A flash of lightning which followed that instant of perfect darkness showed him that the dagger, instead of being stuck in the dead man’s neck, was thrust in the right cheek.
The ceremony being now over, the priests and their attendants hastened back to the chapel to take shelter from the rage of the storm, as well as to escape from the pestilential stench.
The sexton alone remained outside to heap up the earth again on the uncanny corpse, and shut up the grave.
“Are you sure you stabbed the corpse in the neck, severing the throat, and thus preventing it from ever sucking blood again?” asked the priest.
“Yes, I believed I have,” answeredVranic, with a whining voice.
“I don’t ask you what you believe; have you done it—yes, or no?” asked the ecclesiastic, sternly.
“Well, just as I lifted my knife to stab, the candle went out. I couldn’t see at all; the night was so dark; you all were far from me. Besides, as I bent down, the smell made me so sick that—”
“You don’t know where you stabbed?” added the priest, angrily.
“He stabbed him in the cheek!” said the sexton, coming in.
“Fool!” burst out the priest, in a stentorian voice.
“I was sure this would be the case,” cried out one of the party. “Vranic has always been a bungler of a tailor.”
“You have done a fine piece of work, you have, indeed, you wretch!” hissed the priest, looking at Vranic scornfully.
“You have endowed that cursed brother of yours with everlasting life,” said the other priest, “and now the whole town will be infested with another vampire for ever!”
“Do you really think so?” asked Vranic, ready to burst out crying.
“Think so!” said all the other men, scornfully. “To bring us here in the middle of the night with this storm, to stifle us with this poisonous stench, and this is the result!”
“But really—” stammered Vranic.
“Anyhow, he’ll not leave you till he has sucked the last drop of blood from your body.”
The storm having somewhat abated, all the company wended their way homewards, taking no notice of the tailor, who followed them like a mangy cur which everyone avoids.
That night, Vranic had not a wink of sleep. No one would have him in his house; nobody would sleep with him, for fear of falling afterwards a prey to the vampire. As soon as he lay down and tried to shut his eyes, the terrifying sight appeared before him. The festering ghost with the horrible gash in the cheek, just over the jaw-bone, was ever present to his eyes; nor could he get rid of the loathsome, sickening stench with which his clothes, nay, his very body, seemed saturated. If a mouse stirred he fancies he could see the ghost standing by him. He hid his head under the bed-cover not to see, not to hear, until he was almost smothered, and every now and then he felt a human laid on his head, on his shoulder, on his legs, and his teeth chattered with fear.
The storm ceased; still, the sky remained overcast, and a thin, drizzling rain had succeeded the interrupted showers. The dreadful night came to an end; he was happy to see the grey light of dawn succeed the appalling darkness. Daylight brought with it happier thoughts.
“Perhaps,” said he to himself, “my brother was no vampire, after all! Perhaps the blade of the dagger, driven in the cheek, had penetrated slantingly into the neck, severed the throat, and thus killed the vampire; for something must have happened to keep the ghost away.”
On the next day, Vranic remained shut up at home. He felt sure that his own relations would henceforth hate him, and his acquaintances would stone him if they possibly could. Nothing makes a man not only unjust, but even cruel, like fear, and no fear is greater than the vague dread of the unknown. That whole day he tried to work, but his thoughts were always fixed either on the festering corpse he had stabbed or on the coming night.
Would the ghoul, reeking of hell, come and suck up his blood?
As the light wanted his very strength began to flow away, his legs grew weak, his flesh shivered, the beating of his heart grew ever more irregular.
He lighted his little oil-lamp before it was quite dark, looked about stealthily trembling lest he should see the dreaded apparition before its time, started and shuddered at the slightest noise.
He was weary and worn out by the emotions of the former sleepless night; still, he could not make up his mind to go to bed. He placed his elbows on the board, buried his head within his hands, and remained there brooding over his woes. Without daring to lift up his eyes or look around, he at times stretched out his hand, clutched a gourd full of spirits and took a sip. Time passed, the twilight had faded away into soft, mellow darkness without; but in the tailor’s room the little flickering light only rendered the shadows grim and gruesome.
Drink and lassitude at last overpowered the poor man; his head began to get drowsy, his ideas more confused; the heaviness of sleep weighed him down.
All at once he was aroused from his lethargy by a sound of rushing winds. He hardly noticed it when it blew from afar, like the slight breeze that ruffles the surface of the sea; but, now that it came nearer, he remembered having heard it some evenings before. He grew pale, panted, and then his breath stopped, convulsed as he was by fear.
As upon the previous night, the wind was lost in the distance, and then in the stillness of the night he heard the low, hushed sound of footsteps coming from afar; but they drew nearer and ever nearer, with a heavy, slow, metrical step. The nightwalker was near his house, at his door, on his threshold. The loathsome, sickening smell of corruption grew stronger and stronger. Now it was as overpoweringly nauseous as when he had bent down to stab his dead brother. The sound of footsteps was now within his room; the spectre must surely be by his side. He kept his eyes tightly shut and his head bent down. A cold perspiration was trickling from his forehead and through his fingers onto the table.
