Vintage Vampire Stories

by Robert Eighteen-Bisang

  Pedro Pacheco lived in a cottage of his own, with his wife and several children, whom he looked upon as paragons of perfection, in which sentiment Senhora Gertrudes, his better half, evidently joined him, as is not unusual in married couples with respect to their own handy work; though greater, according to the importance of the subject—that is to say, the more trifling the matter the louder they talked and the more they wrangled, as if their whole existence depended on the result; indeed the neighbours whispered that Senhora Gertrudes, whose voice was none of the sweetest, invariably had the best of the argument, if she was not in truth the better horse of the two. Notwithstanding their slight disagreements, Pedro loved his wife. He was a jovial fellow, of an excellent disposition, rather short and very fat, with well-filled cheeks and black rolling eyes. He was a welcome guest at every Romaria, or merry-making, when his ringing laugh was sure to be heard above all the others, or the sound of his voice as he touched his tinkling viola.

  One day it happened that, leaving his wife at home to take care of the children, he joined a fiesta which took place in honour of the marriage of one of his friends, who lived on the opposite side of the marsh to where his cottage was situated. Pedro enjoyed himself to the utmost. He laughed and talked, and ate and drank enough for everybody; he cracked his best jokes, he told his best story, and sang his best song. There was nothing to damp his spirits; when the dance began he snapped his fingers, nodded his head, and toed and heeled it with the youngest of them, every now and then taking a pull at the wine-skin just to prevent his mouth from getting dry. At last, the shades of evening coming on, the guests began to separate, and at the same time it struck Pedro that if he did not make haste to return home, he would receive rather a warmer reception than might agree with his ears when he got there. For some part of the way a considerable number of the revelers accompanied him, he walking at their head as proud as a peacock with open tail, with his guitar in hand, improvising songs in honour of the newly-made bride, the rest of the party taking up the chorus. One by one, however, dropped off on the road as they proceeded, till at last he was left to find his way home by himself as best he could. But that mattered little to friend Pedro; he knew the way perfectly, as well he might, for he had traversed it frequently, both day and night; his heart was stout, and he had a tough bow at his back, with plenty of arrows, and a sword by his side, for those were not times when a man could walk abroad without arms. On he went for some time, caring little for the stones and puddle in his way, singing at the top of his voice, though there was nobody to hear him except the frogs, who kept up a not very melodious concert in the neighbouring marsh. At last he remembered that there as, for his sins it might be said, such a person as the Senhora Gertrudes, his wife, who, it was more than probable, would make his ears tingle if he were not at home at the time she desired him to return. In those good old days, watches, steam-engines, political economy, and most other of the wicked inventions of the free-masons, were unknown, so he could only guess that he had no time to spare, and just as he arrived at this conclusion, he came to a path which made a short cut across the marsh, by which he should save a quarter of a league at the least. That there were several very soft places in it he knew, but he felt so light, airy, and active, that he fancied he could easily skip over them as he had often seen a daddy-long-legs do over a stagnant pond. The sky was clear, the moon was bright, so that he could not by any possibility, miss the path. One thing, though, he did not take into consideration, the differences of his own figure and that of a daddy-longlegs; indeed, honest Pedro was not the only person in the world who had not a true perception of himself, whatever may be the case at present—times have changed since then. Well, he boldly turned off from the broad well-beaten path, and took the narrow footway across the marsh, over which he had not proceeded far, singing louder than ever, for the cool air of the evening put him in spirits, when, on a sudden, up got before him a large bird, flying slowly along, as if perfectly heedless of his presence.

  “A wild duck, as I live!” exclaimed Pedro to himself; “if I can manage to send an arrow into that gentleman’s neck, to stop his flight, I will take it home to my wife for supper, and thus save my own ears.”

