9. From the journal of Ludwig Beilschmidt, 1931:

December 5.

Received some sad news from Dr. I. today. Two of the young people in the village have succumbed to the disease, and more are showing signs of it. He asked me about my symptoms. I told him no change. I asked if my lethargy might just be depression from the cumulative weight of the last year's events, from Father to Frau Groza. He seemed to think it plausible, but told me to keep careful note of my condition.

What he described in all the ill people in the village is a steady decline, however; so far no patients have recovered, even temporarily, after the sickness first appears—whereas I feel variable, different from one day to the next. Sometimes I'm too tired to even write, and must simply stay in bed all day. Gilbert looks after me. But just when I think perhaps we should call the doctor, the next day I wake up feeling a little more normal.

Gilbert never fails to restore my confidence. He swears he will not rest until I am strong again. I hinted that if I am still unwell come spring, he will have to continue on his way nonetheless; but he responded that he will not leave my side as long as I need him. What a comfort it is to hear those words! He went as far as to say that I am more important to him now than that errand that brought him here in the first place. I really don't know how to react to such a declaration. It is strange to be the focus of such devotion—devotion of a sort I have never known, unlike Father's or Frau Groza's. Yet it warms my breast to hear him speak so, and fills me with such aching, unbearable tenderness. Gilbert! How much I owe to him in these dark days, my truest friend, my heart's companion. When he looks at me I feign think the world stops; time holds still, and he and I are all that exist. Sometimes I wonder how I came to be so fortunate to have Gilbert in my life, such a generous, devoted soul.

...

December 7.

I have stumbled upon something most delightful. As I was going through my writing desk this morning looking for fresh pens (they seem to disappear at an uncanny rate) I found an old locket tucked away in the back of one of the drawers. I've no idea how long it has been there or how it came to be there, for I have no memory of it. Inside is a handsomely painted miniature of a young man, who—most amazingly of all—bears a striking resemblance to Gilbert! The coincidence has to be seen to be believed. I am burning with curiosity about the subject of the portrait; it must be someone else, after all, since Gilbert has not previously been acquainted with my family. But how on earth did it come to be in my writing desk? Father purchased this desk for me years ago, when I was still much too young to make much use of it; I am unsure of the desk's origins, but I suppose it is possible that the locket belonged to a previous owner. I find it hard to believe, however, that if it had been sitting in the desk all these years I would not have found it before now. I have, after all, gone searching through its drawers for pens before! I asked Erzsébet if she knew anything about it, though she was quite as baffled as I. If Father or Frau Groza knew anything of it, they have taken that knowledge with them to their graves.

That puzzle aside, I am ever so eager to show Gilbert. I think he will be quite delighted; I mean to give it to him as a gift, in thanks for all he has done for me.

I know physicists have discovered the laws that make this universe turn and dictate the logic behind worldly events, but in moments like this I almost believe some other hand must be at work, whether God's or another force as of yet unnamed; something that ensures that the paths of those fated to meet cross, and which might conceal a locket in the back of a drawer to be found when and by whom it is supposed to be found.

...

December 8.

Gilbert loved it! He was so pleased when I presented it to him that my heart was nearly full to bursting. Here is how it happened:

I entered the study where he was lounging on the sofa with a book, and saw he had fallen asleep. I debated whether or not I should wake him, but in the end I was too excited to wait. I roused him with a gentle touch on the shoulder. He smiled when he laid eyes on me; I apologized for disturbing him, but he said, 'Don't be sorry for a moment. You are a pleasant sight to wake up to; I would gladly awaken to your face every day.' He says such charming things often—they roll off his tongue as if second nature to him. Usually I might be suspicious of such flattery, as on anyone else it would seem obsequious; but Gilbert speaks with such heartfelt tenderness I cannot possibly think badly of him. In fact it only recommends his character further.

I sat on the sofa where he made room for me, and told him I had something for him.

'Something for me? But you have given me so much already! I hope you haven't gone to any trouble,' he admonished.

