~ * ~
THE CALL OF the night beckoned, but I ignored it and hailed a taxi instead.
The streets were empty tonight. Only the sound of a few motor cars, and the occasional clip-clop of a horse-drawn carriage interrupted the silence. Although I was tempted to book a room at The Grand and ignore my problems, I had to leave the city. The dank smell of the metropolis left a foul, acrid taste in my mouth, which was a further blow to what was rapidly becoming the worst week of my existence.
The previous night’s excursion had left me mentally drained. That despicable man Crowley had stared at me all evening. There was something about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He spouted nonsense about magic and religion—obviously a self-deluded crackpot. It was no wonder that his last mistress had committed suicide. I should have known better than to frequent such an establishment as the Gargoyle Club. Places like that always brought out the worst dregs of society. Nowadays, nightclubs like the Kit-Cat were more to my taste.
The taxi dropped me off at the train station and I could barely see the driver speed away in the rapidly descending gloom. I hastily purchased my ticket, and found my train quickly, climbing into the comfort of the first class carriage with a sense of relief. Moments after I closed the door with a hollow thump, the train began to move forward.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him. And at the end of my journey he would be waiting. He was tangled in my thoughts like a spider in a web. Why here? Why now?
Our disagreement had been a stupid one; they always were. I hadn’t seen him in years. He said he’d contact me, but he never did. I wrote a few cards, posted a letter or two, but there was never any reply, never so much as a hastily written scribble or a wispy voice on the other end of a telephone line.
I’d tried to justify his behaviour in my mind. I kept telling myself that I moved a great deal—perhaps the mail was never forwarded? He was always busy, ruling his empire with an iron fist, manipulating the masses, commanding the multitudes. The powerful ones never had time—or so they said.
I guess you could say I gave up on him after a while. Or maybe, just maybe, he gave up on me. Perhaps I never really lived up to his expectations. Following in his footsteps had always been a nightmare. There was such a mystique surrounding him.
The adopted ones always exceeded me in their achievements. I often heard their accounts, read about their adventures in the newspapers. Following the headlines had become a daily ritual. Perhaps I hoped to catch a fleeting reference to him. I thought I did once, just after the war. The name was wrong, but then he rarely used the real one nowadays. Legends had myriad titles.
He had wealth now, and he had it in abundance. I wondered if it made him happy. The endless parade of women never did. I’d watched them too. I was good at watching. Perhaps observation was my only real talent on this earth, although I never seemed to learn from it.
My anxiety about the forthcoming appointment was interrupted by a hesitant knock on the door of my compartment. I quickly switched on the reading light. It might look suspicious if someone found me staring out into the darkness.
“I was wondering if I could come in?” a male voice asked from the other side of the doorway.
I opened the door cautiously, expecting the ticket inspector on his rounds. But it was that man Crowley again.
“Oh, excuse me,” he said, acting surprised. “I was looking for an associate of mine, and I thought she was in this compartment.”
“I’m afraid not sir. Excuse me, but I really must get back to my book,” I added, hoping he would disappear to whence he came, and quickly.
“Yes, of course. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have we met before?” He suddenly smiled. “Yes, I remember now, you were at the Gargoyle Club last night. What a small world ...”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t remember,” I lied, my teeth clenching as I tried to close the door on his fingers.
It was then that he brushed past me and sat down. I was so surprised by his brusque manner, that words escaped me.
“Well, if I can’t find my associate, perhaps you’d honour me with a conversation? I have a least an hour before I reach my destination. Assuming of course you don’t mind?” He smiled again. My skin crawled.
I wanted to tell him to get out and let me be. The note that I had received the previous evening had left me drained. Somehow, I no longer felt in control of my own actions.
“I’ve not encountered someone with such beauty as yours in a long time,” he purred. “And you have a touch of the True Power, although I doubt you know that...”
“Really sir,” I said firmly, “I must ask you to leave at once.”
Then he scowled. “Don’t play the proper little miss with me. What’s that expression everyone’s using? ‘You can do anything you like so long as you don’t do it in the streets and frighten the horses.’ I don’t see any horses here, madam. After all, most women who frequent the Gargoyle Club are after one thing and one thing only.” He licked his lips in anticipation.
