A Haunting of Horrors: A Twenty-Novel eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Chet Williamson

  "I shall do what you say," Jack replied in a whisper.

  "As shall I," I replied in tones similarly hushed. "In this as in all things, I trust you with my life and shall heed whatever injunctions you issue."

  He took my hands and raised them to his lips to kiss. "If the boy is here, I shall go to his left, and you, friend Jack, to his right. Madam Mina, you will approach from the front. Between us we shall trap him."

  He spoke as if we were tracking an animal, but I knew the affection he had for the child and so I took no offense at his words. Jack and I followed behind him as he went in among the stones. The moonlight was bright enough for us to see clearly, and the Professor lowered the wick in the lantern as we went farther into the graveyard. And then, oh! such a sad and pitiful sight awaited us when we reached the Westenra mausoleum!

  There was my little boy, my sweet, darling little Quincey, frozen and half-naked, swinging from the iron bars on the door of the crypt as a monkey, kicking against the heavy wood and iron as if he were attempting to break down the door. He was wailing softly and sounded for all the world like a sick, frightened infant. It took every ounce of strength I could muster not to cry out and run to him, but I steeled myself to silence and immobility. Then the Professor nodded to Jack and they each began to walk carefully toward either side of the mausoleum. When they were in position, the Professor signaled me with his hand and the three of us rushed at my poor little boy.

  It was as the Professor had feared, for when Quincey heard my footsteps and turned his head to see me approaching, he dropped from the iron bars and ran. The Professor stopped him, but his weak old hands could not keep their grip, and Quincey broke free and fled in the other direction. Then Jack grabbed him and held him fast.

  My poor little boy struggled madly against Jack's grip, but his child's strength was of course no match for that of a grown man in the summer of his years, and I dared to hope at that moment that all we needed to do was return to Whitby and begin whatever sort of treatment the Professor would decide appropriate; but it was not to be so. Professor Van Helsing, rubbing his eyes and sighing, said to Jack, "My friend, I must ask you two questions, neither one happy or welcome. First, I know that when you are in London, you come here to Hempstead and place flowers on Lucy's coffin in this crypt. This much you write me in your letters."

  "Yes," Jack replied, somewhat puzzled and struggling to restrain my little boy. "What of it?"

  "I know that Miss Lucy die and her mother die, and there is no family, and you and our friend the Duke are the mourners and the loved ones, and you have access to the grave all those years ago. The key to the crypt. You carry it with you on your chain of keys?"

  Jack paused before replying, "Yes."

  The Professor nodded. "May I have it, please?"

  Jack's face seemed in the pale moonlight to grow itself as pale as the cold orb that floated above us amid the clouds. "Professor, what are you saying?"

  Professor Van Helsing shook his head. "I say nothing, I imply nothing, I fear all and I suspect all."

  We stood in odd silence before the Westenra mausoleum for what seemed an eternity. It was I who broke the silence by asking, "Professor, my dearest friend and guardian, are you trying to tell us that Lucy is not truly dead? Are you saying that she is somehow striving to control my Quincey?"

  The dear old man seemed about to weep as he replied, "Madam Mina, I have pray that you are spared this. I have pray that my apprehensions are the foolish meanderings of a foolish old mind. But think back, sweet lady, think back to those horrible days. The Count, did he not make you drink his blood? Did he not pollute you with his own demonic uncleanliness? And is that blood not still coursing through your veins?" He stopped speaking, as if unable to state the final question.

  I stated it for him. "And is that blood not even now in the body of the child who grew in my womb?"

  He lowered his eyes and then bowed his head, not needing to respond.

  I felt the world begin to spin around me and I reached out and took Jack's arm for support. He did not take my hand, for he was still clutching the frenzied child, but he exclaimed, "This is impossible, Professor! When we killed the monster, the curse was lifted! Do you not remember that when you touched Mina's forehead with the consecrated host, it burned her? Do you not remember Quincey Morris's dying words on that twilight road as he saw the scar fade from her skin the moment that the Count's body was reduced to dust?"

