Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  Too honest to consider such a thought for long, he dismissed it and ventured further into the depths of the library, lighting candles where he found them, and scanning the golden lettering on the spines of the thick leather-bound books. In moments, he was lost, both physically in the labyrinth of the place, and mentally in a blissful world of the written word.

  Dusk came without notice. Wagner had occasionally gnawed on a small loaf of bread and a larger hunk of cheese he had brought with him in his pack, but for the most part, the day passed without his realizing it.

  The books were all.

  He sat in a plush leather armchair he had found on the fourth floor of the library—four floors!—and rested his feet against the nearby railing. He was well into a serial story in the thousandth issue of Blackwood’s Magazine, by a fellow he had never heard of before. Conrad. Heart of Darkness. He was about to absentmindedly turn yet another page, when he heard a shuffling noise from below him in the depths of the library.

  Wagner set the magazine aside reluctantly. The story had been engaging, and he had been pleasantly surprised to find how up-to-date the Count’s library was on modern popular fiction. He stood slowly, feeling stiffness from having sat still so long. He leaned over the railing to glance down to the marble floor, where he had heard the sound. Surely this was his much sought after servant, and the railing four floors up would provide him the perfect spying vantage.

  Instead of finding the scurrying servant though, what he found four floors below him was far more disconcerting.

  The lowest level of the library was plunged into blackness. The candles on the walls on that level and out in the corridor had died. He quickly checked the time on his fob watch—a battered, brass thing he had found in a small shop in Switzerland—and saw that it was evening, but not so late the candles would have run down to the quicks on their own. The servant must have extinguished them.

  Wagner picked up the tubular flashlight and the box of matches he had set on the small table by the plush chair. He moved to go to the end of the balcony and descend the spiral stairs. He would just have to re-light the candles. Otherwise finding his way out of the room once he had returned his reading stack to the shelves might prove tricky.

  He heard the shuffling noise once again, but this time it came from up on the fourth level, with him. The opposite direction this time, down at the other end of the long balcony, in a part of the level he had yet to explore, and which was still dark. He turned toward the sound, and when he saw a flicker in his peripheral vision, he turned back toward the stairs. The candle by the stairwell had gone out now as well. Only the candle on the small table next to his reading chair remained lit.

  The rest of the library was cloaked in darkness, and Wagner felt suddenly that only his island of comforting ocher light was safe. Chastising himself for acting like a child, he stepped forward, passing the lone candle, and making for the unexplored part of the fourth floor.

  He had taken only a few steps past his little reading nook when a sharp gust of wind blew past him, mussing his hair, making his unbuttoned vest flap open, and extinguishing the last of his light.

  Then the shuffling sound began again in the dark.

  He was initially seized with a paralyzing terror, but then as the smoke from the extinguished candle wafted past his nose, filling him with the familiar burnt scent, he once again calmed and berated himself.

  A window must be open, he thought.

  He recalled the layout of the next several feet along the railing on the balcony; he had been up here for hours. He moved forward in the dark without resorting to the matches or his electric light. When he heard the shuffling again, he worried for the books. Could be rats. Possibly in the walls. They will eat the bindings. I must set some traps tomorrow.

  But the noise did not sound like the skittering feet of rats. Wagner had seen and heard plenty of them in Germany. This noise was soft but persistent. Like the beat of a bird’s wings or like a dog continuously licking its chops.

  As he stepped into the area at the end of the balcony, where his reading light had not penetrated all afternoon, he stopped and listened hard in the complete darkness.

  Nothing. The fluttering sound had vanished.

  Wagner raised the electric tube in the blackness in front of him and pressed the ignition lever.

  The room strobed into focus with an excruciating white brilliance, like a flash of lightning. Before him stood a creature, almost like a man, but with a mouth full of teeth like a wolf. Its eyes were red burning coals. The thing was in obvious pain and anguish from the light, recoiling in horror, as its image—black, so much blackness, as if the shadows had retreated to the thing and wrapped around it like a cloak—terrified Wagner. His finger slipped off the lever and the room was immediately swallowed by darkness.

  When he managed, with shaking hands, to ignite the flashlight again, he found he was once again alone in the room, with nothing more than shelves, books, and the fleeting image of the creature in his mind’s eye.

  And then, from behind him, came the clearing of a throat.

  “You must be Stonemaster Andreas Wagner,” a voice as smooth as velvet said. “I am Count Dracula.”

  Wagner whipped around with the beam of light from the electric device. He was surprised to find a man at the far end of the balcony, by the stairs. He could have sworn the voice was right behind him.

  The man was about the same height as Wagner, wearing a long traveling coat, vest, and scarf. He was young—or at least younger than Wagner had expected. In their correspondence, the Count had seemed an older man. But the man that stood before him could not have been more than thirty-five years of age.

