Written in Blood

A Dark Awakening

 

The life is in the Blood

A fearful tell of forbidden desires

 

Millie Dynamite

 

 

It feels years since I first stepped into this

wonderful … dreadful … residence.

 

 

© Copyright 2021/22 by Millie Dynamite

 

This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes.

 

Published by Red Kitty’s Publishing

All rights reserved

 

 

 

 

 

 

A precocious young girl spoke to me in some strange tongue, all the while smiling and laughing at her own witticisms, of which I could understand not one jot. I laughed with her to avoid the appearance of rudeness. The girl’s mother, who spoke some English, thanked me for my kindness and asked my destination.

“The sanatorium at Castle Drago,” as I spoke, a cloud passed over the sun. A shadow crept over us, and the temperature became decidedly chillier.

The woman’s face grew ashen. Her eyes darkened within her pale features, and her lip trembled as she beheld me. At once, the peasant woman hustled her girl into the coach.

Turning to me, she crossed herself, “God protect you.”

She reached behind her neck, unclasped, and removed her necklace with its small crucifix. Bustling over to me, the middle-aged mother placed the cross around my neck.

“May this give you protection from all the dread, terrors of the night.”

 

 

Written in Blood

 

Chapter 1

From Jane Hanson’s Personal Journal

(Written in her own hand)

 

My name is Jane Hanson, Doctor Jane Hanson, and I am about to die. I must explain the start before I tell you the ending. With pen in hand, I write the events which are so fresh in my memory. Having found this old, empty book with the word — Journal, emblazoned across its face.

I take this task upon myself to write what has happened to me since I arrived here. Months have transpired with me in this, shall I say, prison. They passed like a flash of lightning in the night since this all began so far from here. With this said, I feel as if years passed by since I first stepped into this wonderful … dreadful … residence. The beginning, yes, the origin of this thing, for I must tell the tale from commencement to conclusion.

I traveled to a land a vast distance from my home for the opportunity to study with one of Europe’s leading minds in the fledgling field of psychiatry. The elementary truth, Doctor Valerie Drago was a woman, piqued my interest. A letter arrived for me in the spring of last year. The details fascinated me, as the doctor told me I had been recommended by a mutual friend.

My mentor, Doctor Cornelius Cantor, and Doctor Drago were old friends. She said he believed I would be an excellent assistant, and she had several unusual cases she would like my help with, and in so doing, I would improve my craft. Whom better to learn from than one of the established masters?

My fiancé, Michael, and I caressed on the dock near the ship’s gangplank. Next to the steam vessel, which would carry me to Europe. We were, all but scandalous, holding our fond farewell embrace for such a long time. I’m sure the onlookers had a frightfully wicked impression of us. After an extended period, we laughed, hugged, and smooched once more.

Once again, we clung together, holding fast, too, aware soon, far too soon, we would kiss goodbye for an entire year. We broke apart; with sweet Michael’s nervous energy and anxiety about our pending, prolonged separation getting the better of his judgment, he burst into a diatribe to relieve the internal tension.

He prattled on about his life’s work, talking in an endless stream of rushing palaver about his passion until I grabbed his face, fearing our time together drew near an end. I stood on my tiptoes and brushed our lips together.

Placing my hand to his mouth, I stopped him from resuming his endless burbling about dirigible airships and how his design would change the world. We held one another, as if our lives depended on our touching, until the fateful call, “All aboard, who’s coming aboard,” sounded, and the luxury liner’s horn blasted a shrill, ear-piercing report.

“Yes, and Michael Warner,” I said, smiling at his enthusiasm for a future few might envisage, “airboats shall be the most successful means of transportation ever conceived. Now, go, make your dream a reality.”

Kissing his cheek, I put my hand on his chest, lingering a moment longer. Turning quickly, lest I change my mind at the last moment, I marched up the gangway, making my way to the stern of the ship.

At this time, Michael paced back down the dock in the same direction I traveled.

Standing at the rear of the ocean liner, waving at him with one hand, hanging to the handrail with my other hand, the water churned from the propellers, the mighty steam engines, power shuddered through the gigantic vessel.

