Dr. Seward's Diary, cont.—We took our turns keeping vigil by Arthur's bedside. Jonathan kept the first watch, while I kept the second watch. As I was sitting by Arthur's bedside, my back turned to the windows and fireplace, a strange occurrence happened.

A storm had broken, and rain splattered sickeningly against the windowpanes and against the glass. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled.

Presently, Arthur awoke with a start. "Morris," he whispered, hoarsely. I tried to pacify him and coaxed him to go back to sleep. But he raised himself with much difficulty and said, "Morris!" He was in a paroxysm of fear and terror! Panic gripped my heart!

I said to him, "Morris has been long gone, Arthur. Quincey Morris has passed on. He died in our final battle to save Mina's life and soul."

I administered an opiate, but by-and-by, he tried to rouse himself, once more, and repeated himself. "Morris!"

At that same exact moment, thunder crashed and lightning flashed, and wind swept into the room. The windows flew open and the curtains fluttered in the gusty wind like phantasms dancing in the night! The fire on the hearth was put out, and presently, I went to have a look—and to shut the window. By God, I swear I saw Quincey Morris's face in the window; he, standing without, in the pouring rain! He! As whole, alive, and as young as when we saw him last! I recoiled and tried to coax myself into thinking that my eyes were only playing tricks on me. Or was my mind going, like the minds of my patients at the ward? Perhaps I am working myself too hard! Was it the lightning? Yes, it must've been! For when another bolt from heaven flashed on the scene, I could find no trace of the late Quincey Pearce Morris. Could Arthur—with his words—have struck fear into my heart? A fear so strong that I imagined it materializing before me?

Dear God! Another thought formed in my mind! What if Arthur had been right? What if he had seen Quincey? Was it possible he was alive? Was Quincey alive?

That could mean—

Merciful Saviour! Quincey Morris has returned as the Undead! Vampyre! Nosferatu! But how? How could this have happened? Had he been in contact with the Count before his death? Had he been in contact with Lucy? Good God! Quincey Morris has returned as a creature of the night—a demon! I must convey my thoughts to Jonathan and Mina that we may warn the young ones!

___

Lucy Holmwood's Journal

18 May—I woke up, this morning, with a start! Oh, what a dream I've had! I know it is foolish to believe such superstitions, but I believe something they call a succubus came to me, last night! I remember! I have seen her portrait hanging on the wall in the manor's oldest wing! Miss Westenra was her name, I believe. She was the first woman that Father ever loved.

She came to me in a dream, last night. She was surrounded by children—all of them—deathly pale! She said something to me about fulfilling my destiny! And the most horrid thing happened! I was frozen in my bed, unable to move—rendered paralyzed—when suddenly, she opened her mouth, bent down, kissed my neck, and bit into my flesh! Oh, God! It is horrid! I touched my throat to feel if there were any wounds. Thank Heaven, I found none!

I rushed to the library as soon as I had made myself presentable, and searched for any books we had that touched upon the subject of the succubae and incubi.

I found Quincey in the library, and what transpired between us was powerful enough to make me forget my dream of the previous night—to cast it aside!

When I had finished recounting my dream to him, he pulled me into a tight embrace and kissed me on the lips!

I tried to push him away and free myself from his grasp, but that only served to make him cling to me all the more! He lavished on me a stream of passionate kisses! I dare say I liked it! God, what am I saying? A woman of my station must not say these things!

But my heart is full of joy, at the moment! I feel as though I am afloat on a cloud! Oh, Quincey!

How he poured his love-making to me from his heart!

After he had lavished me with kisses, he drew me to himself, once more, and said to me, "Hush, darling! No demon will ever harm you. The Devil himself may try, but I am prepared to face him! Lucy, I love you with all my heart. Believe me, love. I have loved you ever since I could remember. And I will always love you. Always."

He pressed my cheek tightly against his, and oh! what comfort I felt at the feel of his skin against mine! His arms were wrapped so naturally around me that it felt as though it was meant to be there.

"Quincey," said I, whispering into his ear, "I love you."

I looked into his eyes and professed my undying love for him. I said, "I have always loved you, Quincey. Always, dearest. You don't know how many years I've waited for this! I love you. I was hurt every time you would hint that you only thought of me as a friend! Oh, Quincey! I love you."

At this, Quincey silenced me with another kiss. After a few moments, he broke the kiss and said to me, "My darling, I am truly sorry if ever I hurt you. If I said I saw you only as a friend, it was because I did not know how to act, and I feared making a fool of myself in your presence. I did not know how you would react. Would you return my love? Would you shun me?"

Whereupon, I impulsively kissed his lips. "Hush, darling," said I, whispering into his ear, "There is nothing to forgive."

