Talking to Angels

A True and Faithful Relation

In 1659, Meuric Casaubon, Doctor of Divinity published a book that purported to confirm the reality of spirits as well as show the several good uses a sober Christian could make of all of this.  The book was sold at the Little North Door of the Cathedral of St Paul in London.

Casaubon had taken the book from the original written by Dr John Dee, an Elizabethan polymath, advisor to the Queen, mathematician and magician and added his own lengthy preface.  The book was called:

A True and Faithful relation of What Passed for Many Years Between Dr John Dee (A mathematician of great fame in Queen Elizabeth and King James, their reigns) and Some Spirits: Tending (had it succeeded) To a General Alteration of most States and Kingdoms of in the World. His private conferences with Rudolph, Emperor of Germany, Stephen, King of Poland, and diverse other princes about it. The particulars of his Cause, as it was agitated in the Emperor’s Court, by the Pope’s intervention: His Banishment, and Restoration in part.”

It’s generally just called The Relation,  or A True and Faithful Relation.  When you look at that title, you’d be convinced Casaubon was keyword stuffing, but this was before the invention of SEO.

Casaubon’s Preface

Casaubon provides a lengthy theological preface where every s is f, and other poor spelling (nearly as bad as Chaucer) with chunks of Latin, some Greek and a tiny bit of Hebrew. It’s generally pretty tedious but he does try to defend Dee from the accusation of being a conjurer. You must remember that in 1604 King James I of England (VI of Scotland) enacted a Witchcraft Act that set out penalty of death to any who invoked evil spirits, or communed with familiar spirits. Witchfinder General Matthew Hopkins operated under this statute. So, when Casaubon published his book, Dee was clearly in breach of this law and liable to the death penalty, except of course he got out of this by being dead already.  In 1649, the Scots extended their previous witchcraft act to give the death penalty to those who consulted with Devils and familiar spirits. That would be you at your Tarot reading.

Casaubon says that Dee had an Angelical Stone which he claimed was brought to him by an angel. It was this he used, or rather Edward Kelley, his scrier, used to see the spirits.  Casaubon also tries to excuse Kelley saying, “I would suppose that he was one of the best sort of magicians, that dealt with spirits by a kind of command…and not by any compact or agreement.”  This may be considered a splitting of hairs.  

We have 55 pages of Casaubon’s preface before getting to the good stuff. Or at least the better stuff

Dee’s Apology

The next section is Dr John Dee’s apology sent to the Arch-Bishop of Canterbury in 1594/5. (This was the time of the introduction of the new Gregorian calendar by the Catholic Church in 1582 and so years had different numbers and days had different dates depending  whether you reckoned in the new Gregorian, or old Julian calendar. Protestant and Orthodox Christians lagged in the introduction of the Gregorian calendar, the last country to adopt it was Orthodox Greece in 1923.)

Dee is basically trying to kid the arch-bishop that he is a straightforward Christian believer. He sets out the books he has written for the benefit of his native country and he makes a fervent protestation that all the methods of acquiring knowledge he used were good, lawful, honest, Christian and divinely prescribed.   He adds an epilogue, to me a sign that he guessed his fervent protestation and list of qualifications were unlikely to cut ice. He adds a copy of his degree in Latin to further show what a good egg he is.

A Table

The next section is the extensive Table of Contents in Three Parts, which briefly summarizes each entry in the following book. Then we have the Errata. I am unsure whether these parts were added by Casaubon as he edited the manuscript but he writes about Dee in the third person, so I guess this is Casaubon’s table of contents and note of errata.

We then have diagrams of The Holy Table with the Enochian alphabet and magic squares depicted, and the Four Watchtowers diagram with notes who which princes, trumpeters, ensign bearers stand where in Heaven.  On Page 96 of the PDF facsimile we get to Dr Dee’s own work the Liber Mysteriorum & Sancti written after the pattern of Noval.

Liber Mysteriorum & Sancti

The journal, for that is what it is, opens on 28th May, 1583 in Leiden between Amsterdam and The Hague on the Dutch coast. Dee has already set off from England.

Dee had originally been his own scryer from round 1581 when  he had strange dreams and noted odd feelings and mysterious noises in his house. He got a crystal ball, or show-stone and began scrying himself and on 25 May 1582 reported his first contact with spirits through the show-stone.

This reminded me of similar experiences recounted by Carl Jung in his autobiographical Dreams, Memories & Reflections, where he notes that in June 1916 he began to feel there were unseen entities in his house. One of his daughters saw a ghost, and that night another daughter had her bed clothes yanked off, and his nine year old son had a nightmare about the Devil. The next day at 5pm, the doorbell began ringing and wouldn’t stop until Jung looked out of the window to see there was no one there. Ghosts pressed round him and he wrote, perhaps channeled his Septem Sermones ad Mortuuos. “The Seven Sermons to the Dead.”

When prompted by this irruption of spirits into his life, Jung’s reaction was to write what they told him.  Dee’s was to stare into the show-stone to see what they wanted.  

Dee later employed a seer called Barnabas Saul so that he could take notes. It’s unclear whether Dee himself continued to see the spirits. Saul had some disturbing experiences and quit. After that Dee was on the look-out for a new scier and hired 27 year old, Edward Kelley (not his real name). Kelley appears to have been something of a rogue, forger and necromancer, but Dee was apparently satisfied with his skill as a seer.  Dee’s fortunes had diminished since his heady days with Queen Elizabeth and he latched onto Polish prince Albert Laski and travelled to Poland to enjoy his patronage.  

While Dee was away in 1583 a large mob burned down his house in Mortlake, Surrey and with it his books and occult paraphernalia.

28 May 1583, Leiden, Holland: The Spirit Madimi

When the Book of  Holy Mysteries / Liber Mysteriorum & Sancti opens, Dee and Edward Kelley are sitting around the show-stone. It is Dee is concerned that the Polish prince Albert Laski  will support him against the malice and envy of Dee’s fellow Englishmen. This is a time when Dee’s esteem has fallen markedly from when he was the Queen’s advisor and astrological confidant. From the way he writes it, it looks like Dee himself sees the spirit Madimi first come out of his Oratory. He describes her as a pretty girl of 7-9 years old. Her gown is a “changeable green and red” with a train that moves up down, so her image is in flux. This is what one would expect from a figure representing the Jungian anima: the Unconscious is always changing from one thing to another and is difficult, like a sub-atomic particle (another figment of the unconscious imagination) to pin down. Madimi is a bit sassy and when Dee asks her “Whose maiden are you?” She replies, “Whose man are you?”  There appears a voice in the background apparently warning Madimi that if she reveals who she belongs to, she shall be beaten.

But this whole scene is not the scrier, Kelley relating what he sees to Dee, at least not as it’s written, but Dee appears himself to see Madimi dancing in and out of his books.  Madimi appears to be negotiating with the voice off-stage to allow her to tarry awhile. Madimi is one of her mother’s children. That  could be construed to mean she emerges from the Matrix, the Great Mother that underlies all things. She can’t say however who she belongs to or where she dwells for fear that the off-stage personage will beat her.  Some trickery then.

Madimi has six sisters. She says they all must come to live with Dee. Dee says that Madimi’s elder sister is Esemeli, but she won’t confirm it. Instead she pulls out a picture book. From here it is Edward Kelley who is explaining what he sees and hears to Dee, as if Dee can no longer see for himself. We picture Kelley staring into the show-stone.  Madimi goes on about various members of the English aristocracy, pointing to them and naming them.  She focuses on an area Shropshire and names various towns around Ludlow.  Then Dee gets called for supper.

This is like me when I’m playing Elder Scrolls Online and I have to go and eat. Bummer.

They reconvene after super and Madimi is right there, showing them pics of the aristocrats again and saying things we presume Kelley, or anyone, would know. At one point, Dee asks her to give the same pedigree commentary to the Polish Albert Laski as she does to the English nobility, but she replies that she can’t do this for people in other countries.  We would guess it would be outside Kelley’s knowledge, if he was faking Madimi, and so couldn’t come up with anything verifiable. Madimi offers up some Latin saying that the one who sent her is true.

2nd June 1583

Kelley reports that a golden curtain hangs inside the stone, so nothing is visible, but a voice is heard repeating three times:  Holy, Sealed, for a Time. Dee wonders what exactly this could mean. The voice helpfully expands to explain that it is the Holy One’s will that it remain sealed for a time. A man in red appears, like a common husbandman. They ask him questions but he kneels and prays in a strange language: Oh Gahire Rudna gephna ob Gahire, looking at the stone and adds in Latin, I will not make mine. In answer to Dee’s questions, he says that all things are made ready – the 7 doors are opened, the 7 governors have almost ended their government he then goes into a spiel about the tribulations of the earth and the elements. “Hell itself is weary of Earth. For why? The Son of Darkness now comes to challenge right.” This Son of Darkness wants to establish himself a kindgom and thinks things are ready. “We are now strong enough.”

It all sounds rather apocalyptic.

He goes on to say “We are Seven” and that he seems to say he is equal with the greatest angels and his name is Murifiri. His name is to be found on all their tables.  He begins to spell out words, but it is not clear what they mean.

The Enochian Apocalypse

I should say at this point that the Enochian scholar, Donald Tyson,  believed that the spirits that talked to Dee and later revealed the magic Enochian language, were paving the way for an Apocalypse, whereby the gatehouses that guard this universe were to be opened and occult forces pour “usurping blasphemy, misuse, and stealth of the wicked and great enemy, the Devil.”

Go figure. I’ll probably post more about the angels at a later date.

See here:



The Phantasmagoria


I found this on my hard drive – it’s the beginning of a rather pretentious book I was writing at the time when I was pretentious. I include it because it has many of the themes I’ve written about on this blog. Here goes.


This is a book about ghosts and demons, witches and mediums, madness and magick, reality and truth. It is about people who want to contact those on the other side and about things on the other side that want to come to meet us. As the city is haunted by memories of its past and breathes in dreams of its future; so we walk through the present-time but as in doing so, are immersed in our own “dream-time”.


The cities in this book are places where I have found the dream-time to be particularly pervasive. A place where dreams and illusions cluster, and where the atmosphere of somwhere else – not outre mer, but outre monde – gets into your body and is hard to clear away. This world and the next are not like oil and water, but rather blood and milk: they mix and are essentially the same.


Among the monsters and wonders of this dreamscape, particularly prominent are the cold vampires and the insubstantial ghosts. If I had a penny (perhaps to place one day on my cold closed eyes) for everybody who has asked me whether these things are really real: are really out-there-anyway , in the same way we believe rabbits to be; going about their business even when no one is there to see, I would be rich   


I answer that ghosts are real to the people who think they are, which causes the questioner to go away unsatisfied. I have also said “it’s not the place which is haunted but the person who goes there.”  But on reflection, I think the places are haunted too.  


People think that a city is just bricks and roads and maybe the people who go to work and live in it. Sceptics would say that this is all there is to life. And people often say to me that they will believe a ghost as soon as they see one with their own eyes. The idea then, is that what you see with your own eyes is real; that only physical things you can touch have any real influence. But even a moment’s reflection will show that this is untrue. Most of the things that influence us have no physical form, nor will they ever: consider interest rates, patriotism, a desire to be important. Many things that begin as ideas will become buildings, cars, paintings or meals in due course; many more ideas will never be physically realised; an unwritten novel, a desire to visit Samarkand, an unborn child. And of course things that are real just as easily become only memories. So we live in a constant flux of things in our world becoming insubstantial, and things from the “dream-time” becoming tangible: the sort of thing a sceptic could run his hands over.


A city is haunted by its past. When you walk down a street you see buildings put up hundreds of years before you were born, the pattern of the streets itself will follow the needs and footsteps of those long dead. It is not just physical things; the language you speak, the deeds and thoughts of those who have gone before us also inform and influence everything we do. We are not isolated “billiard balls”; we are processes in flux between past and future, between the physical present and the insubstantial dream-time. As you walk down a London Street, just because you cannot see, hear, taste or touch it, the Blitz is real; the Great Fire is real. It is happening still in the dream-time. Your limited senses give you a limited view of the whirling universe; you see and hear only certain frequencies, your nose and tongue register only certain molecules. You are only aware of that little moving slit of light called the present, which for you contains all and only what is real. But what is the present? Try and stop it and say this is “now” and it is already gone. We might represent it like this:


Though we have concepts of the past and future; neither of them can be touched. Our two modes of experience are the material now-time where we concentrate on the road, read a menu, speak to our dog; and the insubstantial dream-time which always surrounds us and which is made up of non-material forms and ideas.


For those of you who know the Qabalah, our material world in this now-time is understood as the Sphere of Malkuth – the earth, apparently dense and ‘real’. The swirling Phantasmogoria is Yesod, the sphere of forms and ideas, though which we descend when we are born, and through which we return when we die.


I imagined that I had dreamt up the idea of now-time, but Walter Benjamin already described it in his jetzeit.  Once again I am shown that I have nothing of my own; things only pass through me: as if I am a ghost.


And just as the city is full of ghostly ideas and plans that may or may not come about, and its streets and houses are haunted by those who once lived there, the presence of those who have never been is also strong. Dracula and Sherlock Holmes have as strong a presence in London as Henry VIII or Jack the Ripper.


What I have called the dream-time, Steve Pile in his book Real Cities calls this swirling atmosphere of ghosts and history the Phantasmagoria. For some reason in some places the Phantasmagoria lies thicker than others. Thicker than the leaves in Taur-na-more-na-lome, in fact. Pile also cites the work of Walter Benjamin who wrote a personal memoir evoking the atmosphere of his native Berlin. Benjamin in turn wrote a biography of the French poet Baudelaire who conjured images of a dream ridden Paris. This book is my slight attempt to reproduce what certain European cities feel like to me. I have been drawn to these places because they seemed to be focus points for the Phantasmagoria; places on earth where it stood thicker, harder to shake one’s head clear from, and which consequently had attracted those keen to make contact with the Insubstantial.


Another thing is that within the Phantasmagoria our own individual identity is less well defined, but at the same time it is paradoxically central. Walter Benjamin as represented by Steve Pile paints an individual picture of the memories and architectures of feeling of his native Berlin. So he concentrates on places that are important and meaningful to him. In the same way in this book, I have inevitably and shamelessly represented the cities as they feel to me. I have places where my own memories and imaginations come crowding around me. So, a representation of the Phantasmagoria is in that way subjective. But on reflection the ideas and thoughts in our heads are not kept in there as if in a hermetic vessel. The words I speak, the ideas I think have poured into me from my contact with others. Nothing is my own; I may modify it, but the content of my experiences and feelings flows through me as a process. In the same way that certain places have an atmosphere for me, they evoke similar responses from others. Why do people set mysterious and haunted stories in Venice for example? Because the personality of that city evokes them from their creators; and Venice’s personality is felt by every resident, and every visitor in some measure at least. During the day in those Venetian streets, and at night as we sleep in our hotel beds, we swim in the ocean of what Carl Jung called the Collective Unconscious. Emotionally as well as materially, our separateness is revealed again as an illusion.


This book contains stories about ghosts and those who have looked for ghosts. We will always return again to our question: but are these creatures real?


I cannot answer without equivocation. The existence of ghosts points up a central feature of human experience. We want yes / no, but when we get  these extremities and white do we find them or do we make them up?. Does the head lie in the sculptor’s block of stone ready to be discovered or does he put it there?

Let me set out my thinking about the reality of ghosts. If you are not interested in philosophy, feel free to skip forward to the vampires.


Q1. Do ghosts exist?

A1. In the 17th Century Descartes proposed that mind and body are two separate substances. This is known as dualism and is still widely believed among ordinary people: that the soul is of a different substance to the body and departs after death. However, most thinkers have found the problems it throws up insurmountable (for example, if soul and body are wholly different substances, how do they interact?). So, most thinkers believe that there is only one substance which forms all our experience (monism). Science believes this is matter. However, we do seem to have experiences that are outside matter; ideas and thoughts. These mental contents are typically about something, which seems different to material objects. For example, it is difficult to imagine a stone or a chemical is about anything. For a long time science got round the problem of mind by ignoring it. Now neuroscience predicts mind will be explained as arising from the material functioning of the brain, though so far this has mainly consisted of explaining it away.


The wonderful 19th Century American psycho-philosopher William James suggested that there was only one substance that was neither mind nor matter but contained both. In this he agreed with the brilliant 17th Century Dutch apostate Jew lens-grinder Baruch Spinoza and the equally brilliant 20th Century American philosopher Thomas Nagel. There is only one substance from which both mind and matter arise. Spinoza called it God. The learned Swiss apostate protestant 20th Century psychologist Carl Jung called it “The Self”.


They may want to quibble about my representation of their views, they might not like to be bunched together like this either. But all except Nagel are currently dead, which brings us back to Question 1.


My point is this: though matter (the physical objects of the now-time, we observe, eat and caress) and mind (the immaterial objects of the dream-time we think about, imagine and grieve for) seem different but they are not. So, if we say that material objects exists, then so do ghosts.


However this has not possibly answered your real question, which might be:


Q2. Can ghosts be seen?

A2. Many thousands of people claim to have seen ghosts, and a smaller, but still considerable, number say they have encountered vampires and the Loch Ness monster. Less claim to have been to the Moon.


The Scottish philosopher David Hume considered the possibility of miracles. He didn’t think he would believe a report of a miracle. He said, “a wise man apportions his belief according to the evidence”. He said that there are two ways of determining whether something is true, the first is to verify it yourself (delusions and illusions to one side); the second is to believe the testimony of others. He was inclined not to trust the testimony of people about miracles (and I’m guessing ghosts) because there were some many fools and knaves around, who would either delude themselves or lie. He said that miracles were by definition a breach of the laws of nature, so he would need evidence impressive enough to convince him that such a law had been breached.


