24 July, Whitby
Lucy met me at the station, looking prettier and happier than ever. We drove up to the house at the Crescent where she and her mother were staying.
Whitby is a beautiful place.
The little River Esk runs through a deep green valley that widens as it reaches the harbor. A huge viaduct crosses the valley on tall stone supports, making the view seem strangely distant.
The valley is incredibly green and steep. From the high ground on either side, you can see almost straight across it.
The houses in the old part of town, on the far side of the river, have red roofs and seem to be piled on top of one another. They remind me of pictures of Nuremberg.
Above the town stand the ruins of Whitby Abbey, which was once attacked and destroyed by the Danes. Part of the story in Marmion takes place there, where a young woman was supposedly sealed inside a wall.
The ruins are enormous and wonderfully romantic. There is even a local story that a mysterious white woman sometimes appears in one of the windows.
Between the abbey and the town stands the parish church, surrounded by a large cemetery filled with old gravestones.
I think the churchyard is the most beautiful place in Whitby.
It sits high above the town and gives you a perfect view of the harbor and the entire bay. Farther out, the headland called Kettleness reaches into the sea.
The land drops so sharply toward the harbor that part of the cliff has collapsed, taking several graves with it.
In one place, pieces of the old grave structures actually hang over a sandy path far below.
There are paths and benches throughout the churchyard, and people come here simply to sit, enjoy the sea breeze, and admire the view.
I think I’ll spend a lot of time here myself, working while I enjoy the scenery.
In fact, I’m sitting here now with my notebook on my lap, listening to three old men talking beside me.
They seem to spend their entire days sitting here and talking.
Below me is the harbor.
On the far side, a long granite pier stretches into the sea and curves outward at the end. A lighthouse stands on the curved section, with another heavy sea wall running along the outside.
On this side, the sea wall bends in the opposite direction, and there is another lighthouse at its end.
Between the two piers is a narrow entrance to the harbor, which suddenly opens into a much wider area.
At high tide, the harbor looks lovely.
But when the tide goes out, the water almost disappears. The Esk becomes little more than a stream winding between sandbanks, with rocks scattered here and there.
Outside the harbor, on this side, a large reef extends nearly half a mile into the sea.
Its sharp edge runs straight out from behind the southern lighthouse.
At the end of the reef is a bell buoy. When the weather is bad, the waves make it swing and its bell sends a sad, mournful sound across the water.
People here say that when a ship is lost at sea, strange bells can sometimes be heard far offshore.
I must ask the old man about that story.
He is coming this way now.
He is a remarkable old man.
He must be extremely old. His face is deeply wrinkled and twisted, almost like the bark of an ancient tree.
He says he is nearly a hundred years old.
He was once a sailor with the Greenland fishing fleet, and he was already at sea when the Battle of Waterloo was fought.
I’m afraid he is extremely skeptical.
When I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady of the abbey, he answered rather sharply:
“I wouldn’t waste my time worrying about those things, miss. Those old stories are finished now.
“I won’t say they were never true, but I can tell you they haven’t been part of my life.
“They’re good enough for tourists and visitors, but not for a nice young lady like you.
“Those people who come from York and Leeds, eating smoked fish, drinking tea, and looking for cheap pieces of jet, will believe anything.
“Sometimes I wonder who bothers telling them these stories in the first place. Even the newspapers are full of nonsense.”
I thought he might know many interesting things, so I asked whether he would tell me about whaling in the old days.
He was just getting ready to begin when the clock struck six.
He struggled to his feet and said:
“I’d best be getting home now, miss.
“My granddaughter doesn’t like me keeping her waiting when tea is ready.
“It takes me a while to climb all them steps, and there are a lot of them.
“And, miss, I’m starving by this time of day.”
He hobbled away, doing his best to hurry down the steps.
Those steps are another remarkable feature of Whitby.
They lead from the town all the way up to the church. There must be hundreds of them.
They wind upward in a gentle curve, and the slope is so gradual that a horse could probably climb them.
I suspect they may originally have been connected with the abbey.
I should go home too.
Lucy went out visiting with her mother. Since they were only social calls, I decided not to go with them.
They should be back soon.
