From the Journal of R.M. Renfield.

June 12, 1679

I saw a butterfly today die. It fluttered and stumbled in the air until it fell to the ground where it died. I didn't eat it. It wasn't worth it, no life was left in it to take. Besides I don't particularly like eating butterflies. I read a book once that said they were dead souls finding new life. I'm quite amused by the thought so I've taken it upon myself to spare the butterflies.

Master sulks around more than usual. Don't know exactly why. He probably heard something I didn't hear or something with something. I go to get him but he's already gone, walking around the castle aimlessly. I saw him standing there once, and I thought to go up and choke him, but I'm getting more and more used to such thoughts.

Fourteen flies today.

Three spiders.

One opossum.

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There was no funeral. The body was left where it lay, looking as if in its puddle of blood, simply asleep. His hand spread faintly over his chest, edging his neck as his head fell by its own accord down the side of the bed. His skull was cracked open and a red river fell down his cheeks. But in it all he looked so peaceful, so silent. Only upon closer examination would one see that his chest was not moving in that breathing fashion, and that somehow even as it did not seem possible, he looked paler. But there was no funeral. The body was left where it lay, abandoned for greater concerns, and better things to mourn.

If he had not been touched, if the Vampire Hunters had let him be, there twisted on the floor, soaking in a pool of his own blood; then he would have slept. And in his sleep he would have healed. The spine was twisted, the back of the head was gashed open for the world to see. He had been hurt to the greatest extent. He could feel the warmth of his blood pour out of his head, the life escaping him. He felt his body, broken and beaten in those terrible madman's walls, grow cold. Yet had he not been touched, and moved, and shaken, he would have slept, and he would have healed. But they came, they grabbed him, poked the insides of his head and body. Trying so desperately, in their barbaric means, to save his life. Not because they valued it, but they valued what he could tell them. They could not think in those moments, a normal man would have died instantly. They gathered above him, as he denied their laws, and spoke, and told them, finally, all the things he could tell them, to stop him.

He was found the next morning by the workers. He was cleaned and taken away to the nearby cemetery, where he was buried with no coffin. He remained without a grave until the good Doctor Seward finally inquired what became of his patient, and paid for in the very least a name to be in a stone for him. It read above him "R.M. Renfield," there were no dates of birth, no loving remarks, no definitions of who he really was, merely a name.

It was two months that body lied in the dirt. The Earth tried in futile to reclaim it. The roots of the plants dug to penetrate it, to take from it whatever life it still had. The worms and the insects tried as well, but to their touch the body was cold. Not cold like a dead body is, but they found to their displeasure it could offer them nothing, and on primal instinct that they could not understand they left. Two months the body remained without life, in the dirt, with the Earth and the bugs. Two months underneath his name in stone. Two months before he woke up.

A finger breaks through the dirt like a budding plant. It gives way for the rest of the hand, and the hand grasps the surface of the world, pulling with it the rest of its body. He emerges with two months of ground in his face. He releases the pressure off his chest, crawling up to his waist, before he rears his gut and starts coughing. His lungs were filled with dirt, and it felt like his veins were full of dust.

It was true he had died briefly. His blood left him, his Master's blood that was within him, giving him life, left him, and with that he fell into a death. But slowly in the dirt, preserved from the world, the blood which remained worked to spread the life it held within itself. It took two months for the skull to close, and the heart to start to beat again.

Those first moments of new life he did not know who he was or what he was, or that he was supposed to know these things. He was as he was long ago. He was merely a vessel for hunger, a creature driven by the need of the blood within him. He could feel it even then, there was no blood in his fingers or hands, there was so little inside him, he could collapse and die again. He did not think of any higher thoughts other than to gain more life. And the blood, ingrained in his being, the provider of life, told him how to get more, and make the pain he found through out him disappear. It was the night and an unfortunate but large rat came his way by accident as it had become lost. He grabbed it and bit it, and sucked it to its bones, and slowly, the emptiness that was inside him, began to fill with warmth. And so there, amongst the dead, and the dirt, and the rats, and the Earth, did he eat.

By the morning he had gained something of himself. He walked amongst the living again, gaining stares of the rich and high class, looking at him assuming he was some sort of beggar. Their stares were a mix of shock at his presence and a disdain for his existence. But he was too far away from them in his mind to understand such abstract things. He was a wandering animal, a lost dog, knowing somewhere was his home but he could not find it. He limped a little, and his head throbbed with new bones provided by the blood. He curled over and held himself as he walked, the hunger and the coldness returning to him slowly.

