Vampires, Zombies, Werewolves And Ghosts - 25 Classic Stories Of The Supernatural

by Barbara H. Solomon

  Mr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville’s refusal, and begged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured peer was quite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow his daughter to retain the present the ghost had given her, and when in the spring of 1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented at the Queen’s first drawing-room on the occasion of her marriage, her jewels were the universal theme of admiration. For Virginia received the coronet, which is the reward of all good little American girls, and was married to her boylover as soon as he came of age. They were both so charming, and they loved each other so much, that everyone was delighted at the match, except the old Marchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch the Duke for one of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less than three expensive dinner parties for that purpose, and, strange to say, Mr. Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the young Duke personally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use his own words, “was not without apprehension lest, amid the enervating influences of a pleasure-loving aristocracy, the true principles of republican simplicity should be forgotten.” His objections, however, were completely overruled, and I believe that when he walked up the aisle of St. George’s, Hanover Square, with his daughter leaning on his arm, there was not a prouder man in the whole length and breadth of England.

  The Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to Canterville Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked over in the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pine woods. There had been a great deal of difficulty at first about the inscription on Sir Simon’s tombstone, but finally it had been decided to engrave on it simply the initials of the old gentleman’s name, and the verse from the library window. The Duchess had brought with her some lovely roses, which she strewed upon the grave, and after they had stood by it for some time they strolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There the Duchess sat down on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her feet smoking a cigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenly he threw his cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her, “Virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband.”

  “Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you.”

  “Yes, you have,” he answered, smiling, “you have never told me what happened to you when you were locked up with the ghost.”

  “I have never told anyone, Cecil,” said Virginia gravely.

  “I know that, but you might tell me.”

  “Please don’t ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I owe him a great deal. Yes, don’t laugh, Cecil, I really do. He made me see what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than both.”

  The Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly.

  “You can have your secret as long as I have your heart,” he murmured.

  “You have always had that, Cecil.”

  “And you will tell our children some day, won’t you?” Virginia blushed.

  CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO

  (1942–)

  Born in Berkeley, California, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, whose mother taught at the University of California, studied at San Francisco University. She has worked as a demographic cartographer and from time to time as a professional reader of tarot cards and palms in San Francisco. Music is a major interest of hers, and she has studied numerous instruments, music theory and composition, and voice. Among Yarbro’s honors are the titles of Grand Master at the World Horror Convention and Living Legend from the International Horror Guild, and she is a recipient of the Bram Stoker Lifetime Achievement Award and the Fine Foundation Award for Literary Achievement. Her popular series of novels depicting the vampire Count Saint-Germain include Hotel Transylvania (1978), Blood Games (1980), Tempting Fate (1982), Darker Jewels (1993), Mansions of Darkness (1996), States of Grace (2005), A Dangerous Climate (2008), and Burning Shadows (2009). The Saint-Germain Chronicles (1983) and Saint-Germain: Memoirs (2007) are story collections about the Count.

  Disturb Not My Slumbering Fair

  (1978)

  It was already Thursday when Diedre left her grave. The rain had made the soil soft and the loam clung to her cerements like a distracted lover. It was so late, the night so sodden, that there was no one to see her as she left the manicured lawns and chaste marble stones behind her for the enticing litter of the city.

  “Pardon me, miss.” The night watchman was old, white-haired under his battered hat. He held the flashlight aimed at her face, seeing only a disheveled young woman with mud in her hair, a wild look about her eyes, a livid cast to her face like a bruise. He wondered if she had been attacked; there was so much of that happening these days. “You all right, miss?”

  Diedre chuckled, but she had not done it for some time and it came out badly. The watchman went pale and his mouth tightened. Whatever happened to her must have been very bad. “Don’t you worry, miss. I’ll call the cops. They’ll catch the guy. You stay calm. He can’t get you while I’m around.”

  “Cops?” she asked, managing the sounds better now. “It’s not necessary.”

