Fresh Mountain Air

To whomever it may concern. Please see to it that this letter is delivered to

                       Dr. Malcolm Hart                                                            November 2 1895
                       Albert Forth's Avenue 12b
                       York
                       England

         My dear Dr. Hart,
         This last letter I write in the vain hope that it will one day reach your hands. I have no way to send it home to you, and the chance that you will ever read this is utterly minimal. But writing is a comfort to me, something to occupy my mind – while I wait. In any case, you instructed me to write you whenever we made headway, and I would break my word to you if I did not at least attempt to tell you this – we found it.
         Blasted Carpathians. I have never fully appreciated the comforts of my little apartment, with its hearth and rugs and cushions, until I began spending my nights in this godforsaken little grotto. It is wet, damp and cold down here in my makeshift home, and the rocks I sleep upon bruise me as I twist and turn in my dreams; but I daren't sleep outside. These mountains are home to as many packs of wolves as roam in the whole of Britain, and yet that is not why I fear the open mountainside.
         Well, you are no doubt wondering what our research has concluded, so I will tell you all that happened since we left Brasov. We were, as you remember from my last letter, told that the only possible location for what we sought would be at the syphilis treatment facility at Lake Branvaka. Wasting no time, we left on Wednesday last, taking with us a hired guide, Nicholae, to get us through the pass. Mr Wentworth told the man that two thirds of his fare would be paid upon arrival. The man seemed quite hesitant to take us, I thought, and it did not surprise any of us, for the myths of syphilis have fooled just about every serf in Eastern Europe. I was, however, quite surprised at how far he lead us, for it wasn't until that following Friday that we woke to find ourselves abandoned. It must be noted that Professor Dalglish is an excellent map-reader, and with great excitement he appointed himself our new guide. By Saturday evening we were at Branvaka.
         I shudder to think of that place. Even the shabbiest public hospital in London allows a man to defecate with dignity. This “treatment center” was part hospital, part asylum, part prison and, I suspect, part brothel. The patients lay slumped on makeshift mattresses against the brownish, stained walls, with blank or desperate expressions in their bloodshot, yellowing eyes. The staff and so-called “doctors” were toothless, spineless bastards – if you would excuse my French. They showed little or no comprehension for English phrasings. They merely laughed when we inquired of them what they knew about "un remediu pentru sifilis".
         Disgusted and disheartened, we prepared to head back to Brasov.
         Monday morning, however, Wentworth had news. The janitor, an old Russian gentleman, had told him what the doctors and physicians had never bothered to mention. Three cells full of patients in the fourth ward, or deces casa, «the Death House», had escaped miraculously in the middle of the night, just a fortnight past. And this had happened several times before.
         We all, as I am sure you do too, immediately understood the significance of this. Sixteen men, all beyond any medical salvation, running through the uneven terrain of the Carpathian Mountains in complete darkness, and getting at least so far that no search team of men or dogs could discover their remains within a ten-mile radius? It was apparent that something had bettered their condition considerably, and eagerly we repacked our bags for a mountain hike. To their credit, the doctors provided us with fresh parcels of food and drink. Mr Wentworth advised that we should not tell them what we were up to, but rather allow for the assumption that we were simply set on a journey to enjoy the scenery. I thought this a wise course of action as well. The looks on the physicians' faces when we told them our revised plans were about as trusting as they were friendly.
         As we set off on the road due north of the hospital (this was of course in the same direction as the broken windows of the fourth ward faced), there was a cry, a terrible cry, from some window on the second ward, and turning we saw a young fellow, with a countenance that could have been handsome, had it not been covered with dirt, and bruised and bloated with the ravaging of syphilis. At first, he simply shouted (or laughed? Or coughed? I shall never know), but soon we could discern words, and thereafter sentences: “Nu lăsa să moară de foc, atunci când merg la culcare! De acolo sunt creaturi în aceste dealuri, care nu au nici un păcat!” Suddenly, he was gone from the window, and muffled shrieks told us he was being silenced by some brute guard. We walked on hurriedly.
         Professor Dalglish, the constant linguist, pieced together what we had heard, and thumbing through his pocket dictionary had it translated by nightfall: “Do not let the fire die when you go to sleep. For there are creatures in these mountains, that know no pity.” Somehow, I wasn't convinced the patient had been referring to wild animals . Shuddering, we took his advice, and, as an extra precaution, set up guard duties that night.
         Dr. Hart, I am sorry to inform you of this, but that following morning the three of us decided to separate, to attempt to find the patients on our own. It was a practical decision, of course, since we with this strategy would cover a lot more ground, but not a wise one. The plan was to rendez vous back at the campsite on the third day of our searching. I came there on that day, Dr. Hart. They did not. I have no news to give you of Wentworth or Dalglish, and no news to give their families. I have only my own experiences to relate to you, and I know I must finish my tale swiftly. The sun is setting.
         On the second night I spent alone, the fire died of its own while I slept. I woke instantly then, and a strange terror gripped me, as if a sudden warning had been sounded. Darkness in the Carpathians is surely the blackest of all darknesses. I could see no colors or shapes, only movement. And now something was moving near me. It walked with unsteady steps toward my camp, never breathing, never uttering a word. All the folklore we had been subjected to during our sojourn with the Romanian people filled my head with its wonder and madness. Devils and werewolves and banshees and witches – and the nosferatu, the walker in the night. I thought to lie still, Dr. Hart, to keep my head cool, try to find some weapon. But my wits left me and I ran. And he - it - followed.
         Dr. Hart, what found me in those mountains is a menace, an ancient evil – and the remedy you have sought. Yes, my friend, the only cure for syphilis is death beyond death, as we should have accepted long ago. This has been a fool's errand and a fool's price must be paid. Soon, I myself shall be cured - cured of all the plagues and torments of humanity. I will join with the escaped patients, and I shall have eternal life; and death.
         Lord, how the thought tortures me! How it batters my mind without respite! I am sat on the ledge between humanity and the realm of demons, where there are those who call on both sides, and the murmurs on that foggy, unfamiliar flank grow ever louder, ever hungrier.
         To you, Dr. Hart, should you against all odds come to read this, good luck and good health. I am sorry to have disappointed you.
         To you, traveler, reading these words. Get out of this cave as swiftly as you can. Take a horse down to Brasov, go at once to mass and do not look back, never look back, on this cursed place. For if I scent you through this fresh mountain air, I will not let you go.