Time to lose ourselves in the wintry wilds of Gothic horror courtesy of the one and only Bram Stoker. Nothing says cozy winter listening (or cool summer listening, for our friends in the Southern Hemisphere) like gender-inclusive Gothic fiction.

If you like your hygge haunted, haunting, and NOT heteronormative, then you're already home.

Use your headphones if you've got 'em. This week's show is swathed in heady, unearthly theremin. Mer used isolated theremin tracks from achingly beautiful track "Mare Desiderii" (from A Blessed Unrest by The Parlour Trick) as a sort of sonic collage that culminates in sharing part of the song itself near the end of the episode.

Piano composition in "Mare Desiderii" by Dan Cantrell, theremin and violin arrangement by Mer)

There's more of this phantasmal auditory goodness to come when we conclude "Dracula's Guest" next week! In the meantime, after you listen to this week's show, check out A Blessed Unrest in its preternatural entirety. You can also read my rhapsodizing about it on the Liminal Flares blog.

Please support Liminal Flares by rating and (where possible) reviewing the show on your preferred podcast streaming service.

New here and wondering what this podcast is all about? Check out our first episode, "A Prelude at the Threshold."

Writing/Editing & Narration by Maika

Music by The Parlour Trick

Audio Engineering by Meredith Yayanos

Cover photo by Maika

To learn more about Liminal Flares visit our website liminalflares.com

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New episodes every Thursday!

Gather round and welcome.

This is Liminal Flares, bedtime stories from beyond and in-between,

readings of eldritch literature drawn from the public domain and amended to be gender-inclusive.

My name is Maika, and I am your queer, trans, nonbinary narrator.

Today, we begin reading "Dracula's Guest," a gothic horror story written by Irish author Bram Stoker.

This suspenseful little tale comes from a collection of short stories entitled Dracula's Guest and Other Weird Stories,

published in 1914, two years after Stoker's death.

It is widely believed that Bram Stoker originally wrote Dracula's Guest as the first chapter of his 1897 epistolary novel Dracula,

which went on to become one of the progenitors of modern vampire fiction,

not to mention one of the most famous works in all of English literature.

However, that first chapter was cut from the book by Stoker's publisher, possibly to shorten the novel,

or because either they or Stoker himself felt that it was superfluous to the larger tale, and that the novel flowed better without it.

I mention this because of one significant piece of context:

While editing The New Annotated Dracula in the 1970s,

American writer and literary editor Leslie S. Klinger worked with the original Dracula manuscript.

There, he found references to events that take place in "Dracula's Guest"

including one that identifies the otherwise unnamed narrator of our short story as none other than Jonathan Harker,

a certain young solicitor who, provided you're not on Team Dracula, is one of the principal protagonists of the novel,

which is, I think, a fun little piece of information to keep in mind as we read this vivid tale.

And on that note, are you ready?

"Dracula's Guest" by Bram Stoker, published in 1914

When we started for our drive, the sun was shining brightly on Munich, and the air was full of the joyousness of early summer.

Just as we were about to depart, Herr Delbrück, the maître d’hôtel of the Quatre Saisons, where I was staying,

came down, bareheaded, to the carriage, and after wishing me a pleasant drive, said to the driver,

still holding their hand on the handle of the carriage door, "Remember you are back by nightfall.

The sky looks bright, but there is a shiver in the North Wind that says there may be a sudden storm.

But I am sure you will not be late here."

He smiled and added, "For you know what night it is."

Johann answered with an emphatic "Ja, mein Herr," and touching their hat, drove off quickly.

When we had cleared the town, I said, after signaling them to stop, "Tell me, Johann, what is tonight?"

They crossed themselves as they answered, laconically "Walpurgis nacht."

Then they took out their watch, a great old fashioned German silver thing, as big as a turnip,

and looked at it with their eyebrows gathered together and a little impatient shrug of their shoulders.

I realised that this was their way of respectfully protesting against the unnecessary delay,

and sank back in the carriage, merely motioning them to proceed.

They started off rapidly, as if to make up for lost time.

Every now and then the horses seemed to throw up their heads and sniff the air suspiciously.

On such occasions I often looked round in alarm.

The road was pretty bleak, for we were traversing a sort of high wind-swept plateau.

As we drove, I saw a road that looked but little used, and which seemed to dip through a little winding valley.

It looked so inviting that, even at the risk of offending them, I called Johann to stop,

and when they had pulled up I told them I would like to drive down that road.

They made all sorts of excuses and frequently crossed themselves as they spoke.

This somewhat piqued my curiosity, so I asked them various questions.

They answered fencingly and repeatedly looked at their watch in protest.

Finally I said, "Well, Johann, I want to go down this road. I shall not ask you to come unless you like,

but tell me why you do not like to go, that is all I ask."

For answer they seemed to throw themselves off the box, so quickly did they reach the ground.

Then they stretched out their hands appealingly to me, and implored me not to go.

There was just enough of English mixed with the German for me to understand the drift of their talk.