  "Yes," the Professor responded, nodding sadly, "the power of the Count cease with his death. But the blood remain, the blood remain. And the blood is the life."

  "But why do you wish to enter the crypt?" Jack asked.

  The Professor sighed. "Why does the child wish to enter the crypt?"

  Jack looked down at little Quincey, who was still struggling like a captive animal against his grip. "Yes, indeed," he muttered. "Why is he so determined? Why is he so mad with the desire to break through that barrier?"

  "Why did he run away at all?" I asked in my turn. I turned to the Professor. "Do you suspect that Lucy is still … still …" I did not complete my question, for to have asked if poor Lucy was still alive would have been a blasphemous travesty.

  "I know not, Madam Mina," the Professor replied, "I know not. But the child flee from the warmth and security of his home, he suffer through the cold and the darkness, to come to this place. He make to enter this crypt. We must not allow him to do so, but we must do so, we must do so. We must see what he wish to see."

  "If," Jack began, his voice trembling, "if Lucy… if Lucy is … if …"

  "I know your thoughts, my friend," the Professor said. "We are not here armed against the undead. We have no crucifix, we have no garlic, we have no consecrated host, no stake, no holy water. But think, friend Jack, think! Is it not night? Is the sun not set? If Lucy be still the foul creature the Count make her, will she not be absent from her grave? Will not the coffin be empty?"

  "Then why enter the crypt?" Jack cried.

  The Professor sighed yet again, his aged frame heaving from the emotions he felt but dared not as yet express. "Why does the child seek to enter the crypt?"

  Jack paused for a moment, and then, after wrapping his arm around my little boy's waist, thrust his free hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulled forth his key chain. He winnowed out the key to the crypt and held it out to the Professor. "Here," he said, his voice breaking. "Go in and see what is to be seen. I cannot. I cannot."

  "But I can," I said. "Jack, I charge you to stay and guard my child, and if need be to flee from this place with him, if the Professor and I find …" and again I could not finish my words.

  "But no, Madam Mina!" the Professor said as he took the key from Jack's hand. "Within may be nothing, and within may be … may be …"

  "Professor Van Helsing," I began, striving to sound strong and resolute in the midst of my fear and my sorrow, "do you remember that night, many years ago, when I stood alone at night within the sanctified circle in the hills of Transylvania, alone, my old friend, when the three brides of the vampire approached me? Did I then shrink with fear? When the Count broke into my room, immobilized my husband, and then forced me to drink his own foul, satanic blood, did my heart stop from fear? Am I so weak and so frail that whatever is within that crypt will frighten me to death?" He looked at me in silence, his old, tired eyes filled with love and compassion, and I said, "Open the door, Professor, unlock the bars and let us enter. If my dear child is at risk, if some unnatural danger threatens him, then shall I fight against it as would a lioness in defense of her cub!"

  The Professor nodded. "So be it, Madam Mina." He turned and unlocked the iron bars that covered the wooden door of the crypt. Then he raised the wick on the lantern and holding it high, pushed open the door and entered the burial chamber. I followed behind him, trying in vain to ignore the frenzied cries of my dear Quincey, who, seeing that the barrier that had kept him from his goal was now removed, increased his struggle against Jack's unrelenting gri
p.

  I will not deny that a thrill of terror struck me as I stepped across the threshold into the tomb, for all the horror of that most horrible year of 1889 seemed to rush back into my mind as I watched the Professor take a small penknife from his pocket and begin to draw it across the rusty line between the coffin and the lid, attempting thus to loosen the natural cement that had sealed the sarcophagus. He worked slowly and methodically, and when he was done, he motioned me to approach, saying, "Madam Mina, I am too old and too weak to move this alone. I must ask that you assist me, but I must warn you that the remains of a friend seven years dead will not be a pleasant sight. Help this old man push, but keep closed the eyes."

