Original subtitles

Gather around, my children, the night is chill.

Let me tell a bedtime story to warm your innards.

It begins in London, one of my favorite towns.

Foggy. Mysterious...

The birthplace of so many great people.

Jack the Ripper. The Wolfman. Dr. Jekyll.

This is Abe’s Story.

That's Henry, Abe's boss.

Blasted light.

There’s my Abe.

Damn it.

Like so many other Irishmen,

he has traveled far from his homeland to pursue a dream.

Abe’s dream is to become a great writer.

It’s official, my rugby days are well and truly over.

I hate rats with their beady little eyes and their fat tails.

Forget the rat. Finish your story.

I discounted the inn-keeper's warnings as mere village superstition.

And yet, I, of all people, was afraid.

I went forth, unarmed. The wind was biting.

For some time, I walked alone.

Then, I heard another being.

Halt. Who goes there?

As my senses returned, I felt a warm rasping at my throat.

It was sucking my blood.

Abraham! Clear the damned stage. The rest of you, out.

Arminius has just given me the best idea for our next production.

- It's a sure-fire hit. - Really?

It is set in the land beyond the blue mountains

and this creature, half-man, half-monster, lives in a castle, and he eats people.

Oh, God.

An Englishman is taken prisoner, and, well,

I haven't quite figured out all the details yet.

We need something fresh, dear boy.

Our next performance should be something that Londoners can relate to,

a production people will be talking about, a hundred years from now.

A monster? In a castle? Please.

I thought perhaps...

Go ahead and write this horror tale of yours.

If it's any good, I might consider it.

But don't get your hopes up. I already know I'm going to hate it.

It's the blasted full moon. It brings out the very best in our guests.

Guests?

We have a spare room. Should you care to join them, Abe,

you'd fit right in.

As much as I'd like to take you up on that kind offer, dear brother,

- I'm leaving tomorrow. - Off again? So soon.

Yeh. An exciting adventure.

We’ll be touring the entire West Coast including Canada.

That damned theater will be the end of you, Abe.

- A demanding spouse, indeed. - More like your mistress, I would think.

After all, you're still in love.

You've been on my mind of late. How is that Blood and Thunder novel?

Oh, please don't ask. I have no time and less inspiration.

Two years in

and I fear it will never be more than a weak outline. A complete disaster.

Fear not, brother. I just might be of assistance.

Meet Renfield.

A boring office clerk, one moment,

then he starts to eat things.

Living things.

Small things at first. Flies. Spiders.

He was brought in when his wife discovered him

sucking the blood from the family cat.

It was alive at the time.

Bouts of mania with incoherent ramblings.

Medical diagnosis. Paranoid schizophrenia.

But the chronic blood loss was a complete mystery.

We pumped enough blood into him to fill an Indian elephant.

But there was nothing we could do to save the poor devil.

Near the end, he became more lucid.

Spoke incessantly about somebody who was coming to London.

Somebody powerful who would grant him eternal life.

He called that person "The Master."

Master.

He's coming...

Coming.

As the Lyceum Tour winds its weary way

along the savage edge of American frontier

Abe toils in the hot sun.

The Master has the power of mesmerism.

He shape-shifts into many forms. He controls the weather.

How can he be defeated?

Good evening.

Where are you headed?

Good God.

Never turn your back on a wilderness train, boy.

You saved my life! How can I repay you?

Don’t mention it.

A pair of six-shooters beats a pair of aces, every time.

Right tools for the right job and all. Have a good night, sir.

Good night to you, sir.

What are the tools needed to kill The Master?

Many months passed as poor Abe continues on the theater tour.

Crossing the great American continent from sea to shining sea.

He works every day and writes every night.

A devoted slave to his story.

We all come into this world, bloody and confused.

Birth is never easy.

But the birth of a legend is the hardest work of them all.

Here, of all places, amongst the Graveyard Poets,

I am devoid of inspiration.

How does The Master travel? Avoid detection?

Steady. The soil is marshy.

Flaming red eyes it had, black as night.

Ran out of the sea and made its way up the headland.

I don’t know who’s the bigger fool.

Him for saying such or you for believing him.

"Nobody's seen the black dog and lived to talk."

I’m just repeatin’ what he said!

You sure the service is at the Abbey and not St. Mary’s?

Thought you said the Abbey.

Yah damn fool. It's at St. Mary's. We’re already late.

Watch out!

Blimey me leg.

Pick that up right quick before anybody sees. You daft pillock.

The Master travels by ship in a coffin filled with earth

and only emerges under cover of darkness to feast on the crew.

The captain winces as the rope cuts his flesh.

No matter what, he will not abandon his post.

Something is behind him in the fog.

An unspeakable horror that has come to feed.

No. No. No. It’s instant.

Lightning, Mephistopheles.

On three.

One. Two. And three.

Do it again. What do you think?

Yes! The light, it can hurt him.

Are you still writing that bloody novel? How many years?

Seven. I'm afraid I'll never find an ending.

- Find it now! - But the show?

But nothing. You will finish the cursed thing tonight,

or tomorrow, I will use its pages to heat my theater!

Every artist knows Abe’s struggle.

As the dawn approaches,

he scrambles to find that last piece of the puzzle.

The darkest hour is just before the dawn.

I hate the dawn.

With a stroke of his pen, Abe was lifted from obscurity

and ordained the king of horror, for all time.

Seven years. I can do no more.

You see, greatness cannot be given,

it must be earned, my children.

And I should know because I am the greatest of them all.

And Abe thought the story was his all along.