Dracula Lives (16 page)

She watched them walking side by side. Ever since this stranger had come out of nowhere, with his knowledge of film and filmmaking and love of horror, Markov’s belief in destiny had become stronger than ever. In his mind, fate had sent him Adam Quinn to bring about her father’s long overdue ending.

After years of recording the bizarre events of their unwholesome existence, his glorified home movie was almost finished. Before Quinn’s arrival, she’d asked Markov how their guest could be worked into the climax, especially on such short notice. Markov had said the ending could not be revealed, that it would ruin a surprise better than the shower scene in
Psycho
.

However it ended, it wouldn’t be the ending Johnny wanted.

Because she believed in destiny too, and for fifty years had clung to her vision of a happy ending—not for Markov’s sick movie that had destroyed their lives—but for this sham of a life.

How much control
did
a person have over their own destiny? After a lifetime of being controlled, it was time to find out.

In the storm cloud of ominous thoughts gathering in Quinn’s brain, Markov’s revelation that Johnny was his daughter had been a thunderbolt. Now, as the two men walked down the long corridor toward the Chamber of Horrors, Quinn forced those thoughts aside to prepare himself for Markov’s dramatic reveal of what started it all.

They came to an alcove on the right that led to a large wooden door. To the left, a stone staircase spiraled down and out of sight. Straight ahead, the corridor continued past this intersection into darkness. At the top of the staircase, a suit of armor stood at attention, its gauntlet-covered fist gripping a halberd as if poised to repel invaders from below. The unmistakable shadow of Nosferatu, creeping up the stairs, had been painted onto the wall of the staircase.

Quinn gestured at the black outline and tried to lighten the grim mood. “Since beheading is one of the ways to stop a vampire, if I were Nosferatu I’d find another way in, rather than try to get past this knight and that wicked axe.”

“One never knows what might happen in a world where dark shadows come to life.” Markov nodded toward the staircase. “I know I have said you are free to move about the castle and its grounds, but the one place you may not go is down those stairs. As a fellow lover of the Gothic, I am sure you know that every castle must have its secret chamber. The one below is mine. The suit of armor and the shadow of Nosferatu are my sentinels.”

Markov’s insistence that Quinn never go to the very place where he’d felt a disturbing presence only strengthened his resolve to explore it fully at the first opportunity.

Markov led them into the recessed entryway of the Chamber of Horrors. On either side of the oak door, two flickering gaslights in 19th-century glass sconces cast disturbing shadows on the face painted above. A lurid demonic gargoyle, replete with pointed ears, lolling tongue, and glowing pupils, eternally leered down at all who dared to enter. Above its face were the words
Le Chambre du Horreurs
.

Quinn said, “I remember seeing something like that in the beginning of
Mad Love
with Peter Lorre.”

“You are an astute cineaste. That was my inspiration. Karl Freund directed it and invited me to the premiere.”

Quinn felt a twinge of regret at his mention of Freund. Markov’s recollections of the legendary cinematographer who’d shot
Dracula
was one of many discussions he’d been looking forward to, but after the sinister turn his visit had taken, he saw those discussions slipping away.

Markov went on. “I think the French lends a nice atmospheric touch, since my collection—my entire approach to horror—is very Grand Guignol.”

“From the moment your carriage picked me up, I’ve felt like I’m being pulled into those movies I’ve watched so many times.”

“Prepare to be pulled even deeper.” Markov held up the skeleton key. “Other than Johnny, you are the first person I have ever let into my Chamber of Horrors. I am sure you will find my collection of oddities fascinating, but the main attraction—the darkest of my dark secrets—will challenge all credibility. Keep an open mind.”

“You don’t do what I do for a living and not be prepared for things that defy rational explanation.”

Markov unlocked the door and beckoned Quinn into an utterly black void, save for a faint patch of light beyond the threshold where the gaslight barely reached. The flick of a switch revealed a room that was an assault on the eyes.

