt such a dread ache of melancholy as I experienced upon entering that terrible, desolate place. The castle itself – less a chateau than a fortress, much like the one that dominates the skyline of Salzburg – is very old, thirteenth century by my reckoning, and a veritable masterpiece of unadorned ugliness. Little has been added across the years to make the interior more bearable for human habitation. There is now glass in many of the windows and mouldering tapestries adorn the walls, but at night the noise of their flapping reveals the structure’s inadequate protection from the elements. The ramparts are unchanged from times when hot oil was poured on disgruntled villagers who came to complain about their murderous taxes. There is one entrance only, sealed by a portcullis and a pair of enormous studded doors. Water is drawn up from a great central well by a complicated wooden pump-contraption. Gargoyles sprout like toadstools in every exposed corner. The battlements turn back the bitter gales that forever sweep the Carpathian mountains, creating a chill oasis within, so that one may cross the bailey – that is, the central courtyard of the castle – without being blasted away into the sky.

Ah! Something which filled my very soul with horror. The Count, looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair and moustache are changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks are fuller, and the white skin seems ruby-red underneath; the mouth is redder than ever, for on the lips are gouts of fresh blood, which trickle from the corners of the mouth and run over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seem set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath are bloated. It seems as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood like a filthy leech. I must search, or I am lost. The coming night may see my own body a banquet in a similar way to those horrid three.

There is no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves stops. Before long they stream away singly, licking their lips. I can not pity her, for I know what has become of her child, and she is better dead! What shall I do? What can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful thrall of night and gloom and fear? To-night goes to post, the first of that fatal series which is to blot out the very traces of my existence from the earth. Let me not think of it. Action! If I could only get into his room! But there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no way for me.

DRACULA: I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private this evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish. Let me advise you, my dear young friend, nay, let me warn you with all seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then –

The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old Roman Quatre Face, as the house is four-sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of the compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded by the solid stone wall above mentioned. There are many trees on it, which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large and of all periods back, I should say, to medieval times, for one part is of stone immensly thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or church. I could not enter it, as I had not the key of the door leading to it from the house, but I have taken with my kodak views of it from various points. The house has been added to, but in a very straggling way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which must be very great. There are but few houses close at hand, one being a very large house only recently added to and formed into a private lunatic asylum. It is not, however, visible from the grounds.”

DRACULA: Those flames show where gold has been hidden. I see you do not comprehend. I shall then, explain. It is commonly believed that on a certain night, Saint George’s, or last night, in fact, when all evil spirits are supposed to have unchecked sway – a blue flame is seen over any place where treasure has been hidden. That treasure has been hidden in the region through which you came last night, there can be but little doubt; for it was the ground fought over for centuries by the Wallachian, the Saxon, and the Turk. Why, there is hardly a foot of soil in all this region that has not been enriched by the blood of men, patriots or invaders. In old days there were stirring times, when the Austrian and the Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out to meet them, men and women, the aged and the children too, and waited their coming on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep destruction on them with their artificial avalanches. When the invader was triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been sheltered in the friendly soil.

DRACULA: I am glad you have found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that will interest you. These friends – (Indicates books) have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England, and to know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is. But alas! as yet I only know your tongue through books. To you, my friend, I look that I know him to speak.

DRACULA: Ah! from my friend Mr. Peter Hawkins. This will, I am sure, please you to hear: (Reads) “I much regret that an attack of gout from which malady I am a constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to come, but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has grown to manhood in my service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters.”

L'émotion la plus ancienne et la plus forte chez l'homme est la peur, et la peur la plus ancienne et la plus forte est la peur de l'inconnu.