Let's Read Dracula [Spoiler-Free]

Johnreiter · May 23, 2024

My best theory is that he intends to keep pumping Jonathan for information about England, and using him to improve his speech and mannerisms until he can pass as a normal man convincingly in England. He estimates this will take about a month.

My other theory is, he simply enjoys toying with his food before eating it, like a cat and a mouse.

excalibur2008 · May 23, 2024

Johnreiter said:
My best theory is that he intends to keep pumping Jonathan for information about England, and using him to improve his speech and mannerisms until he can pass as a normal man convincingly in England. He estimates this will take about a month.

My other theory is, he simply enjoys toying with his food before eating it, like a cat and a mouse.

It's probably both.

Thuktun F · May 24, 2024

We're back with another update of Dracula, but this time we take another break from our good friend Jonathan Harker's exploration of the Horrors and instead return to romance.

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.
24 May.

My dearest Mina,—

Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.

My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are. Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day I have had three. Just fancy! THREE proposals in one day! Isn't it awful!

Ah, Victorian standards, where a literal teenager is worried that she'll never find love because no one has proposed marriage to her yet. I'll also note how... modern this feels in places. Capital words for emphasis, exclamation points galore, short sentences... barring some antiquated vocabulary this could easily be a bunch of text messages.

As a side note, it's interesting to see that the phrase "it never rains but it pours" is considered an old proverb by someone in 1897. Looks like Morton Salt engaged in some rewriting of history, eh?

I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don't know what to do with myself. And three proposals! But, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity.

Lucy really is a sweetheart. Here she is telling Mina about what might be the happiest moment in her life thus far, and she still takes time to express sadness for the men whose hearts she had to break by turning down their proposals.

Also, the orphaned syntax of that last line got me chortling. I'm sure some people are already shipping it.

Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear, from every one, except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur.

Interesting that we already know whose proposal she accepted, but it's not like it was a surprise considering her effusive adoration of him in prior letters.

Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic-asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don't generally do when they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream.

Lancets back then were like little switchblades you'd use for bloodletting or the excision of abscesses. Not the tiny little needles they prick your fingers with before you can donate blood.

Anyway, this is honestly a more striking impression of Dr. Seward than when we were first told of him. A doctor at an insane asylum who makes amusing fumbles and nervously plays with a bloodletting knife while he tries to ask out someone he likes? Fujoshis would love this man.

He was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I did not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said that he was a brute and would not add to my present trouble. Then he broke off and asked if I could love him in time; and when I shook my head his hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared already for any one else. He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring my confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman's heart was free a man might have hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to tell him that there was some one. I only told him that much, and then he stood up, and he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my hands in his and said he hoped I would be happy, and that if I ever wanted a friend I must count him one of my best.

You can pinpoint the exact moment this little emo man's heart breaks in half. It is an unusual and positive display of emotional vulnerability for a work like this.

Anyway, Sadboy leaves, and Lucy takes a break from letter-writing because of how emotional it's getting.

Evening.

Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I left off, so I can go on telling you about the day. Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch.

Before we get into this next bit, I find it important to quote this statement made by atundratoadstool on tumblr, for it will deeply enhance your experience.

Imagine if you will a complete inversion of a boorish American on St. Patrick's Day. Imagine an Irishman who aggressively celebrates the Fourth of July with unabashed gusto, who desperately tries to claim the significance of some alleged 1/32 American heritage, who wears a shirt with an eagle turning into an American flag and who drinks a specialty red, white, and blue novelty beverage until he collapses in a pool of tricolor vomit. Imagine some guy so invested in a superficial, touristy version of Americaness that he will nervously call the side with his $20 "authentic" hamburger "freedom fries" out of fear of offending. Imagine a guy who upon meeting any American will try to strike up a friendly conversation by asking them what their favorite gun is and talking about how personally inspiring he finds Abraham Lincoln.

You must understand, as you prepare to read the May 24th entry of this novel, that this Irishman is Bram Stoker.

This is a man who was friends with Teddy Roosevelt. And with that, back to the novel.

He is such a nice fellow, an American from Texas, and he looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that he has been to so many places and has had such adventures. I sympathise with poor Desdemona when she had such a dangerous stream poured in her ear, even by a black man.

