Dracula vs. Hitler Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2016 Patrick Sheane Duncan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Inkshares, Inc., San Francisco, California

  www.inkshares.com

  Edited and designed by Girl Friday Productions

  www.girlfridayproductions.com

  Cover design by Dan Stiles

  ISBN: 9781942645085

  e-ISBN: 9781942645092

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016938143

  First edition

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedicated to the two Laurels, Cleon and Boullosa—kind beings who have had a great influence on me.

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  Accidental discoveries. You’re looking for one thing and discover something else of even more value. I’m rummaging in the junk drawer, searching amid the usual dresser jetsam for that thingamabob that goes to the whatchamacallit, and then come across my old Hopalong Cassidy penknife. And it is the perfect tool for opening those damned CD security tapes.

  Or, doing research on Medal of Honor recipients for a documentary and stumbling across the story of Mary Walker, the only woman to receive that award, which leads to ruminations about women in combat and subsequently to a very successful screenplay and movie.

  Luck, I guess, curiosity and the ability to tell the difference between gold and iron pyrite, literarily speaking.

  If you’ve ever had to search for any government document, you cannot help but be reminded of the last shot of the first Indiana Jones movie as the boxed Ark is hauled into what appears to be an endless warehouse filled with stacked crates extending into infinity. I’ve been inside those warehouses. They exist, scattered around the fringes of Washington, D.C., and other parts of the U.S. This is one place where reality and movie fantasy merge. In fact, the reality makes the movie image seem feeble.

  There are warehouses that are miles in length. Endless corridors and shelves filled with government detritus. Mostly paper. Documents from the inception of our government and before. Logs and letters and inventories and forms. Paperwork from every branch of government: Presidential papers, the document-spewing House and Senate, agencies that spit out paper like babies fill diapers. The military wallows in documentation, in triplicate, the Navy floats on it, the Army hurls it at the Pentagon, and the Air Force drops it by the ton. And the IRS? Enough said.

  And they keep it all. Every single page. In warehouses like those surrounding D.C., stored underground in old salt and gypsum mines scattered across the country. Miles of files. Mountains of memos. So much paper. Untold reams of reports. Centuries of forms, letters, and ephemeral data.

  And, as you would expect, things get lost.

  I, myself, was certainly lost. In a labyrinth of metallic shelves three storeys high, each shelf stuffed with boxes. They smelled of mildew, and my allergies were acting up. I was researching an HBO project about female spies in Europe during World War II. I was on the hunt for a batch of old wartime records from the OSS—precursor to the CIA—concerning the use of women in “ungentlemanly warfare,” concentrating on the adventures of those female agents who spied for us in Nazi-occupied France: Yvonne Rudellat, a receptionist turned spy, Chilean actress Giliana Balmaceda, and Virginia Hall, an American journalist with a wooden leg she called Cuthbert.

  As usual the document I wanted, needed, was missing. Well, more accurately, it was not where it was supposed to be. But according to the government troll who sat in the tiny office a few miles behind me, it was indeed “in here somewheres.”

  I searched the boxes stacked around the designated area, on shelves above and below and adjacent. Still nothing. Then I saw something stuck behind a sagging brown file box.

  Out of nothing but curiosity, I slid the interior box into the open. My hand left a mark on the dusty lid. The top was bound with yellowed string that, as it unwound, came apart in my hand.

  Inside the box a single sheet of paper with the bright red declaration “TOP SECRET” lay upon a briefcase. As I set the sheet aside, its edges crumbled at my touch, raining yellow confetti onto the concrete floor. I examined the briefcase. Brown leather; faded gilt lettering stamped on the flap bore the legend J.M.H. The brass clasp and trimmings were tarnished with green verdigris. When I flicked open the clasp and lifted the flap the desiccated leather cracked like cheap plastic. I couldn’t help but glance around to see if there were any witnesses to my destruction of what could be some historic heirloom. There was no one around. So I continued my examination.

  Why did I continue? I am a writer by trade. Curiosity is in the job description.

  Inside the ancient briefcase, still smelling of old pipe smoke, were a variety of documents:

  A leather-bound diary, the cover rubbed to rawhide in places, the same initials, J.M.H., embossed on the lower right corner, any hint of gold long worn away. The tattered remnant of a marking ribbon hung like a rat tail from the binding. I thumbed through the wrinkled and stained pages; the odor of mould was enough to make me sneeze. The writing was some sort of shorthand in a variety of pen inks—black, blue, a faded purple, and even red—plus pencil notations.

  Putting this volume aside I pulled out a crumbling envelope, emblazoned with Russian characters that were later translated as “MOST TOP SECRET.” Inside was another diary, in thick binding, written by hand in German, using a variety of inks, but obviously in the same hand. The edges of the pages were blackened as if they had been in a fire. Some fell loose as I opened it.

