She seemed tense on the plane, but when they arrived in Stedok she was more relaxed. Alan wasn’t. Directly he saw the village he was uneasy: it seemed both brooding and hostile. There was one main street which straggled on into a huge agricultural plain, a few residential roads which also petered out into the vast, grey wheatfields, a closed-down cinema, a small motel, and an Orthodox church full of icons, surrounded by a large graveyard with the most ornate tombs and rusty railings.
But, although she was grieving, his grandmother was welcoming and Alan soon noticed how happy his mother was in the little stucco-fronted house with its vegetable garden, old-fashioned television and collections of icons and dolls in traditional costume.
The funeral was a big one, with most of the villagers lining the route to the graveyard, the coffin being carried in a black funeral carriage pulled by two black horses wearing purple plumes. After the service, it was borne out to the magnificent family tomb in the graveyard and placed on a stone shelf inside.
As they were leaving the graveyard, his mother introduced Alan to a cousin, a young girl named Sojit, who was the most beautiful person he had ever met in his life. She had a graceful, willowy figure and her dark hair fell thickly on to a long, milky-skinned neck.
‘Your grandfather was a fine old man, kind and good. The end of a long line. Thank God,’ Sojit said.
‘What do you mean – thank God?’
She looked awkward, as if she had accidentally said the wrong thing, but however hard he tried Alan couldn’t get out of Sojit what she really meant.
That night, tucked up in a hard little bed in a small, box-like room, Alan had the most awful nightmare. He dreamt that he had been buried alive and was knocking at the side of his coffin in a desperate attempt to get someone to come and release him. But no one came, the air inside grew thinner and the lid was unyielding. He knew he was going to die.
Suddenly he woke up, sweating, not sure where he was. He looked up at the low ceiling and fancied the walls were closing in on him. It was as if he was still buried alive. There was a sound too – the urgent sound of someone knocking on wood.
Gradually Alan came to, realizing that he was spending the first night in his Bulgarian room. He wasn’t in a coffin; he was in bed – but what was that knocking?
It was definitely coming from outside, and every moment it seemed to increase in sound and volume. There was a terrible urgency to it. Someone, somewhere, must be trapped and desperately trying to attract attention.
Alan jumped out of bed and opened his window. It was a late September night and he could smell autumn in the air. There was the pungent aroma of damp earth.
The sound of knocking increased. It seemed to come from the graveyard. Why hadn’t anyone else heard it, he wondered. Then he saw that at least one other person had – a slim figure was opening a side gate over the road and running furtively along the shadowed side of the street. Sojit.
As he crept out of his grandmother’s house, Alan found that the knocking sound was doubling, trebling, quadrupling, until it became a terrifying din. Why had no one else heard this racket except for him and Sojit? But where was she now?
Hurriedly, he followed the sound to the graveyard. Because of the size of the monuments, the carved pillars and massive cupolas, the decorated arches and cathedral-like roofs, the graveyard looked more like a city, picked out in minute detail by the hard, silver moonlight.
And the knocking was still increasing in volume and urgency.
As Alan ran over the tussocky grass, he wondered where Sojit had gone. He rapidly increased his pace. Gradually his fear ebbed away – he was beginning to experience a glorious sensation of wellbeing and happy anticipation.
Then he found her.
Sojit was lying over a small grave, and Alan could see that she had gashed her cheek. A small trickle of bright-red blood was flowing, made more pronounced by the sharp, clear moonlight. Her long, pale neck was partly covered by a scarf and she was not unconscious – just stunned and already stirring slightly.
‘Who’s that?’ Sojit moaned.
‘It’s Alan. Are you hurt?’
‘I don’t know. What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here!’ She became frantic.
‘I heard the knocking. But it’s stopped. That’s odd.’
‘We must go home now.’
‘But what was all that noise?’
‘It was in your imagination.’
‘Rubbish!’
‘We must go, Alan.’ Shakily, Sojit staggered to her feet and then, with a little cry, touched the blood on her cheek. Suddenly she was terribly afraid.
