“Never mind just now,” I replied.
“Just dress as hurriedly as possible. We have a little work before us this evening.”
He glanced questioningly toward me, but followed my command without argument. I turned and cast my eye about the room for a suitable weapon. There was a stout stick lying in the corner and I made toward it.
“Jack!”
I wheeled about.
“What is it? Damn it all, haven’t you any sense, almost scaring a man to death?”
He pointed a shaking finger toward the window.
“There! I swear I saw him. It was my granddad, but oh, how disfigured!”
He threw himself upon the bed and began sobbing. The shock had completely unnerved him.
“Forgive me, old man,” I pleaded; “I was too quick. Pull yourself together and we may yet get to the bottom of things tonight.”
When he had finished dressing we left the house. There was no moon out, and it was pitch-dark.
* * * *
I led the way, and soon we came to within ten yards of the little gray crypt. I stationed Remson behind a tree with instructions to just use his eyes, and I took up my stand on the other side of the vault, after making sure that the door into it was closed and locked. For the greater part of an hour we waited without results, and I was about ready to call it off when I perceived a white figure flitting between the trees about fifty feet away.
Slowly it advanced, straight toward us, and as it drew closer I looked, not at it, but through it. The wind was blowing strongly, yet not a fold in the long shroud quivered. Just outside the vault it paused and looked around. Even knowing as I did about what to expect, it was a decided shock when I looked into the eyes of the old Holroyd, deceased these past five years. I heard a gasp and knew that Remson had seen, too, and recognized. Then the spirit, ghost, or whatever it was, passed into the crypt through the crack between the door and the jamb, a space not one-sixteenth of an inch wide.
As it disappeared, Remson came running forward, his face wholly drawn of color.
“What was it, Jack? What was it? I know it resembled granddad, but it couldn’t have been he. He’s been dead five years!”
“Let us go back to the house,” I answered, “and I’ll explain things to the best of my ability. I may be wrong, of course, but it won’t hurt to try my remedy. Remson, what we are up against is a vampire. Not the female species usually spoken of today, but the real thing. I noticed you had an old edition of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. If you’ll bring me volume XXIV I’ll be able to explain more fully the meaning of the word.”
He left the room and returned, carrying the desired book. Turning to page 52, I read:
“Vampire. A term apparently of Servian origin originally applied in eastern Europe to blood-sucking ghosts, but in modem usage transferred to one or more species of blood-sucking bats inhabiting South America.… In the first mentioned meaning a vampire is usually supposed to be the soul of a dead man which quits the buried body by night to suck the blood of living persons. Hence, when the vampire’s grave is opened his corpse is found to be fresh and rosy from the blood thus absorbed.… They are accredited with the power of assuming any form they may so desire, and often fly about as specks or dust, pieces of down or straw, etc.… To put an end to his ravages a stake is driven through him, or his head cut off, or his heart torn out, or boiling water and vinegar poured over the grave.… The persons who turn vampires are wizards, witches, suicides, and those who have come to a violent end. Also, the death of any one resulting from these vampires will cause that person to join their hellish throng.… See Calumet’s Dissertation on the Vampires of Hungary.”
I looked at Remson, He was staring straight into the fire. I knew that he realized the task before us and was steeling himself to it. Then he turned to me.
“Jack, we’ll wait until morning.”
That was all. I understood, and he knew. There we sat, each struggling with his own thoughts, until the first faint glimmers of light came struggling, through the trees and warned us of approaching dawn.
* * * *
Remson left to fetch a sledge-hammer and a large knife with its edge honed to a razor-like keenness. I busied myself making four wooden stakes, shaped like wedges. He returned bearing the horrible tools, and we struck out toward the crypt. We walked rapidly, for had either of us hesitated an instant I verily believe both would have fled incontinently. However, our duty lay clearly before us.
Remson unlocked the door and swung it outward. With a prayer on our lips, we entered.
