He Comes in the Night

by Ricky Fry

  Nancy thought maybe it was all just a dream, a nightmare from which she would wake to find Byron still sleeping peacefully beside her. All she wanted was to go home and kiss her baby. Nora had already been left without a father. Would she also have to grow up without a mother? “Why would I confess? I haven’t—”

  Mr. Bennett interrupted. “Detective, is my client under arrest?”

  “Well, no. Not yet.”

  “Great. Which way to the nearest exit?”

  The lawyer drove her home in his BMW. “They don’t have anything,” he said, as he left her at the front door. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve been through so much already. I’ll handle everything.”

  She muttered something like ‘thank you’ and dragged herself across the threshold. The police were the last of her worries. The night before, she’d believed her husband when he said everything would be okay. Prison would only be temporary, nothing more than a very long business trip. But now he was gone—gone and never coming back.

  Iryna was loading Nora into a pram at the bottom of the stairs. “Nancy, I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I’ve never been good at these things, but if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Can I hold her?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  She couldn’t remember the last time she had held her baby. It felt good cradling Nora’s warm little body in her arms. She kissed the top of her head and Nora giggled. She has Byron’s eyes, she thought, as she lowered her back into the pram.

  “We were just going out for some fresh air,” said the nanny. “Why don’t you rest for a while? I’ll make you some tea when we come back.”

  “Sure. Yes.” Everything since the police station had been a blur. Though she’d slept well the night before, her body felt heavy. She was exhausted, and after the nanny left with Nora, she fell to the floor and sobbed—big, wet tears rolling down her face and pooling on the black and white tiles of the hallway floor.

  How long she remained on the floor she couldn’t say, but after some time she gathered her strength and climbed the stairs. She’d intended on going straight to bed, perhaps with one of the little blue pills she’d been prescribed for such moments, but as she passed the nanny’s door she paused.

  Her mind raced back to the police station and the detective’s questions. It was true, she had been present for all three deaths under her roof. But the nanny, who she knew so little about, had also been present for the deaths of both the caretaker’s son and her husband.

  An image flashed through her mind—the memory of Iryna knocking on their door at the stroke of midnight.

  “I hear you’re in need of a nanny,” the old woman had said in her unplaceable accent.

  Nancy had always believed in respecting privacy, but Byron was dead and everything had changed. She pushed the door open and peered into the woman’s room. “Who are you?”

  The nightstand was empty save for a pair of reading glasses and a small copy of the Bible.

  She opened the wardrobe and found the woman’s frumpy, gray clothes hanging in a tidy row. She’d almost closed the doors when she noticed the old leather bag Iryna had arrived with, flattened and placed inconspicuously on the top shelf.

  It too was empty, but as Nancy ran her fingers over the smooth leather she felt a long, hard shape hidden in the bottom beneath the lining.

  It’s wouldn’t be right, she thought, to damage the woman’s bag. But this was still her house, at least for a while longer, and the time for common courtesy had long since passed.

  She went to the bathroom and returned with a pair of delicate scissors, her curiosity overwhelming any last doubts she had about invading the old nanny’s privacy.

  The scissors made quick work of the lining, and in less than a minute she’d slid the object from its hiding place.

  She held it up for closer inspection. It was metal, and shiny, and sharpened to a point at one end.

  She was so absorbed in her work she didn’t hear the front door open and close, didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, didn’t notice the figure standing in the open doorway behind her.

  “Nancy?”

  She was startled by the sound of her own name, and when she spun around Iryna was there, arms folded over her chest. “I’m sorry,” she said, holding up the metal object in her hand. “But I had to know. Who are you?”

  If the old woman was upset, she didn’t show it. She only sighed and took a seat on the edge of the bed. “It’s time,” she said. “We need to talk.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Hunger gnawed at his stomach. His vision blurred and dimmed from lack of sleep. He’d been wandering alone through the woods for two days.

  “What will you do?” Svyatoslav had said to him as he set off from the village. The big man was desperate for vengeance. He’d loved Vladislav like a son.

  “I don’t know, but I’m not coming back until that vile monster is finally dead.”

  “Then I’ll go with you.”

  “No,” he’d said. “I must do it alone.”

  Despite the protests of his oldest friend, he’d stormed off without bothering to pack any food. He carried only the clothes on his back, the knife he wore at his side, and the silver stake he’d recovered from the grave of the one they called Vlad the Impaler.

  For two full days and nights, he walked without stopping to rest. On the second night, he tripped over a snarled branch and twisted his ankle—but he climbed to his feet and continued, limping along as he went.

  He drank from small streams, and when there were no streams he drank from puddles. The muddy water made him sick, but still he didn’t rest.

  On more than one occasion, he was sure the evil spirit watched him—taunted him. Ever since the night of his ceremonial sacrifice, their fates had been forever twisted together, as inseparable as the seasons which ebbed and flowed and ran into one another. Bogdan didn’t have to see him. He could feel him. Now he was very close.

