Chapter2

𝕿𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖞𝖑𝖛𝖆𝖓𝖎𝖆

𝕮𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖑𝖊 𝕯𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖚𝖑𝖆

Adam Quinn stuck his head out the window, wanting to fully savor the moment. Seemingly in a race against the setting sun, the four-horse team sped along the top of a narrow, craggy ridge that ran down the middle of a deep gorge. Steep drop-offs on both sides meant almost certain death if they went over. Quinn drew his head back inside the coach, amazed that his lifelong love of old Universal horror classics and obsessive research into their history—Dracula in particular—had led him to this. The original production notes for Dracula listed a man named George Tilton as “production assistant.” Quinn’s exhaustive search for anyone associated with the horror classic had uncovered no mention of Tilton after the movie was released in 1931. Until now. George Tilton was still alive. He’d changed names, but Quinn’s work as a consultant to law enforcement had gained him access to their databases. Tilton’s paper trail was sparse, almost as though he’d tried to erase any record of his existence. No birth certificate, no marriage or driver’s licenses, no credit cards, no bank accounts. What little there was ended with two legal documents filed in Boston in 1954. On Halloween of that year, George had posted bail for Max Tilton. His fourteen-year-old son had been arrested for attempted murder. A search for the outcome of the case had led nowhere, and Quinn had wondered if some law favoring juveniles might have been used to get the records expunged. The second document, dated in November, was the official record of George Tilton’s name change to Frederick Schreck. Quinn had recognized the significance of the alias at once. The first screen version of Dracula had been the silent classic Nosferatu, in which Max Schreck had played the vampire. But Schreck’s first name wasn’t Max. It was Friedrich. Tilton had simply Americanized it to Frederick. First he’d named his son after the mysterious German actor, then he’d later done the same for himself. Schreck was also the German word for fear. It smacked of obsession. Quinn took a slip of paper from the pocket of his fleece jacket. Unable to read the message in the feeble twilight, from another pocket he pulled out his keychain, which had a small flashlight attached. The incessant bumping of the coach forced him to steady his hand to keep the light focused. He re-read the printout of the e-mail he’d already read at least a dozen times since receiving it a few days ago. Dear Mr. Quinn: I have found your knowledge of Dracula and film background to be most interesting. As it happens, I am deep into the final edit of a horror film I have been working on for quite some time. The editing will keep me occupied until Sunday evening. Then on Monday I must shoot the final sequence of what I like to think of as the greatest horror film ever made. This would not give us as much time as one might like for a leisurely visit, but if you would like to come Sunday evening and stay through Monday, aside from lively discussions about the glory days of Universal horror—which of course would include telling you the story of my connection to Dracula, and the powerful impact it has had on my life—your film background could be useful during the shoot. If this is acceptable, you must agree to certain conditions. My driver will pick you up at a time and place I will specify in a future e-mail. Your vehicle will be left at the meeting place and you will be brought to my home. You must agree to be blindfolded for the first leg of the journey. My driver will tell you when it is permissible to remove the blindfold. To borrow a phrase from Morbius in Forbidden Planet, please forgive the ill manners of an old recluse, but as far as is humanly possible, I like to keep the location of my sanctuary a secret. Come at your own risk. He had signed with the cryptic name Markov.Quinn’s initial reaction had been annoyance at being ordered what to do, but the apology by way of Forbidden Planet had won him over, and on further reflection he had understood. Beyond the fact that decades of seclusion had obviously dulled the man’s social skills, his desire to protect his privacy was understandable. For all Quinn knew, he might be the first person allowed to visit in years. Maybe ever. It was that final line that had bothered him the most: Come at your own risk. What risk could there be in going to visit a man who had to be somewhere around a hundred years old? A mile or so back, the driver had pulled over to remove Quinn’s blindfold. Now, glancing uneasily at the precipice a few feet away, Quinn decided his host must have been referring to this dangerous ride. He looked out at the ominous clouds beginning to roil in the darkening sky. Night was fast approaching, but at least the storm was holding off. This late in October the temperature hovered around freezing, which meant ice storms: mixtures of rain, sleet, and snow that made for the worst possible travel conditions. A particularly severe bump launched him straight up from his seat. He landed with a thud and stuck his head out the window. He almost expected to see a bat at the reins, but the mysterious driver still clutched them in one hand, while the other hand whipped the horses as though getting to their destination was a matter of life or death. Unlike Bela Lugosi, whose face was visible in the carriage ride to the castle, this driver’s face was concealed by a cap and scarf. Only the eyes were visible. Just as written in the original script. The first fat drops of rain splatted against Quinn’s face, but he kept his head outside the window, wanting to take it all in: the strained clanking of the harness, the puffs of smoke coming from the nostrils of the hellbent horses, the clatter of the wheels as they bumped and rattled over the dangerous terrain. The carriage slid around a turn in the snaking path and gained speed. Massive black thunderclouds seethed and spread across the sky to smother the last gasp of the dying sun. Quinn’s eyes strained to follow