(Foreword: No, I’m not dead! I’ve just been very busy. A lot of that has been cleaning, both of physical objects and of data. In doing so, I found this story which I never published. I release it here under Creative Commons NonCommercial ShareAlike.)
“Herr McClellan.” The Dutchman grasped the knob of his walking stick and flicked it out before him as he paced the breadth of my assistant’s lecture hall, bootheels clicking on the dark wooden floor. “Kindly do not treat me as if I were one of your undergraduates. I know the Analytical Society — if you but look, you will find my name on its rolls these thirty years past — and I give you my word before God Himself that it is no trivial task for which I seek its help now.”
McClellan did not rise from the carved, high-backed chair at the front of the empty auditorium. With one hand he gripped the end of the armrest; with the other he rubbed his temples, then slid his tiny gold glasses to the tip of his nose. “We are mathematicians, Doctor Van Helsing. I know your reputation — you’re a physician, a philosopher. I don’t see what aid the Society can afford you.”
But I did. For almost fifteen years I had been the only vampire residing within the Learned Triangle, but if the reports in the newspapers McClellan culled for me were true, that was no longer the case. Thanks to McClellan’s single-handed care, I had not left Cambridge’s walls in almost two decades; Van Helsing’s reputation as a dabbler in all matters parapsychological had begun here. His return now could not be mere coincidence. Indeed, had he not turned up of his own accord, I might have sought him out myself. Continue reading →