At that moment, there was another knock at the compartment door. I could hear a tiny voice squeaking from the other side. “Are you there Aleister? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Ah, my companion, what perfect timing. Let her in my dear, let her in,” he demanded.
Without hesitation I opened the carriage door. Crowley had a certain presence, I’d acknowledge that. A tipsy, red-headed trollop stared back at me. Then she brushed past and collapsed into the lap of her lover.
“Come my dear,” he said while struggling with the woman’s clothing. “Why don’t you join us? I have delights to show you beyond your imagination ...”
The woman laughed, a shrill screech that threatened to overpower the din of the steam engine. The situation was quickly getting out of control. I sighed, realizing there was no other way. “If that’s what you really desire ...” I said simply.
This disgusting man was beginning to become a nuisance—a potentially dangerous one at that. I leaned down and grasped his shoulders, pulling him closer to my red lips. Then my instincts took over. As my fangs pierced his flesh, the hot blood spurted down my throat, sending the first rich waves deep into my soul. All I could hear was the clacking of the wheels on the tracks. The sound roared in my ears, drowning out his gasps.
I could sense strange thoughts swirling within my mind. He was fighting me, but not in a physical sense. As he lapsed into unconsciousness, I turned towards his cowering companion. It was over very quickly. I drained her dry.
My dear, sweet father, would you be proud of me now? See what your gift has wrought? I glanced out of the carriage window; we were nearly there. I would be very glad when this journey came to an end.
~ * ~
Before the train came to a complete stop, I stepped off onto the platform. No one followed. The deserted station was mute witness to the train’s arrival and departure. It was a characterless structure, a concrete edifice that even the pigeons would avoid.
“Angelica,” a voice called softly from the night’s gloom. The darkness seemed to part as a figure strode purposely towards me. I recognized his scent instantly—it was my father.
I took a deep breath and tasted the cool night air. He stood watching me. His crimson eyes betrayed nothing.
“What are you doing here?” I managed to say, hoping he would not smell the fresh blood on my breath.
As always, he seemed to take control of the situation. “I thought I would meet you after your long journey,” he said simply. “I have a car waiting for us.” My father pointed towards a magnificent, black Rolls Royce. He always liked to travel in style.
He was more conservatively dressed than at our last encounter. I had not seen him in person for more than twenty-five years and outwardly, at least, he had changed since then. Now he wore a black, perfectly cut business suit, with gold cufflinks that shone with an unearthly gleam. His dark hair was trimmed neatly above the collar, swept back in a widow’s peak from his
forehead. The polished shoes reflected the dim glow of the moon. They probably cost enough to feed a whole village for a year in the old country.
“Come,” he commanded. “It will be dawn soon.”
I walked beside him towards the car. A uniformed chauffeur jumped out, and swiftly opened the back door of the vehicle. He was dressed all in black as well. I climbed in, acutely aware of my father’s undead breath on the back of my neck.
We sat there in silence. The Rolls Royce cruised through the winding, country roads for nearly an hour. I couldn’t tell whether it was getting light or not. The car windows had obviously been blacked out.
“A good journey then?” he asked, finally breaking the silence between us.
“No ... there was a small problem,” I said.
“I trust you handled it with your usual degree of tact and style?” He smiled and his teeth were very white.
I did not reply. He was baiting me. Not this time, I thought to myself. Not this time.
Eventually the car pulled into a long driveway, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tyres.
“We must hurry into the house,” he warned. “The first light of dawn approaches.”
I fumbled with the door handle and finally slid out of the car. The driver was nowhere in sight. The house in front of me was typical of the country homes you would normally see in the society pages. I hated it on sight.
A Szagany woman greeted us at the doorway and quickly beckoned us in. My father was a few paces behind me. I could hear his shoes against the marble flooring, but I refused to turn around and look at him. I didn’t want to be transformed into a pillar of salt.
“Are you hungry?” the servant asked me with a hint of fear in her dark eyes.
