The Hunter's Journal
Disclaimer: I don't own Dracula. It has gone on into the public domain but has been recently re-claimed by the Stoker family. So Dracula belongs to Stoker yet again. No infringement intended.
Author's Notes: I was inspired by a fanfic I read about the Three Musketeers where descendants of the original musketeers (in present day) meet up, get to know each other, and pledge to take up their ancestors' role of protecting the innocent. This story will mostly be written in Jayce Harker's POV. Jayce Harker is a descendant of none other than Jonathan Harker of course.
My name is Jason Rufus Harker. Jayce for short. Last scion of the Harker family and last living descendant of Jonathan Harker, a vampire hunter. And this is my story. I was made aware of my heritage the day I packed for college. And it was then that I took on the heavy mantle of responsibility that had passed down from one Harker to the next all down the line, beginning from Quincy Harker who had been taught in the "art" of vampire hunting by his father Jonathan Harker. But apparently, Dad has forsaken that road and turned his back on hunting the undead. I guess you could say he didn't want to burden me with it. But destiny has a way of catching up with you. And try as my dad might, he could not shield me from what was to come—my destiny. My fate. Becoming the sworn enemy of Vlad Dracula's brood.
"Jayce? Jayce!" my dad called from downstairs, "Can you help me with these boxes? These are your stuff, for cryin' out loud!"
I couldn't hear him. Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, Coldplay, and Nickelback were blaring from my player. I had it on loud.
"Jason Rufus Harker!" my dad roared, as he came up from behind and dragged me backward off my seat. I screamed. I cussed.
"You listen to me when I'm telling you something!"
"Well, looks like you won't be having a problem with that anymore, will you?" I said, getting up, "'Cause I'm packing!"
"No," my dad said, still seething, "We're packing, you're sitting pretty over there, chatting with your friends and turning the speaker on loud!"
I took the offending box from him and trudged down the stairs. As I trudged angrily, I almost lost my balance, nearly tripping. Some of the stuff fell out and I realized that the box my dad was making me carry was filled not with my stuff but with things my mom thought of disposing during a yard sale for my college fund. If we sold enough, my money could last half the semester. I picked up the scattered pieces of junk and replaced them in the box. All except one. It was a leather journal. Dark brown, almost maroon in color. In gold were the initials J.H. It had a title on it. Jonathan Harker's Journal (Also Known as the History of Dracula). Compiled by Abraham Stoker. With excerpts of letters from Prof. Van Helsing, etcetera.
It was probably my dad's last resort of hiding my heritage from me—to stamp out all trace of our family's hunting background. Curiosity took over my anger and I opened it. I read.
Jonathan Harker's Journal (Kept in shorthand)
3 May. Bistritz. Left Munich at 8:35 P.M, on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible.
The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish rule.
We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh. Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem. get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called "paprika hendl," and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians.
I found my smattering of German very useful here, indeed, I don't know how I should be able to get on without it.
Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country.
I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe.
I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our own Ordnance Survey Maps ; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Mina.
In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities: Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and Szekelys in the East and North. I am going among the latter, who claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it.
I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (Mem., I must ask the Count all about them.)
I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then.
I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which they said was "mamaliga", and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call "impletata". (Mem., get recipe for this also.)
I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to the station at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour before we began to move.
I was about to go on reading but I heard my dad approach. I knew he didn't want me to see that. Why else would he include it in the list of things to sell?
"Jayce," he said, pausing at the top of the stairs, "Are you fi—?" He could not finish. He was pale. White. As if he had just seen a ghost.
"Dad," I said, confronting the issue head-on, "Who was Jonathan Harker?"
This was the moment of truth. He couldn't hide anything from me any longer. Seeing this, he cleared his throat and made his way down.
In a raspy voice, he said, "I owe you the truth, don't I? You want some lemonade?"
"I'd love some," I said. And following him into the kitchen, my heart raced with anticipation. I was to learn about my ancestor. And so, in that yellow-painted kitchen, Dad and I sat at the counter, drinking lemonades while he told me the complete history of Jonathan Harker and the bloodthirsty demon known as Count Dracula.
The beginning of my independent life was going to be a blast. I was excited. And I took up the mantle—the responsibility, the destiny, of being a vampire hunter. Nothing could distract me at the moment. Not my nerves, not Melissa Sass, not anything.
