Dracula's Guest: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Vampire Stories

by Sims, Michael

  “Is your wife changed at all—physically?” interrupted Vance.

  Davenant reflected. “Changed,” he said, “yes, but so subtly that I hardly know how to describe it. She is more beautiful than ever—and yet it isn’t the same beauty, if you can understand me. I have spoken of her white complexion, well, one is more than ever conscious of it now, because her lips have become so red—they are almost like a splash of blood upon her face. And the upper one has a peculiar curve that I don’t think it had before, and when she laughs she doesn’t smile—do you know what I mean? Then her hair—it has lost its wonderful gloss. Of course, I know she is fretting about me; but that is so peculiar, too, for at times, as I have told you, she will implore me to go and leave her, and then, perhaps only a few minutes later, she will wreathe her arms round my neck and say she cannot live without me. And I feel that there is a struggle going on within her, that she is only yielding slowly to the horrible influence—whatever it is—that she is herself when she begs me to go. But when she entreats me to stay—and it is then that her fascination is most intense—oh, I can’t help remembering what she told me before we were married, and that word”—he lowered his voice—“the word vampire—”

  He passed his hand over his brow that was wet with perspiration. “But that’s absurd, ridiculous,” he muttered; “these fantastic beliefs have been exploded years ago. We live in the twentieth century.”

  A pause ensued, then Vance said quietly, “Mr. Davenant, since you have taken me into your confidence, since you have found doctors of no avail, will you let me try to help you? I think I may be of some use—if it is not already too late. Should you agree, Mr. Dexter and I will accompany you, as you have suggested, to Blackwick Castle as early as possible—by tonight’s mail North. Under ordinary circumstances, I should tell you, as you value your life, not to return—”

  Davenant shook his head. “That is advice which I should never take,” he declared. “I had already decided, under any circumstances, to travel North tonight. I am glad that you both will accompany me.”

  And so it was decided. We settled to meet at the station, and presently Paul Davenant took his departure. Any other details that remained to be told he would put us in possession of during the course of the journey.

  “A curious and most interesting case,” remarked Vance when we were alone. “What do you make of it, Dexter?”

  “I suppose,” I replied cautiously, “that there is such a thing as vampirism even in these days of advanced civilisation? I can understand the evil influence that a very old person may have upon a young one if they happen to be in constant intercourse—the worn-out tissue sapping healthy vitality for their own support. And there are certain people—I could think of several myself—who seem to depress one and undermine one’s energies, quite unconsciously of course, but one feels somehow that vitality has passed from oneself to them. And in this case, when the force is centuries old, expressing itself, in some mysterious way, through Davenant’s wife, is it not feasible to believe that he may be physically affected by it, even though the whole thing is sheerly mental?”

  “You think, then,” demanded Vance, “that it is sheerly mental? Tell me, if that is so, how do you account for the marks on Davenant’s throat?”

  This was a question to which I found no reply, and though I pressed him for his views, Vance would not commit himself further just then.

  Of our long journey to Scotland I need say nothing. We did not reach Blackwick Castle till late in the afternoon of the following day. The place was just as I had conceived it—as I have already described it. And a sense of gloom settled upon me as our car jolted us over the rough road that led through the Gorge of the Winds—a gloom that deepened when we penetrated into the vast cold hall of the castle.

  Mrs. Davenant, who had been informed by telegram of our arrival, received us cordially. She knew nothing of our actual mission, regarding us merely as friends of her husband’s. She was most solicitous on his behalf, but there was something strained about her tone, and it made me feel vaguely uneasy. The impression that I got was that the woman was impelled to everything that she said or did by some force outside herself—but, of course, this was a conclusion that the circumstances I was aware of might easily have conduced to. In every other respect she was charming, and she had an extraordinary fascination of appearance and manner that made me readily understand the force of a remark made by Davenant during our journey.

  “I want to live for Jessica’s sake. Get her away from Blackwick, Vance, and I feel that all will be well. I’d go through hell to have her restored to me—as she was.”

