Countess Bathory's Photograph

Bohr was what was known as a Fotograf in the creative circles of Nitra society. 

It was a relatively new recreation and thanks to Monsieur Daguerre one that could be enjoyed by the practical but imaginative mind. 

Bohr had such a mind and, after many successful years as an amateur paranormalist, whereby the authentic study of spirits and spectres was foremost, he was genuinely smitten by the precision and artistry of taking a photograph and devoted his time and money towards its pursuit. Bohr had acquired the very finest kamera and also commissioned a fully equipped darkroom at the rear of his quarters.

His friend Kleinz, who often visited, frequently chastised him for being fickle and following the latest fads of the armchair bourgeois. First phantoms, now daguerreotypes. 

When will it end Bohr, your obstinate passion for the marginal?

Oh come, come Kleinz! I admit that my search for evidence of the afterlife was a little obscure, but you can hardly say that the kamera is. It's thoroughly modern and I hear the Emperor has one too!

The Emperor! There you go again! Next you'll be erecting one of these new fangled German fir trees in your living room over Christmastide. No Bohr, healthier pastimes are required to steady the mind in uncertain times. Wealth, real estate and the new sciences. You ought to pursue those instead of this flashy tomfoolery.

My, Kleinz! You really don't like my enthusiasms do you! A true philistine, an edifice of prudence upon which to dash my frilly distractions. But all is not lost yet. How about a wager?

A wager?

Yes. That should appeal to your financial bent

What kind of wager?

That I can capture the essence of a spectre with my new toy.

Pardon!

I wager that I can photograph a ghost!

Preposterous! 

Why so?

Ghosts are a figment of the weak-minded, no offence intended my good fellow.

Non taken but therein lies the very nub of the enterprise Kleinz! For you, a true non-believer, only hard evidence might convince you of the existence of the supernatural. The hard evidence that my kamera would provide.

I still think it's ludicrous, but you seem keen as mustard Bohr.

Indeed I am Kleinz, as keen as mustard, yes!

How much did you have in mind for your wager?

One thousand pounds.

One thousand pounds!

Yes. An earnest endeavour such as this demands a serious sum.

Alright, you're on!

Alright. Shall we say this time next week, Seven in the evening, here in my rooms and I shall furnish you with living proof that the fantastic can be fixed by Mr. Daguerre's contraption. Production of said print will require one thousand pounds from your good self Kleinz. Non-production or an opaque failure will render myself forfeit and I shall furnish you with the same amount.

Agreed.

So be it. This time next week Kleinz. Till then my friend. Till then.

Bohr thought long into the night regarding the optimal circumstance to succeed in this strange effort.

He needed an almost guaranteed presence in order to concentrate fully on the kamera. But where?

He consulted his old notes from his previous years as a paranormalist and sought the best possible location. 

There it was. In his notebook.

The most haunted house in Nitra, Cactix Castle, the long abandoned ruin on the hill. 

Of course! How could I forget!

Bohr had once visited the pile along with a fellow enthusiast, Sempert, who was a specialist in automatic writing and spectral drawing. They had both been given information that the large house was brimming with ghostly signatures and that the manifestation of the phantom was almost assured.

The castle had been the home of the now long dead and notorious Countess Erzsébet Báthory, the so-called Countess of Blood, who's preferred method for sustaining her beauteous and youthful looks for the City's noblemen was to bathe in the fresh blood of local virgins.

It was said that the spirits of the Countess's victims wandered throughout the castle grounds in search of their lost lives and that the apparition of the dead Countess herself still sat and wrote endless letters to prospective living suitors in her coagulated ethereal blood, then bathed in the spectral slick of open virginal veins, her hideous phantom image etched forever in the mirror in front of the bath by the terrible power of her corrupted will even beyond the grave.

Bohr and Sempert's expedition did not end well for the latter. Whilst measuring the various facets of the mirror in the bathroom, Sempert simply vanished and Bohr, despite being questioned by the local sheriff, was exonerated of all blame and a verdict of demise by misadventure was recorded on his colleague's death certificate.