Hume elsewhere pointed out that there was no logical reason for cause and effect. Things just tend to happen in a certain way. So, if we drop an egg onto a stone floor it will break. Mostly. The law of Cause and effect is statistical. Modern physicists are much taken with symmetry in their equations. They have found no mathematical reason why a broken glass should not fly back together again. It just mainly doesn’t. If it did, it would seem to be a miracle because it had broken a law of nature. Except laws of nature (like laws of man or God) are not inviolable. They are only observations of what mostly happens. This is how natural science works. It makes lots of observations, replicates the observations and works out what mainly happens. It then ignores the little odd things that don’t fall in with the majority and calls them anomalies and throws them in the dustbin. It is not a law, merely a tendency. So, ghosts don’t tend to be seen, but it breaks no law of nature when some are seen.  


I’m with Hume in thinking there are lots of fools and knaves who will tell you they see ghosts who haven’t. If this doesn’t satisfy you perhaps your question is really:


Q3. Can I see ghosts?

A3.  First I must introduce the concept of schizotypy. It is related to the idea of psychosis. Psychotic people believe in the reality of magic, ghosts, occult conspiracies, alien abductions, ESP, thought transference, the existence of gods and devils and suchlike. However it has become clear that many people who would not be diagnosed as psychotic also believe in these things. Psychologists then place people on a continuum that goes from psychotic (mad) to schizotypical (not mad) to imaginative, to creative, to ultimately the boring type of person who sees no magic or wonder at all in anything. People who show a high degree of schizotypy (belief in the possibility of magic, ghosts, aliens, vampires), are therefore edging towards insanity. But they are also more likely to see ghosts. You, or your psychiatrist, can test your own level of schizotypy using the Perceptual Aberration Scale.


Psychiatrists would say that people who are psychotic, or schizotypical, suffer from a failure of reality-testing. That is, their brains (in here) fail to test their ideas against reality (out there-anyway). This concept rests upon the idea that there is something out-there-anyway that has one unvarying true form. Now, there must be something out-there (or in-here) or else we could form no conception of it. But we can never objectively know what it is because our minds cannot be objective, they only have our own subjective viewpoint to work on.


Going back to the idea of truth being agreement; we can look again at psychosis. As we grow up we learn what is normal. There are no natural laws, just likely probabilities, so we learn what is probable. We also compare our own observations against those of others and come to a level of agreement: the earth is flat, Newton was right, Newton wasn’t right; Jesus died for us; the world is round and made of atoms like tiny billiard balls or solar systems. That level of agreement is truth, and it varies from community to community across time. If you have ideas that a few people share (like about Alien Abduction or Astrology or Evolution) you can get together and that will be true for you. You can then try and go on and persuade others. However, if you have ideas that few people locally share you will become eccentric. If you find those ideas threatening and they make you anxious but you still believe them, then you will become psychotic.


Peter Naish makes the point that when we look at something, our brain has to decide which parts of the image on the retina go together to form one object. This is a difficult task especially when “objects” are seen from different perspectives, overlap, cover each other and move. He also notes that most of us avoid picking nettles when picking wildflowers from the hedgerow. So we must know what we’re seeing. We combine incoming visual perceptual information from conceptual information already in the brain. Or so the theory goes. Perceptual and conceptual seem to be combined at some point to identify an object. At the moment no one knows what comes first, percept, or concept. Maybe neither does, because they are two sides of the same coin. There is no coin with only one. The idea that objects out- there- anyway  depend on us to exist is supported by evidence from Balint’s Syndrome. Patients with this can only see one object at a time. Nash notes that a patient lighting a cigarette might find their attention captured by the flame so that they could see nothing out. He quotes a patient who said he could not see the doctor, because his attention had been captured by the doctor’s spectacles, and that was all he could see.


Subjective consciousness (that’s you reading this) is a point localised in the space-time-dream stuff. From this point we make our observations through the Stuff. That perspective is our reality (of a, say, stone). Those other subjective consciousnesses (Call them ‘people’ or animals or gods, angels and demons) also have perspectives. If these are similar enough to ours we agree that our point of view through the Stuff represents reality: things as they really are. This gives that the misunderstanding that there really is a stone out there anyway in-itself. But the stone is an extension of us. A line drawn between two points through the Stuff. Our separation from the Stone is an illusion. All is infolded implicate (as per the physicist David Bohm): which unfolds explicate as we observe. There is no out-there-anyway, nor in-here-all-alone but Silence. Not the opposite of noise but never spoken: The Sign of Harpocrates (as per the magician Aleister Crowley). To get an idea of this, imagine the emptiness within the mind of the Stone.


Our viewpoint, our life, is then perhaps the descent into matter. The imprisonment of Sophia by Physis. As the Qabalists say in their obscurantist fashion we and the ghosts are here:


Above these is the veil of Paroketh. This separates these two spheres from the higher reaches of the Tree. It is said that below the veil there is Time, above it, there is no time. So, ghosts, which occupy the dream-time of Yesod and we who occupy the now-time of Malkuth, are both subject to time.


So, if you have a high schizotypy rating and at least half believe in the Qabalah, you too can see ghosts. But why would you want to?


Q4. Why do we want to see ghosts?

A4. It seems to me that something can be either familiar or wonderful. Wonderful things like electricity or Christmas presents become ordinary once they are familiar. Given the statistical lack of ghosts, they are unfamiliar: hence wonderful. An evolutionary perspective on this might be that our ancestors, developed curiosity as a useful way of getting them to look into dark corners to find food that would have otherwise gone unnoticed. An astrological perspective might be that the especially curious among us have Mercury prominent in our natal charts. Moving away from these unscientific ideas to Jungian psychology, it might be that ghosts, and dark canal water and dreams of women draped with hissing serpents and the dank tombs of vampires represent that Other, to which we are always drawn; our source, our Self. The Pleroma: the dream-time: the Phantasmagoria. The 18th Century genius Goethe gives us some idea of what I speak of:


Mephistopheles. Not glad do I reveal a loftier mystery-
Enthroned sublime in solitude are goddesses;
Around them is no place, a time still less;
To speak of them embarrasses.
They are the Mothers!

Faust [terrified]. Mothers!

Mephistopheles. Do you fear?

Faust. The Mothers! Mothers! Strange the word I hear.

Mephistopheles. Strange is it. Goddesses, to men unknown,
Whom we are loath to name or own.
Deep must you dig to reach their dwelling ever;
You are to blame that now we need their favour.

Faust. Whither the way?

Mephistopheles. No way! To the Unexplorable,
Never to be explored; to the Unimplorable,
Never to be implored. Are in the mood?
There are no locks, no bars are to be riven;
Through solitudes you will be whirled and driven.

So it is to this I am drawn. The ghosts indicate the where magnetic North is; the thickest clustering of the Phantasmagoria. By way of the ghosts I will find the the Mothers. My compass needle flickers and searches them out. Pater dimitte me.


But do they (on my wall I have a replica slate plaque of the Threefold Goddess watching me, making me wary of any blasphemy) really exist?  This takes us round in circles.


  1. Brodie-Innes, the Scottish lawyer and occultist is reported as saying “Whether the Gods, The Qliphotic forces’ (ie the evil demons of hebrew Qabalah) ‘or even the Secret Chiefs’ (ie the supposed invisible super humans who are believed to direct the activates of authentic magical fraternities) ‘really exist is comparatively unimportant; the point is that the universe behaves as though they do”


And behaving as if something is real, usually makes it so. Consider the person with a phobia of crossing bridges. Though statistically they are very unlikely to accidentally fall to their death, they are emotionally convinced they will to the extent that they are in mortal fear of bridges and will avoid them at all costs. Someone with psychosis my be in absolute terror because they know their heart is infested with spiders. No one else believes that is possible, but they cannot be convinced otherwise. And it is not just for those Society deems as being ill. Most people are plagued with irrational thoughts and believe things that many others do not: that someone loves them, that someone does not love them, that they will win the lottery or become a pop idol, that immigrants steal their jobs. The Scottish philosopher David Hume in his On Miracles discussed how people come to believe things are true: they either verify things with their own senses or trust the testimony of others. For example I have never been to Australia, but I believe it exists on the basis of the testimony of others. I believe that Apollo 11 landed on the Moon though many people sincerely believe it to be a hoax. I believe in Einstein’s theories of relativity – not because I can understand the mathematics, but because I trust Einstein’s reputation.

In the same way we must come to our own belief in the creatures of the Phantasmagoria. I have put my case that to be real, something does not need to be visible and able to be touched. If it has a real influence then it is real. Other people, still wedded to the – to me clearly erroneous – idea that solid things are all that exist, may still want that kind of proof for ghosts and vampires. In fact people do claim to have seen them, and we will be presented with this kind of testimony  later in the book. So are these people all liars? My judgement, as with Einstein, is that they are not. They have had some kind of experience that they believe to be as real as any other. Have they been deceived by their senses? Perhaps, but I have spoken to so many of them, so obviously sincere, that I must conclude that something is going on that makes them think they have had physical encounters with creatures of the Phantasmagoria.


A more interesting question to me than whether ghosts are real, because as I have demonstrated to my own satisfaction that they are, is why do people care? Why do people keep looking? I think that in essence all of us ghost hunters, vampire seekers, dabblers in magick and psychogeography are really looking for the heart of things. That true Grail or mystic Self that lies we think out there in these haunted cities. We want for a second to look through the mist and see the wonder of reality.


The Phantasmagoria is a person. As you look at him, he considers you.


I hope that you will visit the places I talk about and realise that the Phantasmagoria is not something I have made up; you can feel the spirits, dead or never born for yourself as you linger in these dark haunted streets. I want you to look into these shadows and see that the shadows are looking back at you.  


Chapter 2: Hampstead and Highgate


Everything has to begin somewhere and so we begin in London at Hampstead Underground Station. Coming up here, you find yourself in the middle of the old village of Hampstead. Incidentally, this tube station is the deepest on the London Underground network, at 192 feet. Hampstead is now part of the London conurbation but was once a separate village built around wooded hills. It is said that there was a prehistoric burial barrow on the top of Parliament Hill where the ancient British queen Boudica was buried. However when it was excavated in 1894 she was not there. Hampstead has always seemed to have a mysterious atmosphere to me. Perhaps it is because of the nearby Heath which is huge and still wild enough to get lost on. Not somewhere to venture on a dark night. Many writers and poets have made their homes in Hampstead over the years. In many senses it has served as a refuge from London. In 1349, the Abbot of Westminster came with his monks to Hampstead to escape the Black Death. In 1524 a flood was predicted that would overwhelm London and so hordes of people came to the high ground at Hampstead to escape. During the Great Plague in 1665, fleeing Londoners came to Hampstead; so many that according to legend when the lawyers and judges arrived they had to sleep and hold court under the trees at a place known as Judge’s Walk. The streets round here are narrow and go up and down the hills. Wonderful old houses flank them, many of them turning away from the prying eyes of us passers-by; due no doubt to the great wealth of their owners and the natural reticence of the wealthy in England to share their spaces with those who happen to be walking the streets outside.


I remember in my twenties, one night coming up to Hampstead to see Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible in Russian. The Hampstead Everyman Cinema is just over the road from the tube station. I was due to meet two girls there. They were Russian linguists and I had agreed somewhat reluctantly to go with them to see the film. It was dark when I emerged and somewhat fantastically it was snowing. I don’t remember it snowing when I’d left central London though it probably was. I stood outside the Tube Station waiting for these girls, neither of whom I loved, watching the snow fall, which had made Hampstead unusually quiet. In my memory I am the only person there standing on that street corner. And then they arrived, both wearing black Russian fur coats and hats. Even though I didn’t love them the whole place was magical. I don’t remember enjoying Ivan the Terrible much.


C S Lewis was also inspired by snow at Hampstead. One day he took at walk across the Heath and the scene inspired him to write The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.


Going left from Hampstead Underground, a little way down the William IV pub. This, London’s oldest gay pub, is reputedly haunted. Apparently a doctor’s wife was murdered here. Presumably the pub was a house at the time, or perhaps they had an argument over a beer. In any case he managed to brick her up in the cellar. Every since that time she has troubled residents of the building by rattling windows and slamming doors. A recent landlord complained that lights go on and off though he put that down to the pub’s age and the state of the wiring. It’s status as a gay bar started in the 1930s apparently to cater for men cruising the nearby Heath. This kind of shadowy activity, where people signal to each other their intentions by signs that others may be oblivious of in order that they can meet once under the cover of darkness and then never meet again, is definitely part of the Phantasmagoria.


Nearby is Church Row and the church and the overgrown churchyard of St John. Church Row itself is said to be haunted by a maidservant with ginger hair, seen carrying a carpet bag. This carpet bag is said to contain the remains of a child she was looking after in one of the houses. She killed and dismembered the infant and her ghost is said to be seen at sun up. People also hear her footsteps and it is said that she looks around to see if she is being watched before hauling the bag into the churchyard, where she presumably got rid of the corpse in one of the existing graves.


The last time I was at the church it was a beautifully sunny day and a postman was sunbathing on a bench in the middle of the graves, old trees and tall grasses of the churchyard. Ghostly children are said to be seen playing among the graves, though I have never seen them. Nevertheless, the churchyard has an air to it. The paths are overgrown and though it is not exceptionally big, it is big enough to feel disorientated. The graves themselves are romantically old and weatherworn, the sepulchres cracked. Cracked enough that it is easy to imagine a hand reaching out from them. In fact, this churchyard is one of the places thought to have inspired Bram Stoker when he wrote Dracula. It is said that this is the churchyard where Lucy’s vault was. There is a scene here Van Helsing and Dr Seward are preparing to deal with Lucy.  After dining at Jack Straw’s Castle, at ten o’clock, they make their way down to the churchyard, where the Westenra family’s tomb is.


“As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people, till at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of horse police going their usual suburban round. At last we reached the wall of the churchyard, which we climbed over. With some little difficulty, for it was very dark, and the whole place seemed so strange to us, we found the Westenra tomb. The Professor took the key, opened the creaky door, and standing back, politely, but quite unconsciously, motioned me to precede him”


The Coffin was empty. On 29th September, according to Dr Seward’s diary, they returned to deal with the vampire.

29 September, night.–A little before twelve o’clock we three, Arthur, Quincey Morris, and myself, called for the Professor. It was odd to notice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes. Of course, Arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest of us wore it by instinct. We got to the graveyard by half-past one, and strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when the gravediggers had completed their task and the sexton under the belief that every one had gone, had locked the gate, we had the place all to ourselves…

… Van Helsing stepped out,and obedient to his gesture, we all advanced too. The four of us ranged in a line before the door of the tomb. Van Helsing raised his lantern and drew the slide. By the concentrated light that fell on Lucy’s face we could see that the lips were crimson with fresh blood, and that the stream had trickled over her chin and stained the purity of her lawn death robe.

Nearby was the home of Robert Louis Stevenson, though an Edinburgh man, he stayed on occasion in London. The place he stayed was  7, Mount Vernon. London is the setting of his most famous story: Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.  One night, the lawyer Mr Utterson, goes out searching for the monster Hyde.

It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and flying wrack of the most diaphanous and lawny texture.  The wind made talking difficult, and flecked the blood into the face.  Its eemed to have swept the streets unusually bare of passengers,besides; for Mr. Utterson thought he had never seen that part of London so deserted.  He could have wished it otherwise; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish to see and touch his fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might, there was borne in upon his mind a crushing anticipation of calamity.  The square,when they got there, was full of wind and dust, and the thin trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the railing.


And so we make our way onto the Heath. The Heath was infested with wolves until the 13th Century. It is quite extraordinary to find such an expanse of open and apparently wild land within four miles of the centre of such a large city as London. In fact it is surrounded by the city, but manages to be strangely apart. The springs at Hampstead produce water with apparently medicinal properties.  

In Dracula, Lucy from her nearby tomb comes onto the Heath and tempts the local children playing there to go with her. She is the bloofer lady. Stoker was not the only one to set vampire stories on the Heath. In David Stuart Davies’ 1995 book The Tangled Skein,  Sherlock Holmes investigates strange vampire like occurrences on the Heath and is led to meet Count Dracula. Again these two characters who never existed still haunt London. But even before James Rymer in his 1845 ‘penny dreadful’ Varney the Vampire, or the Feast of Blood, had set vampires lurking on the Heath. The vampires emerge from their tombs under the Heath and go hunting in Hampstead Village. They make their way to the churchyard, (surely St John’s?), and there dig up the a newly dead man who is destined to become one of them.

“A death-like stillness now was over the whole scene, and those who had partially exhumed the body stood as still as statues, waiting the event which they looked forward to as certain to ensue.

The clear beauty and intensity of the moonbeams increased each moment, and the whole surrounding landscape was lit up with a perfect flood of soft, silvery light. The old church stood out in fine relief, and every tree, and every wild flower, and every blade of grass in the churchyard, could be seen in its finest and most delicate proportions and construction.

The lid of the coffin was wrenched up on one side to about six inches in height, and that side faced the moon, so that some rays, it was quite clearly to be seen, found their way into that sad receptacle for the dead. A quarter of an hour, however, passed away, and nothing happened.

“Are you certain he is one of us?” whispered Varney.

“Quite, I have known it years past. He had the mark upon him.”

What is the mark? How would we know them? We will discuss this further when we get to Highgate. In the meantime, a walk across the Heath, preferably not at midnight, will take us to the Spaniard’s Inn.