1 August
I came up here about an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a fascinating conversation with my old friend and the two other men who always sit with him.
He is clearly the leader of the group.
I imagine he must have been a very commanding man when he was younger.
He refuses to admit that anyone else is right.
If he cannot win an argument, he simply talks over the other person until they give up, then treats their silence as proof that he has won.
Lucy looked especially lovely today in her white dress. She has gained such a healthy color since arriving here.
I noticed that the old men immediately moved closer when we sat down.
Lucy has such a warm way with elderly people that they seem to adore her instantly.
Even my old friend couldn’t bring himself to argue with her. Instead, he directed twice as much of his attention toward me.
I managed to get him talking about the local legends.
He immediately launched into a long speech.
I must try to remember it accurately:
“It’s all nonsense, every last bit of it. Ghosts, spirits, witches, strange signs, warnings—all of it is nothing but stories for children and foolish women.
“They’re just empty ideas.
“Priests, writers, and people trying to attract tourists invented most of them to frighten people into doing things they wouldn’t otherwise do.
“It makes me angry.
“They don’t just print their lies in newspapers and preach them from pulpits. They even carve them into gravestones.
“Look around you.
“All these stones are supposed to tell us about the dead, but they’re falling apart under the weight of all the lies written on them.
“‘Here lies the body.’
“‘Sacred to the memory.’
“Lies!
“Half the time there isn’t even a body underneath the stone, and nobody cares about the person anymore.
“Just lies, one kind or another.
“Imagine Judgment Day!
“All these dead people coming back, dragging their gravestones along behind them to prove how good they were.
“Some of them would barely be able to hold on to those stones, especially the poor sailors whose bodies were lost at sea.
“Wouldn’t that be a sight?”
I could tell from his proud expression and the way he looked at his friends that he was enjoying showing off.
So I encouraged him.
“Oh, Mr. Swales, surely you don’t really believe all these gravestones are wrong?”
“Of course they are! Well, perhaps a few aren’t.
“Although even then, most of them probably make the dead sound better than they really were.
“People like to make a man’s grave say he was a saint when he wasn’t.
“Now look around you.
“You’re a stranger here, so you see this churchyard and naturally assume that all these stones mark graves.
“That’s exactly where the lie begins.
“Dozens of these graves are empty.”
He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed.
“And how could it be any other way?
“Look at that stone over there. Go read it.”
I walked over and read the inscription:
“Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of Andres, April 1854, aged thirty.”
When I returned, Mr. Swales continued:
“So tell me, who brought him back here?
“Who buried him under that stone?
“He was murdered at sea, yet you sit here thinking his body is underneath you.
“I could name a dozen more whose bones are lying somewhere in the Greenland seas.”
He pointed toward the north.
“Or perhaps the currents carried them somewhere else.
“Look at the stones around you.
“You can read all their lies from right here.
“There is Braithwaite Lowrey. I knew his father. He was lost aboard the Lively off Greenland in 1820.
“Andrew Woodhouse drowned in those waters in 1777.
“John Paxton drowned near Cape Farewell the following year.
“And old John Rawlings—his grandfather sailed with me. He drowned in the Gulf of Finland in 1850.
“Do you really think all those men are going to come rushing back to Whitby when the final trumpet sounds?
“I can just imagine it.
“They’d be pushing and shoving each other until the whole place looked like one of our old fights out on the ice.
“We used to fight from sunrise to sunset and then try to bandage ourselves under the light of the northern sky.”
The old man burst into laughter at his own joke, and his friends laughed along with him.
“But surely you aren’t completely right,” I said.
“You seem to assume that the dead—or their spirits—would have to bring their gravestones with them on Judgment Day.
“Would they really need to do that?”
“Well, what else are the gravestones for?
“Tell me that, miss!”
“To please their relatives, I suppose.”
“To please their relatives?”
He said it with deep contempt.
“How would that please them?
“Why would anyone be happy knowing that lies have been carved over the dead, when everyone in town knows those words aren’t true?”
He pointed to a large stone slab near our feet. It had been laid flat and used as part of a bench near the edge of the cliff.
“Read that one,” he said.
The words were upside down from where I was sitting, but Lucy was sitting directly opposite them.
