Dracula Lives (11 page)

Quinn looked for anything in the woodwork that might be a knob or switch in disguise. Finding none, he went to the unlit torches in brackets on either side of the entrance to the recess. In the movies, a torch often turned out to be the lever that opened the hidden panel.

He tugged the one on the left.

Nothing.

Pulled the one on the right.

Nothing.

He considered other possibilities.

Sometimes things were hidden in hollowed-out books. Acting on his first impulse, he opened the first edition of
Dracula
. It was a real book, nothing hidden inside or on the shelf behind it. He put it back and opened the other copy on a lower shelf. Again, nothing.

He thought for a moment. The books relating to Tod Browning and his movies.

A thorough search of them revealed no hidden mechanism.

Markov had mentioned that he and Browning shared a reverence for Poe. Quinn removed a beautifully bound copy of
The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe
, burgundy with gold edging. A quick inspection revealed nothing odd about the book. When he went to put it back, however, he noticed something hidden behind it. A shadowy cylindrical shape, about the size of a forefinger, jutted up from the shelf.

He removed a few more books to make the space wide enough for his hand. Wondering if it could actually be a finger, he gently poked and squeezed. A wooden peg. He gave it a gentle tug.

There was the slight hum of machinery as the entire bookcase slid into the wall.

Quinn couldn’t repress a smile as he stared into the opening to a secret passageway.

Markov stood in his bedchamber, staring at himself in the full-length mirror.

“Have you truly created monsters? Or are you yourself the monster?”

Shortly after moving here, he’d installed the mirror as a lark, thinking he would channel Lugosi by mimicking his practice of standing in front of his dressing-room mirror saying, “I am … Dracula.”

But when Markov had started remastering the old films, hints of other monsters began to appear, gradually becoming more than hints, as though they were somehow seeping in to him. Except for Dracula. Since a vampire casts no reflection in a mirror, as the spirit of Lugosi’s performance had gotten stronger within him, the Dracula reflection had gotten weaker.

As he continued to stare at the mirror, he watched a series of dissolves in which, for one fleeting moment, his reflection became one movie horror after another.

First a faint image of Lon Chaney’s Dracula from
The Un-Dead
.

Then an even fainter image of Lugosi’s Dracula.

Karloff’s Frankenstein Monster.

Lon Chaney Jr.’s Wolf Man.

As Markov watched the werewolf revert to its human self, he saw hints of his own face mixed in with Lon Chaney Jr.’s. But it was conscience-tormented Lawrence Talbot’s voice pleading inside his head:
Save me. Please! The full moon is coming. The worst one of all. The Blood Moon.

Markov struggled for dominance until the tortured Lawrence Talbot persona dissolved, and he was himself again.

Himself.

Who was he?

He probed his eyes in the mirror, searching for the lost soul of George Tilton, seeing instead only fading split-second flashes of the monsters that triggered a surge of self-loathing.

Unlike Lawrence Talbot, the hapless victim of a werewolf, Markov had knowingly sold his soul to chase the dream of screen immortality. But like Lawrence Talbot, he despised the beasts within that would devour human life to perpetuate their unnatural existence.

The faint image of another face slowly became visible in the mirror until Bram Stoker’s original inspiration for Dracula was staring back at him. Vlad the Impaler, eyes red with bloodlust. Against his will, Markov followed the eyes as they shifted their focus from him to the ten-foot-long wooden stake propped upright in the corner—as though willing him to use it.

No
. That was only a prop for set decoration.

Markov tore his gaze away from the stake and looked back at the mirror.

Now the eyes were those of George Tilton. There was pleading in them.

Could a soul be reclaimed from the Devil?

Quinn walked into the small antechamber that had been hollowed out of the solid rock upon which the castle had been built. At the far edge of the cavity, a large opening loomed. The light from the bookshelves barely reached it, but there was enough to see the top of a staircase leading down into a black void. Unlit torches stood in brackets on either side of the entrance.