The Spaniard’s was a favourite haunt of Charles Dickens. The inn on Hampstead Lane dates from the 16th Century. It is a weatherboarded house names either after the Spanish Ambassador to James II, or after to Spanish brothers who owned it. It is said that they killed each other in a duel over a woman. Dick Turpin, the famous highwayman, stabled his horse Black Bess (who is fictional) in the toll house opposite. Turpin did exist, but Black Bess did not and once again we see the mix of true and false that is characteristic of the Phantasmagoria. Though Black Bess is as real to most purposes as her master. Reality is not fixed for any of us.


The road there was not far from the main route between London and York and the woods of Hampstead would be ideal cover for highwaymen lurking in wait for their rich prey.

In 1780 a party of rioters on their way to destroy the nearby Kenwood House stopped by for a drink at the Spaniard’s. The landlord let the soldiers know who came by and disarmed them. The rioters’ muskets are still displayed in the inn. When I last visited with the group of Americans I am shortly to tell you about, we ate there and then held a séance upstairs in Turpin’s Bar. The rooms still have their wooden floorboards and the crooked walls give the place some atmosphere. Dick Turpin is said to haunt the Spaniard’s, a cloaked figure with a tricorn hat who walks through the bar and disappears into a wall. His horse is supposed to be heard outside.

Our attempted contact with the dead was of mixed success. People felt cold, or hot; one lady thought something unseen had tugged at her sleeve. I would have liked to have had a word with Dick Turpin, whose fashion sense I have long admired, but sadly, it was not to be.

Is it true that the people in our group really felt the burning sensation, the sensation of being touched? This brings us onto the point Pontius Pilate made to Jesus (John 18:38) quid est veritas?

David Hume said that you know what the truth is by either verifying it from our own experience, or believing the testimony of others. Let us leave veryifying the truth from one’s own experience to one side here, because I did not feel a tugging at my sleeve and even if I did I know enough about delusions and illusions not to trust myself.

Hume was an empiricist and like modern empirical science he fell prey to the myth of the material form. Plato believed in the ideal form. That is that behind every imperfect material cat or dog, there was in some divine realm a perfect ideal cat or dog upon which every exemplar was modelled, and fell short of its perfection. This idea has been denied by non-Platonists down the ages. Most modern scientists are definitely not Platonists. (The physicist Steven Hawking famously accused the mathematician Roger Penrose of being a Platonist as if it was a serious intellectual failing.) But most modern scientists commit the equally grave intellectual sin of believing in the perfect material form.

That is, the believe in perfect objectivity: that there is a single true version of the material world that exists independent of any observer, shining and inviolable. The whole enterprise of science is dedicated to uncovering that ‘true’ reality. It is based on a study of facts. Because the observations of one person cannot be trusted, these facts have to be observed and agreed by many people. What is behind this is an attempt to rule out subjectivity.

I am not saying that there is no material reality: a brick dropping on my head would soon refute that. I am saying there is no objective reality without a subjective viewpoint. All subjective viewpoints vary so there can be no definitive objective reality. People recognise this about ideas and dreams but seem to fail to see it is also true for bricks and houses. To believe that there is is a myth which Western Society has swallowed hook line and sinker.. The material and the immaterial are not black and white (and neither are black and white) yes/no switches. The objective and the subjective are a continuum. We can discuss this later in relation to Spinoza and Thomas Nagel if you’re interested. If objective/subjective differ not in kind but only in degree, then  so do reality and truth. Some things are more objectively real and true than others (and their truth is a function of agreement between people) We might start with the brick we mentioned earlier, which is quite objectively real and material, move onto a mathematical idea such as “2”, then something aesthetic such as whether a sunset is beautiful, whether Apollo 11 landed on the moon, and then perhaps the ghostly touch of a hand.

It seems clear to me that without any subjective observer, there cannot be any facts. So where does this leave science? If no one ever sees or notices something, then it does not exist. Of course scientists postulate theoretical entities but then try desperately to observe them because they, like the Church, are literal minded and have been deluded by the Goddess Physis into believing only hard little things you can knock about and touch are true.   

After physicists had postulated more and more bizzare sub-atomic particles and then discovered them, the quantum physicist Nils Bohr is said to have joked that one year someone should get the Nobel Prize for not discovering one. The idea being that the postulated them, then they discovered them. Almost as if the universe were serving up what the observing physicist had ordered. More like magick than science.

It seems to me that truth is not about discovering a ‘real’ and unique reality, if it were historians and scientists would have given up researching and doing experiments quite a while ago. Instead the ‘truth’ is what we agree to be true. For example, we might agree that Apollo 11 never landed on the Moon or that Princess Diana was killed by MI6, and as far as we were concerned that would be the truth. Until someone came along and persuaded us otherwise.

So was that person in our séance truly touched by a ghostly hand? If they believed it (through delusion) and we believed it (because we trusted their testimony), then I suppose they were.  

On the night of the séance, before we had come to the Spaniard’s we had visited Highgate Cemetery. The way between the two places is along Hampstead Lane. It is now pleasant enough, but in the past a dangerous road to travel after dark. There are many historical records of attacks on travellers. These shadowy figures were no doubt corporeal enough, but there are ghosts along this road. Traditionally there is a dark figure on horseback who comes riding out from the bushes threatening to trample walkers to death..

Leon Garfield had the hero of his children’s novel Mr Corbett’s Ghost had his hero come up this way on New Year’s Eve long ago to the house of a black magician. This man was employed to do away with people through sorcery. The apprentice makes a pact to have his cruel master killed, and then repents.


Already he could see the top of Hampstead Hill. On either side of him the trees bent and pointed, and high upstairs the tattered clouds flew all in the same direction. The dark wind was going to Hampstead too, and it was in the devil of a hurry.


At last, he could see Jack Straw’s Castle: a square-built, glum and lonely inn scare half a mile ahead…


Then he sees the house where the bargain will be made.


It was a tall, even a genteel house, often glimpsed from the high road from where it looked like a huge undertaker, discreetly waiting among the trees…


It was said there was a room at the top of the house where certain transactions took place. The windows of this room were sometimes pointed out, for they could be seen from the high road, staring coldly through the trees.


It was rumoured that this room, ordinary enough in all its furnishings, held an item so disagreeable that it chilled the soul.


It is said that some people in the depths of madness fear that at the heart of everything, like a great spider, or an unfathomable knot, there is a terrible blackness. Inside it is a universe. If they look at this black hole too long they fear they will learn the secret that holds the world together and in so doing, unravel it.


On the day we were to visit Highgate cemetery, we parked up in Pond Square, where the ghost of a partially plucked chicken has often been seen. Neither is it far from the place where Dick Whittington and his cat turned and looked down on London. The cat forever famous as a young woman in tights and boots, encouraged him to walk back down the hill. Similarly, I encouraged my group to walk down Swain’s Lane towards Highgate Cemetery. It was a warm evening in June 2003, around 7 pm. Swain’s Lane is narrow and steep flanked by high walls and trees. It would be easy to believe you were in a country town. As we walked down we saw a gate in the wall on the right hand side. Through the gate you could see a wild place of trees, but the gate was locked. The main entrance is further down on the right. On the left is the East Cemetery. It is here that Karl Marx is buried (as well as George Eliot). I remember in the 1980s in the dying days of the Cold War, that every year Communists would visit Marx’s grave on his birthday – 5th May. In those years I worked for MI5 who historically had been very interested in Communists as they believed they were the biggest threat to the British way of life. Initially I worked in A Branch who amongst other things transcribed telephone taps on British Communists. It was said at the fag end of Communism that every Party meeting had more Special Branch and MI5 agents than real Communists; in fact the British state was keeping the Communist Party going. Later when I worked for K Branch which dealt with counter-espionage we used to observe the Chinese and Russians, and various others go up to Marx’s grave to pay homage but not speak to each other. From what we heard the Russians were equally bored by the whole thing but felt they had to keep on doing it until Gorbachev let them off the hook. In fact, I had never been to the cemetery until that day twenty years later.


Though espionage is definitely part of the Phantasmagoria, and certainly my own as I wander London and remember, the main focus at Highgate is vampires. The West cemetery is very overgrown and can only be visited by organised tours and relatives of those buried there. It dates from 1839 when people were keen to get the dead out of central London and built a ring of grand cemetaries around what was then the outskirts. Highgate cemetery was very successful with the Victorians, no doubt partly because of the view down on London. Though the dead might be indifferent to that, it gave them status. Also giving them status were the expensive and and wonderfully gothic enormous funerary monuments. There was even a tunnel under Swains Lane, which presumably still exists. Coffins were lowered hydraulically down to the basement and then travelled under the road via the tunnel, and then up on the other side.  There are about 166,800 people buried at Highgate in 51,600 graves.By the 1960s, the United cemetery Company had run out of money and the cemetery was neglected and became massively overgrown. Not until 1975 was the voluntary Friends of Highgate cemetery (FOHC) formed to begin again to care for the 37 acres. However it was not until the freehold was obtained that the FOHC could begin to do something about the choking brambles and fallen trees that made the West Cemetery an impassable no-man’s land.


We had arranged a private tour from the FOHC and were met by our volunteer guide. He was a man in his 30s who had a proper job but whose love was clearly the cemetery. He told us the volunteers either helped clear the ground around the tombs, a massive and ongoing undertaking, or like him, took round visitors. I had made my Americans swear not to tell him we were on a ghost tour of England because the FOHC is inimicably opposed to such things, for understandable reasons, as we shall hear later. In fact it came out that we were, and he in turn, made us swear not to mention it to the lady we were shortly to meet or we would be thrown out. He collected all our video cameras, though still photographs were allowed. In the end he declared himself amazed at the amount of photographs some of our group, notably Kriss Stephens, had taken. You can find these on the Internet. She is a good photographer. Our guide was a normal intelligent and rational person and therefore found our interest in ghosts infantile. Curiously, in my memory at least, he was an albino, with white hair and pink eyes.


I should say that the group, being Americans, and used to good service, were astounded throughout our trip around England that the people they paid for tours or food were often rude and unhelpful. They took this very well, I thought, though I was often embarrassed. I tried to explain that this was our way and the rudeness was not personal or because, as some of them suspected, they were American.


The lady we met reminded my of our late Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher. Quite a domineering, narrow minded woman of decidedly conservative attitudes, who gave the impression of being quite well off. Thanks to Ronald Regan and the various Presidents Bush, she warmed towards our transatlantic friends and in an indirect way  way sought donations towards the upkeep of the cemetery. After her welcoming oration, she let us go. I thought our guide seemed relieved.


It was still warm and light as we made our way up the hill into the cemetery. The East cemetery is built on hills and is very overgrown. You walk through a tangled wilderness of trees and grass with mournful Victorian tombs, often quite huge, lost and folorn among them. The FOHC have done a fantastic job clearing the paths but still there is an atmosphere of romantic desolation and wilderness. It is possibly one of the most wonderful places I have ever been. Our guide was good, but seemed keen to hurry us along. At times, I tried to gather ones and twos to point out tombs thought to be related to the story of the vampire. Our guide perhaps knew what I was doing, but ignored it. The tour took quite a long time and the light was fading.


The most famous part of the cemetery is the Lebanon Circle, which is a sunken circle of quite astounding tombs. In the middle of the circle were Lebanese Cedar Trees. Only one survives. Round the central area is a circle of twenty expensive family tombs. The Circle of Lebanon is approached through an arch of ancient Egyptian design. There is one tomb here which has been concreted up.


One of our group, a psychiatric nurse from New York, kept hanging back. I went back and see what she was doing, but whenever she saw me, she straightened up and started walking again. The consensus in our group as we whispered among ourselves while our guide talked of famous pugilists and actors, was that she was either praying or collecting earth. I never found out what she was doing but I guess it was the latter: for use in magick.


There is an open area at the north end of the cemetery which abuts the back of St. Michael’s??? church. This terraced area is actually the roof of the terraces which were once part of Ashurst House, a mansion that once stood near this area. In the ground, the roof, are glass windows, which look down into catacombs. Our guide jokingly said, “You will never get to see down there; even I am not allowed in the catacombs.”


This of course led us to ask ourselves: why? Was the Mrs Thatcher type woman with the pearls protecting something in there?


Our guide was extremely anxious to get us out of the cemetery before it got properly dark. A number of us commented on this. Was it because he didn’t want to be amid the twisting paths once the sun had gone down, a time when the place is left to the birds and beasts?


After this we proceeded to our séance at The Spaniard’s convinced that someone was protecting a vampire in the catacombs.


It is now time to tell the story of the Highgate Vampire. The two main sources for this are Bishop Sean Manchester, of the Ecclesia Apostolica Jesu Christi, and David Farrant, one time president of the British Occult and Psychic Society. Bishop Manchester’s book The Highgate Vampire was reissued in 1991 by the Gothic Press and is a very good read. David Farrant tells his side of the story through the Internet. It would be fair to say that Bishop Manchester and Mr. Farrant are not friends. Certainly Manchester describes Farrant as


“David Farrant, a pathetic figure whose infatuation with the Highgate haunting was to earn him and undeserved notoriety, as we shall see, and send him on a helter-skelter into the abyss of the dark occult.”

Farrant is defended against Manchester by an anonymous ex-member of the Highgate Vampire Society (Farrant’s organisation) thus:

“You say that the esteemed Mr. Farrant is nothing more than a paltry criminal who lives in coal bins and slanders the “Bishop’s” good name any chance he sees fit. However, your comments themselves are rather slanderous. While Mr. Farrant is not a wealthy man, and he has served an unjust prison sentence due to his work, he is far more an important figure in the occult research scene than the self-serving shadowy figure of Sean Manchester”.

But enough of this and onto the vampire. According to Manchester’s book, sightings of the vampire began in 1967. It was around this time that he began to interest himself in the case. David Farrant, apparently separately, was “called in” to investigate the case around 1969. Manchester provides transcripts of letters from the Highgate and Hampstead Express from the late 1960s and early 1970s from readers who had written in after seeing a tall black figure in Swains Lane.


The second edition of Bishop Manchester’s book contains a foreword by Devendra P. Varma of Dalhousie University, Canada. The Right Honourable Chevalier Professor Varma (obit. 1994) was honorary vice-president of the Vampire Research Society. He was 71 when he died. Professor Varma, if I may shorten his title, set the scene so well that I would like to quote part of it:.


“Here the finest sampling of funerary architecture rose along labyrinthine paths before a prodigal growth of sycamores and wild foliage engulfed the environs and inaugurated an era of ruin, neglect and decay. Overgrown paths and avenues where trees planted as saplings had grown massive and seeded themselves, obscured the panoramic view of the city.

In this verdure of death there remained visible only decaying mausoleums covered by a mattress of tangled scrubs, dilapidated graves split by expanding trunks of sycamores and scattered old masonry lying twisted across .fallen columns or fragments of broken urns.

Tales of a malignant spectre doomed to wander the cemetery precincts when dusk descends, started to circulate and merge with an earlier legend which pre-dated the graveyard. Something evil held sway in Highgate when on cloudy, windswept heights, the rustle in overhanging branches engendered fears of the shadowy unknown; when, in the eerie, haunted cemetery, near a huge vault, drops of blood were discovered. Reports of sinister and strange happenings accumulated, but the mystery of Highgate remained sealed and secret”.

As the music journalist Peter Paphides has said, “Hampstead Cemetery has a way of swallowing up the living as well as the dead.”


As well as Manchester’s convincing array of documentation in the form of letters about sightings of the vampire, he also presents letters about the death of animals,  particularly foxes, at Highgate and in neighbouring Waterlow Park. Farrant’s website also claims there were dead foxes at Highgate. When Farrant went into Highgate Cemetery (in 1969?) he witnessed what happens when superstition and credulity get out of hand.

I arrived at the cemetery in the morning and spent several hours there. It was the first time I had been there for over two years and the increase in vandalism was immediately apparent. Vaults had been broken open and coffins quite literally smashed apart. One vault near the top gate (although not visible from outside it) was wide open and one could see the remains of a skeleton where it had been wrenched from a coffin. Another vault on the main pathway had been thus entered and one of the coffins inside, set alight.

Farrant decided to spend the night of 21 December, because of occult reasons, in the cemetery. When he went to scale the north gate, the one we had looked through first, he saw an inhuman dark shape standing a little distance away down the path. This figure was seven feet tall. The figure inexplicably retreated, but it seems that Farrant decided not to go into the cemetery after. And who can blame him?


After this Farrant’s British Occult and Psychic Society set up vigils in the cemetery with cameras and tape-recorders. Witnesses were also interviewed. This began in December 1970.


Both Farrant and Manchester report that sightings of a tall malevolent figure were reported long before 1967. Particularly on Swains Lane. A girl I used to work with was from Highgate and one day when we ended up driving up Swains Lane, she told me that she and her friends wouldn’t go there after dark. I knew nothing about the vampire at that time. Farrant reports that his research at that time revealed that Satanic Black Masses had been held in the cemetery and particularly in the catacombs. This is rather reminiscent of Huysman’s La-bas which is of course set in Paris. I had always thought that Satanism was more a French thing than British, but it could have happened in Highgate where no doubt many foreigners live.  Interestingly Charles Dickens moved his daughter out of the catacombs after she’d been in there a while, back to the family tomb. I wonder why.


Farrant says that one mausoleum, that was empty of coffins had been converted into a temple with inverted pentagrams (the symbolism of the pentagram is very interesting and we shall discuss it further below).  Farrant linked this diabolical evocations with the vampire, conjecturing  that they perhaps bound it to this place. Farrant reports that the Satanic groups wrote him threatening letters, warning him off the place. Interestingly they name Hadit as an entity they revere, and Hadit  is actually part of the terminology of Aleister Crowley’s Ordo Templi Orientis. The OTO are not in fact Satanists, though they might well use an inverted pentagram as Crowley did, representing the descent of spirit into matter. Farrar is however adamant that the senders were Satanists.