‘There’s blood on your cheek,’ said Alan. ‘But it’s drying –’
‘Keep away!’ She darted away from him.
Alan couldn’t drag his eyes from the blood on her cheek. Even now there was a glorious bright-red drop rolling down. He was suddenly thirsty, and a voice in his head told him to drink. Alan advanced on Sojit and she drew back again, this time with a harsh cry of fear.
Then the knocking began again, just as urgent as before.
‘Can you hear that?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Why doesn’t anyone else come?’
‘Because they can’t hear. Let’s go. Now!’
‘So it’s just us two then,’ said Alan. ‘Why’s that?’ But there was something dawning in his mind; it was so horrific that he couldn’t possibly think about it. Not now. Not here.
The knocking continued, growing even louder than before.
‘Don’t follow it,’ Sojit implored. ‘Come home with me.’
But a yearning as strong and compulsive as the strange feeling he had had when he saw Sojit’s blood came over Alan, and he knew that he must go.
The mausoleum was very ornate, with its iron railings and painted wood and icons inlaid into the arched pillars. The bronze door looked firmly shut, but when Alan rattled the handle it opened slowly towards him on rusty hinges. Directly he was inside, the knocking sound stopped and there was absolute silence. Could he have imagined it all? Was he still dreaming? Sleepwalking?
Gradually Alan’s tension drained away, and although it was unpleasantly spooky in the mausoleum he was not afraid – just tired and rather irritable. The stone monuments were dusty and dirty-looking, and there was an unpleasant smell that was vaguely familiar. He looked around nervously, and at the very back of the vault he could just pick out a bunch of wild garlic. Next to it was a cross. The villagers had clearly tried to warn off the vampires, but obviously their thirst was too great.
The silence lengthened. Then he saw that his grandfather’s shiny new coffin was open.
Eagerly, Alan walked over and peered into the casket. The thing inside had a livid white face and its claw-like hands were tightly gripping the sides.
‘You are one of us, Alan.’ The voice was dry as a husk.
‘I don’t understand.’ He was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe and his chest was tight as a drum. Then Alan saw the stone lids of the other tombs being pushed away by rotting fingers. Men with sallow, bloodless features were clambering out. One of them held up an icon – an image of a young woman with a long white neck.
‘Where is the girl?’
‘She’s gone home,’ said Alan quickly, too quickly.
‘I smell blood, Alan.’
‘I don’t understand –’
‘Oh, but you do. You are one of us. One of the line. You’re family. My last male descendant. And you are thirsty. Where is she?’
But Sojit was already standing by the open mausoleum, brave and defiant. ‘I’m going home now, Alan. Please come with me.’
Alan looked at the lily-white neck. ‘You go,’ he said. ‘I’ll follow …’
‘I don’t believe you, Jon,’ said Mary.
‘That’s up to you.’ Jon grinned strangely. It was difficult to know what he was thinking.
Mary turned hurriedly away.
‘I used to have horrible dreams about th
e baby-sitter we had when we lived in America,’ said Joanna. ‘Would you like to hear the whole story?’
3
The Sitter
We used to live in New England. Actually it’s more like Norway than England, with remote, rolling countryside, thickly wooded hills and clapboard houses half hidden amongst the trees. The local community was isolated and there had been rumours of witchcraft in the last century.
At that time, my brother Zak and I were often looked after by sitters while our parents went out to dinner or the theatre. Our father was doing a five-year stint with an American insurance company and they were often asked out for business entertainment, so they were always hunting for good sitters.
But Zak and I used to resent being in this house miles from anywhere. There was no one to play with and we were too dependent on each other. He’s five years older than me and didn’t want to play with a boring baby sister and I didn’t want to have anything to do with a rough idiot of a brother.
