Dracula Lives Read online

  “With all of the classic Universal monsters?” Quinn asked.

  “Yes, but with all of the hokiness removed. I have had to work like Orson Welles did on some of his ill-fated projects, shooting scenes off and on for years. All of that footage has been edited and is ready to go. All that remains is to shoot the climactic sequence. If it comes off as planned, it will secure my cinematic immortality. The moment my life’s work has been aiming for. My Rosebud.”

  He leaned closer. “You have walked into the ultimate reality show, Mr. Quinn. Cinéma vérité. With special effects far beyond 3D. My house and grounds are the set. Before the digital revolution, shooting our scenes was slow and cumbersome, because I had to hire a crew to drag all the equipment around for each setup. But now Johnny and I can do it all ourselves. I have installed fifty high-definition digital cameras throughout the castle and grounds that we can control from my state-of-the-art studio. We can adjust the ambient lighting, get just about any angle from wherever the scene is taking place, and so forth. Which, of course, virtually eliminates the need for setups. In this way we have been able to shoot nearly the entire film—the horror story that has been our lives. Except, as I said, the final sequence. And you are now in it.”

  His expression turned more serious than Quinn had yet seen it. “I had not realized until now that incorporating you into that sequence could mean danger for us all. Your very emanations could upset the delicate balance of natural and unnatural forces I have combined to create this world where … the line between movies and reality sometimes seems blurred.”

  Emanations upsetting unnatural forces? That sounded like the wild imaginings of a mind left alone too long to create a world of movie fantasy, but Quinn couldn’t dismiss it.

  “What exactly is this danger my being here could cause?” he asked.

  “I cannot say precisely, because I do not know. What I do know is that your being here will test my creations in ways they’ve never been tested.”

  “Are you saying your castle is haunted?”

  His gaze narrowed. “Extremely.”

  “By what?”

  The intense gaze shifted inward to some troubling place. “Bad deeds,” he said. “Remnants of things I have done.”

  “We’re all haunted by those.”

  “Not like mine. They have begun to take on a life of their own.”

  That sounded impossible, but for now Quinn had to take him at his word. “If you think my being here puts any of us in jeopardy, then perhaps I should leave.”

  “No,” Markov said, a little too emphatically. “I think that would be premature. If I can find a way to write you into the final sequence, it could add a great deal of excitement. And totally aside from that, I have been looking forward to lively discussions with someone so knowledgeable about the glory days of Universal.”

  “As have I,” Quinn said, wondering how Markov thought he could do all this after having invited him for only two days—one of which was already almost gone. Maybe he was thinking of asking him to stay longer.

  The vague hint of a smile came onto Markov’s lips. “In those old movies we both love—The Most Dangerous Game comes to mind—the mad eccentric would lock his guests in the castle for his villainous purposes. I could certainly do that, but … while I am undeniably eccentric, I am not mad, Mr. Quinn. Like everyone I have the capacity for evil within me, but … I am not evil.” He sounded as though he were trying to convince himself more than Quinn. “I will not force you to stay. You must do so of your own free will.”

  Suppressing annoyance at the notion that he could so easily be taken prisoner, Quinn stayed focused on his mysterious host’s explanation of the evil that he believed dwelled—not just in the castle—but within himself.

  “In The Most Dangerous Game,” Markov continued, “Count Zaroff was the madman behind it all. Here, of course, that would be me. My castle is my laboratory.”

  He tried to lighten the moment by using the comical British pronunciation—luh-BORE-uh-tree—and raising an exaggeratedly sinister eyebrow, conjuring the stereotype of countless mad movie scientists and their stock line that “I must never be disturbed when the door to my luh-BORE-uh-tree is closed.”

  He held the pose for a long beat before turning serious again.

  “But even the mad Zaroff gave Joel McCrea and Fay Wray a sporting chance. If you recall, he had them trapped in a cave with a bow and arrow but walked away, saying he would ‘hunt them like a leopard.’”