Farrant was arrested for his part, trespassing and alleged vandalism at Highgate cemetery but acquitted. He was arrested again in 1974 for conducting nude rituals with his girlfriend over the graves at Highgate. This time he went to gaol.


In 1997, David Farrant formed the Highgate Vampire Society. Shortly thereafter, in 2001, he disbanded it. But in 2005, he relaunched the group following an apparent sighting of the vampire – a tall black figure seen in Swains Lane  – in April that year. This sighting is vigorously rejected as a publicity stunt by Bishop Manchester and his followers.


Bishop Manchester dates his involvement with the vampire to 1967, predating Farrant by two years. His first involvement was with a girl of Polish descent; a girl called Elizabeth. Her father was from Krakow. She and a friend had seen a vision of corpses coming out of their graves through the North Gate of Highgate. This girl, Elizabeth, was the classic example of a young woman plagued by vampires. She had marks on her neck, spots of blood on her pillow. She became pale and listless and was treated for anaemia. Most worryingly she kept breaking out of the house in the night and making her way to Highgate Cemetery. He found other victims of the vampire, a girl on North Road, who had similar symptoms; also finding herself wandering to the cemetery after dark. The victim Bishop Manchester had the most significant contact with, was the beautiful 22 year old Lusia. Bishop Manchester even painted her portrait.


In common with the other victims, Lusia felt herself drawn to the cemetery. Following her Manchester was led to the iron studded door that leads into the catacombs – those catacombs which were part of Ashurst House and had been used for burials by the Cemetery Society before it became defunct. Terrifyingly, Lusia and Manchester heard a “low booming vibration” coming from inside the catacombs. They retreated.


On 13th March 1970, Bishop Manchester set out to hunt for the vampire within the catacombs. Before he went in he was interviewed by Thames Television. Things became sinister from that point.

“There was no sun at all on that grey, gloomy winter’s day in the late afternoon. No birds sang. No animals moved about. Only the chill wind had life.”

As he was being interviewed, the sound man reported a strange noise that made recording impossible. The camera director fainted to the ground and at that point an unnatural wind suddenly whipped the trees, sending the interviewer’s notes flying in a whirl of paper and causing the crew’s wires to thrash around. It was as if it were a warning.


The interviewers moved from the North Gate and the programme was made. Within two hours hundreds of would be vampire enthusiasts arrived from all over London and the Home Counties. The police had desperate trouble keeping them under control and safe as they scaled the walls and tried to get into the cemetery. Many claimed to see things in the gathering gloom. For his part, Manchester entered the catacombs by rope. Inside, among other things, he found three empty coffins. He lined these with garlic, placed a cross inside them and sprinkled them with holy water. Having denied the vampires their resting place, he climbed back up the rope and left the catacombs.  The crowds remained and at 2 am, the unnatural low booming noise was heard again from under the ground below the cemetery.


Five months later in August 1970, the local paper reported that a corpse had been dragged out of its coffin and beheaded. The police at the time suspected it was to do with black magic but the cemetery was regularly being desecrated by would be vampire hunters. The body was found near the place Lusia had led Bishop Manchester. Prompted by this he returned. He was horrified to find that one of the coffins had vanished. He persuaded Lusia to come back to the cemetery. She was strangely led to the tomb in the Circle of Lebanon from which the corpse had been dragged. Bishop Manchester suspected that this was where the third coffin had been moved to. The tomb is now closed up with concrete, but then he managed to break his way in. There were a lot of coffins in that mausoleum: too many. There was one with no nameplate, in far better condition than the others. Inside he found the vampire, bloated, bloody mouthed and with glazed staring eyes. A corpse of apparently no more than three days. Ignoring his instincts to do the right thing, prompted by conventional morality, he hesitated and lowered his stake. Instead he sealed the coffin with garlic and holy water. Outside he began an exorcism. The horrible booming began again as he spoke the ancient sacred words. On his recommendation the entrance to the tomb was bricked up and has never been opened since.


However, as Manchester himself reports, the visitations of the vampire did not cease. A patient from a hospital in Surrey was found covered in blood in the Cemetery, his throat opened by something unknown. The drained carcasses of animals were still found.


Manchester’s researches revealed that Ashurst House, which had stood on the site, had also had a reputation. In the 18th Century the house had been sold to a mysterious gentleman from the Continent. Afterwards there were reports of strange figures in the area. In 1812 the house became a girls’ school and there were persistent rumours of a tall, grey figure seen hovering in the moonlight above the overgrown garden. In 1830 the house was demolished and the church of St Michael (that angel who vanquishes the Beast in the Book of Revelations) built on the church. The grounds were sold to the London Cemetery Company.


In 1973, rumours began to surface that an old house in nearby Hornsey had become the abode of something evil. In there, Manchester found the vampire he thought he had seen the last of when he had its tomb bricked up. This time there were no doubts or distractions. With his companions he lifted the lid of the coffin and readied his wooden stake.  

“’In God’s name strike!’ cried Arthur.

With a mighty blow I drove the sharpened point through the creature’s heart, then shielded my ears as a terrible roar rose from the bowels of hell. This died away as suddenly as it had erupted and we all became still. We witnessed the body-shell cave in and quickly turn filthy brown which soon became a sluggish flow of inhuman slime and viscera in the bottom of the coffin.”  

As far as Bishop Manchester is concerned, that was the end of the vampire


Morality. I have been making the point that reality is relative: all things are true and real to a greater or lesser extent (including this statement). That means some things are very true (but not completely so) like saying someone hit by a car going fast will be injured, and some things are not very true at all (but contain a glimmer of it) such as saying the earth is flat. Where does this leave us with morality? Could it be right in some circumstances to desecrate graves and damage a site such as Highgate Cemetery highly regarded for its cultural, aesthetic and natural importance? In some circumstances maybe, but none that I can realistically foresee.


If you such for Ethics and Morality on the internet you may come across a site called Ethics, Morality, Evolution, Genetics, Culture and Education. The stringing of such things together gives me a shudder; making me think of eugenics and Nazis. However, the author set out his stall:


A basis for proper (moral, ethical) human behavior must be determined without reference to opinion, conjecture, spirituality, imagination, philosophy, political ideology or any other form of dogma since these have no real foundation, are inconsistent, and cannot uniformly satisfy the needs of the human. Real (factual, scientific) knowledge is consistent and has real basis. If the human is to survive, the real knowledge uncovered in the sciences must be used as a basis for a uniform human ethical and moral behavioral system, thereby freeing the human for full attention to species survival.

You will recall that most moral systems have been based on spirituality, philosophy or political ideology, so this is a big, but not unique, proposal. The trouble is to my mind, science is a method not a set of beliefs. Scientific method may uncover facts which lead us to build up a belief system, but science is not a body of facts itself. The scientific method works well and the key to it, as Karl Popper laid out, is that we need to draw up hypotheses and then test them. The key thing about something being scientific is it must be able to be tested. Popper calls this falsifiability. The claims of some so called sciences cannot be tested. These include astrology, psychoanalysis and evolution. It is not that these three fields of knowledge are incorrect or ‘wrong’, just that their claims cannot be tested and therefore they are not scientific. For example, it might be said that men prefer to sit with their backs to a wall facing the door. That could be tested. Then an evolutionary psychologist might hypothesise that this is because men have evolved to be wary of attack. This cannot be tested. It might be true, but it cannot be scientifically shown to be true.


Back to the website. Skipping to the end it says:

The ethics and morality of a given human behavior may be evaluated in terms of the effect of the action with respect to the survivability of life, the species and the individual, in that order.

 So, the basis of determining whether something is moral depends on how it helps the survival of the race, I mean species. Who decides what action will help that? As Nils Bohr said, “prediction is very difficult, especially if it’s about the future.”  Does it mean that killing the disabled is moral? I think it does, and that is why I would ditch such morality based on reactionary political ideas masquerading as the clear white light of science. Mary Midgeley’s book Evolution as a Religion is a really worthwhile read on this.


Morality for me is an agreement between a community of people. And blow me if good old democracy isn’t the best vehicle for this. So we can make a stand and say the desecration of Highgate Cemetery is wrong and we do have a right as a society to say that those who do defile it should be punished. So, please do visit the Cemetery. But don’t harm it.


Chapter 3. Central London


Bloomsbury is an area I know well, as I used to work on Gower Street. In my luchtimes, I sometimes went down to the British Museum. If I was to go with you now there are a number of things I would point out based on my personal interests. Firstly the Assyrian sculpture which is awesome. Then I’d take you to the galleries dealing with the Renaissance. Here I’m particularly interested in the artefacts associated with the famous English mathematician, astronomer, cartographer and magician, Dr John Dee. Dr Dee was an adviser of Elizabeth I. He was much possessed with a desire to gain secret knowledge, both, I think to aid his own spiritual development, but also to help further the growth of English power, and perhaps most of all because he wanted to know.  Here at the British Museum are his “shew stone” a crystal ball. Apart from on very few occasions, Dee himself did not see anything, but relied upon a seer to relate to him the doings and words of the spirits with whom they were in contact. This was mainly, and most fruitfully, through Sir Edward Kelly (he was knighted by the Holy Roman Emperor in Prague, not by the English queen). The angels passed to Dee and Kelly a strange language called Enochian, after the Prophet Enoch. You will recall that Enoch was taken up into Heaven without dying. The only man ever given the privilege. It is said that the Enochian language is the key to powerful magick.  Also here at the British Museum is Dee’s arcane wax Sigillum Dei

upon which he crystal ball was placed. It should be said the Dee was a devout, if unorthodox Christian. The Inquisition did invite him to Rome, but he declined, unlike the Italian Mage Giordano Bruno who was burned alive by the Pope’s men.


The British Museum is brightly lit and there are lots of Japanese and European teenagers. Not that those things are bad, at one point I was one myself. But they do kill the atmosphere rather.


We should go upstairs and see the mummies.

London is full of ghosts, but the best supernatural story hereabouts concerns a mummy’s curse. On the first floor of the British Museum are various rooms devoted to artefacts from ancient Egypt. There are a number of mummies and sarcophagi on display but the one in question is numbered 22542 and listed as a mummy case for an unknown singer to the god Amon Ra. The case is covered in hieroglyphs and has a portrait of a very beautiful young girl.

The story begins in the 1880s when some English tourists in Egypt bought the case in Thebes from a local trader. He didn’t say where he’d got it but grave robbing was very common in those times to supply demand from Westerners keen to have something of Egypt’s history. From the day the mummy case was purchased, accidents started to happen. The new owner was injured in a hunting accident the next day. After that one of the Englishmen in the party mysteriously vanished, never to be seen again. The owner of the mummy case had to have his arm amputated after the accident and believing his bad luck to have come from the mummy case he sold it to a dealer in Cairo. Three people bought it after that and all of them died shortly afterwards, but not before it had been shipped to London. It was bought by a collector, but a friend of the collector was psychic and felt great evil emanating from the coffin. He warned the man to get rid of it or it would kill him. The collector took heed of this and sold it on. The new owner decided to have it photographed professionally, but the photographer unexpectedly died the day afterwards. Once the pictures were developed, instead of the beautiful girl on the case, they showed an ugly old woman – her eyes filled with evil. The owner sold it to a lady and on its first night in the house, all of her pet animals died and every piece of glass was smashed. She herself fell into a strange sleeping sickness that couldn’t be diagnosed by her doctor. When she gave the case away she, just as suddenly, got well again.

The British Museum obtained the case in 1889, and as the porters carried it in, one of them fell and broke his leg and the other died a few days afterwards. The mummy case got certain notoriety and people came from far and wide. However, nobody was able to sketch it accurately. The security men became terrified to patrol the room at night and claimed that they were followed by an invisible and horrible presence. One of them actually saw it – a thing with a wrinkled yellow-green face. A photographer allegedly killed himself after seeing the photographs of the mummy case develop. All together, thirteen people were supposed to have been killed by the cursed mummy case.

J A Brooks recounts that in 1921 two young men took part in a secret exorcism of the case. They said that the spirit had the face of a jellyfish as it leered at them out of the case. They said that the spirit was a guardian of the case that had been evoked by powerful magical hieroglyphs on the mummy case because the body had been defiled. Luckily, the exorcism worked and the evil spirit was banished.

Underneath the British Museum is an old underground station. This station is a ghost itself. It closed to passengers in 1933. Before that there were strong rumours that it was haunted. The ghost was said to be an Ancient Egyptian, dressed appropriately for his time and culture. He used to be seen by late night passengers coming through the walls, apparently from the Museum itself. A newspaper offered a reward to anyone who would spend the night there. However, no one took this up.

The next station along from the British Museum, one that is still operating is Holborn. One night in 1935 two women disappeared from the platform. Scratches and blood trails were found on the walls of the closed station when a search was undertaken to see whether they had walked down the line for some reason. Drivers reported seeing things in the tunnel, but the story was eventually closed down by London Underground. It is possible that the rumour of a tunnel from the Egyptian room to the platform is true. And that London Underground conspired with the Black Magicians who used that for their devilish rituals. Is it not likely that the management of London Underground and that of the British Museum were mostly members of this occult society and that is why they closed the station down in the first place? Perhaps the rumours started because a gang of navvies was entombed here while building the line. One version (in a 1974 film Death Line) had it that they had become a voracious troop of flesh eating zombies who went out at night to hunt along the underground lines.

The virtue of Malkuth is discrimination, which is a useful mental habit when surrounded by the whirling of the Phantasmagoria.

Eventually the story was hushed up as London Underground has always denied the existence of the tunnel from the station to the Egyptian Room.

Just outside the British Museum is Blooms Hotel. This hotel is an elegant town house, part of an 18th Century Terrace, just round the corner from the world famous British Museum. The bedrooms are furnished in the Regency Style and there is a lovely garden terrace and a library for the use of guests. The hotel is approached up a few stairs onto a chequerboard black and white marble porch between stately iron railings. You get the impression you are arriving somewhere rather classy, and the interior decoration bears this out.

A frequent visitor to the Blooms Hotel is an American businesswoman called Sara Reed. On one of her early visits she stayed in Room 1 and as soon as she entered the room she became aware of a presence. She could not see it, but strongly sensed that there was a man sitting in the chair in the room. She felt that he was a thinker and that he was sitting there musing on something or other. She mentioned it to the manager at that time and he confirmed that there was talk of a ghost in the hotel. However, Room 1 is quite new and is part of an extension added to the hotel where the old garden used to be. Sara got the impression that the ghost was somehow sitting in the sunshine, perhaps enjoying a break from a stint in the nearby British Library Reading Room, that famous place frequented by such historical figures as George Bernard Shaw and Karl Marx. The ghost is completely harmless, not overly friendly, actually more or less oblivious to what’s going on around him. Still she doesn’t like leaving anything on the chair, which one again is quite modern, because it’s his chair.

Sara got in touch with a clairvoyant, Paul Hughes who came with her to the hotel. When I spoke to Paul he said that when he walked into the hotel’s bar, he got the feeling of claustrophobia – the place was crowded with spirits. Paul’s theory is that because the building adjoins the British Museum, it almost acts as an exit point for all the spirits of the people and artefacts, Egyptian, Greek, Assyrian, that fill the Museum next door. Perhaps because of its proximity to the British Museum and the obvious attraction of that place to would be students of religion and magic, this part of Bloomsbury does have some interesting shops. The most long standing of them is the Atlantis Bookshop on Museum Street founded in 1922 which is supposed to have its own ghost.

I remember Skoob Books there which also had esoteric and occult stock. It has moved now to nearby Sicilian Arcade. Atlantis is still a favourite London stop off for witches and magicians, as it was in Aleister Crowley’s day. The Great Beast 666 was avoided there by his one time acolyte, the poet Victor Neuberg, after their adventure in the desert where, using the Enochian magic of Dr Dee, Crowley invoked the demon Chorozon and attempted to kill Neuberg. Neuberg, was physically and emotionally drained by the experience so Crowley abandoned him in Algeria. Crowley, though a genius, and an extremely witty writer, was not always compassionate.  This was one of his haunts at one time and he used to drink in the at the Plough on Museum Street. The same street the Atlantis Bookshop is on.

Near here also is St George’s church, between Museum Street and Bury Place. Even before I knew anything about Nicholas Hawksmoor, I felt that the back of this church, dark and sooty with large unkempt trees as it was then, had some kind of aura. In fact in later years I saw that people had chalked magickal sigils on the walls hereabouts as if they too recognised this place as a focus of some kind of energy. The church was shown in Hogarth’s famous sketch ‘Gin Lane’ depicting drunks lolling around outside.  It was built by Nicholas Hawksmoor between 1720 and 1730. Hawksmoor built a series of churches all across London. The novelist Peter Ackroyd in his 1985 book Hawksmoor suggested that these spots radiated some kind of baleful power that drew people to commit crimes and horrors there. It has even been said that Hawksmoor’s churches if plotted out describe a pentagram across the map of London.

The historian Ronald Hutton gives a useful and clear history of the pentagram. Who is to say whether he has the truth, however it does seem that his clear historian’s method and discernment have made these facts less ambiguous and more real, as if his attention to detail has beaten back the mists of Phantasmagoria that usually engulf any treatment of pentagrams.

Hutton says that five pointed stars are found in Egyptian, Roman and Greek art, but that they are probably merely decorative. In the 12th Century Renaissance the form was a symbol of the interplay of mathematics, nature and divinity. The pentagram with its five points replicates the human body (think of that drawing by Leonardo Da Vinci). The pentagram then is the symbol of mankind. The pentagram became associated with Solomon the Wise who bound the 72 wicked demons. In the Middle Ages Magicians keen to free these demons to run errands for them would employ Solomon’s pentagram to threaten and bind them to their will. Though initially used as a Christian symbol, representing the five wounds of Christ, and thus also apotropaic, it began to become more associated with demonism. In the 19th Century the French Magus Alphonse Levi ascribed the traditional elements to each of the points.