As if by mutual understanding, we both turned toward the coffin on our left. It belonged to the grandfather. We displaced the lid, and there lay the old Holroyd. He appeared to be sleeping; his face was full of color, and he had none of the stiffness of death. The hair was matted, the mustache untrimmed, and on the beard were stains of a dull brownish hue.
But it was his eyes that attracted me. They were greenish, and they glowed with an expression of fiendish malevolence such as I had never seen before. The look of baffled rage on the face might well have adorned the features of the devil in his hell.
Remson swayed and would have fallen, bu I forced some whisky down his throat and he took a grip on himself. He placed one of the stakes directly over its heart, then shut his eyes and prayed that the good God above take this soul that was to be delivered unto Him.
I took a step backward, aimed carefully, and swung the sledge with all my strength. It hit the wedge squarely, and a terrible scream filled the place, while the blood gushed out of the open wound, up, and over us, staining the walls and our clothes. Without hesitating, I swung again, and again, and again, while it struggled vainly to rid itself of that awful instrument of death. Another swing and the stake was driven through.
The thing squirmed about in the narrow confines of the coffin, much after the manner of a dismembered worm, and Remson proceeded to sever the head from the body, making a rather crude but effectual job of it. As the final stroke of the knife cut the connection a scream issued from the mouth; and the whole corpse fell away into dust, leaving nothing but a wooden stake lying in a bed of bones.
This finished, we dispatched the remaining three. Simultaneously, as if struck by the same thought, we felt our throats. The slight pain was gone from mine, and the wounds had entirely disappeared from my friend’s, leaving not even a scar.
I wished to place before the world the whole facts contingent upon the mystery and the solution, but Remson prevailed upon me to hold my peace.
Some years later Remson died a Christian death, and with him went the only confirmation of my tale. However, ten miles from the little town of Charing there sits an old house, forgotten these many years, and near it is a little gray crypt. Within are four coffins; and in each lies a wooden stake stained a brownish hue, and bearing the finger prints of the deceased Remson Holroyd.
SYMPATHY FOR VAMPIRES, by John Gregory Betancourt
“Shelly,” a low voice called. “Shelly, my love.”
The curtains billowed, even though there was no breeze, and suddenly he was floating there: Fred Davis, my next door neighbor. For the last week, he’d been visiting my bedroom window each night and trying to get in. I wondered if his wife knew.
I held out a silver crucifix with a hand that trembled more from annoyance than fear. He hissed and averted his gaze.
“You may not come in,” I said firmly.
“An invitation to visit cannot be revoked,” he said.
“Well, I’m revoking it anyway,” I said. “That invitation was made before your death. Or undeath. Or whatever you call it.”
“Rebirth,” he whispered.
“Begone!” I cried, and I shut the window.
He floated outside for fifteen minutes, calling my name, but I ignored him. Finally he left.
* * * *
Enough was enough. The next morning, I went over to Fred’s house. His wife answered my knock, opening the door a few inches and peering out
. She had a doleful expression. Dark circles lined her eyes.
“Good morning, Shelly,” she said.
“Good morning, Mindy,” I said. “I hate to bother you…but I’m having trouble with Fred.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“He’s been outside my window every night this week, calling my name and trying to get in.”
“He’s going through a difficult period…”
“I’m sure he is,” I said firmly, “but I need my sleep. If it happens again, I’m going to call the police.”
“I’ll talk to him,” she promised.
* * * *
I didn’t see Fred for a few days. But then on Friday night, as I was returning late from the supermarket, I spotted him hovering over my house.
“Shelly, my love…” he called softly.
I felt my stomach tighten up with barely concealed rage. Neighbor or not, he wasn’t going to harass me.
“Shelly…”
I opened the garage door with the remote control and drove in. By the time I turned off the engine and got out of my car, he was waiting. He wore a long black cape with a red lining. He held out a single black rose for me.
“Here,” I said, thrusting bags of groceries into his arms. “You win. I’m yours.”
“I vant to suck your blood!” he said in a Bela Lugosi voice.
