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Authors: Royce Prouty
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manuscript.”
“Correct.”
I pointed down. “This will need flooring.”
“Of course.”
“Cork over poured concrete would be ideal for this application.”
“So noted, sir,” Arthur said. “Now, if you will give me a minute.” He lifted a tarp off a table and bench for us to sit, and that’s when it hit me—the smell. An awful odor, a combination of carrion and something else, wafted through the air.
“Please be seated, Mr. Barkeley, and let us discuss what you came here for.”
I chose a seat with my back to the wall and facing the dark end of the room. “Before going to the museum I read the novel to familiarize myself with the story.”
“It is quite the enduring accomplishment, is it not?”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “They had the display sealed, and unlocked it for me, double keys on the combination lock.”
“What was included in the display?”
I rattled off the list, from the handwritten notes to the gem clips, and explained what belonged and what appeared to be added later. He did not seem particularly interested, but instead he moved directly to the matter’s heart.
“And what of the prologue and epilogue?”
“The prologue, which was at one time chapter two, and the epilogue were part of the original handwritten as well as the typed manuscripts. They appear to have been replaced after fire destroyed the first editions.”
“Did you note their content?”
“As you specified, no copies were taken. But the prologue describes one of the protagonists going out on
Walpurgisnacht
and ending up next to the tomb of a vampire, a female. And the epilogue describes a more elaborate battle to the villain’s death, followed by his burial back in the same graveyard.”
“Very good.”
“I was able to authenticate Stoker’s handwriting from his notes to the manuscript, as well as verify the paper used as stock from the 1890s.”
“Without sample testing.”
“Without sample testing, yes. I . . .” I paused, sensing something in the darkness of the next room. “I did not need to give it the acid test to know it was Northern European wood pulp, kraft chemical method.”
“It is obvious,” Arthur said with a smile, “that the best man was chosen for the job. Did you bring your report?”
“It is upstairs.” I then saw what looked like a pair of eyes set back in the dark room. Red eyes. Perhaps the red lantern light from the stairwell . . . but the wall sconces surrounding me shone an amber glow of bulbs used back in the 1890s, when the world converted from gas lanterns to electric bulbs.
From the darkness a deep voice sounded: “Come forward and let me see you.”
I assumed it was the buyer and stood, awaiting Arthur’s instruction.
“This way, slowly please,” Arthur said.
As I stepped toward the red glowing eyes, the smell increased.
“I am honored to work for you, sir,” I said.
“You were chosen for your specific talent,” the voice said. All voices emanate from the diaphragm, and his had a projecting, stentorian quality I had never heard, as if it carried through the air with little effort. He drew out the last word of his sentences. “Chosen well, I see, as Arthur said.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Arthur motioned for me to stop. I heard the man breathing. His breaths were much longer in duration than a normal man’s, more like a great-sized animal.
“Closer.”
I took two steps closer, and he breathed deeply. It sounded as if he drew breaths over his teeth and made a slight hissing sound on inhale. He did this twice, the second one more pronounced. When he exhaled, it was quiet.
“Your work is extraordinary, young man,” the voice said.
“Thank you again, sir.”
“Closer, please.”
Another two steps and I was certain he saw my nose wrinkle at the strong odor.
“I sense . . . fear,” the voice said.
I managed to speak. “This is an unusual setting, sir.”
“You need not fear me.” I heard him breathe. “Unless you are
“Correct.”
I pointed down. “This will need flooring.”
“Of course.”
“Cork over poured concrete would be ideal for this application.”
“So noted, sir,” Arthur said. “Now, if you will give me a minute.” He lifted a tarp off a table and bench for us to sit, and that’s when it hit me—the smell. An awful odor, a combination of carrion and something else, wafted through the air.
“Please be seated, Mr. Barkeley, and let us discuss what you came here for.”
I chose a seat with my back to the wall and facing the dark end of the room. “Before going to the museum I read the novel to familiarize myself with the story.”
“It is quite the enduring accomplishment, is it not?”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “They had the display sealed, and unlocked it for me, double keys on the combination lock.”
“What was included in the display?”
I rattled off the list, from the handwritten notes to the gem clips, and explained what belonged and what appeared to be added later. He did not seem particularly interested, but instead he moved directly to the matter’s heart.
“And what of the prologue and epilogue?”
“The prologue, which was at one time chapter two, and the epilogue were part of the original handwritten as well as the typed manuscripts. They appear to have been replaced after fire destroyed the first editions.”
“Did you note their content?”
“As you specified, no copies were taken. But the prologue describes one of the protagonists going out on
Walpurgisnacht
and ending up next to the tomb of a vampire, a female. And the epilogue describes a more elaborate battle to the villain’s death, followed by his burial back in the same graveyard.”
“Very good.”
“I was able to authenticate Stoker’s handwriting from his notes to the manuscript, as well as verify the paper used as stock from the 1890s.”
“Without sample testing.”
“Without sample testing, yes. I . . .” I paused, sensing something in the darkness of the next room. “I did not need to give it the acid test to know it was Northern European wood pulp, kraft chemical method.”
“It is obvious,” Arthur said with a smile, “that the best man was chosen for the job. Did you bring your report?”
“It is upstairs.” I then saw what looked like a pair of eyes set back in the dark room. Red eyes. Perhaps the red lantern light from the stairwell . . . but the wall sconces surrounding me shone an amber glow of bulbs used back in the 1890s, when the world converted from gas lanterns to electric bulbs.
From the darkness a deep voice sounded: “Come forward and let me see you.”
I assumed it was the buyer and stood, awaiting Arthur’s instruction.
“This way, slowly please,” Arthur said.
As I stepped toward the red glowing eyes, the smell increased.
“I am honored to work for you, sir,” I said.
“You were chosen for your specific talent,” the voice said. All voices emanate from the diaphragm, and his had a projecting, stentorian quality I had never heard, as if it carried through the air with little effort. He drew out the last word of his sentences. “Chosen well, I see, as Arthur said.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Arthur motioned for me to stop. I heard the man breathing. His breaths were much longer in duration than a normal man’s, more like a great-sized animal.
“Closer.”
I took two steps closer, and he breathed deeply. It sounded as if he drew breaths over his teeth and made a slight hissing sound on inhale. He did this twice, the second one more pronounced. When he exhaled, it was quiet.
“Your work is extraordinary, young man,” the voice said.
“Thank you again, sir.”
“Closer, please.”
Another two steps and I was certain he saw my nose wrinkle at the strong odor.
“I sense . . . fear,” the voice said.
I managed to speak. “This is an unusual setting, sir.”
“You need not fear me.” I heard him breathe. “Unless you are
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