They seemed always just about to tell me something, the very idea of which evidently frightened them.

But each time they pulled themselves up, saying as they crossed themselves, “Walpurgis-Nacht!”

I tried to argue with them, but it was difficult to argue with a person when I did not know their language.

The advantage certainly rested with them,

for although they began to speak in English of a very crude and broken kind,

they always got excited and broke into their native tongue, and every time they did so they looked at their watch.

Then the horses became restless and sniffed the air.

At this Johann grew very pale, and looking around in a frightened way,

they suddenly jumped forward, took the horses by the bridles and led them on some twenty feet.

I followed and asked why they had done this.

For answer they crossed themselves again, pointed to the spot we had left,

and drew their carriage in the direction of the other road, indicating a cross,

and said first in German, then in English, “Buried them—them what killed themselves.”

I remembered the old custom of burying suicides at crossroads.

"Ah! I see, a suicide. How interesting!"

But for the life of me I could not make out why the horses were frightened.

Whilst we were talking we heard a sort of sound between a yelp and a bark.

It was far away, but the horses got very restless and it took Johann all their time to quiet them.

They were pale and said, “It sounds like a wolf, but yet there are no wolves here now.”

"No?" I said, questioning them; “isn’t it long since the wolves were so near the city?”

“Long, long,” they answered, “in the spring and summer; but with the snow the wolves have been here not so long.”

Whilst they were petting the horses and trying to quiet them, dark clouds drifted rapidly across the sky.

The sunshine passed away and a breath of cold wind seemed to drift past us.

It was only a breath, however, and more in the nature of a warning than a fact, for the sun came out brightly again.

Johann looked under their lifted hand at the horizon and said, “The storm of snow, it comes before long time.”

Then they looked at their watch again and straightway holding their reins firmly,

for the horses were still pawing the ground, restlessly and shaking their heads,

Johann climbed to their box as though the time had come for, proceeding on our journey.

I felt a little obstinate and did not at once get into the carriage.

“Tell me,” I said, “about this place where the road leads,” and I pointed down.

Again they crossed themself and mumbled a prayer, before they answered, “It is unholy.”

"What is unholy?" I inquired.

"The village."

"Then there is a village?"

“No, no. No one lives there hundreds of years.”

My curiosity was piqued, “But you said there was a village.”

"There was."

"Where is it now?"

Whereupon they burst out into a long story in German and English, so mixed up that I could not quite understand exactly what they said.

But roughly I gathered that long ago, hundreds of years, people had died there and been buried in their graves;

and sounds were heard under the clay,

and when the graves were opened, people were found rosy with life, and their mouths red with blood.

And so, in haste to save their lives,

(aye, and their souls! And here Johann crossed themself)

those who were left fled away to other places, where the living lived and the dead were dead

and not—not something.

They were evidently afraid to speak the last words.

As they proceeded with their narration, Johann grew more and more excited.

It seemed as if their imagination had got hold of them, and they ended in a perfect paroxysm of fear,

white-faced, perspiring, trembling, and looking round them,

as if expecting that some dreadful presence would manifest itself there in the bright sunshine on the open plain.

“Walpurgis nacht!”

and pointed to the carriage for me to get in.

All my English blood rose at this, and, standing back, I said:

“You are afraid, Johann, you are afraid. Go home; I shall return alone; the walk will do me good.”

The carriage door was open.

I took from the seat my oak walking stick, which I always carry on my holiday excursions,

and closed the door, pointing back to Munich, and said,

“Go home, Johann, Walpurgis-nacht doesn’t concern the English.”

The horses were now more restive than ever,

and Johann was trying to hold them in while excitedly imploring me not to do anything so foolish.

I pitied the poor soul, they were deeply in earnest; but all the same I could not help laughing.

Their English was quite gone now.

In their anxiety they had forgotten that their only means of making me understand was to talk my language,

so they jabbered away in their native German.

It began to be a little tedious.

After giving the direction, “Home!” I turned to go down the cross-road into the valley.

With a despairing gesture, Johann turned their horses towards Munich.

I leaned on my stick and looked after them.

They went slowly along the road for a while.

Then there came over the crest of the hill a figure, tall and thin.

I could see so much in the distance.

When this figure drew near the horses, they began to jump and kick about, then to scream with terror.

Johann could not hold them in; they bolted down the road, running away madly.

I watched them out of sight, then looked for the stranger, but I found that they, too, were gone.

With a light heart I turned down the side road through the deepening valley to which Johann had objected.

There was not the slightest reason, that I could see, for their objection;

and I daresay I tramped for a couple of hours without thinking of time or distance,

and certainly without seeing a person or a house.

So far as the place was concerned, it was desolation itself.

But I did not notice this particularly till, on turning a bend in the road I came upon a scattered fringe of wood;

then I recognised that I had been impressed unconsciously by the desolation of the region through which I had passed.

I sat down to rest myself and began to look around.

It struck me that it was considerably colder than it had been at the commencement of my walk.

A sort of sighing sound seemed to be around me, with, now and then, high overhead, a sort of muffled roar.