'No trouble at all. And besides, as of late it is you who has done far more for me than I for you; consider this but a token of my gratitude. It's nothing but a trifle, really; it doesn't come close to expressing how thankful and fond I am. But I was quite charmed by it, as I hope you will be,'—was my reply, more or less.

I then presented him with the locket and told him to open it. When he saw the portrait he was very surprised.

'Surely you didn't—' he began to say, but I interrupted him.

'I found it,' I explained. 'Isn't it an amazing coincidence? The likeness is striking, wouldn't you say?'

'Striking is an understatement! I thought for a moment you had secretly hired a painter, or that perhaps your own artistic talents extend beyond what you let on. But no… It must be someone else, after all. A long-lost cousin of mine, perhaps,' he joked. 'Where did you find it though?'

I explained about the desk and how puzzled I was. He agreed that it must have something to do Father or Frau Groza, though it is most strange that it should end up in my desk drawer.

Gilbert fell back to admiring the portrait. He smiled the whole time. Then he said, 'So, you found this, and the portrait made you think of me. How lovely. And you decided to give it to me, because you thought I would like it. That's so kind of you, Ludwig.' He almost sighed these words.

Then he gathered me in his arms and pressed me to him passionately for a few seconds before sitting back again. He kept an arm about my waist, however.

Perhaps it is only because I have had such a solitary upbringing, with hardly a friend who might embrace me like that—and Father refrained from those sorts of displays—but I am always somewhat caught off guard by Gilbert's more physical expressions of affection. Wherever he comes from, he must be quite used to that sort of thing. It's not that I dislike it, however—on the contrary, I find the touch of a fellow being—a friend—quite soothing and pleasurable, only I don't know how to react. I wish I could return the gesture, but it does not come naturally to me. In fact, I feel a great frustration in this regard: an inability to express myself fully and freely. I think, perhaps, a part of me even craves that touch—it is only human after all, isn't it? To seek comfort in the touch of a loved one?—while another part of me fears to seek it out. What exactly I fear I cannot tell; I simply feel a general anxiety, perhaps that Gilbert will think me childish and desperate. But, in secret—I would never breathe a word of this to him or anyone—I would have gladly stayed in his arms for hours. I think all the loss I have endured must make me long for human contact more than is usual or proper.

But as I said, he sat back while keeping an arm around my waist—that, at least, was a comfort—and looked at my face and commented that I seemed to be doing much better. Indeed I have been feeling better generally, by which I mean less weary. (I still sleep long hours, but the length of this entry alone should testify to the better state of my spirit and mind.) In that particular moment, however, with Gilbert stroking my hair and the fire before us, I felt so cozy and content I became suddenly drowsy—and I'm afraid I nearly nodded off, for suddenly I caught myself and snapped awake with a start. The air that rushed into my lungs then felt very cold; I realized the fire had nearly gone out all of a sudden. I revived it, but it took a while for the warmth to seep back into my bones. I only remark on this because it struck me as quite strange how suddenly chilled I felt after almost dozing off, though I had been so contentedly warm just moments before. This old house could use some new insulation, but alas it is a costly investment.

Gilbert chuckled and asked if I needed to take a nap too—as he had been doing when I came in. I assured him I was quite all right, and settled down with a book. We fell back and forth between reading—often out loud, to each other—and conversing. I caught Gilbert gazing fondly at the locket on several occasions—he had put it around his neck and tucked it under his shirt. I know the portrait resembles him, but I hope he thinks of me when he looks at it.

...

December 9.

I'm afraid I'm much too tired to write now—more tomorrow. I have things to report.

...

[L. Beilschmidt's handwriting in the following entry is irregular and in parts nearly illegible. The writing errors have been preserved here as authentically as possible in print.—E.P.]

December 11.

Said I'd write yesterday, didn't. Simply exhausted. Pen still feels so heavy what's wrong with me? Head's all foggy. So strange, when I'm awake almost feel like I'm dreaming—when I'm dreaming feel as if awake. So real

The eyes! They look

...

December 13.

