Dracula's Bedlam

By Dacre Stoker, Chris McAuley, John Peel and Frederick Roseman

Dracula's Bedlam is the second novel in the StokerVerse series, conceptualised and brought to life by writers Chris McAuley and Dacre Stoker, the great-grandnephew of Dracula author Bram Stoker. Guest writer John Peel also contributes to this excellent addition to the series. It is a mixed media presentation with both story content and graphic novel elements from Frederick B. Roseman, along with an introduction from author of the Horror series Deadknobs and Doomsticks and much-loved UK personality Joe Pasquale.
Is there a place more enthralling than that of the Asylum? The insane lurk in the shadows with gibbering mouths and twisted minds…
Dr. Seward's asylum is particularly interesting; a serial killer has his mind peeled back, a mysterious nurse walks the halls with a sweet smile and devious mind… and, of course, there's the enigmatic Mr. Renfield…
Set between the cracks of the original Dracula novel, the StokerVerse series hopes to shed a little light into the dark areas which were not wholly explored by author Bram Stoker. Familiar figures from Dracula and original characters created specifically for the StokerVerse appear in these dark and twisted tales.
Dracula's Bedlam is the perfect read for a dark Halloween night… if you dare!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stoker McAuley Productions
• Release date: Oct 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781789828542

Dacre Stoker

Dacre Stoker is the great grand nephew of Dracula author, Bram Stoker. He lives with his wife, Jenne, in South Carolina. The Un-dead is his first novel.

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Dracula’s Bedlam – Prologue

In a lower room in a small house in the Whitechapel district, Professor Abraham Van Helsing could be found. The eminent scholar had recently taken rooms in the busy streets of London, away from his native Amsterdam due to the instance of one of his former students. Dr John Seward was a brilliant young man. Compassionate and attentive to every possible, conceivable medical detail, not unlike his former mentor. Seward had inevitably found a home within the exciting new possibilities in treating various mental disorders.

It had not been a disease of the mind that had brought Van Helsing to the industrial heart of the world, but rather a malady of the body. Or so it had first appeared. Lucy Westerna had been a vibrant, beautiful, young woman. She was at the blossoming height of her sex, ready and certainly willing to take a husband.

Helsing felt a smile ripple across his well-worn and aged face. As a younger man, he had delighted in the company of such women himself. The full and rich promise of laughter and passion in and out of the bed chamber. His late wife had been one such prize.

Standing in the corner of his lodgings, his feet unconsciously pressed themselves harder against the gently rotting wooden floor. His bespectacled eyes gazing towards the window, although the pale moon cast its reflected gaze back towards him, he was unseeing. His eyes and mind had turned inward. A flurry of images had assailed him as he had created the link between Lucy and his wife.

Their first meeting, he a clumsy philosophy student, she a charming and erudite heiress. He had been standing in the marbled hall of The Sorbonne in Paris, waiting for a fellow student to present him with reading material that had been borrowed from him. The cool of the hall had been a welcome respite from the heat of the summer day. His long, fair hair gently had been touched by the balmy breeze invading the building from the open door. It was then that he saw her, she had walked towards him carrying a parasol, so elegant, the idealistic dream of woman conjured from his mind and made manifest. She smiled at him and it was then that he knew he must pursue her, win her and that they must live happily as man and wife.

The creases of Helsing’s face which had worn a smile smoothed slightly as his momentary journey into the past faded. He was brought back to the present with the unwelcome memory and image of his wife burning from a dreadful fever, a disease of the blood that had coursed through her body and changed her soul. In that regard she had been just like Lucy and he like John Seward.

He had been helpless to assist both his wife and son who had fallen victim to the disease’s dark power.

However, he was helpless no more!

Van Helsing stepped from the shadows and moved towards the large oak writing desk that had been placed adjacent to the window. Under his arm had been resting a heavy object, wrapped in expensive cloth. The object was more valuable that the material surrounding it however. He placed the object on the heavy table and unwrapped it.

Peering towards its cover and then glancing at the window, he realized that the light of the moon would not be enough to decipher its secrets. Moving towards the right of the desk, he reached upwards to the rounded handles of a small cabinet secured to the wall. In it he found several candles, a lamp and a box of matches. Placing the lamp on the oak table, he struck a match. Its golden hue tinged with a bright orange flame kissed the virgin white wick of the candle. Gently and carefully placing the candle into the lamp. He settled himself down on the cushioned chair placed behind the writing table.

