29 October 2020
Thursday. A note for the record, made in the steady hand of a man who has been dead for some time and does not intend to let it slow him down.
My notebook has turned up in Perth. I left it in the Count’s tomb on purpose, which nobody will believe, so I set it down here: a hunter leaves his notes where the next hunter will look. The tomb was the obvious place. It was empty, after all. There was room.
Last night, it seems, the first recruits followed my notes up a staircase in Northbridge and into his graveyard. He will write, I have no doubt, that they were a nuisance. Good. Nuisance is nine-tenths of hunting.
And let me correct the history books while I have the pen. Yes, I drove the stake. Yes, the Count fell. Yes, he got up again afterwards, which I maintain was poor sportsmanship and very likely a trick. I have been trying to finish the matter ever since, and dying has not made it simpler.
I am told my handwriting is cramped. It is economical. Paper was dear in my day, and ink was dearer.
— Prof. Van Helsing
