



E-text prepared by Bill Keir, Susan Woodring,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
and revised by Jeannie Howse




Dracula’s Guest

by Bram Stoker


First published 1914

To MY SON

Contents

 PREFACE
 Dracula’s Guest
 The Judge’s House
 The Squaw
 The Secret of the Growing Gold
 The Gipsy Prophecy
 The Coming of Abel Behenna
 The Burial of the Rats
 A Dream of Red Hands
 Crooken Sands




PREFACE


A few months before the lamented death of my husband—I might say even
as the shadow of death was over him—he planned three series of short
stories for publication, and the present volume is one of them. To his
original list of stories in this book, I have added an hitherto
unpublished episode from _Dracula_. It was originally excised owing to
the length of the book, and may prove of interest to the many readers
of what is considered my husband’s most remarkable work. The other
stories have already been published in English and American
periodicals. Had my husband lived longer, he might have seen fit to
revise this work, which is mainly from the earlier years of his
strenuous life. But, as fate has entrusted to me the issuing of it, I
consider it fitting and proper to let it go forth practically as it was
left by him. FLORENCE BRAM STOKER




Dracula’s Guest


When we started for our drive the sun was shining brightly on Munich,
and the air was full of the joyousness of early summer. Just as we were
about to depart, Herr Delbrück (the maître d’hôtel of the Quatre
Saisons, where I was staying) came down, bareheaded, to the carriage
and, after wishing me a pleasant drive, said to the coachman, still
holding his hand on the handle of the carriage door:

“Remember you are back by nightfall. The sky looks bright but there is
a shiver in the north wind that says there may be a sudden storm. But I
am sure you will not be late.” Here he smiled, and added, “for you know
what night it is.”

Johann answered with an emphatic, “Ja, mein Herr,” and, touching his
hat, drove off quickly. When we had cleared the town, I said, after
signalling to him to stop:

“Tell me, Johann, what is tonight?”

He crossed himself, as he answered laconically: “Walpurgis nacht.” Then
he took out his watch, a great, old-fashioned German silver thing as
big as a turnip, and looked at it, with his eyebrows gathered together
and a little impatient shrug of his shoulders. I realised that this was
his way of respectfully protesting against the unnecessary delay, and
sank back in the carriage, merely motioning him to proceed. He started
off rapidly, as if to make up for lost time. Every now and then the
horses seemed to throw up their heads and sniffed the air suspiciously. On such occasions I often looked round in alarm. The road was pretty
bleak, for we were traversing a sort of high, wind-swept plateau. As we
drove, I saw a road that looked but little used, and which seemed to
dip through a little, winding valley. It looked so inviting that, even
at the risk of offending him, I called Johann to stop—and when he had
pulled up, I told him I would like to drive down that road. He made all
sorts of excuses, and frequently crossed himself as he spoke. This
somewhat piqued my curiosity, so I asked him various questions. He
answered fencingly, and repeatedly looked at his watch in protest. Finally I said:

“Well, Johann, I want to go down this road. I shall not ask you to come
unless you like; but tell me why you do not like to go, that is all I
ask.” For answer he seemed to throw himself off the box, so quickly did
he reach the ground. Then he stretched out his hands appealingly to me,
and implored me not to go. There was just enough of English mixed with
the German for me to understand the drift of his talk. He seemed always
just about to tell me something—the very idea of which evidently
frightened him; but each time he pulled himself up, saying, as he
crossed himself: “Walpurgis-Nacht!”

I tried to argue with him, but it was difficult to argue with a man
when I did not know his language. The advantage certainly rested with
him, for although he began to speak in English, of a very crude and
broken kind, he always got excited and broke into his native tongue—and
every time he did so, he looked at his watch. Then the horses became
restless and sniffed the air. At this he grew very pale, and, looking
around in a frightened way, he suddenly jumped forward, took them by
the bridles and led them on some twenty feet. I followed, and asked why
he had done this. For answer he crossed himself, pointed to the spot we
had left and drew his carriage in the direction of the other road,
indicating a cross, and said, first in German, then in English: “Buried
him—him what killed themselves.”

I remembered the old custom of burying suicides at cross-roads: “Ah! I
see, a suicide. How interesting!” But for the life of me I could not
make out why the horses were frightened. Whilst we were talking, we heard a sort of sound between a yelp and a
bark. It was far away; but the horses got very restless, and it took
Johann all his time to quiet them. He was pale, and said, “It sounds
like a wolf—but yet there are no wolves here now.”

“No?” I said, questioning him; “isn’t it long since the wolves were so
near the city?”

“Long, long,” he answered, “in the spring and summer; but with the snow
the wolves have been here not so long.”

Whilst he was petting the horses and trying to quiet them, dark clouds
drifted rapidly across the sky. The sunshine passed away, and a breath
of cold wind seemed to drift past us. It was only a breath, however,
and more in the nature of a warning than a fact, for the sun came out
brightly again. Johann looked under his lifted hand at the horizon and
said:

“The storm of snow, he comes before long time.” Then he looked at his
watch again, and, straightway holding his reins firmly—for the horses
were still pawing the ground restlessly and shaking their heads—he
climbed to his box as though the time had come for proceeding on our
journey. I felt a little obstinate and did not at once get into the carriage. “Tell me,” I said, “about this place where the road leads,” and I
pointed down. Again he crossed himself and mumbled a prayer, before he answered, “It
is unholy.”

“What is unholy?” I enquired. “The village.”

“Then there is a village?”

“No, no. No one lives there hundreds of years.” My curiosity was
piqued, “But you said there was a village.”

“There was.”

“Where is it now?”

Whereupon he burst out into a long story in German and English, so
mixed up that I could not quite understand exactly what he said, but
roughly I gathered that long ago, hundreds of years, men had died there
and been buried in their graves; and sounds were heard under the clay,
and when the graves were opened, men and women were found rosy with
life, and their mouths red with blood.