I'm afraid I don't recall what I was trying to write when I left off my last entry so abruptly. Such things seem to happen disturbingly often these days. I sometimes feel as though I have been sleep-walking—I will suddenly come to and find myself in another room without remembering how I got there. I know I've given poor E. a fright more than once, but I've forbidden her from calling Dr. I.; I'm sure my symptoms are not worth troubling him over, at least not when he has far more serious cases to contend with. There have been more deaths in the village, and if Dr. I. were to make the trip up here, it would surely take him away from his other patients for a full day or more, what with the snow on the road—in any case, long enough to mean the difference between life and death for one of those poor souls. Besides, G. is as devoted a nurse as ever. He lay with me for hours when I was feeling particularly unwell the other day.

The nightmares disturb my slumber ever more frequently. Always the same; either the figure in the room who traps me in my bed, or the large dog prowling the grounds. It is most curious. But perhaps it is not surprising that a mind as troubled as my own should fixate on such ominous motifs. Nearly everyone has repetitive dreams at some point in their life—or so I have read. But they seem to become ever more elaborate and vivid. I don't always remember the details, but sometimes my impression of the dream is especially immediate and real; I tend to feel especially exhausted and distracted the next day when that is the case. That should not be surprising, considering the intricate workings that connect mental and bodily well-being. Whether the psychological disturbance of the dreams is the cause for the physical deterioration or vice versa I am unsure, however.

I am very tired now. I must write more tomorrow.

...

[L. Beilschmidt's writing again becomes more uneven and error-prone in the entry for December 14.—E.P.]

December 14.

The dream again. So hard to write when all I want is to float away. Can't seem to care about a thing today. All seems almost unreal anyway, except G

Dream—so real. Could feel that thing on me, inside me, like it was becoming part of me, or I part of it

pain, in my chest and neck, stinging pain. all gone now though, nothing hurts, just so tired

...

December 16.

I'm still recovering from my most recent relapse. The dream was so vivid last time, and I remember it better now, especially the pain and the feeling of being violated by that thing that pins me down so helplessly and seems to enter me and take something from me—it is difficult to describe. I told G. about it—though not in such great detail—and asked him to examine me where I had felt the pain, somewhere around my neck and shoulder, but he insisted there was no sign of any damage. It must either be of purely psychological origin or perhaps I have pinched something. A nerve can cause that sort of stabbing pain.

I hesitate to write this, but—I felt very strange while G. was examining me. He used his hands, feeling gently along my skin for any sign of injury. I suppose it all goes back to my discomfort at being touched. No, discomfort is not the right word—actually I found it quite pleasurable. Is that wrong? I don't know what I felt or feel—only that I did not want him to stop touching me, and that I long for an excuse for him to touch me again. It is something altogether new to me, the way he used his fingers, feeling so tenderly and yet with such focused intent. His hands were very cold, but they sent a thrill through my entire body—not unlike what I often experience in the dreams. It is very confusing, such pleasurable and uncomfortable sensations being mixed together in those nearly nightly encounters. No more on that.

...

December 17.

Have I gone quite mad? I was perusing my old entries, remembering happier times, when Frau Groza and Father were still alive; but I discovered something entirely inexplicable. I have found reference in several entries to a G., although they were written well before Gilbert arrived here! I have no memory of who this other G. is, nor any inkling who it could be. I write that I spoke to him, spent time with him, on a fairly regular basis—surely I would remember that! I have had no such companion that I can recall however. Unfortunately I cannot find a single instance when I wrote out the name, and I am sure G. does not refer to Frau Groza either.

I am at such a loss I am afraid I am losing my mind. Perhaps whatever strange affliction has been ailing me has worked into my brain and begun to wear away at my senses and memories. What will I lose next? Part of me is terrified that my mental faculties will deteriorate altogether and I will forget who I am, consigned to live out a lonely and empty life here in this house, or worse, I will go to an institution and become nothing more than another mute who knows not where or what he is. But then, another part of me says it is much too early to have such fatalistic thoughts; perhaps there is an explanation for this memory gap that is not quite so horrible. It does not mean I am doomed to slip away; I could yet recover. But how will I know if I have forgotten something more? I am sick with worry.

