Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 2: Not By Any Means Comforting

Will Graham woke to the rustling of newspaper pages. The quiet berth of the train had lulled him to sleep again, and, judging by the light, a few hours had passed. The Hungarian countryside rolled along outside the window, full of fertile curves, rows of spring flowers, and herds of cattle and sheep.

He'd been alone in the train car when they'd pulled out of the station in Vienna, but he'd apparently been joined by a man and a woman who were now seated opposite. The man had a newspaper open and was hidden behind it, and the woman's face was obscured with a veil that draped down from her hat in thick folds.

Will took a moment to remove his homburg and run his fingers through his hair. He passed a hand over his eyes with a small sound of weariness, then replaced his hat on his head. In the moments immediately following, a sense of unease blossomed inside of him. The man and the woman had not moved. The train was still moving, but he could barely detect the comforting rocking motion of the wheels on the tracks, and the cabin had gone preternaturally quiet. A strange dread soaked into Will's pores through the very atmosphere itself as the shadows outside grew long.

"Do you have the time?" he blurted, a flailing attempt to break whatever spell it was that gathered and settled over his heart, sinking into the depths of his chest.

"Of course, luv." The woman pulled a watch from a chain around her neck and whipped up her veil to examine it. Will recoiled as he recognized the mutilated face of Catherine Eddowes, carved to pieces by the Ripper, her wounds bloody, fresh, the white bones of her face exposed where the flesh had been carved away. "Half-past six!" she chirped with a cheerful nod.

The man at her side lowered his paper with a little crinkling sound.

It was Abel Gideon. The man the newspapers had called The Whitechapel Murderer and Leather Apron before settling on the moniker coined by Winifred Lounds – Jack the Ripper. He, too, was dead, body riddled with bullets fired from Will's revolver, his eyes sunken, pale blue and cloudy with rot.

"Time passes so quickly in good company, don't it, Inspector?" Catherine grinned at him with her mutilated lips.

Will felt his entire body clench in horror and revulsion as she leaned closer, dribbling blood down the front of her dress.

"Give us a kiss," she rasped, bloody spittle flying from the ruins of her mouth.

Will woke up.

Again.

The train car was empty.

His breaths came in little sobbing pants, and he was slicked with sweat, collar wilted and hair damp. He cursed under his breath and withdrew his handkerchief to dab at his face, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

He hadn't had a dream about Gideon in awhile, since Christmas at least. He'd found a kind of peace in having a head full of real estate law instead of crime scenes and corpses. Here he was, on his way to perform his first official duties as a certified solicitor, and his mind had somehow been re-infected by the grisly images he'd tried so hard to forget.

It had to be the time change. The uncomfortable nights of sleep, the foreign food.

Will hesitated for a solid minute before drawing the small leather-bound journal from his jacket pocket and making a short entry.

2 May 1893

Dream. Gideon and Eddowes. Fell asleep on train to Budapest.

He exhaled slowly, tucking the book and his pencil back in his pocket, unease settling over him like a thick, furry mantle. Putting it down in writing made it real. It'd been so long. Why now?