Let's Read Dracula [Spoiler-Free]

Thuktun F · Jun 24, 2024

Once again we return to our good friend Jonathan Harker, as he contends with the Horrors that have somehow gotten even more horrific.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

24 June, before morning.—Last night the Count left me early, and locked himself into his own room. As soon as I dared I ran up the winding stair, and looked out of the window, which opened south. I thought I would watch for the Count, for there is something going on. The Szgany are quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of some kind. I know it, for now and then I hear a far-away muffled sound as of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of some ruthless villainy.

The end, or the beginning of something even worse? I profess that I am having trouble figuring out just what the people in the Count's employ are doing. They're clearly digging, but for what? Is Dracula's real treasure buried, and he's having it dug up for his move? I know in some folklore, vampires are reanimated corpses, so perhaps he's retrieving his original coffin or something?

I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw something coming out of the Count's window. I drew back and watched carefully, and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me to find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I had seen the women take away.

Oh dear heavens, the teaboo is cosplaying. Did it take so long for him to put it on because he needed to restitch it to match his height?

There could be no doubt as to his quest, and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local people be attributed to me.

"Hey, I saw our local boyar who may or may not be a man-eating vampire wearing that English solicitor's clothes."

Joking aside, this really is a devious plan. Just when you think Jonathan can't be any more trapped, Dracula manages to find yet another way to isolate him and render him helpless. At this point it's really overkill- either Dracula is meticulously overplanning because he has centuries of the paranoia of a warlord behind his decisions, or he is taking a sadistic pleasure in fucking with our good friend Jonathan and keeps finding excuses to do so.

So Jonathan waits at the window, trying to keep an eye out for Dracula's return, when:

I thought I would watch for the Count's return, and for a long time sat doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more fully the aërial gambolling.

While I myself have been enraptured by the sight of dust in a beam of light, Jonathan's calm is at odds with his previous anxiety and determination to keep an eye out. Something is definitely fucky.

Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised!

I gotta appreciate how Jonathan has quickly adapted to his supernatural situation, where he is able to realize that something definitely is off instead of trying to rationalize it away. It's a continuing display of his wits overcoming his Enlightenment worldview and Victorian-era reservations.

Quicker and quicker danced the dust; the moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the three ghostly women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight and where the lamp was burning brightly.

Honestly, a haunting image that would probably be hard to pull off even with modern film techniques. Again we see just how inextricable the nature of these vampires are with the very concept of the night. They are not just monstrous creatures with a lust for blood- they are the howling of wolves, the dust in moonbeams, the stuff of shadows.

I also note how this is the first time Jonathan has ever described himself as outright screaming, and it's when the three vampire women who tried to metaphorically rape and murder him pop back up. The name of the idea might not have been made yet, but it's clear he has trauma from these three.

When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the Count's room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed; and then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With a beating heart, I tried the door; but I was locked in my prison, and could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.

It's a small but powerful moment. Our hero, left weeping because he knows a quartet of monsters have eaten a child, and he is helpless to stop it.

And as terrible as this is for Jonathan, we meet someone for whom this is infinitely worse.

As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without—the agonised cry of a woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered out between the bars. There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her hands over her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning against a corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at the window she threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:—

"Monster, give me my child!"

It's a cry that has been said, if not in those exact words, far too many times in our history. Dracula's targeting of children is not just to make him seem more evil. Vampires are often symbols of disease, and disease in this era robbed virtually every parent of a child.

As a sidenote, Jonathan is able to understand her, which implies she is speaking German. She likely then is a Transylvanian Saxon, a favorite punching bag of warlords like Dracula and his namesake.

She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the same words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair and beat her breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of extravagant emotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and, though I could not see her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against the door.

Poor Jonathan is watching this knowing that her child is already gone, knowing that Dracula is likely to retaliate, and yet he says nothing, because he knows that there is nothing he can say that will make her turn back before it's too late.

Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to be answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many minutes had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated, through the wide entrance into the courtyard.

There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.

A single wolf can eat as much as 20% of their body weight in one sitting. Given how many of them came, the sheer speed at which she was devoured is not inaccurate. One can only hope that meant she had little time to experience the pain...

Of course, such musings are secondary to the real horror of this scene. Dracula treats a mother trying to save her child as an annoyance, and disposes of her as such. Such coldblooded disdain for human life is more horrifying than his bloodlust or his mastery over wolves.