...

December 19.

I am going mad, I am certain now. I no longer know what is real and what is not. The night before last I had a most unnerving experience. It started out like one of my regular dreams, the one where I go to the window and see the dog with the red eyes. But this time something different happened; one moment I was in my room at my window, and the next I was outside on the grounds myself. I was sensible of the cold and the snow, but somehow it did not bother me in this dream state. I stood looking at the dog over the space of several meters, and the dog looked back. Its eyes were unnervingly intelligent—human-like, even, and yet more than human, not mortal or natural. Again, I could not escape the feeling that I have seen them before!

But then the beast turned and began to walk away into the darkness. I followed; I do not know why, but I was compelled to. My memory of this is incomplete, as if I were slipping in and out of consciousness even as I walked. When we came to the edge of the grounds I realized where this thing was leading me: to the family crypt.

(As an aside, since I don't believe I noted it before—It is a while since I have been to the crypt. In fact, I have only visited it once since Father was buried there. It was difficult to bring myself to see his grave again. Frau Groza was the one who made sure to keep fresh flowers there. After the first snowfall I paid one of the delivery boys to help me clear the area around the entryway, as I do every winter, but I myself did not venture inside. Since then I have thought nothing more of it.)

The creature now walked inside the crypt, and full of trepidation I followed. Upon entering, however, I found myself alone; the dog had disappeared. I noticed before me a tomb I did not recognize. There was no inscription upon it. It lay open. I felt drawn to approach, to gaze inside. I feared to see a rotting corpse; imagine then my shock, when it was no decaying skeleton I found, but my very own body lying in the tomb! I looked down upon my own face, expressionless and pale, my own stiff body, hands folded over a bouquet of flowers—still fresh, as if newly picked—upon my breast. I was filled with dread, and yet the observation passed through my mind that I looked so very peaceful.

But even as I watched, I saw the flowers begin to wilt; they dried and curled and crumbled before my very eyes, until they were nothing but withered stalks. Yet the face of my own corpse did not change, did not shrivel, did not age.

These disturbing visions sent my already fragile mind into a state of panic. I must have fled the crypt, for all I remember after that is stumbling blindly through brush and snow.

Now comes the most alarming part of all. This was no ordinary dream like the others, vivid as they sometimes are, for when I awoke I was not in my bedchamber. I was outside, huddled against the house near the door to the kitchens. Erzsébet found me there as she came out to fetch firewood in the early morning hours. I am lucky she found me when she did, for already I was half frozen and very disoriented. She brought me in and sat me by the fire, and drew up a warm bath, which helped restore me. It is surprising and lucky I did not catch frostbite—but then, who knows how long I was actually out there? It felt like I must have been outside all night, wandering around, but perhaps it was less than an hour after all. Sleepwalking now, on top of the nightmares. It makes me frightened what may come next!

Gilbert was very concerned when I told him. I did not give him all the details—I haven't told him about the dog or the figure I often see in my room, not in detail at least. He only knows I am often troubled by strange dreams. I am not sure why I have not confided in him, but somehow the dreams seem so very personal, even intimate. I suppose I am worried what he would think of them, or of me, if I told him. But the sleepwalking was something so new and worrying I felt I needed to tell him, to hear his reassurance. He was alarmed for my health after hearing I had spent at least part of the night outdoors, but I assured him I was feeling much better at that point, resting in bed after my bath.

I noticed that when I mentioned the crypt he tensed, but after telling him what I had seen inside, oddly enough he seemed almost relieved. His interpretation is that, having experienced so much of death in the past year, it is no wonder I should dream of my own death as well. He said the flowers must be a symbol of the fragile transience of life, while my own unchanging face represents—what did he say, it was so strange—my own 'longing for an eternal youth preserved in death,' I think his words were. I'm not sure whether that is true or even what it really means, but G. assured me (it feels strange now writing G., with the mystery of the "other G." from my earlier entries still hanging over me; perhaps I should just write Gilbert's name out all the way for now to differentiate?)—he assured me that the dream itself was nothing to worry about: no ominous omen but rather, as Freud has written, the product of my own subconscious fears and desires. What I should worry about, according to him, is that I don't go wandering off in my sleep again and do serious harm to myself, as I nearly did this time. Erzsébet will take extra care with locking the doors in the evening from now on, and she herself will keep all sets of keys so that I would have to ask her personally if I were to go outside. This shouldn't be any trouble, as I don't have much reason to venture out of the house these days, especially not in my unstable condition.