  “I do recall.” You and I are kindred spirits, Markov had said. Count Zaroff said the same thing to Joel McCrea. “So is this our version of The Most Dangerous Game?”

  “Not exactly. But your threshold for terror may be tested. For you to make a fully informed decision about whether to stay or leave, I must show you the monsters I have created in this shrine to madness. But the things I have to show you are so far outside the boundaries of reality, our minds must be fresh. I know you must be fatigued after the rather grueling trip in the carriage, so tonight I will only show you Lon’s short—a behind-the-scenes look at one of the movie moments that fueled my Dracula obsession. A Preview of Coming Attractions, if you will. I will give you the full studio tour after you have had a chance to sleep.”

  “I’m not fatigued,” Quinn said. He looked at his watch. “It’s not quite eight o’clock yet. Why not give me the full tour now? Trust me: I’ve spent a good chunk of my life exploring the world outside the boundaries of reality, and that’s not a nine-to-five world. Besides, I didn’t come here to sleep. I’ll get plenty of sleep when I’m dead.”

  “Ah. It seems everything reminds me of a moment in Dracula.” In an instant he arranged his facial features into a passing resemblance of Lugosi and said the famous line in the actor’s voice: “To die … to be really dead … that must be glorious.”

  “One my favorite lines. Dracula says it to Mina when they’re in their box at the opera.”

  “I’m impressed. You were born too late to be in Tod’s Dracula, but now perhaps you can be in mine. Very well. I will give you the tour now. If you decide to stay after it is complete, I would need some time to write you into the final sequence. A few hours, at most. But it would have to be with the understanding that you cannot leave until it is done.”

  “So I would join you in your ‘cinematic immortality?’”

  “A compelling offer, I would think, for a Draculaphile like yourself. Like me, you have followed the path that leads from the original Dracula—Vlad the Impaler—to Bram Stoker to Tod Browning and Bela Lugosi. It is not a Yellow Brick Road that leads to Oz. It is a blood-stained road that leads to Castle Markov. I have also come to think of this ill-fated pile as my version of the House of Usher. The doomed House of Markov, hidden away in ‘the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.’”

  “Another one of my favorite lines,” Quinn said, trying gamely to keep the conversation on more pleasant topics. “From Ulalume. One of Poe’s best poems.”

  “You share my love of Poe?”

  “Yes.”

  Markov gave him the stare. “Can you walk out on the chance to live forever in the greatest horror movie ever made?”

  Quinn was beginning to see what lay beneath Markov’s polished rationale for inviting him.

  Ego. He wanted an audience.

  “Your offer is compelling,” Quinn said. “A tad Faustian, but compelling.”

  “Faustian. I have found exploring the work of the devil much more interesting than exploring the work of angels. And, after all, we are talking about a path forged by one whose name means son of the Devil.” A lifetime spent in a world of virtual horror tainted Markov’s smile. “Of course, the path of evil is the one fraught with danger. The one I have gotten the distinct impression it has become your life’s mission to follow.”

  Despite Markov’s talk of monsters and blurring the line between movies and real life, Quinn couldn’t see how being in his movie could put them all in danger. Then he remembered the night his father died, almost
as if the psycho from Halloween had stepped off the screen to stab him. That thought triggered another one.

  Being in Markov’s movie, after all his dire warnings, would in a sense be a way of avenging his father’s death. It would be like spitting in the eye of the man who killed him and used the movies as an excuse. “See, you sick son of a bitch? I was in the worst horror movie ever, and it didn’t make me go out and kill somebody.” It would be Quinn’s way of saying that, no matter how much movies influenced real life, no matter how powerful Markov’s movie monsters might be, no movie had the power to control him.

  Another thought flashed into his brain: the memory of how much his father had loved Dracula, and all the happy times they’d watched it together. The chance to be in the ultimate Dracula movie, directed by a man who had been a part of the original production, would be a fitting final tribute to the memory of his father. A much better eulogy than the one he’d given in a daze at the funeral.