  And now that I have seen Mrs. Davenant I realised what he meant by those last words. Her fascination was stronger than ever, but it was not a natural fascination—not that of a normal woman, such as she had been. It was the fascination of a Circe, of a witch, of an enchantress—and as such was irresistible.

  We had strong proof of the evil within her soon after our arrival. It was a test that Vance had quietly prepared. Davenant had mentioned that no flowers grew at Blackwick, and Vance declared that we must take some with us as a present for the lady of the house. He purchased a bouquet of pure white roses at the little town where we left the train, for the motor-car had been sent to meet us.

  Soon after our arrival he presented these to Mrs. Davenant. She took them, it seemed to me nervously, and hardly had her hand touched them before they fell to pieces, in a shower of crumpled petals, to the floor.

  “We must act at once,” said Vance to me when we were descending to dinner that night. “There must be no delay.”

  “What are you afraid of?” I whispered.

  “Davenant has been absent a week,” he replied grimly. “He is stronger than when he went away, but not strong enough to survive the loss of more blood. He must be protected. There is danger tonight.”

  “You mean from his wife?” I shuddered at the ghastliness of the suggestion.

  “That is what time will show.” Vance turned to me and added a few words with intense earnestness. “Mrs. Davenant, Dexter, is at present hovering between two conditions. The evil thing has not yet completely mastered her—you remember what Davenant said, how she would beg him to go away and at the next moment entreat him to stay? She has made a struggle, but she is gradually succumbing, and this last week, spent here alone, has strengthened the evil. And that is what I have got to fight, Dexter—it is to be a contest of will, a contest that will go on silently till one or the other obtains the mastery. If you watch you may see. Should a change show itself in Mrs. Davenant you will know that I have won.”

  Thus I knew the direction in which my friend proposed to act. It was to be a war of his will against the mysterious power that had laid its curse upon the house of MacThane. Mrs. Davenant must be released from the fatal charm that held her.

  And I, knowing what was going on, was able to watch and understand. I realised that the silent contest had begun even while we sat at dinner. Mrs. Davenant ate practically nothing and seemed ill at ease; she fidgeted in her chair, talked a great deal, and laughed—it was the laugh without a smile, as Davenant had described it. And as soon as she was able she withdrew.

  Later, as we sat in the drawing-room, I could still feel the clash of wills. The air in the room felt electric and heavy, charged with tremendous but invisible forces. And outside, round the castle, the wind whistled and shrieked and moaned—it was as if all the dead and gone MacThanes, a grim army, had collected to fight the battle of their race.

  And all this while we four in the drawing-room were sitting and talking the ordinary commonplaces of after-dinner conversation! That was the extraordinary part of it—Paul Davenant suspected nothing, and I, who knew, had to play my part. But I hardly took my eyes from Jessica’s face. When would the change come, or was it, indeed, too late?

  At last Davenant rose and remarked that he was tired and would go to bed. There was no need for Jessica to hurry. He would sleep that night in his dressing-ro
om, and did not want to be disturbed.

  And it was at that moment, as his lips met hers in a good night kiss, as she wreathed her enchantress arms about him, careless of our presence, her eyes gleaming hungrily, that the change came.

  It came with a fierce and threatening shriek of wind, and a rattling of the casement, as if the horde of ghosts without was about to break in upon us. A long, quivering sigh escaped from Jessica’s lips, her arms fell from her husband’s shoulders, and she drew back, swaying a little from side to side.

  “Paul,” she cried, and somehow the whole timbre of her voice was changed, “what a wretch I’ve been to bring you back to Blackwick, ill as you are! But we’ll go away, dear; yes, I’ll go, too. Oh, will you take me away—take me away tomorrow?” She spoke with an intense earnestness—unconscious all the time of what had been happening to her. Long shudders were convulsing her frame. “I don’t know why I’ve wanted to stay here,” she kept repeating. “I hate the place, really—it’s evil—evil.”

  Having heard these words I exulted, for surely Vance’s success was assured. But I was soon to learn that the danger was not yet past.