Embedded along each side wall of a carpeted space about thirty yards square were several glass-enclosed showcases, each with its own spotlight shining on the exhibit within. Scattered throughout the center of the room were shockingly lifelike re-creations of classic movie monsters, all posed with hands outthrust, eager to clutch their next victim. After the initial jolt, Quinn thought of all the happy Halloween birthdays he’d spent with his father watching these creatures on the screen. It was as though he’d walked into a macabre reunion of old friends. That feeling quickly dissipated as he was struck by the more disturbing aspects of the scene.

Dracula, Frankenstein’s Monster, the Wolf Man, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, and several other classic monsters each stood in their own tightly focused spotlight, surrounded by impenetrable darkness. The overall effect was of an army of inhuman beings, emerging from some impossible nightworld, to wreak havoc on the human beings they despised.

“I have much planned for our time together,” Markov said, “so this may be my only chance to show you my collection. We will save the best—or worst, depending on your viewpoint—for last.”

He led Quinn to the showcases along the left wall. “I have arranged the exhibits in chronological order, according to the release date of the movie they were in, so you can trace the development of horror cinema.”

The first display was a wax sculpture of an oversized severed hand with long fingernails, frozen in the classic horror pose of reaching to close on a throat. “This one has particular sentimental value,” Markov explained. “It is from
Eyes of Mystery
, the first Tod Browning movie I saw and the reason I sought him out. It was a spooky ‘old dark house’ chiller that had everything I love: hidden chambers, shadowy figures skulking around, and, of course, hands reaching out from behind curtains to strangle hapless victims. You might say this is the hand that reached out and led me here.”

Next came an iconic mask. “Is that…?” Quinn asked.

“Yes. Lon Chaney’s mask from
The Phantom of the Opera.
”

“That would have to be one of the most sought-after pieces of movie memorabilia ever. How were you able to obtain it?”

“I got many of my pieces through connections I had at the time, but not this one. This and several others I got through a rather ghoulish system I developed. I would trace the provenance of artifacts I coveted until I found the person who had ended up with it—usually someone associated with the production, or a collector. I would call and make an offer. Sometimes they needed money and a deal was made quickly. If they refused, I would keep tabs on them until I saw their obituary. I knew that family members often sold off collections when the owner died, so I would wait a respectful amount of time—not too long, I didn’t want to be beaten out—and make a generous offer they were usually eager to accept.”

He led Quinn to the next case, where a prosthetic arm ended in a black-gloved fist.

“Don’t tell me,” Quinn said. “The arm the Monster ripped off Lionel Atwill in
Son of Frankenstein
?”

“The very same.”

“That was a great touch.
Son of Frankenstein
is my favorite of all the Frankenstein movies.”

In the next case, a large butcher knife was perched on a stand at a 45-degree angle. “From the shower scene in
Psycho,
” Markov said.

If this was genuine, Quinn was looking at a prop that had attained its own screen immortality by terrifying a generation. He had to ask the inevitable question. “How can you be sure this is the one?”

“
Psycho
was a Universal picture, and I knew a man from the old days who had worked his way up to being the head of the property department. The moment I walked out of the theater after watching it, I knew I was going to do everything possible to get that knife. The prop man told me it was a common kitchen knife available at stores. He had come to Universal in the ’30s, a humble young man just starting out. But in 1960 he had two children reaching college age and mentioned that tuition was going to be a problem. For fifty thousand dollars, I persuaded him to buy a duplicate knife to put in storage and sell me the original. Of course, one can be absolutely certain about very little in this life—particularly the honesty of human beings—but one thing about this knife convinced me that the prop man had indeed sold me the original. Some dark substance had gotten into the crevice where the blade joined the hilt. I had it tested.”

A dramatic pause. “Chocolate syrup.”

Quinn had seen it coming. “Hitchcock’s substitute for blood.”

“It would have been an easy thing to fake, but this man was very salt of the earth. I am convinced the knife is genuine.”

Bernard Hermann’s classic screeching violin sound track came into Quinn’s head as he continued to stare at the knife. Markov got his attention and they moved to the life-sized figures in the middle of the room. Front and center, hands outstretched, was the Creature from the Black Lagoon. It had been played by a man in a suit, so there had to be some kind of internal framework for it to stand like this without any visible support.

