January 1898
It had taken him a week to get to his destination. The castle still stood and the local people were still afraid. Were it not for the Gypsies, Jack Seward would be stranded at the train station. They waited, not because they wished to help him, only due to the heavy bag of coins that was promised if they stayed. Nodding at them, he warily walks towards the threatening castle doors. The bitter wind snaps at his cheeks and he is grateful that the doors, although heavy, open with relative ease. He is on his own and no-one knows he is here. There is no going back now.
Stepping into the large entrance hall, Jack is grateful that his torch had not been blown out by the cruel wind. He lights more torches which adorn the walls and then pulls the miniature portrait from his pocket and caresses the face within it. My Lucy. I will set things right. Looking from left to right, he cautiously heads towards the direction of the Chapel. He must find him.
He must find Dracula.
As he opens the wooden doors which lead to God's place of worship, the smell of death is overwhelming. Of course, with his prominent position in mental health, he has been exposed to death on numerous occasions. He has seen violent death, the kind of death that makes you question why we, as humans, even exist. However, the death in this room has left a mark, a mark of tragedy, a mark of great sadness. Holding a pew for support, emotions course through him like wildfire. Pain, loss, desire, revenge, love. It is too much. He feels lightheaded, overloaded with feeling. Sitting down with his head in his hands, he pauses to think. Is this what Dracula felt? Am I feeling what he feels? He was always one to look for scientific evidence, always the one that would sneer at folk who believed in mediums, ghosts, life after death. The past few months had changed him though. He had seen creatures of the night, he had seen Lucy alive, after being pronounced dead. She was as beautiful then as she was in her former life. He had seen things that many people would not believe. Perhaps he should be a patient in his own asylum? Chuckling at the thought, his laughter echoed in the great room. This is not a place for laughter, I must be careful.
Composing himself, he looked towards the altar. There, as if it were done yesterday, laid Dracula's corpse.
Jack could not believe it. It had been two months, not two days. Yes, the cold may have preserved the corpse to some extent, but the fact that Dracula's blood still lay on the ground was beyond medical belief. He shivered with dread. Was he really going to do this? Fingering the edges of Lucy's portrait in his pocket, he stood with determination. Yes, he had to do this. He had to do this for her.
He had lost count of how many tears he had sobbed for Lucy. When Dracula was defeated he thought it would bring him closure. How wrong he was. If anything, he found the pain worsened. Everyone around him carried on with their lives; Harker became successful in his business, Mina a dutiful wife, Van Helsing had scarpered back to Europe, Holmwood became engaged to another high-class woman of society…oh yes, it didn't take him long to move on, did it? Clearly he didn't really love Lucy, not like he did. Yes, Jack Seward had loved and lost; his heart was tired of aching. Even moving closer to Lucy's old holiday home in Whitby didn't help. He dreamt of her every night and every morning he would wake up in tears. Two weeks earlier, he had decided that that was it. He had had enough. Formulating this plan had kept him going, his mind suddenly springing back into action as if being dulled by grief for too long. It had been a long time since Jack had felt hope.
Opening the bag beside him, he surveys his kit. Vials, needles, scalpel. He wasn't sure if he brought the right things, but he had to make do. Jack was sure that he would need to take to take as much of the blood from the floor as possible. He began his work, methodically and meticulously filling each vial with as much of the Dark Prince's elixir as possible. When Jack was satisfied, he started his attention on the corpse itself. The head was a little way over from the body; gently, he placed it next to the neck. Any soft tissue or pieces of flesh dispelled from the corpse were collected and sealed. He did not rush, he wanted to make sure nothing was left behind. Stray hairs that littered the floor were gathered and safely added, like precious cargo, to his bag. Satisfied with his work so far, he stood and looked towards the Chapel door. Jack would now need the Gypsies help for transporting the body.
As Dracula's head and corpse were carefully placed in a box of consecrated earth, Jack spied a glimmer out the corner of his eye. The sword. The sword that killed Dracula. He ordered the Gypsies to take the box outside and ready the carriages to leave. Now alone in the Chapel, he picks up the deadly weapon and inspects it. No blood, it is clean. He knew what he needed to do, he could remember Mina describing how, when Dracula was dying, the Crucifix mended itself. If he did this, he really would be a forsaken man. He was going to make a pact with the Devil himself, for his own selfish reasons. No matter. Only Lucy mattered. He would get her back, and this was crucial to the plan. Where was God when he needed Him most? How could God treat Lucy the way He did? There was only one he knew of who had the power to bring Lucy back to him. Dracula would be revived, even if it killed him. Bring back Dracula, bring back Lucy. Gripping the sword, and with an almighty breath, he thrust it into the centre of the giant Crucifix at the altar.
The scar tissue reopens. Blood drips from the open wound.
Jack turned away from the altar, from his faith, and stepped outside towards darkness.
"Ready the horses, I- no, we, must get back to England."