He took a tentative step onto one of the large stone tiles covering the floor, then another, half-expecting a trapdoor or some other movie trickery. A few steps later, a spiral staircase cut into the stone disappeared around a bend. He went down far enough to look at the section beyond the curve. Slanting, uneven stairs continued through a crudely hand-hewn tunnel. A craggy, unfinished ceiling hung down into the opening, and chiseled ridges on the stone walls created sharp, sinister shadows.

Markov had called his movie set/castle a shrine to madness. If what waited below was the inner sanctum of that shrine, the disorienting staircase perfectly conveyed the feeling of entering an underworld where sanity no longer prevailed. Like the bizarre shadows painted on the wall beneath the gargoyle sconces, the staircase clearly had been influenced by the expressionistic design of
Son of Frankenstein
. That thought made Quinn wonder if another of
Son of Frankenstein
’s design elements might await in the forbidden chamber below: the sulfuric lava pit.

Only a few steps were visible before the light from the library died, and jagged, lurking shadows merged into one and swallowed the staircase. Quinn stared into the black void below. Concern over what might hide in that darkness wrestled with his lifelong impulse to explore the hidden realms where monsters supposedly lurked. He remained frozen on the top step, debating whether he should head down the stairs.

Markov kept warning me about monsters. I need to know just how vulnerable I am from this direction.

But he’s beginning to trust me, and I don’t want to violate that trust.

But he made a point of quoting Dracula’s line about “enter freely and go safely.”

That’s not the same as saying “Go freely.” I can probably find out whatever I need to know when we talk later….

But he keeps warning about serious danger. If serious danger lurks in the castle, surely it will lurk in a hidden subterranean chamber.

That thought ended his mental tug-of-war.

I’ve got to know what I’m getting involved in.

He retrieved his small powerful flashlight from the nightstand. Following its bright beam, treading carefully on the uneven stairs, he began his descent into the black maw that led to whatever waited below.

After the curve, the disorienting staircase went straight down. Other than unlit gas torches in wall brackets at regular intervals, nothing adorned the bare stone. Quinn constantly scanned the space ahead, uncertain of what might lay beyond the ten-foot range of his light. His descent took him deep into the bowels of the castle.

Finally he reached bottom. He took a few tentative steps into the chamber beyond, then stood still while his senses adjusted to the oppressive underground environment. Casting his light about, he saw nothing but hard-packed barren earth. A heavy musty smell hung in the damp stale air. He detected some other pungent odor he couldn’t identify mixed in with the smell of mold. Decaying plant matter, perhaps.

A faint sound disturbed the tomblike silence. He cocked his head.

A distant, barely audible moaning. The low keening had a sad, human quality, but it could be the wind. It had been blowing hard upstairs, and a chamber like this, with all its unsealed nooks and crannies, might make the ideal amplifier.

After decades of methodically seeking the reality behind superstitions and myths, and debunking most of them, Quinn had learned to consider only concrete, provable facts. Which, so far, amounted to nothing. If the noise came from something other than the wind, the only way to find out was to follow it to its source.

Advancing warily, he followed his shaft of light deeper into the Stygian gloom. He counted his paces, wanting to establish the dimensions of a space whose boundaries were invisible in the darkness. The moaning got slightly louder, but still seemed to be coming from a considerable distance ahead. Judging from the brown barren earth, strewn here and there with bits of rubble, nothing had been done to make this part of the castle liveable.

Forty-one steps later, his light fell on a large wrought iron gate. A heavy padlock held it closed.

He shone his light through the gate’s bars. At the far edge of a shallow antechamber where his light barely reached, the shadowy outline of a gaping entrance to yet another chamber loomed. Faint light glowed from somewhere beyond.

Quinn shifted his attention back to the gate and noticed lettering affixed to the top:

The Flowers of Evil. Why had Markov chosen the title of Baudelaire’s infamous book of poetry for the entrance to this particular chamber? The book George Sanders was reading in the very first shot of
The Picture of Dorian Gray
. The question was quickly swept aside by a wave of sensory impressions. The moaning had gotten louder and the smell stronger. The earthy smell was almost certainly some kind of weed or plant matter.