I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and she was better dead.

What shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful thing of night and gloom and fear?

I don't know, but I hope you can find out soon Jonathan.

Thuktun F · Jun 25, 2024

At long last, Jonathan seems to be making headway, and he does so by almost literally reversing things.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

25 June, morning.—No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the sun grew so high this morning that it struck the top of the great gateway opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me as if the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me as if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth.

So strange, that what he describes is something we have all felt as children, yet when we experience it again as adults it seems entirely new.

Also, unsurprised by the religious imagery. For those who thankfully didn't have this stuff shoved into their brains as kids, in the Bible Noah sends doves out to look for dry land after the Great Flood.

I must take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon me. Last night one of my post-dated letters went 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!

God this invigorates me, after reading weeks of Jonathan's helplessness as he witness horror after horror and Dracula preparing his demise. He spirals, then he tells himself to get going.

It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not yet seen the Count in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps when others wake, that he may be awake whilst they sleep?

First, that choice of word is... actually, it's honestly quite on the nose given his experiences. Second, it makes sense that as a creature of the night, Dracula would rest during the day, but at the same time it's interesting to see such a powerful being still need his nappy time. Could it prove a fatal weakness?

If I could only get into his room! But there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no way for me.

Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone why may not another body go?

Probably because other people aren't undead warlords with the super strength necessary to crawl down a hundred foot wall like a lizard. But I admire the chutzpah.

I have seen him myself crawl from his window. Why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window? The chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I shall risk it. At the worst it can only be death; and a man's death is not a calf's, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help me in my task! Good-bye, Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and second father; good-bye, all, and last of all Mina!

It seems even an immortal hunter like Dracula is about to get a lesson in why you don't corner wounded quarry. Desperation breeds innovation, and casts the fear of failure to the wind. How else do you manage to turn a Victorian-era solicitor into Spider-Man?

Same day, later.—I have made the effort, and God, helping me, have come safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order. I went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south side, and at once got outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs around the building on this side. The stones are big and roughly cut, and the mortar has by process of time been washed away between them. I took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. I looked down once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful depth would not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes away from it.

Looks like it's a good thing that Dracula has still been feeding him homecooked meals as part of the illusion- the boy definitely needed every ounce of strength to pull something like this off. My knuckle joints are just aching at the very thought of having to support my body weight.

Speaking of, thank Christ Jonathan was too focused to be nervous- sweaty palms would've been a death sentence here.

I knew pretty well the direction and distance of the Count's window, and made for it as well as I could, having regard to the opportunities available. I did not feel dizzy—I suppose I was too excited—and the time seemed ridiculously short till I found myself standing on the window-sill and trying to raise up the sash. I was filled with agitation, however, when I bent down and slid feet foremost in through the window. Then I looked around for the Count, but, with surprise and gladness, made a discovery. The room was empty!

Jonathan did all of this knowing fully well he could've been barging in on Dracula mid-siesta. I'm surprised the paprikash gave him trouble with the iron guts he has.

I wonder if he, at any moment, felt a childish glee about being able to break into Drac's room and rifle through his shit instead of the other way around.

It was barely furnished with odd things, which seemed to have never been used; the furniture was something the same style as that in the south rooms, and was covered with dust. I looked for the key, but it was not in the lock, and I could not find it anywhere. The only thing I found was a great heap of gold in one corner—gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Austrian, and Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as though it had lain long in the ground. None of it that I noticed was less than three hundred years old. There were also chains and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them old and stained.

Either this is not actually Dracula's room, or our great antagonist is seriously depressed. Imagine not cleaning your room in centuries smh.

Joking aside, there's a lot to digest here. Dracula mentioned all the way back in May that there are stories of blue flames marking where treasure spots from old wars are buried on St. George's Eve. It seems the explanation for this pile was actually given last month.

It also says a fair bit about Dracula himself. He has been methodically collecting these riches for lord knows how long, calling the peasantry cowards and fools for not doing the same, and yet this money has lain unused for so long it has a thick layer of dust. He hasn't done anything that warranted the spending until now, despite his great power and all the time he had to use it. Dracula, like his castle, has stagnated and been left in the dust, and only now does he do something about it.

At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which was the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and led through a stone passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down.