What the fuck, Lucy?

Mr. Quincey P. Morris found me alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl alone. No, he doesn't, for Arthur tried twice to make a chance, and I helping him all I could; I am not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn't always speak slang—that is to say, he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really well educated and has exquisite manners—but he found out that it amused me to hear him talk American slang, and whenever I was present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said such funny things.

Quincey P. Morris: "Y'all."

Lucy: [DEMONIC SCREECHING]

I do enjoy the added detail of how he plays into stereotypes to amuse people he likes. My friends and I have all done the same with each other.

Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and jolly as he could, but I could see all the same that he was very nervous. He took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly:—

'Miss Lucy, I know I ain't good enough to regulate the fixin's of your little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you quit. Won't you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down the long road together, driving in double harness?'

I am dead, and this has killed me. The sheer American-ness of this in what has so far been a gothic horror novel from Victorian England has hit me like horse-kick to the solar plexus. This feels like one of those gags where someone with a completely different art style appears in a cartoon.

Oh my god. He's Kappa Mikey.

Well, he did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it didn't seem half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward; so I said, as lightly as I could, that I did not know anything of hitching, and that I wasn't broken to harness at all yet.

"I got this. I speak fluent Yee-Haw."

And then, my dear, before I could say a word he began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very heart and soul at my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I shall never again think that a man must be playful always, and never earnest, because he is merry at times. I suppose he saw something in my face which checked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been free:—

'Lucy, you are an honest-hearted girl, I know. I should not be here speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean grit, right through to the very depths of your soul. Tell me, like one good fellow to another, is there any one else that you care for? And if there is I'll never trouble you a hair's breadth again, but will be, if you will let me, a very faithful friend.'

The sheer rizz of this man. Bah God. I don't know how the fuck Lucy manages to tearfully turn him down, but she does, to which he responds:

I was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite a light came into his face, and he put out both his hands and took mine—I think I put them into his—and said in a hearty way:—

'That's my brave girl. It's better worth being late for a chance of winning you than being in time for any other girl in the world. Don't cry, my dear. If it's for me, I'm a hard nut to crack; and I take it standing up. If that other fellow doesn't know his happiness, well, he'd better look for it soon, or he'll have to deal with me. Little girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that's rarer than a lover; it's more unselfish anyhow. My dear, I'm going to have a pretty lonely walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won't you give me one kiss? It'll be something to keep off the darkness now and then. You can, you know, if you like, for that other good fellow—he must be a good fellow, my dear, and a fine fellow, or you could not love him—hasn't spoken yet.'

This man handles rejection better than a frighteningly large percentage of people in my generation, even as he asks for a goodbye kiss.

'Little girl, I hold your hand, and you've kissed me, and if these things don't make us friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your sweet honesty to me, and good-bye.' He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight out of the room without looking back, without a tear or a quiver or a pause; and I am crying like a baby. Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would worship the very ground he trod on? I know I would if I were free—only I don't want to be free. My dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it; and I don't wish to tell of the number three until it can be all happy.

Ever your loving

LUCY.

While the internet in me wants to say "one big fuckpile" as a solution, it is quite clear that Lucy only loves Arthur, even if she holds the others dear. She really does have a big heart for someone so young.

P.S.—Oh, about number Three—I needn't tell you of number Three, need I? Besides, it was all so confused; it seemed only a moment from his coming into the room till both his arms were round me, and he was kissing me. I am very, very happy, and I don't know what I have done to deserve it. I must only try in the future to show that I am not ungrateful to God for all His goodness to me in sending to me such a lover, such a husband, and such a friend.

Good-bye.

Meanwhile Jonathan is watching his baby-eating client crawl down the walls like a lizard. Such a contrast cannot be maintained forever, and I worry who'll be caught in the crossfire when the two sections collide.

Thuktun F · May 25, 2024

Today on Dracula, two more players add to the epistolary scrapbook of our story.

