A Coven of Vampires

by Brian Lumley

Now, you might wonder why I was so taken with gypsies and gypsy urchins. But the truth is that even old Zachary in his rambling house wasn’t nearly so lonely as me. He had his work, calls to make every day, and his surgery in Essingham five nights a week. But I had no one. With my “posh” Edinburgh accent, I didn’t hit it off with the colliery boys. Them with their hard, swaggering ways, and their harsh northeastern twang. They called themselves “Geordies”, though they weren’t from Newcastle at all; and me, I was an outsider. Oh, I could look after myself. But why fight them when I could avoid them? And so the gypsies and I had something in common: we didn’t belong here. I’d played with the gypsies before.

  But not with this lot.

  Approaching the copse, I saw a boy my own age and a woman, probably his mother, taking water from a spring. They heard me coming, even though the slight summer breeze off the sea favoured me, and looked up. I waved . . . but their faces were pale under their dark cloth hats, where their eyes were like blots on old parchment. They didn’t seem like my kind of gypsies at all. Or maybe they’d had trouble recently, or were perhaps expecting trouble. There was only one caravan and so they were one family on its own.

  Then, out of the trees at the edge of the copse, the head of the family appeared. He was tall and thin, wore the same wide-brimmed cloth hat, looked out at me from its shade with eyes like golden triangular lamps. It could only have been a sunbeam, catching him where he stood with the top half of his body shaded; paradoxically, at the same time the sun had seemed to fade a little in the sky. But it was strange and I stopped moving forward, and he stood motionless, just looking. Behind him stood a girl, a shadow in the trees; and in the dappled gloom her eyes, too, were like candle-lit turnip eyes in October.

  “Hallo!” I called from only fifty feet away. But they made no answer, turned their backs on me and melted back into the copse. So much for “playing” with the gypsies! With this bunch, anyway. But…I could always try again later. When they’d settled in down here.

  I went to the viaduct instead.

  The viaduct both fascinated and frightened me at one and the same time. Originally constructed solely to accommodate the railway, with the addition of a wooden walkway it also provided miners who lived in one village but worked in the other with a shortcut to their respective collieries. On this side, a mile to the north, stood Essingham; on the other, lying beyond the colliery itself and inland a half-mile or so toward the metalled so-called “coast road”, Harden. The viaduct fascinated me because of the trains, shuddering and rumbling over its three towering arches, and scared me because of its vertiginous walkway.

  The walkway had been built on the ocean-facing side of the viaduct, level with the railway tracks but separated from them by the viaduct’s wall. It was of wooden planks protected on the otherwise open side, by a fence of staves five feet high. Upward-curving iron arms fixed in brackets underneath held the walkway aloft, alone sustaining it against gravity’s unending exertions. But they always looked dreadfully thin and rusty to me, those metal supports, and the vertical distance between them and the valley’s floor seemed a terribly great one. In fact it was about one hundred and fifty feet. Not a terrific height, really, but it only takes a fifth of that to kill or maim a man if he falls.

  I had an ambition: to walk across it from one end to the other. So far my best attempt had taken me a quarterway across before being forced back. The trouble was the trains. The whistle of a distant train was always sufficient to send me flying, heart hammering, racing to get off the walkway before the train got onto the viaduct! But this time I didn’t even make it that far. A miner, hurrying towards me from the other side, recognised me and called: “Here, lad! Are you the young ’un stayin’ with Zach Gardner?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered as he stamped closer. He was in his “pit black”, streaked with sweat, his boots clattering on the wooden boards.

  “Here,” he said again, groping in a grimy pocket. “A threepenny bit!” He pressed the coin into my hand. “Now run! God knows you can go faster than me! Tell your uncle he’s to come at once to Joe Anderson’s. The ambulance men won’t move him. Joe won’t let them! He’s delirious but he’s hangin’ on. We diven’t think for long, though.”

  “The accident man?”

  “Aye, that’s him. Joe’s at home. He says he can feel his legs but not the rest of his body. It’d be reet funny, that, if it wasn’t so tragic. Bloody cages! He’ll not be the last they trap! Now scramble, lad, d’you hear?”