Later.

This can be added to the ever-growing list of mystifying and unsettling developments of late: Erzsébet mentioned to me that yesterday she saw what appeared to be the tracks of a large dog or wolf in the snow out on the grounds. Apparently, she hears from the delivery boy that several villagers have spoken of seeing an unusually large animal of that nature stalking through the village in the hours before dawn. She exclaimed how lucky I was not to have run into the beast when I was wandering outside at night, and we must take care that I do not run that risk again.

It is impossible, however, that this is truly the creature from my dreams. It must simply be an ordinary wolf—that is not uncommon at all! And either it has somehow grown to be larger than most of its species peers, or people are allowing their imaginations to run away, as I must not allow my own to do!

...

December 21.

News from Dr. I. is more deaths in village. So terrible.

Was so tired yesterday I couldn't write. This time I remembered more of the dream. With the being that comes into my room. It's so dreadful—quite certain that that thing puts its mouth on me, and then bites me. That's what it feels like. Why am I plagued by such a horrid idea? It makes my stomach turn.

But the eyes—I can't get them out of my head. They are terrible, and yet—compelling, is the only word that comes to mind. But why should I find them so? That is what disturbs me. I wish for nothing more than to never see this figure again, but at the same time whenever I gaze into those eyes—even in my imagination—I am lost, and have the strange feeling that I do not want to be found. Like they could hold me forever.

What am I saying? I must truly be losing my mind, to think like that about such a ghastly, evil vision. For it cannot be anything but evil, can it? I have never been a particularly religious man, but now I begin to be almost superstitious. The idea of Satan and his temptations to darkness suddenly seem far more plausible to me than they ever have before. Perhaps there is something more to them than fairy tales.

10. Audio recording dated December 22, 1931:

(There is rustling for several seconds, as though someone is situating himself on a soft seat—probably the bed. G. speaks quietly.)

G.: How are you feeling? Are you comfortable?

(L.B.'s voice is feeble.)

L.B.: With you by me, yes.

G.: What a dear thing to say. You must tell me, though, if there is anything you need, anything you desire.

L.B.: I don't desire anything more than your company.

(There is a pause, then the sound of someone shifting on the bed.)

G.: Do you mean that?

L.B.: Of course I do. Do you doubt me?

G.: No… You would never lie to me. Ludwig, you have no idea how much your words mean to me.

(There is more rustling, then a pause.)

G. (cont'd): There… Does this please you?

L.B.: (In a breathy whisper) Very much.

G.: You know, I wish I could hold you in my arms all night, every night, forever…

(L.B. breathes in shakily. His voice is unsteady, perhaps nervous.)

L.B.: Gilbert, why is the recorder on?

G.: Just for fun.

L.B.: We don't have any—any books today, with us, what are you—what do you hope to capture on record?

G.: Whatever happens.

(L.B. laughs uneasily.)

L.B.: Well, what do you plan to do with it? Who are you making it for?

G.: For us. Don't worry, no one else has to listen to it, if you don't want.

L.B.: Well, I don't—I don't mind, but it seems, well…

G.: Shhh, shhh. Don't worry about it. Can't we just enjoy being here, together? Isn't a simple moment of contentment and pleasant conversation worth preserving on record, that we may always look back fondly on it?

(L.B. grunts in agreement.)

G. (cont'd): I was hoping you might tell me more of these strange dreams of yours, though. They seem to trouble you so much—perhaps if you shared the burden of these strange visions, they might become more bearable.

L.B.: Oh, I shouldn't bother you with those silly fantasies. They're nothing.

