Hey everyone! Okay...here goes: I read story where someone tried to combine the book character Abraham Van Helsing with Gabriel Van Helsing; it kinda bugged me :D so here's my version of how the novel Dracula was written...

This was more of a for-myself kind of thing so hopefully it's at least kind-of interesting (I go off on all these weird theory-based stories) but please read and review! Thanx (and disclaimer: obviously I DON'T own Bram Stoker :p)

It was a night that chills the blood of men—a night when the fog rises from the ground itself and forms an impenetrable shroud that holds an eerie glow of no source accountable to Nature. A night when the trees are bathed in the gauze of moonlight and the woods are as silent as an ancient graveyard hidden deep within. Edward was never a man to fear, but his visage grew steadily grimmer as his carriage rolled slowly along the road, lanterns bobbing in the bleakness. Hold—was that a face he saw, peering from the unearthly landscape of primeval giants? He could at times see the moon itself, shimmering through a ghostly veil of clouds above the Transylvanian forest.

The carriage shuddered to a stop, and Edward felt a jolt of uneasiness. "Driver? What is the matter?" he called. There was no answer. Edward heard something hit the ground beside the carriage, then two blood-red eyes peered in through the window, and for the first time in his life Edward screamed…

The man set down the quill and sighed explosively, running his fingers through unruly light-brown hair. He yanked his ponytail and set his spectacles down in annoyance. Why couldn't he get the bloody thing right? Cursing under his breath, he crumpled up the parchment, only to smooth it out again almost immediately—one did not waste—and pushed the quill aside.

Something flickered, and he jerked toward it. It was only the kerosene lamp, growing dimmer by the second. "Confound it all," he murmured, sighing more gently this time and giving it a rueful half-smile. It was his last oil; he'd have to go purchase some more tomorrow. He didn't know why he always forgot to refill the blasted thing; he suspected that his mother had been right when she said that all authors were impractical, absent-minded daydreamers.

There was a loud clang from upstairs, followed by some of the worst possible sounds to emanate from a piano in the history of man, in his humble opinion. He turned down the lamp and opened the curtains in order to work by moonlight, giving the ceiling a withering glare.

From outside his window the sounds of Victorian London filled the cool night air. A full moon was rising above the stacked and swirled clouds. It was so beautiful that it took his breath away. He found himself drawn toward the intricate swirls of cloud that shimmered in its blue-white luminescence, tracing them with his eyes, trying to capture the brilliant-yet-subtle hint of glimmering gold that lined its lower edge as it crested the uppermost cloud like a bird ready to take flight into the vast abyss of the sky and all its sparkling stars…

A pounding at the door shattered his reverie. "Enter!" he called out, still gazing out the window.

The door creaked open on rusted hinges, and the broad face of the tall, angular landlord's wife was framed in a rectangle of yellow light. The young student turned toward her, agitation evident on his features. He was dressed rather shabbily, with worn spots on his immaculately-clean waistcoat, and his hair as untidy as usual.

Mary Westingham sighed. "Mr. Stoker, you instructed me to inform you when it was six o'clock."


"It is now six o'clock."

"Thank you." She nodded, giving him a weary look, and shut the door, plunging him into darkness once again. Six o'clock. What was at six o'clo—

He jumped up and nearly tripped over his stack of papers on the floor as he raced to his closet. He lit one of his emergency candles—the moonlight wouldn't do—and hurriedly began combing his hair, attempting to change his jacket and shoes at the same time. Darn all if he was going to be late to one of the most important conventions of his young—but blossoming, he told himself firmly—career.

A moment of terror as he found himself trapped inside his jacket, inside out and backwards, then he could see again and sat down on the bed with an audible whump. His shoe was halfway on when he stopped.

What if they don't want me there? They talk about me as if I'm some sort of novelty; a sensationalist, as it were. At least horror is becoming a recognized genre now, but how recognized? Mary Shelley of all people is one of the leading authors: a woman! I could never give the world something as spectacular as her work…

Abraham, he heard another, nagging voice, say, Give up this imbecilic work. You have a career and a family. You work for the Lyceum Theatre. What more could you possibly want?

"But there is so much more, Florence. I can feel it, my great work, every time I look at the moon." Call me Bram, he had thought, annoyed, even as he had had taken her slim, cream-colored hand in his. "Don't you see, my darling?" He had gestured wildly at the full moon, so similar to the sight he was gazing at now. "It is there, I know it is. I just cannot seem to begin the task…"

And Florence Balcombe-Stoker, his wife and one-time love, had looked up at him with hollow, uncomprehending eyes.

Now Bram sat looking into the darkness of his tiny rented London apartment. Above him, the infernal—and abominable—piano playing began again. He sighed and gave one last glance at the wind-ruffled papers on his desk as he put on his hat and left.

Please read and review! Thanks much!