  After this I found a reddish-brown accordion file that contained a thicker document, this one stapled, the metal fasteners staining the paper with rust. It was three or four inches thick and typed on thin paper, all carbon copies, some of the letters so vague as to make the text near indecipherable. Rubbing my fingers on the back of the paper, I could feel the indentations the typewriter keys had made on the almost transparent vellum. An original document. The first page had a title: “The Dragon Prince and I, a Modern Novel by Lenore Van Muller.”

  Next was a manila folder, once held together by a rubber band that was now rotted and snapped but still stuck to the cardboard. Inside was a stack of old copy paper, the thermal facsimile type from the pre-Xerox era. The print was a brownish blur on stiff, fragile, and very thin paper. They were copies of German documents, many topped with the Nazi symbol, that eagle holding a swastika. My eyes kept fixing on two words I did recognize: The first was “Hitler.” This name was mentioned repeatedly alongside one just as infamous if not even more so—“Dracula.”

  The combination of those two names was enough to send my curiosity into overdrive.

  The very last item at the bottom of the case was a file folder of dark brown pasteboard, cracked in two at the fold. Between the halves were thirteen loose sheets of manuscript, handwritten in a small, tight hand. The paper was crumbling at the edges. The ink had faded so much that later it would take some scientific wizardry to bring out the text, infrared and a few other colors of spectrographic scans. At first examination, considering the other documents, I took the language in this manuscript to be German also, but it proved to be Dutch. I did recognize the one name at the top of the first and the bottom of the last page—Abraham Van Helsing.

  My HBO project was now completely forgotten. I quickly but carefully returned the items to the briefcase, put them back into the box, and
I have to confess I slid the “TOP SECRET” cover sheet under the shelf. Checking out the box was easy—too easy, if you ask me—as it was listed in the vast computer catalogue by only another number, no details other than the notation “Misc.” As you might expect, a good part of these vast government holdings had yet to be catalogued.

  It took months to have the diary transcribed. The shorthand was not Gregg, but a version of the Pitman system. Through the Internet I found a retired legal secretary from Wales who was familiar with the style. Her legal background and innate suspicious nature proved to be an initial stumbling block, as it took a month just to get her to sign a nondisclosure agreement.

  Finding a translator for the German documents was easier (as was that nondisclosure negotiation).

  The thermal paper was more problematic, as it was in a very delicate state, some of the pages disintegrating at the slightest touch. I had an archivist mount each page between plastic sleeves—an expensive undertaking.

  The Dutch translation was easy; a former teacher of mine in Michigan was sworn to silence and did the work. I will always remember his phone call asking me if this was some kind of prank I was playing on him. Thanks, Milt.

  As for authentication, I sent paper samples and certain mundane passages to various experts and laboratories. Due to the extraordinary contents of these documents, it was imperative that the authenticity of the various papers be proved.

  The papers were put through more than one testing facility and all passed. Chemical analysis and fiber identification were conclusive as to the period. Forensic document experts agreed with the source of each manuscript as indicated in the text. Dates and references within the texts have been checked and rechecked. Most turned out to be concurrent with the events of that time. The few conflicts are easily attributed to the imperfection of memory.

  Sadly, all attempts to locate and interview any of the participants mentioned in these documents has been futile. They are either long dead or untraceable, at least by the Internet missing-person-location services and the various private detectives that were hired. How these documents found their way to Maryland I have no clue. Why they were never published or released before is obvious: What they reveal would cause more controversy than any government would want. By releasing them now, I hope that other individuals or agencies with more resources than my own will pursue this investigation.

  After careful and repeated readings, I have edited the documents to provide one linear narrative, quoting from the particular document that provided the clearest or most complete version of the events. As with any eyewitness testimony, there are inherent contradictions in the documents, and in those cases I took the majority opinion or left the contradictions in place.

  I am convinced that there is little doubt, though scant physical evidence, that the events described actually took place, however unbelievable and incomprehensible this may appear on a first reading.

  I’m sure that there will be a whole slew of people who will think this all fell out of a horse’s ass. That’s okay. Let the reader decide on the verity of the original authors and the story they tell.

  Patrick Sheane Duncan—2016

  FROM THE DESK OF ABRAHAM VAN HELSING

  (Translated from the Dutch)

  11 NOVEMBER 1896

  If this document is being read, then it is upon my death, and I depend on the reader to take the proper actions to resolve the plight I have created. To make the reader aware of the dangers, I am writing the following account of the circumstances that led to the quandary you will find yourself confronting. I cannot stress enough how great the jeopardy one will face in correcting what might have been a great blunder on my part. I apologise. But failure would imperil not only the brave soul who deigns to embark upon this task but likely hazard the entire world. Please do not take this as an exaggeration. The entire world.

  After our astounding final encounter with the Vampire, I was not content that we had ended the affair satisfactorily. I believe we had been so relieved and intoxicated by our monumental achievement and the release of Madam Mina from the vile Creature’s entrancement that I am afraid we had neglected to make certain that the Beast was indeed destroyed. I dwelled upon this while the other participants were making arrangements for the transportation of poor, deceased Quincey Morris back to his family, and themselves back to England. As for myself, I decided to remain in this mysterious country for a few months of research and inquiry.

