Chapter 1

From Jane Hanson’s Personal Journal

(written in her own hand)

My name is Jane Hanson, Doctor Jane Hanson, and I am about to die. I must explain the start before I tell you of the ending. With pen in hand, I write the events, which are so fresh in my memory. Having found this old, empty book with the word — Journal, emblazoned across its face.

I take this task upon myself to write what has happened to me since I arrived here. Months have transpired with me in this, shall I say, prison. They passed like a flash of lightning in the night since this all began so far from here. With this said, I feel as if years passed by since I first stepped into this wonderful ... dreadful ... residence. The beginning, yes, the origin of this thing, for I must tell the tale from commencement to conclusion.

I traveled to a land a vast distance from my home for the opportunity to study with one of Europe’s leading minds in the fledgling field of psychiatry. The elementary truth, Doctor Valerie Drago was a woman, piqued my interest. A letter arrived for me in the spring of last year. The details fascinated me, as the doctor told me I had been recommended by a mutual friend.

My mentor, Doctor Cornelius Cantor, and Doctor Drago were old friends. She said he believed I would be an excellent assistant, and she had several unusual cases she would like my help with, and in so doing, I would improve my craft. Whom better to learn from than one of the established masters?

My fiancé, Michael, and I caressed on the dock near the ship’s gangplank. Next to the steam vessel, which would carry me to Europe. We were, all but scandalous, holding our fond farewell embrace for such a long time. I’m sure the onlookers had a frightfully, wicked impression of us. After an extended period, we laughed, hugged, and smooched once more.

Once again, we clung together, holding fast, too, aware soon, far too soon, we would kiss goodbye for an entire year. We broke apart; with sweet Michael’s nervous energy and anxiety about our pending, prolonged separation getting the better of his judgment, he burst into a diatribe to relieve the internal tension.

He prattled on about his life’s work, talking in an endless stream of rushing palaver about his passion until, fearing our time together drew near an end, I grabbed his face. I stood on my tiptoes and brushed our lips together.

Placing my hand to his mouth, I stopped him from resuming his endless burbling about dirigible airships and how his design would change the world. We held one another, as if our lives depended on our touching, until the fateful call, “All aboard who’s coming aboard,” sounded, and the luxury liner’s horn blasted a shrill, ear-piercing report.

“Yes, and Michael Warner,” I said, smiling at his enthusiasm for a future few might envisage, “airboats shall be the most successful means of transportation ever conceived. Now, go, make your dream a reality.”

Kissing his cheek, I put my hand on his chest, lingering a moment longer. Turning quickly, lest I change my mind at the last moment, I marched up the gangway, making my way to the stern of the ship.

At this time, Michael paced back down the dock in the same direction I traveled.

Standing at the rear of the ocean liner, waving at him with one hand, hanging to the handrail with my other hand, the water churned from the propellers, the mighty steam engines, power shuddered through the gigantic vessel.

Another blast sounded from the ship’s horn, the massive leviathan awoke, and with a trembling, shudder we crept forward. Michael shouted at me, waving, plodding back down the berth, keeping pace, until, at last, he ran out of dock, stood motionless, one step short of plunging into the Hudson.

Amid the noise of the churning water, the loud blast of the ship’s horn, I made out his last call.

“I love you.”

Michael waved and waved, shouted his love to me until he alone remained on the dock.

For some extended time, I stood at the balusters. Michael became smaller and smaller until I viewed him no more. With determination, I fixed my eyes on Lady Liberty before she, all, too, soon, disappeared from sight. I held my position in the cold April sea air as Manhattan hid behind Long Island.

How long it took for the mainland to vanish, I cannot say. All the while, my hands clutched the handrailing, holding on to the thing, my knuckles turned white until I caught my final glimpse of America. A dread of the future, yet excitement about my imminent adventure, eager to learn all which is feasible in the hopes of advancing my fledgling career, caused me to shiver. Or perchance, the April air of the Atlantic caused my shudder.