  As dusk fell on his third night of wandering the forest, he was overtaken by a ravenous hunger. If only he could catch a rabbit, he thought, or some other creature, he might fill his belly. Finally, when he thought he could stand it no longer, he found a patch of mushrooms at the base of a mighty oak and ate.

  They were bitter, but he was happy to have something in his stomach. He settled against the tree and closed his eyes. Just a minute, he thought. I’ll only rest for a few minutes.

  When he opened his eyes again the forest had changed. Trees swirled and pulsed. Snarled branches, their silhouettes dark against the night sky, reached down as if to grab him. He wondered if it was only a dream—perhaps he was still asleep, the evil spirit hovering over his body.

  He tried to stand and got sick. He wasn’t dreaming. It was the mushrooms, which had transformed the forest into something much darker—sinister.

  A voice called to him from behind the trees. It was the voice of an angel. It was the voice of his beloved Yekaterina. “Bogdan? Where are you, Bogdan?”

  “I’m here,” he said, steadying himself and pushing deeper into the forest. She was out there, somewhere in the black night, and he would find her.

  But no matter how far he followed, the voice moved farther away.

  “Please,” he said. “Don’t go.”

  “I’m here,” she cried. “I’m here, Bogdan. Where are you, my love?”

  It continued this way throughout the night. Tears rolled down his face and a great thirst clawed at his throat. Branches scratched and bloodied his skin, but he gave them no mind. He had to find her, even if it cost him his life.

  He couldn’t be sure how long he had followed her voice, only that he was tired, so very tired, and afraid he wouldn’t be able to continue much longer.

  Then he did something he had never done before.

  He collapsed to his knees, closed his eyes, and prayed aloud. “God, please help me.”

  Perhaps it was God, or the mushrooms, or nothing more than the approaching dawn, but as h
e teetered on the precipice of losing hope, a single ray of sunlight filtered through the twisted branches of the trees and lit his face.

  That’s when he saw it—a tiny stone hut, not much more than a pile of loose rocks, only a short distance from where he’d dropped to his knees. And he knew, beyond any doubt, that whatever fate God might have ordained for him waited inside.

  The wooden door had long since rotted away. The space inside was dark, not yet illuminated by the first rays of the early morning sun. He stood in the open doorway for what might have been several minutes, until at last he found the courage to cross the threshold.

  His eyes struggled to readjust to the enveloping darkness, but even then he could see the human figure slumped over in the corner.

  “Hello?” He moved closer, unsure if they were dead or only sleeping.

  He remembered the others, the people of his village who he’d buried in the expanding cemetery at the edge of the forest. Even in winter, with its cold and dry air, there had been the familiar smell—the smell of death. If the person slumped in the corner was dead, there was no foul smell to give it away.

  He was close enough now to make out the face of a young man, untarnished and fresh, without a single wrinkle or blemish. But though the face was fresh, the clothes he wore were old, like something Bogdan’s great-grandfather might have worn, and covered in a thick layer of dust.

  He reminded himself to breathe. His heart pounded furiously against his ribs. Blood pulsed up and beat in his ears. And there was something else, a tingling in the air and on his skin, like the tingling sensation of a nearby storm.

  With great care and concentration, steadying his hand and breath so as not to make a sound, he slid the silver stake from its hiding place in the pocket of his trousers—wrapped his fingers tightly around the shaft and raised it above his head.

  There was only one last thing to do. His free hand reached out into the darkness and tapped the slumped figure on the shoulder.

  Breathe, he told himself. Breathe.

  For a moment, he was sure the mouth moved. It was only one corner, raising ever so slightly before returning to its original position—or was it a trick of the light?

  I’ve gone mad, he thought.

  But he wasn’t mad. He wasn’t crazy.

  The eyes flicked open—two red eyes burning like hot coals in a fire.

  This time there was no doubt. He lifted the stake higher, and then, in a single violent motion, plunged it deep into the young man’s chest.

  Now it was the mouth that opened—a primal scream erupting from stretched lips.

  Bogdan stumbled backward and fell to his knees. The noise was deafening, like the sound of a hundred pigs being slaughtered. He raised both hands to shield his ears and felt thin trickles of warm blood ooze gently down his cheeks.

  And then it was over.

  The young man’s body, long dead but preserved in a state of near perfection by the presence of the evil spirit, crumbled to the floor of the hut in a pile of dust.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Iryna paused to sip her tea, the third cup she’d poured since beginning the story. When she’d returned the cup to its little dish, she continued. “And so the evil spirit of Vlad the Impaler was banished forever from their lands. There were those who still doubted, as was only natural, but when the eve of the annual sacrifice passed without a single death, they knew they’d finally been saved.

  “Yet Bogdan grew ever more restless. He’d spent his whole life preparing to die, and had found in his battle against the evil spirit a reason to live. With his enemy defeated, there was nothing left to do but sow the fields and father his motherless son.”

  Nancy shifted her weight on the leather sofa. They’d been in the study for two hours, Iryna telling her what she could only assume was some kind of Eastern European folk legend—tales of vampires and a reluctant hero, Bogdan the Great. It had been wildly entertaining, a welcome distraction from her husband’s death, but she wondered if there was some deeper intention behind the telling of the story. The old woman didn’t really expect her to believe the silver stake—the very same one she still clutched in her left hand—had been used to slay a vampire some three hundred years before. Or did she?