  But as tempting as Markov’s offer was, Quinn couldn’t put his life on hold forever. He needed to get back and figure out what he wanted to do with the rest of it.

  “I have other commitments I can’t put off indefinitely,” he said. “Before I make my decision I’d need at least a rough idea of how long you would need me.”

  “I can tell you exactly. I am determined to end the greatest horror movie ever made on the night of the next full moon, because it is known as the Blood Moon. It will add the final note of perfection—because everything in the film will have really happened. No stock footage of the moon. No movie hokum with stunt men and actors acting.”

  “When is the Blood Moon?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Quinn couldn’t keep a skeptical look off his face. “You think you can get a monster rally sequence written and shot—with me coming into it ice cold—in one day?”

  Markov smiled that unwholesome smile. “When one is driven by monsters, anything is possible.”

  What had struck the filmmaker part of Quinn’s brain as merely impossible was beginning to sound delusional. No filmmaker in his right mind would put more pressure on himself by setting a deadline based on the name of the full moon. But the chance to bring meaning to his father’s death kept Quinn from dismissing the idea, no matter how implausible.

  If all the time-consuming setups had been eliminated, and Markov was an extremely fast director with the genius for special effects he claimed, maybe he could just shoot the footage of Quinn he needed by midnight. That would let him tell himself he had wrapped on the night of the Blood Moon. Then, since all the previous footage had already been edited, all he’d have to do was edit in the final sequence. It still sounded ludicrous, but maybe.

  “Your shooting schedule certainly doesn’t leave any margin for error,” Quinn said. “Minutes are going to count. Which means the sooner we get started with the tour, the sooner I can give your proposal my full consideration.”

  “Fair enough. We will begin by screening Lon’s short. It is a vital link in the chain of events that have led to my Dracula obsession.”

  He started to rise but stopped, again fixing his guest with his Dracula stare. Quinn stared back, fascinated, as he watched Markov almost imperceptibly transform himself into a stand-in for Lugosi.

  I am not an impressionist. I am a re-creationist.

  In his uncanny imitation of the actor’s distinctive voice, Markov recited another of Dracula’s lines to Renfield: “I trust you have kept your comink here a secret.”

  Quinn played along and gave him Renfield’s slightly effeminate response. “I followed your instructions implicitly.”

  Markov picked up his cue. “Excellent, Mr. Quinn. Excellent.”

  He stood and beckoned for his guest to follow. As they exited the study, Markov spoke in his own voice. “Now I will show you the Dracula that never was.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Markov’s screening room was a large modern theater that rivaled any state-of-the-art multiplex at a mall. Its sense of spaciousness was enhanced by a floor plan that was more square than the typical rectangular design.

  “I don’t like long narrow rooms,” Markov said. “They feel claustrophobic.”

  Quinn caught the obvious implication—that he shared Dracula’s aversion to being enclosed in coffinlike spaces—but dismissed it as another example of his movie-influenced flair for melodrama. Instead Quinn focused on the details of the nicest home theater he had ever seen.

  Everything looked new. Plush carpet covered the floor and walls, no doubt to enhance the acoustics. Several speakers embedded along each side wall meant surround sound. The floor was empty, save for two leather recliners on either side of a low table, about two-thirds of the way back from the screen. “Many more seats can be added when necessary,” Markov said, “but … it has seldom been necessary.” He gestured toward the rear of the theater. “First we must get our refreshments. No matter how dark life becomes, it can always be brightened with popcorn.”

  “Amen to that,” Quinn said, following him to a small, fully-stocked refreshment counter. Several kinds of movie candy were neatly arrayed in a glass case, behind which gleamed a soda dispenser. Markov started a popcorn machine. “It will only take a few minutes. Help yourself to some candy and soda while I set things up.”

  Markov disappeared up a carpeted stairway behind the counter.

