Dracula (A Modern Telling) Read online

  DRACULA

  A MODERN TELLING

  VICTOR METHOS

  Copyright 2013 Victor Methos

  Kindle Edition

  License Statement

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy.

  Please note that this is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All events in this work are purely from the imagination of the author and are not intended to signify, represent, or reenact any event in actual fact.

  BY VICTOR METHOS

  Jon Stanton Thrillers

  The White Angel Murder

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  Arsonist

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  Plague (A Medical Thriller)

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  Superhero (An Action Thriller)

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  Savage: A Novel of Madness

  Sea Creature

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  Clone Hunter

  Star Dreamer: The Early Science Fiction of Victor Methos

  Humor

  Earl Lindquist: Accountant and Zombie Killer

  Philosophical Fiction

  Existentialism and Death on a Paris Afternoon

  To contact the author, learn about his latest adventures, get tips on starting your own adventures, or learn about upcoming releases, please visit the author’s blog at http://methosreview.blogspot.com/

  No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and dear to his heart and eye the morning can be.

  ― Bram Stoker

  [email protected] to [email protected]

  JonHarker.blogspot.com

  May 3. 5:26 pm

  (Mina, you asked that I cc you on all my blog posts so you’re the first to read them, so here you go. I’ll try not to swear too much ;) Check out the photos I post too.

  First Blog Post of the Trip

  I can’t tell you guys how excited I am to be in LA! It’s my first time on the West Coast and so far I haven’t seen anything but people in shorts and sandals (makes Boston look like the Arctic).

  I tried sleeping on the flight here but I kept having weird dreams. I was standing on a hill and I heard a dog howling somewhere. But it was like I was awake in my dream hearing the howling out in the real world. I’d wake up and ask the stewardess who brought the dog on the plane and she’d look at me like I was insane.

  Getting a cab here was a hassle and two cabbies nearly got into a fight over who had seen me first. A large man with spikey green hair eventually won the argument and I climbed into his cab and we left LAX.

  The cab smelled like strong paprika and alcohol, but was clean. He asked me where I was going and I told him Carpathian Road in Holmby Hills. He gave me an odd look and asked what I was doing there.

  “I’m a journalist,” I said.

  “Yeah? For who?”

  “Rolling Stone. Freelance. I’m here to interview Blood Burn.”

  “The band? They’re kick ass. My girl’s in love with that singer. What’s his name?”

  “Vlad Dracula. He calls himself the Count.”

  “Yeah, she’s in love with that dude. That’s awesome, man. I wish I could be there with ya.”

  We drove for what I guessed was about an hour on the 405, heading south. The freeways were busy but there were palm trees at every turn and the temperature never dipped below 80, so it was a pleasant drive. It would have been quicker not to, but I forced him to stop at the beach so I could take a quick walk through the sand barefoot and snap some photos.

  A young girl was there sipping from a straw and some boy, who I can only assume was her older brother, ran up and knocked it out of her hand. She began to cry. I looked around but didn’t see a parent anywhere. I saw the stand she had bought the drink from: pink lemonade. I bought one and a cotton candy and brought it to her. She smiled and said “thank you” in her cute little voice and ran off.

  When we were back on the road, the cabbie was swerving a bit. That’s when I noticed the smell of weed and knew he had smoked a bowl while I was on the beach. I didn’t care. The sun was bright in a clear blue sky and I was near the ocean.

  We found a quaint little hotel that the Count had arranged, or more likely his assistants had arranged for me. It was called the Golden Krone Hotel but was really just a bed and breakfast. It was run by an elderly couple that met me at the door. She wore a white apron that was stained, and had a thick Eastern European accent as she invited me in. The old man immediately went to another room and came back with a letter and handed it to me. I read it before going inside.

  My Friend,

  Welcome to Los Angeles. I’m anxiously waiting to see you and tell you my story. Have a good sleep tonight. Tomorrow I’m sending my driver to personally escort you here. I hope your flight here was a happy one and that you’ll enjoy your time here in my beautiful city.

  -Your Friend, Dracula

  @JonathanHarker27 Love this place

  6 days ago | Photo Filter: Normal

  @JonathanHarker27 The Golden Krone “Hotel” where I’m staying.

  6 days ago | Photo Filter: Rise

  May 4th

  Another Sleepless Night, But Not as Bad

  I slept more tonight than on the flight but I kept having those dreams of howling dogs. I hope I’m not getting sick or something. My guess is that it’s just fatigue and that after a few more nights of sleep I won’t feel it at all.

  I did sleep some closer to morning and then the old lady came and woke me up. After a breakfast of eggs and toast, I asked the old man, who was reading a newspaper, how he’d gotten to know Count Dracula. He pretended not to hear me at first, though I could see his hearing aids. He’d understood me just fine last night.

  “We don’t know anything about him,” the woman said as she cleared the plates.