  Husband and wife separated, each going to their own room. I noticed the grateful, if mystified, glance that Davenant threw at Vance, vaguely aware, as he must have been, that my friend was somehow responsible for what had happened. It was settled that plans for departure were to be discussed on the morrow.

  “I have succeeded,” Vance said hurriedly, when we were alone, “but the change may be transitory. I must keep watch tonight. Go you to bed, Dexter, there is nothing that you can do.”

  I obeyed—though I would sooner have kept watch, too—watch against a danger of which I had no understanding. I went to my room, a gloomy and sparsely furnished apartment, but I knew that it was quite impossible for me to think of sleeping. And so, dressed as I was, I went and sat by the open window, for now the wind that had raged round the castle had died down to a low moaning in the pine trees—a whimpering of time-worn agony.

  And it was as I sat thus that I became aware of a white figure that stole out from the castle by a door I could not see, and, with hands clasped, ran swiftly across the terrace to the wood. I had but a momentary glance, but I felt convinced that the figure was that of Jessica Davenant.

  And instinctively I knew that some great danger was imminent. It was, I think, the suggestion of despair conveyed by those clasped hands. At any rate, I did not hesitate. My window was some height from the ground, but the wall below was ivy-clad and afforded good foot-hold. The descent was quite easy. I achieved it, and was just in time to take up the pursuit in the right direction, which was into the thickness of the wood that clung to the slope of the hill.

  I shall never forget that wild chase. There was just sufficient room to enable me to follow the rough path, which, luckily, since I had now lost sight of my quarry, was the only possible way that she could have taken; there were no intersecting tracks, and the wood was too thick on either side to permit of deviation.

  And the wood seemed full of dreadful sound—moaning and wailing and hideous laughter. The wind, of course, and the screaming of night birds—once I felt the fluttering of wings in close proximity to my face. But I could not rid myself of the thought that I, in turn, was being pursued, that the forces of hell were combined against me.

  The path came to an abrupt end on the border of the sombre lake that I have already mentioned. And now I realised that I was indeed only just in time, for before me, plunging knee-deep in the water, I recognised the white-clad figure of the woman I had been pursuing. Hearing my footsteps, she turned her head, and then threw up her arms and screamed. Her red hair fell in heavy masses about her shoulders, and her face, as I saw it that moment, was hardly human for the agony of remorse that it depicted.

  “Go!” she screamed. “For God’s sake let me die!”

  But I was by her side almost as she spoke. She struggled with me—sought vainly to tear herself from my clasp—implored me, with panting breath, to let her drown.

  “It’s the only way to save him!” she gasped. “Don’t you understand that I am a thing accursed? For it is I—I—who have sapped his lifeblood! I know it now, the truth has been revealed to me tonight! I am a vampire, without hope in this world or the next, so for his sake—for the sake of his unborn child—let me die—let me die!”

  Was ever so terrible an appeal made? Yet I—what could I do? Gently I overcame her resistance and drew her back to shore. By the time I reached it she was lying a dead weight upon my arm. I laid her down upon a mossy bank, and, kneeling by her side, gazed into her face.

  And then I knew that I had done well. For the face I looked upon was not that of Jessica the vampire, as I had seen it that afternoon, it was the face of Jessica, the woman whom Paul Davenant had loved.

  And later Aylmer Vance had his tale to tell.

  “I waited,” he said, “until I knew that Davenant was asleep, and then I stole into his room to watch by his bedside. And presently she came, as I guessed she would, the vampire, the accursed thing that has preyed upon the souls of her kin, making them like to herself when they too have passed into Shadowland, and gathering sustenance for her horrid task from the blood of those who are alien to her race. Paul’s body and Jessica’s soul—it is for one and the other, Dexter, that we have fought.”

  “You mean,” I hesitated, “Zaida, the witch!”

  “Even so,” he agreed. “Here is the evil spirit that has fallen like a blight upon the house of MacThane. But now I think she may be exorcised for ever.”

  “Tell me.”