G.: They are not nothing; not after you were found sleep-walking out in the snow! Troubled dreams are the manifestation of a troubled mind, Ludwig—if I could help you make sense of them, perhaps your mind would be more at rest. Please, let me help.

L.B.: They are—they are too ridiculous. Something a foolish young schoolboy would think up and only even younger and more foolish children would believe and be frightened of.

G.: But you are frightened, I can tell. And you may be young yet, but you are not foolish.

(L.B. laughs.)

L.B.: Young? You call me young? You can hardly be much older than I, Gilbert.

G.: Looks may be deceiving; though it is true, I am not yet so old. But come now, Ludwig; why do you hesitate to confide in me? I thought we could be open with each other.

L.B.: You… would think it strange.

G.: I'm sure it won't be as strange as many things I've seen and heard.

L.B.: But that it comes from my own mind, somehow—

G.: You are not at fault for your dreams, Ludwig. The unconscious mind is an alien landscape, and if we were all held accountable for what lies there, we would each one of us meet harsh condemnation. So whatever it is, it cannot make me think any less of you, if that is what you fear.

(L.B. sighs.)

L.B.: Very well. (Pause.) Sometimes, at night, I think I see a figure in my room—

G.: The one you said bit you, on the neck?

L.B.: …I don't recall telling you it bit me.

G.: Oh, I thought—you wanted me to inspect your neck for marks. I assumed, from your description, that you meant teeth marks. Was it not a bite you dreamed of though? Perhaps I may have missed something after all?

L.B.: I see… No, you're right; it did feel rather like teeth… It's difficult to remember.

G.: What do you remember, then? What does the figure do?

L.B.: I—The figure—it moves towards me. I can't make out its features, save for the eyes. They glow red, and they… paralyze me, somehow. They look right into me…

(There is a pause. L.B. voice is soft and he sounds distracted.)

L.B. (cont'd): Strange. I could almost swear—no, never mind.

G.: What is it? You can tell me.

L.B.: Well, it's ridiculous, really, but—your eyes. They remind me of the eyes in my dream, in a way.

G.: (Gently teasing) Please don't tell me that my eyes inspire terror in you heart.

L.B.: No, no, of course not. Actually, even in the dream… I am frightened, but—I'm not sure if terror is the right word. The eyes… Perhaps I'm only frightened of them because of how strange they are, how intensely they look at me. But those aren't bad things, necessarily, are they? Strange things can be awe-inspiring… even beautiful.

G.: Do you find my eyes beautiful?

L.B.: What? I— That's—

(L.B. clears his throat. He sounds flustered.)

L.B. (cont'd): Like I said, they remind me of the eyes in my dream.

G.: (Chuckling) I'll take that as an affirmation.

(L.B. begins to protest; G. cuts him off.)

G. (cont'd): But go on; what happens when these eyes look at you?

L.B.: Well, the creature… It, ah… Well, the rest is all quite indistinct, so it's not important, really—

G.: Ludwig, if I didn't know any better, I would say you were embarrassed. You're hiding something. I told you: you can't control your dreams; it's nothing to be ashamed of.

L.B.: That's just it, though, isn't it? Dreams show you—what you would rather not know, or say, sometimes.

G.: Is it so serious as that? What is it you would rather not know, or say? You can tell me.

(There is a pause. L.B. sighs.)

L.B.: If there's anyone I can tell, I suppose it's you. (He pauses.) The figure—it moves, like a shadow, over the bed… over me. I can't move, and it covers me, every inch of my body.

G.: And what is so shameful about that?

L.B.: W-well, it's quite—intimate, isn't it? I d-don't know, how I feel about it. And then it, w-with its teeth, or something, here… It hurts, but I—

(L.B. breaks off, as if unable to say more.)

G.: Is it pleasurable?

L.B.: Gilbert! How could such a thing be pleasurable?

G.: Pleasure and pain are two sides of the same coin, are they not? Sometimes, it is difficult to tell one from the other. Besides, you are right. It is a very intimate situation you describe. And you did say the shadow's eyes are beautiful.

