Dracula’s Brethren

by Richard Dalby

  ‘My dear fellow, what is the matter?’ I asked, breaking the silence. ‘Nothing amiss, I trust? Are you unwell?’

  ‘Brandy!’ he gasped. ‘Give me some brandy!’

  I took out the decanter, and was about to help him, when he snatched it from me with a trembling hand, and poured out nearly half a tumbler of the spirit. He was usually a most abstemious man, but he took this off at a gulp without adding any water to it. It seemed to do him good, for the colour began to come back to his face, and he leaned upon his elbow.

  ‘My engagement is off, Bob,’ he said, trying to speak calmly, but with a tremor in his voice which he could not conceal. ‘It is all over.’

  ‘Cheer up!’ I answered, trying to encourage him. ‘Don’t get down on your luck. How was it? What was it all about?’

  ‘About?’ he groaned, covering his face with his hands. ‘If I did tell you, Bob, you would not believe it. It is too dreadful – too horrible – unutterably awful and incredible! Oh, Kate, Kate!’ and he rocked himself to and fro in his grief; ‘I pictured you an angel and I find you a—’

  ‘A what?’ I asked, for he had paused.

  He looked at me with a vacant stare, and then suddenly burst out, waving his arms: ‘A fiend!’ he cried. ‘A ghoul from the pit! A vampire soul behind a lovely face! Now, God forgive me!’ he went on in a lower tone, turning his face to the wall; ‘I have said more than I should. I have loved her too much to speak of her as she is. I love her too much now.’

  He lay still for some time, and I had hoped that the brandy had had the effect of sending him to sleep, when he suddenly turned his face towards me.

  ‘Did you ever read of wehr-wolves?’ he asked.

  I answered that I had.

  ‘There is a story,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘in one of Marryat’s books, about a beautiful woman who took the form of a wolf at night and devoured her own children. I wonder what put that idea into Marryat’s head?’

  He pondered for some minutes, and then he cried out for some more brandy. There was a small bottle of laudanum upon the table, and I managed, by insisting upon helping him myself, to mix about half a drachm with the spirits. He drank it off, and sank his head once more upon the pillow. ‘Anything better than that,’ he groaned. ‘Death is better than that. Crime and cruelty; cruelty and crime. Anything is better than that,’ and so on, with the monotonous refrain, until at last the words became indistinct, his eyelids closed over his weary eyes, and he sank into a profound slumber. I carrried him into his bedroom without arousing him; and making a couch for myself out of the chairs, I remained by his side all night.

  In the morning Barrington Cowles was in a high fever. For weeks he lingered between life and death. The highest medical skill of Edinburgh was called in, and his vigorous constitution slowly got the better of his disease. I nursed him during this anxious time; but through all his wild delirium and ravings he never let a word escape him which explained the mystery connected with Miss Northcott. Sometimes he spoke of her in the tenderest words and most loving voice. At others he screamed out that she was a fiend, and stretched out his arms, as if to keep her off. Several times he cried that he would not sell his soul for a beautiful face, and then he would moan in a most piteous voice, ‘But I love her – I love her for all that; I shall never cease to love her.’

  When he came to himself he was an altered man. His severe illness had emaciated him greatly, but his dark eyes had lost none of their brightness. They shone out with startling brilliancy from under his dark, overhanging brows. His manner was eccentric and variable – sometimes irritable, sometimes recklessly mirthful, but never natural. He would glance about him in a strange, suspicious manner, like one who feared something, and yet hardly knew what it was he dreaded. He never mentioned Miss Northcott’s name – never until that fatal evening of which I have now to speak.

  In an endeavour to break the current of his thoughts by frequent change of scene, I travelled with him through the highlands of Scotland, and afterwards down the east coast. In one of these peregrinations of ours we visited the Isle of May, an island near the mouth of the Firth of Forth, which, except in the tourist season, is singularly barren and desolate. Beyond the keeper of the lighthouse there are only one or two families of poor fisher-folk, who sustain a precarious existence by their nets, and by the capture of cormorants and Solan geese. This grim spot seemed to have such a fascination for Cowles that we engaged a room in one of the fishermen’s huts, with the intention of passing a week or two there. I found it very dull, but the loneliness appeared to be a relief to my friend’s mind. He lost the look of apprehension which had become habitual to him, and became something like his old self. He would wander round the island all day, looking down from the summit of the great cliffs which gird it round, and watching the long green waves as they came booming in and burst in a shower of spray over the rocks beneath.