So, upright, the pentagram is protective and symbolises Spirit at the top. That is seen traditionally the best way to be and represents in a sense the Spiritual Hierarchy with the good God at the top. Now, the inverted pentagram represents the opposite, Spirit is no longer at the top but is dominated by matter, particularly by the heavy and sensuous earth and the passionate uncontrolled fire. This has been seen as representing the domination of the Devil. However, Crowley saw it as a celebration of the material world. He, and Carl Jung (though not together) believed that Western Christianity had over emphasised the spiritual and denigrated the material, so a turn around was historically necessary. Is this what is behind the growth of Science and Ecology which worship the material world and think little of the spiritual? Jung thought so.

When seen inverted in the symbology of American metal bands, it appears to be a youthful protest against the Christianity they have been brought up with. I was amused by a fan review (“my great list of amazing bands that are awesome”) of the band Arsis which said “For an american melodic death metal band, these guys can sure play. Unfortunately they lack variety in their music (it basically varies between intense and brutal)”  I went on to buy the album on the basis of that review, though perhaps I am getting old and cynical.

But back to Hawksmoor. For a lovely treatment of the pentagram motif see Wolfey’s piece London Khoragraphic.  It seems that Ackroyd was partly inspired to write Hawksmoor by Ian Sinclair’s poem Lud Heat.  

“St George, Bloomsbury, and St Alfege, Greenwich, make up the major pentacle-star [he has already mentioned Christ Church, St George-in-the-East, and St Anne, Limehouse]. The five card is reversed, beggars in snow pass under the lit church window; the judgement is ‘disorder, chaos, ruin, discord, profligacy’. These churches guard or mark, rest upon, two major sources of occult power: The British Museum and Greenwich Observatory. The locked cellar of words, the repository of stolen fires and symbols…”

The image evoked here is that of the Five of Pentacles, the picture that illustrates A. E Waite’s version of the Tarot Pack. Waite himself was of course a key member of the Order of the Golden Dawn which operated in London in the late 19th and early 20th Century of which also Crowley and the poet W. B Yeats were members. (Although they loathed each other.). The five pointed star is drawn over London by Alan Moore in his graphic novel From Hell which is the story of Jack the Ripper. As Wolfey comments.

“as the figure of the pentagram is traced onto central London, its points being the locations significant in From Hell’s version of the Ripper murders of 1888. The sites connected by the points of the pentagram and through which they pass pertain to other histories, to specific events irrelevant to the murder and dismemberment of five prostitutes in the East End of London; an occult figure thus emerges…”

We will have to return to the Ripper later. There was a theory that the idea of the pentagram traced by Hawksmoor’s Churches originated with the Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor, a Victorian society active in Paris and London which taught and practised magic.

Not too far from here, to the east, is Chancery Lane. The young Aleister Crowley rented a flat here at 67/69 when he came down from Cambridge, signing the lease in the name of Count Vladimir Svareff. The flat became a hive of magickal activity. In his biography of Crowley A Magickal Life, Martin Booth recounts

The flat, not surprisingly, contained malevolent as well as benign forces. Crowley recorded leaving the flat one evening with Jones while the air was still vibrant with forces they had conjured up. As they went down to the street, they noticed semi-solid shadows on the stairs. When they returned later, they met a black cat on the stairs, found the door to the flat open, the furniture in disarray and semi-materialised beings marching round the room. It was then, as Crowley recorded in an essay, ‘the fun began! Round and round the big library tramped the devils all the evening, an endless procession; 316 of them we counted, described, named, and put down in a book. It was the most awesome and ghastly experience I had known.’ Visitors to the apartment were said to feel dizzy on entering. When Crowley finally vacated the flat, the removal men were reported to have been overcome. It was some time before the landlord could find a new tenant.

Peter Bushell mentions that at 53 Chancery Lane is the Safe Deposit Company. It was bombed during the Second World War and and the firm’s records were destroyed. That meant that no one knew who owned which box. The company opened them in an attempt to find out and discovered some strange things. According to Bushell

“One box contained nothing but a pair of Victorian knickers labelled ‘my life’s undoing’. A second held a penny and a curl of hair. In a third was a packet of six live  bullets. Written on the front in a faded, crabbed hand were the words: ‘one for each of the directors.’”  

Walking down Chancery Lane you will come to Fleet Street. Beneath the ground here is the lost River Fleet. It rises at a spring up on Hampstead Heath, goes through Highgate and Hampstead ponds and eventually flows into the Thames at Blackfriars Bridge. The lower reaches of the Fleet were a slum area and most of the prisons were here, including Newgate Gaol. Dick Turpin used to live here.

On Fleet Street is the famous old pub The Cheshire Cheese which dates back to 1538 and was rebuilt after the Great Fire of London in 1666. It is dimly lit, full of low beams and bare wood. There are blazing fires and the beer is dark and flat. My American guests have always liked it (though not the beer) and we usually have a joke about how it was rebuilt in 1666. I’ve come here because of the atmosphere and because I thought you might be tired after all the walking.

George Augustus Sala described the Cheese as:

“… a little lop-sided, wedged up house, that always reminds you, structurally, of a high-shouldered man with his hands in his pockets. It is full of holes and corners and cupboards and sharp turnings; and in ascending the stairs to the tiny smoking-room you must tread cautiously, if you would not wish to be triped up by plates and dishes, momentarily deposited there by furious waiters. The waiters at the ‘Cheese’ are always furious.”

I must say they have always been nice to me.

Over the road is the Temple. This is now full of lawyers. It is a quiet and atmospheric place. The entrance is through Middle Temple Lane. Peter Bushell describes it as a rather sinister thoroughfare, especially at dusk.” It is haunted, you see. nu the ghost of a long dead barrister who is seen with a bundle of papers under his arm and his gown flying out behind him. Bushell suspects the ghost might be that of Peter Saward, or Peter the Penman a genius at forgery. Though a barrister, his desire for money led him to augment his fees through forgery and fencing stolen goods.

The Temple was also home to a suspect Jack the Ripper. Of course there are many of these, but this one was a barrister called Montagu John Druitt. Previously he had practised as a surgeon. He was said to be a wild-eyed man with an aura of cruelty and sexuality. In 1888 he filled his pockets with stones and jumped into the Thames. The police suspected him for a while of be responsible for  the Ripper Murders.

The area is called the Temple because the complex was the headquarters of the Knights Templar in the Middle Ages. Now everyone knows that the Templars were a secret occult society, despite pretending to be an order of Christian knights like the Hospitallers. Their headquarters in Jerusalem were the ruins of the Temple of Solomon, he who imprisoned the 72 demons through the power of his magic. It is said, by those who know this, that the Templars were ferreting around in the basement of the old Temple where they found some of Solomon’s wisdom. From then on they practised magic and that magic descended in an unbroken line of quasi apostolic succession through the Rosicrucians, Freemasons, the Illuminati, the Golden Dawn, and ultimately to me, through self-help books I have bought on the Internet.

In any case they built a lovely peaceful church here in 1185. It survived more or less intact until hit by German bombers in 1941. The biggest thing then to happen to the church was that it featured in Dan Brown’s Da Vinci code as one of the places the hero has to visit to find clues to the Holy Grail.

On page 286, we hear the following truth:

“I’m not surprised,” Teabing said. “The church is hidden now behind much larger buildings. Few people even know it’s there. Eerie old place. The architecture is pagan to the core.”


Sophie looked surprised. “Pagan?”


“Pantheonically pagan!” Teabing exclaimed. “The church is round. The Templars ignored the traditional Christian cruciform layout and built a perfectly circular church in honor of the sun.” His eyebrows did a devilish dance. “


However, I am bored of the Templars. Not so bored however of Spring Heeled Jack, who haunts my imagination. Spring Heeled Jack first appeared in London in the 1837 (though there are reports of a strange leaping creature in London going back at least to 1817). In September 1837 a businessman was surprised by a figure in black who leaped over the tall railings of a cemetery. Later that year, Polly Adams was attacked by a tall thin man enveloped in a black cloak and carrying what looked like a bull’s eye lantern. With one bound he was in front of her and before she had a chance to move he belched blue flames from his mouth into her face.  Jack attacked Mary Stevens in October 1837 on Clapham Common. He grabbed her with metallic arms and began to kiss her face. His mouth was cold and clammy ‘as a corpse’. She screamed and he fled.  The very next day Jack leapt onto a moving carriage, causing the driver to lose control and crash. Jack leapt away unharmed. A few days after this, Jack attacked a woman in Clapham Churchyard. The police found footprints three inches deep as if he had landed from a great height. Curious imprints were found in the marks, as if the attacker had been wearing some kind of compressed springs under his shoes.


In February 1838, he attacked Lucy Scales who was walking home with her sister along a dark street in Limehouse. As they passed Green Dragon Alley, a tall cloaked figure bounded out of the shadows at them. He spat blue flames into Lucy’s face to  blind her but as she lay in terror on the ground, Jack turned around and melted back into the shadows.


Jane Alsop was attacked in her own house. One night she heard a knocking on the door and a man in a black cloak said that he needed a light as they had caught Spring Heeled Jack in a nearby alley. Jane turned and went to get a candle. When he got the candle he threw off his black cloak. He set the flame against his breast. In the light she says he presented a most hideous and frightful appearance. He vomited forth a quantity of blue flame from his mouth and his eyes resembled balls of red fire.  


Jane Alsop said that Jack appeared to wear something like a large helmet and to be wearing clothes of some tight fitting white material. He grabbed her and began tearing at her dress with what his apparently metallic claws. When she screamed her sister came to help her but her sister was so appalled by Jack’s bizarre appearance that she wouldn’t go near him. The third sister then appeared and dragged Jane from the demon’s grip. As this all happened on the doorstep, the sister was able to slam the door shut. Most unlike an ordinary mugger, Jack then proceeded to knock on the door as if to say “I haven’t finished with you yet!”.


London went into a panic. Vigilante committees were formed. Among them were the Duke of Wellington, and Admiral Codrington, the former of which set out on horseback every night with his trusty pistols to try and bring Spring-Heeled Jack to justice.


Jack was then seen on a church, climbing a spire. After showing his face, Jack leapt into the darkness. He was also said to have been seen in the Tower of London.


It was said that Jack had cloven hooves and horns and that he was the son of the Devil. In February 1838 he appeared in Limehouse breathing his characteristic blue flames. Also in 1838 he attacked a prostitute in Bermondsey and threw her into the water. He would escape in huge bounds, earning him his nickname. He was never caught. He was seen around England throughout the 19th Century. In the 290th Century he was seen in Liverpool in 1904, in rural Herefordshire in the 1940s and I met a woman who had seen a man in a tight black suit vomiting blue flame in Dovenby in Cumbria in the 1970s.


But who was he: a circus performer; an alien; a time-traveller; a demon? All these shadowy creatures come only rarely into the clear light of day. Is Jack a figure from the Unconscious?  The children of the Unconscious have one thing in common – they cannot be pinned down, they change continually. You may think you dream of a swimming pool to find it becomes a sea then a river, then a snake. So with Spring Heeled Jack, ghosts, electrons, Dark Matter and the like: all are the joking face of Mercurius. Patrick Harpur in The Philosopher’s Secret Fire. p 57 says


“If I may recapitulate for a moment: daimons inhabit another, often subterranean world which fleetingly interacts with ours. They are both material and immaterial, both there and not-there – often small, always elusive shape-shifters whose world is characterized by distortions of time and space and, above all, by an intrinsic uncertainty.”


Peter Ackroyd mentions the London Stone. It is on Canon Street, opposite the station set behind a grill in the wall  of the Overseas Chinese Banking Corporation at number 111. It is two feet high with  two grooves on the uppermost side. Mythology suggests that Britain was founded by Brutus, fleeing from the ruin of Troy. Brutus is said to have left this stone here and as long as it is safe, so too shall London be.  The stone is first mentioned in a 10th Century Anglo-Saxon source. By 1198 it was a tourist attraction. It was moved and embedded in the wall of St Swithin’s Church, which stood on this site, in 1742. The church was destroyed in a German raid in 1941, but the stone was unharmed. I presume the Bank of China was built around it.  Ackroyd notes that in 1540 the rebel Jack Cade went to the London Stone and touched it with his sword to proclaim himself lord of London. It is said that this stone is the heart of London, and even that this stone was the symbolic heart of the Island of Britain from which all measurements were made by the Romans. It is also said to lie on a significant, and mysterious, ley line.

There are a number of things that can be said about this Stone. Firstly, it is clearly an omphalos (Greek for navel) or a magical monument that marks the centre of the world. For the Greeks, the omphalos, often marked by a sacred stone, was a place that offered direct communication with the gods. The important omphalos for the Greeks was Delphi, where the oracle to Apollo operated. Jerusalem functioned as the omphalos of Christendom in the Middle Ages as maps marking it as the centre of the world show. I would guess that the London Stone is pre-Christian, possibly prehistoric. It has parallels with the Lia Fáil (Stone of Destiny) at Tara, which marked the centre of Ireland and which cried when a true and just king stood on it. A similar stone The Stone of Scone (also Lia Fáil in Gaelic) was used to crown the kings of Scotland. The Clochmabestane on the Solway Firth was an ancient stone used as a meeting place between the Scots and English and the Menneting Stone in the Lake District (probably Cumbric/Welsh maen y twng ‘The Oath Stone’) also seemed to be used for this purpose.

The fact that this sacred symbol is a stone also has its resonances. Jung in Aion refers to the Stone as a symbol of the Self. Jung’s idea of the Stone as representing our innermost reality (or one version of it) derives in part from the Alchemists fascination with the lapis philosophorum ‘The Stone of the Wise’. The lapis (Greek for stone) was said to give eternal life. Jung sees it as representing that non-human part of us, which however is central to our being. This reality is transcendental in that though it is in us and it is from us that we derive our existence the Stone or Self is beyond us and wholly non-human. In that sense it represents that part of us that will live forever. The mystical quest of the Jungian is to incorporate some understanding of this into his or her life, though the Stone is so alien that it is impossible to understand fully it and live. This brings us round to the Prophet Enoch again of course, who is the only man to have been taken up to Heaven without dying. In that sense he was incorporated into the Stone.

I once had a dream of a meteorite falling from heaven and lying, radiating in a desolate forest. It was poisonous but fascinating; wholly alien yet part of me. The paradox is that the Stone is deadly but gives life: it validates and valorizes us here on Earth: hence the symbolism of the rightful king.  Jung sees all these images and processes as being mostly unconscious. We are not aware of them, we might even ridicule them, they are paradoxical and thus incomprehensible, but they go on within us willy-nilly.

To the West of Cannon Street, past St Paul’s is Amen Corner. This area was just outside the walls of the City of London. There was a prison here from the 12th Century. It was rebuilt a number of times. The site was razed during the Great Fire of London in 1666 and both the prison and the Old Bailey court were rebuilt in 1672. It was a foul place with poor water and ventilation. The stench was appalling and the prison was racked by successive outbreaks of gaol fever a particularly virulent form of typhoid. Bullying, robbery and murder were commonplace inside the prison. Henry Fielding considered that Hell must be very much like Newgate Prison. The Press Yard was where prisoners who refused to plead were pressed to death. The Gordon Rioters in 1780 attacked the prison and demanded the the prisoners within be released.

The Old Bailey, the UK’s Central Criminal Court still stands here though the prison itself was demolished in 1902. There was public scaffold outside the Old Bailey which was a family day out until public hanging was stopped in 1868. Prisoners were thereafter hanged within the prison itself.

Nearby is Amen Court, a very pleasant nook with lovely houses where the Dean and Chapter of St Paul’s Cathedral live. At the rear of the court, behind the bushes, there looms a large and ominous dark wall which belonged to Newgate Prison.On the other side of the wall is a narrow passage called  ‘Deadman’s Walk’ which prisoners used on their way to execution. After they were killed they were buried there. It seems that this negative energy might be behind the many sightings of the Black Dog of Newgate. Though called a dog the apparition is generally reported as being shapeless, a dark form of slithering energy that slides around the courtyard accompanied by the foul odour of decay. There is also said to be the sound of dragging footsteps. There is also a story that the Black Dog might date back to the Middle Ages when the prisoners of Newgate began to eat one another. The prisoners picked on a fat man imprisoned for sorcery. However it is said that he conjured a demonic dog with eyes of fire and bloody fangs. It tore the prisoners limb from limb.


Given that there were so many fresh corpses at Newgate, the Royal College of Surgeons was originally here too. It was here that William Harvey demonstrated the circulation of blood. Body snatching was of course a big problem until the Anatomy Act of 1832 requisitioned the corpses of paupers. The poor had no peace even in death it seems.


Ludgate. Peter Ackroyd, p. 11-13. King Lud. The three sacred mazes at Pentonhill, Tothill, Tower Hill / White Mound. Ravens Hermes Street, Pentonville Road. P18. The London Stone..


16 Queensberrry Place, College of Psychic Studies: the human personality survives death.  33 Belgrave Square. Spiritualist Association of GB.


You will no doubt find that many of the things mentioned here, if not most of them, strike you as being untrue.




East End – the Ripper.  St Thomas Operating Theatre. Hampstead. Highgate cemetery.. Tower of London. Hawksmoor. Crowley. Golden Dawn



MacKenzie Poltergeist. Underground City. Old Town. Brodie Innes and the Golden Dawn. Burke and Hare



Versailles. Catacombs. Opera.



Bruges La Morte



Castle. Students. Witches. Alchemists.