L.B.: I did not say they were beautiful—what you're implying, it's entirely improper—

G.: I am implying nothing, merely repeating was you have said. What about it is improper, exactly?

L.B.: Well, this—thing; do I have to explain it to you? It's not… human, Gilbert. It is a vision of darkness. It must be. To derive any sort of pleasure from its visitations—to wish for anything other than its banishment from my mind—

G.: So I'm right. There is the source of your torment. It is not in the figure's actions, but in your reaction to it. You desire its return to your bed. But Ludwig, pleasure is not a crime. You must allow yourself—

L.B.: Gilbert, I don't see why we have to have this conversation while the recorder is—(He gasps.) What are you doing?

(There is a moment of perfect stillness. Then L.B. hisses. His voice is breathy.)

L.B. (cont'd): Gilbert!

G.: (Whispers) Do you want me to stop?

(Another pause, longer this time. L.B. speaks quietly, shakily.)

L.B.: No…

(There is silence for a few moments. L.B.'s breathing becomes audible. It grows louder and quickens. There is discomfort in his voice when he speaks, still in a whisper.)

L.B. (cont'd): Gilbert, turn off the recorder, please.

(A pause.)

G.: If you insist.

(There is shuffling and shifting on the bed for several seconds. Recording ends.)

11. Film strip from the collection of Ludwig Beilschmidt:

Undated. Handwritten note by E. Héderváry reads "late December?" 52 sec.

L.B. lies in bed. His head and shoulders, seen in profile, are framed closely by the camera, which lies on the bed next to him, perhaps elevated on a pillow. He looks worn and tired once more, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused as they gaze at a point out of the frame.

His eyebrows furrow and his mouth turns down in a frown before opening to breathe heavily. His eyes fall closed.

L.B. turns his head towards the camera. He raises his hand up and appears to cup his own cheek, but without actually making contact with his skin (as though he were touching something on his face that is not there, or that we cannot see).

His hand falls away. The strands of hair over his forehead move in an unusual way: not as though caught by an air current, but as though being pushed deliberately aside, though no visible force is acting upon them.

L.B. sighs deeply and is still for several seconds.

Slowly, his head turns from side to side, tilting back. His shoulders roll forward and his back arches off the bed, his mouth hanging open.

The expression on his face seems to be a mixture of pleasure and pain; his brow is knit. He appears to convulse several times.

L.B. gasps and one hand flies up, grasping at thin air above his shoulder. His fingers are clawed and tense.

His eyes fly open: they are white, no pupil or iris in sight.

He jerks violently. The camera tips over and the lens is covered with a blanket or pillow.

Film ends.

12. From the oral interview with Erzsébet Héderváry, 1992.

After the sleepwalking incident I became more worried than ever for the Baron. And I was worried, above all else, by how much time he spent with Gilbert. They would spend hours locked away together in Herr Beilschmidt's chamber, or the library. And when I say locked, I mean it—Gilbert insisted on keeping their privacy after the time I had entered unannounced.

It was a troubling, frightening time for me. I felt very alone. But I knew it was my duty to look after the household, and after my employer, as best I could. Herr Beilschmidt often slept long hours, just like Gilbert, but sometimes I had time to speak to him before his companion awoke. I would ask how he was doing, if he needed the doctor; he would always insist he was fine, that I was not to call the doctor—and how could I disagree, when disease was spreading down in the village? I couldn't very well call the doctor away from his post without good reason. I did offer once to call for a doctor all the way from Telmacel, but Herr Beilschmidt wouldn't hear of it. He said the expense would be quite unnecessary.

So I did my best to help him. It didn't escape my notice that his affliction seemed to be at least partially in the mind. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell if his lethargy was more due to physical exhaustion or to depression. I tried to keep him occupied; I would bring him his journal and his books, if he felt well enough for them. I also tried to speak to him, as best I could, to understand what ailed him.

He never told me exactly what he saw in his dreams, but he mentioned dark visions often enough that I had an inkling what sort of nightmares they might be. One time, I remember, I was trying to be reasonable, and I said it wasn't so surprising, that he was having bad dreams, when he had suffered so much. I did feel sorry for him and for all his losses, and I said so: not only for his father and Frau Groza and fiancée that year, but even earlier in his life, for his mother and brother. I said it would take time to heal from the new losses, just like it had from the old ones.