  The Count stood solemnly by the vast bookshelves, his countenance one part amusement and the other part disdain. His hair was long and dark, one strand of it falling across his brow. His eyes were a deep dark color, and Wagner felt like they were drilling into his soul. But then the man smiled widely, showing his perfectly ordinary and white teeth. It was a friendly and inviting smile, and Wagner was instantly put at ease. That could not have been this man, could it? His teeth! Was I just seeing things? He momentarily discarded the image of the creature he had glimpsed, and recalled his manners.

  “Count. I hope you do not mind my exploring your wonderful library,” Wagner said as he strode down the balcony and relit the candle on his reading table before extinguishing his flashlight and returning it to its box. He then turned to shake the Count’s extended hand.

  “Not at all,” replied the Count. “I am delighted to meet you and to discover that, like me, you are also a bibliophile. The best gentlemen are.” The man smiled warmly as they shook hands, and Wagner noted that while the handshake was firm, the skin of the Count’s hand was cool to the touch and as smooth as fine marble.

  “I was beginning to think we might never meet,” Wagner began as their embrace broke.

  “I must apologize, sir. My work, at times, takes me far afield. Have you had time to familiarize yourself with the castle?” Wagner noted that the Count spoke with some formality, but his manner was very familiar.

  “I have, sir. The damage is extensive in some places, but most of it is superficial. I don’t anticipate any problems with the work, but I will need to bring on an assistant, as we had discussed.”

  “Of course, of course.” The Count glanced at Wagner’s reading stack, picking up items and smiling as he returned them to the table. “You have good taste. You still intend to hire this man, Bischoff?”

  “Yes, sir. Fridtjof Bischoff—Fritz—is a first-class stone worker and a good friend. I’ve asked him to come

  with my wife. He will be bringing his own wife, Gretchen, so the ladies will have each other for company, as we men get to the work.” Wagner felt uncomfortable lying about Gretchen being married to Fritz, but he had discussed the story with them ahead of time, suggesting it would be less likely to cause a stir.

  The Count paused in his examination of the reading stack and slowly
turned to Wagner. His face was suddenly serious.

  “That…is probably a very good idea, Mr. Wagner.” He smiled widely again, and his teeth glittered in the yellow light.

  “I may yet again be called away on business,” the Count said, as he began walking back toward the stairs. Wagner followed him. “I trust all your needs are being taken care of?”

  “I have yet to actually see one of your servants, Count, but they have been very helpful in providing my meals and procuring my tools for me.”

  “Ah. Petran is shy sometimes. I am sure you will see him around at some point.” The Count turned and abruptly strode to the top of the stairs. Wagner followed him, and when the Count reached the steps he turned again.

  “I must take my leave of you, my good Andreas, for I am quite tired from this recent excursion to Serbia.” They shook hands again.

  “Of course, sir,” Wagner replied. “I hope your trip was a successful one. What kind of work is it that you do?”

  The Count smiled broadly again. “I am an expert on rare disorders of the blood.”

  “Oh! A doctor, then?” Wagner smiled back.

  “No. For me it is purely a personal interest and one of research. I am called upon to examine many individuals, though. Have a good night sir, and enjoy the rest of your reading.” With that, the Count turned rapidly, his coat swirling around him. Wagner was briefly reminded of the thing he thought he had seen—The shadows! The fangs!—before he dismissed the vision as pure nerves. As the Count descended the spiral stair into darkness, Wagner returned to his reading stack and determined to return his selections to the shelves before bed, with the exception of the Conrad, which he would take with him to his room. When he reached his small table with his belongings, the lower levels of the library began to glow again.

  He stepped over to the rail and looked down to see the Count now on the lower level and crossing the marble floor. How did he get down so fast? The man walked along the wall, past the already re-lit candlesticks on each sconce. Wagner watched with amazement, as with each candle the Count passed, the small lick of flame would first practically gutter, and then, once the Count had passed the sconce, its flame would surge again into full brightness. Before his mind could comprehend what he had just seen, the Count had left the room, his feet appearing to glide over the floor more than walk.

  My mind is definitely playing tricks on me.

  Chapter 9

  Wagner saw the Count only in passing during the following days. He hardly gave any thought to the hideous apparition that had appeared before him in the gloom of the library. His rational mind, in the light of day, assumed he had been dozing in the chair. The whole sequence of the events was now muddled in his mind.

  Instead of dwelling on it, he had set to work the following day, hauling rubble in a rickety wheelbarrow and dumping what portions he saw no further use for over the edge of the castle’s cliffs. He was thrifty, though, and carefully assessed each stone or piece of jagged timber for its potential of being reused, when it came time for shoring up walls or fixing damage. The work kept him busy from his breakfast until his dinner. He would take a brief break for lunch, but he often found himself taking his sandwich with him and consuming it quickly on the way back to the wheelbarrow. The ability to lose himself in his work took his mind off the tragic events of the past.

  At the end of the fourth day after meeting the Count in the library, Wagner entered the kitchen expecting to find his dinner, but instead an empty table and a single lit candle awaited him. On the table, a small handwritten note rested in the place where he normally ate.

