The Mammoth Book of Vampires: New edition (Mammoth Books)
Page 34
Lisette trembled beneath her touch, powerless to break away. From the buried depths of her unconscious mind, understanding slowly emerged. She did not resist when Elisabeth led her to the bed and lay down beside her on the silken sheets. Lisette was past knowing fear.
Elisabeth stretched her naked body upon Lisette’s warmer flesh, lying between her thighs as would a lover. Her cool fingers caressed Lisette; her kisses teased a path from her belly across her breasts and to the hollow of her throat.
Elisabeth paused and gazed into Lisette’s eyes. Her fangs gleamed with a reflection of the inhuman lust in her expression.
“And now I give you a kiss sweeter than any passion your mortal brain dare imagine, Lisette Seyrig – even as once I first received such a kiss from a dream-spirit whose eyes stared into mine from my own face. Why have you haunted my dreams, Lisette Seyrig?”
Lisette returned her gaze silently, without emotion. Nor did she flinch when Elisabeth’s lips closed tightly against her throat, and the only sound was a barely perceptible tearing, like the bursting of a maidenhead, and the soft movement of suctioning lips.
Elisabeth suddenly broke away with an inarticulate cry of pain. Her lips smeared with scarlet, she stared down at Lisette in bewildered fear. Lisette, blood streaming from the wound on her throat, stared back at her with a smile of unholy hatred.
“What are you, Lisette Seyrig?”
“I am Elisabeth Beresford.” Lisette’s tone was implacable. “In another lifetime you drove my soul from my body and stole my flesh for your own. Now I have come back to reclaim that which once was mine.”
Elisabeth sought to leap away, but Lisette’s arms embraced her with sudden, terrible strength – pulling their naked bodies together in a horrid imitation of two lovers at the moment of ecstasy.
The scream that echoed into the night was not one of ecstasy.
At the sound of the scream – afterward they never agreed whether it was two voices together or only one – Inspector Bradley ceased listening to the maid’s outraged protests and burst past her into the house.
“Upstairs! On the double!” He ordered needlessly. Already Dr Magnus had lunged past him and was sprinting up the stairway.
“I think it came from the next floor up! Check inside all the rooms!” Later he cursed himself for not posting a man at the door, for by the time he was again able to think rationally, there was no trace of the servants.
In the master bedroom at the end of the third-floor hallway, they found two bodies behind the curtains of the big four-poster bed. One had only just been murdered; her nude body was drenched in the blood from her torn throat – seemingly far too much blood for one body. The other body was a desiccated corpse, obviously dead for a great many years. The dead girl’s limbs obscenely embraced the mouldering cadaver that lay atop her, and her teeth, in final spasm, were locked in the lich’s throat. As they gaped in horror, clumps of hair and bits of dried skin could be seen to drop away.
Detective Sergeant Wharton looked away and vomited on the floor.
“I owe you a sincere apology, Dr Magnus.” Inspector Bradley’s face was grim. “You were right. Ritual murder by a gang of sick degenerates. Detective Sergeant! Leave off that, and put out an all-points bulletin for Beth Garrington. And round up anyone else you find here! Move, man!”
“If only I’d understood in time,” Dr Magnus muttered. He was obviously to the point of collapse.
“No, I should have listened to you sooner,” Bradley growled. “We might have been in time to prevent this. The devils must have fled down some servants’ stairway when they heard us burst in. I confess I’ve bungled this badly.”
“She was a vampire, you see,” Dr Magnus told him dully, groping to explain. “A vampire loses its soul when it becomes one of the undead. But the soul is deathless; it lives on even when its previous incarnation has become a soulless demon. Elisabeth Beresford’s soul lived on, until Elisabeth Beresford found reincarnation, in Lisette Seyrig. Don’t you see? Elisabeth Beresford met her own reincarnation, and that meant destruction for them both.”