  Quinn poured himself a large Coke and got a box of Sno-Caps. Popcorn never seemed to smell as good as when it was popping at the movies, and that smell hit him full force now. It triggered a sense memory of all those Saturdays when he was a kid, happily munching popcorn and candy while watching monsters stomp through cities and eat people.

  Markov reappeared and went straight to the popcorn machine, which had just finished popping. “Butter?”

  “Of course.”

  Markov filled two large tubs, then got a soda and a box of Raisinets for himself. He led the way to the seating area and took the recliner on the right. A black console attached to the floor beside it had several buttons on top. “My control panel,” he said.

  “You can start the film from here?”

  Markov nodded.

  “Won’t you still have to get up to start the projector?”

  “No. I have digitally remastered my film library onto Blu-ray discs.”

  “You mentioned Morbius from Forbidden Planet in one of your e-mails. Apparently you share Morbius’s genius for technology.”

  Markov waved away the compliment. “Mere child’s play, as Morbius said about having ‘tinkered’ Robby the Robot together.”

  When they were settled into their seats, Markov gave a brief introduction.

  “Lon made this during the shooting of London After Midnight. He shot it on one of the sets after everyone had gone home. He and Tod had long wanted to do Dracula. They had been very impressed by Murnau’s unauthorized version—Nosferatu.”

  So were you, Quinn thought. You changed your name to Schreck and named your son Max. And your belief in destiny…. Had he adopted that belief after watching Nosferatu? At the very beginning of the film, Harker is accosted by a man who tells him he cannot escape his destiny by running away….

  “Max Schreck is unquestionably the creepiest Dracula,” Quinn said.

  “Unquestionably. Tod and Lon wanted to make their version of Dracula much creepier, but since they couldn’t get the rights, London After Midnight was their rather watered-down attempt to do as much of it as they could get away with without getting sued. Lon’s sawtoothed vampire had scared people to death, but he wanted to come up with something that would outdo Schreck’s Nosferatu.”

  “A tall order.”

  “Indeed, but the Man of a Thousand Faces was the man for the job.” His hand went to his control panel. “Judge for yourself. This short was Lon working out some of his ideas to show Tod and the Laemmles, in case they ever got those rights. Without further ado, then.” He stabbed a button and the house lights went out.

  As they stared at the black
screen, a single shivery violin tremolo created an air of creeping menace. The opening titles slowly materialized, indistinguishable at first until they became stark white lettering on the black background:

  THE UN-DEAD

  A Lon Chaney Production

  Written and Directed by Lon Chaney

  Guest Appearance by…?

  Sound by Douglas Shearer

  Sound?

  The first talkie, The Jazz Singer, had come out just before London After Midnight, but Browning’s film had been silent. And it couldn’t have been an accident that Chaney used Bram Stoker’s original title for Dracula. Chaney was known for thorough research that always included reading the literary sources for his projects, if there was one.

  The title faded in on an opening shot of Chaney sitting in a director’s chair, smiling for the camera. Quinn had been prepared by the “Sound” credit, but it was still startling when Chaney opened his mouth and spoke with a mysterious-sounding, Eastern European accent that hinted at British:

  “I am Lon Chaney. I bid you welcome.”

  A sweeping hand gesture invited the viewer in. That shot dissolved into a long shot of a man in a cape with his back to the camera. He stood in the center of the study of the haunted estate from London After Midnight. Beside him, a wine glass half-filled with dark liquid sat on a table.

  The man slowly began turning his head at the same time that the camera crept in for a close-up. When the face reached profile, the camera was still too far away to pick up any detail, but it was close enough to see that the face was deathly pale.

  A sound like a groan of evil erupted from the speakers—the single sustained note of a cello. In the same instant, the man’s head whipped full front and the camera shot forward until his face filled the screen.

  Quinn flinched and felt his heart pounding. After the initial jolt, the full horror of the face burrowed into him.