“I don’t know if what I say here will ever be enough.” the letter began, the ink faded with time and wear. The handwriting was small and cramped on the page, but its meaning still got through, despite the weathering of time and improper care. Wrinkles from the many ways it had been folded or crumpled over time had taken their toll on the paper; obscuring some words with smears or tears. Why he still had it, he couldn’t begin to say – it had just made sense to keep it. He’d thought before about discarding it, but felt an unreasonable urge not to, no matter how tattered it became. It was an anchor, after all. Something to help keep him sane when the voices whispered his name.
Diligently, he flattened the paper, smoothing away the wrinkles to the best of his ability, not concerning himself with the time it took to do so. Carefully, he read it. Over and over until the crashing multitude of voices died down. When the blissful dim arrived, he whispered a silent prayer of thanks, and slowly folded the letter again before tucking it away. Sandra had been a devoted sister; his twin, in fact. For years, she had been the only one to understand him, and bridge the gap between himself and others. Until Owen, that is.
Owen was jealous of the bond Sandra shared with him, and began to erode it. It was such a subtle craft that Robert himself hadn’t caught on. Owen was a skeptic, and disliked the idea of his paramour being associated with a rising star in the world of Spiritualism. He’d taken the time to convince the family that Robert was touched, and eventually, convince the public that he was a charlatan, despite the fact that Owen had arranged for things to be staged. With Robert discredited, he’d stayed sheltered at the family home, only venturing out for the wedding of his beloved sister.
It was here that workers from an asylum carted him away. Owen had convinced the rest of the family that it was the best thing for Robert, and Sandra had been the last holdout. It was a deplorable place, but put on a good show to those looking to hide family that were considered an embarrassment. There were no visits. There was no kindness. Only a letter. One precious letter, with small, cramped writing on a single page. One little letter, that began with “I don’t know if what I say here will ever be enough.”
The letter was a lovely little apology to anyone else, but to him, it was abandonment, a feeling cemented by distinct lack of further contact. So he lived his days in the cold room there, occasionally visited by doctors or other staff. Sometimes though, there was the stranger. He’d always come around when no one was watching, and when he was least expected. What interest he held in Robert could not be said, but he did no harm, so Robert paid him no mind.
Six months after the stranger began his silent visits, he spoke, in a voice that commanded attention, but whose volume was soft. “I’ve a tonic for you.” he began. “Drink it up. ‘Tis a medicine for the soul.” he said, and grinned crookedly. Robert took it. He did not care if it were poison; there was nothing for him to look forward to, and poison would be better than rotting slowly day by day.
For the next two weeks, he drank the offered tonic, each drink giving him the oddest, but not unwelcome, sensations. Soon after the third tonic, he was granted release. He was found by a servant of the stranger, who took him away from the asylum, to a home that was, surprisingly, a few streets removed from his family home. It wasn’t until that evening that Robert met with the stranger, dressed in humble clothes amongst ornate finery.
“If I were to tell you that I am but a crimson epitaph, what would you say?” the stranger asked him, using that same low tone that somehow commanded one’s attention.
“I would say you must be death, and perhaps not the kindest reaper.” he replied.
“You know enlightenment where others do not.” the stranger continued.
“I believe I do.” came his response.
“Skeptics consume the fallacies you wish to reteach.” he went on.
“Did not the fair Cassandra bear a similar fate?” Robert responded, curious as to where this was going.
“A learned man.” the stranger responded, finding some amusement in this fact.
“Inquisitive minds seek knowledge of many things.” he countered.
“Knowledge corrupts.” the other man went on.
“Knowledge is gray matter. It is the interpretation of that knowledge that becomes corrupt by the imbiber.”
The stranger smiled his Cheshire grin. “You’ll do.” he said. Before Robert could react, the man was on him in a flash, pinning him to the floor with an unnatural strength. “To what wit’s end would a cherry blossom dwell?” the man asked him, gauging Robert’s reaction.
Knowing not how to interpret that, Robert said the first thing that came to mind. “In a cocoon of ignorance, waiting for rebirth.”
With an odd noise that sounded like it was meant to be delight, the stranger dove at Robert, biting into him as he kept him pinned to the floor. Strangely, Robert did not feel afraid. There was something off about the stranger, but even the lunging bite didn’t hurt. Had he even really been bitten? The agony he was expecting never manifested. Instead, an intense, blissful rush coursed through him, and he was lost in the sensations that surfaced, hardly noticing his very life ebbing away.
There was no sense of a passage of time, when the other man pulled away. There was only a sensation of being cold, and the barest awareness of the other man tearing into his wrist and forcing it upon Robert’s mouth and enticing him to drink. It was tonic, and was neither unwelcome nor unwanted. The agony that had been beginning to seep in as his body died, was replaced by the sweet rush of otherness that flowed into him as he drank.
The clock in the hallway had struck half-past midnight when Robert had enough of his senses to hear what the stranger had been saying. “Too many cobwebs.” he muttered.
“Come then. We feast.” he said, and took Robert to hunt, teaching as they went. Robert’s first victim, as it were, was not an accident. By sheer happenstance, he happened upon Owen, walking toward home. Without thought or hesitation, he attacked, preying and feeding upon his brother-in-law, following instruction on how to leave a body, but no suspicion as to the real cause of death. A deep sense of satisfaction spread through him as he looked at the corpse, moving away only when urged to do so.
He spent the next few nights beginning to learn about his existence. He learned ways to try and cope with the newly formed chorus in his mind, and the insights of dreams that seemed all too real. A fortnight after his rebirth, he’d read the news of a death that struck a chord, that of one Allessandra Whittock, née Carson. His twin had died in childbirth, a combination of a difficult birth and the trauma of losing her husband. Robert carefully folded the paper, and retrieved the letter he’d received while at the asylum. “I don’t know if what I say here will ever be enough” he read. The beginnings of her attempt to apologize. Was he able to forgive her for it?
He spent time over the next nights, trying to figure out what to say and figuratively haunting the cemetery where she had been put to rest. Eventually, he settled on a bouquet of yellow carnations and foxglove to convey his disappointment at what he felt to be her insincerity. From that night, his focus turned to understanding his new life. In doing so, a gradual reputation was built as one who gave uncanny revelations. Sensing a change on the wind, he left London in the summer of 1896, declaring only that he didn’t want to be around for the uproar.
No one knew what he was on about, and forgot about it. At least until April of the following year, when a little, yellow clad books was published to critical acclaim, and vampires everywhere reacted, be it in rage, panic or amusement. The more they tried to quash the book, the more people became aware of it, until Dracula was everywhere, it seemed.
Robert stayed quiet, wanting to be left alone. It was a feat he managed for some time, weathering on as images and voices spread across the cobwebs of his mind.
with butterflies broken
in the starry mists
the cobweb pulses evermore