She leaned forward and read:
“Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died with the hope of a glorious resurrection on July 29, 1873, after falling from the cliffs at Kettleness.
“This tomb was erected by his grieving mother for her dearly beloved son.
‘He was his mother’s only son, and she was a widow.’”
Lucy looked at Mr. Swales seriously.
“Honestly, Mr. Swales, I don’t see anything funny about that.”
“You don’t see anything funny?
“Ha! That’s because you don’t know the truth about that grieving mother.
“She was a vicious woman who hated him because he was a miserable, unpleasant fellow.
“He hated her too.
“He even killed himself partly to make sure she couldn’t collect the insurance money she had taken out on his life.
“He used an old musket that they normally kept for frightening crows.
“That’s how he ended up falling from the cliff.
“And as for that ‘hope of a glorious resurrection’—I’ve heard him say himself that he hoped he’d go to hell.
“His mother was so religious that he was certain she’d end up in heaven, and he didn’t want to spend eternity anywhere near her.
“Now tell me, isn’t that gravestone one great big lie?”
He struck the stone with his walking stick.
“Won’t Gabriel laugh when George comes running up these steps carrying this stone on his back, trying to use it as evidence of what a good man he was?”
I didn’t know how to respond.
Lucy stood up and changed the subject.
“Why did you have to tell us all that?
“This is my favorite seat, and now you’ve ruined it for me.
“I’ve been sitting above the grave of a suicide all this time.”
“That won’t hurt you, my pretty.
“Perhaps poor George will even be pleased to have such a lovely young woman sitting on his lap.
“It certainly hasn’t hurt me.
“I’ve been sitting here on and off for nearly twenty years.
“Don’t worry about who’s buried beneath you—or who isn’t.
“You don’t need to be frightened until you see all the gravestones running away and the whole churchyard left empty.
“There’s the clock. I’d better go.
“My best wishes to you, ladies.”
He hobbled away.
Lucy and I stayed there for a while.
The view was so beautiful that we held hands as we sat together.
She told me all about Arthur again and their plans for marriage.
I was happy for her, but hearing it made me a little sad.
I haven’t heard from Jonathan for an entire month.
Later that same day
I came here alone because I am feeling very sad.
There was no letter for me.
I keep hoping nothing has happened to Jonathan.
It is nine o’clock now.
The lights of Whitby are scattered below me. Some run in long lines where the streets are, while others shine alone.
They stretch along the River Esk and slowly disappear as the valley curves away.
To my left, the view is blocked by the dark roof of the old house beside the abbey.
Behind me, sheep and lambs are calling in the fields.
Below, I can hear a donkey’s hooves striking the paved road.
The band on the pier is playing a rather harsh waltz.
Farther along the quay, the Salvation Army is holding a meeting in a back street.
Neither group can hear the other.
But from up here, I can hear both.
I keep wondering where Jonathan is.
Is he thinking about me?
I wish he were here.
Dr. Seward’s Diary
5 June
The more I learn about Renfield, the more fascinating his case becomes.
Three qualities stand out strongly in him: selfishness, secrecy, and determination.
I still don’t understand what he is trying to accomplish.
He seems to have some private plan, but I cannot discover what it is.
His one redeeming quality is his love of animals.
Even that, however, is strange enough that I sometimes wonder whether he is actually extremely cruel rather than genuinely affectionate.
His pets are unusual.
At the moment, he is obsessed with catching flies.
He has collected so many that I have had to tell him to stop.
To my surprise, he didn’t become angry.
Instead, he listened seriously.
After thinking for a moment, he said:
“May I have three days?
“I’ll get rid of them.”
I agreed.
I intend to watch him carefully.
18 June
Renfield has moved on to spiders.
He has several enormous ones living in a box.
He feeds them the flies he has caught.
The number of flies is slowly decreasing, although he has already used up half his food attracting more flies into his room.
1 July
His spiders have now become almost as troublesome as the flies.
Today I told Renfield that he had to get rid of them.
He looked genuinely disappointed, so I told him he could at least reduce their number.
He agreed cheerfully.
I gave him the same amount of time as before.
While I was with him, something happened that disturbed me deeply.