  “You have to know something. He booked me here out of all the hotels in LA.”

  The old man finally said, “We don’t know anything about him. Leave it at that.”

  The two of them glanced to each other and I could’ve sworn they seemed frightened. But then they went back to what they were doing so I didn’t bring it up again.

  They chatted about mundane matters and spoke to me about what Los Angeles had been like in the 1950s, when they were young and just starting life. We had a pastry made of a delicious strawberry pie and heavy whipped cream with coffee to drink, and I listened to them tell their stories of places and people that no longer existed. A time that had come and gone but that was so fresh in their minds that they seemed to still live there.

  I went upstairs afterwards and, after a quick shower and a change of clothes, I was packing in my room when the old woman came in. She stood at the door a moment before speaking.

  “Do you have to go?” she said.

  “Yeah, but I’ve really enjoyed my night here. You have a lovely home.”

  “Don’t you know what day it is?”

  “May fourth.”

  “No, but the day. It’s the eve of St. George’s Day.”

  I smiled. “I’m sorry, I’m not very religious.”

  “At midnight tonight is one of the most dangerous days to be out. Evil is allowed to roam freely at midnight.” She stepped into the room and gently took my hand in hers. �
��Please don’t go. Just wait one night. Tomorrow you will go down and do what you must, but do not leave tonight. Please.” She took both my hands in hers, as if begging me. I could see tears in her eyes. “Don’t go, please.”

  I helped her up and could see how distressed she was about the whole thing. It didn’t make me feel comfortable to be in this situation but I figured the elderly always have their superstitions. Finally, she dried her eyes and took a rosary off her neck and put it around mine. You know me, Mina—and my dear readers—and know that I’m a rabid atheist, but I couldn’t deny an elderly lady in such a fragile state so I let her do it.

  “For your mother’s sake,” she said, and then left the room.

  May 4th-Continued

  I’m writing this post from my Mac sitting outside waiting for the driver. I don’t know if it was the rosary or the elderly woman crying or how weird they got when I mentioned the Count, but I didn’t feel comfortable in there so I came outside. It wasn’t until about one in the afternoon that the old woman informed me that the driver would only come at dark. I decided I wouldn’t spend the day sitting around watching television so I went for a long walk, came back for lunch, and then took another long walk, snapping photos the whole way.

  Los Angeles has a different feel to it than the east coast. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I imagine it’s something like ancient Rome where you can sense culture collapsing around you, but everyone is joyfully—or maybe miserably—partaking in its collapse.

  I saw a homeless couple having sex in a small park that was littered with used syringes. I saw a gang of kids fighting in the street and a police car drove by, glanced at them, and kept driving.

  Amidst this, I saw museums, art galleries, and a coffee shop holding a poetry slam. It was like they were oblivious to the chaos going on outside.

  But I’m tired now, and sitting out here as the sun sets is about the only thing in the world I can think of to do. I hear something in the distance though, like a car, but something’s off with it.

  Here comes the driver now! I’ll write again as soon as I can.

  May 5th

  The Castle

  The driver looked like he’d been on a heroin binge for the past two weeks. He stepped out of the car and came up to me and I could smell the stink of alcohol on his breath. The BO coming off of him made my nostrils burn.

  “You Jon Harker?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wait here.”

  He went and talked to the elderly couple at the door of the hotel and they were speaking in a language I didn’t recognize but I would guess Polish or something similar. I kept hearing one word: diavol. I heard it enough that I was curious what it meant, so I got onto Google Translate and searched it in a few different languages. I got a hit on Romanian. It means, “Satan.”

  I gotta remember to ask the Count about all this superstitious BS with the elderly lady and the driver.

  The car the Count had sent for me was unbelievable. I’d never seen anything like it. I think it was a Rolls Royce but not like any I’d ever seen. It had an air to it like it was a couple hundred years old but looked like it just rolled off the factory floor.

  The driver finally left the couple and came over to me. He picked up my bags without a word and put them in the trunk. I was about to get in the passenger seat when I looked to the hotel one last time and saw someone in the window.

  It was a middle-aged woman, overweight with a white dress on. She made the sign of the cross and then closed the curtains. I hadn’t been aware anyone else was in the hotel, and at night I hadn’t heard anyone but the elderly couple moving around.

  As we drove up to Holmby Hills, I was astounded by the beauty of the area. The houses grew into mansions and the yards had peach and plum trees and I could picture gardeners busy at work trimming hedges and watering roses and tulips.

  It was evening now and the sun was still setting in the sky, painting it a golden orange and burning the clouds a light pink. It was beautiful in a way I can hardly describe. Maybe being so close to the Pacific does something to the senses, or maybe the sky just looks different with the ocean so near.

  The driver stopped in front of a road going up farther on the hill. The road was gated off with metal spikes that had gold trim. We sat in a silence at least a couple of minutes before I asked him what was happening.

