I Speak to You of the Grave

By Paul G. Chamberlain

The following story was found in the personal effects of Bram Stoker, the author of the classic horror story Dracula, soon after he had died of locomotor ataxia (probably syphilis) at his residence in St. Georges Square, London, in 1912. It reads as follows…

I speak to you of the grave, for that is where I have come, and that is where I shall return. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is R.M. Renfield, and in the early years of my life I took it upon myself to travel to the Continent, not to visit the great capitals of Europe—no. I wanted to see the Slavonic lands, those empty spaces in Transylvania, where smoke rises in spirals from tiny villages, mist hangs in the trees like an old man’s beard, and peasants whisper of the ‘strigoi’, those lost souls wandering forever in the shades of night.

I had long heard reports from the region of strange activities: ignis fatuus dancing on lonely graves in swampy marshes; the howls of wolves in the moonlight; and bodies, occasionally exhumed, revealing corpses in horribly contorted positions, finger nails broken and blood spatted on the cerements, suggesting that they had been buried alive. It is hardly surprising that to the superstitious peasants of the Carpathians such tales have given rise to legends of vampires, those blood sucking incubi who prey on the living by drinking their blood to nourish their decaying corpses. I had studied these lurid accounts in some detail. One arcane book I consulted was Ranft’s 1734 treatise on De Masticatione Mortuum in Tumulis (On Chewing the Dead in their Tombs); another weighty tome was Calmet’s dissertation on the Vampires of Hungary, published in 1750, which I found in the library of my doctor, John Seaward.

As I look back on my long journey, I recall taking the packet boat from Dover to Calais, and then riding in carriages across Europe with my serge-lined cape, a black fedora, and my silver-tipped cane, a cunning artifice that concealed a blade of Damascus steel for use in case I encountered wolves. We thundered across the Continent for weeks, my portmanteau bouncing on top of the carriage, as I crouched uncomfortably on my hard seat, curious as to what I might see outside the window. First, we stopped at Paris, then Geneva, then Salzburg, and, finally, Vienna where at last we rode into the foothills of the Carpathians. Here, for the first time, I saw the country folk riding on their rickety, horse-drawn carriages, the crumbling façades of tiny houses, and wandering peasants in their bright, baggy clothing, some pointing two fingers at me to ward off the evil eye. The closer I came to the end of my fatiguing journey, however, the more I was gripped by a sense of foreboding, a disquiet that was made all the more palpable by the pervasive poverty, and the cold mist hanging in the pines like icicles. Finally, one fateful evening, we rode into the village of Sighisoara, where I was greeted by candles burning brightly in the tiny windows of every house, welcoming men home from the fields—and scaring away the hungry vampires.

I clambered out of my carriage, and strode briskly into the Hotel Draculesti.

Removing my hat with a flourish, I bowed condescendingly to the innkeeper with a touch of mock decorum. He was a small rotund peasant with a shiny, bald pate, a black moustache, and immense hands; I learnt later that he had once been a wrestler. The innkeeper was not amused. But when I slapped a gold sovereign onto the polished, wooden counter, his dark eyes widened as if he had been hypnotized, and the coin disappeared into his fist with the legerdemain of a magician. He yelled in Rumanian, and an elderly man, who was suffering from a severe case of goitre, shuffled into the taproom, and proceeded to drag my heavy suitcase across the floor, and up the narrow flight of steps to the upper floor. I soon found myself alone.

The bedroom was a spartan affair with a sloping ceiling, and a small window overlooking the street. A wooden bed and a white porcelain wash stand were the only furnishings in the room, except for a faded portrait on the wall that reminded me of my doctor, John Seaward. I splashed some cold water on my face, and prepared for supper.

It was downstairs, a little later in the evening, that I met the woman of the inn. Sophia was a comely girl with black eyes, long, dark hair and an unusually white complexion. She offered me a flask of ‘palinka’, the traditional Carpathian brandy, and I drank deeply. The young maid had an amiable smile, and I noticed that her long dress afforded an unusually conspicuous décolletage. The innkeeper smirked as he caught my eye. There was no menu, but supper arrived quickly: a generous portion of legumes, a thick slice of jambon, and a healthy sprinkling of potatoes sautéed in butter. I could taste garlic, and this made me think of vampires. I was reminded that in addition to garlic, bright sunlight, silver crucifixes, tiny mirrors, and even the proverbial wooden stake driven through the heart were all tools to ward off those nocturnal visitations.

When I had finished supper I seated myself closer to the fireplace. I lit my cherrywood pipe, and I watched the locals come and go as they eyed me cautiously, the fire all the while cracking like gunfire as it steadily burned the damp logs that had been freshly cut that afternoon in the forest. It is to the forest that our story must now turn.

I had spent the better part of a week at the hotel, and I was becoming restless. After exploring the local village, I started to wander farther afield, all the time sensing that the locals were eyeing me with increasing suspicious. Each evening, however, I returned to a warm fire at the inn, and ate and drank sumptuously by candle light. But something attracted my attention. On the wall behind the counter was a large, iron key. It wasn’t long before I learnt that it was the key to the cemetery. It belonged to the grave-digger, the same disheveled man who had dragged my luggage up to my room on my arrival. I was curious.