Considering the last time he went sneaking around he was attacked by three vampire ladies, I doubt this trek will end well. Still, it's better than just waiting to become vampire food.

At the bottom there was a dark, tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage the smell grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy door which stood ajar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel, which had evidently been used as a graveyard.

Castles having chapels is far from unique. What is unique is its location. Castle chapels tend to be built in the gate or the gate tower, as a way of showing that God is protecting the most vulnerable point, and looks over all. A chapel being what appears to be underground or in the heart of the castle is strange.

Given his desire for deconsecrated land in England, and his age being so great that even the castle might've been a second house, perhaps Dracula actually built his keep over this abandoned chapel.

The roof was broken, and in two places were steps leading to vaults, but the ground had recently been dug over, and the earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those which had been brought by the Slovaks. There was nobody about, and I made search for any further outlet, but there was none. Then I went over every inch of the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the vaults, where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a dread to my very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing except fragments of old coffins and piles of dust; in the third, however, I made a discovery.

There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count!

He was either dead or asleep, I could not say which—for the eyes were open and stony, but without the glassiness of death—and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all their pallor; the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him, and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain.

If this was a movie I'd be watching this part through my fingers, because holy shit this would be the part he gets his throat ripped out.

Also, not only do we have confirmation that Dracula indeed rests, and seems fairly vulnerable during it, but it seems he outright needs to sleep on deconsecrated earth. Whether or not the requirement is any more specific, neither our good friend Jonathan or I know.

By the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes here and there. I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were, such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and leaving the Count's room by the window, crawled again up the castle wall. Regaining my room, I threw myself panting upon the bed and tried to think....

Some people are cute sleepers, others are noisy sleepers, and others still are fidgety sleepers. However, it seems Dracula has earned the distinction of being the only motherfucker who sleeps angry.

And with that, Jonathan concludes today's update. The first step of Dracula's scheme of villainy appears to be nearly completed, but with any hope, we have seen the first step of Jonathan's escape.

Thuktun F · Jun 29, 2024

It seems our good friend Jonathan Harker's time in Transylvania is drawing to a close.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

29 June.—To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the castle by the same window, and in my clothes.

So... is Dracula going to keep the clothes after everything? I mean, they clearly fit, and I'm sure his inner teaboo is stoked at having clothes made in England with the latest fashions in mind.

As he went down the wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man's hand would have any effect on him.

Spacebattlers: "Ok, but what if it's a really big gun?"

Joking aside, it's interesting to see how Jonathan's big leap forward in escape plans, spurred by the traumatic experience with the grieving mother a few days ago, has emboldened him. Even in his private thoughts he previously quailed at Dracula's great strength and his unholy nature, but now he sees this monster in a man's shape crawling down a wall like a lizard and he's just like "I'd turn this motherfucker into a new coat or die trying if I was packing heat."

Also, I have a gut feeling this update has our last mention of lizard fashion, so let's savor it while it lasts.

I dared not wait to see him return, for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back to the library, and read there till I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can look as he said:—

"To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful England, I to some work which may have such an end that we may never meet.

Well, given how he's acting so far, we have confirmation that either Dracula did not see Jonathan when he opened the box and found him resting, or he is strangely unbothered by it. I'm leaning towards the former. Either that, or he's getting back at Jonathan by tormenting him with this continued falsehood of his safe return.

Your letter home has been despatched; to-morrow I shall not be here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula."

"I also have some beachfront property in Transylvania I'd like to sell you."

I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity. Sincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word to write it in connection with such a monster, so asked him point-blank:—

"Why may I not go to-night?"

I like how Jonathan has adapted to Dracula's abuse of societal expectations and manners to make you go along with his clearly dangerous bullshit, and is now challenging him with a simple question.

"Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission."

"But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once." He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was some trick behind his smoothness. He said:—

"And your baggage?"

"I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time."

This really reminds me of modern horror/thrillers where someone is trying to excuse themselves when they realize they're alone with someone dangerous. I don't know if Dracula directly inspired such scenes, or if this novel itself references similar scenes in older literature, but I still like it.

The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub my eyes, it seemed so real:—

"You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit is that which rules our boyars: 'Welcome the coming; speed the parting guest.' Come with me, my dear young friend. Not an hour shall you wait in my house against your will, though sad am I at your going, and that you so suddenly desire it. Come!" With a stately gravity, he, with the lamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall.

