Lucy is having a wonderful dream. She is in Whitby, walking down the beach with the dunes to her left and the ocean to her right. Cold water laps at her toes while the sun warms her back. The shore goes on forever in both directions, and there isn’t a soul around. She wants to stop, to kneel down and start making a sandcastle. She and Mina have perfected the art of sandcastle architecture. Every summer day ends with the two girls racing each other back to the Westenra summer house, their legs coated in sand and salt. But Mina is nowhere to be found on this endless strand, and whenever Lucy wills her body to stop moving, it seems to ignore her.

Before she can panic, the sky goes black. Packed sand beneath her feet turns into the hard stone of the walkway in front of the summerhouse. A full moon hangs in the sky, casting dappled moonlight over the ocean. Someone is squeezing her arm — she doesn’t even need to turn around to know who it is.

“I heard the door opening and ran after you,” Mina explains.

Lucy’s heart is still racing. It always takes her a few minutes to calm down when she wakes up somewhere unfamiliar. As her eyes adjust to the dark, she sees the drop of the steep brick stairway down to the shore right in front of her. She shudders. Somehow, she knows that if it hadn’t been for Mina, she would’ve walked right into the sea.

When she can speak again, she takes Mina’s hands in her own. “Thank you for watching out for me.”

Mina squeezes her hand back. “Always.”

Together, they go back to bed.

The first thing she feels when she wakes up is the ache in her neck. It’s as though someone has taken a hatchet and hacked away at her bones. Gingerly, she hauls herself up to sit upright.

Only then does she realize that she is not staring at the green floral wallpaper of her bedroom. Stone walls surround her now. It doesn’t take her too long to recognize the mausoleum. She is sitting on something hard and flat, covered with a thin layer of silk. A coffin. Her coffin.

Somehow, that thought doesn’t frighten her. She is dead. Nothing can be done about it now.

Still stiff as a board, she lifts herself out of the casket and onto the cold marble floor.

Unopened letters lie at her feet. She doesn’t notice them.

Another coffin, deep mahogany, sits right across from hers. She runs her hands over the wood, reads the epitaph. A wave of grief sends her to her knees.

“Mother.” Her voice comes out dry and raspy.

Flashes of memory keep her down: that old Dutch doctor slicing into her veins, a garlic necklace, a wolf. She is a ghost, she must be. One of those wailing women in white from the stories her father told at Christmas when the sun went down. Mother made it to heaven and she was stuck on Earth. Lucy doesn’t know how long she stays there, kneeling at her mother’s grave.

As soon as she can stomach it, she lifts herself up and walks to the archway of the tomb.

Outside stand rows and rows of headstones. What else is there to do but walk?

Quincey Morris talks with his hands. As they ramble side by side down the well-trodden path through the park, Lucy has to sidestep out of the way to avoid his gesticulations. Today, he is describing a nearly fatal cattle drive, complete with mimed whip cracking.

When she received Quincey’s first invitation for a stroll, she rolled her eyes. Courting was a formality, a way to fill the days until Arthur was ready to ask for her hand. Then this Texas cowboy showed up at her door and charmed her with his endless tales (or, as he called them, yarns), and soon their walks were the highlight of Lucy’s week.

“Tito and I parted ways outside Big Spring. Hell of a tracker that man was, but I had to head out on my own for a while. Yep, it was just me and good ol’ Sundance. And I was mighty glad to be alone. It’s a real beauty, the high plains, and I had all the time in the world to soak it in.”

She leans into his arm. “High plains. Are they quite like our moors?”

“No, no, there’s nothing like it over here. When you’re in the high plains, you might as well be in another world. It’s flat and clear and dry.” Quincey extends his arm out as far as it can go. “Just that golden sea of grain and sky and desert stretching out in every direction. You reckon that if you head straight, you could just walk right on to the edge of the Earth.”

She smiles. When she closes her eyes, she can practically feel the dust on her skin.