It was by mere accident he come across them. Perhaps he had traced his steps unknowingly, or on some level remembered something of the life he'd lived before his death. Either way he saw her through the window. She was by then Mina Harker, two months pregnant with a child that would be her son, and named for the man they somewhat still mourned. His presence lingered with them, more so than his. He was not one to be remembered by someone as Mina Harker, who deserved to have the most ignorant of minds, for with ignorance was bliss. No, someone as loathsome as he was best to be forgotten by her. Someone as horribly sad and disgustingly pitiful is best to be ignored. And so, even though he had not let his Master take her, and he was the one to reveal the Master to them, his sacrifice could not be recalled. To them, he was but a stone on the ground.

However, this was most likely best. They had already been through much, it seemed a lot to ask for, to be recalled under such traumatic circumstances. He stood there, in a moment of clarity, watching her from the window. She was putting on some ear rings, talking to her husband. She was laughing, she was smiling. And she looked so alive, and so very beautiful. His clarity left him, and all he wanted was to take her. Not himself, not understanding the ways of things, he selfishly wanted to grab her. Like a child he'd take the things he loved about her for himself. He'd smother her to death, he knew he would. He'd grab her and soak her inside him, so that her beauty and her warmth could forever be with him. The soft skin, the lovely smiles, the smooth and shiny hair, those wonderful eyes, he wanted them. Such a desire was only overwhelmed by the never ending hunger and thirst.

She laughed again, and he looked away. It is most likely then and there he recalled her name, and how he had grown to love her, and even more so the idea of her. The idea of someone so very innocent, so very helpless and small. Someone that in some small way reminded him of himself. The Master has said that she was to be a gift to him, someone to keep the two of them company, a new woman in this new age. But he did not want her, but Master insisted.

A sudden disgusting swept it at his realization. Without warning he realized the horror of eating rats, and the horror of what he was. He tripped over himself and was shaking for the longest time. It did not take him long, to his credit, to recall everything. At least, what he could recall, he never had the greatest memory. He was Renfield, Dracula was his Master, he was in England, Mina loved John, Lucy died, Master wanted Mina. It took him forever to decide what to do next.

Outside Seward's voice was happy for the first time in a long while. The night had come and they stood outside the home, Seward's laughter coming in through the door and walls. Goodbyes were said, thank yous as well before he came home. Abraham Van Helsing had rented himself a home to stay with Seward and the others, to study, to make sure it was over. In another week he'd return for home. Already the boxes were piling up, the luggage getting stored away. He did not expect at this particular night to see the silhouette of a dead man at his window. He was an older man however, his eyes were not what they once were, they did not see him at first. But then the man backed up and froze before the figure who had a halo made up of the moon. The head swayed, unbalanced, sick looking.

"Hello?" Van Helsing called out to the figure.

"Hello."

The voice was dry and quiet, dirt and blood was in his throat and he didn't know how to get it out. Despite it however, Van Helsing immediately knew who it was.

"Renfield…" He approached him.

Renfield curled up, growing tense and smaller as Van Helsing approached him, making the Professor stop and slow.

"Renfield." The man said.

But the man didn't seem to hear.

"Renfield…? Renfield, what happened?"

Renfield's head swayed in the light, then hung down by its own weight.

"I'm not dead." He told Van Helsing.

"Are…are you all right?"

Renfield shook his head violently.

"What do you want?" He asked Renfield.

"My Master." Renfield said clearer than anything he'd said before. "Where is my Master? What have you done to him?"

A repressed fear spread across Van Helsing. He had hardly spoken to Renfield, he did not expect his connection to Dracula would have been this strong. The fear was small but relentless, because he knew, he knew Dracula was dead.

"Renfield, you should rest."

"I've rested long enough."

"You need sleep."

"I've slept enough for the rest of my life."

"You're sick."

"What did you do, Van Helsing? What did you do to my Master?"

They stood in the dark near each other, each not being able to see one another clearly. The two grew silent, and simply stared at each other, waiting for their eyes to adjust.

"How did you find me?" Van Helsing asked, wanting to change the subject.

"I followed you." Renfield looked up.

"Me and Jack?"

"He looks well."

"Yes, he is well. And so is Mina and John they…"

"I saw."

"Yes, I suppose you would have."

"She's going to have a baby isn't she?"