Klimt, Freud. Stefansdom


Dee and Kelly. Czech Alchemists. The Prague Ghosts. Kafka. Meyrink



Wawel. Carmeltie Mummies. Dee and Kelly. Ghosts.



The Palazzo. Ghost stories. Italian Witches. Aradia.  Don’t look now


The Symbolism of The Vampire


There is a quote by Ivan Phillips from his 2013 article, saying the figure of the vampire has

…drifted and shifted through the pages of newspapers, travel journals, novels, poems, comics and plays for 300 years.

Yet we have seen that the vampire, or something like it, has haunted European fears for far longer than that. We saw a tale from Germany of mortals being visited as far back as 745 AD and archaeological evidence from England and Ireland going back to the 8th Century.

It seems to me that there could be two explanations for this pervasive fascination and fear of the vampire. The first is that they are real.  And if they are real they are not the hunky sparkly type that teenage girls and some older ladies long to kiss, but awful demonic things that stink of corruption.

Or, they represent some kind of archetype.  I have discussed elsewhere that I’m a convert to the idea of Jungian archetypes.  In a nutshell, these are recurrent motifs and symbols, and in fact behaviours motivated by these symbols, that arise out of instincts coded deep in our DNA.  For example birds builds nests and a baby roots for the nipple, and myself  as a little boy, I was fascinated by the women in my mother’s underwear catalogue without knowing why.  So vampires, a fear of the bloodsucking dead, may represent some kind of archetypical image.

If we look at the symbolism of the vampire, we see that it represents whatever idea the writer of that particular article is predisposed to give it. If he’s a Marxist, then the vampire is a symbol of voracious capitalism, if she’s a teacher of Women’s Studies, it may represent the young girl’s fear  and fascination of the sexuality of the male, if a Freudian, then sex or cigars.

The Hunger

Who ever heard of a fat vampire? I think there is a comic novel about one.  But vampires are generally thin, often skeletal – think of Klaus Kinski in Nosferatu, and we have seen elsewhere that they chew in their graves, chew their shrouds, chew their beards, chew their own flesh and eventually chew their way on out to go and feed from the living.  I think we can say therefore that vampires are pretty hungry.

 Vampire Sex

I think hunger trips over relatively easy into sexual desire, which is also a kind of hunger.  So we see vampires transitioning from dirty dead things to elegant gentlemen in dinner suits, such as Bela Lugosi, to sexy dandies such as Tom Cruise in Interview with the Vampire, into thoroughly modern moody teenage hunks in the Twilight saga.  We know what hunger those guys are suffering , and we know what fruits you girls intend to give them.

It’s still about corporeal desire.  But of course voracious hunger and gluttony and unbridled sexual desire are things we shun in polite society. We don’t want to see either of these things going on when we go out for a meal.  Yuk.

The vampire’s bite on the jugular is a love bite.

Blood was thought to be the essence of life. After all, when someone bled out, he died.  So, vampires are hungry for life.  Eating food is also hunger for life and eating most food ends another life. I say to my vegetarian daughters that even when they eat plants, they are ending the plants’ life.

Being a vampire represents a hunger for life, but in some way the vampire’s burning hunger can never be quenched.  Ann Rice’s books often talk about the vampire’s hunger and the need to go and get more blood as strong as if he needed crystal meth.

Without wishing to profane the sacrament, we note that in Christianity, the central act is to drink the Saviour’s blood and thus be given eternal life.  I think this is a replaying of the same archetype that we see in the vampire myth in darker form.  In Dracula,  Dracula makes Mina drink his blood saying that she shall become flesh of flesh and blood of his blood.  Again, some echo of the Eucharist perhaps

Other Symbols Related to the Vampire

There are lots of other interesting features that have grown up about vampires. We saw from the archaeology that attempts were made to reduce their mobility. They had bricks stuffed in their mouths to stop them chewing their way out of the coffin.  In some German folklore they had scarfs tied around their mouths for the same reason. They had metal spikes thrust through them and sickles and staples holding them to the ground. They had their legs broken and were bound with rope.

Heads were frequently chopped off and put elsewhere, either between their legs, or removed from the rest of the cadaver.  I guess this is simply so they couldn’t see and find their way around!

They were buried upside down to fool them into going down into the ground instead of coming up into the world.  Related to this is the messing around with their leg bones, putting right in place of left et cetera.  Though this would have the practical effect of hindering their movement, there is also the idea of reversal and doing things backwards, which is also associated with evil.

Vampires cast no reflection. Is this because they are not real, or because they are already reflections of us? You will be familiar with the psychoanalytical concept of projection. Sins, guilt and other despicable things we do make us feel too bad to own them ourselves, so we project them out onto the other guy and say it’s him that is evil.  For example, the tendency to blame foreigners and other groups for all our woes, is a projection.  It is related to the Jungian archetype called the Shadow. This dark figure represents all the wickedness we cannot bear to admit to. The Shadow pops up in our dreams and literature and I guess he’d be the one responsible for all that sex and gluttony.

The idea that they cannot enter without being invited in, is another strange idea. As we know from the films, we peasants can deck our homes with crucifixes (a four armed symbol of completeness according to Jung) and garlic (a preservative against corruption) and the darned critters can’t get in.  But there is something about the protective power of hospitality maybe? Hospitality was a sacred duty to our ancestors, and the rules of hospitality were very strong. For example, you couldn’t kill your sworn enemy if he was your guest.  Of course, once you invite Dracula in, he can do what he wants to you, so maybe it isn’t as simple as the sacredness of hospitality.

Maybe it’s something about being tricked by the monster as Eve was by the Serpent in the Garden of Eden. His weasel words and honey tongue (forked as it is) are the very can opener of deceit.  There is a deep distrust in our society of those who polish their words.   Hence this rough draft 😉

My Final Thought.

I noted above that the central motif of the vampire story is a hunger for life.  In a previous post, I compared this with the Buddhist idea that the tragedy of human life is caused by desire.  The craving for individual life creates our hungry ghost.  As long as we crave life we are cursed to dwell in the night. When we give up desire, we can enter into the light.





Dracula Chapter 2 enriched!

I realise it’s a tremendous cheek to say I’m enriching the great Bram’s work.  What I really mean is that you are going to get my comments on it as I go along. Comments about places and races and other things that pop into my head. Along with links



Jonathan Harker’s Journal Continued


5 May.--I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had been fully awake I must have noticed the approach of such a remarkable place. In the gloom the courtyard looked of considerable size, and as several dark ways led from it under great round arches, it perhaps seemed bigger than it really is. I have not yet been able to see it by daylight.

When the caleche stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand to assist me to alight. Again I could not but notice his prodigious strength. His hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have crushed mine if he had chosen.[1] Then he took my traps, and placed them on the ground beside me as I stood close to a great door, old and studded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of massive stone. I could see even in the dim light that the stone was massively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and weather. As I stood, the driver jumped again into his seat and shook the reins. The horses started forward and trap and all disappeared down one of the dark openings.[2]

I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of bell or knocker there was no sign. Through these frowning walls and dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate. The time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people? What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked? Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor’s clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor’s clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor, for just before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful, and I am now a full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I expected that I should suddenly awake, and find myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I had now and again felt in the morning after a day of overwork. But my flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake and among the Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient, and to wait the coming of morning.[3]

Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains[4] and the clanking of massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise of long disuse, and the great door swung back.

Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere[5] . He held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned without a chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange intonation.

“Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own free will!”[6] He made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue,as though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone. The instant, however, that I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed cold as ice, more like the hand of a dead than a living man. Again he said.

“Welcome to my house! Enter freely. Go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring!” The strength of the handshake was so much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was speaking. So to make sure, I said interrogatively, “Count Dracula?”

He bowed in a courtly was as he replied, “I am Dracula, and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in, the night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest.”As he was speaking, he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out, took my luggage. He had carried it in before I could forestall him. I protested, but he insisted.

“Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not available. Let me see to your comfort myself. “He insisted on carrying my traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and along another great passage, on whose stone floor our steps rang heavily. At the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and I rejoiced to see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper, and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs,freshly replenished, flamed and flared.

The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing the room, opened another door, which led into a small octagonal room lit by a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort. Passing through this, he opened another door, and motioned me to enter. It was a welcome sight. For here was a great bedroom well lighted and warmed with another log fire, also added to but lately, for the top logs were fresh, which sent a hollow roar up the wide chimney. The Count himself left my luggage inside and withdrew, saying, before he closed the door.

“You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your toilet. I trust you will find all you wish. When you are ready, come into the other room, where you will find your supper prepared.”

The light and warmth and the Count’s courteous welcome seemed to have dissipated all my doubts and fears. Having then reached my normal state, I discovered that I was half famished with hunger. So making a hasty toilet, I went into the other room.

I found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one side of the great fireplace, leaning against the stonework, made a graceful wave of his hand to the table, and said,

“I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will I trust, excuse me that I do not join you, but I have dined already, and I do not sup.[7]

I handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had entrusted to me. He opened it and read it gravely. Then, with a charming smile, he handed it to me to read. One passage of it, at least, gave me a thrill of pleasure.

“I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to come. But I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters.”

The count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken. This, with some cheese and a salad and a bottle of old tokay, of which I had two glasses, was my supper. During the time I was eating it the Count asked me many question as to my journey, and I told him by degrees all I had experienced.

By this time I had finished my supper, and by my host’s desire had drawn up a chair by the fire and begun to smoke a cigar which he offered me, at the same time excusing himself that he did not smoke. I had now an opportunity of observing him, and found him of a very marked physiognomy.

His face was a strong, a very strong, aquiline, with high bridge of the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils, with lofty domed forehead, and hair growing scantily round the temples but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion. The mouth, so far as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth. These protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his ears were pale, and at the tops extremely pointed. The chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.[8]

Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine. But seeing them now close to me, I could not but notice that they were rather coarse, broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I could not repress a shudder. It may have been that his breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which, do what I would, I could not conceal.

The Count, evidently noticing it, drew back. And with a grim sort of smile, which showed more than he had yet done his protruberant teeth, sat himself down again on his own side of the fireplace. We were both silent for a while, and as I looked towards the window I saw the first dim streak of the coming dawn. There seemed a strange stillness over everything. But as I listened, I heard as if from down below in the valley the howling of many wolves. The Count’s eyes gleamed, and he said.


“Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!”[9] Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he added,” Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter.” Then he rose and said.

“But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and tomorrow you shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be away till the afternoon, so sleep well and dream well!” With a courteous bow, he opened for me himself the door to the octagonal room [10], and I entered my bedroom.

I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt. I fear. I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!


7 May.–It is again early morning, but I have rested and enjoyed the last twenty-four hours. I slept till late in the day, and awoke of my own accord[11]. When I had dressed myself I went into the room where we had supped, and found a cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot by the pot being placed on the hearth[12]. There was a card on the table, on which was written–

“I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait for me. D.[13]” I set to and enjoyed a hearty meal. When I had done, I looked for a bell, so that I might let the servants know I had finished, but I could not find one. There are certainly odd deficiencies in the house, considering the extraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me. The table service is of gold, and so beautifully wrought that it must be of immense value. The curtains and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the hangings of my bed are of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have been of fabulous value when they were made, for they are centuries old, though in excellent order. I saw something like them in Hampton Court, but they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten[14]. But still in none of the rooms is there a mirror[15]. There is not even a toilet glass on my table, and I had to get the little shaving glass from my bag before I could either shave or brush my hair. I have not yet seen a servant anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except the howling of wolves[16]. Some time after I had finished my meal, I do not know whether to call it breakfast of dinner, for it was between five and six o’clock when I had it[17], I looked about for something to read, for I did not like to go about the castle until I had asked the Count’s permission. There was absolutely nothing in the room, book, newspaper, or even writing materials, so I opened another door in the room and found a sort of library. The door opposite mine I tried, but found locked[18].

In the library, I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and newspapers. A table in the center was littered with English magazines and newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date. The books were of the most varied kind, history, geography, politics, political economy, botany, geology, law, all relating to England and English life and customs and manners. There were even such books of reference as the London Directory, the “Red” and “Blue” books, Whitaker’s Almanac, the Army and Navy Lists, and it somehow gladdened my heart to see it, the Law List[19].

Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the Count entered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that I had had a good night’s rest. Then he went on.

“I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that will interest you. These companions,” and he laid his hand on some of the books, “have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England, and to know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is. But alas! As yet I only know your tongue through books. To you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak.”

“But, Count,” I said, “You know and speak English thoroughly!” [20]He bowed gravely.

“I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet I fear that I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I know the grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them.

“Indeed,” I said, “You speak excellently.”

“Not so,” he answered. “Well, I know that, did I move and speak in your London, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That is not enough for me. Here I am noble. I am a Boyar[21]. The common people know me, and I am master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one. Men know him not, and to know not is to care not for. I am content if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he sees me, or pauses in his speaking if he hears my words, `Ha, ha! A stranger!’ I have been so long master that I would be master still, or at least that none other should be master of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in London. You shall, I trust, rest here with me a while, so that by our talking I may learn the English intonation. And I would that you tell me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my speaking. I am sorry that I had to be away so long today, but you will, I know forgive one who has so many important affairs in hand.”

Of course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might come into that room when I chose. He answered, “Yes, certainly,” and added.

“You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are locked[22], where of course you will not wish to go. There is reason that all things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know with my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand.” I said I was sure of this, and then he went on.

“We are in Transylvania, and Transylvania is not England[23]. Our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange things there may be.”

This led to much conversation, and as it was evident that he wanted to talk, if only for talking’s sake, I asked him many questions regarding things that had already happened to me or come within my notice. Sometimes he sheered off the subject[24], or turned the conversation by pretending not to understand, but generally he answered all I asked most frankly. Then as time went on, and I had got somewhat bolder, I asked him of some of the strange things of the preceding night, as for instance, why the coachman went to the places where he had seen the blue flames. He then explained to me that it was commonly believed that on a certain night of the year, last night, in fact, when all evil spirits are supposed to have unchecked sway, a blue flame is seen over any place where treasure has been concealed.[25]

“That treasure has been hidden,” he went on, “in the region through which you came last night, there can be but little doubt. For it was the ground fought over for centuries by the Wallachian, the Saxon, and the Turk[26]. Why, there is hardly a foot of soil in all this region that has not been enriched by the blood of men, patriots or invaders. In the old days there were stirring times, when the Austrian and the Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out to meet them, men and women, the aged and the children too, and waited their coming on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep destruction on them with their artificial avalanches. When the invader was triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been sheltered in the friendly soil.”[27]

“But how,” said I, “can it have remained so long undiscovered, when there is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look? “The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long, sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely[28]. He answered.

“Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool![29] Those flames only appear on one night, and on that night no man of this land will, if he can help it, stir without his doors. And, dear sir, even if he did he would not know what to do. Why, even the peasant that you tell me of who marked the place of the flame would not know where to look in daylight even for his own work. Even you would not, I dare be sworn, be able to find these places again?”

“There you are right,” I said. “I know no more than the dead where even to look for them.” Then we drifted into other matters.

“Come,” he said at last, “tell me of London and of the house which you have procured for me.” With an apology for my remissness, I went into my own room to get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in order I heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as I passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the lamp lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark. The lamps were also lit in the study or library[30], and I found the Count lying on the sofa, reading, of all things in the world, and English Bradshaw’s Guide[31]. When I came in he cleared the books and papers from the table, and with him I went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He was interested in everything, and asked me a myriad questions about the place and its surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the subject of the neighborhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much more than I did. When I remarked this, he answered.

“Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I go there I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan, nay, pardon me. I fall into my country’s habit of putting your patronymic first[32], my friend Jonathan Harker will not be by my side to correct and aid me. He will be in Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of the law with my other friend, Peter Hawkins. So!”

We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the estate at Purfleet[33]. When I had told him the facts and got his signature to the necessary papers, and had written a letter with them ready to post to Mr. Hawkins, he began to ask me how I had come across so suitable a place. I read to him the notes which I had made at the time, and which I inscribe here.

“At Purfleet, on a by-road, I came across just such a place as seemed to be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the place was for sale. It was surrounded by a high wall, of ancient structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a large number of years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and iron, all eaten with rust.

“The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old Quatre Face[34], as the house is four sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of the compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded by the solid stone wall above mentioned. There are many trees on it, which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large and of all periods back, I should say, to mediaeval times, for one part is of stone immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or church.[35] I could not enter it, as I had not the key of the door leading to it from the house, but I have taken with my Kodak[36] views of it from various points. The house had been added to, but in a very straggling way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which must be very great. There are but few houses close at hand, one being a very large house only recently added to and formed into a private lunatic asylum[37]. It is not, however, visible from the grounds.”

When I had finished, he said, “I am glad that it is old and big. I myself am of an old family, and to live in a new house would kill me. A house cannot be made habitable in a day, and after all, how few days go to make up a century. I rejoice also that there is a chapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles love not to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead[38]. I seek not gaiety nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling waters which please the young and gay. I am no longer young, and my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead[39], is attuned to mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken. The shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements. I love the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I may.” Somehow his words and his look did not seem to accord, or else it was that his cast of face made his smile look malignant and saturnine[40].

Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to pull my papers together. He was some little time away, and I began to look at some of the books around me. One was an atlas, which I found opened naturally to England, as if that map had been much used. On looking at it I found in certain places little rings marked, and on examining these I noticed that one was near London on the east side, manifestly where his new estate was situated. The other two were Exeter, and Whitby on the Yorkshire coast[41].