  “She came to Paul Davenant last night, as she must have done before, in the guise of his wife. You know that Jessica bears a strong resemblance to her ancestress. He opened his arms, but she was foiled of her prey, for I had taken my precautions; I had placed That upon Davenant’s breast while he slept which robbed the vampire of her power of ill. She sped wailing from the room—a shadow—she who a minute before had looked at him with Jessica’s eyes and spoken to him with Jessica’s voice. Her red lips were Jessica’s lips, and they were close to his when his eyes opened and he saw her as she was—a hideous phantom of the corruption of the ages. And so the spell was removed, and she fled away to the place whence she had come—”

  He paused. “And now?” I inquired.

  “Blackwick Castle must be razed to the ground,” he replied. “That is the only way. Every stone of it, every brick, must be ground to powder and burnt with fire, for therein is the cause of all the evil. Davenant has consented.”

  “And Mrs. Davenant?”

  “I think,” Vance answered cautiously, “that all may be well with her. The curse will be removed with the destruction of the castle. She has not—thanks to you—perished under its influence. She was less guilty than she imagined—herself preyed upon rather than preying. But can’t you understand her remorse when she realised, as she was bound to realise, the part she had played? And the knowledge of the child to come—its fatal inheritance—”

  “I understand,” I muttered with a shudder. And then, under my breath, I whispered, “Thank God!”

  Bram Stoker

  (1847–1912)

  BRAM STOKER WOULD HAVE been astonished at his current fame—his books analyzed by literary critics, his name appearing in movie titles, his villain not only a household name around the world but even the unofficial tourist mascot of Romania. No author left a greater mark on the genre than the creator of Dracula, the character whose name is now synonymous with vampire. Stoker lacked the urbanity of Sheridan Le Fanu and the champagne wit of M. R. James, but he possessed more than his share of passion and verve.

  Abraham Stoker was born in 1847 in Clontarf, a suburb of Dublin, his father a civil servant and his mother a social activist. In childhood he suffered from a mysterious illness—one whose nature was never satisfactorily diagnosed—that kept him bedridden until the age of seven. Then he experienced an almost total recovery. Later, at the University of D
ublin, the former invalid was more athletic than scholarly, but he served as president of a philosophical debating society and gained renown for a paper prophetically titled “Sensationalism in Fiction and Society.” The author of the shamelessly sensational Dracula also wrote The Duties of Clerks of Petty Sessions in Ireland. But he didn’t stay long in such work. Dissatisfied with the civil-servant job he had let his father talk him into, he began writing theater criticism for the Dublin Evening Mail by the early 1870s—in which position Le Fanu was his editor—and also published his first short story. Then came three short novels in the single year of 1875, each published in the Dublin magazine the Shamrock.

  After Stoker reviewed a production of Hamlet, its star, Henry Irving, became his correspondent and then close friend. In 1878 Irving offered Stoker the job of business manager of his new Lyceum Theatre in London. The same year, Stoker married the famously beautiful Florence Balcombe, who had been his childhood love but had since been courted by various men—including Oscar Wilde, of all people—and the next year she gave birth to a son. But Stoker was seldom home. He had begun the total absorption into the world of the theater and the life of Henry Irving that would occupy much of his time until Irving’s death in 1905. And, yes, from early on the relationship between them was described as vampiric, in that Irving seemed to take so much more than he gave.

  Stoker published Dracula in 1897. “Rich in sensations,” said the Daily News, and the Pall Mall Gazette enthusiastically pronounced the novel “horrid and creepy to the last degree.” But a San Francisco paper called the Wave declaimed solemnly, “If you have the bad taste, after this warning, to attempt the book, you will read on to the finish, as I did,—and go to bed, as I did, feeling furtively of your throat.” The following story first appeared in the collection that Stoker’s widow published two years after his death, Dracula’s Guest and Other Weird Stories. “It was originally excised owing to the length of the book,” claimed Florence Stoker in her introduction, but most scholars now argue that she must have been mistaken; what we now call “Dracula’s Guest” must have been part of an earlier draft. For one thing, the narrator isn’t identified as Jonathan Harker, the character who first journeys to the Balkans in Dracula. He also behaves quite differently in his reckless disregard for danger.