  One night – I think it was our third or fourth on the island – Barrington Cowles and I went outside the cottage before retiring to rest, to enjoy a little fresh air, for our room was small, and the rough lamp caused an unpleasant odour. How well I remember every little circumstance in connection with that night! It promised to be tempestuous, for the clouds were piling up in the north-west, and the dark wrack was drifting across the face of the moon, throwing alternate belts of light and shade upon the rugged surface of the island and the restless sea beyond.

  We were standing talking close by the door of the cottage, and I was thinking to myself that my friend was more cheerful than he had been since his illness, when he gave a sudden, sharp cry, and looking round at him I saw, by the light of the moon, an expression of unutterable horror come over his features. His eyes became fixed and staring, as if riveted upon some approaching object, and he extended his long thin forefinger, which quivered as he pointed.

  ‘Look there!’ he cried. ‘It is she! It is she! You see her there coming down the side of the brae.’ He gripped me convulsively by the wrist as he spoke. ‘There she is, coming towards us!’

  ‘Who?’ I cried, straining my eyes into the darkness.

  ‘She – Kate – Kate Northcott!’ he screamed. ‘She has come for me. Hold me fast, old friend. Don’t let me go!’

  ‘Hold up, old man,’ I said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Pull yourself together; you are dreaming; there is nothing to fear.’

  ‘She is gone!’ he cried, with a gasp of relief. ‘No, by heaven! there she is again, and nearer – coming nearer. She told me she would come for me, and she keeps her word.’

  ‘Come into the house,’ I said. His hand, as I grasped it, was as cold as ice.

  ‘Ah, I knew it!’ he shouted. ‘There she is, waving her arms. She is beckoning to me. It is the signal. I must go. I am coming, Kate; I am coming!’

  I threw my arms around him, but he burst from me with superhuman strength, and dashed into the darkness of the night. I followed him, calling to him to stop, but he ran the more swiftly. When the moon shone out between the clouds I could catch a glimpse of his dark figure, running rapidly in a straight line, as if to reach some definite goal. It may have been imagination, but it seemed to me that in the flickering light I could distinguish a vague something in front of him – a shimmering form which eluded his grasp and led him onwards. I saw his outlines stand out hard against the sky behind him as he surmounted the brow of a little hill, then he disappeared, and that was the last ever seen by mortal eye of Barrington Cowles.

  The fishermen and I walked round the island all that night with lanterns, and examined every nook and corner without seeing a trace of my poor lost friend. The direction in which he had been running terminated in a rugged line of jagged cliffs overhanging the sea. At one place here the edge was somewhat crumbled, and there appeared marks upon the turf which might have been left by human feet. We lay upon our faces at this spot, and peered with our lanterns over the edge, looking down on the boiling surge two hundred feet below. As we lay there, suddenly, above the beating of the waves
and the howling of the wind, there rose a strange, wild screech from the abyss below. The fishermen – a naturally superstitious race – averred that it was the sound of a woman’s laughter, and I could hardly persuade them to continue the search. For my own part I think it may have been the cry of some seafowl startled from its nest by the flash of the lantern. However that may be, I never wish to hear such a sound again.

  And now I have come to the end of the painful duty which I have undertaken. I have told as plainly and as accurately as I could the story of the death of John Barrington Cowles, and the train of events which preceded it. I am aware that to others the sad episode seemed commonplace enough. Here is the prosaic account which appeared in the Scotsman a couple of days afterwards:—

  ‘SAD OCCURRENCE ON THE ISLE OF MAY. – The Isle of May has been the scene of a sad disaster. Mr John Barrington Cowles, a gentleman well known in university circles as a most distinguished student, and the present holder of the Neil Arnott prize for physics, has been recruiting his health in this quiet retreat. The night before last he suddenly left his friend, Mr Robert Armitage, and he has not since been heard of. It is almost certain that he has met his death by falling over the cliffs which surround the island. Mr Cowles’ health has been failing for some time, partly from over-study and partly from worry connected with family affairs. By his death the University loses one of her most promising alumni.’