Inspector Bradley had been only half listening. “Dr Magnus, you’ve done all you can. I think you should go down to the car with Detective Sergeant Wharton now and rest until the ambulance arrives.”
“But you must see that I was right!” Dr Magnus pleaded. Madness danced in his eyes. “If the soul is immortal and infinite, then time has no meaning for the soul. Elisabeth Beresford was haunting herself.”
BASIL COPPER
Doctor Porthos
BASIL COPPER WORKED as a journalist and editor of a local newspaper before becoming a full-time writer in 1970.
His first story in the horror field, ‘The Spider’, was published in 1964 in The Fifth Pan Book of Horror Stories, since when his short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies, been extensively adapted for radio, and collected in Not After Nightfall, Here Be Daemons, From Evil’s Pillow, And Afterward the Dark, Voices of Doom, When Footsteps Echo, Whispers in the Night and, more recently, Cold Hand on My Shoulder from Sarob Press.
Along with two non-fiction studies of the vampire and werewolf legends, his other books include the novels The Great White Space, The Curse of the Fleers, Necropolis, The Black Death and The House of the Wolf (the latter reissued in 2003 in a 25th-anniversary edition by Sarob). Copper has also written more than fifty hard-boiled thrillers about Los Angeles private detective Mike Faraday, and has continued the adventures of August Derleth’s Sherlock Holmes-like consulting detective Solar Pons in several volumes of short stories and the novel The Devil’s Claw (actually written in 1980, but not published until recently).
‘Doctor Porthos’ is another vampire story with a surprising twist at the end. It was optioned by Universal in the early 1970s for the television series Rod Serling’s Night Gallery but, unlike another Copper story, ‘Camera Obscura’, it was never filmed.
I
NERVOUS DEBILITY, THE DOCTOR says. And yet Angelina has never been ill in her life. Nervous debility! Something far more powerful is involved here; I am left wondering if I should not call in specialist advice. Yet we are so remote and Dr Porthos is well spoken of by the local people. Why on earth did we ever come to this house? Angelina was perfectly well until then. It is extraordinary to think that two months can have wrought such a change in my wife.
In the town she was lively and vivacious; yet now I can hardly bear to look at her without profound emotion. Her cheeks are sunken and pale, her eyes dark and tired, her bloom quite gone at twenty-five. Could it be something in the air of the house? It seems barely possible. But in that case Dr Porthos’ ministrations should have proved effective. But so far all his skills have been powerless to produce any change for the better. If it had not been for the terms of my uncle’s will we would never have come at all.
Friends may call it cupidity, the world may think what it chooses, but the plain truth is that I needed the money. My own health is far from robust and long hours in the family business – ours is an honoured and well-established counting house – had made it perfectly clear to me that I must seek some other mode of life. And yet I could not afford to retire; the terms of my uncle’s will, as retailed to me by the family solicitor, afforded the perfect solution.
An annuity – a handsome annuity to put it bluntly – but with the proviso that my wife and I should reside in the old man’s house for a period of not less than five years from the date the terms of the will became effective. I hesitated long; both my wife and I were fond of town life and my uncle’s estate was in a remote area, where living for the country people was primitive and amenities few. As I had understood it from the solicitor, the house itself had not even the benefit of gas-lighting; in summer it was not so bad but the long months of winter would be melancholy indeed with only the glimmer of candles and the pale sheen of oil lamps to relieve the gloom of the lonely old place.
I debated with Angelina and then set off one week-end alone for a tour of the estate. I had c
abled ahead and after a long and cold railway journey which itself occupied most of the day, I was met at my destination by a horse and chaise. The next part of my pilgrimage occupied nearly four hours and I was dismayed on seeing into what a wild and remote region my uncle had chosen to penetrate in order to select a dwelling.
