My dearest Margrijt,

I feel as if I have come full circle. Again there is a lad sitting on my knees. And even though he is not mine, I feel, I bear a part in his existence, in, by helping protect his mother, making it possible he be born. For a while, after all the turmoil and so many deaths, I was doubtful whether life as we know it would be able to prevail, but some things in us and around us are stronger than we are ourselves. I will always bear the mark of what was done to me and the responsibility for what I did to you. Both of you. But today, with the autumn sun shining in through the window and a boy on my knees whose mother is as brave and strong as another lad’s mother so long ago, the load seems bearable.

Yours with most loving regard,

Abraham

What is this?

Dearest Margrijt,

never has a wait seemed longer and too short at one and the same time. I wish the hour was upon me or an eternal span away. How much waiting takes out of us. We are so wrong in calling you the weaker sex. I believe you let us take the active part because you know we are not strong enough for the ordeal of waiting. And that you at least are stronger than me is undisputed. I wonder if Harker is aware of the true state of affairs. But maybe he is too young to have realized it yet.

We have taken what precautions we can in our last stand between two boulders by the road. My hand is freezing on the rifle, I can hardly hold the pen, and my breath is white in the air. The cold seeps through the soles of my shoes and trickles into my collar. Time until sunset is getting shorter and shorter, and still they are not here. Should they not make it, should we not catch him before sundown, I do not believe we stand a chance. The thought that he is at the root of all the evil I have encountered since that fatal day so long ago would be enough to make the blood boil, were it not so cold. I want to rip his heart out with my bare hands. Only when my fingers started to hurt did I loosen the grip on the rifle.

If we are not in time … Should we fail, I would almost welcome the oblivion of amorality. Only the thought of all the further pain and grief I would cause keeps me from adding that wish to my prayers.

There they come. The Count must know desperation to make his henchmen race over this ground so. And no sight of our friends. Their absence induces a sharp feeling of loneliness in my soul, even though Mrs. Harker is by my side. But she is half his already, and in truth, when she talked of ‘going to meet her husband’ I was uncertain whether she meant the one she married in the presence of God, or the one she is bound to by the drinking of blood.

Does he know he is the last of his kind? Does that make him feel as lonely as I am?

Later:

Morris is dead. They say hope is the last to die, and against all odds I hope I have now been punished enough for my sins. I wish it had been me. But if God wants me alive to taste the searing guilt and the ashes of defeat in every victory, so be it.

It was over too quickly and me not close enough to have a hand in the Count’s undoing. Did you think you had known all of my depravity? Perish the thought. When I realized I would not make it, I was actually capable of feeling hate and jealousy towards my friends, and the wildest urge to leave my most precious charge to her fate, jump into the fray, rip one of the great knives out of their hands and plunge it into the Count’s heart. My hands trembled with helpless rage when, like a bolt of bright lightning, the realisation struck me that I am not so different from the monster.

His very existence seems to strike something deep and old in men and brings out the worst in them. Did we not break into his house like thieves? Did not Mr. Harker, a solicitor, swindle the Count’s agent out of confidential information? Did not my own good friend John Seward sign a false death-certificate? And me. Does he not turn me into a gibbering, contemptible coward, him and the likes of him?

God, Margrijt, for the dropping of a hat I would have left that dear, brave Lady alone in her ordeal. Like I left you alone then, in what I should have shared, nay, taken the brunt of. After all that happened this year, after all my protestations and vows, I was on the brink of making the same mistake again. This time not out of fear and revulsion, but out of a petty need to prove myself. How you must loathe me. I do not wonder you never let me touch you when I come to visit.

I was the one who brought the monster to our house. I was the one who found out how to destroy her. I was the one who delayed and delayed until the unspeakable happened. I should have been the one to bring deliverance to our son, instead of standing aside, a pitiful wreck and leaving the gruesome task to you. To watch the horror on your face, the shudder run from the stake on through your body, to watch your eyes finally glaze over as your mind slipped away before your awareness could behold that you had not butchered our son, but delivered him. Again.

I am not bold enough anymore, but still desperate enough to ask you once again to

forgive me,

Abraham

What is this?

My dearest Margrijt,

I wrote a memo to John Seward in case we do not meet again, but only to you who knows my deepest chasms can I write the truth.

We arrived at the castle today, and I encountered my nemesis. Still as beautiful and as mesmerizing as I remember her from all those years ago. How could I ever be conceited enough to think I would be master of my feelings towards her, to think I could study her at my leisure and destroy her when it suited me best?

Had I only known … Had I but realized the cunning they employ.

Even here in her sleep, after all she did to me, she nevertheless held me enthralled. If I became like her, would I still feel guilt and remorse? Unthinkable thoughts, and yet I thought them as I gazed upon her sleeping form. And was it not as unthinkable to mar that alabaster skin? I could feel her lure as I felt it all those years ago.

And yet it had never been me she wanted. It had always been Maarten. Strong, healthy, sixteen year old Maarten. The thought gave me just enough strength to tear myself out of the thrall she held me in.

