Excerpt from my recently published book

Prologue– It Speaks to Me

October 1897. Slains Castle, North Yorkshire.

I came here to write the finishing chapters of Dracula. The early drafts had taken shape at the Kilmarnock Arms, a favored comfortable inn nestled in the quiet charm of Aberdeenshire. But there, amid warm fires and polite conversation, the darkness refused to rise. The setting was too gentle for horror. Friends and acquaintances came and went, slowing down my progress.

The ruins of Slains Castle, perched high above the North Sea, offered no such warmth. If ever a place was meant to summon demons, this was it. My chamber overlooked the cliffs, yet most nights I saw nothing but mist and the restless grey of fog. The castle’s interior was colder still, shrouded in shadows, littered with hidden rooms and half-fallen corridors where one’s imagination could wander to dreadful places.

I tell myself I chose Slains for those very qualities – for the atmosphere, the solitude, the inspiration. And yet, if I am honest, I do not truly know what ultimately compelled me to stay. There are decisions we make that seem rational in the moment but reveal themselves later as something else. Some suggestions naturally come from the dark corners of the mind. Or perhaps, beyond it.

Built in the 13th century, Slains Castle was originally held by the Comyns, Earls of Buchan. When their lands were seized by Robert the Bruce, the estate was granted to Sir Gilbert Hay, a loyal supporter of the crown.

In 1589, Francis Hay, the 9th Earl of Erroll, joined the Catholic Rebellion against King James VI, a defiance that culminated in the Battle of Glenlivet in 1593. The rebellion was crushed, and the Catholic forces decimated. In retaliation, the crown ordered the destruction of several strongholds in the region, including Slains Castle, which was subsequently blown to ruin.

Yet even in the ashes of defeat, resilience stirred. The following year, Elizabeth Douglas, Countess of Erroll, summoned masons to begin repairs, and portions of the shattered walls were raised anew. But it was a futile gesture. Time had already taken up the siege, where cannon fire had ceased. Wind and sea, relentless in their assault, continued to wear down the stone, and over the centuries, Slains slipped ever deeper into ruin.

The townspeople thought me mad for staying there. They warned me, subtly at first, then openly, not to linger near the ruins. They claimed the place was cursed. When I rode into town for provisions, I was met with wary glances and stiff silence. I was aware people were talking about me behind my back. Often, conversations stopped when I entered a room. Still, I paid them no mind. I am a man of letters, not of spirits.

But I will admit this much: Slains offered me more than a setting. It gave me sight of  precise imagery I needed to shape the Count’s domain. The walls spoke in their silence. The sea whispered at night. And I, a dutiful scribe, listened.

After four rather unproductive nights, I decided to explore the castle grounds. Perhaps, I might uncover whatever it was that had bred so much superstition among the local townspeople. What were they so afraid of, I wondered. The sun was fading, so I took up a lamp and set off on a walk before nightfall.

I traveled counter-clockwise around the grounds, descending toward the sea. The tide was out, granting me access to areas usually submerged. To my astonishment, I found a cavern of sorts beneath the foundation. Turning up the lamp, I ventured in, aware that the sea would soon return.

A clammy stillness clung to the cavern. Before long, my breath emerged in pale wisps, ghost-like in the dark underworld. I wondered when the last time someone had entered this place. Perhaps centuries ago.

Not far into the cavern, I came upon five skeletons, resting peacefully on an earthen shelf above the tide line. Wooden slats lay about them, remnants of coffins. They had been purposefully placed there. Who they were, I cannot say, as more than likely, they will never give up their secret. I passed by them and pressed deeper into the castle’s subterranean bowels.

Roughly fifty meters in, I discovered a doorway. It took all my strength to open the heavy oaken door; its hinges, thick with rust and salt, shrieked in protest.

Inside was a circular stone chamber, nearly barren save for a large desk set near its center. I placed the lamp down and explored the room, but found no other furnishings. When I returned to the desk, I noticed an old manuscript lying on top. I could swear it wasn’t there when I set the lamp down, yet here it is now covered in thick dust. I brushed much of the dust away.

The manuscript was bound in heavy leather. Its yellowed pages were fine and brittle – made from expensive pulp, the sort used by wealthy scribes in centuries past. As my fingers first touched the leather, I swear the flame of my lamp flickered wildly. Then for a heartbeat, I thought I heard a whisper, one so faint it might have been memory.

Upon opening the cover, I had to carefully remove the page that had been stuck to the leather, perhaps for centuries. Once I had done this, I was met with a strange symbol: an upended cross wound about with thorny vines. I had never seen this symbol before.

The following pages were written in a language I could not decipher. The script was foreign and archaic. There were crude illustrations within: bats, wolves, even something resembling Satan himself. One image stood out in particular, of a nobleman impaling five victims. The room in the drawing looked disturbingly similar to the chamber I now stood in.

Beneath the illustration were four words, penned in English: “Blood in the Ink.”

I was unable to grasp the meaning, but the phrase haunted me instantly, as if it had waited centuries to be read aloud.

Mindful of the tide, I tucked the manuscript under my arm and returned to the castle. The manuscript was heavier than expected, and the climb back up to the castle had me nearly worn out by the time I returned to the living quarters I had been inhabiting.

Back inside, I was relieved to find the butler had built a roaring fire in the dining room. He informed me dinner was ready. Warmth and dinner were just what I needed, along with more ample light to study the manuscript further.

I spent the next hour at the table, poring over the book by lamplight, sipping claret, and picking half-heartedly at boiled turnips and potatoes. But the manuscript remained enigmatic. Frustrated yet intrigued, I refused to relinquish the claret when the butler came to clear the table.

That night, I dreamt, although it was not the first time. Even before I arrived at Slains, I had been having a series of strange visions of much the same nature. I had dismissed them as a result of overwork and perhaps some sleeplessness. But this dream, I now believe, seemed a culmination of them all.

In my dream …