The grave beckons on Kaeltripton! Last time, Lucy died, leaving grief and resolve—now her funeral unfolds as Van Helsing hints at a monstrous truth, chilling Seward and Arthur. The dead may not stay dead. We’re serving this free slice of Dracula with a teaser excerpt below, followed by the full text from roughly pages 175 to 192—covering her burial and a haunting disclosure. 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 sinister secrets. Ready for the unthinkable? Let’s unearth the dread!

Dr Seward’s Diary (Continued)
23 September.—Lucy’s funeral was to-day, a mournful affair. Arthur bore it like a man, though his eyes were red with weeping. Van Helsing and I stood by him, and the service was simple—flowers everywhere, her white coffin gleaming in the dim church. She looked so lovely, even in death, that it tore at us. Afterwards, we followed to the cemetery—Kingstead, a lonely spot near Hampstead Heath. The tomb’s a grand old thing, marble and mossy, fit for a noble like Arthur’s line. We left her there, sealed in, and I thought that was the end.
24 September.—Van Helsing came to me at the asylum to-day, his face a thundercloud. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘we must speak of Lucy.’ I thought he meant her memory, but he gripped my arm and said: ‘She is not at rest—she is undead.’ I laughed at first—nerves, I suppose—but his eyes stopped me cold. ‘I have seen it before,’ he went on. ‘The Nosferatu, the vampire—she is one now.’ Arthur was with us, and he exploded: ‘What blasphemy is this? My Lucy’s dead—let her be!’ Van Helsing didn’t flinch. ‘Come to her tomb to-night,’ he said. ‘You will see.’ I’m writing this now, torn between disbelief and dread—what if he’s right?
25 September.—We went to Kingstead at midnight—Arthur furious, me half-sick with fear. Van Helsing carried a lantern and tools, silent as we approached the tomb. He opened it—God help me, it was empty! Lucy’s coffin lay bare, the shroud crumpled. Arthur sank to his knees, sobbing, ‘What monster took her?’ Van Helsing’s voice was steel: ‘No monster stole her—she walked out herself.’ He told us of vampires—how they rise, feed on the living, grow stronger in death. ‘She’s one now,’ he said. ‘We must find her and end it, or she damns herself and others.’ I can’t believe it—yet the empty tomb stares me down.
26 September.—Reports in the papers—children missing near Hampstead, found later with throats scratched. Van Helsing showed me the headlines, his jaw tight. ‘It’s her,’ he said. ‘Lucy takes them—she’s begun.’ Arthur’s a wreck, swearing to kill whatever did this, but Van Helsing insists it’s Lucy herself we must face. To-night we go again—to catch her, he says, and free her soul. I’m trembling as I write—my rational mind rebels, but the evidence mounts.
Mina Harker’s Journal
26 September.—Jonathan’s rallied a little—enough to sit up and talk. He asked for his journal to-day, unsealed it, and gave it to me to read. Oh, the horrors he’s seen! That castle, those women, the Count—it’s a nightmare I can’t unsee. He says it’s real, not madness, and I believe him—his terror’s too raw. Mr Hawkins grows weaker; I fear we’ll lose him soon. I wrote to Dr Seward—no reply yet about Lucy’s death. The world feels darker every day.