“Yes, well, there’ll be time for that later, after chores.” I pulled out two more bags. “Into the kitchen!”
“But—”
“Move it!”
He took a step back and tried staring me down. He arched his eyebrows.
I frowned. “Look, Fred, if you’re going to leave Mindy for me, we’re going to need some ground rules. First, no evil-eye tricks. You’re giving me a headache. Second, no biting till after chores are done, and not at all on work nights. And third, all this skulking about stops tonight.”
“Skulking?” he asked.
“You know, going out every evening. I want you inside at eight o’clock sharp. I have a schedule, you know.”
“Schedule?”
“You’ll be a big help,” I continued, getting into it. “Friday is bathroom cleaning night. I’ve always wanted a man around for the hard work—you know, scrubbing the toilets and the shower stalls, then mopping down the tile. It won’t take more than an hour or two. After that we can start on the kitchen. And I want to rearrange the bedroom furniture. And then—”
Abruptly I found myself talking to a dense gray fog. My bags of groceries settled onto the car’s trunk. Then the fog evaporated.
I snorted. Cleaning toilets wasn’t part of the romance of being a vampire, I supposed.
* * * *
For the next few weeks, I made a show of looking for Fred. I left my bedroom windows open. I called to him whenever he flew overhead, as I used to hear Mindy call when he first became a vampire. He never answered.
That was two months ago. I don’t keep garlic and holy water close at hand anymore, though I still wear my crucifix.
Fred’s been spotted by daylight now and again, so perhaps he’s turning back into a dutiful husband. I hope so. Still, I can’t help feeling sorry for him…for them both. And sometimes I wonder if that’s why I haven’t married myself. What sort of beast would I bring out in a man…and what sort of beast would he bring out in me?
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
David Anderson
David Anderson grew up in Northern Ireland during the political ‘Troubles’. After grammar school he took an honours degree in philosophy from Queens University, Belfast, followed by postgraduate work in social studies. He immigrated to Vancouver, Canada in 1991, where he owned a bookstore for several years. Nowadays he runs an internet out-of-print book business and writes in his spare time.
Jason Andrew
Jason Andrew lives in Seattle, Washington with his wife Lisa. He is an associate member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America and member of the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers. By day, he works as a mild-mannered technical writer. By night, he writes stories of the fantastic and occasionally fights crime. As a child, Jason spent his Saturdays watching the Creature Feature classics and furiously scribbling down stories; his first short story, written at age six, titled ‘The Wolfman Eats Perry Mason’ was rejected and caused his Grandmother to watch him very closely for a few years. You can read more about him at www.jasonbandrew.com.
Zach Bartlett
Zach Bartlett is a librarian currently living in New Orleans. He once entered a ‘foxy boxing’ tournament under the impression that it would allow him to punch a first-edition Hemingway novel.
E. F. Benson
An English novelist, famous both for his romantic novels and for the ghost stories that he occasionally dabbled in, several of which were vampiric in theme such as “Mrs. Amworth” and “The Room in the Tower,” both collected here.
John Gregory Betancourt
John Betancourt is a best-selling science fiction and fantasy author, and an award-winning mystery author. These days he primarily works as an editor.
T. A. Bradley
Born in Philadelphia, PA, Bradley served with the Army Medical Corps during Vietnam as a Clinical Specialist. He has since worked for a number of biotech companies as a virologist and is the author of several short stories, with two completed novels and a sci-fi trilogy in the works.
Marilyn “Mattie” Brahen
Mattie Brahen is a writer in the paranormal romance fields. Her first novel, Claiming Her, was published in 2003. Her second novel, Reforming Hell, appeared in 2009. In 2011, her first mystery, a police procedural, Baby Boy Blue, came out from Wildside Press.
Luigi Capuana
Luigi Capuana (1839–1915) was an Italian author and journalist and one of the most important members of the Verist movement.
