Chapter 14 Chapter Thirteen

Our next trip was to the east again, beyond the Julian Mountains, the small town of Kostanjevica, which means "the place full of chestnut trees". I spent the rest of the time poring over the letters in my room, my father said, wiping the salami stains off his hands with a cotton handkerchief. Aside from the tragedy of Rosie's mysterious disappearance, there was something else that was hovering in my head that I would not let go. When I put down the letter which told of the death of his friend Hedges, I was too sick to think for a while.I've fallen into a world of terror.But if, on pedantic principles, I refused to suspend my doubts, I would never see Rosie again.

And there are things that bother me.When I cleared my mind a little more, I realized it was because of the young woman I had met in the library.Even though it was only a few hours ago, it feels like days have passed.I remember the strange gleam in her eyes, the manly concentration of her brow as she listened to my explanation of Rosie's letter. Why was she reading Dracula's story? Why did she not sit at so many tables, but chose my table, just tonight, right by my side? Why is she talking about Istanbul? Sighing, I picked up Rosie's last letter.After reading this letter, I just need to see what else is in the big envelope, which is not harmful in itself, and then I am a person again.Whatever the girl's appearance meant, I didn't have time to track down who she was. My interest was in finding Rosie.

Unlike the others, this last letter was handwritten. My dear, unfortunate heir: I have some more information for you, along with everything you (probably) have already read.I think this time I'm going to fill this bottle up to the brim. "Small knowledge is dangerous," my friend Hedges would quote.But he was gone and never came back, it was as if I opened the door, punched him myself, and yelled for help.Of course I didn't do that.If you've been reading this far, you won't doubt me. A few months ago, I finally began to doubt my own strength, and this doubt came from Hedges' terrible and outrageous death.After I left his cemetery, I fled straight to America—literally.I've got a job.Even so, I couldn't completely put aside my experience with vampires.As it turned out, he—or it—apparently wasn't going to abandon me either.

I have entered the track of normal academic activities. I plan to go back to England for a few days at the end of the semester, visit my parents, and submit my doctoral thesis to the publisher in London.Then I started looking for the scent of Vlad Dracula, whether he was a historical figure or a ghost, whatever he turned out to be, I wanted to find him. My books are handled by a little guy who loves books in a Smithsonian lab.His name was Howard Martin, he was kind, but he said little, and he seemed to know my whole story by the way he did his best.But obviously, he just saw my love of history, sympathized with me, and tried to help me.The result of his best efforts is that the experiment is very good and very comprehensive.

He tried his best to help me with everything he could, and then wrote me that it was time to get the results. My heart was pounding and my mouth was parched.I wanted to hold my book again, and even more so to know what he had learned about its origin. We sat across from him in his manuscript-filled office, and I was horrified at the sudden change in his appearance.I only met him a few months ago and I remember his face, and none of his tidy, professional letters to me suggested he had ever given birth. He was pale, exhausted, and sallow. Yes, and the lips are also abnormal, with a deep red color.He's also lost a lot of weight, and his outdated suit now almost dangles from his thin shoulders.His life seemed to be drained dry.

I tried to tell myself that it was because I was too hasty when I first came here, and I didn't see his appearance clearly. After contacting through letters later, I observed more carefully this time, or I brought emotional color when observing.But even thinking this way, I couldn't shake the feeling in my heart that this person's life was rapidly withering in a short period of time. "Dr. Rossi," he said to me in his peculiar American English. "I don't think you realize the value of your book." "Value?" I don't think he will know its value to me. No chemical analysis in the world can analyze it.

"Yes, it is a rare medieval book, printed in Central Europe, very interesting and unusual. It should be after St. Luke of Corvinas, but after the Hungarian Bible New Before John came along." He shifted in his squeaky chair. "The dragon in the book may also have influenced the "Bible New Testament" published in 152. The latter also has a similar illustration, which is the Satanic devil with wings. But these have not been proven. However, It's supposed to be a ludicrous effect, isn't it? I mean, the Bible uses this devilish figure for illustrations." "Demonic?" I repeated the damned word uttered by someone else.