But then he looked at me, sort of confused, and said, "You are mistaken; I never had a brother."

I was taken aback, because I was sure Frau Groza had mentioned to me more than once that the Beilschmidt family had lost an older child just after the war; so I said so to the Baron. He simply replied that I must have misunderstood Frau Groza, for he would surely know it if he had ever had a brother.

I was bewildered, but what could I say? I thought I must have made a mistake somehow, as he said. But as time wore on my curiosity only grew; the more I thought about it the more I was sure of what I remembered. It kept nagging at me. I figured there was only one way to find out: I would go to the family crypt, and see if I couldn't find the tomb of the brother.

I felt a little foolish, contradicting the Baron like that, but I decided it didn't hurt anything just to check, and he would never know I had gone. So a couple days later, early in the morning before anyone would be awake, I set out across the grounds.

This was no easy task in winter, of course, with all the snow. The house sat on a relatively flat patch of land, which on one side sloped down to the village, and on the other began to rise steeply up into the real mountains. The crypt was just up a narrow path on that side of the grounds, where it started to get steep, sort of tucked away in this crevice out of sight of the house.

So, I was making my way up that path, when suddenly I noticed there were fresh prints in the snow: paw prints, large, dog-like. I had seen those prints before, and suddenly I remembered what I'd heard about a large wolf on the prowl around the village. I wondered if I hadn't better turn back; the tracks looked fresh. But I was a stupid young thing and this was the closest I'd ever had to adventure in my life, so I pressed on. Eventually the animal tracks wandered off the path, so I thought I was safe.

It wasn't until I had reached the crypt that I saw the prints again, and more than that, they led right inside. The door was standing open.

I wasn't sure if the wolf was still in there, but I didn't have to wait long to find out; I heard growling coming from the darkness inside, and then two eyes appeared, looking straight at me. They weren't eyes like I'd ever seen on any animal. They were red, and bright—not animal-like, but not human either: inhuman. And then I saw the beast itself. It was a great wolf, larger than any I'd seen. I'm sure it could have torn me to shreds if it had wanted to. And I was afraid it did want to; it stood there, at the entrance to the crypt, its hackles raised, growling and baring its teeth at me.

I was terrified. I was sure this was the end for me. I knew I had to get out of there, so I forced myself to move, but I thought it would follow me, chase me down; but it didn't. I practically ran the entire way back to the house, looking over my shoulder the entire time, but it never came after me. It could have killed me that day, but it didn't. For whatever reason, it let me live.

That's how I know that the Baron wasn't making it all up. I saw that thing with my own two eyes. I've read that journal, I know what he writes about it, and it wasn't just the product of fever dreams or a delusional mind. It was real.

I had hardly recovered from that fright when the telephone rang. It was Dr. Istrati on the phone, but he wasn't calling for the Baron—he had a message for me. He had just received word that my mother had fallen very ill, and I had to return home at once. My mother was an aging woman, so of course I was concerned; I woke the Baron to let him know—poor soul, he didn't look well at all. I didn't want to leave him at a time like that, but it was my mother. The Baron said Gilbert would look after him, I should take all the time I needed, etc. I never should have left him alone with that man.

It took me four days to get back to my parents' home, which was some ways out in the countryside outside Talmaciu. Heavy snowfall and the Christmas holiday made the journey longer than usual, and I was terribly agitated the whole time. When I arrived, I was surprised and relieved to find my mother doing perfectly well, for a woman her age, but I was disturbed to learn that they had never sent word to Dr. Istrati. I wanted to go back right away, but they convinced me to stay just for one night—and I thought, how much could go wrong after all? I didn't like Gilbert, but he did seem to care for the Baron, and the Baron trusted him. I thought things would be all right.

I arrived back in Telmacel four days later, on the first of January, 1932. The first thing I did was go to Dr. Istrati for answers.