Another blast sounded from the ship’s horn, the massive leviathan awoke, and with a trembling shudder, we crept forward. Michael shouted at me, waving, plodding back down the berth, keeping pace, until, at last, he ran out of dock, and stood motionless, one step short of plunging into the Hudson.

Amid the noise of the churning water and the loud blast of the ship’s horn, I made out his last call.

“I love you.”

Michael waved and waved, shouted his love to me until he alone remained on the dock.

For some extended time, I stood at the balusters. Michael became smaller and smaller until I viewed him no more. With determination, I fixed my eyes on Lady Liberty before she, all, too, soon, disappeared from sight. As Manhattan hid behind Long Island, I held my position in the cold April sea air.

How long it took for the mainland to vanish, I cannot say. All the while, my hands clutched the handrailing, holding on to the thing, and my knuckles turned white until I caught my final glimpse of America. A dread of the future, yet excitement about my imminent adventure, eager to learn all which is feasible in the hopes of advancing my fledgling career, caused me to shiver. Or perchance, the April air of the Atlantic caused my shudder.

In all too short a time, the surrounding islands, and yes, the grand American mainland, shrunk from view, swallowed by the sea’s vast horizon. Letting loose of the rail, I realized how cramped my hands were. For hours, I’d clenched the balustrade so tight, with a death grip, I couldn’t comprehend why. Even in my current state, I remember this all too well. My long sojourn commenced Monday, April 29th, 1901. I wonder as I write this, is the year of our Lord still 1901?

The trek took four days for the voyage to France. From the port, I traveled by train. Finally, making my way to an eastern European forest. Beyond the forest stood mountains, far more rugged than the mighty Rockies. To be frank, having seen the Rockies only in pictures, my imagination might have overtaken my perception. For I know the Rockies and Alps are taller. With that said, the peaks before me, jagged and imposing, appear nigh impassable.

Never had I traveled so far from my home. I had no family save Michael. Nevertheless, I missed my tidy, modest house, city, and country. I fought my qualms, clung to my hopes, and forced myself forward to my destiny.

The final leg of my expedition, completed in a window-lined horse-drawn coach, which to me was much like the hearse at my mother’s funeral, though this one was taller than her final conveyance. I entered through a small door at the back and sat on one of the two long benches running down the sides with thin, cushioned, leather seats.

The humid May weather made the tight quarters quite uncomfortable. How I wished the windows, along the walls, opened to let fresh air into the coach, but alas, they served a single purpose, allowed light inside, but nothing more.

Nine of us shared this small carriage space, and often my knees knocked together with the occupant in front of me, a sizable, friendly-faced German with a prodigious girth about him. His genial appearance appeared to flee when he spoke.

His native language was harsh, guttural, angry, and sounded demanding. At the same time, his face held a friendly grin. The sound in my ears and the view of his face presented this stark opposition to each other.

The passageway we followed festooned through the woods, like a garland winding around a Christmas tree. The forests were thick with trees, a contrast unto themselves — old, gnarled trunks alive with lush, newly sprouted leaves upon them. Although humid, the air was fresh and clean, as though the world made new with the morning’s break-of-day.

The grass had a sweet, musty odor, and wildflowers bloomed around us, lending their sweet redolence to the pleasant, pastoral setting. The bright day gave an air of warmth and cordiality to the event. We ate a delightful picnic-style lunch around midday in a clearing of the forest, a most welcome find amid the winding sliver of a roadway.

A precocious, young girl spoke to me in some strange tongue, smiling and laughing at her own witticisms, which I understood, not one jot. I laughed with her to avoid the appearance of rudeness. The girl’s mother spoke some English, thanked me for my kindness, and asked my destination.

“The sanatorium at Castle Drago,” a cloud passed over the sun as I spoke. A shadow crept over us, and the temperature turned decidedly chillier.

The woman’s face grew ashen. Her eyes darkened within her pale features, and her lip trembled as she beheld me. At once, the peasant woman hustled her girl into the coach.

Turning to me, she crossed herself, “God protect you.”

She reached behind her neck, unclasped her neckless, and removed a small crucifix. Bustling over, the middle-aged mother placed the silver cross around my neck.

