In the Footsteps of Dracula

by Stephen Jones

  That was mostly disappointing. There was a small notebook containing names and notes. The names were unfamiliar and some of the notes were just plain weird, such as:

  Aleta B, 64, was visited at state inst by Dr. Keller in Aug. Told W she actually saw her brother attacked. Described attacker as tall and handsome, sort of foreign-looking. W says he believes her, but no one fitting that description lives in area.

  Never much interested in the written word, Dan had no patience for such enigmatic scribblings and tossed the notebook after the billfold.

  The rest of the loot from Howell’s pockets consisted of cigarettes, some coins, a handkerchief, and a silver lighter that might be worth a few bucks if they could find some dude who wasn’t turned off by the initials JDH on it.

  The glove-compartment treasures were even more disappointing. This driver, it seemed, kept only road maps and a car-owner’s instruction manual there.

  As Monk drove on down the road, Dan tackled the suitcase. It was not locked. He flipped the lid up and took out a book that lay on top of some clothes. A thin book with hard gray covers on which the title was printed in black letters.

  “How to Protect Yourself Against Vampires,” he read aloud. “By Jerome Howell. Hey, that’s the name on his driver’s license: ‘Jerome Howell.’”

  Monk stopped scowling at the road long enough to glance at him.

  “How to protect yourself against vampires?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jesus. I forgot.” Removing his right hand from the wheel, Monk twisted his hips so he could reach into a pants pocket. He pulled out the broken gold chain with the cross on it. “Looka this.”

  Dan examined it.

  “He was wearin’ it ’round his neck,” Monk said. “I yanked it off to put the mark on him.”

  “He’s that guy those people sent for!” Dan said in a hoarse whisper. “Yeah. He has to be.”

  “Jeez. Maybe we should go back and finish him off. If he comes to and ain’t hurt bad—if he can really do what he come here for—he could put us outa business and ruin our whole summer!”

  Monk steered the clunker to the side of the road and they sat for a while to discuss their problem.

  They talked about the previous summer. Of how the word “vampire” had become part of the town’s vocabulary when the first two townspeople were found with marks on their necks. Of how Dan Clay and Monk Morrisey, even while laughing their heads off at the crazy idea some foreigner named Count Dracula had moved into town, had doped out a way to use the scare as a sure-fire cover for the game they were already playing with out-of-state cars. In the beginning, for God’s sake, when the vampire talk started, Monk hadn’t even known what a vampire was.

  “You must’ve seen vampire movies on TV,” Dan had said in disgust. “Everybody has.”

  “Maybe, I dunno. If I did, I must’ve forgot.”

  “They’re dead people who come out at night lookin’ for blood. They have to have blood to keep goin’. And when they kill people that way, those people turn into vampires too. Some do, anyway.”

  Talking about it again now, they looked at and tried to read the book by Jerome Howell, whom certain frightened townspeople had sent for to come and investigate. Many of the words were beyond their understanding, but after flipping through the pages Dan said at last, “The guy is really sold on this junk, y’ know. He thinks vampires are for real.”

  “He’s crazy,” Monk said.

  “Or smart. I bet he gets big money when people hire him.” That settled, Dan tossed the book aside and the two continued their investigation of the suitcase. But there was nothing in it they could sell or use. Disgusted, Dan slammed it shut and threw it on the back seat. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

  “That’s it?” Monk groaned as he tooled the clunker down the road again, putting distance between them and the Buick they had wrecked. “Five hundred bucks is all we get tonight?”

  “Well, more’n five hundred, like I told you. And the credit cards. Don’t forget the credit cards.” Dan shrugged. “Hey, it may not be the best night we ever had, but it’s okay. We done all right.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess so.”

  “And this.” Dan held up the cross ripped from Jerome Howell’s neck. “Don’t forget this.”

  “He wore that to protect himself, huh?”

  “I guess. But it could be worth somethin’ for the gold in it. If it’s gold.”