the path ahead. Perhaps a mile away stood the castle. It appeared to be an exact replica of the one in the movie Quinn had watched dozens of times. Silhouetted against the encroaching darkness, it stood on a finger of rock that dropped precipitously away on all sides. Looming like a sinister shadow, the sprawling, jagged outline of turrets and battlements was not the product of any castle architect. Tilton/Schreck/Markov had faithfully reproduced the art design of Dracula. A red-tinged moon hovering over the gloom-shrouded pile perfectly complemented the sense of brooding menace. A sudden spider web of lightning erupted around the moon and shot its filaments toward the roof, making the scene appear more out of Frankenstein than Dracula. In Quinn’s horror-steeped imagination, either the castle was a ground drawing electricity into itself, or the moon was the eye of God, hurling down His wrath against the evil within. A single light shining in one of the rectangular upper windows sent a thrill of anticipation through Quinn.This wildly improbable journey into the world of movie horror he’d loved since childhood was exactly the escape he needed from the real horror of his everyday life. The coachman eased to a stop in the porte-cochère at the entrance to the castle. Gaslight from wall lanterns affixed to the four corners of the overhanging shelter made it a glowing oasis in the storm-wracked night. Quinn glanced at the huge wooden door with its large round iron knocker and smiled. He’d seen versions of that door in countless haunted castle movies. He had barely clambered out of the coach with his two bags before the driver cracked the whip and the carriage disappeared into the night. Quinn lingered at the bottom of the stone steps that led up to the door. He took one last look around before his surroundings surrendered to the embracing cloak of darkness. A light fog was creeping in. From somewhere close an animal howled, its shriek either a protest or warning against this intrusion into its domain. Quinn cocked his ears. Coyote? Wolf? A flash of lightning cast a shadow on the wall. Canine. Large. Not quite right for a coyote or wolf. Quinn jerked his head around, peering into the fog to find the source. Nothing there. The lightning and boom of thunder might have scared whatever it was away. The rumbling across the sky died out and silence returned. Thinking of Tilton’s movie background, and the obvious pains he’d taken to replicate the Dracula setting, Quinn wondered if machines were providing the special effects. Whatever the case, the creepy atmosphere heightened the feeling that he’d actually stepped into the classic horror movie. A creaking noise made him look up. The huge door was opening, slowly. Cobwebs hung in the nooks and crannies around the entranceway. Set decoration? Spiders were rare this far north, even more so as winter approached. Tod Browning, director of Dracula, had used spider webs often in his movies as an atmospheric touch. Quinn grabbed his bags and hurried up the front steps, curious to see if, in keeping with the theme, the door had opened itself. He reached the doorway. No one was there. “Enter freely and go safely.” The strong resonant voice came from a considerable distance beyond the threshold. The speaker was paraphrasing Dracula’s greeting from the novel. Quinn looked past the open door before entering, almost expecting to step onto a movie set. He crossed the threshold. The groan of the door closing sounded like a moan of despair. It sent a chill fluttering across Quinn’s back. Scanning the cavernous space before him, he took a moment to drink it all in. The huge great hall was straight out of Dracula. A row of tall columns to the left supported arches that led to unseen rooms. High above and to the right, moonlight shone through large mullioned windows that conveyed the feeling of a cathedral. Cobwebs were everywhere. As Quinn began walking in the direction the voice had come from, the feeling grew that he had indeed entered a movie set. Dead ahead was a faithful reproduction of the huge winding staircase on which Dracula had made his immortal entrance. At the bottom of the staircase, a large movie camera dating from the early days of cinema stood atop a wooden tripod. A boom mike hovered in its stand. Jarringly, empty Coors beer cans were scattered about. A tall, slender man dressed in black stood on the bottom landing of the staircase, holding an ornate candle holder. The half-melted candle burned with a steady flame. Above and behind the commanding figure, the iconic giant spider web from Dracula stretched across the next landing up the stairs. Quinn stopped at the bottom of the staircase and looked up at his host. Even if Tilton/Schreck/Markov had been only a teenager in 1931,he had to be at least a hundred now. But he looked decades younger. Not much older than Quinn, who was almost fifty-five. Tilton was not the repulsive Nosferatu of Max Schreck. He was wellgroomed and dressed in an elegant loungewear ensemble of smoking jacket, slacks, socks, and slippers. All black, except for the white ruffled shirt and the gold edging along the pockets and lapels of the jacket. The material was velvet, judging from the way it reflected the candlelight. Aside from the gold trim and white shirt, a blood-red ascot was the only splash of color. Staring down with an unnaturally intense gaze, he clearly fancied himself a reincarnation of Lugosi. Although his black hair was not slicked back, there was even a slight resemblance. “I … am Markov. I bid you welcome.”Was calling himself Markov an injoke to himself? J. Carrol Naish had played the mad Doctor Markoff in a poverty row production called The Monster Maker. Quinn’s confusion over the alias was superseded by Markov’s perfect imitation of Lugosi’s sepulchral voice. “You do a great Bela Lugosi,” Quinn said. This time Markov spoke in what was presumably his own voice, standard American with no discernible accent. “I am not an impressionist. I am a re-creationist.” Markov let his Lugosi gaze bore into Quinn before going on. “Do you believe in monsters, Mr. Quinn?”

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