  “You look here, miss,” said the night watchman, beginning to enjoy himself, to feel important once more. “You can’t let him get away with it. You lean on me: I’ll get you inside where it’s warm. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Diedre studied the old man, weighing up the risk. She was hungry and tired. The old man was alone. Making a mental shrug she sighed as she went to the old man, noting with amusement that he drew back as he got a whiff of her. She could almost see him recoil. “It was in the graveyard,” she said.

  “Christ, miss.” The night watchman was shocked.

  “Yes,” she went on, warming to her subject. “There was a new grave . . . the earth hadn’t settled yet . . . And the smell . . .” was delicious, she thought.

  He was very upset, chafing her hand as he led her into the little building at the factory entrance. “Never you mind,” he muttered. “I’ll take care of you. Fine thing, when a man can . . . can . . . and in a graveyard, too . . .”

  “Yes,” she agreed, her tongue showing pink between her teeth.

  He opened the door for her, standing aside with old-fashioned gallantry until the last of her train had slithered through before coming into the room himself. “Now, you sit down here.” He pointed to an ancient armchair that sagged on bowed legs. “I’m going to call the cops.”

  Diedre wasn’t quite ready for that. “Oh,” she said faintly, “will you wait a bit? You’ve been so kind . . . and understanding. But sometimes the police think . . .” She left the sentence hanging as she huddled into the chair.

  The night watchman frowned. Obviously the poor girl didn’t know what she looked like. There could be no doubt about her case. “You won’t get trouble from them,” he promised her.

  She shivered picturesquely. “Perhaps you’re right. But wait a while, please. Let me collect myself a little more.”

  The night watchman was touched. He could see that she was close to breaking down, that only her courage was keeping her from collapsing. “Sure, miss. I’ll hold off a bit. You don’t want to wait too long, though. The cops are funny about that.” He reached over to give her a reassuring pat but drew away from her when he saw the look in her eyes. Poor soul was scared to death, he could tell.

  “Uh, sir,” Diedre said after a moment, realizing that she didn’t know his name. “I was wondering . . . I don’t want you to get into trouble, after you’ve been so kind, but . . .”

  He looked at her eagerly. “But what, miss?”

  She contrived to look confused. “I just realized . . . I seem to have lost my ring.” She held up both hands to show him. “It was valuable. An heirloom. My mother . . .” Her averted eyes were full of mischief.

  “Oh, dear,” said the night watchman solicitously. “Do you think you lost it back there?” He looked worried.

  She nodded slowly. “Back at the grave,” she whispered.

  “Well, miss, as soon as the cops get
here, we’ll tell them and they’ll get it for you.” He paused awkwardly. “Thing is, miss. It might not still be there. Could have been taken, you know.” He wanted to be gentle with her, to reassure her.

  “Taken?” She stared at him through widened eyes. “My ring? Why?” Slowly she allowed comprehension to show in her face. “Oh! You think that he . . . that when he . . . that he took it?”

  The night watchman looked away, mumbling, “He could have, miss. That’s a fact. A man who’d do a thing like this, he’d steal. That’s certain.”

  Diedre leaped up, distraction showing in every line of her sinuous body. “Then I’ve got to check! Now!” She rushed to the door and pulled on the knob. “It can’t be gone. Oh, you’ve got to help me find it!” Pulling the door wide she ran into the night and listened with satisfaction as the old man came after her.

  “Miss! Miss! Don’t go back there! What if he hasn’t gone? Let me call the cops, miss!” His breath grew short as he stumbled after her.

  “Oh, no. No. I’ve got to be sure. If it’s gone, I don’t know what I’ll do.” She let herself stumble so that the old man could catch up with her; if he fell too far behind, Diedre knew she would lose him. This way it was so easy to lead him where she wanted him. Ahead she saw the cemetery gates gleaming faintly in the wan light.