A huge blowfly flew into the room. It was swollen from feeding on rotten meat.
Renfield caught it between his fingers and stared at it with delight.
Before I could stop him, he put it into his mouth and swallowed it.
I reprimanded him.
He calmly argued that the fly was healthy and nutritious.
“It is life,” he said. “Strong life. And it gives life to me.”
That gave me an idea.
I need to watch what he does with the spiders.
There is clearly some complicated idea developing in his mind.
He also keeps a small notebook and is constantly writing numbers in it.
Whole pages are filled with calculations.
He writes numbers, adds groups of them together, and then adds those totals together again.
It looks as though he is keeping some strange kind of account.
8 July
There is definitely a method behind his madness.
The idea that has been forming in my mind is becoming clearer.
Soon I may understand exactly what he is doing.
I stayed away from him for several days so I could see whether anything changed.
Most things remained the same.
He had, however, given away some of his pets and acquired a new one.
He had caught a sparrow and was already beginning to tame it.
The method was simple.
The number of spiders had already begun to fall.
The remaining spiders, however, were being kept well fed because Renfield continued bringing flies into his room by tempting them with food.
19 July
We are making progress.
Renfield now has an entire colony of sparrows.
His flies and spiders are almost gone.
When I entered his room today, he rushed toward me.
He wanted to ask me for a very great favor.
As he spoke, he fawned over me almost like a dog.
“What is it?” I asked.
His voice was full of excitement.
“A kitten!
“A lovely little kitten.
“Something soft and playful that I can hold, train, and feed.
“Feed—and feed—and feed!”
I wasn’t surprised by the request.
I had already noticed that his animals kept getting larger and more energetic.
But I didn’t want his little family of sparrows to disappear the way his flies and spiders had.
So I told him I would think about it.
Then I asked:
“Wouldn’t you rather have a cat than a kitten?”
His excitement immediately gave him away.
“Oh, yes! I would love a cat!
“I only asked for a kitten because I was afraid you might refuse me a cat.
“No one would refuse me a kitten, would they?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t think I can get one for you right now.
“But I’ll see what I can do.”
His face fell.
I noticed something dangerous in his expression.
For just a moment, he gave me a fierce sideways glance.
It was the look of someone thinking about killing.
Renfield is a developing homicidal maniac.
I want to see what happens if I deny him this new desire.
It may tell me more about his condition.
10 p.m.
I visited Renfield again.
He was sitting in a corner, lost in thought.
As soon as I entered, he dropped to his knees and begged me for a cat.
He said his salvation depended on it.
I refused.
Without saying another word, he returned to his corner and began chewing on his fingers.
I will see him again early tomorrow morning.
20 July
I visited Renfield very early, before the attendants had made their rounds.
He was already awake and humming happily.
He had spread the sugar he had saved across the windowsill.
He was clearly preparing to start catching flies again.
And he seemed perfectly cheerful about it.
I looked around for his birds.
They were nowhere to be seen.
“Where are your birds?” I asked.
Without turning around, he replied:
“They all flew away.”
There were feathers scattered around the room.
There was also a drop of blood on his pillow.
I said nothing.
Instead, I told the keeper to report to me if Renfield behaved strangely during the day.
11 a.m.
The attendant has just come to me.
Renfield has been extremely sick and has vomited a large number of feathers.
The attendant said:
“I believe he’s eaten the birds, doctor.
“I think he swallowed them whole.”
I fear he may be right.
11 p.m.
Tonight I gave Renfield a strong sedative, enough to put even him to sleep.
Then I took his notebook so I could examine it.
The idea that has been forming in my mind is now complete.
My theory is correct.
Renfield is a very unusual kind of homicidal maniac.
I may need to create a new classification for his condition.
I would call him a “zoophagous,” or life-eating, maniac.
His goal seems to be absorbing as many living creatures as possible.
And he does it in stages.
He fed many flies to one spider.
Then he fed many spiders to one bird.
After that, he wanted a cat that could eat many birds.
What would have come next?
It would almost be worth carrying out the experiment just to discover the answer.
Perhaps there is a way to learn more about the human mind through someone like him.
People once condemned experiments on living bodies, yet look at how much science has learned from them.