“May this give you protection from all the dread, terrors of the night.”

I tried to refuse her offer. Nevertheless, she pressed the superstitious ornamentation to me in the firm belief, the tiny idol would protect me.

The immense man took me by the shoulder and said something in German. The stern visage of his words, coupled with his visible grimness, imparted an absolute concern for my wellbeing.

The other passengers chattered in their own languages, their prostrations filled with blatant negativity. Their clamoring appeared to be warnings about something dire for all the world to understand. But for me, I was unable to comprehend the babble of their foreign tongues.

“Don’t worry,” the coach driver told me, “they are all superstitious fools. They think monsters possess the countess’s hospital. In these parts, they believe demons are hidden in the rugged Carpathia Mountains. Many of them think ogres reside beneath their own beds.” He laughed aloud at their foolishness. Be this as it may, I sensed the man put up a brave front for my benefit, noting how often he said a short, silent prayer and crossed himself.

“Good Doctor, I think things might be better if you ride with me in the box.” He pointed to the driver’s seat, “What is the term in your American West? Shotgun, yes. Please, they will drive you as batty as your patients who live in the fearsome bastion.”

It was difficult, but with his help, I scaled the wheel, hoisted myself into the box, and took my place to the left of where the driver sat. At least, the air would be better in the open ridding with the driver.

He clambered up, landing in his seat with considerably less difficulty.

We resumed our journey, stopping every few hours to allow the horses to rest and the passengers to exercise their legs. Throughout the trip, I remained on my seat. At each stop, the other passengers assaulted me in broken English and strange tongues, begging me to reconsider my decision. Their barrage caused grumblings in my own mind. For the first time, I doubted my judgment in coming.

“Do not go to the dreadful place,” the mother of the kind child said. “Come with us to our home, and from Bacău, you can return to England.”

“I’m from America,” I said. “I am obligated to work at the sanatorium. How else shall I earn money to return to my home country? You mustn’t worry about me, please. Doctor Drago is a wonderful person.” I was unsure if I sought to convince the woman, or myself, at this juncture.

The woman crossed herself, spat on the ground, and grasped her clothing where the crucifix formerly hung. She scaled the wheel, reached out to me, and placed her hand on mine, “May the Virgin protect you.”

May the Virgin protect you; her words hung in my mind, nattering against my logic. More foolish, superstitious ramblings of this, I was confident. I had never been religious. I had no idea how something so fanciful as their sainted Virgin, whom I doubted ever existed, possessed an ability to instill such faith or impart strength to these people. All I am cognizant of, my complete understanding, was science, the measurable, tangible, and proven.

Even psychiatry, the study of the quirks of the mind, was challenging for me to grasp completely. You need to recognize, within the mind, the inner workings of the human brain reside the most guarded secrets of nature, protected better than any world leader. I selected my field, for this reason, to comprehend the hidden, dark mystery of our existence. My desire is simple: discovering the science behind minas, phobias, depressions, and all those diseases of the human mind, their causes, and cures.

The goal, my aim, I wanted to open the veil, peer into eternity, and for all one knows, find the meaning to our lives. Some would say my goal is not a scientific endeavor, but what more noble cause in reason occurs than discovering the shroud’s logic?

The coach bobbed and weaved from side to side, bouncing to the front and back. In the course of this motion, the driver and I bumped against or away from one another. On occasion, he’d turn to me in sincerity, eyes set firmly on mine. The dear old chap started to speak, doubt or fear overtook courage, and he returned his attention to the rugged, winding highway.

For all the world, I had the impression, this fellow wanted to say something to me. Having the general sense, he was a fine man, one who understood something and believed of which, I should be aware, of what he was, as well. I ruminated about what he wanted to say or if I wanted to learn his version of the truth. For, after all, he too was a superstitious fellow, fearful of the shadows cast by these mysterious mountains.

As the sun disappeared beneath the jagged horizon, the driver pulled the wagon to a halt at an intersection of several byways. Like a ribbon wound around a package, our highway wound through mountains, which rose around us, while other paths went in opposing directions through other mountain passes. As he gazed across the small space between us with his resigned expression, I surmised we’d arrived at my stop to change conveyances. No coach awaited me, however.

