The Vampire Files, Volume One

by P. N. Elrod

  It wasn’t Maureen. The voice and inflection were very similar, but this one had the reedy quality of age in it. “How can I do that?”

  “If you could just tell me the color of Maureen’s eyes—”

  “Blue, sky blue, with dark hair.”

  This time there was an intake of breath. “I am so glad to hear from you at last, Jack. My name is Gaylen Dumont and I would like very much to meet you.”

  “Where is Maureen? Do you know?”

  It was as though she hadn’t heard me. “I am so very glad you called, but it’s difficult for me to talk over the phone. Could you come over?”

  There was no other answer but yes. I got her address and promised to be there within half an hour. She thanked me and hung up. I stared at the earpiece and wondered suspiciously what her game was.

  “She wasn’t too talkative,” I told Escott.

  “Some people don’t like to use the phone.”

  I was more inclined to think some people don’t like to deliver bad news on the phone. Maybe I could have stayed on longer and tried to get more information. I was vulnerable to making mistakes because of my emotional involvement and was very glad Escott was coming. He might help me to think straight. As we drove over, half-formed thoughts and questions and alternatives to what I should have said were running through my mind like insane mice.

  The West Star Hotel was nothing to write home about; neither old or new, flashy or drab, there were hundreds like it all over. We parked, went in past the front desk and elevator, and walked straight up the stairs to the right room. I hesitated before knocking.

  Escott noticed my nerves. “Steady on,” he said under his breath.

  I nodded once, shook my shoulders up, and tapped on the door. No immediate answer came from within. I knocked again and heard faint movements now: a shuffling, a muted thump, the knob turned, and the wood panel squeaked open.

  The voice was softer and less reedy than it was on the phone. “Jack?”

  I swallowed. “Yes, I’m Jack Fleming.”

  The small shadowy figure in the dark dress stepped away, turned slowly, and retreated into the room. Her heart and lungs were laboring. She was either very excited, very ill, or both. I stepped forward and Escott followed quietly, taking his hat off with a smooth and automatic movement and nudging me to do the same.

  We took in her plain impersonal room with a quick glance. The window was open only a crack, and the air well tainted with the smell of soap and strong liniment. A radio on a table crackled out the news of the day. She hobbled to it, using a cane for balance, and turned it off, then sat down with obvious relief.

  “I’m so glad you could come over to talk,” she said. “I did so want to meet you, and it is difficult for me to get around.”

  A suitcase stood at the foot of the bed and beyond that a stiff and ugly-looking wheelchair. She noted where my eyes went.

  “That’s for my bad days. They come more and more often, especially when it’s damp. I have arthritis in my legs and it gives me a lot of trouble.”

  “Miss Dumont, this is my friend, Charles Escott.”

  She extended a frail, yellow hand. “How do you do?”

  Escott took it and said something polite, making a little bow that only the English can do without looking self-conscious.

  She smiled, pleased at the gesture. “I’m glad to meet you, both of you, but you must call me Gaylen, everybody does. Pull those chairs a little closer to the light so we may have a good look at each other.”

  We did as she said and sat down. Maureen’s eyes looked back at me, but the dark hair and brows had faded and gone white. The angle of her jaw was the same, and there were a hundred other similarities too subtle for immediate definition. Her face was scored with wrinkles, the skin puffy and gone shapeless with age—a face like and unlike Maureen’s. It was an agony to look at it.

  She was smiling. “I can hardly believe you’re here. I hardly dared hope you would see my notice, especially after yours stopped. I was afraid you’d moved again.”

  I explained how Escott had pointed it out to me.

  “How very fortunate. You see, it was only a few days ago that I saw it. I live in upstate New York, pretty much by myself, and don’t read the papers often. My housekeeper had a stack of them for her chores, though, and I saw one opened to the right page, and Maureen’s name caught my eye. I remembered she once knew someone named Jack years ago, and I had to find out. I called the paper and they said you’d moved to Chicago. By then I’d found some of her letters to me and I knew you were the right person, so I came out.”

  “Gaylen, do you know where she is?”

  She bowed her head. “I’m sorry, I am so dreadfully sorry to disappoint you.”

  Everything inside me twisted sharply. “Is she dead?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I haven’t heard from her for nearly five years.”

  The twisting got tighter. “When did you last see her? What did she say?”

  “I didn’t see her, she called me. I don’t know from where. She said she was going to be gone on a long trip and not to worry if she didn’t write for a while.”

  I shut my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, I was able to speak quietly, lucidly. “Gaylen, tell me the whole story, tell me everything you know.”

  “I’m not sure that I know very much. I only wanted to see someone else who knew her, who could remember her with me. I’d hoped you may have seen her in the last five years.”

  I felt sorry for both of us. “You have the same name. How are you related to her?”

  She seemed surprised. “I thought you knew. Surely she mentioned me?”

  “She never talked about her past.”

  “How very unlike her. . . . Are you certain? Well, I am her sister—her younger sister, Jack.”

  “Younger,” I echoed back softly.

  “I’m seventy-two, Maureen seventy-six—did she tell you nothing?”