"Yes. You told me the legend of Dracula, but do you think I'll stop there?" Mr. Martin's tone was flat and bright, very American-like, and it took me a while to react.Never before had I heard such an ominous or menacing concealment in such an ordinary voice.I looked at him, confused. "These are the results of our analysis," he said. "According to the results of chemical analysis, this book should have been stored in a rocky and dusty environment for a long time, it should be seventeen years ago. In addition, its back has been impregnated with salt water-perhaps experienced For the sea voyage's sake. I think it might be the Black Sea, if we are not mistaken in our estimation of the origin of the brine. That's all, we can't be of much help to your further research—you don't mean you're writing a Medieval European history?"

He looked up and gave me a casual, friendly smile, which made his life-forsaken face look rather eerie. I realized two things at the same time, and it made me sit there creepy. First, I never told him what medieval European history he was going to write.I'm talking about looking for information related to my book, wanting to make a complete catalog of biographical information on Vlad the Impaler, the legendary Dracula.Howard Martin, who studies medicine, is as precise as I am an academic, and he would never make such a mistake without knowing it. In the second place, the poor man I saw at this moment was rotten from the inside, perhaps beset by some dreadful disease.His lips looked limp and decaying.I remember the officer in Istanbul very well, though Howard Martin had no marks of inappropriateness on his neck.

I suppressed my fear, took the book and notes from his hand, and heard him speak again. "By the way, that map is extraordinary." "Map?" I froze.I know only one map—three, in fact, on different scales—and I see no connection between that map and my present intentions, and I am sure I have not mentioned it to the stranger. map. "Did you draw it yourself? The map isn't very old, obviously, but I suppose you're not a painter. Not in the horrible sort, of course, if you don't mind my saying so." I stared at him dumbfounded, unable to understand the meaning of his words, and unwilling to ask him back, I was afraid that I would say something I shouldn't have said.

Did I leave a picture in the book that I traced?If so, I'm really stupid.But I must have checked to see if something was stuck in the book before handing it to him. "I put it back, so it's still there," he said reassuringly, "Dr. Rossi, now do you want me to take you to our finance department, or have them send the bill to your house?" He opened the door for me, showing his professional wry smile again. I steadied myself and didn't immediately turn to the book to find the map. By the light in the corridor, I found that I thought Mr. Martin's smile was weird earlier, and I must be thinking about it.Maybe even his illness was something I imagined.There's nothing wrong with his complexion, and he's just a little hunched over years of working in old papers, but there's nothing weird about it other than that.He stood in the doorway, held out a hand, and said goodbye to me warmly, Washington-style.I took his hand and whispered that I hope the bill can be sent to my school. I alertly left his door, walked through the corridor, left the red castle that surrounded the hard work of him and his colleagues, and came to the fresh air outdoors. I walked through the lush grass and sat on a bench. Try to appear nonchalant, try to feel nonchalantly. I opened the book in my hand and saw the familiar dragon, but I couldn't find a single page.I found it when I turned it from the back to the front again-a map left on carbon paper, as if someone spread out the third one in front of me, the most secret one of my secret maps, and copied it Those mysterious lines.The place names marked in those Slavic dialects are exactly the same as those on the map I know-Stealing Pig Village, Eight Eagles Valley.In fact, there's only one place on this map that I'm not familiar with.Beneath the name of that wicked cemetery, there was some writing in neat Latin, in what seemed to be the same ink used elsewhere.Where the cemetery is, a line of writing winds around it, deliberately showing a connection, and I see that it says Bartholomew Rossi. Reader, call me a coward if you feel the need to, but I gave up from that moment on. I'm a young professor living in Cambridge, MA, where I teach, go out to dinner with my new friends, and write weekly letters to my aging parents.I don’t wear garlic, I don’t wear a cross around my neck, and I don’t make the sign of the sign of the cross when I hear footsteps in the corridor.I have better protection - I no longer go to the ghastly crossroads of history and dig there.Some things will calm down only if I quiet down, because I am not facing further tragedy. Now, if you yourself had to choose sanity, would you remember that you choose life instead of being really crazy, that life is the proper way for a scholar to spend his life? I knew Hedges wouldn't like to see me plunge headfirst into the dark abyss.But if you're still reading this, it means danger has come to me.You also have to make choices. I have told you everything I know about this horror.Will you refuse to rescue me when you know my story? your pain, Bartholomew Rossi August 19, 1931 When my father's story was almost finished, I had turned around and saw that the old woman who cleaned the house had disappeared from the window above the castle, and was replaced by a dark and forbidding figure.