Page 40 of Lucy Undying (Dracula #1)

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Whitby, October 6, 2024

Iris

Elle’s so quiet and still the entire train ride, I worry she’s gone catatonic or something.

I can’t understand why she agreed to come at all, since clearly she hates Whitby. I might have jumped the gun by inviting her. Wanting to know someone and actually knowing them are very different things.

The train lasts forever. I left Lucy’s journal in the safe out of fear that something might happen to it, and I miss her like she’s my best friend.

I stare out the window as we pass an ancient viaduct. Lucy said something about Whitby in one of her entries, I think. I wonder what she thought of it. If she loved it there. If it felt like an escape from oppressive Hillingham.

If her traveling companion was so still and white she might as well have been carved from stone.

But as soon as we step off the train, something loosens in Elle. Her expression softens. She takes in the city, curled and sprawling along the coast. “It hasn’t changed,” she says. “I thought it would feel different, but it doesn’t.”

Given that she told me it was a bad place, I would have assumed that was a bad thing, but she laughs and links her arm through mine. I’m surprised, but also relieved. Maybe she gets trainsick, or maybe she was dealing with something I’m not privy to. But I no longer regret inviting her as she guides me out of the train station.

We aim for a narrow lane winding through the charming old harbor. The west side of Whitby is newer urban sprawl, but the east side looks frozen in time, and that’s where we’re headed.

Eastern Whitby is built into hills and cliffs overlooking the ocean, nestled in between lush grass, towering rock, and waiting ocean. The houses are mostly redbrick and whitewashed boards, all with the same reddish-orange roofs. They follow the organic lines of the land so well that they almost look natural. On a hill looming over everything is a weathered stone castle, or maybe a church. I didn’t do any research before we came, which was probably a mistake. But so far, I’m charmed by Whitby. It doesn’t strike me as a bad place at all.

The charm fades a bit when I check my phone’s map. The house isn’t along the harbor or beach walk, but rather in the hills. There are numerous walkways and infinite stairs winding up, so it won’t be hard to get to. Just annoying.

“Tea!” Elle chirps. “I’ll be right out.” She darts into a tiny shop. I walk onto a pier and lean against the railing, staring down at the dark water. It’s quiet here, a marked difference to the bustle of London. There’s old and busy, and then there’s old and sleepy. Whitby is the latter.

Elle returns and hands me a cup of coffee. There’s a brisk wind coming off the ocean. Even though it’s sunny, I wish I had brought a heavier jacket. At least Elle thoughtfully got me a hot drink. I hold the cup between my hands and breathe in the steam. Elle holds her tea the same way, staring down at it as though she can read her fortune through the lid.

“My dad died in Whitby,” she says without preamble.

I choke on a mouthful of coffee. Once I have that under control, I turn to her. “Oh my god. What? I’m so sorry.” No wonder she was distant and withdrawn on the train!

Elle’s gaze shifts, sweeping over the harbor before resting on the cliffs in the distance. “It was a long time ago. I wasn’t allowed to feel what I needed to feel about it, though. Anger isn’t a pretty emotion, my mom always said. My grief became a wound that never healed. But now I know I’m allowed to feel what I need to. What I want to. And standing here, I can at last acknowledge my anger. He wasn’t around to protect me from my mother anymore, and I resented him for abandoning me and for escaping. Which I know is an odd way to look at a tragic death, but that’s what it felt like. That he got away, and I was stuck.”

I don’t want to be the person who answers someone’s intimate emotional offering with my own trauma, but I do want Elle to know I understand. I lean a little closer so our arms are touching. “My dad didn’t protect me from my mom, either. I’m sorry you went through that, and I’m especially sorry you weren’t allowed to grieve how you needed to. Is it too hard for you to be here, though? You don’t have to stay.”

Elle’s eyes find the building at the top of the cliff and linger there, like she’s searching for something. She doesn’t smile, but her face is open when she looks at me again. “No, this is good. It’s good for me to be back here, to face the person I was when so much changed forever. I think part of me got stuck in those moments, you know what I mean? Like I’m still there. Like I never left. But standing here in the sunlight, I can finally forgive who I was then for everything that she did, and for everything that happened to her.”

I squeeze her arm. I don’t have anything to say, but I want her to know I support her, and I’m here for her. I have that same sense I get with poetry, that someone is saying something I’ve always felt but never been able to express. I’m a little choked up.

Then a smile as sly as a cat slinks across Elle’s face. “Besides, I’m excited to see your disappointment when you figure out why Whitby is favored by the geriatric crowd. There’s nothing to do here except walk around and say, ‘Oh, this is nice,’ and talk with people about the weather. It’s windy. What else is there to talk about?”