He really is a devious motherfucker. You push against him, and he resists, only so that you'll push all the more, which then allows him to suddenly yield so you'll stumble. There is definitely something fucky with this.

Suddenly he stopped.

"Hark!"

Aaaaaand there it is.

Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if the sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a great orchestra seems to leap under the bâton of the conductor. After a pause of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it open.

To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously, I looked all round, but could see no key of any kind.

It says a lot of Dracula's confidence in his ability to keep Harker trapped, that he doesn't bother locking the actual front door of his house, because he thinks there's no way in hell Jonathan will ever even get there.

Yet Jonathan proved him wrong just a few days ago, and now we have our final proof Dracula doesn't know it.

As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew louder and angrier; their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. I knew then that to struggle at the moment against the Count was useless.

These wolves must be extra terrifying to Jonathan, given that wolves had been extirpated from Britain for 200 years at this point, and were already well on the decline in the continent. For this creature to go from a curiosity at the zoo, to a real wild animal, driven to frenzy by Dracula... yeesh.

It also makes sense that Dracula is able to create such an impressive scene. Historically Transylvania has always had a higher wolf population than other regions in Europe due to its mountainous nature, though recently it's taken a downturn due to hunters.

But still the door continued slowly to open, and only the Count's body stood in the gap. Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and means of my doom; I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation.

If I had to get murdered by an animal, wolves would be pretty low on that list, along with bears and hyenas. At least big cats kill you before they eat you.

Also, we are really seeing the depths of Dracula's cruelty here. He knows Harker knows the wolves are under his command, and that he could easily open this door, yet he does this act, letting the poor man stew in fear at the prospect of being eaten alive by ravenous beasts. All while still pretending to be a gracious host.

There was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the Count, and as a last chance I cried out:—

"Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!" and covered my face with my hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment. With one sweep of his powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and the great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall as they shot back into their places.

Welp, I don't think any of us were expecting Jonathan to escape this update, but it's still incredibly disappointing.

In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that Judas in hell might be proud of.

Honestly, that's an insult to Judas. Dude was only doing what he was meant to do, and he took no pleasure in it compared to the literal baby-eater we're dealing with here.

Also, from what I can tell, "kissing his hand to me" means that Dracula kissed his own hand then waved to Jonathan. I hope it's that interpretation, because a traditional hand-kiss either way is creepy, considering that it entails either a vampire getting to taste-test his snack, or poor Jonathan having to get vampire hair in his mouth.

When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:—

"Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have patience! To-night is mine. To-morrow night is yours!" There was a low, sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open the door, and saw without the three terrible women licking their lips. As I appeared they all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.

I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It is then so near the end? To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I am dear!

Welp, either Dracula is going to eat Jonathan tonight, or he still wants to fuck with him before he leaves. Either way, I fear this may be our last update with Jonathan, barring a miracle or a work of supreme will.

Given how he has managed to subvert Dracula's confinement of him before, however, I have hope.

Thuktun F · Jun 30, 2024

Our good friend Jonathan Harker has not made us wait long for what may very well be his last update.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

30 June, morning.—These may be the last words I ever write in this diary. I slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself on my knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me ready.

"Was I a good blorbo?"

"No... I'm told you were the best."

Thankfully, as evidenced by the journal, Death did not come for Jonathan in the morning, and once the sun comes up he goes on the move.

With a glad heart, I opened my door and ran down to the hall. I had seen that the door was unlocked, and now escape was before me. With hands that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and drew back the massive bolts.

But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled, and pulled, at the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been locked after I left the Count.

Well, I think we all figured it wouldn't be that easy. Of course, Jonathan isn't going to take his fate lying down, and again he summons the courage we saw a few days ago.

Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and I determined then and there to scale the wall again and gain the Count's room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window, and scrambled down the wall, as before, into the Count's room. It was empty, but that was as I expected. I could not see a key anywhere, but the heap of gold remained. I went through the door in the corner and down the winding stair and along the dark passage to the old chapel. I knew now well enough where to find the monster I sought.

Interesting that, despite routinely collecting the gold from the treasures marked on St. George's Eve, and hoarding it for centuries, Dracula isn't bringing any to England. Perhaps he's keeping it as a backup in case he has to return to Transylvania?