  I have nothing more to add to my statement. I have unburdened my mind of all that I know. I can well conceive that many, after weighing all that I have said, will see no ground for an accusation against Miss Northcott. They will say that, because a man of a naturally excitable disposition says and does wild things, and even eventually commits self-murder after a sudden and heavy disappointment, there is no reason why vague charges should be advanced against a young lady. To this, I answer that they are welcome to their opinion. For my own part, I ascribe the death of William Prescott, of Archibald Reeves, and of John Barrington Cowles to this woman with as much confidence as if I had seen her drive a dagger into their hearts.

  You ask me no doubt, what my own theory is which will explain all these strange facts. I have none, or, at best, a dim and vague one. That Miss Northcott possessed extraordinary powers over the minds, and through the minds over the bodies, of others, I am convinced, as well as that her instincts were to use this power for base and cruel purposes. That some even more fiendish and terrible phase of character lay behind this – some horrible trait which it was necessary for her to reveal before marriage – is to be inferred from the experience of her three lovers, while the dreadful nature of the mystery thus revealed can only be surmised from the fact that the very mention of it drove from her those who had loved her so passionately. Their subsequent fate was, in my opinion, the result of her vindictive remembrance of their desertion of her, and that they were forewarned of it at the time was shown by the words of both Reeves and Cowles. Above this, I can say nothing. I lay the facts soberly before the public as they came under my notice. I have never seen Miss Northcott since, nor do I wish to do so. If by the words I have written I can save any one human being from the snare of those bright eyes and that beautiful face, then I can lay down my pen with the assurance that my poor friend has not died altogether in vain.

  MANOR

  Karl Heinrich Ulrichs

  Karl Heinrich Ulrichs (1825–1895) was born in Aurich, then part of the Kingdom of Hanover, in present-day North-Western Germany. He graduated in law and theology from Göttingen University in 1846, and from 1846 to 1848 studied history at Berlin University, later working as a legal advisor. An advocate of rights for homosexuals at a time when homosexuality was illegal in many European countries, Ulrichs is now regarded as a pioneer of the modern gay rights movement, and there are streets named after him in several German cities. ‘Manor’ received its first book publication in 1885 in an anthology titled Matrosengeschichten, which translates into English as Sailors’ Tales. While there had been vampire stories before ‘Manor’ that hinted at a same-sex relationship between the main protagonists, Ulrichs’ story was the first to explicitly depict one between two men, making it an important milestone in the history of the vampire story.

  I

  FAR north in the Atlantic Ocean lies a solitary and forsaken group of thirty-five islands, equally distant from Scotland, Iceland, and Norway, called the Faroe Islands. Desolate, rocky, veiled by clouds, filled with the melancholy cries of fluttering gulls, and noisy with crashing breakers, they are almost always enveloped by fog. In summer the mountain tops, 1,800 and 2,000 feet above the sea, show rough crags, gloomy ravines, primitive fir forests, and thousands of springs, which often tumble down from great heights, foaming from boulder to boulder. The coastline is deeply cut by bays and fjords; ringed by high rocks, it is almost unapproachable everywhere. The sea, which is full of reefs all around, so as here and there to form a complete barricade, is ruffled by whirlpools formed by wild currents. Only seventeen of the islands are populated. Strömö and Vaagö are separated only by a narrow channel, which can be swum, although it takes a daring swimmer to do it. Many place names recall the time when there were no churches on the Faroe Islands and the old belief was not yet driven out, e.g., Thorshavn on the coast of Strömö, whose name itself means ‘island of currents.’

  In those days a fisherman rowed from Strömö with his fifteen-year-old son into the open sea. A storm came up, overturning the boat and throwing the son onto the reefs of Vaagö. A young boatman on Vaagö saw this. He leaped into the waves, swam between the reefs, seized the floating body, and drew it onto land. He sat with him on a rock, holding the half-stiff body on his knees and nursing him in his arms. The boy opened his eyes.