A disquietedness pestered me, and I had a vague fear he might put me off the vehicle to wait for my ride alone. The mountains began to press in on me. How, in the openness of nature, can one suffer from claustrophobia? I felt hemmed in at the exact moment — a fierce, bizarre sense of anticipation shivered in thin streams, tingling down my spine and legs.

“Perhaps,” the driver said, a slight tremble in his voice, “we should journey on, and you return tomorrow.” The night air grew chilly as a light breeze blew, spreading a chilliness across the landscape.

“I can’t, for my coach will be here soon, I am sure. Lady Drago has an exact schedule,” I said.

Feeling a chill, I pulled my light coat tighter around myself, for another brisk gust of frosty air blew down from the mountains. An abrupt change in the climate occurred as we passed into the Carpathians.

This climate was different from where we had traveled previously. As the hours passed, we traveled from forest to mountains, coupled with a significant decline in temperature once after sunset, and the atmosphere became … not the same. The week before, the moon was full and bright. Tonight, her pearly face was invisible in the night sky. Hence, darkness covered us like a blanket.

The driver sat silent, worried and anxious to get away from this place. The man’s discomfort touched me, and I detected his anxiety from a dread inside him coupled with the unseen passengers’ destress below and behind where I sat. The fear was tangible, like a fog clinging all around me, invading me with unthinking dread, right into my bones. The horses discerned something. Their tack jingled in the night air as they stamped their feet and shook their enormous heads. The beasts, as well, were anxious to be away from this place.

“Umm, my lady, I have a schedule to keep as well,” he said. “Might you travel on with me? On the morrow, I’ll bring you back … in the light of day. Everything is better when viewed in daylight.” He gazed about, his eyes darting as if afraid of what might emerge from the trees. He spoke in hushed tones, leaning toward me.

“Wicked things happen in this part of the mountains, especially at night.”

This stimulated my inquisitiveness, and I wanted to question him on what evil things he referred to. At that moment, I decided to discover the gist of his comment. But as I turned to speak, wafting on the breeze, the pounding of hoofbeats echoed over the mountains, accompanied by the rattle of wheels. I realized my ride approached. The clamor grew louder as my destiny approached me from the darkness.

The coachman crossed himself, raised his reins, and gazed at me with beseeching eyes.

“We should leave.”

“No,” I said. A black coach pulled into view. On the door, a dragon in gold paint seemed to fly, his wings unfurled, feet outstretched as if landing on something, below a single word.

“Drago,” panting in a bright, red script.

The carriage pulled in adjacent to our coach. All eyes focused on the woman, sitting atop the sleek conveyance, holding the horses to a halt. With her face, all but hidden, covered by a dark scarf wrapped around her features. With only a narrow opening, I spotted no facial features save her eyes. No doubt, this wrapping kept her face warm.

Shining in the night’s light, her eyes filled with fiery fury, and her irises appeared red. Still, indeed, this must’ve been my imagination, nothing more, fueled by superstitious tales I’d listened to on my journey. In all sincerity, she was magnificent. In command of the beast, she held her anxious horses with a tight restraint, and with one eyebrow cocked high, she glared at the man.

The driver’s remaining courage took flight under the intensity of her glower. He lowered his reins, casting his eyes in her direction. Gooseflesh rose on his face and neck, no doubt, I reasoned, from the crispness of the night’s air. On the other hand, with the luxury of hindsight, I now know fear was the source of his prickled flesh. He turned to me again. Once bright and full of life, his eyes went dull and dead. Some despair, so thick, drowned the light from them.

“Allow me, and I’ll help you down, move your baggage,” he said, his intonation deep, soft, and even. With a slow, cautious maneuver, he scrambled down the coach, and gazed at his counterpart. “We weren’t leaving.”

With blinding speed, she lashed her whip across his face, and the tip snapped on his flesh. “Liar. You tried to talk her into traveling on with you.”

The man grabbed his face as the gash on his cheek bled, a crimson line of the precious fluid seeping between his fingers. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, the coachman pressed the cloth to the wound for a moment.

The coachwoman’s eyes locked on the blood-stained cloth.