If Lucy is a ghost, she reasons, she must be the only ghost in London. At least a hundred headstones surround her and yet she has not encountered another soul. Not even the gravedigger, not even the groundskeeper, not even a single vagrant dared to enter the cemetery. She wracks her memories for what evil she must have committed to deserve such a fate, but she can’t come up with anything atrocious enough. There were plenty of times that she was rude, thoughtless, or selfish, but was that enough to condemn her to an eternity alone? Was her behavior really worse than any other person’s? Worse than the generations of Westenra ancestors that lie at rest around her in the family tomb? She doesn’t know anything, so she just walks and cries and thinks about when she was alive.

Sometimes, if she gets bored enough, she will read the names on the headstones and make up stories of their lives. The well-trodden paths through the graveyard become the edges of her world. She can’t explain the fear she feels when she thinks about walking past the cemetery gates, but it lies like a stone at the pit of her stomach.

The next step in her damnation starts as a bitter, metallic aftertaste in her mouth. Decomposition, she assumes, and pushes it out of her mind. Every night, though, it returns stronger than the night before. It wraps itself around the muscles of her body, festers in her brain like a million buzzing flies. Her heartbeat is gone, replaced with the drumbeat of intrusive thought: blood, blood, blood.

Hunger. It is stronger than the fear, and it propels her feet in a stride down the deserted streets beyond the graveyard. With every corner she turns, the thrumming voice in her head wishes for someone to devour. The part of her that is still Lucy Westenra is too weak to fight, held hostage in her own body. She tries to pray, but cannot seem to find the words.

She smells the blood before she sees her victim. It is the sweetest scent she’s ever encountered, and stronger than any one before; it is a rope around her neck, pulling her in its direction. Around the corner, in a dirty and forgotten alley, she finds the source. Street urchins, a whole gang of them, lie asleep in a pile up against a brick wall. She walks towards them slowly, careful not to wake them. Saliva fills her mouth like a dog with a bone. As she looms over the children, sharp teeth erupt from her gums.

When she smooths her hand over the sleeping child’s form, the thrum of his heartbeat ricochets through her skin. Her vision dissolves into black. She knows now that she is not a ghost.

Six hard raps disturb Lucy from the watercolor she is painting of the roses on her windowsill. In an instant, she is out of her seat and flinging open the bedroom door. On the other side of the threshold, Mina is practically vibrating. Lucy has never seen her friend smile so wide. After a quick glance out the hallway to make sure her mother isn’t listening in, she shepherds Mina into the room and shuts the door. The two of them settle into their usual spot, perched on the edge of the bed.

Mina has never been one for talking in circles. “Lucy, darling, I am engaged!”

Happiness and pride balloon in Lucy’s chest. She screeches and crushes Mina in a hug, babbling her congratulations. In such close proximity, she can feel the tears of joy wetting her best friend’s cheeks.

As soon as she catches her breath, Lucy breaks away from the embrace. “Tell me everything. Every detail. Jonathan is a bit of a mystery to me; I was wondering how he would go about it. Was he all business, or did he give a big, emotional speech confessing his undying love?”

Blush spreads across Mina’s skin and she tucks a deep brown curl behind her ear. “A bit of both, actually. Honestly, it’s a blur in my memory. I was overcome from the minute he took my hand. He did give a bit of a speech about how I am his dearest friend, and he’s loved me his whole life, and he doesn’t feel worthy of my love…”

“That much has been obvious since we were about twelve years old,” Lucy scoffs.

“Oh, stop, it was very sweet. And that was only half of it. The other half was practical. He’s passed his exams, so he’s a real solicitor now. All he has to do is go on one business trip and when he returns, we’ll be wed.” She flops back on the bed with a sigh straight out of a romantic novel.

“Well, I think he’s right. He isn’t worthy of your love. No one is.” Lucy leans onto her side, cradling her head in her palm. “But, if you must deign to marry, I suppose you could do worse than Jonathan Harker.”

In truth, Lucy knew that the two of them would make a perfect match. For as long as she could remember, it was a given fact that Mina and Jonathan would wed. Growing up, Lucy’s mother would always point to Mina as the gold standard. Wilhelmina behaves perfectly even though she was practically born on the street. Wilhelmina has already found a wonderful match. Keep acting wild, and you will watch Wilhelmina wed while you die an old maid. Although the two girls would stay up late into the night making fun of Mrs. Westenra’s diatribes, they both knew that within them lay a grain of truth. The marriage market was a wicked game, and every moment Lucy spent single, she was losing.

