!Warning: M (16+)-rated themes: Depiction of blood, cruelty and violence against animals.
- IV -
In A Frenzy
"Renfield is a vampire?" Dr Jekyll sceptically repeated after Dr Frankenstein's statement. "You mean he believes to be such a creature."
"No, Henry," Victor replied in a serious tone. "I mean he actually is."
"Is this some morphine induced phantasm of yours? Or are you trying to fool me?" Jekyll growled, enraged. "If the latter is the case, then I must inform you that this is not funny, not after what happened to me!"
The physician simply ignored the insulting words referring to his overcome addiction.
"I wish I was joking, my dear friend," he emphasised. "But there are things under the sun we cannot yet understand, forms of beings still a mystery to the scientific world. Trust me, I saw them with my own eyes."
"You saw a vampire?" Henry's cynical tone gave away his outright disbelief.
"Saw them, fought them, examined them, dissected them," Frankenstein specified, gritting his teeth. "The night we last met, after you had left to make your rounds, I walked into some friends who were about to visit said Mr Renfield and we went to his cell together. He showed all the symptoms of vampirism, not just mental, but physical ones, unusual transparency of skin, sudden change of eye colour."
"How can you tell these symptoms were not side effects of his delusion?" Jekyll hissed.
"Because it is not a delusion, Henry!" Victor answered forcefully, and his words rang in his friend's ear like the stroke of Big Ben when crossing Westminster Bridge. He had heard those exact words before.
Henry must have stared at the physician quite aghast, for Victor touched his shoulder, asking if he was alright.
"I think..." Jekyll sucked in the mouldy basement air. "I think, I remember something. There was a woman..."
"What woman?" Frankenstein inquired, eager for him to go on.
"I don't know... Her face, it is covered by a veil of mist." The chemist rubbed his eyes with his palms, sighing frustratedly.
After a moment of silent pondering, Victor spoke up again. "I believe without your memory we cannot investigate this strange case further and I myself cannot help you regain what was lost."
Henry gave an unsatisfied snort, whereupon Frankenstein smirked astute.
"But maybe I know someone who can."
It was freezing when Renfield bid the seller of an impressively luxurious mansion at the other side of Hampstead Heath goodbye. Fortunately, he only had to cross the dark park to get back home, for the unusual cold unpleasantly crept up his limbs and his every breath turned to ice. This third estate he had visited today definitely was the most appropriate so far and he already had made an appointment for a second viewing together with Lady Godalming.
Oh, his Lady, his Mistress! The mere thought of her warmed his heart and made him forget the glistening frost. At the same time his unanswered feelings, his unfulfilled longing for her began to become unbearable. No words could describe how much he wanted to touch her every time they were sitting together, how desperately he craved for her fragile form, her fair flesh, a taste of her sweetest blood.
He had been attracted by several women, more or less beautiful, during his mortal life, and he had been obsessed with Vanessa Ives, because the Master had been, and he had shared his every emotion back then. But with Lucy Holmwood it was different, so much more intense, so much more real. She was right there within his grasp and though she was not, still unreachable, untouchable, her comforting embrace inside the tomb a non-recurring exception.
The freshly fallen snow cracked under his shoes as he walked the way through the heath, when suddenly a noise caught his attention. It sounded like an animalistic sound of some kind, coming from behind the reed to his right. With the help of his augmented sight, he soon beheld two swans hissing at him from the frozen ornamental lake, for he seemed to have passed their sleeping place too closely for their comfort.
What lovely birds they were, their white coats an image of innocence, their fragile shapes the nature of grace! Just like her, his beautiful, beautiful Lady.
He aloofly watched them for a while, rising from the snow and in an aggressive gesture unfolding their wings to scare him away, until he became aware that there was a grave difference between this pair and his Mistress and himself. They were two of a kind, undistinguishable from each other, an inseparable couple, lovers together forever in innermost intimacy, while he would never be more than a faithful servant to Lucy.
With this thought something within his mind snapped – whether it was his patience or his reason and sanity he did not know – and was replaced by a feral urge, a wild appetite. Renfield suddenly felt the overwhelming desire to kill these animals, to destroy the innocent birds' eternal bond, their idyllic world. Why should they be together while he was alone? If he could not be loved, no one and nothing should be!
His heart beat like a drum in envy and hate as he took a step towards the lake and then, suddenly lunged at the swans. Thanks to his increased reflexes and strength he was able to catch and hold the first bird by its long neck before it could flee and he drove his nails into its soft white feathers until they turned red. Accompanied by loud clamour, it desperately tried to free itself from his grip, while its partner attempted to defend it by just as noisily attacking him with beak and wings, but both efforts were in vain.
