The Instructions
Inspired by the Dracula story — Stoker's novel, the 1931 Browning/Lugosi film, the Hammer series as well — the basic story that's disseminated through our culture in all its forms and referents for the past 130 years.
“And will the gentleman,” she asked, turning back from the door, “be wanting breakfast?”
“Yes,” I said, gazing around the room, which was plainly furnished but clean, and offered a view of the mountains, rose and gold in the late afternoon light, and picturesque, though I suspected that with the coming of dusk they would show a different nature—cold, grim, formidable, having protected this valley and its handful of villages from the depredations of the Huns, the Mongols, the Turks, as far back as the Romans, as recently as Soviet clean-up forces, so that I had only learned of it in my client’s letter, which I now took from my breast pocket and reviewed, particularly his instructions that I was not to mention him by name—this point was underlined—but to represent myself as a freelance photojournalist, conducting research for a possible article on the overlooked and obscure corners of the world; that I was to ingratiate myself with the family in this farmhouse and settle in, and then, at midnight, when everyone slept, I was to go to the crossroads, where his car would pick me up, which I would recongize by its antique vintage, its black color, and the fact that it would have no headlights; I was to get into the back seat (the driver would be wearing a long coat with high collar turned up so that I would be unable to see his features clearly as we sped silently through the sleeping farmlands and up into the mountains); I would be nervous of the narrow and hairpin road, the sheer drop now on one side and now on the other, the absence of dashboard lights and rearview mirrors, but was to settle myself as well as I could, and would note that the silent driver seemed to know the road remarkably well, its every twist and turn, as if he could see in the dark, until at last we would pull up in front of what I would think was a deserted ruin, which would cause me to wonder if I was brought here to be robbed, or worse, and I would get out of the car, climb the broken steps to the great nail-studded door, which before I could reach for its rusted and grotesque knocker would swing open, groaning on its hinges as if in torment, at which point I was to step into a courtyard ghastly under the light of a waning moon, and then see my host standing in an open doorway, holding an oil lamp in one hand and with the other beckoning me forward; I was to experience a moment of doubt in the presence of his smile, which would seem eager in its welcome and yet somehow too eager, but then relax as he greeted me and apologized for the state of his house, explaining that his was an ancient line, and that it suited him to dwell among the broken remains of the past; meanwhile I was to follow him into a great hall, the further reaches of which would remain untouched by the rays of his lamp, and up a wide and littered stairway, midway up which I would become entangled in an enormous spider web, and be so involved in freeing myself that I would not have the presence of mind to wonder how my host had preceded me without himself breaking the web, and would catch up with him, who would be watching me with a peculiar satisfaction, and with a courtly flourish throw open the door to a suite of rooms which while not modern were well appointed, lit by candles and a fire crackling in an enormous fireplace, and a table set with fine china and silver, with chafing dishes giving off delicious aromas, and a dusty bottle of Tokay, all of which would remind me that I was famished, and at my host’s urging I was to sit and eat, while he excused himself from joining me, saying he had dined earlier, and did not drink wine, which he would say with a peculiar emphasis and a glitter to his eye, which I would not notice because I was busy with chicken paprikash and a glass of the Tokay, which would be excellent, the best I would remember having had, and as I ate he would tell me tales of his ancient family, the battles they had fought, intrigues carried out, vengeances taken, and only now after I had satisfied my hunger and turned my full attention to him was I to become aware that there seemed to be some subtext to his conversation, which would cause me increasing disquiet, not merely because of the many details that would not seem available to any save the actual participants, such as the pleasant sound made by the stiletto as it slipped through Prince Vladimir’s doublet and into his torso, or what the foolish and superstitious villagers whispered to one another about the shockingly high number of deaths and disappearances when the donjon was being built, but something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on, so that I was to begin conducting an informal analysis of his verbal and behavioral communications, and come to a tentative conclusion, that words such as blood, night and death appeared to have private meanings to my host, meanings which he found humorous, mordantly so, and I would test out my hypothesis by dropping a few of these words into my own comments, and, noting the increase in my host’s mirth, be encouraged to use the words more profusely, experimenting with related terms as well, so that soon he would be roaring with laughter and wiping tears from his eyes, and I would become giddy with my success and jam the words together in long strings, sacrificing logic for effect, until he beat his fists on the table and gasped no, no more, but unable to stop I would shout death, coffins, two undertakers walk into a bar, at which point he would clutch his chest with a strangled cry, and for just an instant I would observe a look of the most profound peace come over his features, but next moment would witness a shocking dissolution, his hair falling away, flesh withering, skin turning to parchment and tattering to nothing, exposing yellowed and ancient bones, which would collapse clattering across the table, from which I would recoil in horror, and rise shakily to my feet, but just at that moment would notice a sort of mist that had previously been swirling aimlessly on the terrace, but would now coalesce into three women of unearthly beauty, dressed in archaic but highly becoming costume, who would glide into the room, their voices like silver ringing on crystal, and ask what I had done to their husband, floating towards me with an air of indescribable menace, and I would feel myself overcome by hopelessness, but yielding to a sudden desperate inspiration would engage them in a feminist deconstruction of patriarchy, and pose the question of why there were three brides for one husband and not three husbands for every bride, and being struck by the injustice of the system they would fall to arguing finer and finer points of analysis, with an eye to establishing principles, in support of a formal statement and plan of action, not realizing until the sun poured its cleansing light into that foul chamber, that such structure was itself the tool of patriarchy, whose sole aim was to ensure that men’s property descended to their oldest male heir, with genetic identity controlled for by marriage, the very organ of sexism, but meanwhile I would edge my way quietly from the apartment, hurry down the ruined stairway, through the great hall and out into the rubble-strewn courtyard, where I would trip and go sprawling but quickly regain my feet, haul open the enormous nail-studded door and run, run as I would never have run before, away from that house of horror and into the night, which mercifully would be coming to a close, and dawn would find me on the road back to the farmhouse where I would once again join my wholesome fellows, and replacing the letter in my pocket I wondered, not for the first time, if this project was right for me, but what I said was, “And probably a hearty one.”