He pricked his ears to concentrate on the sound.

Definitely not the wind. It sounded like the sibilant babble of many voices whispering, as of a crowd reacting to the approach of a stranger.

A figure emerged from the darkness.

“You should not have come down here.”

Johnny had a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other. Both were aimed at Quinn. The voices had abruptly stopped, as though the whisperers from beyond the gloom were listening.

Markov’s vigilant steward shambled toward him until they were staring at each other from a few feet apart.

“You weren’t planning on shooting me, were you?” Quinn said.

Johnny lowered the flashlight and gun. “Merely a precaution.”

“Against what?”

“Creatures of the night.”

Quinn noticed the pectoral cross around the steward’s neck. It instantly made him think of the pectoral star Bela Lugosi wore on his very first appearance in the movie. Quinn pointed to it, then gestured at the inscription above the gate. “Is that for protection against the Flowers of Evil?”

“Not exactly.”

“Johnny, I need some straight answers. Markov has been talking in riddles all night. He says I’m in a horror movie that’s been his lifelong dream, at the same time telling me the castle is haunted and warning me about how dangerous it might be. I need to know what I’m getting into.”

“The secrets of the castle can only come from the lord of the manor.”

“Not good enough.”

Johnny paused as though searching for the right thing to say. The neutral mask quickly returned. “I am sure your questions will be answered when you meet with Markov.”

“How did you know I was down here?” Quinn pressed, hoping to pry something from the servant.

“Among my many duties, I am head of security. We have cameras throughout the castle.”

Quinn pointed to a device clipped to the steward’s waist, about the size of a paperback book but very thin. “What’s that?”

“My portable master control. It allows me to check all the monitors and other systems of the castle, and to communicate with Markov. I keep it on me at all times.”

“Is home invasion a problem in such a remote place?”

“Trespassers of one sort or another. Hikers, skiers who get lost. Curiosity seekers who have somehow found out about Markov’s
Dracula
connection. I have intercepted many over the years when I am patrolling the woods. Sometimes I have actually come upon them wandering around inside, claiming they thought the castle was abandoned.”

“Do you have them arrested?”

“We tend to them.” Johnny’s evasive gaze suddenly focused on him with uncharacteristic intensity. “If Markov wasn’t watching you, and doesn’t already know, I shall let your trespass go this time. There must be no others.”

Annoyed at being ordered what to do, Quinn bit back a snappy retort. It wouldn’t be right to kill the messenger. “I’ll take it up with Markov.”

“Good. Come. I will escort you back to your room.”

When they reached the top of the stairs and stepped back into the bedchamber, Johnny pressed a button disguised as a knot in the wood paneling. The bookcase slid back into place.

Quinn followed Johnny to the door. “Lock this,” the head of security said, then quickly rounded the corner where the Grim Reaper maintained its eternal eyeless vigil.

Eager for sleep, Quinn locked the door and returned to bed. He was halfway under the sheets when he stopped with a groan. The candles in the wall sconces still needed to be extinguished.

He grabbed his flashlight and pulled the snuffer from the receptacle that held the fireplace implements. As each candle winked out, there was an eerie moment when its gargoyle holder was swallowed by the darkness.

Quinn was glad to see them go. He went back to bed, slipped under the covers, and clicked off his flashlight.

From behind the wall, eyes stared at him through the eye slits of one of the gargoyles.

Eyes accustomed to the darkness.

Johnny’s eyes.

Quinn barely managed to get a couple hours of fitful sleep. Now he lay on his back, eyes open as they adjusted to the darkness. They probed for a glimmer of light. Moonglow coming through the large bay window dimly lit the oriel, but his bedchamber remained in total darkness. The unrelieved gloom seemed to muffle sound, for the silence was absolute. In what almost amounted to a sensory deprivation chamber, he closed his eyes.

The utter stillness gradually seeped into him until it blotted out the disturbing moments that kept echoing in his brain:

“You have walked into the ultimate reality show, Mr. Quinn….”