  Whereupon, throwing his viola over his shoulder, he seized his bow, and let fly a bolt directly at the bird. The creature uttered a cry just like a wild duck, and continued its course as slowly as before. Pedro felt certain he had hit it; indeed, he fancied that he could hear the arrow strike, it was so near; he probably had broken one of its legs and another bolt would bring it down. Again he let fly, but with equal want of success; the bird turned off a little on one side, and Pedro followed. He was not a man to be deterred by disappointments, particularly in his present humour; arrow after arrow he shot away ineffectually; the bird kept the same distance before him; and so eager was he in the pursuit that he quite forgot the direction he had taken. The ground beneath his feet became every instant more wet and swampy, but on he splashed through the water, his ears already tingling at the thoughts of returning home without a peace offering to his dear Gertrudes. What a blessing it is to have a wife to keep one in order!

  “The next shot must bring the beast down, to a certainty,” he cried, as he let fly his seventh arrow; but the bird only uttered a loud, derisive, “quack, quack, quack!” and flew on at an increased speed.

  It now appeared to honest Pedro to be a larger bird than he had at first thought it; but this only made him the more anxious to have it for his supper. On he ran, almost out of breath, not quite so lightly as he expected, for he was frequently up to his knees in mud and water, now and then he sank still deeper, and more than once came down on his face; but he was a true sportsman, not to be thrown out by such trifling accidents. Again he shot, and he was certain that he saw some feathers fly off from the bird, which went “quack, quack, quack,” louder than ever.

  “Ah! Senhor Goose, I’ll have you now,” exclaimed Pedro; “clever as you think yourself, you are no match for Pedro Pacheco, let me tell you.”

  “Quack, quack, quack!” went the goose, and flew on, Pedro pursuing.

  In a few minutes more, poor Pedro was thoroughly wet through, now up to his middle in water, now sprawling like a tortoise, on his back with his legs in the air, now with his face in the mud, but he somehow or other always contrived to get on his feet again. Have the goose he would, if he went on all night, he was determined. Pedro now lost his temper, as well he might, for it was provoking to run such a chase when he wanted to get home. To add to his difficulties, the sky, which had hitherto been clear, was now obscured by clouds: and when, while once on his back, he looked up to see what had become of the moon, he could no where behold her. There was, however, just light enough to see the strange creature which he still persisted in considering a goose or a duck, for he was, as may have been seen, in rather an obstinate humour. Whatever it was, it had now grown larger than ever, and every arrow Pedro shot stuck it, but it cared no more for them than if they had been so many toothpicks, only giving vent to more unearthly quack, quack, quacks. A man in his calm senses would have been suspicious of evil, but poor Pedro only thought of getting a goose for supper.

  There was, indeed, little use in thinking of going home, for when he looked north, south, east, or west, he had not the remotest idea which way to take. The highest object he could see was a line of bulrushes, and the gigantic bird just above them.

  After going on in this way for an hour or more, when he had not a dry rag upon him, he came to a change of scene, namely, a thick mass of low trees and shrubs, which extended on each side as far as he could see. He thought that perhaps the bird would fly against them and be caught in their branches, but no such thing, over it flew just above the highest, and went skimming along as before. Pedro had no help for it but to follow, or, after all his labour, give up the pursuit. I shall be dry, at all events, he thought, as he entered among the underwood. He soon, however, found to his cost that he had fallen from the frying-pan into the fire. Before he h
ad tumbled in soft mud and merely got wet, now his hands and face were scratched by the brambles, and his clothes were torn into shreds. Still there was the strange bird flying unconcernedly on, just above his head, among the trees. Every now and then it turned round its head with a knowing look, as if just to see whether he was following, and Pedro could see the malicious glitter of its eye.

  “I’ll have you, my fine bird, never fear,” he cried and dashed on. Just then he tumbled plump into a pit filled with briars and covered over with dry leaves. He had great difficulty in getting out, the blood streaming down from every limb, and he made sure the bird must have escaped him, but there was the creature stopping quietly on the top of a tree as if to wait for him. He had not time to draw breath after all his exertions, when away it again flew; and now, being scratched and seamed all over (it was a miracle his eyes still remained in his head), he found himself clear of the wood. Whether he had changed for the better or worse was now to be seen. A wide extent of rocky ground lay before him, with hills in the distance, towards which the bird directed its course, quacking louder than ever to attract him onward.