“The Creature is one of the all-time great man-in-a-suit monsters,” Quinn said. “Your collection wouldn’t be complete without it. Is this the original?”

“In a sense, yes, although it was not used in the movie. Prior to shooting, they were testing it underwater and it got snagged and torn.” He pointed to the calf of the left leg. A lighter-colored, veinlike line zigzagged across a few of the otherwise smooth and uniform large scales that covered the Creature’s body. “The suit in the movie was actually the second one. They kept this one in wardrobe for backup, but it was never used. Their loss turned out to be my gain.”

After an admiring stroll through the others, they moved to the showcases along the opposite wall. The first several held props from films that were lesser known but fondly remembered by buffs. The next-to-last case contained another horror movie icon.

It was an exact replica of Regan’s head from
The Exorcist
, in the throes of satanic possession.

“This was a mock-up they used to see how the makeup would look before they began shooting,” Markov said.

Eyes frozen open in that soul-chilling demonic stare, the head slowly began a three hundred and sixty degree turn. When it faced front again, the eyes shifted focus to lock onto Quinn. A black forked tongue lolled out, then flicked at him.

Markov held out his hand. In the palm was a small remote. “A parlor trick,” he said.

“Very effective.”

It occurred to Quinn that the knife from
Psycho
and Regan’s spinning head had left two of the deepest scars on audiences in cinema history.

They moved to the last showcase. “The pièce de résistance,” Markov said.

On a rotating pedestal sat a small leather carrying case, open to display its contents: nose putty, face paint, eyebrow pencils, brushes. Gold lettering on the lid had the name of the owner:

“This can’t possibly be the original,” Quinn said. “Lon Chaney’s makeup kit would have been guarded like Fort Knox—especially after he died. It had already become legendary.”

“I can say with absolute certainty that it is. I know, because … once again, my obsessions overtook me and … I took it.”

Quinn remembered Irving Thalberg’s memo to Tod Browning, cautioning him about his assistant, who had been seen rummaging around in Lon Chaney’s makeup kit during the shooting of
London After Midnight
. “How?” he said.

“I had planned it for months. I waited until everybody was occupied with shooting one of his scenes, then slipped into his dressing room with a camera to get shots of his makeup kit from every angle. I bought an exact duplicate of the carrying case, had it engraved, and used the photos to match every scuff, every scratch. Then, when I was ready to make the switch, I took more pictures of the contents to make sure that the replacement makeup would be the exact same. I filled the case with pencils that were worn to the same length, tubes squeezed the right amount, and arranged everything in its exact same position. No forger was ever more meticulous. I checked the photos one last time before I made the switch. It was impossible to tell the difference.

“So here it is: the prize possession of a good man whom I betrayed.”

Thoughts of this level of betrayal, and what it said about Markov’s obsessiveness, tempered Quinn’s awe at being the first outsider to see movie treasures that included this, the Holy Grail.

“Is this your ‘darkest secret’?”

“Not quite.”

Markov gestured for them to continue to the far corner of the room. He flicked a switch and a recessed overhead light revealed an armchair and small table facing a large wooden panel, held in place by grooved rails along both sides. This time Markov showed him the remote so there would be no surprise.

“The figure who, in a sense, started the whole Dracula/vampire mythos. Tod would have been proud.”

He pressed a button and the panel slid up to reveal a shadowy outline in the glass-enclosed showcase. He pushed another button and a spotlight shone on the very lifelike sculpture of a head resting on a pedestal. It was a famous historical figure Quinn recognized at once. Anyone researching the origins of the Dracula story had seen the painting of this man, with his large mustache, aquiline nose, and intense eyes. Markov had even gone to the trouble of duplicating the ceremonial headdress and royal garb the man wore in the famous portrait. Unlike the portrait, however, the eyes on the sculpture were closed, as in death. Another, more drastic difference was that Markov had chosen to display the head as having been severed. Ragged flesh ran along the neck. On the velvet cloth that lined the bottom of the display case was an area a shade lighter than the rest, in the shape of a sword.