Dr. Seward's Diary.
(Kept in phonograph)

I gotta autistically info-dump and gush about this change in medium right here. In 1897, the phonograph was a new-fangled technology younger than iPhones are in our time, having only been commercially available since 1888. As such, the technology was remarkably different from what most people imagine when they think of a phonograph.

For one thing, they didn't have discs yet. Commercially available phonographs of the time used wax cylinders, which would be engraved by the needle as you spoke into the horn. That's right, the OG voice recordings didn't even use electricity.

This was a model of phonograph available at the time, and a likely candidate for what our good doctor is using. He'd spin the cylinder with a crank, set the needle in, and speak, all while using a hand fan or little air pump to keep the wax shavings from ruining the recording. Quite the amusing mental image considering what he says into it.

25 May. —Ebb tide in appetite to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so diary instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing....

Oof, I feel you there buddy. Seward certainly strikes me as a character you could've seen in earlier literature, a man of neurotic extremes in passion, like Victor Frankenstein.

And like Frankenstein, the scientific and ethical rigor of his work is... questionable.

As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing was work, I went down amongst the patients. I picked out one who has afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint that I am determined to understand him as well as I can. To-day I seemed to get nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.

I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to making myself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner of doing it there was, I now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to wish to keep him to the point of his madness—a thing which I avoid with the patients as I would the mouth of hell.

On one hand, kudos for having an iota of self-awareness, something far too many of your peers lacked in this field. On the other hand, this is complete anathema to modern standards of mental health work. This man is a patient, not a test subject. Deliberately playing into his psychoses in order to get a feel for it is no more okay than sticking your finger into someone's bullet wound because you're curious as to how painful it is.

(Mem., under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?) Omnia Romæ venalia sunt. Hell has its price! verb. sap. If there be anything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards accurately, so I had better commence to do so, therefore—

R. M. Renfield, ætat 59.—Sanguine temperament; great physical strength; morbidly excitable; periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I cannot make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish; a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal; when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it.

Definitely an odd take. Renfield is ill, not a demagogue, and like the vast majority of ill people he is more a risk to himself than to others. We also see the old trope of mentally ill people having great strength, which has probably resulted in so many of them being shot by police as a 'precaution' that it horrifies one more than the vampire.

As a side note, according to a word-counter site I used, it likely took Dr. Seward a minute and 48 seconds to make this entry. Quite fortuitous- wax cylinders could only record for two minutes.

Anyway, we now move on to someone else.

Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.
25 May.

My dear Art,—

We've told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one another's wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk healths on the shore of Titicaca.

Te Henua ʻEnana, also known by the colonial name of the Marquesas, are an archipelago in Polynesia. Titicaca, a name that I can't say without giggling like a child, is the largest lake in South America, and the highest navigable one in the world, as it lays more than 12,000 feet (3.8 kilometers) above sea level. It's more than 3 million years old and has a species of frog that can't live outside of the water.

Yeah these guys are quite well-traveled, especially considering their youth. Being wealthy probably helps, but still.

There are more yarns to be told, and other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk. Won't you let this be at my camp-fire to-morrow night? I have no hesitation in asking you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner-party, and that you are free.

Oh ho ho, looks like our boy Quincey was quick to figure out who'd won the heart of dear Lucy. It's good to see that he's being a bro about it.

There will only be one other, our old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward. He's coming, too, and we both want to mingle our weeps over the wine-cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to the happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart that God has made and the best worth winning. We promise you a hearty welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your own right hand. We shall both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to a certain pair of eyes. Come!

Yours, as ever and always,

QUINCEY P. MORRIS.

I have been trying to find out if Quincey meant the country Korea, which was opening its ports during this time and would be ripe ground for young men who want to travel to new places, and he just said 'the' like how some people still say 'the Sudan' or 'the Ukraine'; or if the Korea was some ship they had all been on or something. Either way, I have no idea how a mopey little doctor like Seward found himself in these places.

Anyway, it is very amusing to see the contrast between how Quincey and Seward have taken Lucy choosing Arthur, and that this campfire is to half celebrate and half keep their buddy from crawling into a sock drawer. It's a very real friend dynamic.

They'll need the friendship in the coming weeks, methinks.

KreenWarrior · May 25, 2024

I assumed the Korea was a gentleman's club or hotel.