It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned. “Aha!” he said. “Still at your books? Good! But you must not work always. Come! I am informed that your supper is ready.” He took my arm, and we went into the next room, where I found an excellent supper ready on the table. The Count again excused himself, as he had dined out on his being away from home. But he sat as on the previous night, and chatted whilst I ate. After supper I smoked, as on the last evening[42], and the Count stayed with me, chatting and asking questions on every conceivable subject, hour after hour[43]. I felt that it was getting very late indeed, but I did not say anything, for I felt under obligation to meet my host’s wishes in every way. I was not sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday had fortified me, but I could not help experiencing that chill which comes over one at the coming of the dawn[44], which is like, in its way, the turn of the tide. They say that people who are near death die generally at the change to dawn or at the turn of the tide[45]. Anyone who has when tired, and tied as it were to his post, experienced this change in the atmosphere can well believe it. All at once we heard the crow of the cock coming up with preternatural shrillness through the clear morning air.

Count Dracula, jumping to his feet, said, “Why there is the morning again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so long. You must make your conversation regarding my dear new country of England less interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by us,” and with a courtly bow, he quickly left me.

I went into my room and drew the curtains, but there was little to notice. My window opened into the courtyard, all I could see was the warm grey of quickening sky. So I pulled the curtains again, and have written of this day.


8 May.–I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting too diffuse. But now I am glad that I went into detail from the first, for there is something so strange about this place and all in it that I cannot but feel uneasy[46]. I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had never come. It may be that this strange night existence is telling on me, but would that that were all! If there were any one to talk to I could bear it, but there is no one. I have only the Count to speak with, and he– I fear I am myself the only living soul within the place[47]. Let me be prosaiac so far as facts can be. It will help me to bear up, and imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say at once how I stand, or seem to.

I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I could not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the window, and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the Count’s voice saying to me, “Good morning.” I started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment[48]. Having answered the Count’s salutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had been mistaken. This time there could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in the mirror! [49]The whole room behind me was displayed, but there was no sign of a man in it, except myself.

This was startling, and coming on the top of so many strange things, was beginning to increase that vague feeling of uneasiness which I always have when the Count is near. But at the instant I saw the the cut had bled a little, and the blood was trickling over my chin. I laid down the razor, turning as I did so half round to look for some sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat. I drew away and his hand touched the string of beads which held the crucifix[50]. It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed so quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever there.

“Take care,” he said, “take care how you cut yourself. It is more dangerous that you think in this country.” Then seizing the shaving glass, he went on, “And this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief. It is a foul bauble of man’s vanity. Away with it!” And opening the window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is very annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case or the bottom of the shaving pot[51], which is fortunately of metal.

When I went into the dining room, breakfast was prepared, but I could not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange that as yet I have not seen the Count eat or drink. He must be a very peculiar man! After breakfast I did a little exploring in the castle. I went out on the stairs, and found a room looking towards the South.

The view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every opportunity of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a terrific precipice. A stone falling from the window would fall a thousand feet without touching anything! As far as the eye can reach is a sea of green tree tops,with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through the forests.[52]

But I am not in heart to describe beauty,for when I had seen the view I explored further. Doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and bolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there an available exit. The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner![53]


[1] The idea that a vampire has great strength seems to come from Stoker, not from historical lore. However, the idea that madmen have exceptional strength is an old one and it could just have jumped into Stoker’s imagination from that.

[2] Of course these features of the isolated ruined castle are classics tropes of Gothic fiction.  This is a nice looking article (it’s all about the looks!) detailing some features of Gothic Fiction. But this article is actually more user friendly and allows you to get it far more easily.  Marilyn Manson has just come on my sound system. Seems uncannily appropriate.

[3] So what we have here is what Dwight Swain would call a “sequel”. We’ve had the scene where we get presented with the stimulus, i.e. the arrival at the castle, and now we have an internal dilemma where young Jonathan starts to realise the shit he’s been dropped in. Check this out if interested.

[4] The rattling of chains even! How Gothic! I loves it.

[5] Bella Lugosi this ain’t. (He’s dead by the way) I met the drummer from Bauhaus once in a pub in Carlisle called the Beehive. He offered me a job, but not drumming. Though I used to be a drummer. “Bella Lugosi’s Dead – undead, undead, undead.”

[6] That famous line. There is of course the tradition that vampires cannot enter a property unless they are invited in. This is said to have its roots in folklore, but I can’t find which folklore it derives from. 

[7] Jonathan doesn’t know why, but we do: shush now!

[8]  We get a lot of foreshadowing in this description: he’s cold as a dead man. He’s pale. He has bushy eyebrows, remember hairiness has been seen as an evil trait ever since the days of Esau. And Jacob said to Rebekah his mother, Behold, Esau my brother is a hairy man, and I am a smooth man:  Being a hairy man myself, I hate them smoothies. He has pointed nails and sharp protruding teeth. I think also that I have said elsewhere that the fear of the monster is an archetypal fear of being predated by a hairy sharp toothed beast.  Regarding the hairiness and the sharp nails, it has been noted that after death hair and nails continue to grow and so a corpse dug up not long after it was interred, would show long nails and hair. This may be a connotation here. 

[9] Wolves! I spent a sunday two weeks ago with two timber wolves. They were beautiful, but also possibly would have eaten me if I put a foot wrong. Even so, I can’t find wolves nasty. But then, the last wolf where I live was murdered about 300 years ago. My partner loves wolves a lot but I think if I were walking in the lonely hills (a habit of mine) and came across a wolf pack – oh my days! I remember being up a fell on my own and seeing these two rangy dogs – lurchers running up the fell about 500 yards away. They looked fierce and there was no onwer/master. I began to hold back. Then their human arrived and they went off. I don’t think they saw me. Did I mention I am a bit like Strider? He who walks unseen. Except when I trip over.

[10]  The evil number 8, as previously mentioned.

[11]  Isn’t it a blissful thing to wake of your own accord? No alarm, no one shaking you or disturbing. Just waking to the sunshine and a soft breeze ruffling the curtain through an open window. The sparrows chirping in the eaves of the thatched roof… 

[12] Where’s Drac getting his coffee? What kind of beans are they? I wonder if he knew about the Coffee Judge?

[13] Pretty matey already. Don’t trust him Jonathan. He’s like one of those salesmen and rings up you calling you by your first name like he knows you. Rebuff him.

[14] I mean Drac has had centuries to amass this stuff. But how come he keeps it so nice? Does he have a maid? I mean he was a sexist old beast and he did have three brides. Down with the Patriarchy!

[15] This is an interesting thing. The mirror. I think there are probably two ideas going on here. The first is that the vampire has no soul, therefore in some way can not cast a reflection like a true human could. Or a cat. The second is that mirrors reflect and in some sense rebound forces coming at them. Is it something apotropaic (my how I love that word. Almost as much as numinous. Both very heavily used by my leader C G Jung.)

[16] The wolves again. Later it’s bats.

[17] I get his dilemma. My daughter is like that. One of them anyway. She would lie in bed all day and then I’d be like: “Is this breakfast or dinner? You tell me!” Of course among the working class British, dinner is lunch. The story behind this is that dinner is the main meal of the day and the working class were either so hungry from their labours that they ate it earlier, or they were waiting on the gentry in the evening so had to have their main meal at midday.

[18] Another ominosity. I can’t recall whether this door is ever opened. Sometimes writers just drop mysteries into stories and then never resolve them. I remember Michael Moorcock writing about this. You don’t even have to resolve them. Of course the neat novelist resolves everything.  I hate them too.

[19] I think we should write an analysis of Dracula from a UKIP point of view. They think that all foreigners, especially Romanians want to come and live in England (I say England advisedly) and that they plot and scheme. To the UKIPPER, or just plain Kipper, this would be proof of the Romanian’s plan to smuggle himself illegally to Blighty and their enjoy our NHS for free. He’d probably be housed in a mansion by the Council. Him and his three wives, and claim unemployment benefit. I think there will probably emerge a school of lit crit based in the UKIP world view.  For US readers, UKIP is like Trump.  All your problems are caused by foreigners and immigrants. Get rid of the foreigners for a blissful dawn of the pure land. I didn’t promise my commentary would be politics free by the way.

[20] Should be a new paragraph here, Bram. Just saying. My MS Word is just itching to correct his grammar and style. But I’m like FU word! FU!

[21] Check out the WIKI for Boyar. They are aristocracy in Wallachia (the Romanian lands technically south of Transylvania) just below princes.

[22] Aha, Bram didn’t just drop that locked door carelessly. There’s something behind it!

[23] This is true, but as Stereophonics sang

“We’re going wrong
We’ve all become the same
We dress the same ways
Only our accents change” 
They’re from the Aman Valley though. South Wales.

[24] I do this. I think if I was still at school I’d get an ADHD diagnosis.

[25] Though why would Drac want treasure? He’s minted anyway.

[26] You will remember that the Wallachians are the descendents of the original Dacian tribes then the Saxons came and founded some wonderful cities in Transylvania. Sibiu and Sighisoara are my faves.  The first time I went to Sibiu was in 1991 and there in the massive, beautiful central square, I thought: If this was in the West it would be full of markets and cafes. Then when I went back in 2014 it was full of markets and cafes.  It is the most wonderful wonderful place. Then Sighisoara is where Dracula was born (Vlad Tepes).  Still not fully tarted up by tourism. Awesome. Go to the graveyard. Stay in the Schneiderturm. The city was built by Saxons. Each of the towers was maintained by a guild. You can stay in the Tailors Tower. You get a free mug when you do. And some wine.

[27] Not sure what this adds to the story, but maybe I’m missing something.

[28] Hmm.

[29] Class war too. What a snob.

[30] Of course he has no servants because he’d eat them.

[31] Check it out

[32]Quite oriental. They don’t do that now I don’t think.

[33] I’m like: why? Purfleet. I’ve never been.

[34] You will note that in later adaptations, Carfax becomes Carfax Abbey. It’s not an abbey here, just an old house. I like the derivation Quatre Face. Carfax is the surname of a character in  Sherlock Holmes story. that was published in 1911. He may have got the name from Stoker.  There is a Carfax in Oxford, from whence, I guess, Bram got the name. It actually derives from the Latin quadrifurcus – crossroads. They’re very clever in Oxford.


[35] Dracula clearly likes the Gothic style. I mean he lives in a partly ruined castle in Transylvania, he wants a medieval house in London he lands in Whitby, which has its own Goth festival every year. Nuff said. Look how he dresses.

[36] Founded in 1888. Who knew it was that old? Plenty of folk, maybe you.

[37][37] Aha. He must have plotted this out. He’s no pantser.  Lindisfarne’s Lady Eleanor has come on now.  Very apposite.  I need to post all the lyrics. Sorry:

Playing magician sitting lotus on the floor
Belly dancing beauty with a power driven saw
Had my share of nightmares, didn’t think there could be much more
then in walked Rodrick Usher with the Lady Eleanor

She tied my eyes with ribbon of a silken ghostly thread
I gazed with trouble vision on an old four poster bed
Where Eleanor had risen to kiss the neck below my head
and bid me come along with her to the land of the dancing dead

But it’s all right, Lady Eleanor
All right, Lady Eleanor
I’m all right where I am

She gazed with loving beauty like a mother to a son
like living, dying, seeing, being all rolled into one
Then all at once I heard some music playing in my bones
the same old song I’d heard for years, reminding me of home

But it’s all right, Lady Eleanor
All right, Lady Eleanor
I’m all right where I am

Then creeping on towards me, licking lips with tongues of fire
a host of golden demons screaming lust and base desire
and when it seemed for certain that the screams could get no higher
I heard a voice above the rest screaming ‘You’re a liar’

But it’s all right, Lady Eleanor
All right, Lady Eleanor
I’m all right here in your arms


[38] Again, I say: Oh yeah?

[39] Interestingly we get a bit of Dracula’s backstory. You will remember the movie adaptations that have him in love with his dead wife etc. Maybe this is where the justification for this comes from?

[40] There’s a lot of debate in our house whether Saturn is a bad guy. He was not so nice in Greek mythology and then in astrology the planet causes heaviness, poverty, age, contraction. My partner thinks he’s much misunderstood. I’m not so sure. Dracula is Saturnine and Dracula’s no saint.

[41] Whitby gets its first mensh.

[42] Well smoking is bad for your health, but it’s the least of Jonathan’s worries right now.  Rush Passage to Bangkok is on now. That guitar riff is awesome and then halfway through it starts up again with a dragging insistent movement.  it gets your bowels in the Cromwellian sense.

[43] He seems pretty affable really.

[44] I used to get this on night shift around 4 am. You get really cold.

[45] I found that midnight, dusk and dawn are favoured times for the banshee as she cries out the death howl. It’s something to do with transitions I guess.

[46] Rayne Hall talks about this in Writing Scary Scenes. To create that feeling of unease, you just hint that things aren’t right. The reader gets it.

[47] He thinks he’s being figurative, but we know it’s literal. Joke’s on Jonathan.

[48] I remember that scene in the Francis Ford Coppola version. But in that the Dracula’s hair was too much. It distracted me.

[49] The first evidence that Dracula is not what he appears to be…

[50] I think writers who are talking about vampires these days have a problem in post Christian Europe where the masses of the people don’t believe. The USA is far more religious of course, at least in the middle.

[51] I can shave by touch. I didn’t realise that it was such a rare gift until I read this. I suppose it’s like having perfect pitch or something.

[52] Super Gothic.

[53] And so we finish. Jonathan realises he’s up shit creek.

Dracula – enriched! Chapter 1

I, like a Pewdiepie of Classic Horror Literature © have the great temerity to try to enrich Bram Stoker’s Dracula. It’s a great story that I’ve loved since I was a kid. It inspired me over the years to go to pretty much everywhere mentioned in the novel from Transylvania (twice) to Whitby (lots of times) to London and the graveyards that inspired Stoker.  So, when I say enriched, I mean I am adding my own commentary and illuminations (I hope) to things in Stoker’s text that might need a bit of expanding, and I’m taking the liberty of adding my own reactions reflexively,  which I hope will add to your enjoyment. I’ve even added some photos (mostly mine) and some illustrations (nicked – I mean: borrowed under Creative Commons rights). I should say that I adore footnotes but WordPress has made them endnotes, which I despise. I will try to sort that. If I can’t fix it, at least you can click on the numbers to get to the end notes.




(Kept in shorthand.)


Keleti Station, Budapest

3 May. Bistritz[1].–Left Munich at 8:35 P. M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the streets[2]. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible. The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish rule[3].


Parliament Building, Budapest

We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh[4]. Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem  get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called “paprika hendl,[5]” and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful here; indeed, I don’t know how I should be able to get on without it.


Klausenberg or Cluj, Transylvania


Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the British Museum[6], and made search among the books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country. I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian Mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our own Ordnance Survey maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Mina.

In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities: Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs[1], who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars[2] in the West, and Szekelys[3] in the East and North. I am going among the latter, who claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it. I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (Mem[7], I must ask the Count all about them.)

I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty[8]. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then. I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which they said was “mamaliga,” and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call “impletata[9].” (Mem. get recipe for this also.) I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to the station at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour before we began to move. It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual are the trains[10]. What ought they to be in China?

All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the top of steep hills such as we see in old missals[11]; sometimes we ran by rivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side of them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water, and running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear. At every station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home or those I saw coming through France and Germany, with short jackets and round hats and home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque[12].


Biserica near Sibiu

The women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very clumsy about the waist. They had all full white sleeves of some kind or other, and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of something fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of course there were petticoats under them. The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks[13], who were more barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy hats, great baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass nails. They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into them, and had long black hair and heavy  black moustaches. They are very picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would be set down at once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They are, however, I am told, very harmless and rather wanting in natural self-assertion.

It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz, which is a very interesting old place. Being practically on the frontier–for the Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina[14]–it has had a very stormy existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty years ago a series of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on five separate occasions. At the very beginning of the seventeenth century it underwent a siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the casualties of war proper being assisted by famine and disease.


Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel[4], which I found, to my great delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned[15], for of course I wanted to see all I could of the ways of the country. I was evidently expected, for when I got near the door I faced a cheery-looking elderly woman in the usual peasant dress—white undergarment with long double apron, front, and back, of coloured stuff fitting almost too tight for modesty.

When I came close she bowed and said, “The Herr Englishman?”

“Yes,” I said, “Jonathan Harker.” She smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in white shirt-sleeves, who had followed her to the door. He went, but immediately returned with a letter:–

“My Friend.–Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting   you. Sleep well to-night. At three to-morrow the diligence will start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo     Pass[16] my carriage will await you and will bring you to me. I trust that your journey from London has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land.  “Your friend, “DRACULA[5].”  

4 May.–I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count, directing him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and pretended that he could not understand my German. This could not be true, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he answered my questions exactly as if he did. He and his wife, the old lady who had received me, looked at each other in a frightened sort of way. He mumbled out that the money had been sent in a letter, and that was all he knew. When I asked him if he knew Count Dracula, and could tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves, and, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak further. It was so near the time of starting that I had no time to ask any one else, for it was all very mysterious and not by any means comforting.

Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in a very hysterical way:  “Must you go? Oh! young Herr, must you go?” She was in such an excited state that she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew, and mixed it all up with some other language which I did not know at all. I was just able to follow her by asking many questions. When I told her that I must go at once, and that I was engaged on important business, she asked again:  “Do you know what day it is?” I answered that it was the fourth of May. She shook her head as she said again:  “Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it is?” On my saying that I did not understand, she went on:  “It is the eve of St. George’s Day. Do you not know that to-night, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have full sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are going to?” She was in such evident distress that I tried to comfort her, but without effect. Finally she went down on her knees and implored me not to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting. It was all very ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was business to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere with it. I therefore tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I thanked her, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go. She then rose and dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered it to me. I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman[6], I have been taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such a state of mind. She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the rosary round my neck, and said, “For your mother’s sake,” and went out of the room.