I laugh and lean against the railing to look up at the cliffs. “It is nice, though.”

“So nice.”

“And windy.”

“So windy!” Elle laughs, brushing her hair out of her face. My own curls are an impossible tangle already.

I’m relieved that Elle seems happy, and I’m quietly thrilled that I gave her this opportunity. Maybe this trip won’t be the flirty diversion I had hoped for, but…this is better. I’m surprised to find I’d rather help Elle than spend a couple days looking for opportunities to make out with her. It’s been so long since I connected with anyone on more than a safely superficial level. It feels nice. It also feels dangerous, but I ignore the warning bells in my head.

We stroll along the oceanfront, investigating various tourist-trap shops. I finish my coffee and throw the cup away, Elle tossing hers in after. She takes my hand, hers deliciously warm against my clammy skin, and pulls me toward an art shop.

“Look!” she says, pointing excitedly at the window.

“Mm.” I put on my best museum face, where I pretend like I’m thoughtful and interested and have any idea what I’m looking at. I point to one particularly dull seascape, my gesture following the lines of the crudely painted sailboat. “You can really see the influences of the Ennui movement in the lack of any visual interest.”

Elle laughs, the chiming tones bouncing off the stone street beneath us and the brick buildings around us. I’m surrounded in the best possible way.

“My little cabbage,” she says, “I meant look at the frames. Seem familiar?”

“Oh! Yes. They look like the frames from the house.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m sure I can sell them for a premium. That, and the very prestigious Ennui movement, of course.”

“Of course.” We grab fish and chips—just chips for poor allergy-prone Elle—and she sits on a bench to eat while I stand on the pier. I stare out past the protected harbor to the wild ocean beyond, wishing I could take a boat and disappear into the vast blue. Wondering where I’ll disappear to, when I get the chance. It all depends on how much money I make.

Elle’s already finished and waiting for me when I turn around. “You ready?” She points to the stairs leading up into the hills. “Race you!”

“Absolutely the fuck not.” I laugh as she ignores me and darts up. I’m reminded again of a cat, the same way I was when she weaved through the crowd after saving me. I could watch her move for the rest of my life and never tire of her playful grace.

Calm your tits, Iris, I think. We only have a few more days together.

I navigate the stairs much more slowly than she does, eventually catching up to her on the hill immediately below the castle thing. “What is that?” I ask, pretending I’m not out of breath, because she isn’t.

“A church and the ruins of an old abbey. We can go up there if you want?” She doesn’t seem enthused by the idea, which is a relief. I don’t want to climb any more stairs.

“Let’s find the house so we can drop our stuff.” As always, I brought everything with me in my trusty running-away backpack, and it isn’t exactly light. Elle has a much slimmer backpack on.

She glances at the map on my phone and takes off down one of the narrow lanes branching away from the stairs. “Found it!” she calls.

The house, redbrick, white boards, and red roof, is at the end of the lane on the edge of the hill. The small back garden slopes down sharply, so that when you’re standing where I am it looks like there’s nothing beyond the yard but the infinite cold ocean. It’s an absolutely killer view. I wish I could sell this house, or even move into it, because damn.

Did Lucy stand here and look out? Did it fill her heart and soul? It makes me feel closer to her, being here. Like I might open the door and hear her laughing, inviting me in for tea and gossip.

When I reach the front, though, I see they’ve cut the house in half to make it a duplex. I doubt it was that way when Lucy stayed here. I unlock the door on the near side first. I’m greeted with a hint of salt cut by filtered, circulated air. The narrow entryway has stairs leading to the second floor and a hallway back to the rest of the house. The floors are tasteful tile, the walls white, all charm and character smoothed out to make it as blandly appealing as possible. There are a few kitschy items—a glass table with driftwood legs and a mirror framed with shells—but nothing of the old owners remains. Lucy’s definitely not waiting here for me.

I set the key down on the table. By design, nothing here will be easy to steal and sell. I’d expected as much, but I’m still a little disappointed. I glance over my shoulder to find Elle lingering on the doorstep, her back to me like she’s considering continuing up the hill.

“You coming in?” I ask.

“Just thinking about what the sunset will look like from up there.” She turns and steps inside, taking in the house with a single dismissive sweep. “This is dull.”

“It really is, isn’t it?”

“I hate it when they chop old houses in half like this. It kills the flow and the soul.” She walks straight through. The kitchen is against the wall between the duplexes, probably to save on plumbing. It’s all chrome and white, a small table crammed in next to the back windows. There’s a family room, too, with stiff couches, a TV with laminated instructions on how to use the remotes, and a shelf with a handful of books doubtless left by previous vacationers. Sure enough, all I see are paperback thrillers and romance. I miss Lucy’s journal.