So we took it out on the sitters, and gave them hell. They didn’t stay long. One of them tripped over a piece of tightly stretched black nylon and broke her ankle, and an older one, Ellie Harbottle – well, we put glue on the toilet seat, and she really got stuck. Dad was furious. Then one weekend he said he’d found absolutely the right person in the nearby town of Salem. Apparently she was known to be quiet, strict and determined – her name was Carrie Hewlett. I have to say that from that moment on we viewed her as a challenge.
Carrie was a bit of a shock when she came. She was small and young, but she wore a sober dress, dark cardigan, grey stockings and flat, sensible shoes. Her hair was done up into a bun and her face had that well-scrubbed look. She smelt of soap and washing-powder.
‘I want to make one thing clear to you guys,’ she said as she plumped down on the sofa and got out some knitting. ‘You give me trouble and I’ll get your dad to lambaste you.’
Neither Zak nor I knew what lambaste meant – but it didn’t sound too good. What was worse, Dad had been getting very tough recently, particularly since the sitters had been going down so fast. Maybe he would do what Carrie said.
‘Shall I turn on the TV for you?’ I asked, hoping to chat her up a bit and give her a false sense of security.
‘Never watch it.’
‘Do you mind if we do –’
‘Sure I mind.’
‘What?’ asked Zak, amazed.
‘Watching TV’s a real bad thing to do. I’ve brought you some books to read.’
‘I don’t read books,’ said Zak firmly.
‘Not that kind anyway,’ I told her, as she put two large volumes down on the table.
‘Take your pick.’ She smiled as if she had given us a real treat and resumed her knitting.
Both of the books looked deadly. One was called One Hundred Uplifting Examples of Moral Heroism, the other Pastor Mustard Tells the Good News. We sat at the table, turning the pages and pretending that we were reading, but secretly plotting.
‘Do you enjoy books like this?’ asked Zak, trying to draw her out.
‘Sure I do.’ Her face was pale but radiant, and her big blue eyes were alive with enthusiasm.
‘Where did you get them?’ he persisted.
She smiled at him brightly. There was something nasty about that smile. For the first time in my life I was afraid of an adult. As for Zak, I knew by the fixed way he was looking at her that he was scared too.
‘I got them from our library.’
‘Your home library?’
‘Oh no. The society’s library.’
‘What society is that?’ I asked her curiously.
‘The Society of Love.’
‘Is that a Church?’
‘No. It’s a company of friends and believers.’
‘What do you believe in?’ asked Zak, and Carrie met his gaze with a cold, blue stare that seemed to penetrate right through him.
‘Purity. Purity of spirit, of living, of behaving.’
I thought of all the bad things we’d done to the other sitters. We hadn’t been very pure – and Carrie definitely wouldn’t have approved.
‘How does the society … operate?’ asked Zak more hesitantly.
‘We meet and talk in our little wooden hall that’s tucked right away in the woods. And we pledge ourselves to purity.’
‘How do you do that?’ I got in before Zak could ask another question. I frowned at him.
‘We drink from the cup. There is only one direction. One life. We love little children because they are at their most pure.’ Carrie gave me a special, strong, all-embracing smile. Then she turned to Zak and her smile snapped off. ‘But of course, little children grow up and become corrupt.’ She paused. ‘Are you corrupt, Zak?’
‘No,’ he said virtuously. ‘Not at all.’
Carrie looked away. Has she ever had any fun in her life, I thought. Has she ever been corrupt herself?
‘Do you all drink from the cup?’ Zak asked, ignoring my warning glance.
‘When it’s filled.’
Zak seemed fascinated by her flashing knitting-needles. They were going so fast that they were almost a blur.
‘But what’s it full of?’
She smiled again and we were almost mesmerized by her startling radiance. ‘Why – the stuff of life, of course. Now you two should be in bed, shouldn’t you?’
It was too early, but neither of us cared. We were only too glad to go upstairs and talk about her.
‘She’s awful.’ Zak sat on the end of my bed.
‘Keep your voice down,’ I admonished him.
‘We’ve got to get rid of her.’