The bleeding stopped in a matter of seconds. Returning the fabric to his pocket, the driver mumbled a one-word apology, or perhaps a profanity in his native tongue. I gleaned not of which he spoke.

The driver moved to my side of the coach and gallantly assisted me in my descent. Stiff and unyielding, my limbs were a complication after sitting in the cold air for so long, and my cheeks flushed from the coolness of the night’s frosty breeze. Leading me to the door of the woman’s carriage, he opened the entrance and helped me as I ascended the single step up into the sizeable, luxurious coach. I found the change refreshing.

While the air was no warmer inside, the coach’s walls about me cut the sting of the biting wind. An expansive, white blanket made of goat or sheepskin lay on the seat beside me. When I wrapped this skin around me, the sensation was, oh, so warm. My luggage now loaded, the first driver, once again, took his place on his own conveyance. As an afterthought, I leaned out the window and thanked him.

“Be safe,” he said.

The woman turned to him, with her eyes holding the flames of hell, “Old friend, you best say your prayers, Dacians trash. You offended my mistress.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture and curled her long, thin fingers into a fist.

“Amintiți-vă, că morții sunt rapizi,” she said. I thought the language was Romanian, but I had not the faintest idea what the words were. I later discovered the woman had spoken the words, “Remember, the dead are swift.” The assertion held every earmark of a threat.

The coachwoman turned back to the beasties, whipped the air above them, and the horses sprang to life. The ornate carriage pulled away from the drab conveyance in which I had previously journeyed. With a twist of my head, I glanced back through the coach window. The man slumped on the bench seat, clutching his chest.

Superstitious twaddle, I thought. The mere suggestion of some curse frightened the man, becoming the sum of his fears. Considering I’m a modern woman, a medical doctor, and a scientist. Therefore, I have no room for irrational beliefs in my world. This held no mystery, only an example of the mind succumbing to suggestion.

A creeping fear slithered over me, for I saw little of the outside world, with my line of sight limited to only things close to the carriage’s lanterns, which blazed at the front and sides.

With a hurtling speed, we moved in an upward ascent, and I found myself leaning further back in the comfortable seat. The beasts ran hard, snorting, pulling against their harness as the coach made our way on the tricky road. Though I think the perception of speed might have been exaggerated because of the circumstances of the flight. My limited view, the darkness, and the trees seeming to race by eyeshot all contributed to my unease.

The trail, for this roadway, was but a whisker, broader than the coach, wound round the mountainside, twisting along ridges between peaks, dipping back down only to return to the rising grade. The trees thinned, and the wild countryside grew harsher as the sure-footed beasts hauled us toward our destination.

The road ran along the edge of a precipitous cliff, while the mountain rose as steep as the other side’s decline. The carriage threaded the tight space between the two. Casting my eyes out of the coach, I gawked at the wheels, inches from the sheer plunge.

My head spun at the dizzying sight, darting back inside, snapping my gaze away from the window. I had not realized how tight the roadway was. A little disoriented, I moved to the center of the seat and refused to examine the outside further.

At some point, despite my trepidation at our elevation, I dozed off. The rhythm of pounding hooves, the clatter of wheels on the rocky path, and the weaving and bobbing of the coach lulled me into slumber. Sometime later, the clattering stopped, and the carriage stilled. The absence of a clamor roused me awake from my catnap. Sticking my head out of the brougham’s window, I turned my eyes to the driver.

“We are here,” she said. Leaning down, she peered back at me and pointed her hand to a massive door at the top of a stupendous run of stone stairs. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed off the blanket, missing the warmth at once.

With my gloved hand, I gathered my dress and reached for the door, but the coach door swung open before I touched the thing. Descending to the pavement, I turned to thank the footman. No one was at the carriage door. The woman still sat on her bench atop the coach. I stood by myself next to the carriage.

The courtyard was empty.

The coachwoman regarded me with a silent stare. Impossible for me to tell much about the servant — the woman’s voice, deep, lyrical, and accent undefined as to nationality or region. I neither judged her height nor build as she never moved from her seat. She sat on the bench seat with a pure, perfection of posture, which lent elegance to her appearance.