If so, it'd be quite satisfying if Jonathan took some, which I'm sure he will given the second mention. It's only fair after Dracula stole all of his shit.

But first, it is time for a confrontation, where at last all of the bullshit has been cut through, and masks cast aside.

The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the lid was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in their places to be hammered home. I knew I must reach the body for the key, so I raised the lid, and laid it back against the wall; and then I saw something which filled my very soul with horror.

It seems Dracula has one last scare ready for our good friend Jonathan.

There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion.

Given that we have seen Dracula stay elderly in appearance despite almost certainly eating children on the regular like the three women in his castle, I am terrified to imagine the killing frenzy he must have done the night before in order to accomplish this glow-up.

It is also here that we see Dracula most clearly for what he is- a parasite. A disease. Notice how Jonathan doesn't compare him to a hunter like a wolf or a lion, which Dracula would certainly liken himself to, but instead as a leech. For all of his elitism and his pride as a boyar with great power, Dracula is ultimately a parasite who relies on stealing from others their labor, their blood, their lives. For all of his pretension, in the end he's a baby-eater who lies down in the dirt, covered in blood.

Anyway, Jonathan searches Dracula, but can't find the key.

Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless. The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid the world of such a monster.

It says a lot about his good nature that when Jonathan loses his gourd, he's not thinking of his personal injustices at the hands of Dracula, like the imprisonment, the psychological torment, the robbing, or the naked intent to sacrifice him to the weird sisters. Instead, he thinks of how Dracula is going to prey on the helpless thanks to him.

And with that, his earlier feeling of "I'd turn this guy into a new coat if I had a weapon" turns just into "I'm turning this guy into a new coat".

There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell full upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyse me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my hand across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face, blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in the nethermost hell.

Jonathan might've failed to kill the Count, but nevertheless he manages to shatter the Count's illusion of invincibility. A supernatural monster capable of intricate planning he may be, but a squishy human can still surprise him and smack him in the face with a shovel.

Of course, even if he were to try to finish the job, he wouldn't be able to, thanks to some newcomers.

I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed on fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the cracking of whips; the Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count had spoken were coming.

A vampire warlord may be terrifying, but manual laborers who have just been cheated out of a paycheck are even scarier. Jonathan runs away, and hides while looking for an opportunity to sneak out where the workers come in from.

With strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door. There must have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key for one of the locked doors. Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away in some passage which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to run down again towards the vault, where I might find the new entrance; but at the moment there seemed to come a violent puff of wind, and the door to the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust from the lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found that it was hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom was closing round me more closely.

It's fascinating how the castle seems to become more terrifying once the immortal blood-sucking warlord leaves. It's as though the great stone foundations of the castle themselves are against Jonathan, and it creates a spurious sense of claustrophobia.

Hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the distance.

I am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh! Mina is a woman, and there is nought in common. They are devils of the Pit!

I like how at this point Jonathan has resolutely squashed the idea of vampire women being sexy, no matter what other works of media might say. They might have aesthetically pleasing appearances, but the whole "literally eats babies" thing hard overwrites that.

Well, as a consolation prize, until sunset Jonathan is the brand new owner of a slightly used Transylvanian castle! Something he is quick to take advantage of.

I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the castle wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place.

And then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away from this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his children still walk with earthly feet!

At least God's mercy is better than that of these monsters, and the precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep—as a man. Good-bye, all! Mina!

Considering that just one solidus (late Roman coin which Drac almost certainly has) would have been equal to 12 shillings at the time, aka a week's wage for a manual laborer back in Britain, Jonathan could easily finance his travels back to England. Of course, I don't think a entire chestful of solidus can buy him the therapy he needs, when the idea of falling down a castle wall and fucking dying is an actual solace compared to some of the alternatives.

Then again, maybe therapy would actually be worse than nothing, given what we've seen of Dr. Seward's work.

And with that, we bid Jonathan adieu for now, and wish him best of luck in his escape attempt. I hope he and Mina are able to see each other soon, and that Dracula bleeds out from his shovel-induced wound before he even leaves Transylvania.

Thuktun F · Jul 1, 2024

Well, while we wait for what could well be an agonizingly long time to hear back from our good friend Jonathan Harker, we return to Dr. Seward and his patient.