In all too short a time, the surrounding islands, and yes, the grand American mainland, shrunk from view, swallowed by the sea’s vast horizon. Letting loose of the rail, I realized how cramped my hands were. For hours, I’d clenched the balustrade so tight, with a death grip, I couldn’t comprehend why. Even in my current state, I remember this all too well. My long sojourn commenced Monday, April 29th, 1901. I wonder as I write this, is the year of our Lord still 1901?

The trek took four days for the voyage to France. From the port, I traveled by train. Finally, making my way to an eastern European forest. Beyond the forest stood mountains, far more rugged than the mighty Rockies. To be frank, having seen the Rockies only in pictures, my imagination might have overtaken my perception. For I know the Rockies and Alps are taller. With that said, the peaks before me, jagged and imposing, appear nigh to impassable.

Never had I traveled so far from my home. I had no family save Michael. Nevertheless, I missed my tidy, modest house, my city, my country. I fought my qualms, clung to my hopes, forcing myself forward to my destiny.

The final leg of my expedition, completed in a window-lined horse-drawn coach, which to me was much like the hearse at my mother’s funeral, though this one was taller than her final conveyance. I entered through a small door at the back and sat on one of the two long benches running down the sides with thin, cushioned leather seats.

The humid May weather made the tight quarters quite uncomfortable. How I wished the windows, along the walls, opened to let fresh air into the coach, but alas, they served a single purpose, allowing light inside, and nothing more.

Nine of us shared this small carriage space, and often my knees knocked together with the occupant in front of me, a sizable, friendly-faced German with a prodigious girth about him. His genial appearance appeared to flee when he spoke.

His native language was harsh, guttural, sounding angry, and demanding. At the same time, his face held a friendly grin. The sound in my ears and the view of his face presented a stark opposition to each other.

The passageway we followed festooned through the woods, like a garland winding around a Christmas tree. The forests were thick with trees, a contrast unto themselves — old, gnarled trunks alive with lush, newly sprouted leaves upon them. Although humid, the air was fresh and clean, as though the world made new, with this morning’s break-of-day.

The grass had a sweet, musty odor, and wildflowers bloomed all around us, lending their own redolence to the pleasant, pastoral setting. The bright day gave an air of warmth and cordiality to the event. We ate a delightful picnic-style lunch around midday in a clearing of the forest, a most welcome find amid the winding sliver of a roadway.

A precocious, young girl spoke to me in some strange tongue, smiling and laughing at her own witticisms, of which I understood, not one jot. I laughed with her to avoid the appearance of rudeness. The girl’s mother, who spoke some English, thanked me for my kindness and asked my destination.

“The sanatorium at Castle Drago,” as I spoke, a cloud passed over the sun. A shadow crept over us, and the temperature became decidedly chillier.

The woman’s face grew ashen. Her eyes darkened within her pale features, and her lip trembled as she beheld me. At once, the peasant woman hustled her girl into the coach.

Turning to me, she crossed herself, “God protect you.”

She reached behind her neck, unclasped, and removed her necklace with a small crucifix. Bustling over to me, the middle-aged mother placed the silver cross around my neck.

“May this give you protection from all the dread, terrors of the night.”

I tried to refuse her offer. Nevertheless, she pressed the superstitious ornamentation to me, in the firm belief, the tiny idol would protect me.

The immense man took me by the shoulder and said something in German, the stern visage of his words, coupled with his visible grimness, imparted an absolute concern for my wellbeing.

The other passengers each chattered, each in their own languages, their prostrations filled with blatant negativity. Their clamoring appeared to be warnings about something dire for all the world to understand. But for me, I was unable to comprehend the babble of their foreign tongues.

“Don’t worry,” the coach driver told me, “they are all superstitious fools. They think monsters possess the Countess’s hospital. In these parts, they believe demons are hidden in the rugged Carpathia Mountains. Many of them think ogres reside beneath their own beds.” He laughed aloud at their foolishness. Be this as it may, I sensed the man put up a brave front for my benefit, noting how often he said a short, silent prayer and crossed himself.

“Good Doctor, I think things might be better if you ride with me in the box.” He pointed to the driver’s seat, “What is the term, in your American West? Shotgun, yes. Please, they will drive you as batty as your patients who live in the fearsome bastion.”