  Poor Pedro! Down he tumbled and broke his shins; then he scraped all the skin off his elbows; then down he came on his seat, black and blue in every part, till he found himself slipping over a wet smooth slab of stone, off which he fell splash into a rapid stream. Fortunately he could swim, though not very well, so his head went under several times till he was half full of water, and at length, by dint of great exertion, he reached the other bank, spluttering and blowing. A steep hill was before him, up which the bird flew, he following, climbing from rock to rock; now he caught hold of the branch of a tree, which gave way in his hand and let him fall down a dozen yards or so—he did not stop to measure the distance. He was up again in a moment, catching hold of trees, shrubs, tufts of grass, rocks, or whatever came in his way, till at last he was only a few feet from the creature on the top of the hill. He now saw its immense size, but undaunted at the sight and furious with rage, he drew his sword, and rushed at it to cut it down. The bird rose as he approached; so headlong was his speed that he could not stop his way, and over he went down a steep precipice—bounding from rock to rock, the bird quacking and screeching in his ears all the time, every bone in his body cracking, till he bounded on to a smooth rock, down which he slid, slid, slid, every instant expecting to find himself in the ocean, which he could hear roaring beneath him; but a comfort it was, though a small and cold one, when instead, he was shot right into the soft sand on the sea shore. He looked up, there was the creature flying round and round and round, which remained uninjured; so he tried to rise, for he was, as has been seen, a plucky little fellow, a true Lusitanian of those days; but though he could not stand he lifted himself up on his knees, drew his last bolt, a louder shriek, which sounded like the derisive laughter of a hundred Pedro, “A pretty night’s work I have had for nothing; I have got only a certainty when I get home. There is no use being drowned into the bargain, so I’ll try and get out of this.”

  He accordingly crawled along till he found some soft, dry sand above high-water mark, and there he went to sleep to wait for the morning light to enable him to find his way home. At last he was awoke by a rough shake on the shoulder.

  “What are you doing here, my friend?” said a loud voice; and looking up, Pedro beheld a fisherman standing over him.

  “I’ve been sleeping,” said Pedro.

  “I see you have,” said the other.

  “But where am I, Patricio?” asked Pedro.

  “Upon the sea shore, about six leagues from Aveiro,” was the answer.

  “Impossible,” muttered Pedro to himself, “six leagues in one night!”

  “And what’s your name, friend?” said the fisherman.

  “Pedro Pacheco,” said Pedro.

  “You Pedro Pacheco!” exclaimed the fisherman. “I don’t believe it. Pedro Pacheco is a quiet, sober man, and you, to say the best of it, look like a good-for-nothing drunken beast, who has been getting into some scrape or other and received a broken head.”

  “And so I have got into a terrible scrape, which has taken all the skin off my shins, and my head has been broken into the bargain,” answered poor Pedro. “But it was all owing to a terrible Bruxa, which led me astray, oh, oh, oh,” and Pedro fell back from exhaustion.

  Now the fisherman was a kind-hearted man, so he lifted Pedro into his boat and rowed him back along the cost to the spot nearest his house, where he landed and carried him home. Poor Pedro’s troubles were not over, for no sooner did Senhora Gertrudes catch sight of him than, thinking he had got tipsy at the merry-making, without stopping to inquire the truth of the fisherman, she darted at him, nearly scratching out his eyes and pulling his ears, till they were black and blue all over.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” uttered poor Pedro; but being very weak, he resigned himself to his fate, as many another better man has done before under like circumstances.

  The fisherman, however, published the story which Pedro told him, and as he was a great favourite, the neighbours did him justice; some, indeed, going as far as to hint to each other that perhaps his wife was the Bruxa who so cruelly beguiled him.

  These whispers of course honest Pedro did not hear, but owing to his adventure he was one of the loudest in demanding the separation of the Princess Theresa and King Alfonso, that the ban of the church might be removed, till when, he affirmed, the people could never hope to get the land rid of Bruzas and other evil spirits. The removal of the excommunication had not, however, the desired effect: Bruxas having been met with at a much later date in Portugal.