  “We’re waiting for someone,” he said.

  “Who?”

  He didn’t respond. Instead, he turned on the radio. I’d expected heavy metal, like Blood Burn, but instead he was playing classical music, something by Liszt if my ear’s weren’t mistaken. So there we sat: in front of this road surrounded by mansions, until night fell. I tried one or two more times to speak with him but he was having none of it so I stopped and leaned the seat back and just listened to the music.

  When darkness had completely surrounded us, and I was nearly fading off to sleep, I heard the roar of an engine in the distance and the screeching of tires. Up the road, I saw headlights barreling down the hill as the gates opened and the car came speeding toward us.

  It was a black Mustang, and the only thing I could think is that the driver must be drunk or high. The car stopped next to us and I got a good look at his face. He was pale and his hair was long and greasy; both things I had seen in many roadies before, so nothing really alarming there.

  “You’re early,” the driver of the other car yelled through the open window.

  “He’s in a hurry.”

  “No, I don’t think he is. You’re in a hurry. You can’t deceive me.”

  The lamplight hit the driver of the other car in such a way that I got a really good look at his face. His lips were ruby red with white pearls for teeth and he smiled as he saw that I had noticed him.

  “Put Mr. Harker’s bags in my car.”

  The driver of the Rolls did as he was told and I got out and went to climb into the passenger seat when I noticed there weren’t any door handles on the mustang.

  “You have to climb in through the window.”

  I stuck my head in and arms and the driver reached over and grabbed my left arm to help me in. I couldn’t believe his strength. He pulled me through like I was a child getting into a car seat. No seatbelts were anywhere to be found, and as he sped away and flipped a U-turn, I could see the other driver. As we rode past him, he yelled something to me that I still don’t understand.

  He yelled, “The dead travel fast.”

  May 5th, Continued

  As we sped up the winding maze of the hill, I noticed that there was only one home—a mansion—but it was quite far away and I could only dimly see the lights on from the interior of the home. Both of the car windows were down and the night air was cold, though I could’ve sworn that it had been warm down in the valley.

  “There’s brandy underneath the seat,” the driver said, “if you get cold.”

  I didn’t drink any, though I really wanted some, because as we were speeding along the curves I noticed something: we were driving the same terrain over and over. I tried to use the mansion on top of the hill as a reference point and when I did so I knew it was true. We were driving in circles.

  I wanted to ask the driver about it but to be honest he seemed a little out of his mind. I guessed he was on meth and I knew from dealing with meth addicts—at a job I had as a counselor—that they’re really unpredictable and have savage mood swings. Being alone with him on a dark road away from civilization wasn’t the place I wanted to set him off. So, I held my tongue and didn’t say anything.

  After a long period of silent driving, I checked the clock on my iPhone: it was nearly midnight. I had to double check online at a few different sources because I thought something must be wrong with my phone, but it was fine. I don’t know where the time had gone because I know for a fact that we hadn’t been driving around for six hours. But the evidence was there in front of my face. I looked to the driver who must’ve sensed my alarm and he just gave me a grin and turned back to
the road.

  I thought about what the old woman had said about midnight, and the anticipation of it sent an icy chill up my back. I’m not the superstitious type but something about being in this place at this time … I couldn’t think of anything else.

  As midnight passed, I heard a dog begin to howl somewhere on the hill, hidden away by the thick trees and shrubs. It was a kind of sick, fearful howl, and it was taken up by another dog, and then another and another until it seemed like the whole night was filled with nothing but the howling of these dogs.

  Howling came from every direction and it appeared it would be stronger behind us and then shift up in front of us and then it would be right next to the car. They were circling us.

  As the mind does, I grew accustomed to the sound. But the howling seemed to grow higher in pitch, and I had never heard a dog in just that way. As far as I know, there are no wolves in LA. It must be some sort of coyote or dog hybrid.

  Soon, we were surrounded by trees and they arched over the roadway to a degree that made it appear like we were traveling through a tunnel. It continued to grow colder as we climbed farther up the hill, but as we approached the mansion, what the band had called “The Castle” in a prior interview, the howling of the animals faded and I was grateful.

  As we drove I became suddenly aware of a light off to the side of the road. Not a light really, more of a flickering blue flame. We didn’t seem to be able to gain on it and out of nowhere the driver stopped the car.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  But he got out without a word, leaving the car running. He ran to the side of the road into the trees and disappeared. I thought about reaching over to shut his door in case one of those dogs appeared but before I could do so the driver reappeared, the blue flame behind him. I swear it felt like I was asleep because I kept seeing that incident over and over on some endless loop. And it caused the strangest optical effect: the driver was standing between me and the flame, but I could still see the flame. The effect only lasted a second and when I turned my eyes away and glanced back, it was over.