This is the dark tale of Count Dracula, told through chilling journal entries. It starts with Jonathan Harker’s visit to the Count’s castle.
Mina Murray’s Journal.
Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could not sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly, it made me shudder. Strangely enough, the booming thunder did not wake Lucy, but she got up twice in the night and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I woke up in time and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back into bed.
Early in the morning, we both got up and went down to the harbor to see if anything had happened in the night. There were very few people around even though the sun was bright, and the air was clear and fresh. The big, grim-looking waves forced themselves through the narrow mouth of the harbor, like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow, I felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night. But, oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how is he? I am getting fearfully anxious about him. If only I knew what to do! If only I could do something!
The funeral of the poor sea captain today was so touching. Every boat in the harbor seemed to be there, and the coffin was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat. We had a lovely view, and we stayed for most of the ceremony.
The poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our seat, so when the time came, we stood up and we could see everything. Poor Lucy seemed very upset. She was restless and uneasy the whole time, and I cannot help but think that her strange dreaming at night is starting to wear her down. There is something odd about her: she will not admit to me that there is any reason for restlessness. If there is a reason, she doesn’t understand it herself.
And there is something else: According to the gossip, Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our seat. His neck was broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, because there was a look of fear and horror on his face. The men that found him shuddered when they saw his face. Poor dear old man! Perhaps he had seen Death with his dying eyes!
Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that these kinds of things influence her more acutely than other people. Just now, she was quite upset by a little thing which hardly bothered me (even though I am very fond of animals, too). One of the men who comes up here often was followed by his dog. The dog is always with him. They are both quiet, and I never saw the man get angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the funeral service, the dog would not come to its master, who was sitting near us, but kept a few yards away, barking and howling. Its master spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily. But it would neither come nor stop barking. The dog was in a fury, with savage eyes, and its hairs bristling out. Finally, the man got angry. He jumped down and kicked the dog, and then he took it by the scruff of the neck and dragged—or rather, almost threw—the dog to the tombstone below the man’s seat. The moment the dog touched the stone, the poor thing became quiet and started trembling. It did not try to run away. It just crouched down, quivering and cowering.
It was in such a sad state that I tried to comfort it. Lucy, too, was full of pity, but she did not attempt to touch the dog. She looked at it in an agonized sort of way. I greatly fear that she is too super-sensitive to go through the world without trouble. This dog will appear in her dreams tonight, I am sure. In fact, everything that has happened in the past few days–the ship steered into the port by a dead man; how the captain was tied to the wheel with a crucifix; the touching funeral; the terrified dog—will all appear in her dreams.
I think it is best to tire her out physically before she goes to bed, so I will take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood’s Bay and back. If she is exhausted from exercise, maybe it will prevent her from sleepwalking.
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