“I would say the same about you. Although a certain wealthy son of a Lord comes close.”

Mina wiggled an eyebrow. “Don’t fret, my dear. It will happen for you, and soon.”

“Until then, I will simply have more time to devote towards being the greatest bridesmaid in England. If you are offering, that is.”

Mina sat up and took the other girl’s hands once again. “You and Jonathan, you’re all I have.

Of course you will be by my side.”

Emotion stopped Lucy from speaking. Yes, she thought, Mina Murray really was the best of women. Of people.

“Good. Because I have some bold ideas when it comes to floral arrangements…”

Every night is the same, one blending into another like paint on a watercolor. Lucy can’t even be sure that she isn’t just living the same twelve hours over and over again. Leaves on the trees turning from green to gold to brown are the only sign that time is, indeed, passing. Every night, another journey. Every night, another child. London, to her, is a city of throats and necks, and there is a monster inside her that wants to taste them all.

The full skirt of her gown weighs her down as she walks. So many petticoats, such fine silk. It must have cost a fortune. After weeks of walking, the hem of the skirt has gone from stark white to muddy brown. After weeks of feeding, there is a large trail of blood down the bodice. Whenever the hunger is weak enough to control, she makes her way to the water pump. No matter how long or hard she scrubs, the stains don’t come out. Once she gives up on the dress, she washes her face and combs her hair with her fingers. Just the ritual of it brings her comfort, reminds her of who she used to be. Her soul is the devil’s, but her beauty is still her own. It is all she has left. Perhaps it is all she ever really had in the first place.

Most people assume that an asylum director would be cruel, inhuman. The pain in Jack Seward’s eyes as he talks about his patients proves the opposite. Dr. Seward is a man of few words, Lucy has learned, so she relishes when he does open up, even when he chooses a subject of conversation that could turn the stomach.

“Patients are allowed free movement throughout the premises. Outside, as well. We have a lovely garden that does seem to lift the spirits. But she never wants to go outside. In fact, she would never leave her chamber if not for the nurses. Three years ago, a wife and mother. Today, a mental patient that sits in a corner scratching her forearms raw.”

How could a person get to be that way? What string had snapped in the woman’s mind?

Lucy knows that Jack doesn’t have the answer to those questions, so she asks a different one.

“And how do you treat a patient like that?”

Jack looked down and stirred another sugar cube into his tea. “Of course, she needed to be restrained. It is the only humane thing to do in such a situation.”

She imagines the nurses holding the woman down as Jack tightened the straps of the straitjacket around her. Somehow, Lucy can’t square the image with the gentle, reserved man sitting across the table, sipping from her most delicate china. A heaviness settles in her chest.

Swallowing hard, she forces her face to remain placid. “Of course.”

Jack must see the discomfort in her eyes because he leans in and covers her hand with his. “I apologize if my stories are upsetting. But, believe me, Lucy, people can heal. I’ve seen it for myself. With careful observation and meticulous treatment, even the most wretched person can be saved.”

A lovely thought, if not a convincing one. She glances at the black notebook poking out of Dr. Seward’s jacket pocket, wondering what other careful observations he’d be willing to share.

Underneath the proper exterior, she thinks, is a man who tells stories.

He clears his throat. “However, I will happily drop the subject. You are very kind to humor my jabbering about my work.”

Smiling, she recalls the most outrageous story she’d gotten out of him the last time they spoke. “I like hearing about your work. Besides, I want to test your theory. You say that anyone can be saved. Does that include the man who catches flies?”

His eyes light up at the mention of his favorite patient. “Ah, now that man is quite a puzzle.”

They talk and talk until the tea gets cold.

She feels Van Helsing before she sees him. The old man’s steady, yet slightly weak heartbeat is a contrast to the strong, erratic pulses of the children she favors. Quincey appears next, followed by Arthur. Both of their hearts beat at a mile a minute, although Lucy would guess that neither dare to show any fear on their faces. Jack’s calm, stable pulse, forged in the fire of the asylum, is a welcome contrast. She shields herself behind the stone walls of another family’s mausoleum and turns to look. Four men, backlit by the light of the gas lamps, all searching for their monster.