Why shouldn’t we push forward in the most difficult field of all—the study of the human brain?
If I could truly understand even one such mind, if I could unlock the secret behind one lunatic’s thoughts, it might advance my field enormously.
But there would have to be a sufficient reason.
I must be careful.
If I think about this too much, I might be tempted to go too far.
A good enough cause might even convince me that such an experiment was justified.
Perhaps I have an unusual mind myself.
What an extraordinary thing Renfield is.
Within the limits of his madness, his reasoning is remarkably logical.
I wonder how much value he places on a human life.
Perhaps only one.
He has completed his strange calculations perfectly and has already started a new record today.
How many of us begin a new record every morning without even realizing it?
For me, it feels as though my old life ended only yesterday.
I had hoped for happiness, and when that hope disappeared, it was as if I had been forced to begin again.
Perhaps we all continue like that until the final Judge closes the record of our lives and decides whether the balance is profit or loss.
Oh, Lucy.
I cannot be angry with you.
And I cannot be angry with my friend simply because he has won the happiness I wanted.
All I can do is wait, accept what has happened, and keep working.
Work.
Work.
If only I had a cause as powerful as the one driving my poor mad patient.
A good cause—something selfless that could give my life a purpose.
That would truly be happiness.
Mina Murray’s Journal
26 July
I am anxious, and writing here helps me.
It feels almost like whispering to myself while listening to my own thoughts.
There is also something about writing in shorthand that makes it feel different from ordinary writing.
I am worried about both Lucy and Jonathan.
I hadn’t heard from Jonathan for some time and was becoming very concerned.
Yesterday, however, dear Mr. Hawkins, who has always been so kind to me, sent me a letter from Jonathan.
I had written to ask whether he had heard anything.
He said the enclosed note had just arrived.
It contains only a few words.
It is dated from Castle Dracula and says that Jonathan is starting his journey home.
That doesn’t sound like Jonathan at all.
I don’t understand it, and it makes me uneasy.
Lucy has also started sleepwalking again.
Her mother told me about it, and we decided that I should lock our bedroom door every night.
Mrs. Westenra is terribly worried.
She believes sleepwalkers often wander onto rooftops or walk along cliff edges, then suddenly wake up and fall to their deaths with a terrible scream.
Poor woman.
She has every reason to be frightened for Lucy.
She also told me that Lucy’s father had the same habit. He would get out of bed, dress himself, and try to leave the house in the middle of the night unless someone stopped him.
Lucy is going to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning her wedding clothes and imagining how their new home will look.
I understand her completely.
I do the same thing.
Jonathan and I, however, will have to begin our married life very simply and carefully manage our money.
Mr. Holmwood is the Honorable Arthur Holmwood, the only son of Lord Godalming.
He will be coming here as soon as he can leave London because his father is seriously unwell.
I think Lucy is counting every minute until he arrives.
She wants to take him to her favorite seat on the cliff beside the churchyard and show him the beautiful view of Whitby.
Perhaps all this waiting is what has been making her restless.
Once Arthur arrives, I am sure she will feel better.
27 July
Still no news from Jonathan.
I am becoming genuinely worried, although I don’t know exactly why.
I only wish he would send me even a single line.
Lucy is sleepwalking more than ever.
Every night I wake up because she is moving around the room.
Fortunately, the weather is so warm that she isn’t likely to become cold.
Still, being awakened night after night is beginning to affect me. I am becoming nervous and unable to sleep properly myself.
Thank God Lucy remains healthy.
Arthur has suddenly been called back to see his father, who has become seriously ill.
Lucy is disappointed that she has to wait longer to see him, but she still looks wonderful.
She has filled out a little, and her cheeks have a beautiful rosy color.
The pale, unhealthy look she once had is completely gone.
I pray that she stays this well.
3 August
Another week has passed.
Still no word from Jonathan.
Not even Mr. Hawkins has heard anything more.
I desperately hope Jonathan isn’t ill.
Surely he would have written if something were wrong.
I keep looking at his last letter.
Something about it bothers me.
It doesn’t sound like Jonathan.
And yet it is definitely his handwriting.
There is no mistake about that.
