Syrie James - Dracula, My Love: The Secret Journals of Mina Harker

IT HAS BEEN SEVEN LONG YEARS SINCE THE FIRST NIGHT

WHEN I FIRST STEPPED OFF THE TRAIN AT WHITBY ON

I AWOKE WITH A START, MY HEART POUNDING, TO HEAR

LUCY AND I WERE SO TIRED FROM OUR LONG WALK

THAT NIGHT, ALTHOUGH LUCY INSISTED SHE WAS FAR TOO knackered

SHORTLY AFTER BREAKFAST, I WENT OUT ON MY OWN TO

WHEN JONATHAN AND I ARRIVED AT EXETER ON THE 14TH

IT ALL HAPPENED SO SUDDENLY. SHORTLY BEFORE DINNER, Mr. Hawkins said

IT WAS SLOW GOING AT FIRST, AS MY SHORTHAND WAS

JONATHAN MET DR. VAN HELSING AT HIS HOTEL EARLY THE next

AS I VENTURED DOWN THE LONG, GRAVEL DRIVE THAT LED

IN THE CAB BACK TO THE TRAIN STATION, I TOLD

I FOUND JONATHAN DOWN-STAIRS IN THE DINING-ROOM, DEEP in conversation

I LEAPT FROM MY BED AND SHRANK BACK AGAINST THE

I FELT A SUDDEN BLAST OF ICY WIND, ACCOMPANIED BY

I AWAKENED VERY LATE THE NEXT MORNING, THE SUNLIGHT making

I PUT MY HANDS OVER MY FACE, LAY ON THE

I HAD NO TIME TO SCREAM; NO WAY TO EVADE

HYPNOTISE YOU? JONATHAN REPEATED WITH CONCERN.

THAT NIGHT, AFTER DRACULA TOOK ME BACK TO THE asylum,

AS THE FIRST RAYS OF DAWN CREPT OVER THE HORIZON,

AS THERE WAS NO NIGHT TRAIN AVAILABLE WHICH COULD take

I LEAPT TO MY FEET, DEEPLY WORRIED, FIGHTING BACK A

I SCREAMED AGAIN IN TERROR AND BEWILDERMENT. NICOLAE had said

IN A WHIRL OF SOUND AND WIND AND MIDNIGHT AIR,

IT IS NOW THE SUMMER OF 1897, NEARLY SEVEN YEARS

Europe 1890

1897

I T HAS BEEN SEVEN LONG YEARS SINCE THE FIRST NIGHT HE came to my chamber, seven long years since the string of haunting, incredible, and perilous events occurredevents which I am certain no one else will believe, even though we took care to make a written record of it. It is those transcripts of our journalsmine, and the otherswhich I look at from time to time, to remind myself that it all really happened and that I did not merely dream it.

Now and then, when I spy a white mist gathering in the garden below, when a shadow crosses a wall at night, or when I see dust motes swirling in a beam of moonlight, I still find myself jumping in expectation and alarm. Jonathan will press my hand and catch my eye with a silent, reassuring look, as if to let me know that he understands, that we are safe. But when he turns back to his reading by the fire, my heart continues to hammer in my chest, and I am overcome not only by the sense of apprehension that Jonathan knows I feel, but by something else as wellby longing.

Yes, longing.

The record I keptthe journal I so carefully wrote in shorthand, and then typed for the others to readwas not the entire truth; not my truth. Some thoughts and experiences are too intimate for others eyes; some desires are too shocking to admit, even to ones self. Were I to reveal all to Jonathan, I know I would lose him for ever, as surely as I would lose for ever the good opinion of all society.

I know what my husband wantswhat all men want. For a womansingle or marriedto be loved and respected, she must be innocent: entirely pure of mind, body, and soul. And so I once was, until he came into my life. At times, I feared him. At other times, I despised him. And yet, even knowing what he was and what he wanted, I could not help but love him.

I will never forget the magic of being held in his embrace, the compelling magnetism of his eyes as he gazed at me, or how it felt to whirl about the dance floor in his arms. I still shiver with delight when I recall the dizzying sensation of travelling with him at the speed of light, and the way his slightest touch could make me gasp with unimagined pleasure and desire. But the most wondrous times were the hours upon hours of conversation, stolen moments in which we revealed our most private selves to each other, and discovered all that we held in common.

I loved him. I loved him passionately, profoundly, from the very depths of my being, and with every beating of my heart. There was a time when I might have gladly given up this human life to be with him for ever.

And yet

All these years, the truth of what happened has weighed heavily on my mind, taking the pleasure out of ordinary things, stealing my appetite, and banishing sleep. I find I cannot carry the guilty burden within me any longer. I must put it all down on paper, never to be seen by others eyes, but certain that only in the writing will I at last be free to let it go.

W HEN I FIRST STEPPED OFF THE TRAIN AT W HITBY ON that bright July afternoon in 1890, I had no inkling that my life, and the lives of everyone I knew and loved, would soon be subjected to the gravest of dangers from which wethose of us who survivedwould emerge for ever altered. When my foot touched the station platform that day, I was not overcome by a sudden chill, nor did I have an uncanny premonition of the unthinkable events to come. There was, in fact, nothing to indicate that this holiday at the sea-side would be any different from all those pleasant sojourns that had come before it.

I was two-and-twenty years old. I had, after four happy years, just quit my position as a school-teacher in preparation for my upcoming marriage. Although I was deeply concerned about my fianc, Jonathan Harker, who had not yet returned from a business trip to Transylvania, I was filled with delight at the prospect of spending the next month or two in a beautiful place with my best friend in the world, where we could talk together freely and build our castles in the air.

I caught sight of Lucy standing on the platform, looking lovelier than ever in her white lawn frock, her dark curls peeking out demurely from beneath her stylish, flowered hat, as she searched for me through the crowd. Our eyes met, and her face lit up.

Mina! Lucy cried, and we raced into each others arms.

How I have missed you! I replied, hugging her. It seems as if a year has passed since we last saw each other, instead of months. So much has happened in the meantime.

I feel the same. Last spring, we were both single women. And now

we are both engaged! We smiled happily and embraced again.

Lucy Westenra and I had been best friends ever since the day we met at Upton Hall School when I was fourteen years old and she was twelve. Despite the fact that we came from very different backgroundsLucy had loving, wealthy parents who doted on her, while I had never known my parents and was only receiving a quality education courtesy of a grantwe became inseparable. We were a study in contrasts: I was a rosy-cheeked, green-eyed blonde of medium height who others seemed to consider attractive; whereas Lucy was an astonishing beauty, with a perfect, petite figure, bright blue eyes, an ivory complexion, and a crown of stunning dark brown curls. Lucy loved to ride and play ball and tennis, whereas I had always been far happier with my nose in a book; yet we found common ground in other things.