  The Count requests your presence at an informal dinner in the parlor, off the library.

  —Petran

  Wagner looked at the note briefly, then turned to head up to the library. He was not sure of the location of any room that might be called a ‘parlor’ near the library, but he felt confident he could find the Count, wherever the man might be. He went by his room and collected his small notebook and pen, thinking the Count might have some specific instructions for him, and then proceeded to make his way to the library. The corridor outside the double doors was dark, but inside the library there was a small flickering light. As Wagner stepped into the entrance to the library, he saw the source of the light was coming from a door on the wall to his left. He had missed the door on his last visit to the library, enchanted as he had been with the books. His journey had taken him deeper into the stacks off to the right, and eventually into the upper levels and balconies.

  Now he stepped into the doorway off the library and took in the rich upholstery and fine drapes of the room. The carpet was thick and lush. Some dimly lit oil paintings adorned the walls, along with more of the sorts of tapestries he had seen in the corridors and in the castle’s lobby. At the far wall, a curtain had been pulled part way across the wall. He realized it obscured an entryway to another room. A wide arch that, with the curtain pulled, would appear to be a wall, but was in fact a room divider. The source of the candlelight was on the other side of the curtain. He took a few steps through the small sitting room toward the curtain, but stopped. He heard a curious slurping noise from the other side of the curtain.

  Suddenly, he felt he should announce his presence.

  “Count? It is I, Herr Wagner.”

  A swift shuffling noise came from beyond the curtain. Then he heard a sound he recognized. That of a man standing up from an old chair.

  “Ah, Herr Wagner,” came the smooth voice. “Do join me.”

  The Count pulled the curtain aside with a flourish, revealing an identical sitting room on the other side. The same rich burgundy fabrics had been used on its walls. The carpet was all of one piece with the first sitting room. It had clearly been cut to fit the space from wall to wall. More faded tapestries and oil paintings with gilded ornate wooden frames decorated the walls, while plush settees and chairs filled the floor space of the room.

  The Count stepped back into the room and returned to the chair in which he had been seated, a small bowl of dark soup rested on a table next to his chair. He also had a crystal goblet of deep red wine on the table. Wagner noted that it was nearly empty. He worried briefly that he might be late—the Count had clearly started without him.

  “Please, sit,” the Count encouraged him. Wagner noted another small table with a wine glass and a bowl of steaming soup for him. Based on how much steam the soup gave off, it could not have been in the room more than a few minutes. Perhaps I am not late after all.

  “I hope you will forgive me for beginning without you, but I was famished. I’ve just returned from a long day up north.” The Count smiled a small tight smile, then set back in his chair as if he was finished with his meal. Although the wine glass was nearly empty, the man’s bowl was practically full.

  “Of course, Count. Thank you so much for inviting me to dinner.” Wagner was starving, and he hoped there would be more than just the soup. The normal meals Petran served him were huge. By comparison, the soup was just a snack. Despite his hunger, he felt a compulsion to wait for the Count’s encouragement that he should eat. “I have been hard at work these past few days. I would relish some conversation.”

  “Yes, of course,” the Count told him. “Petran informs me that you have been working very diligently, often not even taking time for a proper lunch. I can assure you that you are under no time constraints to finish your work, my good sir. Please, eat. While your soup is still warm.” The Count gestured slightly with his hand to the bowl, and Wagner was surprised at the length of the man’s fingernails. Wagner picked up his spoon and sampled the thick soup. It was too hot, but he made a show of enjoying the mostly bland, but slightly meaty, taste.

  The Count took up his wine goblet and leaned far back into his chair. The sole candle in the room left the man mostly in shadow. He slowly sipped from the rim of the glass, his eyes never leaving Wagner.

  Wagner ate a few spoonfuls of the soup, waiting for the Count to initiate the conversation. He wasn’
t quite sure what the Count wanted to discuss with him. He assumed the man would want to talk about the restoration of the castle, or maybe their shared tastes in reading. But the Count remained silent and his gaze never wavered. The look was beginning to make Wagner uneasy.

  “Are you well, Count?” Wagner asked, after a few moments.

  As if coming out of a slight dream, the Count sat forward in his chair. “I am sorry. Forgive me, I was lost in memory. You were saying?” The man’s demeanor seemed like that of an old and fragile grandfather coming out of a cloud of recollection. Wagner was again struck by the odd contrast in the man’s bearing and his looks. He appeared to be a young man—possibly younger than Wagner. He wondered at the memory that had so absorbed the Count, but knew it would be rude to ask.

  “I was wondering if you wanted to hear about the restoration work,” Wagner said, for lack of a better conversation topic.

  “I am certain you have things well in hand. Do you have all that you require?” The Count leaned back into the shadow of his wingback chair once again.

  “Actually, you had said in your welcome letter that you would obtain the keys for me to those upper rooms in the east wing that are locked.” The Count raised an eyebrow and held his gaze on Wagner. He looked as if he remembered no such promise.