Lucy hasn’t been sleepwalking much this past week, but something about her seems strange.
She has become unusually focused.
Even when she is asleep, she sometimes seems to be watching me.
She keeps trying the bedroom door.
When she finds it locked, she walks around the room looking for the key.
6 August
Three more days have passed, and still no news.
This uncertainty is becoming unbearable.
If only I knew where I could write to Jonathan or where I could go to find him, I would feel much better.
No one has heard from him since that strange letter.
All I can do is pray for patience.
Lucy is more excitable than ever, but otherwise she seems perfectly healthy.
Last night the weather looked threatening.
The fishermen say a storm is coming.
I want to watch the storm carefully and learn to recognize the signs of bad weather.
Today the whole sky is gray.
The sun is hidden behind thick clouds above Kettleness.
Everything seems gray except the green grass, which looks almost like emerald against the dull landscape.
The rocks are gray.
The clouds are gray, with a faint glow where the sunlight breaks through at the edge.
The sea is gray too.
Long stretches of sand reach into it like gray fingers.
The waves crash over the shallow water and sandbanks with a deep roar, softened by the sea mist drifting inland.
The horizon has disappeared completely into the fog.
Everything feels enormous and strangely threatening.
The clouds rise like mountains.
A deep rumble rolls across the sea, almost like a warning of something terrible.
Dark figures move along the beach.
Sometimes the mist almost completely hides them.
They look like people walking through a dream.
The fishing boats are rushing back toward the harbor.
They rise and fall on the long waves as they struggle toward safety.
And now I see old Mr. Swales.
He is walking straight toward me.
From the way he is lifting his hat, I can tell he wants to speak with me.
I was deeply moved by the change in the old man.
When he sat beside me, he spoke very gently.
“I want to tell you something, miss.”
I could see that he was uncomfortable.
So I took his old, wrinkled hand in mine.
“Please, tell me,” I said.
He kept holding my hand as he spoke.
“I think I may have shocked you with all the terrible things I’ve been saying about the dead these past few weeks.
“I didn’t really mean them.
“I want you to remember that when I’m gone.
“We old people don’t always like thinking about death.
“When you’re already near the end of life, it’s frightening to admit how close it is.
“That’s why I make jokes about it.
“It helps me feel less afraid.
“But don’t worry about me, my dear.
“I’m not afraid of dying.
“Not really.
“I just don’t want to die if I can avoid it.
“My time must be getting close.
“I’m very old, and a hundred years is more than anyone should expect.
“I feel as though Death is already sharpening his scythe for me.
“I can’t suddenly stop making jokes about death. I’ve done it for too long.
“Soon enough, the Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me.
“But don’t cry, my dear.”
He saw that I was already crying.
“If he came tonight, I wouldn’t refuse him.
“Life is really just a waiting room for whatever comes next.
“And death is the one thing we can all be certain of.
“I’ve made peace with that.
“It is coming for me, and it may not be far away.
“Perhaps it is already coming while we’re sitting here wondering.
“Maybe it’s in that wind blowing over the sea.
“Perhaps it is carrying shipwrecks, loss, suffering, and broken hearts.
“Listen.
“Look!”
He suddenly stared toward the sea.
“There is something in that wind, something in the mist and the sound of the waves.
“It feels like death.
“I can sense it.
“It is in the air.
“I feel it coming.
“Lord, when my time comes, let me answer your call without fear.”
He raised his arms and lifted his hat.
His lips moved silently as though he were praying.
After several minutes, he stood up.
He shook my hand, blessed me, said goodbye, and slowly walked away.
His words affected me deeply.
I was relieved when the coastguard arrived.
He had a telescope tucked under his arm.
He stopped to talk with me as he always does, but he kept watching a strange ship out at sea.
“I can’t figure her out,” he said.
“She looks Russian to me.
“But she’s behaving strangely.
“She seems unable to decide what to do.
“She knows the storm is coming, but she can’t decide whether to head north into open water or come into the harbor.
“Look at her again.
“She’s being steered terribly.
“She doesn’t seem to respond properly to the man at the wheel.
“Every gust of wind sends her in a different direction.
“We’ll be hearing more about that ship before this time tomorrow.”