All at once, something heavy and metallic was thrown in front of him. Although his eyes were tightly shut, he knew that it was the black dagger that his brother had come to bring him back, and he was not mistaken.
Was there a chuckle just then?
Almost against his will he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and looked at his guest. The vampire was standing by his side, grinning at him hideously, notwithstanding the gash in his right cheek.
“Thank you brother,” said he, in a hollow, mocking voice, “for what you did yesterday; you have, in fact, given me everlasting life; and, as one good turn deserved another, you soon will be a vampire along with me. Come, don’t look so scared, man; it’s a pleasant life, after all. We sleep soundly during the day, and, believe me, no bed is so comfortable as the coffin, no house so quiet as the grave; but at night, when all the world sleeps and only witches are awake, then we not only live, but we enjoy life. No cankering care, no worry about the morrow. We have only fun and frolic, for we suck, we suck, we suck.”
Vranic heard the sound of smacking lips just by his neck, the vampire had already laid his hands upon him.
He tried to rise, to struggle, but his strength and senses forsook him; he uttered a choked, raucous sound, then his breath again stopped spasmodically, his face grew livid, he gasped for breath, his face and lips got to be of a violet hue, his eyes shut themselves, as he dropped fainting in his chair.
Dick Donovan: The Woman with the “Oily Eyes” (1899)
“Dick Donovan” was the pseudonym of the prolific author, James Edward Muddock (1843-1934). He was born in Hampshire near the English Channel but, in 1857, joined his father in India. He wrote several stories about the “Indian Mutiny,” which erupted the day he arrived in Calcutta. Over the next few years he travelled extensively and recorded local legends and folktales.
His fictional author-detective, “Dick Donovan”—who debuted in The Man-Hunter: Stories from the Note-Book of a Detective (1888)—was almost as well known as Sherlock Holmes. Donovan contributed several “Romances from a Detective’s Casebook” to the Strand magazine, where they appeared nex
t to the Holmes stories.
Muddock’s best horror stories were presented in two volumes: Stories Weird and Wonderful (1899; by J. E. Muddock) and Tales of Terror (1899; by Dick Donovan). Both books were published by Chatto & Windus. The latter collection contains two tales about one of the most frightening female vampires in literature. The sub-title of the second story suggests that it is a “sequel,” but most modern readers would call it a “pre-quel.”
Although often urged to put into print the remarkable story which follows I have always strenuously refused to do so, partly on account of personal reasons and partly out of respect for the feelings of the relatives of those concerned. But after much consideration I have come to the conclusion that my original objections can no longer be urged. The principal actors are dead. I myself am well stricken in years, and before very long must pay the debt of nature which is exacted from everything that lives.
Although so long a time has elapsed since the grim tragedy I am about to record, I cannot think of it even now without a shudder. The story of the life of every man and woman is probably more or less a tragedy, but nothing I have ever heard of can compare in ghastly, weird horror with all the peculiar circumstances of the case in point. Most certainly I would never have put pen to paper to record it had it not been from a sense of duty. Long years ago certain garbled versions crept into the public journals, and though at the time I did not consider it desirable to contradict them, I do think now that the moment has come when I, the only living being fully acquainted with the facts, should make them known, otherwise lies will become history, and posterity will accept it as truth. But there is still another reason I may venture to advance for breaking the silence of years. I think in the interest of science the case should be recorded. I have not always held this view, but when a man bends under the weight of years, and he sniffs the mould of his grave, his ideas undergo a complete change, and the opinions of his youth are not the opinions of his old age. There may be exceptions to this, but I fancy they must be very few. With these preliminary remarks I will plunge at once into my story.
It was the end of August 1857 that I acted as best man at the wedding of my friend Jack Redcar, C.E. It was a memorable year, for our hold on our magnificent Indian Empire had nearly been shaken loose by a mutiny which had threatened to spread throughout the whole of India. At the beginning of 1856 I had returned home from India after a three years’ spell. I had gone out as a young medico in the service of the H.E.I.C., but my health broke down and I was compelled to resign my appointment. A year later my friend Redcar, who had also been in the Company’s service as a civil engineer, came back to England, as his father had recently died and left him a modest fortune. Jack was not only my senior in year, but I had always considered him my superior in every respect. We were at a public school together, and both went up to Oxford, though not together, for he was finishing his final year when I was a freshman.
Although erratic and a bit wild he was a brilliant fellow; and while I was considered dull and plodding, and found some difficulty in mastering my subjects, there was nothing he tackled that he failed to succeed in, and come out with flying colours. In the early stage of our acquaintance he made me his fag, and patronized me, but that did not last long. A friendship sprang up. He took a great liking to me, why I know not; but it was reciprocated, and when he got his Indian appointment I resolved to follow, and by dint of hard work, and having a friend at court, I succeeded in obtaining my commission in John Company’s service. Jack married Maude Vane Tremlett, as sweet a woman as ever drew God’s breath of life. If I attempted to describe her in detail I am afraid it might be considered that I was exaggerating, but briefly I may say she was the perfection of physical beauty. Jack himself was an exceptionally find fellow. A brawny giant with a singularly handsome face. At the time of his wedding he was thirty or thereabouts, while Maude was in her twenty-fifth year. There was a universal opinion that a better matched couple had never been brought together. He had a masterful nature; nevertheless was kind, gentle, and manly to a degree.