Dr. Seward's Diary.
1 July.—His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his flies, and to-day I told him that he must get rid of them. He looked very sad at this, so I said that he must clear out some of them, at all events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the same time as before for reduction

Maybe you should get him a little terrarium or something. Even if it's not a hobby, it seems less messy than keeping a bunch of fat spiders in a box, and such engagement could give you a foot in the door for treating him.

He disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid blow-fly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it, held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger and thumb, and, before I knew what he was going to do, put it in his mouth and ate it.

This is only the second worst thing we've seen someone eat in this story. And truthfully, the only reason this is gross is because of hygiene and stigma about insect-eating. Given the modern discourse about using insects as a more efficient source of protein, Renfield is just 120 years ahead of the curve.

As an aside, I'd be a little intimidated if a dude could literally snatch a fly out of the air like that. That's some Karate Kid shit.

I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was very good and very wholesome; that it was life, strong life, and gave life to him

Yes, that's how eating works.

This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one. I must watch how he gets rid of his spiders. He has evidently some deep problem in his mind, for he keeps a little note-book in which he is always jotting down something. Whole pages of it are filled with masses of figures, generally single numbers added up in batches, and then the totals added in batches again, as though he were "focussing" some account, as the auditors put it.

Motherfucker is trying to munchkin the energy pyramid. Given this book's depiction of vampirism, I wouldn't be surprised if this was a deliberate parallel to Dracula, where once you remove the sophistication and supernatural power, he's no different than this bug-eater obsessed with stacking life.

Anyway, I remain disappointed with Seward's methodology, but he's still less abusive than 90% of his peers in this time. Also, I estimate this update would've taken 1 minute and 27 seconds to read aloud, so Seward's managed to stick to one cylinder for this journal entry.

Thuktun F · Jul 8, 2024

Yet again we return to Dr. Seward and his insectivorous patient.

Dr. Seward's Diary.
8 July.—There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh, unconscious cerebration! you will have to give the wall to your conscious brother.

The unconscious as a concept in psychological academia predates Freud, who was introducing his idea of psychoanalysis during this decade. In 1890, there was even a major work written by American psychologist William James called The Principles of Psychology, which examined how prior psychologists discussed the concept, with some works dating back to the 1860s.

As a Brit in this time, Seward would likely be familiar with work done by Americans and Germans in this field, as homegrown academia was fairly anemic in comparison, and is perhaps more influential for its development of modern statistical techniques rather than any theories.

Also, eugenics. Eugenics everywhere.

I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I might notice if there were any change. Things remain as they were except that he has parted with some of his pets and got a new one. He has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. His means of taming is simple, for already the spiders have diminished. Those that do remain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the flies by tempting them with his food.

So uh, like, you must already know he's planning on eating the bird, right? Ethics of that aside, raw bird meat is an easy way to contract bacterial infections like salmonella or E. coli, and readily available antibiotics won't be a thing for another 48 years. Are you gonna let your patient get violently, maybe even fatally, ill?

Have you actually tried engaging with Renfield and trying to figure out what is making him do this shit? Or are you just gonna wait and see if he eats the dog that caught the cat that caught the bird that caught the spider that caught the fly? God this lack of proper mental health service is infuriating.

Anyway, I estimate that Seward used about half a wax cylinder for this update. And with that, we now wait until the next chapter of Dracula, which I hear won't be for a while.

Until next time.

Thuktun F · Jul 18, 2024

At long last, we return to Dracula. The story has taken on yet another viewpoint expressed through documents, though this time the name of our narrator eludes us. I have a feeling he will not have the same longevity as our other sources.

LOG OF THE "DEMETER."
Varna to Whitby.

Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep accurate note henceforth till we land.

Something tells me we are familiar with the source of these strange happenings. It's never a good sign when someone feels the need to make a list of the bad vibes.

As a side note, Varna is a large seaside city in what is now Bulgaria, on the coast of the Black Sea. Just in case anyone wanted to chart the course of the boat.

On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth. At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands ... two mates, cook, and myself (captain).

Boxes of earth, you say? Hmmm...

On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p. m.

Bakhshesh (بخشش ) is a terminology derived from Persian, used to describe tipping or small gift-giving, and often meant to grease the wheels. Which is totally not bribery, you must understand. Bribery is a payment for a service, but here you're just giving a gift, and the official then just so happens to make things easier for you in a 100% non-transactional manner.