  I scrambled, glad of any excuse to turn away yet again from the challenge of the walkway.

  Nowadays…a simple telephone call. And in those days, too, we had the phone; some of us. But Zachary Gardner hated them. Likewise cars, though he did keep a motorcycle and sidecar for making his rounds. Across the fields and by the copse I sped, aware of faces in the trees but not wasting time looking at them, and through the graveyard and up the cobbled track to the fiat crest of the knoll, to where my uncle stood in the doorway in his shirtsleeves, all scrubbed clean again. And I gasped out my message.

  Without a word, nodding, he went to the lean-to and started up the bike, and I climbed slowly and dizzily to my attic room, panting my lungs out. I took up my binoculars and watched the shining ribbon of road to the west, until Uncle Zachary’s bike and sidecar came spurting into view, the banging of its pistons unheard at this distance; and I continued to watch him until he disappeared out of sight toward Harden, where a lone spire stood up, half-hidden by a low hill. He came home again at dusk, very quiet, and we heard the next day how Joe Anderson had died that night.

  The funeral was five days later at two in the afternoon; I watched for a while, but the bowed heads and the slim, sagging frame of the miner’s widow distressed me and made me feel like a voyeur. So I watched the gypsies picnicking instead.

  They were in the field next to the graveyard, but separated from it by a high stone wall. The field had lain fallow for several years and was deep in grasses, thick with clovers and wild flowers. And up in my attic room, I was the only one who knew the gypsies were there at all. They had arrived as the ceremony was finishing and the first handful of dirt went into the new grave. They sat on their coloured blanket in the bright sunlight, faces shaded by their huge hats, and I thought: how odd! For while they had picnic baskets with them, they didn’t appear to be eating. Maybe they were saying some sort of gypsy grace first. Long, silent prayers for the provision of their food. Their bowed heads told me that must be it. Anyway, their inactivity was such that I quickly grew bored and turned my attention else where….

  • • •

  The shock came (not to me, you understand, for I was only on the periphery of the thing, a child, to be seen and not heard) only three days later. The first shock of several, it came first to Harden village, but like a pebble dropped in a still pond its ripples began spreading almost at once.

  It was this: the recently widowed Muriel Anderson had committed suicide, drowning herself in the beck under the viaduct. Unable to bear the emptiness, still stunned by her husband’s absence, she had thought to follow him. But she’d retained sufficient of her senses to leave a note: a simple plea that they lay her coffin next to his, in a single grave. There were no children, no relatives; the funeral should be simple, with as few people as possible. The sooner she could be with Joe again the better, and she didn’t want their reunion complicated by crowds of mourners. Well, things were easier in those days. Her grief quickly became the grief of the entire village, which almost as quickly dispersed, but her wishes were respected.

  From my attic room I watched the gravediggers at work on Joe Anderson’s plot, shifting soil which hadn’t quite settled yet, widening the hole to accommodate two coffins. And later that afternoon I watched them climb out of the hole, and saw the way they scratched their heads. Then they separated and went off, one towards Harden on a bicycle, heading for the viaduct shortcut, and the other coming my way, towards the knoll, coming no doubt to speak with my Uncle Zachary. I
dly, I looked for the gypsies then, but they weren’t picnicking that day and I couldn’t find them around their caravan. And so, having heard the gravedigger’s cautious knock at the door of the house, and my uncle letting him in, I went downstairs to the latter’s study.

  As I reached the study door I heard voices: my uncle’s soft tones and the harsher, local dialect of the gravedigger, but both used so low that the conversation was little more than a series of whispers. I’ve worked out what was said since then, as indeed I’ve worked most things out, and so am able to reconstruct it here:

  “Holes, you say?” That was my uncle.

  “Aye!” said the other, with conviction. “In the side of the box. Drilled there, like. Fower of them.” (Fower meaning four.)

  “Wormholes?”

  “Bloody big worms, gaffer!” (Worms sounding like “warms”.) “Big as half-crowns, man, those holes! And any how, he’s not been doon all that long.”