After professing our undying love for each other, Quincey took my hand, kissed it, and led me over to the settee. We sat facing each other, his hand in mine. Suddenly, he stood up and moved to kneel on the parquet floor. Taking my hand and kissing it, he said, "Love, I wish to marry you. I can only hope that you feel the same. Would you do me the honor of being Mrs. Quincey Harker?"

At that moment, I felt as though my heart would burst with joy! "Oh, Quincey! I would want nothing more than to be your happy wife!" said I, "I love you. I will marry you. I will be your wife!"

At this, he kissed my hand, once more, and sat down beside me on the settee. We kissed; an expression of our newly-awakened love. The doors opened, and in came Winslow!

"Breakfast, madam!" he announced, "The others are waiting in the garden."

I turned, suddenly, and the butler must've seen my ire, for he tentatively withdrew.

"I am very sorry to disturb you, madam," said he, nervously, "But the others have been waiting for you and Master Quincey."

"It's alright, Winslow," said I, maintaining a calm voice, despite my apparent irritation, "At least have the decency to knock first, before you enter, next time." I smiled. The butler bowed and shyly withdrew, leaving Quincey and I to ourselves.

Presently, he returned and said, "Congratulations, madam. May you and Master Quincey be blessed with many a brood."

If only things were always happy! What with Father's impending death! Dear God!

___

Quincey Harker's Journal

18 May, morning—As I had promised myself—or rather, predicted—I did not sleep the entire night! I did not—forgive the pun—bat an eye! Good God! I would not have believed Father and Mother's stories, had it not been for the evidence before me! But still... Doubt lingers on in my mind. What if Father is mad? No! I cannot think he is mad! To say that he is mad would be to say that Mother is mad! And to say that Uncle John and Uncle Abraham are mad! And it would mean saying that Uncle Arthur was mad! Needless to say, Uncle Abraham was right when he said, "We have become God's madmen—all of us!"

So it is! It is true that the late Quincey Morris died saving Mother's life! It is true that a demon named Dracula had once walked the earth! Dear God! I would have dismissed them as bedtime stories were it not for Mother and Father's transcripts of their journals! And Uncle John's journals!

Mother was right. It was "a soul crying out to God." Renfield, Ms. Westenra, The Demeter, the wolf, everything... All of it is true. But how can this be true? I cannot seem to shake the dark clouds of doubt that arise in my mind! I am dazed! I am dazzled! Somehow, I feel in my heart that all this is the truth; but there is a part of me that is stubborn! I must find a way to kill this unbelieving part of me, as they have killed the evil incarnation of Ms. Westenra, on that night, decades ago...

Hold that thought! That gives me an idea! Later, I shall ask Uncle John to take me to Ms. Westenra's crypt—to validate proof that she had indeed died at Uncle Arthur's hands...

I shall try and broach the subject when I see him. Hush! Here comes Ms. Holmwood!

___

Later.—Lord! What a fool I was! Like the Apostle Thomas of long ago, I have now seen and believed! I have placed my hands where the wound was! After luncheon, I asked Uncle Arthur to take me to the cemetery where Ms. Westenra was buried.

On the way, I asked him to recount to me what had happened that night they freed her soul from that dreadful curse.

"Have you not read the journals?" said he, raising his eyebrow.

"I have," said I, "But I want to make sure. That is why I asked you to accompany me to the crypt."

(Lord! How my hands shake as I write this entry! My penmanship grows worse with every twitch of my hand!) Uncle John considered my answer, and as we drove, retold the story of Ms. Westenra's "true death."

Good God! How horrifying! It is just as Mum had recorded in the transcripts of all their journals! We alighted and pushed our way past the gates. We found the Westenra tomb with no difficulty and Uncle John opened the door to the crypt. God, how dismal! Everything seemed to be in a state of disrepair and neglect! I was aware of nauseous whiff of musty air—of dust, of mildew, of molds! I assumed that Uncle Arthur had not visited the crypt in a long time. I suddenly felt sorry for the old man! How he must've felt as he drove the stake into Ms. Westenra's heart! Oh! I pray to God that the same fate shall not befall Lucy and I! Oh!

I also felt pity for the memory of Ms. Westenra. To lie in such a state of neglect! But who could blame Uncle Arthur or Uncle John? Or even Mother and Father? Such a painful memory! I cannot blame them for neglecting the crypt.

Presently, after our eyes had been accustomed to the darkness, and I had gotten over the smell of dust, we descended the steps.

When we came to Ms. Westenra's sarcophagus, I helped Uncle John remove the lid. We also had to remove the lid of the coffin inside the sarcophagus. Lo, and behold! There it was! Dust and mold had gathered in the coffin, but I could make out—with the help of the lantern—a sharp, pointed wooden stake, decaying with age! A part of it had been sawed off—as has been recorded in the journals! Good God! It was there! I, a Doubting Thomas, have seen and touched the wound with my own eyes and hands!

I had come out of that crypt a changed man!