#dracula book

[livefromcastledracula]

As a long-time fan of Stoker's book, Daily Dracula has me absolutely stoked because after decades of movie and TV adaptations slipping further and further from Stoker's work, and watering down Count Dracula's character into a generic romantic vampire and his enemies into milquetoast Victorian twats, the Internet is rediscovering that "Dracula" is really about a Victorian D&D party going full murderhobo on a megalomaniacal vampire supervillain as revenge for vamping their polycule sweetheart.

[unwavering-devotion]

NBD. IDC. BTW.

stay informed. look out for these dangerous acronyms!

[nortism]

[unwavering-devotion]

You mentioned sewage but have you considered john is slang for toilet. And he can never put the word off after his nickname in a sentence

I hope Dr. Seward never finds this.

[sewards-phonograph]

As usual, I am going to set myself a date, and say it on the phonograph, so I cannot possibly chicken out.

I, JACK SEWARD, IN FULL POSSESSION OF MY SENSES, HEREBY COMMIT TO PROPOSING TO LUCY WESTENRA ON THE 24th OF MAY.

I am going to regret this so bad.

[voivode-dracula]

24 June.

How shrill is a mother’s grief. How graceless her wailing.

The wolves, at least, know how to sing.

[strigoi-diabolicum]

Lucy and Mina If Lucy lived and they teamed up to murder Dracula.

[edwire]

big fan of whatever the hell these guys have going on

[dracula-sticky-notes]

Oh my god you throw ONE mirror ONE TIME and tumblr is never gonna let you forget about it

[thefandomlifechoseme]

me, when Jonny Sims appears in any piece of media he's been part of: oh hey. what's Jonny Sims doing in this piece of media I started consuming solely because Jonny Sims was in it.

[cathyartie]

Haven’t heard from our good friend Jonathan for a while, are you okay in there bro? Blink twice if no.

[the-vampira-carmilla]

"The blood is the life and it shall be mine." - Bram Stoker's, Dracula. 🧛🏻‍♂️🍷🩸

https://Instagram.com/vampiracarmilla

[emilycastlevania]

[agathah]

Day 23: Roses

Lucy and Mina 🌹(I love them)

[unwavering-devotion]

You should def rant about something— anything

I was never much of a religious man.

The belief of God, of course, was ingrained into me when I was young. As a child, I had no issues with it. Why would I? Everyone around me was faithful, and therefore it would be odd if I wasn't.

I do not remember when I stopped believing in God. I did not want to give up on Him, but He seemed to have given up on me already. I searched passionately for the thing that brought the people around me comfort and purpose, and found nobody and nothing.

That is, until He called out to me.

Not the God that I was taught to believe in, not the deity that had abandoned me. He was real. He was real and I could hear Him, there in my cell. I was instantly converted. His words were low and smooth, a pleasant change from the yelling in the asylum. He spoke of such wonderful promises, of rewards that I would be guaranteed with if only I followed Him.

That day I discovered what I was destined for. I was not some common loon, to be locked away and forgotten about. See, my madness has a method! I am not "insane" for what I do, I have a very good reason. It is not my fault that my doctor believes that very reason to be rooted in delusions.

He is no mere figment of my imagination. I know He is real. I know very well. My knees are not red for nothing, I pray to somebody who can hear me. God, or the Devil, whatever people may call Him…

I was never a man of much faith until that night, and He was now my devoted place of worship.

[sewards-phonograph]

*click, mechanical whirr*

Recorded by myself at the close of a singularly disappointing day. Weather clear. Mood inclement.

It is a curious thing to find oneself before this infernal machine, baring one’s soul like a cadaver on the slab. But I simply must, if only to rid myself of my thoughts. They are becoming circular – like a horse on a mill-track, grinding its own will into the dust.

I was – nay, am – a fool, and worse – a sentimental one.

This morning I proposed to Miss Lucy Westenra.

I had suspected some fondness, or at least some leaning, but hope is a treacherous thing, not easily strangled once it has been allowed breath. Her generous, warm manner invites misreading.

Or perhaps it does not guarantee reciprocation.

Regardless, she is kind. Not cruel. The fault is mine.

I had prepared myself in every conceivable way. Composed the speech. Rehearsed my posture. Polished my shoes – and that is a sure sign of emotional collapse in a man of science!

I did sit on a hat, but I know she is not shallow enough for that to account to anything. She must have known what to say all along.

I told her how dear she had become to me, how I might lean on her laughter like a crutch in my lonelier hours, and how, in my mad little world of shrieking inmates and sedatives, the thought of her had become my sole, unmedicated comfort.

She could have laughed, or hesitated, or made the whole affair seem petty. Instead she cried – Goddamn it, she cried FOR ME. I don’t know what to make of it. Perhaps that is worse.

She told me there was someone. No matter. I bowed, thanked her, and made some asinine remark about always being her friend.

Quincey was next. He’ll survive. Those types always do. The wild ones. The smiling ones. The ones that don’t bring a lancet to a proposal. (Apparently that isn’t normal?)

I saw Art later in the evening. It doesn’t take a clinician to diagnose a newly affianced man. So that answers that.

Good for him. Good for him.

*click*