Nowadays, I think that's called lobbying

On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but quick. Want us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.

Honestly, I don't think these guys are doing a good job. Customs officers are supposed to make sure shipments contain no stowaway wildlife that could become invasive species in the destination country.

On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something. Seemed scared, but would not speak out.

On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong; they only told him there was something, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper with one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet.

Interesting to see that while earlier literary vampires such as Carmilla tended to put animals in a state of unease while humans ignore it, we see the inverse here. Dracula has a firm command of beasts, and never seems to startle them, but just his presence on the Demeter is unnerving the crew despite the fact they don't even know he's onboard with them.

It could be a sign that Dracula is ultimately more a predatory animal than a human being, or it could be a refutation of Romantic ideals of nature being more pure than humanity, where it is the thinking man that recognizes Dracula's evil rather than the instinctual beasts.

On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of crew, Petrofsky, was missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells last night; was relieved by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but would not say more than there was somethingaboard. Mate getting very impatient with them; feared some trouble ahead.

I wonder when the crew will realize they are not manning a cargo ship, but a passenger cruise line with a free buffet.

On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man aboard the ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companion-way, and go along the deck forward, and disappear. He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread. To allay it, I shall to-day search entire ship carefully from stem to stern.

A mysterious stowaway popping up shortly after one of your crewmen died would be terrifying enough without the vampirism. Of course, there is a special sort of terror in being stuck in what is essentially a tiny world with a monster, as a classic film made 82 years later would attest.

Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from stem to stern. First mate angry; said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish ideas would demoralise the men; said he would engage to keep them out of trouble with a handspike. I let him take the helm, while the rest began thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns: we left no corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but said nothing.

Of course, this would be where I'd start searching the wooden boxes, but I also don't have to worry about losing my livelihood because I opened up someone else's stuff searching for someone my crewmate claimed to have seen.

Anyway, that concludes the captain's log so far, but I have a feeling we'll get more updates soon.

Thuktun F · Jul 19, 2024

As we leave the crew of the ~~Nostromo~~ Demeter to their journey, we return to Dr. Seward and his unconventional patient.

Dr. Seward's Diary.
19 July.—We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated.

Sounds like we're on the verge of an ecosystem collapse here. Predators have proliferated to a point where prey numbers have made the current pyramid unsustainable. Sounds like something that might become pertinent with Dracula's arrival in a new region unused to his kind of predator.

When I came in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour—a very, very great favour; and as he spoke he fawned on me like a dog. I asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his voice and bearing:—

"A kitten, a nice little, sleek playful kitten, that I can play with, and teach, and feed—and feed—and feed!"

Renfield, Discord won't be invented for another 118 years, so there's nothing for you to moderate. No kittens for you.

Jokes aside, this little ecosystem of his definitely will collapse if he gets a kitten. No way in hell he can catch enough sparrows to consistently feed a cat when he's having trouble feeding the damn birds. Not to mention I don't know what exactly he intends on feeding the cat to later on.

I was not unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his pets went on increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care that his pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and the spiders; so I said I would see about it, and asked him if he would not rather have a cat than a kitten.

Interesting to see the arbitrary hierarchy of life at work. Using one kind of animal as feed is one thing, but using this type of animal is utterly intolerable. I wonder if such viewpoints would change, should people find themselves at the mercy of predators who find humans 'acceptable' food.

His eagerness betrayed him as he answered:—

"Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would they?" I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it would not be possible, but that I would see about it. His face fell, and I could see a warning of danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant killing. The man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him with his present craving and see how it will work out; then I shall know more.

So you're planning on deliberately triggering this mentally unwell man for research purposes instead of treating him, even when you have described him as temperamental and strong? Where the fuck did you get your PhD, Jack?

10 p. m.—I have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and implored me to let him have a cat; that his salvation depended upon it. I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner where I had found him. I shall see him in the morning early.

Bro at this point if you're going to play along, maybe just let him skip a few steps and get him some imported bear meat or something. It might keep him calm while you finally get to work on helping him.

Blech, this plot thread leaves me uneasy. I'm actually looking forward to seeing more of Dracula eating people on a boat- at least vampires aren't real.