It was difficult, but with his help, I scaled the wheel, hoisted myself into the box, and took my place to the left of where the driver sat. At least, the air would be better in the open ridding with the driver.

He clambered up, landing in his seat with considerably less difficulty.

We resumed our journey, stopping every few hours to allow the horses to rest and the passengers to exercise their legs. Throughout the trip, I remained on the seat. At each stop, the other passengers assaulted me in broken English and strange tongues, begging me to reconsider my decision. Their barrage caused grumblings in my own mind. For the first time, I doubted my judgment in coming.

“Do not go to the dreadful place,” the mother of the kind child said. “Come with us to our home, and from Bacău, you can return to England.”

“I’m from America,” I said. “I have to work at the sanatorium to earn money to return to my home country. You mustn’t worry about me, please. Doctor Drago is a wonderful person.” I was unsure if I sought to convince the woman, or myself, at this juncture.

The woman crossed herself, spat on the ground, grasped her clothing where the crucifix formerly hung. She scaled the wheel, reached out to me, and placed her hand on mine, “May the Virgin protect you.”

May the Virgin protect you; her words hung in my mind, nattering against my logic. More foolish, superstitious ramblings of this, I was confident. I had never been religious. I had no idea how something so fanciful as their sainted Virgin, whom I doubted ever existed, possessed an ability to instill such faith or impart strength to these people. All I am cognizant of, my complete understanding, was science, the measurable, tangible, and proven.

Even psychiatry, the study of the quirks of the mind, was challenging for me to grasp completely. You need to recognize, within the mind, the inner workings of the human brain, reside the most guarded secrets of nature, protected better than any world leader. I selected my field for this reason, to comprehend the hidden, dark mystery of our existence. My desire is simple: discovering the science behind minas, phobias, depressions, and all those diseases of the human mind their causes and cures.

The goal, my aim, I wanted to open the veil, peer into eternity, and for all one knows, find the meaning to our lives. Some would say my goal is not a scientific endeavor, but what more noble cause in reason occurs than discovering the shroud’s logic?

The coach bobbed and weaved from side to side, bouncing to the front and back. In the course of this motion, the driver and I bumped against or away from one another. On occasion, he’d turn to me in sincerity, eyes set firmly on mine. The dear old chap started to speak, doubt or fear overtook courage, and he returned his attention to the rugged, winding highway.

For all the world, I had the impression, he wanted to say something to me. Having the general sense, he was a fine man, one who understood something and believed of which, I should be aware, of what he was, as well. I ruminated about what he wanted to say or if I wanted to learn his version of the truth. For, after all, he too was a superstitious fellow, fearful of the shadows cast by these mysterious mountains.

As the sun disappeared beneath the jagged horizon, the driver pulled the wagon to a halt at an intersection of several byways. Like a ribbon wound around a package, our highway wound through mountains, which rose around us, while other paths went in opposing directions through other mountain passes. As he gazed across the small space between us by his resigned expression, I surmised, this was my stop to change conveyances. No coach awaited me, however.

A disquietness pestered me, and I had a vague fear he might put me off the vehicle to wait for my ride alone. The mountains began to press in on me. How, in the openness of nature, can one suffer from claustrophobia? I felt hemmed in, at the exact moment, a weird sense of anticipation shivered in thin streams, tingling down my spine and legs.

“Perhaps,” the driver said, a slight tremble in his voice, “we should journey on, and you return tomorrow.” The night air grew chilly as a light breeze blew, spreading a chilliness across the landscape.

“I can’t, for my coach will be here soon, I am sure. Lady Drago has an exact schedule,” I said.

Feeling a chill, I pulled my light coat tighter around myself, for another brisk gust of frosty air blew down from the mountains. An abrupt change in the climate occurred as we passed into the Carpathians.

This climate was different from where we had traveled previously. As the hours passed, we traveled from forest to mountains, coupled with a significant decline in temperature once after sunset, and the atmosphere became ... not the same. The week before, the moon was full and bright. Tonight, her pearly face was invisible in the night sky. Hence, darkness covered us like a blanket.

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