  Her look made me acutely uncomfortable. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  She shook her head. “You poor young man, you must be starved for information. I’ll try my best, but I hope you’ll be as frank with me.”

  “How so?”

  “When I told you her age, you were startled, but not incredulous. You are aware of her—her unusual state?” Her eyes went from me to Escott inquiringly.

  Escott cleared his throat. “Please feel free to speak openly about your sister. Jack has made me acquainted with the facts. All the facts.”

  She regarded him soberly, pursing her lips. “Your accent, you’re from England?”

  He nodded once.

  Gaylen’s eyes were lighter in color than Maureen’s. Now they faded to pale gray as she thought things over and made up her mind. “If it’s all right with Jack . . . but some of my questions might be too personal.”

  “Questions?” I said. “No, Charles, stay, it’s all right. What questions?”

  She hesitated, struggling with something difficult within. She finally took a deep breath and said: “How close were you to Maureen?”

  “We were in love.”

  “Then why did you separate?”

  “It wasn’t my choice, believe me. She left me a note . . . she said she had to leave because some people were after her. She would be back when it was safe.”

  “What people?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And that was five years ago. Were you in school?”

  “No, I was working for the—” I stopped and we looked at each other. Her expression was kindly and concerned, but I was in sudden doubt about how much I should confide in her.

  She saw it and leaned forward. One of her small bony hands closed over mine, light and cool. “Jack, I’m old enough now to understand these things, and I hope wise enough to accept them. You can tell me, you loved each other. . . . Were you lovers?”

  The words got stuck in my throat so I nodded.

  She smiled. “Then I’m glad that she found some h
appiness. Could you tell me why you stopped the ad? Had you given up or was there another reason?”

  “It’s been so long,” I said. “If there had been word, a single word from her, I’d have waited forever, but there was nothing. I had to get out of New York to try and start over, so I came here.” I stopped, wanting to get up and pace. She patiently waited me out. “Well, I met new people and have new friends. I thought it was time to let the past go. If Maureen’s alive, if she wants to find me, I left word at my old paper; they’d send her here.”

  “You don’t think she’s alive?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Jack, I must ask you just one more question: you were lovers . . . did she change you?”

  That was one I didn’t want to answer, but my long silence was an answer regardless.

  “If she did . . . well . . . it’s all right. She was my sister. When it happened to her I still loved her; she was different, but not in any way that really mattered.”

  “Your older sister,” I prompted, wanting to shift the subject around.

  “Yes, it’s hardly fair for me to ask all the questions. I should tell you some things as well. Go over to that table, bring me the picture on it.”

  I picked up an old-fashioned hinged frame for photos. It was ornate silver and just a little tarnished. I gave it to her and she opened it lovingly.

  “You see?” She smiled and pointed at the soft, distant images on either side of the hinges. “I was just seventeen when we sat for these, and very nervous. I was afraid of shaking too much and ruining it, but it turned out very nice, after all. I’m on the left and this is Maureen on the right.”

  I knew her instantly. Her hair was different, piled high with a cluster of small curls over her forehead. She wore a high collar, and pinned to it was a gold-and-ivory cameo that I remembered her wearing. Her pose and expression were stiff, but it was Maureen, her face identical to the likeness in my memory. Escott leaned over for a look.

  “Maureen was twenty-one. As you can see at the bottom, those were taken in the year 1881. Oh, but we were pretty girls back then, all the boys were after us.”

  “Did she marry?” Escott asked.

  “No. Neither of us. We were destined to be spinsters. Sometimes it works out that way. You don’t plan on it, it just happens. Our dear parents passed on and we were alone; we couldn’t bear the idea of becoming separated by a marriage. Life just went on and we were busy with charity work and the church and the literary club and the sewing circle. There seemed so much for us to do back then and the years slipped by so fast, but then it all changed.

  “She met him at one of the literary club meetings. They’d got to talking about some terribly popular book that had just come out, though I couldn’t name it now if I tried. His name was Jonathan Barrett, and we had all teased him a little because of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, you know. He was very nice about it and so handsome and all the girls were silly about him, but it was Maureen that he talked to at each and every meeting. She was in her thirties then and he in his twenties, and I tried to tell her he was too young, but she didn’t care. He was so charming and proper I couldn’t dislike him or be jealous of her, and so he often stopped by our house in the evenings.

  “You can probably see the rest, but at the time I did not. Our lives were changing and I didn’t see it at all. Maureen was so happy then and I was glad for her and I suppose these days no one would be too terribly shocked at what happened.

  “Now back then, ladies were properly courted. They had chaperons and other difficulties, it’s a wonder anyone ever got married with all the manners, requirements, and formalities. Only ‘fast’ girls would think of meeting a man alone, and of course if you went beyond that you were no longer considered fit for decent society. But she was in love with him. I suppose I was, too, a bit . . . sometimes a look would flash from his eyes and that made me quake all over. If it had been me instead of Maureen I would have done the same thing as she, and we would have been lovers as they were.”

  I was not surprised at this news, but it was remarkably painful to hear.

