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.
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.