Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 44: Spark of My Life

Chapter 44: Spark of My Life

Will Graham's Journal

(Kept in Shorthand)

26 August – Inquest completed yesterday. Price and Zeller sent me a copy of the report. Time of death was likely sunset of the 21st. As I thought, the wounds on the wrists didn't kill him. Combination of exposure, dehydration, and a severe shock to the system. Already weakened, he was scared to death.

Can't help thinking about the crucifix in his hands. Whoever or whatever was on that ship would not have benefitted in any way from the DEMETER sailing into the harbor with a body displayed, unless it was meant as a message. But I don't see that in the design. The captain thought the holy item would upset "His" plans, and I think he was right. Once that rosary was around his wrists, he couldn't be removed from that spot, even after death. Not by the murderer, in any case.

I can hear his voice. "Transylvania is not England." England is not Transylvania, but... the DEMETER says otherwise.

I've brought something back with me. And while it fills me with dread, some of that dread is born of wonder.

The black dog is a continuing mystery. The SPCA hasn't found it. No one has spotted it, apparently, since the spotlight operator saw it. Price says he found two other men who admit to seeing it jump from the bow of the ship. So three witnesses total. Everyone else at the scene won't talk about it. They believe the black dog is a creature known as the Barghest, a spectral dog with glowing eyes, known to prey on men in the Snickelways. To speak of such things gives them power; thus, they won't speak. There's a kind of logic to it, though the superstition is standing in the way of the investigation. The presence of a dog suggests the presence of a master. The master may have been "Him" on the ship, the one who killed every hand aboard and drove the exhausted captain to lash himself to the wheel with a crucifix.

What I do know, what can be verified, is that something killed eleven sheep and lambs the night after the storm. An animal, based on the wounds, or so say the farmers. But the creatures weren't eaten. Just slaughtered, like offerings. More offerings.

Every boat in the harbor lined up for the funeral procession today. Whitby thinks the captain is a hero. And he is, in his own way. He held his own against someone or something unthinkable. He threw a wrench in the plan, and he stayed with his ship. Fulfilled his last duty. What they put on his tombstone will be the truth, which Mr. Wells would have appreciated. More on him in a minute.

The coffin was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard. I insisted on attending; killers often attend the funerals of their victims. They're attracted to that... ball of silence that surrounds the mourners, knowing they made it happen. Alana came with me, and we to our usual seat, whilst the cortège of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down again. We had a good view, and saw the procession nearly all the way. The captain was laid to rest quite near our seat so that we stood on it when the time came and saw everything.

Alana was upset. I know she's still furious with me for helping Price and Zeller. She seems constantly restless, as if being still bothers her, a burr on her skin. She's worried about me relapsing, just when I was getting well. I keep telling her I'm fine; it's a bit of a boy who cried wolf, because I know I've said those words to her too many times in the past and they were lies. But this time, swear to God, it's the truth. Ever since the storm I've felt better than I have in ages. Sharp. Energized. More in control of the empathy; not control, more like... something is softening the blow when it does go off unexpectedly. I can handle it. Process it.

I have hope.

I can't explain it. Maybe it's the idea of moving to America. That journey settling in as more than just a vague vision. I'm going to leave and have my own life.