  I stood beside him at the head of the coffin, and together we pushed the heavy lid downward two feet. I fought myself to close my eyes, but I failed in my struggle against myself and caught a glimpse of the remains of my poor, dear, murdered friend Lucy Westenra, her golden hair still long and luxuriant upon the grinning skull. I fell back away from the coffin, for within the coffin the unmentionable reek of human decay had been mingling for seven years with the stench of rotting garlic, and the odor was overwhelming and unbearable.

  Professor Van Helsing, as a medical man of course no stranger to such things, held the lantern close as he gazed into the coffin. I thought I heard him sigh as he said, "All is well, Madam Mina, all is well—with Miss Lucy, in any event. The stake is still through her ribs. The body decay, so the soul is free."

  "Then why—" I began, but my question was cut short by the sound of Jack's voice crying, "Quincey, Quincey, no, no!" and I feared that the child had escaped to flee into the night. Escaped he had indeed; but he ran into the crypt and rushing past me, jumped onto the coffin, screaming, "Mother, Mother!"

  "I am here, my darling!" I cried, but he ignored me as he tried to crawl into the coffin. The Professor pulled him away, but the mad child, weeping and screaming, began to gnaw at his own arm, and I was desolated by the sight.

  Jack ran into the crypt just behind the child, and he grabbed him once again. Jack began to say something, but he looked inadvertently into the coffin and saw the remains of the woman whom he had loved with such devotion, and in that instant doubtless his mind conjured up the memory of her death and her undeath, the memory of that night when the stake was pounded into her flesh. "My God …" he

  muttered, weeping bitterly. "My God … my God …"

  Professor Van Helsing's voice was strong and commanding as he said curtly, "Jack, take the boy outside immediately. Madam Mina, accompany them." The sound of his voice seemed both to brace Jack against his own sorrowful memories and to restore my self-control, and we left the crypt, dragging little Quincey with us back out into the cold moonlight. We waited as we heard the sound of stone grinding against stone as the Professor, leaning his weight against the bottom of the lid, pushed it back into place.

  We returned to the waiting cab, and Jonathan … The child is screaming again. I must go.

  20 December. - All day and all night without sleep, without rest, standing watch over my tortured child, feeling the weight of my own guilt, my own pollution, pressing down upon me. And now, with the sunrise, the child sleeps, praise be to our good Lord, the child sleeps; and I cannot, for when I close my eyes and slip into dreams, the face of the Count floats before my mind's eye, that grinning, cruel, horrible face, and I taste the blood upon my lips and feel my face pressed against his chest, and I feel his cold, undead skin, and I hear him calling me flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood, and I awaken screaming from the vision.

  So I return to this journal and write, for if I do not somehow occupy myself, I fear that I shall sleep, and I fear sleep as I fear the very fires of hell.

  We returned to Whitby by the morning train, and though both Jack and I pressed the Professor to reveal his thoughts to us, he kept his counsel and remained sunk in deep, silent thought.

  When at last we were back in the warmth and security of our home, and Jack had fetched a strait-waistcoat with which to restrain the child, and Jonathan (against all medical advice) had braced himself with a snifter of brandy, the Professor seated us all in the drawing room and said, "My dearest friends, I must share with you what I am thinking, what I am fearing."

  "A part of that I can surmise," my Jonathan said. He coughed terribly and then continued, "When the Count forced our dear Mina to drink from his foul stream, he placed into her body a plague which did not lose its unnatural power with his own destruction; and she"—he paused, reaching out to grasp my hand and squeeze it so as to show me that he loved me and held me in no way accountable for what had happened—"and she passed it on to our son."

  "Yes," Professor Van Helsing said softly, "and the blood of the Count strive even now to control the boy, to impel him onward to acts so unnatural that we cannot begin to understand them. The blood is powerful, more powerful than we ever imagine. It may even now have the power to create beings like the Count, it may even now have the power to restore the dead to undeath."

  "And so," I said, weeping afresh, my body shaking with sorrow and dread, "and so, I am damned and my innocent little boy is damned, and we have not defeated the Count. He reaches out, not only from beyond his grave, but even from beyond the end of his own undeath, to destroy us."