  After checking on Madam Mina and assuring myself as to her continued recuperation, I stole away from the commotion and ventured into the village, where I rented a horse-drawn carriage, an enclosed transport wagon used by the local milliner to haul perishables. At a tavern servicing the peasantry, I was able to engage four burly fellows to assist me. A familiar type of rough rustic, willing to do most anything for lucre. Still they drove a dear bargain for a day and night’s work.

  Despite their rough countenances, they did show some misgivings when they witnessed my purchase of a casket at the local undertaker’s. I suppose any sort of container would have sufficed, but after much searching I determined that the ideal vessel for transporting a body is indeed one from the mortuary. A simple pine box was my preference but there were none at hand, or so said the daunting proprietor. He offered one to be built, but I was not willing to wait the two, possibly three, days. I knew this to be a sales tactic, but I was in no mood to wait or haggle, and I purchased a black lacquered affair (for far more than it was worth, I am sure). The dastardly man prattled on about the craftsmanship of the casket, the lush satin interior, hand-rubbed brass handles, and so on until I felt as if I were being fitted for a new suit.

  Finally we were on our way, I guiding from the open driver’s perch with two of my hirelings, the other pair inside the wagon with the casket as there was no other place for them to ride. They were not happy with the arrangement and had insisted on drawing straws for the berths. Only I knew that they would be even less content when they discovered exactly what was going into the coffin.

  Finding the spot where we had finally confronted and defeated the Vampire was quite easy. The place had been burned into my mind like a silver photoengraving. We travelled on the rough road, for a road of an ancient and imperfect kind it was.

  The box containing our Un-Dead foe had been pushed into the river, and I had only to follow the course of the current for a few hundred metres. I finally spied the box caught up in a tangle of flood debris piled near the bank. The container was in the grasp of tree limbs, their claw-like branches gripping it firmly.

  One of my henchmen waded out into the rapid eddies with a rope tied to his waist for security. His fellows held the other end as he struggled against the fierce current, but he was able to tie another rope to the box.

  It took all five of us to pull the box from the water and up the muddy bank. When these stalwart men saw what was inside they withdrew with the timidity of a maiden spying a snake in the rose garden. Even the horses began to scream and tore at their tethers till I calmed the beasts. When they did feel my hands on them, they whinnied low as in joy, and licked my hands and were quiet for a time.

  I left the soothed beasts and examined the condition of the corpse. There was no evidence of the decay often found with water immersion, but this was not surprising, the weather being quite cold and the subsequent icy waters most likely acting as a cold storage preservative. What was surprising, most remarkable in fact, was that I found the Vampire’s throat halfway healed. Despite the deep slash delivered by Harker’s kukri blade, the wound had closed and new tissue was forming. I should have taken this as a warning.

  The other wound was made by the late Quincey Morris’s Bowie knife. Being nearly the length of a Roman short sword, the blade had been thrust into the Vampire’s chest with such force that it had pinned the creature to the bottom of the box, very much like a mounted insect. We discovered this while transferring the body into the casket. It was my decision to leave the Bowie knife in situ, assuming
that this was the reason for the Creature’s demise. Assumed in error, to my later regret.

  As we loaded the coffin into the wagon, a chill wind began to blow and a scattering of snow pelted us. The horses trotted away as I gave the site one last mournful look, in remembrance of our companion, the brave Quincey Morris. The somber clouds overhead matched my dark mood.

  A thaw and the rain from the night before had turned the roads into muddy bogs, then the cold temperature had frozen this mud into a turgid crenellation most difficult to traverse. Our wheels bounced and jolted, and the wagon was tossed about like a ship on a rough sea. It became slow going, to say the least, a bitter wind in our faces. The two men riding up front with me were probably wishing they had done better on the straw draw.

  The farther we travelled the more ragged and difficult the road presented itself, and our progress slowed more than I desired. My consternation increased as night loomed before us, the dim light behind the low ceiling of bruised clouds diminishing by the moment. I knew that the night was the Vampire’s dominion, and even though he seemed to be without power at this moment, a deep, antediluvian dread haunted me.

  Our passage led us through desolate rural areas, tiny houses with small tilled plots now scoured of any fall crop, the orchards naked of leaves. These small farms were often walled with stone harvested from the fields, and these walls hemmed in our route.

  The road became rougher, our jostling more violent, to the point where we were almost thrown from our seats more than once. I heard an occasional curse from within the wagon as those men were tossed about. Despite the threat of night falling upon us, I had to order my driver to slow his horses before we lost a wheel or broke an axle.

  Suddenly, as if a gas jet had been turned off, night was upon us.

  I do not know if one of the men inside the wagon—out of innate curiosity, or thinking to steal the Bowie knife—opened the Vampire’s casket and removed it, or if the constant bounding and bucking of the carriage simply loosened then displanted the blade. Either way, our first indication that something had gone awry was a sharp scream from inside the wagon, followed by a great commotion from therein, a knocking and pounding to rival the wagon’s outside agitation.