Anyways, I love the Suitor trio, they're all good boys (even Seward, whose treatment of Renfield was posisbly, by accident, better than he would have received if Seward was genuinely trying to treat him).

Thuktun F · May 26, 2024

Another mini update for today.

Telegram from Arthur Holmwood to Quincey P. Morris.
26 May.
Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both your ears tingle.
ART.

The bromance is real. Also of interest is the use of telegram- a bit of a flex, perhaps? After all, a message this short still probably cost him 9 pence, which would be roughly $15 by modern standards given both exchange rates and inflation. I guess Arthur is riding a bit of a high after his engagement.

Zap Rowsdower · May 26, 2024

Even when every character was pricey to the point of encouraging name abbreviation they were still insanely wordy; "I bear messages which will make both your ears tingle" instead of "Big news!" and "Count me in every time" rather than "I'm in.".

Gotta love those Victorians (thank god for Ernest Hemmingway)

Thuktun F · May 28, 2024

After a few days of silence, we finally hear back from our good friend Jonathan Harker, but this update is... an unpleasant product of its times.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

28 May.—There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are encamped in the courtyard.

"Szgany" is an attempt to spell "Țigani", the Romanian slur for Roma. Already off to a fantastic start; let's see where it goes next!

These Szgany are gipsies; I have notes of them in my book. They are peculiar to this part of the world, though allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are thousands of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside all law. They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or boyar, and call themselves by his name.

So it seems like Stoker has created a fictional group of Roma, named after the Romanian slur for them. Lovely. Stoker does manage to get right that for much of Transylvania's history, most Roma were treated better than the neighboring provinces of Wallachia and Moldavia, enjoying lower taxes and exemption from military service thanks to their vital services as metalworkers to boyars; whereas in Wallachia and Moldavia they were enslaved and their culture suppressed.

They are fearless and without religion, save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany tongue.

Ah yes, if it ain't Christian it's superstition. Forgetting that a large number of Roma are some variety of Christian, many of them are Muslim and Hindu, in part because their ancient point of origin is Rajasthan in modern day India.

As for language, Roma often speak the mainstream or trade languages of the areas they live in, but they also have their own languages as well. The Roma languages are Indo-Aryan, part of the same family as Hindi, Urdu, Gujarati, Marathi, etc.

I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them posted. I have already spoken them through my window to begin acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and many signs, which, however, I could not understand any more than I could their spoken language....

I have written the letters. Mina's is in shorthand, and I simply ask Mr. Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my situation, but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would shock and frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her. Should the letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my secret or the extent of my knowledge....

I do suppose a letter saying you're being held prisoner by your eccentric client is a bit more believable than a sheet of paper with "L̸͖͕͙̾̿́I̸͍̺̓͆Z̸̻̼̐̽͘͜Ä̸͎̟̻́́̓R̸̠̼͛̿̾͜D̴̢̪̻͆̓͘ F̵̻͍͔̓̈́̈́A̸̢͉͓̾͑͌S̸̫̝͒͐̒H̴̪̻͒̽͜I̵͔̟͋͘͠O̸͕̻̞͊̀̐N̴͍͋̒͜͝" scrawled on it. Still, withholding information from a loved one because you think the shock might be too much is not a good idea, and I'm sure it'll come back to bite them in the butts.

I have given the letters; I threw them through the bars of my window with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted. The man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then put them in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study, and began to read. As the Count did not come in, I have written here....

Something tells me your letters aren't getting sent, Johnny. Even ignoring the far too common tropes of the treacherous Roma, these guys are clearly on good terms with the Count.

The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest voice as he opened two letters:—

"The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they come, I shall, of course, take care. See!"—he must have looked at it—"one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other"—here he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly—"the other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us." And he calmly held letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed.

Oh he is just relishing in Johnathan's helplessness at this point. There was no reason for him to bring Johnathan a 'strange letter' that clearly has nothing to do with him and then burn it right in front of the dude.

Then he went on:—

"The letter to Hawkins—that I shall, of course, send on, since it is yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?" He held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When he went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later I went over and tried it, and the door was locked.