  Boatman: ‘Who are you?’

  Boy: ‘Har. I’m from Strömö.’

  He rowed him across the channel back to Strömö, taking him to Laera, his mother. Gratefully the boy embraced his rescuer around the neck as they parted. (The corpse of his father was later thrown up onto land by the waves.) The boatman, who was named Manor, was an orphan, four years older than Har.

  Manor grew fond of Har and longed to see him again. In the evening, when his day’s work was finished, he sometimes rowed over to Strömö or swam the lukewarm waves, now that summer had come. Har went to the coast, climbed a cliff, and waved his kerchief when he saw Manor’s boat coming in the distance. Then they stayed together an hour or two. If the sea was calm they rowed out and sang sailor songs. Or, stripping themselves of their clothing, they dove into the waves and swam to the nearby sandbar, which lay opposite; the seals, sunning themselves on the sand, fled. Or they walked in the dark green forest of tall fir trees, whose rustling tops proclaimed the speech of Thor. Or they sat down under the branches of an old birch on a rock. They chatted and made plans. If a ship were to come, which was sailing in search of whales, they both wanted to go along. As they sat there on the rock, Manor would lay his arm around Har’s shoulder and call him ‘my boy’; and the boy never felt more content than when Manor held him in that way. If it was already late when he came, then he quietly went up to the lilac bush which shaded Har’s window and knocked on the pane. Har would wake up and slip out to him. He felt so happy, if he could be with Manor!

  II

  A Danish three-master arrived and anchored in Vaagö safe bay, looking for sailors for a two-month voyage to catch whales. Manor went aboard and the captain immediately took on the slender-grown lad, who was in the bloom of youth. Har wanted to go along as cabin boy, but Laera complained: ‘You are my only child! The sea swallowed up your father. Will you abandon me?’ Thus Har remained, but Manor left when the ship heaved anchor.

  Two months passed; it was already wintry again. Har would climb a cliff and gaze into the distance. One morning he saw the ship coming and joyously waved his kerchief. But it was stormy and the surf was up. The ship steered toward the bay of Vaagö, but could not reach it and was thrown onto the dangerous reefs of Strömö, running aground before Har’s eyes. He s
aw how the shipwrecked men fought the waves, and he caught a glimpse of one of them gripping a plank with his powerful arm. In the next moment he was sucked under, along with the plank, into the whirlpool of the surf. Har recognized him – it was Manor!

  The flood tide brought many bodies onto land. Straw was prepared on the beach and corpses were laid on it, one next to the other. Manor’s body was also brought there and laid on the straw. There he lay before Har, driven up by the sea water, with wet hair, eyes closed and cold, with pale lips and colourless cheeks from which the blood had drained. His slender form was good-looking even in death. ‘This is the way I have to see you again, Manor!’ Har cried, and threw himself sobbing across the beloved body, for a moment tasting again the bliss of an embrace.

  The bodies were brought across the channel and buried the same day in the sand dunes of Vaagö.

  III

  In the evening Har sat in his hut, sad and silent. Laera wanted to comfort him, but he would not be comforted; he cursed the gods. He went to bed, but could not sleep. Toward midnight he fell into a half-slumber.

  Then a noise awakened him. He looked up. Something was outside at the window. The branches of the lilac bush were rubbing against themselves and their dry leaves rustled. The window opened and a figure climbed inside. Aha! He knew that figure! In spite of the darkness he recognized it immediately! With slow steps it came up to him and laid itself on him in the bed. Har shivered, but he offered no resistance. It caressed his cheeks, though with a cold hand, oh! so cold, so cold! A feverish chill made him shudder. It kissed the warm, quivering boy-mouth with ice-cold lips. He felt the wet garment of the kissing figure, whose wet hair hung down onto his forehead. A feeling of dread passed through him, but it was mixed with bliss. The figure sighed. It sounded to him as if it wished to say: ‘Longing drives me to you! I find no rest in the grave!’