  “They saw each other for several years. He often had to be away on business—investments or something, he said—and in all that time he never mentioned marriage. Our friends speculated about it and I did, too—at least to Maureen—but she told me not to push her into things and forbade me to speak of it to Jonathan. Not to push her—this went on for eleven years, if you can believe it. Eleven years of courtship, or so I thought at the time.

  “He only came at night. We’d visit, the three of us, then he would bid us good night and leave. Maureen and I would lock the doors, turn down the gas, and go up to our rooms. I suppose they waited until I was asleep, and then somehow he would come to her.

  “I must have been completely blind at the time or it was my sheer innocence. Not once did I ever guess what went on, and it did go on for many years. It might still be going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If she were still alive . . . still breathing, that is. It was 1904—they say things were quieter back then, but it wasn’t so, things were just as noisy in the streets as they are today. Wagons made such a rattle and rumble, especially on the paving bricks. People shouted, children played, perhaps if there had been a little less noise that day she would still be with me, who knows?

  “We were just crossing the street, it was nearly Christmas, there were a lot of people around us, other shoppers. I remember a band playing on the corner to collect money for the poor. It was cold and we were wondering how the players could keep warm if they never marched around. We laughed and skipped along in step to the drum. What a sight we must have been; two spinsters in their forties acting so silly. We heard only the music, nothing else. Then Maureen turned her head to look up the street and suddenly pushed me. She pushed very hard, my shoes slipped on some dirty ice, and I was almost flying away from her. There was a rumble that drowned out the band and a bell was ringing and I was thrown up against a mass of people on the sidewalk. I was stunned and couldn’t move; they said I struck my head when I fell. Some men carried me into a store; I fainted, and was then taken to a hospital.

  “She saw it coming, but there wasn’t enough time for her to do anything but push me out of the way. They said she couldn’t have felt much, that it was very quick. I like to believe it did not hurt her. It was a firewagon and the horses were running at full speed.

  “I woke up in the hospital ward. I thought I’d die when they told me she’d been killed. Jonathan came by that night and tried to comfort me, but I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I didn’t notice his, or his lack of it. The funeral was held the day I left the hospital, but he didn’t come, and I was very angry with him. He’d known her for eleven years and did not come to see her buried. I was alone, utterly shattered and alone.

  “He came back again after a few days. It was a very difficult interview between us and he asked me some strange questions. He was talking about living after death, whether I would consider such a thing as a reality. He wanted to know if I wanted to see Maureen again. Then he looked at me—just looked—and it did not seem so absurd or horrible anymore. He told me I should be happy because Maureen was really all right. I was shaking my head and smiling; it was like dreaming, but he said he could prove it. He opened the door and Maureen walked in.

  “She wore a new dress . . . it was blue, just like her eyes, and she was young, a girl again, and so pretty. . . .” Gaylen’s head drooped, she looked very tired. She pulled a bit of lace and muslin from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “I’m sorry to get like this, it just all came back to me again.”

  “Can I get you anything? Some water?”

  “No, I’m fine, I want to finish. They talked to me most of the night and I learned a great deal about things I’d thought impossible. But they were right there in front of me—Maureen had been changed by Jonathan and had returned from the grave because of it.

  “They were going to go away; she
said she could not be with me anymore, it was hardly something our friends could understand, and of course she didn’t want any of them knowing about her. She had wanted to see me again, she couldn’t bear the thought of me grieving for her. It was so hard, almost cruel to have her back and then lose her again. She wrote me often, from many places, and she mentioned meeting you and how happy she was. I thought perhaps you knew more than I did about where she went. I’d hoped so hard. . . .”

  “I am sorry.” The words were inadequate, but they were all I had to give her.

  She took my hand again. “That’s all right, there’s nothing we can do about it. At least for her sake—if you don’t mind—perhaps we may be friends.”

  “Of course.”

  “What happened to Barrett?” asked Escott.

  She looked at him, her face blank for a moment. He’d been keeping very still throughout the whole story and she must have forgotten his presence. “He was with Maureen at first, and then I suppose they drifted apart. I asked—but she said she didn’t want to talk about it—she acted unhappy and I didn’t want to pry.”

  “So you did see her occasionally?”

  “Yes, but not very often.”

  “I see,” he said neutrally.

  She turned back to me. “Jack, would you be able to confide in me?”

  I started to act puzzled, but she waved me down with a gentle gesture.

  “It’s all right. I think you know I’ve already guessed. It was from the first . . . you have the same look about you as Jonathan; it’s some quality that I’ve never been able to define.”

  “I do?”

  “Perhaps you are yet unaware of it. How long have you—”

  “Just after I moved here,” I said quickly. It was damn hard for me to acknowledge the truth to myself, much less a near-stranger.

  “You poor man, was it an accident?”

  “No, I was—” But I couldn’t tell her. It was an ugly story and I couldn’t tell her the truth of how I’d died.

  Escott broke in. “Jack doesn’t like to speak about it, it was rather unpleasant at the time. The doctors diagnosed it as food poisoning. He remembers being ill, passing out, and then waking up in the hospital morgue. It was quite sudden.”