  A little more than an hour after the departure of the two predators, Jerome Howell opened his eyes and asked himself what had happened.

  He did not remember.

  His head throbbed. He put his left hand to his forehead and discovered there a lump the size of a hen’s egg. Just touching it caused a stab of pain as bright as a bolt of lightning. He looked at his fingers. There was no blood on them. He touched his neck, where he felt an odd prickling sensation. His fingertips discovered a pair of punctures in the skin and came away red.

  He felt the punctures again, and for some reason the word “vampire” came to mind. Vampire fangs had not actually made the marks, though; he somehow was sure of that without knowing how he could be so positive. Had he been attacked by someone who wanted others to think he was the victim of a night creature?

  Why was he here? What car was this, and why was it resting on its side in the dark with its headlights on and dashboard glowing? The headlight beams revealed a number of pine trees grouped around the machine like giant spiders about to pounce on a crippled insect. He looked up at the car door above him. Could he boost himself up to it and open it? He must try. Failing in that, he would have to get the window open. Perhaps that would be best anyway. The car had automatic window controls, he noted. He reached for the ignition key.

  There was no key in the ignition.

  What now?

  He was finding it hard to think straight, even to think at all. When he struggled to concentrate, the throbbing in his forehead became all but unendurable. But the struggle finally paid off. Go back to opening the door, his mind instructed. You can pull yourself up to it. Squirming out from under the wheel, he reached up for the door and found he could not work the release. There was a weakness in his fingers. But with beads of moisture forming on his face and salting his lips, he persisted. The door finally opened an inch.

  Now he had to boost or pull himself higher to push it farther open, which meant forcing it up. This took time and increased the pounding in his head, causing him to fight for breath. Then a tree beside the car, apparently the one the machine had sideswiped, was so close that the door would open only partway. He had to stretch his aching body to the limit and crawl out like a damaged caterpillar. At last, though, he stood outside the machine on ground covered with pine needles and was able to explore his body with his hands. There seemed to be no major injuries except the lump on his forehead. None that caused any sharp pain when touched, at any rate. Nor could he discover any rips in his clothing. But again, why was he here in this strange place? Whose car was this? Most important, who was he?

  He was wearing a tan jacket and had a feeling there should be a billfold in its inside pocket. But the pocket was empty, as were all others in both the jacket and his slacks. Perhaps the plates on the car would tell him something.

  He went to look, but learned nothing except that the car was from Massachusetts. Was he in Massachusetts now? Did he live near here, close enough to walk home if he could remember where home was? The trunk lid was open—perhaps had sprung open when the car hit the tree—but the trunk itself was empty except for a jack and spare tire. Well, maybe something in the glove compartment would help him. Climbing back up on the car with the greatest of care, he leaned in through the partly open door and reached down to the dash.

  But, like the trunk, the glove compartment yielded nothing.

  Who was he? Where was he? How long would the pounding in his head, apparently caused by the egg-sized bruise on his forehead, keep him from remembering?

  Whatever the answers, he had t
o walk out of here. There was no way he could use the car. So where was the road?

  The car ought to tell him that, at least. It must have run off a road into this grove of trees. Assuming it had done so in a reasonably straight line, the road should be over there behind the red glow of its taillights. Not too far away, either. With so many trees around, a machine out of control could not have traveled any great distance.

  Had he simply blacked out while driving? Or had some other car forced him off the road and gone on without stopping? And what time was it? He had a feeling there ought to be a watch on his left wrist, but there wasn’t. Had he been robbed?

  Start walking, he told himself. Just hope to God there’s a house not too far away where you can phone for a doctor and a wrecker.

  With both arms outthrust like the antennae of a night-prowling insect, he struggled on through the dark and came to a two-lane blacktop road. A pale moon feebly shone through cloud-gaps above it, providing light enough for him to see by. After flipping a mental coin to reach a decision, he turned blindly to his right. Behind him the lights of the car were still visible among the trees.

  He must have walked a long two miles before seeing lamplit windows in a house on his left. No car had passed him in either direction. Wherever this road was, it appeared to be little used.