  “Oh, I know it’s all very hard to believe,” Iryna said, as if somehow reading her mind. “Would you like to hear how it ends?”

  She sipped from her own cup of tea and nodded.

  “Where was I?” The old woman stared up at the ceiling for a moment, as though recalling a distant memory. “Oh, right. Bogdan had grown terribly restless, so when word reached the village of a ship departing the Black Sea coast for the New World, he took his son and left.

  “It was a dangerous journey, but each day was filled with new discoveries—a world which he’d only ever imagined. He marveled in wonder at the majestic domes of Istanbul as they sailed the shallow waters of the Bosphorus. He fought bravely to repel an attack by pirates off the Barbary Coast of Africa. And in the long, idle months spent crossing the Atlantic, he thought of her—the woman he’d left behind in the old country. He knew she was with him in spirit. But unbeknownst to poor Bogdan, she wasn’t the only one.”

  Iryna took another sip of tea. “After half a year at sea, they came to shore in Newfoundland, where Bogdan found work as a fisherman in a small settlement populated by those who spoke his language. It was hard work, but his journey had instilled within him a deep love for the sea. His son, the one they called Kyrill, grew strong and healthy. And so for a time he was happy.

  “But happiness, as you well know, Mrs. Hardaway, is a fragile thing. Sometime during the first winter, a series of mysterious deaths struck the settlement. Several fishermen, robust and hardy men not easily prone to illness, were found dead in their beds. Bogdan knew it could only mean one thing. The evil spirit of Vlad the Impaler, full of energy from the souls he’d gorged upon in the old country, had somehow come to follow him to the New World.”

  Nancy thought she was beginning to understand. At first it had only been an inkling, a peculiar idea floating around in the back of her mind. “Iryna, are you saying my husband was killed by a vampire?”

  “Yes.” The old woman looked her squarely in the eyes and let the word hang for a moment. “But not just any vampire. Your husband was killed by the evil spirit of Vlad Țepeș, the Impaler.”

  “And the nanny? The caretaker’s son?”

  Iryna nodded.

  Nancy wondered if the woman’s elaborate story was some kind of cruel joke meant to torment her. She considered tossing her out on the curb, or even calling that police detective—what was his name?

  “You’ve seen him,” said the nanny. “Haven’t you?”

  She didn’t want it to be true. If it was true, it would mean she was just as insane as the nanny. She had certainly seen something—a pair of red eyes staring back at her on the night the caretaker’s son had died. And then there was the visitor, the one who came at night in her dreams. “But how did you know?”

  The old woman smiled. A gentle warmth radiated from behind her blue eyes. “If it’s not too much, dear, I’d like to finish the story. Perhaps it will make everything clear.”

  Clear. It was the last word Iryna said that Nancy clung to desperately. She had come this far. It was too late to turn back. Whatever Iryna had to say, she wanted to hear it.

  The old woman took Nancy’s silence as permission to resume. “Our poor Bogdan, dear sweet Bogdan, was locked in battle yet again with the evil spirit. And once again, he emerged victorious. But no matter how many times Bogdan killed his mortal host, the evil spirit found a new body in which to rest. On and on it went, until Bogdan was too old and tired to fight. And so it was Kyrill who took up the silver stake, and picked up where his father left off.

  “It has continued this way in my family for nearly three-hundred years—the silver stake passing from one generation to the next—until finally it arrived in my possession.” Iryna sighed, a long, slow exhale that made her
old face look even more weary. “I’m afraid I’m the last of us.”

  The story had come full circle. If Nancy was to believe the old woman, she was the last in a long line of vampire hunters, whose story had brought her knocking on the Hardaway’s door in the middle of the night. “You’re not really a nanny, are you?”

  “I’m afraid not, my dear. I regret concealing my true identity. It was necessary, so as not to arouse suspicion. The evil spirit is very near.”

  A year earlier, Nancy’s only concern was what to wear to the latest charity fundraiser. Now Byron was dead, along with the first nanny and the caretaker’s son. Her world had flipped upside down, and if helping Iryna was the only way to set it right, so be it.

  A single question remained—the same question asked time and time again by those people who find themselves in impossible situations. “Why us? Why would the evil spirit come here?”

  “He chose you.”

  “But why?”

  “Please forgive me, Nancy. What I’m about to say will sting. You see, the evil spirit was drawn to your household. You share a similar energy.”

  She wondered what the old woman meant. “Similar energy? In what way?”

  “You’re vampires, Nancy—you and Byron.”

  “Have you totally lost your mind?” If she was indeed a vampire, nobody had ever bothered telling her. And Byron was dead. Weren’t vampires supposed to live forever? Perhaps Iryna really had gone mad, and it was all just the ranting of a crazy old woman.

  “Not literal vampires, of course. But you are vampires nonetheless—parasites sucking the life from those around you. How many millions did Byron steal? How many families were sent to ruin? And for what? Another fur coat or diamond necklace?”