The light flickered and danced across his face, his increased concentration manifested in the deep furrows appearing on his forehead and the puckered aspect of his mouth. His fingers traced the cover of the unwrapped book, it was an ancient text and its burgundy cover and title embossed in gold was a thing of wonder for the professor.

The tome had been procured from his brethren in the ancient and esteemed society known throughout the civilised world as Freemasonry. Inside its carefully and elaborately bound leather cover lay the hidden knowledge concerning a scourge that had walked the earth since the dawn of time. A malevolent race which has walked as man’s shadow throughout known history. They have been known by many names and titles depending on where they are found across the globe.

In the Far East they are known as the ‘Vetala’. The revenants who dwell among the stinking, festering dead in the charnel grounds. Famed for their ability to tell the fortunes of unfortunate passersby, they are demonic spirits that possess the corpses of the unwise, the foolish and the morally careless. In Europe they are commonly known as Strigoi, the restless spirits which cannot rest in their tomb of earth. They rise and hunger for the blood of any human or animal with which they come in contact. Accounts throughout the world vary in their physical description and manifestation. The book which Van Helsing is now translating from its rough mixture of Celtic Latin and Cuneiform names them as -

Vampyres

A name which is spoken in hushed tones throughout superstitious alehouses in the Germanic regions, and whose unholy seductive wiles are combated through secret occult lodges across the globe. As his hand traces through the text, Professor Van Helsing again brought to mind the recent tragedy of young Lucy Westerna. She had recently been defiled by the decaying touch of one of these creatures.

Together with his protégé Dr John Seward, the dashing aristocrat Arthur Holmwood and the daring frontiersman Quincy Morris, they had stalked the creature that Lucy had become back to her lair. The demon inside her had attempted to seduce each of them in turn. Probing their weaknesses. Van Helsing’s eyes no longer beheld the sweet-smelling book in his hand. Once again, his gaze and concentration turned inwards as he regretted that he had not been able to stop the spread of the disease once it had taken a hold of the girl. He mourned for his friend Jack and was determined to be armed with the knowledge necessary to combat the progenitor of this hideous condition.

A sense of guilt and unspoken heavy dread had followed him throughout his life. There had not been a day since the death of his wife that he had not felt the tinge of shame and the rich aftertaste of anger, which boiled and coursed through his blood. He must find the cause and the truth of his danger which currently stalked the old streets of London and that was currently placing his friends, old and new, in deadly danger.

His determination thus steeled; his eyes once again regained their focus as he turned page after page. Skimming quickly through the arcane methods of destruction which he was already familiar with. He hoped that some vital clue may be given in the yellowing pages pressed against his similarly stained forefinger and thumb.

As he began to grow weary and the light of the candle was dimming, he beheld an ancient account which held promise. He pulled the candle closer to the pages but was careful not to risk setting them aflame. The light playing across the deep lines gained by age and deeper lines still which he gained through bloody combat. His mouth opened slightly, betraying the excitement of this discovery.

Mijn God, zou het kunnen zijn? Dat dit de oorsprong is van de dreiging die me door de jaren heen heeft achtervolgd?[1]

Calming himself, he bent down to examine the ancient text and the carefully illustrated figures before him. To learn the beginning of a thing is to start to comprehend how to end it, he mused.

1 My God, could it be? That this is the origin of the menace that has stalked me through the years?

Origin

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Dracula’s Bedlam – Chapter One

It was common for elaborate and impressive facades to hide some of the seediest and darkest aspects of society. As this statement is true of our fellow man, so it was also with the insane asylums. Towering and impressive, complete with towers and impressive ramparts. These buildings served to help ease the consciences of those passing by.

When the gentlemen would stroll by on a balmy summer late afternoon, perchance that their gaze may rest on the signage which marked the place as a home for insane. They would undoubtedly remark to their companions or to themselves

The afflicted within must be at least as well cared for as the impressive gardens which can be seen through these gates.

With this comforting thought, they would stroll onward and sleep well in their bed, knowing that God was in his Heaven and all was right with the world.