It may be thought that I speak with some bias and prejudice in Jack’s favour, but I can honestly say that at the time I refer to he was as fine a fellow as ever figured as hero in song or story. He was the pink of honour, and few who really knew him but would have trusted him with their honour, their fortunes, their lives. This may be strong, but I declare it’s true, and I am the more anxious to emphasise it because his after life was in such marked contrast, and he presents a study in psychology that is not only deeply interesting, but extraordinary.
The wedding was a really brilliant affair, for Jack had troops of friends, who vied with each other in marking the event in a becoming manner, while his bride was idolized by a doting household. Father and mother, sisters and brothers, worshipped her. She was exceedingly well connected. Her father held an important Government appointment, and her mother came from the somewhat celebrated Yorkshire family of the Kingscotes. Students of history will remember that a Colonel Kingscote figured prominently and honourably as a royalist during the reign of the unfortunate Charles I.
No one who was present on that brilliant August morning of 1857, when Jack Redcar was united in the bonds of wedlock to beautiful Maude Tremlett, would have believed it possible that such grim and tragic events would so speedily follow. The newly-married pair left in the course of the day for the Continent, and during their honeymoon I received several charming letters from Jack, who was not only a diligent correspondent, but he possessed a power of description and a literary style that made his letter delightful reading. Another thing that marked this particular correspondence was the unstinted—I may almost say florid—praise he bestowed upon his wife. To illustrate what I mean, here is a passage from one of his letters:—
‘I wish I had command of language sufficiently eloquent to speak of my darling Maude as she should be spoken of. She has a perfectly angelic nature; and though it may be true that never a human being was yet born without faults, for the life of me I can find none in my sweet wife. Of course you will say, old chap, that this is honeymoon gush, but, upon my soul, it isn’t. I am only doing scant justice to the dear woman who has linked her fate with mine. I have sometimes wondered what I have done that the gods should have blest me in such a manner. For my own part, I don’t think I was deserving of so much happiness, and I assure you I am happy—perfectly, deliciously happy. Will it last? Yes, I am sure it will. Maude will always be to me what she is now, a flawless woman; a woman with all the virtues that turn women into angels, and without one of the weaknesses or one of the vices which too often mar an otherwise perfect feminine character. I hope, old boy, that if ever you marry, the woman you choose will be only half as good as mine.’
Had such language been used by anyone else I might have been disposed to add a good deal more than the proverbial pinch of salt before swallowing it. But, as a matter of fact, Jack was not a mere gusher. He had a thoroughly practical, as distinguished from a sentimental, mind, and he was endowed with exceptionally keen powers of observation. And so, making all the allowances for the honeymoon romance, I was prepared to accept my friend’s statement as to the merits of his wife without a quibble. Indeed, I knew her to be a most charming lady, endowed with many of the qualities which give the feminine nature its charm. But I would even go a step farther than that, and declare that Mrs. Redcar was a woman in ten thousand. At that time I hadn’t a doubt that the young couple were splendidly matched, and it seemed to me probable that the future that stretched before them was not likely to be disturbed by any of the commonplace incidents which seemed inseparable from most lives. I regarded Jack as a man of such high moral worth that his wife’s happiness was safe in his keeping. I pictured them leading an ideal, poetical life—a life freed from all the vulgar details which blight the careers of so many people—a life which would prove a blessing to themselves as well as a joy to all with whom they had to deal.
When they started their tour Mr. and Mrs. Redcar anticipat
ed being absent from England for five or six weeks only, but for several reasons they were induced to prolong their travels, and thus it chanced I was away when they returned shortly before Christmas of the year of their marriage. My own private affairs took me to America.As a matter of fact a relative had died leaving me a small property in that country, which required my personal attention; the consequence was I remained out of England for nearly three years.
For the first year or so Jack Redcar wrote to me with commendable regularity. I was duly apprised of the birth of a son and heir. This event seemed to put the crown upon their happiness ; but three months later came the first note of sorrow. The baby died, and the doting parents were distracted. Jack wrote:
‘My poor woman is absolutely prostrated, but I tell her we were getting too happy, and this blow has been dealt to remind us that human existence must be chequered in order that we may appreciate more fully the supreme joy of that after-life which we are told we may gain for the striving. This, of course, is a pretty sentiment, but the loss of the baby mite has hit me hard. Still, Maude is left to me, and she is such a splendid woman, that I ought to feel I am more than blest.’
This was the last letter I ever received from Jack, but his wife wrote at odd times. Hers were merely gossipy little chronicles of passing events, and singularly enough she never alluded to her husband, although she wrote in a light, happy vein. This set me wondering, and when I answered her I never failed to inquire about her husband. I continued to receive letters from her, though at long intervals, down to the month of my departure from America, two years later.
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