Michael R. Collings
Michael R. Collings is the author of nine novels (SF, Horror, and Mystery) as well as multiple volumes of short fiction, poetry, criticism, and literary studies. An Emeritus Professor of English at Pepperdine University, he is an authority on the works of Stephen King and Orson Scott Card. He currently lives with his wife in southeastern Idaho.
Nina Kiriki Hoffman
Over the past thirty years, Nina Kiriki Hoffman has sold adult and YA novels and more than 250 short stories. Her works have been finalists for the World Fantasy, Mythopoeic, Sturgeon, Philip K. Dick, and Endeavour awards. She had won both the Stoker and the Nebula awards.
Henry Kuttner
Henry Kuttner (1915–1958) was an American author of science fiction, fantasy and horror.
Ray Cluley
Ray Cluley is a writer from Hampshire, England. His work has appeared in various shapes and forms for magazines, anthologies, and podcasts. He has been translated into French, and Ellen Datlow selected one of his stories for The Best Horror of the Year. You can find out more at www.probablymonsters.wordpress.com
Peter Darbyshire
Peter Darbyshire is the author of the novels Please and The Warhol Gang, as well as a forthcoming supernatural thriller series. He has also published numerous short stories and is currently working on a collection of weird, weird western tales. For more information, check out peterdarbyshire.com.
Théophile Gautier
Pierre Jules Théophile Gautier (1811–1872) was a French poet, dramatist, novelist, journalist, art critic and literary critic. Among his most famous works is “The Mummy’s Foot,” which appears in The Mummy Megapack.
Franz Hartmann
Franz Hartmann (1838–1912) was a German physician, theosophist, occultist, geomancer, astrologer, and author. His works include several books on esoteric studies and biographies of Jakob Böhme and Paracelsus.
Michael McCarty
“Michael McCarty has been a professional writer since 1983 and the author of over twenty-five books of fiction and nonfiction, as well as hundreds of articles, short stories and poems. He is a three time Bram Stoker Finalist. His latest books in
clude Liquid Diet & Midnight Snack: 2 Vampire Satires (Whiskey Creek Press/Torrid); Modern Mythmakers: 33 Interviews with Horror, Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers and Filmmakers (BearManor Media), the Young Adult ebook I Kissed A Ghoul (Noble Paranormal Romance) and Dark Duets (Wildside Press).
Michael lives in Rock Island, Illinois with his wife Cindy and pet rabbit Latte, and is a former stand-up comedian, musician and managing editor of a music magazine.”
Victor Rowan
Nothing is known about “Victor Rowan.” His story “Four Wooden Stakes” was his only appearance in Weird Tales (or in any of the science fiction magazines of the day, according to the author indices we checked). Since he appeared very early in WT’s publishing history, and its polished prose, it may have been written pseudonymously by one of the editors. Our guess would be Edwin Baird, who had a long writing career.
Darrell Schweitzer
Darrell Schweitzer is a notable author and critic in the science fiction, fantasy, and horror fields. His novels include The White Isle, The Shattered Goddess, and Mask of the Sorcerer. Wildside Press has recently released collections of his literary criticism, interviews with famous science fiction writers, and a collection of his historical mystery fiction.
Lawrence Watt-Evans
Lawrence Watt-Evans is the author of about fifty novels and over a hundred short stories, mostly in the SF, fantasy, and horror fields. He won the Hugo award in 1988 for his short story, “Why I Left Harry’s All-Night Hamburgers,” and was president of the Horror Writers Association for two years.
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
An award-winning professional writer for more than forty years, Yarbro has sold more than eighty books and more than ninety works of short fiction, essays, and reviews, and also composes serious music. Her novel Hotel Transylvania is among six nominated for the Horror Writers Association one-time Stoker award for the Most Significant Vampire Novel of the (20th) Century. She lives in Richmond, California with three autocratic cats.
Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFO
MRS. AMWORTH, by E. F. Benson
LOST EPIPHANY, by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
The Vampire Megapack: 27 Modern and Classic Vampire Stories Page 37
