The terror peaks on Kaeltripton! Last time, transfusions bought Lucy time—now her condition spirals as a wolf crashes through, and Seward and Van Helsing face a horrifying truth. The stakes couldn’t be higher in this free slice of Dracula, with a teaser excerpt below and the full text from roughly pages 142 to 156—covering Lucy’s diary and a grim turning point. We’re serving Dracula in chunks—keep checking back for more, or grab a $ subscription to unlock the whole saga now, plus my takes on its darkest moments. Ready for the breaking point? Let’s face the nightmare!

Lucy Westenra’s Diary
17 September.—I write this and leave it to be seen, so that no one may by any chance get into trouble through me. This is an exact record of what took place to-night. I feel I am dying of weakness, and have barely strength to write, but it must be done if I die in the doing.
I went to bed as usual, taking care that the flowers were placed as Dr Van Helsing directed, and soon fell asleep. I was waked by a strange sound—like the flapping of wings against the window. I remembered the bat from before and was frightened, but Arthur was beside me, and I felt safe. Then came a louder noise—a howl, sharp and wild—and a crash of glass. The window burst inward, showering splinters everywhere, and a great grey wolf leapt into the room! Arthur tried to shield me, but the beast sprang at him, and he fell back stunned. I screamed, and the wolf turned to me—its eyes glowed red in the dark. I felt its breath hot on my face, and then a sharp pain at my throat. Blood was in my mouth—I don’t know how—and the room spun. The wolf leapt back out the window, and I heard a howl fade into the night. Arthur roused himself and held me, but I could feel life slipping away. The garlic flowers were scattered, useless now. I write this as my strength fails—good-bye, my love.
Dr Seward’s Diary
17 September.—I was with Van Helsing at Hillingham all day—Lucy seemed to hold steady, though pale and frail. Arthur was there, devoted as ever, and we left them together at dusk, thinking her safe with the garlic and the nurse. I went to check Renfield—he’d been quiet, but to-night he flew into a rage, stronger than ever. ‘He’s here!’ he screamed, fighting the attendants till we strapped him down. I’d just got him calm when the telegram came from the nurse: ‘Come at once—wolf broke in—Miss Lucy dying.’
We raced back—Van Helsing swearing in Dutch all the way. The house was chaos—broken glass in Lucy’s room, the nurse unconscious in the hall, and Arthur slumped by the bed, blood on his hands from trying to stop her bleeding. Lucy lay there, white as death, her throat gashed open, two jagged wounds pouring red. Van Helsing knelt beside her, his face a mask of despair. ‘Too late, too late!’ he cried, pounding the floor. I checked her pulse—faint, erratic. We gave her brandy, and she stirred, gasping, but her eyes were glassy. Blood stained her lips—her own, I thought, from the wounds. Then I saw it—a bat, flapping outside the shattered window, vanishing into the night.
18 September.—Lucy lingers, barely alive. We’ve stitched her throat and given more blood—Arthur again, though he’s near collapse himself. Van Helsing’s a man possessed, pacing and muttering about ‘the devil’s work.’ He won’t explain, but insists we stay with her every moment. Renfield’s silent now, staring at the wall—I don’t trust it. The air’s thick with dread—what did this to her?
19 September.—Lucy’s sinking fast. Her breathing’s a rattle, and those wounds won’t heal—they ooze despite our efforts. Van Helsing brought a cross and pressed it to her forehead; she flinched, and he cursed under his breath. Arthur’s broken—he holds her hand and weeps. I can’t shake the image of that bat—or the wolf. Something unholy is here.