The night was dark but the moon occasionally burst its veiling of cloud to reveal in feeble detail the contours of rock and hill and tree; the chaise jolted and lurched over an unmade road, which was deeply rutted by the wheels of the few vehicles which had torn up the surface in their passing over many months. My solicitor had wired to an old friend, Dr Porthos, to whose good offices I owed my mode of transport, and he had promised to greet me on arrival at the village nearest the estate.
Sure enough, he came out from under the great porch of the timbered hostelry as our carriage grated into the inn-yard. He was a tall, spare man, with square pince-nez which sat firmly on his thin nose; he wore a many-pleated cape like an ostler and the green top hat, worn rakishly over one eye gave him a somewhat dissipated look. He greeted me effusively but there was something about the man which did not endear him to me.
There was nothing that one could isolate. It was just his general manner; perhaps the coldness of his hand which struck my palm with the clamminess of a fish. Then too, his eyes had a most disconcerting way of looking over the tops of his glasses; they were a filmy grey and their piercing glance seemed to root one to the spot. To my dismay I learned that I was not yet at my destination. The estate was still some way off, said the doctor, and we would have to stay the night at the inn. My ill-temper at his remarks was soon dispelled by the roaring fire and the good food with which he plied me; there were few travellers at this time of year and we were the only ones taking dinner in the vast oak-panelled dining room.
The doctor had been my uncle’s medical attendant and though it was many years since I had seen my relative I was curious to know what sort of person he had been.
“The Baron was a great man in these parts,” said Porthos. His genial manner emboldened me to ask a question to which I had long been awaiting an answer.
“Of what did my uncle die?” I asked.
Firelight flickered through the gleaming redness of Dr Porthos’ wineglass and tinged his face with amber as he replied simply, “Of a lacking of richness in the blood. A fatal quality in his immediate line, I might say.”
I pondered for a moment. “Why do you think he chose me as his heir?” I added.
Dr Porthos’ answer was straight and clear and given without hesitation.
“You were a different branch of the family,” he said. “New blood, my dear sir. The Baron was most particular on that account. He wanted to carry on the great tradition.”
He cut off any further questions by rising abruptly. “Those were the Baron’s own words as he lay dying. And now we must retire as we still have a fair journey before us in the morning.”
II
Dr Porthos’ words come back to me in my present trouble. “Blood, new blood . . .” What if this be concerned with those dark legends the local people tell about the house? One hardly knows what to think in this atmosphere. My inspection of the house with Dr Porthos confirmed my worst fears; sagging lintels, mouldering cornices, worm-eaten panelling. The only servitors a middle-aged couple, husband and wife, who have been caretakers here since the Baron’s death; the local people sullen and unco-operative, so Porthos says. Certainly, the small hamlet a mile or so from the mansion had every door and window shut as we clattered past and not a soul was stirring. The house has a Gothic beauty, I suppose, viewed from a distance; it is of no great age, being largely re-built on the remains of an older pile destroyed by fire. The restorer-whether he be my uncle or some older resident I have not bothered to discover – had the fancy of adding turrets, a draw-bridge with castellated towers and a moated surround. Our footsteps echoed mournfully over this as we turned to inspect the grounds.
I was surprised to see marble statuary and worn obelisks, all tumbled and awry, as though the uneasy dead were bursting from the soil, protruding over an ancient moss-grown wall adjoining the courtyard of the house.
Dr Porthos smiled sardonically.
“The old family burial ground,” he explained. “Your uncle is interred here. He said he likes to be near the house.”
III
Well, it is done; we came not two months since and then began the profound and melancholy change of which I have already spoken. Not just the atmosphere – though the very stones of the house seem steeped in evil whispers – but the surroundings, the dark, unmoving trees, even the furniture, seem to exude something inimical to life as we knew it; as it is still known to those fortunate enough to dwell in towns.
A poisonous mist rises from the moat at dusk; it seems to doubly emphasize our isolation. The presence of Angelina’s own maid and a handyman who was in my father’s employ before me, do little to dispel the ambiance of this place. Even their sturdy matter of factness seems affected by a miasma that wells from the pores of the building. It has become so manifest of late that I even welcome the daily visits of Dr Porthos, despite the fact that I suspect him to be the author of our troubles.
