- September 21st, 2009
I went to the Westenra tomb, though by the time I arrived I realized that following the instructions of a madman was a good indicator of being off one's own rocker. I shuddered as I entered, remembering the grisly things we'd seen and done there just a few nights ago. My general concern was that we'd botched the job and that Renfield was telling me to check on poor Lucy. The smell of decay emanating from the coffin indicated that we had not and that, while her soul was now pure and free, her body was just so much worm food. I paced around the tomb, but couldn't figure out what I was looking for.
I was about to leave when I saw an all-too-familiar white shape moving around the headstones outside. Was Lucy not in her coffin? Had we been duped? I hid in the shadows, a pointless gesture I know, and waited. As the form grew closer my heart froze, it was Lucy, her shape, her face, her hair--No, not her hair. This hair was darker and as she grew closer I realize that this wasn't Lucy, though they could have been sisters. Lucy, I knew, had no sisters and, my brain finally beginning to work, I realized the only other possibility.
The late Mrs. Westenra, now restored to youth and beauty, strode eerily into the tomb. She carried no prey with her, but her mouth and clothes were smeared with blood and her face was flushed. I tried not to make a move, but she sensed me nonetheless and pinned me to the wall, one hand firmly on my throat, holding me effortlessly. I hadn't even seen her move across the ten feet of space.
"The Texan?" she hissed. "Unexpected. I assumed young Arthur would be the one to try to find me."
I choked out a reply. She leaned in, licking her stained teeth as she did so. "What was that?" she mocked, coking an ear to my useless mouth. I grabbed the bowie knife from my belt and drove it as far as I could into her heart. She released her grip on me and staggered back. I thought I'd had her, but she just looked at the knife protruding from her chest and laughed.
"It takes more than a knife though the heart you--"
Her head jerked back with a bang and she collapsed on the floor. I looked to the entrance of the tomb and found Art standing, pistol in hand, looking as if he'd seen a ghost. Which, I suppose, he had.
"You always were a better shot than I," I joked. Art didn't respond, but ran past me to the vampire. I could see the bullet hole in her head, but it wasn't enough to stop her. She was pulling herself up as Art crashed into her, driving the knife through her flesh and into the stone floor. Only then did she stop moving.
He removed his own knife from his belt and, silently, began to hack away at the late Mrs. Westenra's neck. Once the spine was severed the body began to shrivel and shrink. Before my very eyes the daft old lady I had known returned.
Art stood, breathing heavily. He looked back at me and sighed. He clearly didn't want to explain himself, but knew he had no choice.
"Come on," he said, "I've got a carriage waiting."
I'm not much for word-for-word transcription, I'm sure Miss Mina could do a right accurate job of it, but I'll just stick with the gist.
Art doesn't know the whole story, only that at some point, more than 20 years ago, a group of English aristocracy and gentry, including Lord and Lady Godalming and Mr. and Mrs. Westenra, found themselves in Transylvania and were invited to the castle of a local count. What transpired there was never again spoken of, but now we know some of it. Mary Westenra was one of Dracula's first English victims, though she was rescued from his grasp 20 years ago. That, however, was not the worst of it.
After a heaving fit of crying, Art continued. His father had found out that he was dying long before he told Art, or anyone. The thought of death terrified him and so he took measures to procure the only means of evading it.
"He invited the bastard," Art spat. "Not only did he arrange for Hawkins to conduct the transaction, he actually invited that monster here." He grabbed me by the coat and pleaded, "You can tell no one, Quince. No one."
I probably shouldn't tell Art about this journal.