I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am waiting for the coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still round my neck. Whether it is the old lady’s fear, or the many ghostly traditions of this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but I am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual. If this book should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my good-bye. Here comes the coach!


5 May. The Castle.

The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun is high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with trees or hills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and little are mixed. I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake, naturally I write till sleep comes. There are many odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them may fancy that I dined too well before I left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly. I dined on what they called “robber steak”–bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire, in the simple style of the London cat’s meat! The wine was Golden Mediasch[7], which produces a queer sting on the tongue, which is, however, not disagreeable. I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.  When I got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw him talking with the landlady. They were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside the door–which they call by a name meaning “word-bearer”[8]–came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out.

I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were “Ordog”–Satan, “pokol”–hell, “stregoica”–witch, “vrolok” and “vlkoslak”[9]–both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian[10] for something that is either were-wolf or vampire.

(Mem.I must ask the Count about these superstitions[11])

When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers towards me. With some difficulty I got a fellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; he would not answer at first, but on learning that I was English, he explained that it was a charm or guard against the evil eye. This was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man; but every one seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I could not but be touched. I shall never forget the last glimpse which I had of the inn-yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with its background of rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the centre of the yard.

Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the whole front of the box-seat–“gotza” they call them–cracked his big whip over his four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on our journey.  I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the scene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might not have been able to throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom–apple, plum, pear, cherry[12]; and as we drove by I could see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the “Mittel Land” ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the hillsides like tongues of flame.



The road was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand then what the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road is in summertime excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order after the winter snows. In this respect it is different from the general run of roads in the Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are not to be kept in too good order. Of old the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the Turk should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so hasten the war which was always really at loading point.

Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and again the white gleam of falling water.


One of my companions touched my arm as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way, to be right before us:–  “Look! Isten szek!”–“God’s seat!”–and he crossed himself reverently.  As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower behind us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This was emphasised by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink.

Here and there we passed Cszeks and Slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I noticed that goitre was painfully prevalent[13]. By the roadside were many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed themselves. Here and there was a peasant man or woman kneeling before a shrine, who did not even turn round as we approached, but seemed in the self-surrender of devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world.

There were many things new to me: for instance, hay-ricks in the trees, and here and there very beautiful masses of weeping birch, their white stems shining like silver through the delicate green of the leaves. Now and again we passed a leiter-wagon[14]–the ordinary peasant’s cart–with its long, snake-like vertebra, calculated to suit the inequalities of the road. On this were sure to be seated quite a group of home-coming peasants, the Cszeks with their white, and the Slovaks with their coloured, sheepskins, the latter carrying lance-fashion their long staves, with axe at end.


As the evening fell it began to get very cold, and the growing twilight seemed to merge into one dark mistiness the gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine, though in the valleys which ran deep between the spurs of the hills, as we ascended through the Pass, the dark firs stood out here and there against the background of late-lying snow.

Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine woods that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst the Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys.

Sometimes the hills were so steep that, despite our driver’s haste, the horses could only go slowly. I wished to get down and walk up them, as we do at home, but the driver would not hear of it. “No, no,” he said; “you must not walk here; the dogs are too fierce”; and then he added, with what he evidently meant for grim pleasantry–for he looked round to catch the approving smile of the rest–“and you may have enough of such matters before you go to sleep.”


The only stop he would make was a moment’s pause to light his lamps.  When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as though urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully with his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement urged them on to further exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of patch of grey light ahead of us, as though there were a cleft in the hills.

The excitement of the passengers grew greater; the crazy coach rocked on its great leather springs, and swayed like a boat tossed on a stormy sea. I had to hold on. The road grew more level, and we appeared to fly along. Then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each side and to frown down upon us; we were entering on the Borgo Pass.

One by one several of the passengers offered me gifts, which they pressed upon me with an earnestness which would take no denial; these were certainly of an odd and varied kind, but each was given in simple good faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing, and that strange mixture of fear-meaning movements which I had seen outside the hotel at Bistritz–the sign of the cross and the guard against the evil eye. Then, as we flew along, the driver leaned forward, and on each side the passengers, craning over the edge of the coach, peered eagerly into the darkness. It was evident that something very exciting was either happening or expected, but though I asked each passenger, no one would give me the slightest explanation. This state of excitement kept on for some little time; and at last we saw before us the Pass opening out on the eastern side.

There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. It seemed as though the mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and that now we had got into the thunderous one. I was now myself looking out for the conveyance which was to take me to the Count.


Each moment I expected to see the glare of lamps through the blackness; but all was dark. The only light was the flickering rays of our own lamps, in which the steam from our hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. We could see now the sandy road lying white before us, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle. The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock my own disappointment. I was already thinking what I had best do, when the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others something which I could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone; I thought it was “An hour less than the time.”

Then turning to me, he said in German worse than my own:–  “There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He will now come on to Bukovina, and return to-morrow or the next day; better the next day.”

Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up. Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing of themselves, a calèche, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see from the flash of our lamps, as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black and splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us.

He said to the driver:–  “You are early to-night, my friend.”

The man stammered in reply:–  “The English Herr was in a hurry,” to which the stranger replied:–  “That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are swift.”

As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory.

One of my companions whispered to another the line from Burger’s “Lenore“:–      “Denn die Todten reiten schnell”–     (“For the dead travel fast.”)

The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and crossing himself.

“Give me the Herr’s luggage,” said the driver; and with exceeding alacrity my bags were handed out and put in the calèche. Then I descended from the side of the coach, as the calèche was close alongside, the driver helping me with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel; his strength must have been prodigious. Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we swept into the darkness of the Pass. As I looked back I saw the steam from the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps, and projected against it the figures of my late companions crossing themselves.

Then the driver cracked his whip and called to his horses, and off they swept on their way to Bukovina. As they sank into the darkness I felt a strange chill, and a lonely feeling came over me; but a cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees, and the driver said in excellent German:–  “The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade me take all care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz (the plum brandy of the country) underneath the seat, if you should require it.” I did not take any, but it was a comfort to know it was there all the same. I felt a little strangely, and not a little frightened. I think had there been any alternative I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that unknown night journey.

The carriage went at a hard pace straight along, then we made a complete turn and went along another straight road. It seemed to me that we were simply going over and over the same ground again; and so I took note of some salient point, and found that this was so. I would have liked to have asked the driver what this all meant, but I really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was, any protest would have had no effect in case there had been an intention to delay. By-and-by, however, as I was curious to know how time was passing, I struck a match, and by its flame looked at my watch; it was within a few minutes of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for I suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my recent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.

Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road–a long, agonised wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by another dog, and then another and another, till, borne on the wind which now sighed softly through the Pass, a wild howling began, which seemed to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination could grasp it through the gloom of the night. At the first howl the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver spoke to them soothingly, and they quieted down, but shivered and sweated as though after a runaway from sudden fright.

Then, far off in the distance, from the mountains on each side of us began a louder and a sharper howling–that of wolves–which affected both the horses and myself in the same way–for I was minded to jump from the calèche and run, whilst they reared again and plunged madly, so that the driver had to use all his great strength to keep them from bolting.

In a few minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed to the sound, and the horses so far became quiet that the driver was able to descend and to stand before them. He petted and soothed them, and whispered something in their ears, as I have heard of horse-tamers doing, and with extraordinary effect, for under his caresses they became quite manageable again, though they still trembled. The driver again took his seat, and shaking his reins, started off at a great pace. This time, after going to the far side of the Pass, he suddenly turned down a narrow roadway which ran sharply to the right.

Soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right over the roadway till we passed as through a tunnel; and again great frowning rocks guarded us boldly on either side. Though we were in shelter, we could hear the rising wind, for it moaned and whistled through the rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as we swept along. It grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery snow began to fall, so that soon we and all around us were covered with a white blanket.

The keen wind still carried the howling of the dogs, though this grew fainter as we went on our way. The baying of the wolves sounded nearer and nearer, as though they were closing round on us from every side. I grew dreadfully afraid, and the horses shared my fear. The driver, however, was not in the least disturbed; he kept turning his head to left and right, but I could not see anything through the darkness.

Suddenly, away on our left, I saw a faint flickering blue flame[15]. The driver saw it at the same moment; he at once checked the horses, and, jumping to the ground, disappeared into the darkness. I did not know what to do, the less as the howling of the wolves grew closer; but while I wondered the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word took his seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I must have fallen asleep and kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be repeated endlessly, and now looking back, it is like a sort of awful nightmare. Once the flame appeared so near the road, that even in the darkness around us I could watch the driver’s motions. He went rapidly to where the blue flame arose–it must have been very faint, for it did not seem to illumine the place around it at all–and gathering a few stones, formed them into some device.


Once there appeared a strange optical effect: when he stood between me and the flame he did not obstruct it, for I could see its ghostly flicker all the same. This startled me, but as the effect was only momentary, I took it that my eyes deceived me straining through the darkness.

Then for a time there were no blue flames, and we sped onwards through the gloom, with the around us, as though they were following in a moving circle.  At last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he had yet gone, and during his absence, the horses began to tremble worse than ever and to snort and scream with fright. I could not see any cause for it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether; but just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair[16]. They were a hundred times more terrible in the grim silence which held them than even when they howled. For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear.

It is only when a man feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand their true import.  All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had some peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about and reared, and looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to see; but the living ring of terror encompassed them on every side; and they had perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman to come, for it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out through the ring and to aid his approach. I shouted and beat the side of the calèche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from that side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he came there, I know not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves fell back and back further still.

Just then a heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness.  When I could see again the driver was climbing into the calèche, and the wolves had disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The time seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon. We kept on ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in the main always ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the moonlit sky.


End of Chapter 1


[1] Bistrița, capital of Bistrița-Năsăud County in northern Transylvania, Romania. I’ve never been there.  His journey from Munich, to Vienna, to Budapest makes sense. I myself caught the sleeper train from Budapest Keleti Station, that gloriously run down edifice into Transylvania. We went to Cluj (Harker’s Klausenberg) in fact then on to Brasov. How I remember getting my sandwiches and beer at the station in preparation for the journey, eating Paprika Chicken cooked there and then by the old lady in the dining carriage at some point in the evening.  She was nice, the guard was very grumpy until I tipped him the next morning at Brasov. The excitement of looking out in the early dawn and seeing the mist covered mountains of Transylvania!  Bistrița is a Slavonic word meaning fast moving river.  There have been big ethnic changes in Transylvania since Bram Stoker’s time.  Then it would have been significantly Hungarian speaking, but now is nearly all Romanian as in the Communist years the Hungarians were got rid of and the Saxons were sold to Germany for cash.  When Stoker wrote it was under Hungarian rule, though the majority were ethnically Romanian.

[2] And Budapest! I could go on about Budapest for a while – walking over the chain bridge, the natural hot spring baths at the Art Deco Gellert Hotel. The Goulash! Just go!

[3] The Ottoman Turks occupied eastern Hungary including Budapest in 1540.  Transylvania was a separate Hungarian principality but cut off from Western European influences allowing the growth of religious dissent meaning Protestantism (though of course today it is mainly Romanian Orthodox, while Hungary is Catholic). After the failure of the Turks to take Vienna in 1683, they were driven back from large swathes of Hungary.

[4] Klausenberg is now Cluj. It was one of the cities of the German speaking Saxons. The area was conquered by the Hungarians from the 10th Century – remember they were invading Hunnic tribes from Asia originally, which is why their language is not like other European ones. The Romanians, descendants of the original Dacian tribes conquered by the Romans, who started speaking Latin -> Romanian, were always there.  The Saxons went there in the 14th Century or so.

[5] Paprika Chicken, in German, reminding us that at this time this area was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, a joint empire that spoke many languages.  The Hungarians were always resentful of the influence of the German speaking Austrians. Transylvania had a significant German speaking population at this time from the Saxon settlers who arrived in the late Middle Ages. Their German was not the same as standard German. There aren’t many of them left there now, but you will still see some influence of their language and especially their architecture in the towns and villages. I guess Harker would have found Hungarian pretty difficult, though Romanian (which he doesn’t allude to much at all) is not too bad, apart from their habit of putting “the” at the end of words, thus Dracul  “the dragon” where –ul means “the”.

[6] The British Museum.  I used to work up the top of Gower Street for a few years and when I made a habit of going to the Museum at lunchtime  just to try and digest the amount of stuff that’s there.  From the awesome (literally) Assyrian statuary including demons like Pazuzu of The Exorcist fame, lots of Egyptian mummies, John Dee’s occult paraphernalia, the pagan treasures of the Celts, Anglo-Saxons and Vikings, there’s loads there for people who like the kinds of things we do. Again, just go.

[7] I’ve got an app on my phone to do this.

[8] He’s putting me on edge with all this foreshadowing

[9] The link goes to a blog that does recipes from Dracula. How cool is that? Both these culinary terms are Romanian, not Hungarian or German, which considering the lack of mention he gives to the Romanians is interesting. Did I say I was interested in languages?

[10] That’s not so true today. I loved the trains in Middle Europe.

[11] This is so true. The landscape is awesome. And remember it’s full of bears and wolves and lynxes and eagles – stuff that’s been wiped out in a most of Europe.

[12] Even today, you can see people, particularly women wearing the old peasant costumes. I wonder how long it will last?

[13] Few Slovaks in Transylvania now.  You don’t see people like this in Slovakia, though I’ve only been to Bratislava (another great city. Good trams. Stark Communist era tower blocs too).  Interesting what he says about the Slovaks not being warlike.  You should read HHhH about one Slovak (and a Czech) who assassinated the Nazi leader in Prague in WW2. That is a truly fantastic book.

[14] Bukovina was an easterly province of Austria-Hungary, half populated by Romanians and half by Ruthenians – that is Ukrainian speakers.  The name is Slavonic and means Land of Beech Trees.  It was traditionally ruled by the Romanian speaking Moldavian nobility. Northern Bukovina is now in Ukraine and the southern part in  Romania. This split occurred after the Soviet Union annexed that part of Romania in 1940 and kept the northern part, which was ethnically Slavonic in any case. Not that I am encouraging annexation.

[15] I love European hotels like this. One Christmas I stayed at a hotel in Rudesheim on the Rhine, the Hotel Lindenwirt.  And for another, see the hotel they stay in in The Lady Vanishes. It’s just like this one sounds. Then there’s the Black Elephant in the middle of Prague. Sorry, I digressed because I got excited.

[16] Indeed, to get from Bistrica to Bukovina you need to cross the High Carpathians. The Borgo or Burgo Pass is Hungarian. In Romanian it is Tihuta Pass

[1] A name similar to Walloon and Welsh, a term used by Germanic peoples for subjects of the Roman Empire, often Latin speakers. The Wallachs are the Romanian speakers descended from the original Dacian tribes of the area.

[2] Hungarians

[3] A Hungarian people whose name derives from the Hungarian for “frontier guards” who lived in  Székely Land in Transylvania and Bukovina.

[4] There’s an inn of this name in Vienna and another in Innsbruck, Austria.  There’s even a 2016 video game where you can fight vampires.

[5] The name Dracula seems to mean The Dragon in Romanian Dracul.

[6] That is a Protestant who eschew such “Popish” symbols.

[7] A white wine made in Mediaș, a town in Sibiu County, Transylvania.

[8] I found the meaning of this phrase in an article about marriage in Hungary here. Apparently there’s a low bench of stone outside each door, called “word-bearer” where people gossip.

[9] Apparently should be vrkolak

[10] Serbian, in case you didn’t guess.

[11] Really, Bram?

[12] He’s there in Maytime. This is going to be so beautiful.

[13] This is a sign of iodine deficiency. We got our iodine from fish or other seafood. Too much can give you hyperthyroidism and this can be seen in Japan where they eat iodine loaded seaweed. Landlocked, like Transylvania and with a diet primarily of maize, the peasants suffered from iodine deficiency caused goitres.

[14] Take a look

[15] Apparently there was a local superstition that flickering blue flames mark where treasure is hid. Or, that they are evil spirits. Whatever they are, Dracula seems pretty cool with them. I can’t imagine he had need or want of treasure, so they are probably just evil spirits.

[16] I spent last Sunday with two timber wolves. They were lovely. But they could have eaten me if they’d wanted to. They just chose not to once I told them I was a pack mate.

Romanian illegal immigrant smuggles himself into UK – in a coffin!

We all know that the secret to a book deal is getting your query pin sharp. The Queen of Query is Janet Reid aka The Query Shark – @QueryShark on Twitter. My queries still don’t seem to hit the mark, so I thought I’d practice on you by doing queries for 5 classic horror novels.


Undead aristocrat seeks real estate in London, but he has trouble staking his claim.



The Exorcist

Famous mommy neglects her family, and then finds a bad crowd have moved into her daughter.


Falling Angel

Johnny wakes up not remembering the things he did the night before. Then he discovers it involved chickens.



Mrs De Winter gets jealous of her husband’s other woman – the trouble is the other woman is dead.




House of Leaves

A couple buy an old house to redesign, but they never counted on the house redesigning them.



Can you do better? I challenge you!




Cockney Rebel: Austin Osman Spare — cakeordeathsite

Phil Baker’s excellent 2011 biography of the gloriously eccentric artist/magician Austin Osman Spare should hopefully revive interest in an unjustly neglected London artist. Hailed as the new Aubrey Beardsley at the tender age of 17 he fell into obscurity and lived in Dickensian squalor when the satyrs and general air of Yellow Book decadence that […]

via Cockney Rebel: Austin Osman Spare — cakeordeathsite