The battle turns brutal on Kaeltripton! Last time, Mina named Dracula, and Lucy revealed her undead hunger—now Van Helsing leads Seward and Arthur to stake her, a harrowing act to free her soul. We’re serving this free slice of Dracula with a teaser excerpt below, followed by the full text from roughly pages 208 to 223—covering the grim deed and its aftermath. We’re dishing out Dracula in chunks—keep checking back for more, or grab a $ subscription to unlock the whole saga now, plus my takes on its tragic resolve. Ready for the mercy kill? Let’s wield the stake!

Dr Seward’s Diary (Continued)
1 October.—Van Helsing gathered us—Arthur, Quincey Morris (just arrived), and me—at Hillingham to-night. He’d been adamant: ‘We must destroy the thing Lucy’s become.’ Arthur was pale but firm, clutching a hammer and stake Van Helsing gave him. Quincey, steady as ever, carried a revolver, though Van Helsing waved it off: ‘This is holy work—bullets won’t do.’ We went to Kingstead under a cold moon, the air thick with menace.
Inside the tomb, Lucy’s coffin was shut. Van Helsing opened it—she lay there, more beautiful than ever, lips crimson, a mockery of life. Arthur groaned, but Van Helsing held up a cross: ‘This is not her—it’s the fiend wearing her form.’ He laid out the plan—Arthur to drive the stake, me to hold her down if she fought, Quincey to guard the door. ‘It’s mercy,’ Van Helsing said. ‘Her soul hangs in the balance.’
We waited till she returned—near dawn, she glided in, blood on her lips from some poor child. She saw us and hissed, lunging for Arthur, but the cross stopped her cold. ‘Now!’ Van Helsing cried. I pinned her writhing arms—she was strong, unnaturally so—and Arthur, tears streaming, raised the stake. With a cry, he drove it through her heart—blood spurted, thick and dark, and she shrieked, a sound to haunt me forever. Her body twisted, then stilled. Quincey turned away, sickened, but Van Helsing watched grimly. ‘It’s done,’ he said as her face softened, the evil gone—Lucy again, at peace.
2 October.—Arthur’s a shell—he kissed her cold forehead before we sealed the tomb. Van Helsing cut her head off to be sure, and we left her there, a martyr freed. He turned to us after: ‘Now we hunt the one who made her this—Dracula.’ I’m numb—relief and horror war in me. Quincey swore to join us, his Texan drawl hard with anger. We’re bound now, for Lucy and all he’s taken.