This had all happened twenty years ago and was now but a mere anecdote at the most tiresome of Prusso-Hungary's interminable society soirees, the inane chatter of the Empire.

Bohr harboured his own suspicions. He had been there. It is true that his companion simply disappeared, but it is also true that the mirror etching of the Countess of Blood appeared much stronger from that moment on. Bohr had witnessed it's substantiation himself, as if the image itself had been ...    fed. 

Needless to say, the paranormalist kept these musings to himself and attended Sempert's funeral in all it's grim austerity. 

With the wager's end just a week away Bohr thought about Bathory's mirror. It might prove to be a suitable ersatz should his primary target of capturing the Countess herself fall flat, an outcome though, he would do his utmost to avoid.

Taking an initial first day to make ready for the excursion, a horse and carriage was arranged early for the following morning and provisions packed for the trek to the castle on the dark peak. 

Bohr prepared his kamera and apparatus and once safely stowed, he set out with five days left to fulfill his quest of photographing Erszébet the Countess of Blood. He felt sure he had plenty of time.

It was a half a day's travel to her castle.

The terrain was lush to begin with and wolves and bears could be heard roaring in the forest, but as the carriage approached the foot of the hill the vegetation became sparse, as if the life had been siphoned off to some unseen reservoir. Bohr did not recall this desolation from his previous trip and could not dismiss the bad omen it appeared to be. It surely was a damnable wasteland.

The final leg was by donkey, as the rough road had ended prematurely. It was slow, hard going for that poor beast of burden, the heavy panniers stuffed with the mechanics of Bohr's new whim. The rocky track made for a lethargic and uncomfortable ride and daylight itself seemed to be fleeing the skirt of the fastness. Night descended early on Cactix and by the time Bohr had tied-up the donkey, fed and watered it, it had taken half a day longer than planned.

It was already midnight when Bohr finally opened the huge rotted doors to the wrecked Castle Bathory.

Lighting several candles in the hallway, the intrepid photographer cautiously made his way upstairs to her gigantic bathroom, where he hoped the dead Erzsébet would grace him with her presence.

His nerves felt the first twinges of apprehension, as he pulled away vast swatches of abandoned cobwebs hanging from the hall's rusting chandeliers.

Fetid ancient portraits of the pile's loathsome ancestry leered at him in the gloom. The last master was that of the Countess herself, handsomely draped in black satin, her skin as white as porcelain and a rare beauty emanating from her eternal youth. 

Bohr felt mesmerised by her allure once again and sensed his blood quickening in his veins, as if keen to decant therein for the thirsty siren Erszébet Bathory.

He dragged himself away from the painting and pushed on up the stairs and opened the door to his destination.

Immediately he experienced a worsening alteration, a sudden reduction in temperature, combined with an altogether unpleasant aroma of congealing juices like that of an abattoir and the unmistakable scent of decay. 

Bohr shivered. His former resolve now under serious strain, he simply did not recall his previous visit with Sempert being this loathsome, until his friend's ultimate vanishing.

Sempert. Where in God's name did you go?

Bohr had unwittingly spoken aloud in the dreadful room, his tremulous voice netted by the cobwebs like a gutted fish.

I am here!

The words appeared on the wall in front of Bohr.

Sempert?

Yes. I am here Bohr.

Where are you my old friend? Where have you been for these twenty long years?

The ghostly writing continued, penned by some unseen and shaking hand.

I have been here Bohr, waiting for you, to warn you.

Warn me?

Yes, warn you not to capture her likeness as you intend.

Why ever not Sempert? 

Because it will be your undoing.

How so?

Some things should not be recorded by science. I tried and the mirror took me. Her mirror, the terrible window into Hell itself.

But it's only a photograph Sempert. 

Do not go on Bohr.

I must.

Then I have done what I could to dissuade you. She is coming and knows of my treachery. I must hide at once. Goodbye Bohr. Save your soul.

The scribbling abruptly stopped and as if inked in flour and water, it simply fell away from the wall leaving no trace behind at all.