As a final note, if my math is right, Dr. Seward spent about 2 minutes and 45 seconds speaking into his diary today, unless he spoke more rapidly than most people, which means at some point in this haunting update he stopped talking, removed the wax cylinder, labeled it, and then put a new one in. Perhaps the 10pm break was the stopping point.

Thuktun F · Jul 20, 2024

Welp, we didn't have to wait long to see what Dr. Seward and his strange patient are up to.

Dr. Seward's Diary.
20 July.—Visited Renfield very early, before the attendant went his rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was spreading out his sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning his fly-catching again; and beginning it cheerfully and with a good grace.

I do like the implication wrt the sugar that British are so addicted to tea that even in an asylum you got to have a proper cuppa. Also, sugar technology was somewhat new at this time- commercially popular sugar cubes had only been invented in the 1870s, and beforehand you had to dangerously cut away at this giant ass blunt cone called a sugarloaf.

I looked around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him where they were. He replied, without turning round, that they had all flown away. There were a few feathers about the room and on his pillow a drop of blood.

*Suspiciously sparrow-shaped Renfield* Hmmm they must've flown away.

Now, when faced with the likelihood that his patient has killed or eaten his pets, Jack does the smart thing and confiscates his sugar, schedules intensive therapy sessions to help his patient, and I'm just fucking with you.

I said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report to me if there were anything odd about him during the day.

A Sherlock Holmes you are not, Jack. Or a good psychologist for that matter.

11 a. m.—The attendant has just been to me to say that Renfield has been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. "My belief is, doctor," he said, "that he has eaten his birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!"

I've had the pleasure to examine raptor pellets before in school, cataloguing the little bones to determine the bird's diet. This pleasant memory of scientific curiosity is what keeps me from getting ill at the mental image of some dude hacking up a matted wad of feathers and bones like the world's largest owl.

Now, after seeing for sure that his patient ate an entire colony of sparrows raw, Jack makes sure Renfield is given the best available medicines for food poisoning to combat the inevitable bout of salmonella that comes with eating an entire colony of sparrows raw, and resolves to research pica and other eating disorders to I'm fucking with you again.

11 p. m.—I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough to make even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to look at it. The thought that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the theory proved. My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoöphagous (life-eating) maniac; what he desires is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way.

Ah yes, your totally amazing conjecture of repeating what your patient himself told you. Truly you will become one of the greats of psychology.

What would have been his later steps? It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day!

'Sneered at' is an interesting way of saying "were completely aghast at the ultimately lethal cutting open of conscious and unanesthetized puppies", a practice whose results were not consistent in their contribution to medical understanding. Of course, it's easy to extol the virtues of scientific discovery when you're not the one getting your guts pulled out without ether.

Had I even the secret of one such mind—did I hold the key to the fancy of even one lunatic—I might advance my own branch of science to a pitch compared with which Burdon-Sanderson's physiology or Ferrier's brain-knowledge would be as nothing.

John Burdon-Sanderson was an influential physician who was the first scientist to note Penicillium's anti-bacterial properties, which would be independently studied more in depth by Fleming. David Ferrier was the first scientist to find out that different parts of the brain had different functions. He was also the first person prosecuted under the Cruelty to Animals Act of 1876 (he was later acquitted).
Anyway, Dr. Seward seems to think vivisecting Renfield's brain would allow him to exceed these fellows, which... lol. lmfao even.

I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted; a good cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an exceptional brain, congenitally?

Well if it's your ego that makes you wishy-washy about vivisection, more power to you?

To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it will be until the Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance to profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my friend whose happiness is yours; but I must only wait on hopeless and work. Work! work!

If I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there—a good, unselfish cause to make me work—that would be indeed happiness.

Methinks the good doctor himself needs some therapy, if this morose attitude is any indication. As a final note, I estimated this took him about four and a half minutes to dictate into his phonograph, so that's a whopping three cylinders he had to use for this.

With that, we finish for today, and I'm left missing our good friend Jonathan Harker.

Thuktun F · Jul 22, 2024

A short update today.

LOG OF THE "DEMETER."
22 July.—Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with sails—no time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well.

Looks like Dracula is still digesting Petrofsky. Either way, it's funny how this log started with "things are getting so fucked I had to make a journal" and now it's acting like everything's fine despite someone just up and fucking dying.

Let's Read Dracula [Spoiler-Free]

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