All along the back of the house are windows that frame the ocean more beautifully than any of my antique gilded frames back at Hillingham. I can forgive the blank canvas of the remodel. The view is the point, anyway.

I follow Elle upstairs and resent the romance novels downstairs, which I’m sure feature the best trope: Oh no, there’s only one bed! There are two main suites here. Elle leaves her stuff in one of the bedrooms and I take the other. There’s nothing remarkable about either. They could be any bedroom anywhere, except for the views. I can see the abbey ruins from here.

“What happened to the abbey?” I shout.

Elle comes in, joining me at the window. “It burned down or something, I think. I don’t know. It was too boring to pay attention to.”

“I thought you were a historian,” I tease.

“Well, I wasn’t when I was a little girl. There’s a graveyard up there, too.”

“Ooh, I love old graveyards!”

Elle gives me a baffled look. “You say that with the excitement of a five-year-old being told they’re visiting the zoo.”

“It’s just so fascinating, right? What we do with our dead says so much about us culturally. What we value. What we fear. So, like, in America we’re not content with merely preying on people while they’re alive by telling them they’re not thin enough, pretty enough, rich enough, healthy enough, safe enough.” My family is evidence of how lucrative that is. “No, we also have this predatory industry around funerals and death. When people are grieving and vulnerable, they’re told that not only should they pick an expensive casket, but they should also pay for an outer casket, so that the thing designed to hold your body and go into the ground is protected from the ground. And you can’t just cremate someone, they have to be in a casket in order to be cremated. Heaven forbid you leave this world without someone being able to cash in on it. And then just burial in general. Why are we filling bodies with chemicals and then sealing them away from the natural processes of decay? They’re dead. Let them go back to the earth that nourished them. Instead, we preserve an already dead body—for what?—and then plant stones above them in a mockery of oh my god, I need to stop talking, don’t I.”

Elle’s dimples betray her smile even if her lips are held perfectly neutral. “No, this is interesting. But don’t you think there’s meaning in remembering the dead?”

“Asks the historian! That’s a trap of a question. Obviously there’s meaning in it. When people die, they become memories. They become stories. And those have value. But their dead bodies? Not so much. But that’s just my opinion. What do you think?”

“Honestly? I find graveyards quite uninspiring.”

“So, you don’t want to do a midnight tour.” Normally I’d be up for one, but today I’m relieved. Last night I was so tired I slept ten hours straight. No moonlight interruptions, but my dreams were restless and upsetting. Nothing but being pursued by shadowy figures. I woke up feeling even worse.

“No, I definitely don’t. I’m going to go for a walk now. You can join, if you want.” The way Elle says it, I suspect she wants some time alone. She probably needs it, too, processing her feelings about Whitby and what happened here.

“Thanks, but I’m going to take the longest, hottest shower in the history of showers, and then I’m going to bed. I know that’s boring.”

“That’s what Whitby’s for! Being dull old ladies. I’ll take a walk in the sea air for my health, and you can retire to bed before the sun sets. We’ll blend right in. Just be sure to pay attention to the weather so we have something to talk about in the morning.”

I laugh and remind her to take the keys so she doesn’t have to worry about how long she stays out. And then I stay mostly true to my word. After my shower, my skin bright red from my attempt to steam myself alive, I investigate the house to see if there’s an attic. Sure enough, I find an opening in my closet ceiling. My phone’s meager light reveals that the attic extends the entire length of the pre–duplex remodel house. But it’s empty. There’s nothing to see, and nothing to sell.

Still, I can’t regret this Whitby detour. It was good for Elle, and that has value for me. Plus, the shower was divine. Clean and exhausted and feeling like an ancient old crone going to bed with the sun, I lie down and close my eyes.

I open them. It feels like someone’s weighted them with coins. My mother’s outside the window, staring at me, silent and furious. Somewhere in the house I hear crying. They both want me to go to them, but I stay where I am, curled in the bed, trying to ignore it all. I have a book of poetry—no, it’s Lucy’s journal—but I can’t read the words. They all blend and blur together. No matter how hard I try, I can’t understand her.

“Lucy!” I shout. That’s who’s crying. She needs me. I have to find her; I have to help her.

I struggle so hard to move that I pull myself out of the dream. The room is dark around me, and I struggle to ground myself in reality. My mother’s not outside the window, because it’s the second story of the Whitby house. Lucy’s not in danger. She’s not alive anymore. And neither is my fucking mom.

I’m just on the edge of consciousness, about to slip back under, when something pounces on the end of my bed. My scream tears through the night as eyes flash at me in the dark.