Inside these impressive structures, the facade gave way to large dark spaces. Endlessly spiralling staircases and high Gothic ceilings. There were grim, windowless cells where patients spent long periods of time without light or the sound of a comforting human voice. Alone and trapped in their hellish madness, no respite for their destructive delusions, they often awoke to rats gnawing at some exposed part of their anatomy.

Colosseum styled galleries were present. Cathedrals of pain where various eminent physicians and surgeons would gaze impassively at the screaming, writhing all too human bodies being operated on. This form of education was also theatre. The incisions made with great flourishes, the medical showman on stage, arms raised as he discussed the procedures with more warmth than his regard for the broken body and mind in front of him.

Great strides had been made in the advancement for treating the insane in the last few decades. The new science of psychoanalysis, pioneered by the Austrian neurologist Sigmund Freud, had its followers. Using words instead of the knife to dissect the patient and to diagnose various psychopathic traits. Despite this, it was still more common to see the physician using equipment reminiscent of a torturer’s toolkit.

It is in this arena in which we find the redoubtable Dr. John Seward. In these cloistered rooms he spends most of his days and nights. Surrounded by the cries and the babbling of the mad. He endures the reverberating screams of those who are tormented by endless and shapeless fears. At times as he stands in his office, he can almost imagine that the echoes of the moans and violent outbursts are surrounding him, as if they are coming from the very walls themselves. The pain of his patients was almost a living thing. An entity which, like a snake, slithered and coiled through the damp stone walls of the building. Its mouth agape in an eternal, anguished scream. The noise reaching a crescendo as it reached the heights of the towering ceilings.

In this hellish environment, which would have broken a lesser man, Dr. Seward worked. He practiced not only medicine but also compassion of the heart. He was a man of material and educational privilege. He wanted for little in the world when it came to food, shelter and clothing. With this rare status in life also came an even rarer state of mind. Recognizing his blessings, he dedicated his life to seeking out the mentally afflicted and attempt to ease their suffering.

In pursuit of this goal, he had travelled across Europe and been trained by some of the finest medical minds there. It was in Dublin, Ireland, that he had come across the personage and work of Professor Abraham Van Helsing. A lecturer who specialized in the diseases of the blood as well as those of the mind. Van Helsing sanctioned a holistic approach and had introduced John Seward to the new science of psychiatry. This field had enraptured Seward and through it he recognized that there were none more needy or deserving, than the wretches who had lost their mind, or those who had become fixated by unhealthy desires.

Through his work, Seward had developed an unshakable belief. He believed, unlike that of many of his colleagues, that with the correctly applied procedures, his patients could be saved.

This idealistic notion was not without its difficulties, however. As he removed his tailored frock coat and slung it on a nearby metal chair in his office, he mused upon the latest arrival. A wiry fellow with a shock of dark hair, the orderlies had decided to shave him bald in case of any impending electroshock therapy.

The patient was secured to a surgical chair with leather straps. His distinctive appearance was completed by his wild and almost bulging eyes, betraying a form of mania. Dr. Seward had seen this in a patient before, an aristocratic legal expert who had a fascination with bugs and rodents.

Seward attempted the initial interview with the patients in his office, it worked quite well in order to build up a sense of intimacy and trust. On the occasions where the patient became violent, it was no hardship to have several orderlies carry them out, chair and all.

Seward approached the patient and rolled up his sleeves. Hullo, may I know your name?

The patient moved his head as far as he could in Seward’s direction. His tongue hung out of his mouth in a similar way that a stone gargoyle leered at passersby. His neck muscles strained against the tough leather straps.

You will know me soon enough. The whole world will soon know of me and my purpose.

His rasping voice accentuated the implication of the threat embedded in the sentence. Seward had often encountered patients raving with messianic delusions but the educated tone in the man’s voice caught him off guard. Looking into the man’s eyes, Seward saw that the man had uttered the statement with the honest conviction of one of those fellows who frequented Hyde Park. Sure, and steadfast in their apocalyptic knowledge.

Seward attempted to try a different tack, to ground the man in a semblance of reality.

When you were brought in, we found some traces of paint on your clothing and hands. Do you craft portraits or landscapes? Perhaps you were interrupted finishing off the garden fence instead?