  There was a pause before: “And Billy’s gone for the undertaker, you say?”

  “Gone for Mr Forster, aye. I told him, be as quick as you can.”

  “Well, John,” (my uncle’s sigh) “while we’re waiting, I suppose I’d better come and see what it is that’s so worried you….”

  I ducked back then, into the shadows of the stairwell. It wasn’t that I was a snoop, and I certainly didn’t feel like one, but it was as well to be discreet. They left the house and I followed on, at a respectful distance, to the graveyard. And I sat on the wall at the entrance, dangling my long skinny legs and waiting for them, sunbathing in the early evening glow. By the time they were finished in there, Mr Forster had arrived in his big, shiny hearse.

  “Come and see this,” said my uncle quietly, his face quite pale, as Mr Forster and Billy got out of the car. Mr Forster was a thin man, which perhaps befitted his calling, but he was sweating anyway, and complaining that the car was like a furnace.

  “That coffin,” his words were stiff, indignant, “is of the finest oak. Holes? Ridiculous! I never heard anything like it! Damage, more like,” and he glowered at Billy and John. “Spade damage!” They all trooped back into the graveyard, and I went to follow them. But my uncle spotted me and waved me back.

  “You’ll be all right where you are, Sandy my lad,” he said. So I shrugged and went back to the house. But as I turned away I did hear him say to Mr Forster: “Sam, it’s not spade damage. And these lads are quite right. Holes they said, and holes they are—four of them—all very neat and tidy, drilled right through the side of the box and the chips still lying there in the soil. Well, you screwed the lid down, and though I’ll admit I don’t like it, still I reckon we’d be wise to have it open again. Just to see what’s what. Joe wouldn’t mind, I’m sure, and there’s only the handful of us to know about it. I reckon it was clever of these two lads to think to come for you and me.”

  “You because you’re the doctor, and because you were closest,” said Forster grudgingly, “and me because they’ve damaged my coffin!”

  “No,” John Lane spoke up, “because you built it—your cousin, anyhow—and it’s got holes in it!”

  And off they went, beyond my range of hearing. But not beyond viewing. I ran as quickly as I could.

  Back in my attic room I was in time to see Mr Forster climb out of the hole and scratch his head as the others had done before him. Then he went back to his car and returned with a toolkit. Back down into the hole he went, my uncle with him. The two gravediggers stood at the side, looking down, hands stuffed in their trouser pockets. From the way they crowded close, jostling for a better position, I assumed that the men in the hole were opening the box. But then Billy and John seemed to stiffen a little. Their heads craned forward and down, and their hands slowly came out of their pockets.

  They backed away from the open grave, well away until they came up against a row of leaning headstones, then stopped and looked at each other. My uncle and Mr Forster came out of the grave, hurriedly and a little undignified, I thought. They, too, backed away; and both of them were brushing the dirt from their clothes, sort of crouched down into themselves.

  In a little while they straightened up, and then my uncle gave himself a shake. He moved forward again, got down once more into the grave. He left Mr Forster standing there wringing his hands, in company with Billy and John. My binoculars were good ones and I could actually see the sweat shiny on Mr Forster’s thin face. None of the three took a pace forward until my uncle stood up and beckoned for assistance.

  Then the two gravediggers went to him and hauled him out. And silent, they all piled into Mr Forster’s car which he started up and headed for the house. And of course I would have liked to know what this was all about, though I guessed I wouldn’t be told. Which meant I’d have to eavesdrop again.

  This time in the study the voices weren’t so hushed; agitated, fearful, even outraged, but not hushed. There were four of them and they knew each other well, and it was broad daylight. If you see what I mean.

  “Creatures? Creatures?” Mr Forster was saying as I crept to the door. “Something in the ground, you say?”

  “Like rats, d’you mean?” (John, the senior gravedigger.)

  “I really don’t know,” said my uncle, but there was that in his voice which told me that he had his suspicions. “No, not rats,” he finally said; and now he sounded determined, firm, as if he’d come to a decision. “Now look, you two, you’ve done your job and done it well, but this thing mustn’t go any further. There’s a guinea for each of you—from me, my promise—but you can’t say anything about what you’ve seen today. Do you hear?”