  Mary Fortune: The White Maniac: A Doctor’s Tale (1867)

  Mary Helena Wilson (1833-1910) was born in Belfast, Ireland. Her family moved to Montreal, Canada, where she married Joseph Fortune in 1851. Shortly thereafter, Mary’s father immigrated to Melbourne, Australia, and she joined him there in 1855.

  She was a prolific writer whose career began in 1855 with pseudonymous contributions to local newspapers. She began to write for The Australian Journal in Melbourne under the pseudonyms “W. W.” and “Waif Wander” in 1865. Fortune was one of the first female crime writers in the world. Her most important series was “The Detective’s Album” which ran from 1868 to 1908.

  “The White Maniac: A Doctor’s Tale” was first published in The Australian Journal 2:98 in 1867 under the pseudonym “Waif Wander.”

  In the year 1858 I had established a flourishing practice in London; a practice which I owed a considerable proportion of, not to my ability, I am afraid, but to the fact that I occupied the singular position of a man professional, who was entirely independent of his profession. Doubtless, had I been a poor man, struggling to earn a bare existence for wife and family, I might have been the cleverest physician that ever administered a bolus, yet have remained in my poverty to the end of time. But it was not so, you see. I was the second son of a nobleman, and had Honourable attached to my name; and I practised the profession solely and entirely because I had become enamoured of it, and because I was disgusted at the useless existence of a fashionable and idle young man, and determined that I, at least, would not add another to their ranks.

  And so I had a handsome establishment in a fashionable portion of the city, and my door was besieged with carriages, from one end of the week to the other. Many of the occupants were disappointed, however, for I would not demean myself by taking fees from some vapourish Miss or dissipated Dowager. Gout in vain came rolling to my door, even though it excruciated the leg of a Duke; I undertook none but cases that enlisted my sympathy, and after in time the fact became known, and my levees were not so well attended.

  One day I was returning on horseback toward the city. I had been paying a visit to a patient, in whom I was deeply interested, and for whom I had ordered the quiet and purer air of a suburban residence. I had reached a spot, in the neighbourhood of Kensington, where the vines were enclosed in large gardens, and the road was marked for a considerable dista
nce by the brick and stone walls that enclosed several of the gardens belonging to those mansions. On the opposite side of the road stood a small country-looking inn, which I had patronised before, and I pulled up my horse and alighted, for the purpose of having some rest and refreshment after my ride.

  As I sat in a front room sipping my wine and water, my thoughts were fully occupied with a variety of personal concerns. I had received a letter from my mother that morning, and the condition of the patient I had recently left was precarious in the extreme.

  It was fortunate that I was thought-occupied and not dependent upon outward objects to amuse them, for although the window at which I sat was open, it presented no view whatever, save the bare, blank, high brick wall belonging to a house at the opposite side of the road. That is to say, I presume, it enclosed some residence, for from where I sat not even the top of a chimney was visible.

  Presently, however, the sound of wheels attracted my eyes from the pattern of the wall-paper at which I had been unconsciously gazing, and I looked out to see a handsome, but very plain carriage drawn up at a small door that pierced the brick wall I have alluded to; and almost at the same moment the door opened and closed again behind two figures in a most singular attire. They were both of the male sex, and one of them was evidently a gentleman, while the other waited on him as if he was the servant; but it was the dress of these persons that most strangely interested me. They were attired in white from head to heel; coats, vests, trousers, hats, shoes, not to speak of shirts at all, all were white as white could be.

  While I stared at this strange spectacle, the gentleman stepped into the vehicle; but although he did so the coachman made no movement toward driving onward, nor did the attendant leave his post at the carriage door. At the expiration, however, of about a quarter of an hour, the servant closed the door and re-entered through the little gate, closing it, likewise, carefully behind him. Then the driver leisurely made a start, only, however, to stop suddenly again, when the door of the vehicle was burst open and a gentleman jumped out and rapped loudly at the gate.