The photographer was considerably unnerved by his missing companion's scrawl and the rational part of him wished to heed the warning and leave immediately.

However, the artist in Bohr stayed his hand and with new resolution stepped towards the enormous bathtub of the Countess Bathory.

With a final swipe of cloying webs, he arranged his equipment beside the bath and waited. 

It was not long before his senses were assailed with an even stronger fragrance of blood than before, that unmistakable iron tang and, lo and behold, the figure of the Countess walked slowly into the room.

She approached the bath, stared hypnotically at herself in her mirror on the wall behind, slowly removed her long sable cape and once naked, stepped into the vessel swimming with thick scarlet. As she lay in the grue it rose and overflowed and to Bohr's total horror, poured over his shoes, the blood's wetness a demented reality.

Bohr winced and as he did so the Countess stopped ladling and seemingly looked in his direction and smiled, blood smeared across her perfect pouting lips.

In the candlelight her rarified beauty momentarily slowed his heart and he passionately yearned to take this noble seductress as his own and join her in the crucible of gore forever.

With inhuman might Bohr came to his senses and seeing the golden moment now before him he steadied his hands for the perfect Daguerre.

The caustic flash lit up the room like lightning and after a second one, the photographer collapsed his tripod, bundled his kamera away, took the large mirror from the wall and draped it with sackcloth.

Bohr hurriedly left the succubus in her vat of virginal fluids, never once looking back until he had reached his faithful donkey tethered outside.

He glanced one final time at Castle Cactix and vowed never to return to this baleful ruin, lest he fall for her charms irrevocably, the bloody embrace of Countess Erszébet Bathory and his assured tenure in Hell.

Despite the extra load, the descent was a little quicker and as dawn broke, Bohr's flayed spirits eased substantially and he inhaled the sweet perfume of the meadows blossoming far below that accursed hill.

A carriage completed his return to the city, but it had still taken nearly a whole day. 

On entering his quarters he downed several large glasses of brandy, welcoming it's real and confident glow.

He then leant the covered mirror against the drawing room wall, in case he required it's craven engraving later for the bet. 

Looking at the calender on his desk, Bohr realised that the whole journey had taken far longer than expected and that he had just two days remaining to develop the film and make ready for Kleinz and their wager.

After a few fitful hours rest Bohr finally entered his darkroom with the precious cargo. 

Carefully he commenced to develop the film cell in a tray of agents and instantly felt odd. Putting this down to the stress of the previous days he continued to assiduously shake the foil. His queasiness increased and as the image took shape in his fingers he sensed a presence in the darkness. An altogether unwelcome presence, which attained it's own physicality the more the photograph developed in the tray. 

It was done.

He held his breath.

The figure in the still was that of himself screaming to get out of the print.

In the corner of the room the growing presence revealed itself fully.

Erszébet Bathory, the Countess of Blood.

Bohr wailed as his own corpulence waned, his fixed place in existence faded completely and he was trapped in his own photograph, gripping his head within it's frozen cell.

The insanity of his damnation became clear.

This was the wrath of the Countess and her terrible resurrection in an unknowing world.

She was back, dessicated and hellish, a Satyr unleashed upon the earth once more.

Holding the daguerreotype she laughed maniacally at the incarcerated Bohr, the hapless agency of her release.

She spoke, her voice the sound of dry skin breaking. 

Thank you kind Sir. And now, to fresh blood!

She raised her hood over her hideous head and swirling the black cape, the wraith retrieved her mirror and she vacated Bohr's rooms to enter the flow of the modern city streets pulsing with life.

As she left she passed Kleinz coming up to see his friend and settle the wager one way or the other.

For some reason he paused to look at the woman and had the undeniable sense that he was in the company of the purest malevolence and evil.

Good Evening Sir.

Good Evening Madam. 

She exited and Kleinz, now strangely fearful for his friend's welfare, ran up the stairs, went into Bohr's quarters, opened the darkroom, held the photograph hung out to dry and screamed till his lungs burst.

It was seven 'o' clock precisely.