Her eyes glowed red in the soft light of the carriage’s lamps. Some trick of the flickering flames of the lanterns, I supposed. Her clothing was loose and black, covering her from head to toe with only her eyes and forehead visible. With a slight nod, she veered forward in her seat, cracked the whip again above the livestock, and urged the equines into motion. They carried her and the carriage away, under an arch, where she was soon lost from my sight.

Had I not fallen asleep, inevitably, I would have spotted the structure where I found myself. The edifice was massive — a u-shaped courtyard, with the sizeable arch opening at the far end leading elsewhere. I turned to view my location. The building gave me an impression of being small and insignificant. A profound silence engulfed me until a multitude of crickets started chirping. A high wall covered the front of the courtyard. In the wall, I caught sight of another arch.

This other archway must have been our entry point. The building behind me was tall, at least five stories. The stronghold was old and, somewhat, in need of repair. Spires rose into turrets, standing guard high above the rest of this citadel. In retrospect, I had done this building an injustice. Saying the castle was enormous had the same effect as calling Lyndhurst Manor a charming, country cottage.

With quick steps, taking two stairs at a time, I ascended the stone staircase to the enormous double doors.

“How shall anyone inside ever hear me?” I deliberated, for I found no means of announcement on or around the door. No knocker or doorknob on the face. Finding no bell handle to twist, nor rope to pull, no means of wrapping with a stick, for no rod presented itself. I wrapped my knuckles on the wood, aware the sound my efforts created would not penetrate the castle’s door or walls. Stepping back, I considered the entryway again, searching for any other means to signal my arrival.

A dragon, carved in the stone, above the arched doorway, the wings spread, not unlike the dragon adorning the carriage door. This winged beast towered over a knight, dwarfing him, standing firm as the dragon appeared ready to devour the poor adventurer. Inscribed in Latin above the dragon was the phrase, “Dracones praecedentes in domum suam.” Translating the words in my head, I perceived they meant ‘home of the dragon’ or perhaps ‘the dragon’s home.’ A sinking engulfed me as I stood at the unyielding entrance. How might I gain ingress into the house?

In a moment, a symphony erupted. In the distance, somewhere, in the night, beyond the castle walls, the baying of wolves joined the chirping crickets. In the darkness, a terrifying scream of some animal came from another direction.

High above me, the hooting of owls, sitting atop the roof, combined with a screeching-squeaking and a leathery flapping, like a frenzied beating of a multitude of featherless wings, reverberated in the night’s air. The effect of everything taken together caused me to shiver an involuntary tremor, not wholly from the fridge conditions.

A gnawing rankled inside my consciousness. Dark perceptions of the world around me invaded my awareness, heightened by the strange, feral music of the night. Thoughts of wild beasts running into the courtyard to devour me, much as the dragon carved in stone above me, poised to destroy the hapless character below him, filled my being with dread.

The coolish air of the night sent shivers over my body. I searched my mind, for any reason, for being unable to get inside, to the warmth and safety the castle afforded.

Said precious safety was feet from me, and yet I discovered no means of procuring entry. I’d pay every dollar I had on me to open the door. Seldom had things so unnerved me, for I had never been so positive of my own helplessness in all my life. In those precious moments, I was thankful Michael was not here to witness, yet I would not be as worried if he were here.

“Silly woman,” I berated myself. “What foolishness. You don’t need protection.” Disheartened, my soft voice held a foreign and unwelcome tone, which was not me at all. Turmoil heightened my emotions, panic … fear … dread … all those darker, animal reactions tried to rear their ugly heads in me. Yet having now established some grip on my senses, I refused to abdicate my reason to blind terror.

“Emotions are the enemy of reason,” I said, my voice strengthening. Taking a deep breath, I rapped my knuckles upon the door. The wooden barricade remained steadfast as I closed my hands and pounded my fists against the massive, timbered, closed obstacle to entry.

“Let me in!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. This was most unladylike, and after a few humiliating moments, I stopped pounding, collected myself, and walked a few paces back and a few more steps toward the edge of the platform.

As apprehension shook me, I gazed at the door, my hands smarting, and turned my mind to the conundrum, as though by force of will, I summoned the accursed thing to open for me.

