My father, Quincey P. Morris, mortally wounded from the gypsy army that defended the castle, plunging his bowie knife into the black heart of the Count Vlad Dracula. In the fateful moments that followed, neither the Count nor my father survived their wounds. At any rate, I find myself growing tired. I hope to continue this diary when I secure myself in an inn or when I otherwise find the time. 1916 Ah, the hospitality of London.
People know how to treat other people here.
Though I do consider myself a full-blooded American, my roots do lie in Europe. Particularly in what is now Romania, but that has always been a place I have avoided, both in conversation and thought. It has been here, in England, that I at last I find the time to continue my diary. As I sit beside my window writing this, I received a telegraph from Mina Harker's mysterious messenger. Transportation to the Harker estate has already been arranged.