You must be revolted by my thoughts. I know I am. The woman – the Thing – that turned our son into one of them, and still I hesitated. But no more. She had to be destroyed, for the peace of the world and her own. Just as Maarten had to be destroyed, back then. And had it not been even more unthinkable to mar his alabaster skin?

Lord help me. When I touched the wood to her breast her eyes flew open, and with the first blow a terrible, terrible scream tore from her lips. It was as if the anguish of her condemned soul had accumulated over the centuries to find release in that one piercing scream that echoed another – even more dreadful for the once dear voice that uttered it – of years ago. The sweat stung my eyes and was washed out in turn by my tears. Thus blinded and deaf with her shriek still ringing in my ears I felt her writhing beneath the stake, her contortions nearly ripping the wood from my hands as I struck the second blow, and a final, appalling third.

Ah, Margrijt, had you but seen the look of relief and peace that came into her eyes at her deliverance just before her body turned to dust. I shivered with exhaustion, both of the body and of the soul. But I might not rest yet. She was not alone. I would have to perform the awful ritual twice more. No one should have to do work like that, much less to their own flesh and blood. Cruel memory. When I felt the stake shudder in my hands, driving great splinters under my skin, my mind’s eye showed me the twisting, contorting body of Maarten in his coffin. I do not know how you can ever forgive me.

But as I saw final peace in their faces I also remembered the look of gratitude in Maarten’s eyes just before he truly died. A look that never reached you, for as I raised my eyes from his face, there was already nothing but madness in yours. Oh, dearest, what would I not give to know you had seen the quiet repose in his face after the intolerable anguish you witnessed.

Only now can I appraise what you went through. These were strangers. Maarten is – was … It would have been beyond a miracle had your mind not shied away from the deed. I need hardly tell you how many fruitless hours I spent wishing it had not come to pass. That I had been less infatuated and less vain. If only I had destroyed her before she could corrupt our son, or even, barring that, before he died. Hateful, vile creature of the night. And yet, now I have seen her face as it must have looked before, if ever so briefly, I find it in my heart to pity her. She would hardly have chosen to become what she was. I am less sure about the Count. In life he was a powerful man. Did that power corrupt him into seeking more power, eternal life? What a price to pay, and not the least by you, my dearest.

Forgive me,

Abraham

What is this?

My dearest Margrijt,

Mrs. Harker seems to change for the worse the nearer we approach his castle. She sleeps as if in a stupor, her colour is rising; under the circumstances I cannot view this as anything but ominous, and she does not eat.

As for me, I try to be as watchful as I can, but, alas, find myself starting from unwanted sleep more often than is safe.

The country we are travelling through is very stark and cold and lonely. Truly wolf-country, and we hear their voices at night. Voices that send the same hair-raising shivers up my arm.

Pray for me, dearest. If you can still find a spark of pity for me in your heart, I beg of you, pray for me.

And forgive me,

Abraham

What is this?

My dearest,

I am cold, wet and weary to the bone. Do I just feel my age or is there something more sinister in this foreign air? I dream strange dreams. Sometimes of you and Maarten, sometimes of the Count. I know he draws near, as desperate to reach his castle as we are to prevent him, and my dreams are a wild pandemonium of fear and hate; sometimes I kill him and sometimes he kills me. But do not fear. This time I will prevail. I have to.

Forgive me,

Abraham

What is this?

Dearest Margrijt,

It seems indeed that history repeats itself. Mrs. Harker, long-sighted woman that she is, elicited a promise from us today. I have long since sworn to do everything in my power to save her life. Tonight I have sworn to save her soul. To, be all my efforts to no avail, render her the last service. You will say I am only doing this to atone for my sin, and in a way you are right, but I do it also for her; during the course of events she has become a friend I love and admire. I will not fail again.

Forgive me,

Abraham

What is this?

My dearest,

I have looked into the eyes of the devil, and he leaves me trembling with fear. When he came through the door I could not move, but let John and Harker trap him inside. His voice is that of an animal, it raised the hairs on my arms; and the smell of decaying flesh … But his eyes are the more fearsome: red as the fires of hell, at the same time cold and fixed like the stare of a Basilisk that will stop your heart the moment you look at it. It most assuredly stopped mine, froze it in my breast, froze my whole body. When he left, I sent the others in pursuit – and a good part of my reason was the sheer terror of happening upon him – only to, while I searched the rooms for things he might need, find myself constantly looking over my shoulder when they had left, for fear he would double back and suddenly appear behind me, his cold, clawed fingers touching my neck, that hair-raising voice whispering in my ear from behind. Evil, unclean, contaminating. I am absolutely certain the experience would have driven me mad, and I cannot explain how Mrs. Harker bears the knowledge that he has touched her and made her to touch him, to drink his very blood. That woman is incredibly strong; I have nothing but admiration for her.

Later:

From what Arminius tells me, the Count must have been a great man in his time. One finds it hard to believe, having encountered the vile thing he is now.