"Yes."

"That's good. Babies are good. Disgusting-looking, but good. She will love a baby."

"She'll be an excellent mother."

"She's fine then?"

A pause.

"What do you mean?" Van Helsing asked.

"…After everything. She and Master…"

"She's doing the best we could expect from her."

Renfield's eyes shined in the light, Van Helsing saw as they fell down to the floor, and the man began to shake all over.

"Master…My Master…he only wanted to touch her." He told Van Helsing. "To take her from this horrible place."

"What of Lucy!?"

Van Helsing snapped, he had after all, worked so long and hard to save that girl.

"Lucy…" Renfield spoke, as if trying to remind himself. "Oh, Lucy…" He shook his head. "Not again, not again, I told him not to! I told him he couldn't do it again! Not again, not to me again!"

Renfield curled up in the dark. He slipped to the walls and fell aback to the corner of the room, onto the floor, where he held himself and shook himself. Van Helsing lowered as well, and began to slowly walk over to him.

Renfield could see the girl's face just then, in his mind. The beautiful pale face that glowed like the stars. So happy, so full of life. Her plump red lips made him dream of the red blood beneath them. How he would have liked to kiss her, and bite into those lips. No! He stopped himself. He stopped himself. He looked up to Van Helsing, he thought of Lucy.

"She reminded me…of a friend of mine." Renfield explained. "But I told him, Van Helsing! I told him not to take her! That he couldn't protect her!" He shook his head. "She came to my window, Van Helsing…she…she…spoke to me…And you killed her!" He yelled at Van Helsing. But he was not angry. He seemed almost happy. "You took her from my Master! Did…did you do it gently? Did you handle her with care…?"

"Renfield, you need to rest."

"Don't touch me, old man!"

"Renfield, please, rest."

Van Helsing rose in that instance, and went over to his table where there was a case filled with all sorts of things a man like he would have. Included in this variety was a drug and a syringe.

"You're all so stupid." Renfield was muttering. "Each one of you. You always were. Always thinking you know what's going on! I have lived for…four hundred years and I don't even know what's going on!"

Van Helsing raised his head at this comment, but quickly returned to getting together his syringe.

"God, how long have I been away?" Renfield cried out. "How long was I in that hole!?"

He sounded on the verge of tears. Suddenly and abruptly he could not maintain a conversation any more. Renfield was in the throws of his own head, without clarity, without guidance. That which brought him peace of mind was gone and far from him, he felt it. When all things are going awry within him he knew there was still one thing he always had, and that was his Master. But there was no Master here or there. The soothing presence, the calming and cold touch, it was gone, it was gone and he could not think. Everything was moving fast, presently and in the past, everything coming up again, uncontrollably.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this!" He screamed. "I'm not supposed to be here! Where's my Master? What have you done with my Master?" He voice grew more and more accusing. "What did you do, old man!? Did you take him away? Did you get rid of him to save Miss Mina? Oh…Oh Mina! You poor pitiful thing!"

He slammed his head into the wall.

"Master…Where are you now? Are you home, Master? Why didn't you take me with you, Master?"

"Renfield…"

"I'm supposed to keep you, Master…You've got to stay with me…"

He calmed down, as if exhausting himself. Van Helsing slowly lowered down to him, careful not to touch him. Then with out warning he stabbed the syringe into Renfield's neck, injecting him with something that would force him to sleep. Renfield screamed and pushed him away. He grabbed at his neck and stood up in a panic. Instinctively he felt danger, without thinking he ran across the room, stumbling in the dark on papers and chairs. He was screaming, panting, too horrified by what had just happened to think.

"Damn you!" Renfield yelled at Van Helsing. "Damn you, damn you, go and suffer in Hell!"

But Van Helsing did not move. He wondered how effective the drug would be on someone like Renfield, so with an educated guess, he gave Renfield double the normal amount. He watched as in the dark Renfield slowly staggered and his head fell on his shoulders.

"No…you - you horrible man." Renfield was saying. "You didn't have to…"

He staggered towards Van Helsing, with heavy footsteps, grabbing a hold of the table. He found the case on the table and threw it at the old Vampire Hunter, then he turned and paced in a circle, panting, fighting off the drug. But it was enough and it was inside him, slowly making the body sleep despite its efforts. And after a moment Renfield fell to the floor, knocked out cold.

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What if Renfield was something more than just a madman?

He'll go home, and will the Master be there?

To be continued.