  “You don’t want to go back in there, miss,” said the night watchman between jagged breaths. His face was slippery with cold sweat that Diedre saw with a secret, predatory smile. “Oh, I can’t . . .” It was the right sound, the right moment. He automatically put out his arm. Pretending to lean against him, she felt for his heart and was delighted at the panic-stricken way it battered at his ribs.

  “But I’ve got to find it. I’ve got to.” She broke away from him once more and ran toward the grave she had so recently left. “Over here,” she cried, and watched as he staggered toward her, trying to speak.

  Then his legs gave way and he fell against the feet of a marble angel. His skull made a pulpy noise when it cracked.

  With a shriek of delight Diedre was upon him, her eager teeth sinking into the flesh greedily, although the body was still unpleasantly warm. Blood oozed down her chin and after a while she wiped it away.

  Toward the end of the night she made a halfhearted attempt to bury the litter from her meal. It was useless; she knew that the body would be discovered in a little while, and there would be speculation on the state of it: the gnawed bones and the torn flesh. As an afterthought, she broke one of the gnawed arms against a pristinely white vault, just to confuse the issue. Then she gathered up a thigh and left, walking back into the city, filled, satisfied.

  By the time the last of the night watchman was discovered, Diedre was miles away, sleeping off her feast in the cool damp of a dockside warehouse. Her face, if anyone had seen it, was soft and faintly smiling, the cyanose pallor of the grave fading away to be replaced with a rosy blush. She didn’t look like a ghoul at all.

  That night, when she left the warehouse, she saw the first headlines:

  NIGHT WATCHMAN FOUND DEAD

  IN GRAVEYARD

  GRISLY SLAYING AT CEMETERY

  Diedre giggled as she read the reports. Apparently there was some hot dispute in the police department about the teeth marks. There was also a plan to open the grave where the old man had been killed. This made Diedre frown. If the grave were opened, they would find it empty, and there would be more questions asked. She bit her lip as she thought. And when the solution came to her, she laughed almost merrily.

  It was close to midnight when she spotted her quarry, a young woman about her own height and build. Diedre followed her away from the theater and into the many-tiered parking lot.

  When the woman had opened the car door and was sliding into the seat, Diedre came up beside her. “Excuse me,” she said, knowing that the old jacket and workmen’s trousers she had found in the warehouse made her look suspicious. “I saw you come up, and maybe you can help me?”

  The woman looked at her, her nose wrinkling as she looked Diedre over. “What is the matter?” There was obvious condemnation in her words. Diedre had not made a good impression.

  “It’s my car,” Diedre explained, pointing to a respectable Toyota. “I’ve been trying to get it open, but the key doesn’t work. I’ve tried everything.” She made a helpless gesture with her hands, then added a deprecating smile.

  “I don’t think I can help you,” said the woman stiffly. She was seated now and had her hand on the door.

  “Well, look,” said Diedre quickly, holding the door open by force. “If you’d give me a ride down, maybe there’s a mechanic still on duty. Or maybe I could phone the Auto Club . . .”

  The woman in the car gave her another disapproving look, then sighed and opened the door opposite her. “All right. Get in.”

  “Gee, thank you,” Diedre said and slipped around the car, slid into the seat, and closed the door. “This is really awfully good of you. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

  The woman turned the key with an annoyed snap and the car surged forward. “That’s quite all right.” The tone was glacial.

  She was even more upset when they reached the ground level. The attendant who took her money told the woman that there was no mechanic on duty after ten and that it would take over an hour for the Auto Club to get there, and the locksmith would have to make a new key, and that would take time as well. Diedre couldn’t have painted a more depressing picture of her plight if she tried.

  “I guess I’ll have to wait,” she said wistfully, looking out at the attendant.

  “Well,” the man answered, “there’s a problem. We close up at two, and there’s no way you’ll be out of here by then. Why don’t you come back in the morning?”

  This was better than Diedre had hoped. “Well, if that’s all I can do . . .” She shrugged. “Where can I catch a bus around here?”