  The windows were three in number and well back from the blacktop. One hundred fifty feet, at least. There was an old wooden mailbox on a post at the end of an unpaved drive. He had to lean close to make out the weathered black letters on it.

  CARLETON HODE.

  He stood there for a moment gratefully resting, because he had not stopped walking since leaving the car. Had he heard the name Carleton Hode before? He didn’t think so. But then, he didn’t know his own name, did he? Or where he was from. Or whose car he had been driving. He might even be Carleton Hode. Or a neighbor. Perhaps on coming face to face with the people who lived here, he would remember.

  Straightening from his slouch against the mailbox, he went plodding down the driveway to the house.

  One of its lamplit windows looked out on a long veranda, and the pale shaft of yellow light from it showed him the steps. He climbed them. Approaching the door, he wondered whether he should be honest about not knowing who he was. What would his reaction be if some hurt stranger appeared out of the dark and said, “Please help me, I’ve been in an accident, I don’t know who I am or where I’m from or where I was going when it happened”? Would he let such a person in or slam and lock the door and phone the police?

  I could give myself a name, he thought, but shrugged the thought aside and looked for a bell button. Failing to find one, he knocked. Knocked again. Presently he heard slow footsteps approaching over a bare wooden floor.

  How should he respond if the person coming to the door asked, “What do you want?”

  The door opened with a slight jerk and he found himself face to face with a small, gray-haired woman in a black dress. She stood there peering up at him, waiting for him to speak. “Good evening,” he said. Recalling the name on the mailbox, he added, “Mrs. Hode?”

  Her expression became a frown. “Who are you?”

  Better be honest, he thought. “To be truthful, I don’t know who I am at the moment.” Feeling weak again, as he had at the mailbox, he put a hand against the doorframe to steady himself. “I’ve had an accident with my car. Please—may I use your telephone to call for help?”

  She leaned forward to peer at him more closely, and he half-remembered something. Had he picked up a hitchhiker sometime before his accident? An old, gray-haired woman in a black dress? This very woman, perhaps?

  No, no. If anything like that had happened, the person he picked up would never have walked away and left him unconscious, perhaps dying, in a wrecked car. His mind was playing tricks on him.

  “Accident?” the woman echoed. “You’ve had an accident?”

  “About two miles down the road. I don’t know what happened. When I came to, the car was on its side in a grove of trees and I had this lump on my head.”

  He pointed to the bruise and she leaned closer to examine it. “M’m. It does look nasty,” she said in a thin voice. “Come with me, please.”

  Closing the door behind him, he trailed her down a lamplit hall to an archway on the right, and through that into a lamplit living room. Or perhaps, in this part of New England in a house as old as this, it was referred to as a parlor. To his surprise, two of its three ancient, overstuffed chairs were occupied by a man and a woman. The man, wearing a dark suit complete with jacket, was tall, swarthy, even handsome in a foreign sort of way. The woman, definitely of old New England stock, was at least as old as his guide and as old-fashioned in her dress. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were two small tables on which stood kerosene lamps with ornate, cut-glass bases and tall glass chimneys.

  Mrs. Hode—if his guide was Mrs. Hode—said to the other two, “This man has been hurt in a car accident and doesn’t know who he is.”

  The pair gazed at him with such intensity that Howell was tempted to turn and run.

  “Haven’t you a driver’s license?” asked the man, speaking with an accent.

  “No, I don’t. Or anything else with a name on it. Someone must have emptied my pockets while I was unconscious.”

  “It would seem you have a problem, then.”

  “If I might use your phone—”

  “To call whom?”

  “Nine-one-one, I suppose.”

  “There is no Nine-one-one here.”

  “A doctor, then? One who lives within reach?”

  “None would be willing to come here at this hour.” The swarthy man extended a long, bony finger to point at a brass clock on the wall. “It is past midnight.”

  Howell was startled. Past midnight? How long had he been unconscious there in the car?