  “Whatever you say, gaffer,” said John, gratefully. “But what’ll you do about arl this? I mean—”

  “Leave it to me,” my uncle cut him off. “And mum’s the word, hear?”

  I heard the scraping of chairs and ducked back out of sight. Uncle Zachary ushered the gravediggers out of the house and quickly returned to his study. “Sam,” he said, his voice coming to me very clear now, for he’d left the door ajar, “I don’t think it’s rats. I’m sure it isn’t. Neither is it worms of any sort, nor anything else of that nature.”

  “Well, it’s certainly nothing to do with me!” The other was still indignant, but more shocked than outraged, I thought.

  “It’s something to do with all of us, Sam,” said my uncle. “I mean, how long do you think your business will last if this gets out, eh? No, it has nothing to do with you or the quality of workmanship,” he continued, very quickly. “There’s nothing personal in it at all. Oh, people will still die here, of course they will—but you can bet your boots they’ll not want to be buried here!”

  “But what on earth is it?” Forster’s indignation or shock had evaporated; his voice was now very quiet and awed.

  “I was in Bulgaria once,” said my uncle. “I was staying at a small village, very tranquil if a little backward, on the border. Which is to say, the Danube. There was a flood and the riverbank got washed away, and part of the local graveyard with it. Something like this came to light, and the local people went very quiet and sullen. At the place I was staying, they told me there must be an ‘Obour’ in the village. What’s more, they knew how to find it.”

  “An Obour?” said Forster. “Some kind of animal?”

  My uncle’s voice contained a shudder when he answered: “The worst possible sort of animal, yes.” Then his chair scraped and he began pacing, and for a moment I lost track of his low-uttered words. But obviously Mr Forster heard them clearly enough.

  “What! Man, that’s madness! And you a doctor!”

  My uncle was ever slow to take offence. But I suspected that by now he’d be simmering. “They went looking for the Obour with lanterns in the dark—woke up everyone in the village, in the dead of night, to see what they looked like by lantern light. For the eyes of the Obour are yellow—and triangular!”

  “Madness!” Forster gasped again.

  And now my uncle was angry. “Oh, and do you have a be
tter suggestion? So you tell me, Sam Forster, what you think can tunnel through packed earth and do…that?”

  “But I—”

  “Look at this book,” my uncle snapped. And I heard him go to a bookshelf, then his footsteps crossing the room to his guest.

  After a while: “Russian?”

  “Romanian—but don’t concern yourself with the text, look at the pictures!”

  Again a pause before: “But…this is too….”

  “Yes, I know it is,” said my uncle, before Forster could find the words he sought. “And I certainly hope I’m wrong, and that it is something ordinary. But tell me, can anything of this sort be ordinary?”

  “What will we do?” Forster was quieter now. “The police?”

  “What?” (My uncle’s snort.) “Sergeant Bert Coggins and his three flatfoot constables? A more down-to-earth lot you couldn’t ask for! Good Lord, no! The point is, if this really is something of the sort I’ve mentioned, it mustn’t be frightened off. I mean, we don’t know how long it’s been here, and we certainly can’t allow it to go somewhere else. No, it must be dealt with here and now.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve an idea. It may be feasible, and it may not. But it certainly couldn’t be considered outside the law, and it has to be worth a try. We have to work fast, though, for Muriel Anderson goes down the day after tomorrow, and it will have to be ready by then. Come on, let’s go and speak to your cousin.”

  Mr Forster’s cousin, Jack Boulter, made his coffins for him; so I later discovered.

  “Wait,” said Forster, as I once more began backing away from the door. “Did they find this…this creature, these Bulgarian peasants of yours?”

  “Oh, yes,” my uncle answered. “They tied him in a net and drowned him in the river. And they burned his house down to the ground.”

  • • •

  When they left the house and drove away I went into the study. On my uncle’s desk lay the book he’d shown to Mr Forster. It was open, lying face down. Curiosity isn’t confined to cats: small girls and boys also suffer from it. Or if they don’t, then there’s something wrong with them.