  “The nearest is six blocks down. What part of town you going to, lady?” the attendant asked Diedre.

  “Serra Heights,” she said, choosing a neighborhood near the cemetery, middle income, city-suburban. Altogether a safe address.

  Reluctantly the woman driving the car said, “That’s on my way. I’ll drop you if you like.” Each of the words came out of her like pulled teeth.

  Diedre turned grateful eyes on her. “Oh, would you? Really? Oh, thanks. I don’t mean to be a bother, but . . . well, you know.” She added, as the inspiration struck her, “Jamie was so worried. This’ll help. Really.”

  The woman’s face softened a little. “I’ll be glad to drive you.” She turned to the attendant. “Perhaps you’ll be good enough to leave a note for the mechanic so that there’ll be no delay in the morning?” She was making up for her previously frosty behavior and gave Diedre a wide smile.

  “Oh, thanks a lot for telling him that,” Diedre said as the car sped out into the night. “I wouldn’t have thought of it. I guess I’m more upset than I thought.”

  The conversation was occasional as they drove, Diedre keeping her mind on the imaginary Jamie, building the other woman a picture of two struggling young people, trying to establish themselves in the world. The woman listened, wearing a curious half-smile. “You know,” she said as she swung off the freeway toward the Serra Valley district, “I’ve often thought things would be better with Grant and me if we’d had to work a little harder. It was too easy, always too easy.”

  “Oh,” said Diedre at her most ingenuous, “did I say something wrong?”

  “No,” the woman sighed. “You didn’t say anything wrong.” She shook her head, as if shaking clouds away and glanced around. “Which way?”

  “Umm. Left onto Harrison and then up Camino Alto.” Camino Alto was the last street in the district, and it followed the boundary of the cemetery.

  “Do you live on Camino Alto?” the woman asked.

  “No. In Ponce de Leon Place. Up at the top of the hill.” Behind that hill was open country, covered in brush. By the time the
woman’s body was found, the police would stop wondering about the missing one from Diedre’s grave.

  The car swung onto Harrison. “Doesn’t it bother you, having that gruesome murder so close to home?”

  Diedre smiled. “A little. You never know what might happen next.”

  They drove up the hill in silence, the woman glancing toward the thick shrubs that masked the cemetery. There was concern in her face and a lack of animation in her eyes. Diedre knew she would freeze when frightened.

  “This is where I get out,” she said at last, looking at the woman covertly. As the car came to a halt, Diedre reached over and grabbed the keys. “Thanks for the lift,” she grinned.

  “My keys . . .” the woman began.

  Diedre shook her head. “Don’t worry about them. I’ll take care of them. Now, if you’ll step out with me.”

  “Where are we going?” the woman quavered. “Not in there?”

  “No,” Diedre assured her. “Get out.”

  In the end she had to club the woman and drag her unconscious body from the car. It was awkward managing her limp form, but eventually she wrestled the woman from the car and into the brush. Branches tore at her and blackberry vines left claw marks on her arms and legs as she plunged farther down the hill. The woman moaned and then was silent.

  It was almost an hour later when Diedre climbed up the hill again, scratched, bruised, and happy. Tied to her belt by the hair, the woman’s head banged on her legs with every step she took.

  Taking the car, Diedre drove to the coast and down the old treacherous stretch of highway that twisted along the cliffs. Gunning the motor at the most dangerous curve, she rode the car down to its flaming destruction on the rocks where breakers hissed over it, steaming from the flames that licked upward as the gas tank exploded.

  It was a nuisance, climbing up the cliff with a broken arm: the ulna had snapped, a greenstick fracture making the hand below it useless. Here and there Diedre’s skin was scorched off, leaving black patches. But the job was done. The police would find the head in the wreck, along with one of the night watchman’s leg bones, and would assume that the rest of the body had been washed out to sea: the headless woman back on the hillside would not be connected with this wreck, and she was clear.