They began a week after our arrival when Angelina failed to awake by my side as usual; I shook her to arouse her and my screams must have awakened the maid. I think I fainted then and came to myself in the great morning room; the bed had been awash with blood, which stained the sheets and pillows around my dear wife’s head; Porthos’ curious grey eyes had a steely look in them which I had never seen before. He administered a powerful medicine and had then turned to attend to me.
Whatever had attacked Angelina had teeth like the sharpest canine, Porthos said; he had found two distinct punctures in Angelina’s throat, sufficient to account for the quantities of blood. Indeed, there had been so much of it that my own hands and linen were stained with it where I had touched her; I think it was this which had made me cry so violently. Porthos had announced that he would sit up by the patient that night.
Angelina was still asleep, as I discovered when I tiptoed in later. Porthos had administered a sleeping draught and had advised me to take the same, to settle my nerves, but I declined. I said I would wait up with him. The doctor had some theory about rats or other nocturnal creatures and sat long in the library looking through some of the Baron’s old books on natural history. The man’s attitude puzzles me; what sort of creature would attack Angelina in her own bedroom? Looking at Porthos’ strange eyes, my old fears are beginning to return, bringing with them new ones.
IV
There have been three more attacks, extending over a fortnight. My darling grows visibly weaker, though Porthos has been to the nearest town for more powerful drugs and other remedies. I am in purgatory; I have not known such dark hours in my life until now. Yet Angelina herself insists that we should stay to see this grotesque nightmare through. The first evening of our vigil both Porthos and I slept; and in the morning the result was as the night before. Considerable emissions of blood and the bandage covering the wound had been removed to allow the creature access to the punctures. I hardly dare conjecture what manner of beast could have done this.
I was quite worn out and on the evening of the next day I agreed to Porthos’ suggestion that I should take a sleeping draught. Nothing happened for several nights and Angelina began to recover; then the terror struck again. And so it will go on, my reeling senses tell me. I daren’t trust Porthos and on the other hand I cannot accuse him before the members of my household. We are isolated here and any mistake I make might be fatal.
On the last occasion I almost had him. I woke at dawn and found Porthos stretched on the bed, his long, dark form quivering, his hands at Angelina’s throat. I struck at him, for I did not know who it was, being half asleep, and he turned, his grey eyes glowing in the dim room. He had a hypodermic syringe half full of blood in his hand. I am afraid I dashed it to the floor and shattered it beneath my heel.
I sit and watch Porthos, who stares at me sideways with those curious eyes, his inexpressive face seeming to hint that he can afford to watch and wait and that his time is coming; my pale wife, in her few intervals of consciousness sits and fearfully watches both of us. Yet I cannot even confide in her for she would think me mad. I try to calm my racing brain. Sometimes I think I shall go insane altogether, the nights are so long. God help me.
V
It is over. The crisis has come and gone. I have laid the mad demon which has us in thrall. I caught him at it. Porthos writhed as I got my hands at his throat. I would have killed him at his foul work, the syringe glinted in his hand. Now he has slipped aside, eluded me for the moment. My cries brought in the servants who have my express instructions to hunt him down. He shall not escape me this time. I pace the corridors of this worm-eaten mansion and when I have cornered him I shall destroy him. Angelina shall live! And my hands will perform the healing work of his destruction . . . But now I must rest. Already it is dawn again. I will sit in this chair by the pillar, where I can watch the hall. I sleep.
VI
Later. I awake to pain and cold. I am lying on earth. Something slippery trickles over my hand. I open my eyes. I draw my hand across my mouth. It comes away scarlet. I can see more clearly now. Angelina is here too. She looks terrified but somehow sad and composed. She is holding the arm of Dr Porthos.