I am the demon they need to exorcize, she thinks, I am the darkness they want to be free from. Feeding that night had been easy and plentiful. Dried blood stains the corners of her mouth. When her suitors remember her, she wonders, will they think of the way she looked on the day of their proposals? Or will they think of her as she is now? Lucy cannot choose which one is worse.

Her eyes aren’t as good as they were when she was alive. She doesn’t need them, really, not when she can dowse for blood. And yet, even at a distance, she can make out that all four men look as though they are about to watch an execution. That is exactly what they are about to do, she figures, noticing the wooden stake in Arthur’s hands. Realizing what they have come to do, a cold sense of comfort washes over her. She leans her head against the cool stone of the mausoleum. If only Mina could have been here, too.

The blue haze of dawn begins to seep into the black night sky. Soon, she will sleepwalk back to her coffin. She hopes it will be for the last time.

The week leading up to Lucy’s last breath is a fever dream. At first, it is just another illness. She can hold a conversation, eat, think. After Mina leaves, though, things take a turn. Keeping her eyes open feels like the burden of Atlas, so Lucy sleeps through the day and night. Bits and pieces make their way through the mental haze. Mostly she remembers the sight of Arthur rolling up his sleeves and bearing his veins, followed by the pain of the doctor’s knife.

Nightmares are the only constant as her condition ebbs and flows. She is in a garden, her garden, walking towards an old, old man. Or the same man is in her room, looming over her bed, bringing his face so close to hers that she can taste his sour breath. Or she is in her bed listening to the incessant flap-flap-flap of a large black bat. The man just stares at her, sizing her up. The bat hovers above her, never swooping down to bite. Dread builds and builds until she startles awake.

Arthur is always holding her hand when she does. She imagines this is what it would’ve been like to be married to him. Waking up every morning, she would feel the warmth and weight of him next to her. Somehow, although she is feeling slightly better, she knows that the wedding will never occur. And yet, his blood runs in her body. She can feel the heat of it, the sting. That is a type of marriage, in a way. One flesh, one blood.

From there, she fades fast. Every breath is a battle, but she claws onto life. It doesn’t make sense, this resilience. Something is keeping her alive. Maybe it’s the garlic, which the Dutch doctor insists on her wearing at all times. When her mother removes it, muttering something about keeping up appearances, Lucy feels exposed. She is a prey animal in the forest, waiting for the wolf.

He arrives in the middle of the night as a gaunt, gray flash crashing through her bedroom window. How silly, she thinks, as she watches his impossibly large teeth sink into her mother’s flesh. Like a scene from a fairy story. She is too tired to move.

Full consciousness doesn’t return to her until the wolf stalks away. It is the sight of her mother’s mangled body that wakes Lucy from her stupor. Lucy is running out of time. Death is consuming her, the flame of it licking at her feet. A voice in her head tells her that she will be gone before morning.

But Arthur? Mina? Jonathan? They still have time.

So she hauls herself out of bed and sends the maids away. So she stumbles over to her desk, grasps around for a sheet of paper and a fountain pen. So she scrawls a memorandum full of every detail she can possibly remember. So she races through the house, searching for a place to hide it. So she nestles it in the tin box where she keeps all of Mina’s letters.

So she lays herself down next to her mother and waits for the wolf again.

The stake plunges through her chest, cracking her ribs. Arthur is the one to do it. After he stabs her, he ghosts his hands across her face, the same way he used to whenever they kissed. His touch is a comfort, even now. The other three sever her head, fill her mouth with cloves of garlic.

None of it hurts. All she feels is gratitude, even as she fades.

Dying the first time felt like drying out, like crumpling up into a stick of kindling and being tossed on a fire. Dying the second time, the last time, couldn’t be more different. With the last flicker of life she can manage, Lucy turns the corners of her mouth up into a smile.

She is running down the shore and letting the wind whip through her hair. She is taking a deep drink of ice-cold water. She is walking into the sea.