Looking upwards I noticed that great thick clouds were drifting rapidly across the sky from North to South at a great height.

There were signs of coming storm in some lofty stratum of the air.

I was a little chilly, and thinking that it was the sitting still after the exercise of walking, I resumed my journey.

The ground I passed over was now much more picturesque.

There were no striking objects that the eye might single out; but in all there was a charm of beauty.

I took little heed of time,

and it was only when the deepening twilight forced itself upon me that I began to think of how I should find my way home.

The brightness of the day had gone.

The air was cold, and the drifting of clouds high overhead was more marked.

They were accompanied by a sort of far-away rushing sound, through which seemed to come at intervals that mysterious cry which the driver had said came from a wolf.

For a while I hesitated.

I had said I would see the deserted village, so on I went, and presently came on a wide stretch of open country, shut in by hills all around.

Their sides were covered with trees which spread down to the plain, dotting in clumps, the gentler slopes and hollows which showed here and there.

I followed with my eye the winding of the road, and saw that it curved close to one of the densest of these clumps and was lost behind it.

As I looked there came a cold shiver in the air, and the snow began to fall.

I thought of the miles and miles of bleak country I had passed, and then hurried on to seek the shelter of the wood in front.

Darker and darker grew the sky, and faster and heavier fell the snow,

till the earth before and around me was a glistening white carpet the further edge of which was lost in misty vagueness.

The road was here but crude, and when on the level its boundaries were not so marked as when it passed through the cuttings;

and in a little while I found that I must have strayed from it, for I missed underfoot the hard surface, and my feet sank deeper in the grass and moss.

Then the wind grew stronger and blew with ever increasing force, till I was fain to run before it.

The air became icy cold, and in spite of my exercise I began to suffer.

The snow was now falling so thickly, and whirling around me in such rapid eddies, that I could hardly keep my eyes open.

Every now and then the heavens were torn asunder by vivid lightning, and in the flashes I could see ahead of me a great mass of trees, chiefly yew and cypress, all heavily coated with snow.

I was soon amongst the shelter of the trees, and there, in comparative silence, I could hear the rush of the wind high overhead.

Presently the blackness of the storm had become merged in the darkness of the night.

it now only came in fierce puffs or blasts.

At such moments the weird sound of the wolf appeared to be echoed by many similar sounds around me.

Now and again through the black mass of drifting cloud, came a straggling ray of moonlight,

which lit up the expanse, and showed me that I was at the edge of a dense mass of cypress and yew trees.

As the snow had ceased to fall, I walked out from the shelter and began to investigate more closely.

It appeared to me that amongst so many old foundations as I had passed,

there might be still standing a house in which, though in ruins, I could find some sort of shelter for a while.

As I skirted the edge of the copse, I found that a low wall encircled it, and following this I presently found an opening.

Here the cypresses formed an alley leading up to a square mass of some kind of building.

Just as I caught sight of this, however, the drifting clouds obscured the moon, and I passed up the path in darkness.

The wind must have grown colder, for I felt myself shiver as I walked; but there was hope of shelter, and I groped my way blindly on.

I stopped, for there was a sudden stillness.

The storm had passed; and perhaps in sympathy with nature’s silence, my heart seemed to cease to beat.

But this was only momentarily; for suddenly the moonlight broke through the clouds, showing me that I was in a graveyard,

and that the square object before me was a great massive tomb of marble, as white as the snow that lay on and all around it.

With the moonlight there came a fierce sigh of the storm, which appeared to resume its course with a long low howl, as of many dogs or wolves.

I was awed and shocked, and felt the cold perceptibly grow upon me till it seemed to grip me by the heart.

Then while the flood of moonlight still fell on the marble tomb,

the storm gave further evidence of renewing, as though it was returning on its track.

Impelled by some sort of fascination, I approached the sepulchre to see what it was, and why such a thing stood alone in such a place.

I walked around it, and read, over the Doric door, in German:

COUNTESS DOLINGEN OF GRATZ IN STYRIA

On the top of the tomb, seemingly driven through the solid marble,

for the structure was composed of a few vast blocks of stone, was a great iron spike or stake.

On going to the back I saw, graven in great Russian letters:

“The dead travel fast.”

This concludes the first half of "Dracula's Guest" by Bram Stoker.

Thank you for listening to Liminal Flares.

Our music is by The Parlour Trick.

Audio Engineering by Meredith Yayanos.

I hope you've enjoyed our time together in this twilit space.

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subscribe and leave us a rating and a review on your favorite podcast platform.

And please share us with others who might enjoy our haunted and haunting, gender-inclusive story time.

PS.

If you have a favorite author or a specific piece of writing, a short story, poem, or passage from a book that's in the public domain in the US,

I welcome your requests for future episodes.

You'll find links to archives of public domain literature in the Resources section of our website, liminalflares.com.

Submit your request via the website or via social media @liminalflares.

Next week we’ll return to find out what happens to the impetuous Jonathan Harker, as we conclude the tale of “Dracula’s Guest.”