He seized the second swan as well and forced the two of them to the frozen soil, where he watched their agonised writhing in pleasure before ending their feverish cries with a brisk movement of his hand. Their spines broke with a crack almost as loud as their voice. Renfield stared into their now dulled eyes for a moment. Then, without a second thought, he savaged their corpses, tore apart their coats, their throats, their chests with his bare hands until fountains of crimson sprang from their mutilated bodies and he knelt down to savour every drop. He drank and drank from their necks and their hearts, while around him, feathers fell like snow unto the cold, sparkling ground.
John Clare sat on a bench in Hampstead Heath, not in his usual spot, but closer to the middle of the park where the winter moon shone through the branches of white, frost covered trees. As he did not feel the cold in his undead bones, he was able to write down his verses without being hindered by the cloth of gloves. Still, his hands as always slightly trembled from the excitement of expressing his feelings.
The winter comes; I walk alone,
I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts their own
The winter is the spring.
No flowers...
John started up from his notes, alarmed by horrible shrieks. At first he could not imagine who or what would utter such sounds, but soon he realised they had to be the agonising cries of large birds, coming from the lake nearby. He put the paper and pen in his pocket and stood up, carefully, but swiftly heading towards the waterside.
If there was some beast of prey or a rabid dog attacking the overwintering animals, he would scare it away. The park was supposed to be a safe space for both human and non-human visitors. Furthermore, he himself appreciated the usually peaceful atmosphere when writing.
Halfway down to his destination, the cries suddenly stopped, but he kept on walking, still worried and determined to find out what had caused the racket in the first place. Finally arriving at the lake, he had to bend down several bunches of reed, before he beheld an abhorrent, obscene and bizarre sight.
Not a fox or dog, but the dark figure of a man was crouched over what seemed to be the carcasses of two swans, lacerated and scattered over the frozen ground, their blood dyeing both the snow and the remains of their coats in blackish red. Stained feathers eerily tumbled through the cold air, grotesquely mimicking snowflakes. To his disgust John could now hear slurping and smacking sounds as well as heavy, fervid breathing.
Had he still been mortal, he would have fled that nightmarish scene in an instance, for even a glimpse of it awoke every possible primal fear within one's body, caused one's every hair to stand on end, every nerve to stretch. But he was no human being anymore, afraid more of himself than anyone or anything else, and so he took another step forward, seized the figure by its collar and hauled it up to its feet. In a quick and brutal motion, he turned it around and his eyes widened in shock. Not because the young man's face was covered in blood, not because of his insanely, inhumanly sparkling eyes, but because he knew him.
It was Lady Godalming's servant, the one she had brought along from the lunatic asylum – a place this abominable creature surely would still fit in very well. Growling and baring pointy, blood-stained teeth, he struggled to free himself from his captor's grip, but John relentlessly held him up, using his left hand to grasp his throat.
He felt the strong urge to choke the life out of that filthy little bastard for butchering the innocent birds of Apollo, symbols of poetic souls, destined to sing a beautiful song before their natural death, not to cry in agony while being slaughtered. But then he thought of the lady in white and what she would think of him if she found out that he had killed her servant. He did not want to appear like a monster to anyone anymore, especially not to her, not to the lovely, lonely lady! And so, he let go of the madman's neck and instead dragged him away from the lake by the lapels of his blood drenched suit.
"Come along, you rabid cur!" Clare spat at him, his voice oozing with disgust. "I'll return you to your mistress."
Lucy Holmwood had just finished the last chapter of the book she had been reading, when the sound of the doorbell reached her ears and she wondered who would visit her at such a late hour. Had she still been her old, mortal self, she would never have opened, in fear of the countless criminals and dubious figures that roamed the streets of London, but nowadays she did not need to be afraid of them anymore. On the contrary, they would do well to shake in their boots at her sight. And so, she stood up from her seat, pulled the velvet robe tighter around her shoulders and went for the main portal.
The oaken door creaked in its hinges and a gush of icy air streamed into the entrance hall, bringing with it a handful of white flakes, although it was not snowing outside. Lady Godalming realised the tumbling little things to be feathers and bewilderedly looked up at the two figures standing at the threshold.
The first one, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a shabby greatcoat with long black hair, pale pitted skin and strange yellow eyes, she did not know. The other, however, looked quite familiar to her under the crust of mud, filthy down and dried blood that covered his face, stuck to his hair and had completely ruined his expensive suit and shirt.
"My God, Mr Renfield, what have you done?" she uttered, aghast.
Her servant's pale blue eyes lit with the impure spark of feverish, fervent lunacy and his lips curled up in an insanely coveting grin. Then, in a raving growl he answered:
"I dined with the swans!"
Author's note:
This chapter is a songfic, inspired by "I Dined With The Swans" by The Vision Bleak, one of my favourite bands. If you like gothic/doom metal I recommend lending an ear to them, they are awesome :)