At this last statement the patient laughed. His eyes seemed to settle into his head, and he began to warm to the subject at hand. It turned out that he was a draughtsman as well as a professional painter. He enjoyed crafting scenes featuring the degradation of women. From Roman legions chastising young Gallic peasants to black knights carrying off fair maidens to ravish.

These overt overtures led Dr. Seward to believe that the root of the man’s mania was in an intense hatred of the female form.

They are the lowest of our kind Doctor. The patient spat the words out, his eyes once again wild. They seek the coital pleasure for its own sake, not in the begetting of children as the Lord intended. Indeed, some are even given to have pleasure solely with themselves or with their own sex. Women are shameful creatures Doctor.

Seward thought of his beloved Lucy and her ever faithful companion Mina Murray. What was it Professor Van Helsing had said upon his initial encounter with Mina? Ah yes that she was a great light in the darkness of the world. So, it is with rational men’s thought, Women are the light which can shine through the murky mires of existence.

And yet, it is a woman who sits on the throne countered Dr Seward.

At this, the man’s face contorted into a rage which caused Seward to flinch backwards.

That’s what’s wrong with the world and The Empire! That’s why he sent me to correct these malformed purposes. My work is important, d’you see? It’s divine in nature!

Seward moved to a tray which contained various sharp medical implements. After this initial exchange, it could be supposed that the patient was experiencing delusions brought on by significant pressure on his brain. This could be alleviated by strategically drilling a hole into the side of the head, the subsequent issuing of blood and brain matter would then ease the built-up pressure.

The hope in performing this procedure was to try and reduce the mania of the patient. To calm them and make them more lucid. Continuing such treatments would then facilitate increased rational thought in the patient. It was through this process that Dr. Seward hoped that the unknown man would make himself, and the nature of the origin of his madness, known.

Seward lifted a heavy metal device which was designed to fit over the patient’s head. It was part restraint and part blood-letting tool. Designed within the inner mesh of the device were sharpened, metal spikes. These would press against the flesh of the head and puncture the skin and bone. A modern form of the ancient medical practice of trepanning. Seward suppressed a shiver as he quickly gazed at it. His rational, medical mind reassuring the troubling notion that this was more torture than medical procedure.

Seward moved towards the tightly bound man. He slightly raised his baritone voice to ensure that he was understood. You won’t bite me, will you sir?

The maniac grinned and attempted to shake his head at the physician advancing with the strange metal device. Seward began to place the device on the man’s head, he flinched when the man cried out. The patient spoke softly to him when he saw this.

Don’t worry Doctor. I am used to quite a bit of pain and the letting of blood is always necessary for my ease.

As the spikes did their work. The blood began to flow from the tarnished metal to the harsh cement floor. Seward went back to his coat and fished out a small notepad and pencil. Turning once more to his patient, he asked what had drove him to this place.

Ah Doctor, it began with the sweet sound of music and ended with the loss of my soul and many lives in tow

At this statement, Seward noticed a small tear trickle down the man’s thin, reed-like face. Crafting a trail through the grime and blood. He did not know if this tear was a product of remorse or if it was due to the sharp spikes which now penetrated the soft tissue of his brain.

The unknown patient raised a finger towards the Doctor. It was as much of a gesticulating movement that he could make due to the leather restraints wrapped around his wrist.

I feel better now and more in my correct frame of mind. I will tell you of my story, for the trickling of my blood upon your flow is clearing my senses. It is important that you understand me Doctor, I do not want you to think me mad. We are both educated men together.

With that statement and the ceaseless turning of his eyes, he began to tell his story.

The Artist’s Tale

So, Doctor Seward, you wish to know how I became one of the most celebrated murderers in English… no, world history? It is important that I do not minimize the effect which my holy work has wrought. It is through my delicate ministrations that I became a midwife to the approaching new century.

Like most achievements in life, my rebirth began with moments of inspiration. I am an artist of some repute you see. An actor, musician and a painter. I craft such sublime scenes with my paints that I achieved some celebration. I not only wished to convey accuracy in the scenes which I depict, but also the forms of the grotesque. I have a fascination with the brutality of the world, the grim textures which give life its true