  "But no, Madam Mina!" the Professor said adamantly. "I do not believe that the power of the Devil is greater than the power of God. I cannot accept so blasphemous a proposition!"

  "And so … ?" Jack asked. "What can be done? Our lives have been ruined by this creature, Professor. Our Lucy dead, Quincey Morris dead, our friend Arthur desolate and alone, I desolate and alone, Mina carrying this curse within her very body, and now this poor child cursed!"

  "It is the blood of Count Dracula which carry this plague," Professor Van Helsing said firmly. "And what is the antidote to any poison? It is the substance which destroy its power. The antidote to the blood of the Count is the blood of the Lord."

  I was so greatly distressed that I could not understand his meaning. "Professor," I said, "you must speak to me in simple terms, for I am weak with sorrow and ill with grief."

  "The sacrament," he said simply. "The consecrated wine, the blood of Christ. It must overcome the evil blood." The Professor took my hands in his and spoke to me and Jonathan in a voice serious but strong. "My dear friends, I am a son of the Church of Rome, which I believe to be the church of the apostles, and you know as well as I that the centuries have not seen our two churches friends. But the teaching of my church is that the signature of the true church rest in the apostolic succession, in the handing down of authority and power from the apostles to their successors, down through the ages. My church tell me that you of the Church of England are heretics; and yet your bishops and priests stand in the apostolic succession, from Augustine in the seventh century to your Archbishop of Canterbury today. And so when your priests are ordained, it is a valid ordination; and when your priests consecrate the bread and wine, it is a valid consecration; and so we must obtain consecrated wine from one of your priests, and we must force little Quincey to drink it. For only the blood of Christ can counteract the blood of the vampire."

  I hear a coach on the stones before the house …

  It is time! It is time! Father Gordon has returned! I must pause in my narrative. I pray God that when I resume my writing, I shall be weeping with joy and not with sorrow.

  21 December. - Praise be to the Lord God of heaven and earth, Who in His infinite mercy has smiled upon His poor, miserable children.

  I must bring this record to a close, for I am liquid with weariness and believe that I can sleep at last.

  I have told of the events of the past fifteen days, and the horrible theory that Professor Van Helsing proposed to us. Neither I nor Jonathan wished to believe him, and Jack seemed to grow angry at the thought of the Count's continuing vengeance, but we all knew that the Professor spoke the truth.

  And so we waited as the message was sent to Father Gordon at St. Cuthbe
rt's, and so I sat and wrote this record as we awaited his arrival, and so Father Gordon listened with a skepticism that turned to anger and at last to horror as I pleaded and Jonathan begged and Jack demanded and the Professor argued, and in the end he believed our strange tale and returned to his parish church to fetch consecrated wine. It was in the small hours of the morning that Father Gordon returned, bearing with him the silver cruet that contained the ineffable sanctity.

  I cannot bring myself to detail the misery of my little darling as Jack and Professor Van Helsing struggled to hold him still and Father Gordon poured the sacred liquid down his throat; I cannot describe in detail the agonized shrieks and the terrified screams that burst from those tiny lips, for I had placed my hands over my ears so as to block out the sounds and at last fled the room, for I could not bear it, I could not bear it. The attempt at purification went on and on, and as I knelt in prayer in the drawing room, I shuddered each time my boy's screams lapsed into silence, for I knew that this rest they were giving him was but a brief hiatus, a time allowed for the holy blood to do battle with the satanic blood; and then, after a time, the screaming would begin again, and my heart would break.

  I made no note of the time, but the sun was rising when I heard my boy laugh. I rose from my stiff, aching knees and rushed to the bedroom, and the sight that greeted me filled my heart with such thankful joy that I felt for a moment as if the relief which was flooding me would cause me to swoon. Little Quincey was sitting upon his father's lap, looking very tired and ill, but very happy. Father Gordon, Jack, and the Professor were standing in watchful silence, smiling down at them, and at last the Professor turned to me and said, "The child is ours again, Madam Mina. The consecrated wine has overcome the power of darkness, and the child is again the pure innocent whom we all love so dearly."