This really is Victorian horror, seeing a monster twist and abuse social expectations to torment a poor man. I wonder if he's salivating at the idea of being able to do this shit to everyone he meets in England.

When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been sleeping, he said:—

"So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I may not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many labours to me; but you will sleep, I pray." I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.

He really is in the toils, innit? Let's hope our boy can find a way out.

Dealer · May 30, 2024

I wonder if the Roma working for the count do so out of their own will or if they're just as threatened as Harker is and he's just too Victorian to notice.

Thuktun F · May 31, 2024

Our good friend Jonathan Harker graces us with another short update as he deals with the Horrors.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

31 May.—This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself with some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket, so that I might write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a surprise, again a shock!

Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda, relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that might be useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and pondered awhile, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made search of my portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my clothes.

This really does have parallels with real life victims of domestic abuse and human trafficking, where the increasing complexities of modern travel means an abuser can take a simple piece of paper and thereby trap someone. In modern times, Dracula could've just taken Harker's phone and passport and that would make things 50x harder for him.

There's also the more supernatural horror aspect of course, in that a bloodthirsty vampire was in Jonathan's room while he was sleeping and he was completely unaware of it. Perhaps he should check for bite marks...

As some last side notes, letters of credit are basically statements from the bank saying someone is good for their money when they make a big purchase. They made traveler versions that essentially allowed someone to withdraw foreign banknotes from correspondent offices in other countries.

The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and rug; I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some new scheme of villainy...

Motherfucker even stole his clothes. Would they even fit on Dracula, considering how he's been described as being tall? It definitely has to be in relation to the theft of Jonathan's postage- is he going to disguise himself as our good friend and drop off false letters at post offices, to make it look like Jonathan left the castle?

Or maybe he's such a teaboo he wanted to dress up as an Englishman for a bit. I dunno. All I know is that "this looked like some new scheme of villainy" is entering my vocabulary for small setbacks now. Can't find my shoes? New scheme of villainy. Someone didn't clean the tub after using it? New scheme of villainy.

Thuktun F · Jun 5, 2024

Dracula updates once again! This time, we return to Dr. Seward's phonograph diary, as he details his work with his patient.

Dr. Seward's Diary.
5 June.—The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get to understand the man. He has certain qualities very largely developed; selfishness, secrecy, and purpose. I wish I could get at what is the object of the latter. He seems to have some settled scheme of his own, but what it is I do not yet know.

It might not be super great as a doctor to think of your patient as having a 'scheme', Jack. It's more important to get your patient comfortable enough that they can express their inner thoughts and desires without fear of judgment or shame.

His redeeming quality is a love of animals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that I sometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd sorts. Just now his hobby is catching flies.

Hey man, don't judge. I read a story of a man lifting himself out of a deep depression by getting really interested in taking care of hermit crabs. Of course, considering the genre of novel we're dealing with, as well as the time it was written, I have a feeling shit's gonna get weird with these flies.

He has at present such a quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment, he did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter in simple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said: "May I have three days? I shall clear them away." Of course, I said that would do. I must watch him.

"Expostulate" means "to use reason to try and dissuade someone", for those who didn't know the word like yours truly. Aside from that, I definitely now think Renfield is gonna do some weird shit with the flies.

Anyway, this marks the last update of Dracula for a few weeks. I'll see y'all then.

Thuktun F · Jun 17, 2024

After far too long, our good friend Jonathan Harker updates his journal! Sadly, it's once again on the shorter side and continues with the bullshit characterizations of Roma.

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL
(Kept in shorthand.)

17 June.—This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed cudgelling my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips and pounding and scraping of horses' feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard.

"Cudgelling brains" means to deeply ponder something, or alternatively to try very hard to remember something you forgot. It's definitely a very quaint term. Usually when I hear "cudgel" and "brains" in the same phrase, it means something... messier.

With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high boots.

Leiterwagons are rather simple and slender frames that can be connected to each other like train cars, which is ideal for lugging cargo in a mountainous region. Given that each one is being drawn by eight horses, these must be some very long wagon trains.

Also, I found it pertinent to post some photographs of Slovaks from the time period, as to give a face to Jonathan's descriptions.