Even though we know this in theory, I find it quite curious to experience first hand that the difference between a famous and an infamous man is the presence or absence of soul.

Does he feel like we do? We know he feels anger, and, by God, we know he feels fear. He knows we will hunt him to the four corners of the earth and not relent until we have rid humanity of the threat he poses. Oh, Margrijt, I tremble when I think of the journey at hand and our next encounter, but I also rejoice and am full of mixed hope and confidence. I will see to it that he truly dies; with these two hands will I free his soul and redeem mine own.

Forgive me,

Abraham

What is this?

My dearest Margrijt,

Will it never end? Do not I have more reason than most to fear the devilish machinations of the undead? To mistrust their siren call and see through their false promises? All of the above, and yet … As I gave my blood to Lucy Westenra, an unholy glee ran through my whole body. Not the satisfaction of a small service rendered to a poor soul who desperately needed the help, but something darker, deeper; a sensual, sated feeling that almost made me sigh out loud with pleasure. My hand trembles with shame as I write this. As Arthur felt that the giving of blood to her had bound him in marriage to his fiancée, so do I feel like an adulterer. I have betrayed him, the dear boy who reminds me so much of Maarten. Betrayed him and you. And all for naught. She died, Margrijt. God help us all. Died and came back. Undead. I looked upon her, and she was so like that other, long ago, in appearance, in allure … When she came towards me tonight as we were waiting for her by the tomb, I could feel John’s revulsion like a physical thing, but my hand trembled for a different reason when she walked into the light of my lantern. Her lips full and red with blood, a trickle running down her throat, down her white breast, only to disappear in her nightshirt. Her very name rings with temptation. But this time I did not give in to these wanton feelings.

Do not despise me for letting Arthur drive the stake into her heart. As God is my witness I did it for him and not to shirk the gruesome task.

After her terrible scream it was immeasurable relief to see the sensual beauty disappear from her face; at that moment her worn features seemed more appealing to me than any healthy, unmarked face could be. May God see fit to deliver the hellspawn who did that to her into my power; may he give me the strength to crush the unlife out of his body and make him pay for the night’s work he forced my hands to do. And avenge you. Both of you.

Forgive me,

Abraham

What is this?

My dearest Margrijt,

Alas, everything looks as though my premonition was correct. Had you but seen her, you would know. She had about her that same … I will not, I cannot go through it again. I told John I needed to come back here for some books, but now I sit safely in my study I feel the greatest reluctance to return to London. I locked the door so as not to be disturbed. But, I ask you, who should disturb me here? I am fooling no one. Nothing but ghosts in this house.

Later:

I have found the passage I was looking for. It is almost exactly as I remembered. I have not mentioned the dreaded word to them – hardly dare, in fact, to think it in my own mind.

I lit only the small lamp by my desk, not bothering with the rest. But the very spill of light on these pages turns the back of the room into something veiled, something biding its time. The skin on my neck tingles with the awareness of dark space behind me while my eyes are drawn time and again to the fell word.

Vampire. There, I have written it. Oh, Margrijt, I cannot return to London. Please do not expect it of me. But you do, of course. And rightly so. Just as you did all those years ago. If we could but go back and make up for our omissions.

Lucy Westenra is alive yet. That which I fear may not come to pass. Not during my lifetime, that is.

What a coward you married, my dearest. Do you curse my name every day? I think you do. I can hear you in my dreams.

And she is beautiful, oh so beautiful. Every line, every curve, the skin like ivory and those deep eyes seeming to promise … You would assume an old man like me did not think about such things. But maybe we do not grow old enough for that. Or, at any rate, I am not that old. Though I feel old. So many lonely years. Lonelier for having known your love. And though I would not have missed it, would indeed be the poorer without it, I could, for your sake – and Maarten’s – wish we had never met.

I can see the sky lighten in the east. Almost time to return to the station, and no decision made. What shall I do? Ah, but I hear you telling me to go, fly, back to her side. To keep her alive with every ounce of skill at my disposal. This time without fail. You are right, dearest. Now as you were then. I will go and not fail. I pray to God I will not.

Forgive me,

Abraham

What is this?

Dearest Margrijt,

I have received a telegram today that makes my heart tremble with fear. John Seward is begging me to come to London to attend to a young friend of his, one Lucy Westenra. I am in an agony of indecision, torn as only a condemned soul can be. What shall I do?

I am apart from the world in this room. The occasional rattling of a carriage or voices of passers-by outside seem far away or as coming through a wall much thicker than the glass of my window. I can hear the clock ticking in the hall. The house has never been so still. As if it was holding its breath awaiting my decision.

Maybe there is nothing in it. The request certainly seems straightforward enough. Strictly medical. Why then this suffocating feeling of foreboding? Why do I, who always keep my own counsel, feel suddenly compelled to share my thoughts? And with you, lost in your own mind, who will never read these letters I won’t send.

I hope to God I am wrong.

I did of course tell John I would come. How can I do otherwise? But I am afraid, so very afraid that I will fail him as I failed you.

Forgive me,

Abraham

What is this?