STOKERS NIGHT IN HELL

STOKERS NIGHT IN HELL   BY ALAN N WEBBER

Chelsea, England, July 1897

As for myself, I should have never written that infernal tale. At times, I fear God hath forsaken
me for having unleashed that hellish beast into this world. The demon haunts my nights. I fear he may be in pursuit of my wife, Florence; to heave her soul into the depths of Hell.

These thoughts cause me to peer over to my wife from the writing desk where I sit most nights,sleepless and on guard for her life. My beautiful wife, whom I bested from that rascal, Mr. Oscar Wilde, is slumbering peacefully, a vision of an angel in her white nightgown. She is hardly aware of the menace that would strike upon her, to bore its unholy fangs deeply into her pallid neck; to devour her red blood while she slept.

I beshrew myself again that I had taken that holiday at the dreaded Slain's Castle in North
Yorkshire, where I created the Count. My situation may never have been the dread that terrorizes
me now had I only continued my lodging at the more pleasant Kilmarnock Arms. It is there I
drew inspiration for my first novel, The Watters Mou.'

"Damn you Bram, you fool," I say under my breath, shaking my head. Had I never stepped foot into the that damnable Castle overlooking the North Sea cliffs, I doubt the monster would have ever existed. Yet the castle had that enormous octagonal hall I wanted to replicate in a castle for Dracula. Now, my family is in danger because of the hellish creature I created. Had I never encountered the spirit of Victor Hay, the 21st Earl of Erroll, roaming the hall in the dark of night,I would have never set pen to paper to create such a monster. Have I now spawned the devil himself.

On more than one occasion in the last fortnight, I hast discovered the creature creeping through
our manse, or hiding in the dark crevices. It flees from me as a coward might do, although I am
at a loss to explain what the beast's repugnance to me might be.

This Romanian Beelzebub, whom I bestowed the name Count Dracula is larger than myself by at least a half a foot, just as I described in the novel. I know I wrote of the beast's demise, an execution befallen at the hand of Dr. van Helsing. Yet to my astonishment, the hellion has taken on a life of itself. Worse, the damn thing hast followed us to our Chelsea residence.

Placing my head in my palm, I ask myself how in the Good Lord's name is this possible. I am not a God and possess nothing more than writing skills. It seems unmanageable, but yet, here it
is. I gulp gin from my flask on the desk. Such a fine nectar for the nerves.

At once, the heat in the room hath become stifling, as if I'm already in Hell's clutches, I think to myself. Loosening the thick neck drawstring of my nightgown, I fan myself with a nearby book. Finding little relief, I opened the window of our second-floor bedchambers to allow the cooler night air.

A comforting breeze wafts through the room, cooling me somewhat. Florence is now stirring,
seemingly agitated. Making my way over to the writing desk once more, I landed heavily upon
the oaken chair, which squeaks under my weight. I draw from the flask again. Not for the first
time, I ponder should'st I take Florence to Clontarf in Dublin, where I was born, and my dear
mother still resides, despite her many years.  Perhaps we should leave tomorrow. Surely the beast would not follow us there, across the roughIrish sea. I long to see my mother again. 

Alas, it would be a few months afore I might take leave again as Shakespeare's Cymbeline is still booked at Irving Henry's Lyceum Theatre. One could hardly leave him at this rather vital time. He would not understand his business manager leaving mid-play. I notice wearily Florence is stirring again.