These people used to be a fairly wealthy population in the Kingdom of Hungary for centuries, with what is nowadays called Slovakia being seen as the second wealthiest region after Transylvania, but the shift to Budapest as the capital caused them to become rather impoverished. As a result, 1.5 million of them emigrated over the course of a few decades, with many moving to America.

I ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them through the main hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a shock: my door was fastened on the outside.

When your dad has guests over but you're grounded.

Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me stupidly and pointed, but just then the "hetman" of the Szgany came out, and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which they laughed.

"This guy thinks paprikash is spicy."

Joking aside, I'm cudgeling my brains trying to think of something that would actually elicit such a reaction. Did the hetman (which is essentially a prince's military lieutenant) claim Jonathan was mad? An idiot who crossed the very-clearly-a-vampire Count?

Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away.

Christ this would be disturbing to see. It's one of those things that could translate quite well to modernity- how many kidnapping victims have called for help from deliverymen, visitors, passerby, etc and have been ignored? It's a testament to the power of what's "expected" of a person, as well as the power the wealthy can hold over others.

The leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick rope; these were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved. When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of the yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on it for luck, lazily went each to his horse's head. Shortly afterwards, I heard the cracking of their whips die away in the distance.

Well, those boxes are definitely going to become important later. Either Dracula is planning on moving a shitload of his possessions to London with him, or there's something else he needs to bring before he can leave.

As a final side note, it's interesting and disheartening to see Jonathan's descriptions of the locals become meaner as he becomes more desperate. Just a month ago, he was writing enthusiastically about their clothing, their food, their curious ways, but now he describes their behavior as stupid and lazy.

Well, hopefully he'll escape from these dire straits, and the softer side of him will return.

Johnreiter · Jun 17, 2024

Thuktun F said:
As a final side note, it's interesting and disheartening to see Jonathan's descriptions of the locals become meaner as he becomes more desperate. Just a month ago, he was writing enthusiastically about their clothing, their food, their curious ways, but now he describes their behavior as stupid and lazy.

It's hard to be positive about people who are leaving you to die. I know when I feel betrayed by people, I often say things which I would never even THINK under normal circumstances

Thuktun F · Jun 18, 2024

I apologize for the lateness of this particular update, but I've been plagued with responsibilities today. So does, it seems, Dr. Seward. We return to his phonograph diary as he studies the case of Renfield.

18 June.—He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with his flies, and the number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he has used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his room.

He caught the spider that caught the fly, I don't know why he'd capture a fly, perhaps he's sly.

Also, I hope Dr. Seward is, if not trying to help Renfield stop this strange and unhygienic behavior, at least increasing his rations so his patient doesn't get underweight. Though I have a strong feeling he isn't, because 19th century psychologist.

This is why Lucy chose Art, Jack.

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.

BungieONI · Jun 25, 2024

Thuktun F said:
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.

Lmao. That's a hilarious image. I do wonder how aware of things the Count is during his rest. Will he remember Jonathan's intrusion?

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.

BungieONI · Jun 29, 2024

Here we go here we go, endgame of the Castle Arc. Let's goooooo. Honestly, going back through this book with another's analysis is fun because the last time I read it I was much younger and not good at lit analysis so new details are popping up. Some of that is also lacking memory, but the rest? That's just fun.

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.

BungieONI · Jul 19, 2024

Something that I wonder about is how prevalent the idea of "the violently strong insane man" was before the publishing of this story. Stoker is obviously drawing on active cultural ideas and stereotypes to formulate his characters and settings, but how much did he add to the penetration of those ideas is part of my curiosity.

Let's Read Dracula [Spoiler-Free]

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

Dr. Seward's Diary.

Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

Telegram from Arthur Holmwood to Quincey P. Morris.

Ex-cultist vagrant

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

Dr. Seward's Diary.

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

Seven gremlins in a trench coat

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

Seven gremlins in a trench coat

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

Dr. Seward's Diary.

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

Dr. Seward's Diary.

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

LOG OF THE "DEMETER."

You can complain now; I'm no longer a councilor

Dr. Seward's Diary.

Seven gremlins in a trench coat