“Open, sesame.”

After my outburst, I resisted the urge to break out in a sudden burst of hysterical laughter. Nothing happened, and I considered the possibility I may never gain entry.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Jane?” I said as I stood alone before the mammoth obstruction. The warnings of the coach driver and the passengers wound their way to the foreground of my thoughts, where I squashed them down with some degree of difficulty.

Fighting panic, I resisted the insane urge to grip the cross around my neck. The sounds of the night echoed in the courtyard. The wolves’ yapping swelled louder in a hunger, driven rage. Those awful beasts, I feared, were mere feet outside the walls of the castle.

Chapter 2

 

For what seemed an eternity, I gazed at the door, unable to fathom how I might make anyone inside understand I was here. All the while, I believed the carriage woman had informed them of my arrival. Despite nothing to indicate I was correct.

“This is a fine kettle,” I said, despite the fact no one might hear the words. Frightening cries of wild animals outside the walls rose in unison, sending a new prickling deep into my bones, and I struggled to preserve my composure once more. Would they come into the castle’s courtyard? Would they devour me? All the while, safety was only a few feet and an immense, heavy door away from me.

“This talking to yourself must stop, Jane,” I scolded. “They shall think you a lunatic.” A thought dawned in my mind, how I referred to myself in the third person. “This does not bode well for you, old girl.”

Attempting to quell the fear in my heart, I allowed my thoughts to slip back to when this all initiated and the fateful letter in April the previous year, arriving out of the blue.

The envelope contained Countess Valarie Drago’s invitation to come and study under her and assist her in the new field of psychotherapy. Together we would probe the mysteries of the psyche, and peel back the enigma of the human mind, layer by layer.

I phoned Doctor Cantor, and we discussed this job opportunity at length. Doctor Cornelius Cantor stopped short of wholehearted approval, stating how difficult the journey was. He believed her home and sanitarium would be far too primitive for me to be comfortable. I had resented his condescending attitude. Coupled with anger, Doctor Cantor still did not view me as an equal despite his enlightenment. Realizing he’d hurt my feelings, he fell silent, excused himself, and hung up the phone.

Countess Drago and I exchanged letters at regular intervals. After each exchange, I called Cornelius, and each time his enthusiasm for my traveling to the sanatorium increased. And yet, inexplicably, he would retreat from his support toward the end of our conversation, recommending I not go to Castle Drago.

The odd behavior of my mentor cast doubts in my mind, and I suspected something darker in his reservations. Something sinister and ugly might have reared its head, and I had grown concerned. After all, chauvinism and jealousy might be at the heart of the matter. Was he worried his student’s light might shine brighter than his own? I mused if the idea of a female student reaping more praise than him might not be more than his brittle male ego might bear.

Those guarded fears found relief as the 20th century dawned. For early this year, Cornelius’s attitude turned 180 degrees. He reassured me the move was the correct one. Though, to speak with exactitude, I had determined to take the position without either his blessing or encouragement.

The old man’s blessings aside, to refuse this opportunity was imprudent. I would learn much and garner respect and admiration among my peers. Few men in the field were willing to admire a woman doctor lest she proves herself with some measure of frequency. For my self-esteem, I required a degree of respect to advance my career beyond the mundane and ordinary. The fact was, I realized I was extraordinary, and I would allow nothing to stand between me and my goals. This is not vanity; it was, and is, a fact, for I possess a superior intellect.

In March of this year, I contacted the countess again and agreed to become her research assistant. The money exceeded my expectations for any position available in my own country by an immense sum. An adventure deep into this far-flung land appeared as a fairy tale, where perhaps some handsome prince would sweep me off my feet.

But no, this would not happen, for I have a beloved fiancé, and I’ll not allow a dalliance to be a pebble that bruises my heel. A whole year away from Michael, from the man, I hold so dear in my heart. This is, indeed, a burden to bear but not an intolerable one. Truth be told, I worry more for Micheal in my absence than for myself being detached from him. Michael needs me fare more than I require him.

That was a preview of Written in Blood: A Dark Awakening. To read the rest purchase the book.

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