‘She’ll be tricky.’
‘But she’s only a kid.’ Zak was thoughtful. ‘There must be a way –’
‘She scares me.’
‘Yes – she does me.’
I looked at him in amazement. He never admitted to weakness, so he must have been scared.
‘What are we going to do then?’
My brother grinned, but the grin was shaky. ‘We could scare the living daylights out of her. You can see she’s led a sheltered life.’
‘Be careful, Zak. There’s something about her. That look.’
‘You mean she’s a nutter?’
‘I mean she’s tough.’
‘Tough, eh?’
I couldn’t have said a worse thing, because Zak loved a challenge. ‘I wonder if she’d be tough enough to face up to a bit of a fright?’
‘What kind of fright did you have in mind?’
‘You know my cassette deck and speakers?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know I record on them.’
‘Yes.’ I was feeling very wary now.
‘You know I’ve got that long extension lead –’
‘Zak, you’ve got to be careful.’
‘I’ve got a plan to scare old droopy drawers – out of her droopy drawers.’
As he began to explain I grew even more afraid. I was sure Zak didn’t understand who he was taking on.
‘Are you asleep?’
‘Mm.’ I was pretending to be.
Carrie stood in the doorway, a shawl over her shoulders, looking sallow but still bright-eyed. ‘Shall I come in and tuck you up?’
‘I’m OK.’
‘Would you like a story? I know your brother wouldn’t. He’s too old.’
To cover up what I knew Zak was doing in the garden, I agreed to the story – just in case Carrie went and checked in his bedroom. She sat on the end of my bed and I smelt the sensible soap. For some reason the smell scared me.
‘What would you like?’
‘Er –’ I was at a loss.
‘A fairy story?’
‘I suppose –’
‘Or a poem? I’m rather partial to poems. Would you like to have a poem?’
‘Yes – I’d love to hear a poem.’
‘Very well. Let me see.’ She tossed her head back, and then, to my amazement, began to sing a nursery rhyme.
‘Ding, dong, bell, pussy’s in the well.
Who put her in? Little Johnny Green.
Who pulled her out? Little Tommy Stout.
What a naughty boy was that,
To try to drown poor pussy cat,
Who never did him any harm,
And killed the mice in his father’s barn.’
I listened dutifully, but as I listened I shivered. Carrie obviously hated boys. She was really strange.
‘Does Zak persecute cats?’
‘Oh no. He loves them.’ I thought she looked rather disappointed, so I was determined to probe a bit more. ‘Can I ask you a question about your society?’
‘Of course,’ she agreed readily, but I thought I caught a cautious look in her eye.
‘Do you have boys in it?’
She shook her head and looked grim. ‘Never. I think they’re a waste of space, don’t you?’
Suddenly I felt very sleepy. Carrie showed no signs of going away. How long was Zak going to be in the garden, I wondered.
My eyes closed despite my attempts to keep awake, and for a few moments I must have drifted off to sleep. When I awoke there was a sharp stinging on my neck. The room was dark, but I could hear Carrie singing and using the vacuum cleaner outside. What was this stinging? My hand went to my neck and in my horror I touched a substance that was sticky and red. Blood. I began to scream.
Carrie convinced me I’d dropped off to sleep and somehow lain on my comb. I often untangled my hair before going off to sleep and I suppose it was possible that I had made the pinpricks in my throat that way. I looked at the comb doubtfully – it seemed very blunt to me.
Carrie put a plaster on my neck and I felt better. Then I caught sight of a red stain on the carpet just outside my bedroom door.
‘What’s that stain?’ I asked.
For the first time, Carrie looked uncomfortable. ‘I dropped something. Guess I thought I’d vacuumed it all up.’
‘You don’t get rid of a stain with a vacuum.’
‘No.’ She was very much on the defensive and I instinctively pressed home the advantage.
‘What did you drop?’
‘Little jar of mine.’
‘What was in it?’
Vampire Stories to Tell in the Dark Page 2