  “You had better forget about a doctor tonight.” The man’s gaze flicked darkly to the woman who had opened the door, then to the other one. “Ladies, I believe what this man needs most is a good night’s rest. Don’t you agree? I don’t know why we can’t let him have the spare room for tonight. Then if he is no better in the morning we can call Doctor—ah—Jones.” He waited while the two women exchanged questioning looks, then added impatiently, “Well?”

  “All right,” said the one who had opened the door.

  “Yes, I think so,” the other echoed.

  With bits and pieces of memory struggling to sort themselves out in his mind, Jerome Howell sat silently staring. The two women were sisters, he decided. The man could be the husband of one of them, or just someone living here. Was this the entire household? And were they the Hodes whose name was on the mailbox?

  Why did he have such a strong feeling that the Hodes had died long ago, the house had long since been abandoned as old and worthless, and these three had simply moved in recently and taken it over?

  The man with the foreign accent was gazing at him. “Well, sir? Do you agree that what you most need is a good night’s sleep?”

  “With all due respect, sir, I’d prefer to see a doctor,” Howell said experimentally. “Is there a cab I could call to take me to one?”

  “There are no taxicabs in this small town.”

  “What town is this?”

  “Ellenton.”

  Another jog to his memory. He knew the name Ellenton. But Ellenton what? New Hampshire? He thought so but was afraid to ask. Whoever they were, these people must already suspect him of being unstable. “Well . . . if I can’t get to a doctor, perhaps you’re right in saying a night’s sleep . . .”

  “Good.” The swarthy man pushed himself out of his chair and took up one of the lamps. He was even taller than he had appeared to be when seated, Howell noted. Even more handsome. Were his clothes a bit newer, less seedy, he might well have attracted attention even in a place like New York City.

  “Come with me, please.”

  Jerome Howell trailed his host up a wide flight of uncarpe
ted stairs and along a bare upper hall to the rear of the ancient house, where the fellow stopped before the last of several doors and produced a ring of keys. He inserted one into an old-fashioned lock. Strange, Howell thought with a touch of apprehension. How many people kept bedroom doors locked?

  Entering the room, the fellow placed the lamp on a bedside table, and by its light Howell saw that the room was a large one. It had four windows. The bed was a massive old four-poster of pine. Completing the furnishings were two ancient chests-of-drawers and a bedroom chair with faded rosebuds on its skirt of chintz.

  “The bed is ready,” the tall man said in his mellow voice, with just a trace of a smile. “Perhaps you should retire at once, no? You appear to be very tired, sir.”

  “Are you sure this won’t inconvenience you, Mr. Hode?”

  “I assure you, it is no trouble. Let me get you something to sleep in.” Striding to a chest, the man dropped on one knee to open its bottom drawer. “Here now. These will fit you, I believe.” He placed a pair of gray flannel pajamas on the bed and turned to lift a long-fingered hand in farewell. “Goodnight, sir. Rest well.”

  He went out. Howell heard the key turn in the lock and realized he was a prisoner. A prisoner in a town called Ellenton, in the state of New Hampshire. And suddenly, with the shock of that frightening realization, all the rest of it flooded back into his memory.

  He knew his name. He knew he was a vacationing professor of philosophy whose hobby was the investigation of psychic phenomena. He knew he had received a letter from the town of Ellenton, signed by twenty-two of its citizens, imploring him to come to their town and investigate reports of vampirism—especially the rumor that the most renowned vampire of them all, Count Dracula, had chosen to pay the town of Ellenton a visit and was now in residence here.

  More and more came back. He remembered he had planned to arrive in Ellenton about three in the afternoon but had been delayed in Portsmouth by car trouble. He recalled that hours later, when it was dark, he had picked up an old woman—one of the two old women now in the almost bare parlor downstairs. Then an old clunker of a car had run him off the road—perhaps deliberately—and when he regained consciousness in his wrecked car, his passenger was no longer there. She could hardly have escaped injury, but still she had vanished.