On my seventh night in Sighisoara, I finally summoned enough courage to visit the cemetery. My plan was simple: I waited by the fire until every one had gone to bed, and after putting on my serge-lined cape, adjusting my black fedora, and picking up my walking cane, I grabbed the heavy key from behind the bar, and set off into the forest. Unfortunately, I had not anticipated the difficulty I was to encounter. It was a full moon, but the clouds sped across the sky like angry horses, enveloping the yellow orb in a luminosity that afforded me little direct light. As I stepped every closer to the cemetery, I could feel the thump-thump-thump of my heart, and even my footsteps seemed to grow heavier the closer I came to the gate. I began to breath faster, and I started to perspire. Clenching the key in my fist, I plunged on. Finally, the moment I had long anticipated arrived. I found myself standing before the gate of the cemetery. I thought of turning around. Me, Renfield, a man who had come all the way across Europe, turn around? No—I would not go back! With my trembling hand, I slid the rusty key into the lock, and swung open the iron gate.

At that instant the clouds parted, and the cemetery became drenched in moonlight. I could see a farrago of frosty headstones, some tall, some small, some encrusted with lichens, and others as smooth as the day they had been cut by the mason’s chisel. Many were leaning over, as if reaching out to someone who would never come. Not a sound could be heard anywhere in the forest, and there was an immense gloom hanging over the place. But a thought came to me: I was alive. But everyone about me was dead. Or were they? I suddenly detected a faint noise—a rush of air in the stillness of the night. The next thing I saw was a pair of enormous wings. A large bird swept in a wide arc above me, and I watched as it swooped down and then alighted softly on a nearby gravestone. Folding its wings, the giant bird sat quite still. It was a raven, and its small black eyes watched me intently. I crept gingerly up to the gravestone where it was perched, and I read the faded inscription in the moonlight:

NICOLAE-ALEXANDRU CAZACUL
Born Bucharest 1648
Died Sighisoara 1699
Age 51 Years

‘Cazacul’, I thought to myself; was that not a cognate of the word ‘cossack’—a hetman of the steppes? My attention was drawn once more to the raven. It kept staring at me. Then I did something that I will always regret: I slowly opened my cape, and exposed the red-serge lining inside. The raven let out a shrill squark. It abruptly unfolded its wings, and with a mighty sweep it lifted itself into the frosty air, circled briefly over the silent graveyard, and then vanished into the forest.

The next thing I remember was waking up early the next morning in the Hotel Draculesti. I could hear the sound of voices, and I quickly got dressed. I soon learnt that Sophia was not well; she was very pale. The village doctor had ordered her to rest. But there was a small matter of a broken window. The innkeeper, who was a light sleeper, had heard what he thought was a bird striking the pane in the early hours of the morning, and speculation was now rife that it had got into her room. But there was more: she had two small holes cut in her throat. A feeling of dread crept over me. Did my visit to the grave of Nicolae-Alexandru Cazacul have something to do with this frightening development? Was that raven, perhaps, a lost soul in search of… it was too awful to contemplate! But one thing was clear, the doctor’s discovery that morning had incited rumours among the superstitious peasants. The grave-digger was the only person who did not speak, and I noticed that he was watching my reaction closely. I suspected that his suspicious behaviour had something to do with the key. I had put the key back exactly where I had found it after I returned from the graveyard, but to my horror I realized that in my haste I had hung it up on the hook the wrong way. Had he noticed? I wasn’t sure. I wondered whether I should tell the truth about my nocturnal wanderings in the graveyard the previous night, or if I should deny knowing anything about the key. But that afternoon events began to spiral out of control. I was told that the villagers were convinced that I had had something to do with Sophia’s nocturnal visitation. I was gripped by a powerful urge to leave the village.

I packed my portmanteau, and ordered the grave-digger to carry it downstairs. I waited nervously. When the coach finally arrived I insisted that my belongings be put on board posthaste, and I tossed the innkeeper one last gold florin for good measure. His face lit up, but in his eyes I saw a warning never to return. As my coach pulled out of the village, I spied an angry mob creeping toward us with pitchforks and flaming torches, and I screamed at the driver to crack his whip. Mercifully, he complied, and I thundered out of Transylvania never to return…

Here, the story that was left among Bram Stoker’s personal effects ends. We will never know for certain why he chose not to include R.M. Renfield’s colourful account of his journey to Transylvania in his horror story; but we do know that in his famous epistolary novel about Dracula, Renfield is indeed a patient of Dr. John Seaward. For most of the story Renfield remains in an asylum somewhere in England where he is supervised in a hospital for the criminally insane. Unlike the blood thirsty vampires, however, Renfield prefers to eat insects, and he sits for much of the day hunched in the corner of his tiny cell in a straight-jacket, squirming uncontrollably, and frothing at the mouth. Scratched on the wall of his cell in blood are the words: I speak to you of the grave, for that is where I have come, and that is where I shall return.