“No thank you, I’ve already ... eaten,” I replied quietly.
She looked relieved. From the bruises on her neck, her role was obviously a simple one.
“Come my daughter. We can talk in the study.”
It was not a request. Few lived who crossed my father’s wishes. The people of Transylvania were witness to that. So I followed him, praying to whichever gods protect such as I that this time he had reconciliation in his thoughts, not destruction. But perhaps secretly I still craved the latter.
He sat in a large leather chair. It reminded me of a throne, with its high back and ornate carvings on the legs and arm rests. I chose a simpler piece of furniture, more suited to my nature.
“It has been too long,” he said.
For the first time I saw weariness in his eyes.
“I am very alone Angelica,” he continued. “The years have been long.”
He looked old. I could imagine grey strands in his thick dark hair. Of course I knew that he would never age. It was just an impression of what might have been ... or was yet to come.
“I have made some mistakes. I expect you know that. But you are my only true daughter of this century. A miracle in more ways than one.” He let his statement hang in the air, waiting for me to bring it down to earth.
I wasn’t sure if I believed him, but I had heard enough. The question that sprang from my lips had been trapped inside me for far too long. “Do you really expect me to forgive you? I know what you are. I know what I am. Haven’t you done enough?”
For a moment he said nothing. The silence in the room felt like an eternity. Finally he said: “I need you. You are the only one, there is no other like you.”
“No father, I’ve grieved enough. This has been a waste of time. You haven’t changed, you’ll never change.” I was gripping the arms of the chair so tightly, that I left indentations in the wood with my nails. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow, once the sun has set.”
“You fed today, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, you know that. Some self-styled mystic and his companion.” The image of Crowley’s face immediately surfaced again in my mind.
My father rose from the chair. “You think you are so different Angelica. But you still take life. You see, my daughter, we are ... one and the same.”
“But it was in self-defence,” I tried to explain. “They were dangerous. There was something about that man ... something unusual. I had to protect myself, protect what we are.” His growing anger was piercing me like sharp knives. “However, I did spare the man ...” I added quietly.
“What? Then perhaps you are not the one I had hoped for after all...”
Deep down I knew he was right. That’s why I hated him so much. That’s why the years had been such long ones. I’d been the one to push him away. I couldn’t deny that any longer. He was a part of me and I of him. The connection was of blood and flesh.
I could feel the blood tears rolling down my cheeks. They were tears of blood. He moved towards me then, not quite touching the floor. His eyes were warm, and I stared into them as he wrapped me in his strong embrace.
I felt safe and secure in the knowledge that he would protect me from anyone or anything. As he held me closer, I didn’t need to breathe, let alone utter a whisper. That might break the spell—shatter it into thousands of pieces that could never again be reformed. He was of course my dear father, and I would always be Daddy’s little girl...
I gazed into his eyes. Once again they were like cold steel. At that moment I gasped as his teeth pricked my skin, sending my body into a spasm of delight. It was better than any earthly pleasure.
“It has been too long, daughter,” he finally said, as he pulled back from my throat, smearing the blood from his red lips with the back of his hand.
“You’ve missed me then?” I asked, once again falling into his embrace.
His throat was like ice, and he let out a small gasp of surprise as my teeth pierced his cold flesh. I drew the warmth deep inside, not tasting, just desperately feeding upon his life force.
“Enough,” he demanded, trying to withdraw from my grip.
“No,” I said. My hands were firmly grasped around his throat, my whole body trembling. But he was too strong, even for me.
I barely saw the blow as he struck me. The force threw me backwards across the room. I heard dry bones crack, and suddenly I couldn’t move my body.
“You left me no choice, daughter,” he said. “I will not accept failure, even from you. That man you allowed to survive will cause us trouble in the future, mark my words, and you are to blame.” He looked so tall standing over me, so powerful, so cold. “I am afraid your neck is broken, daughter. That is fatal—even for such as us.”
His features were becoming blurry now. A single tear of blood ran down his cheek. At least he grieved, but as the final blackness swept over me, I wondered did he grieve for me ... or for the future?
<
~ * ~
RAMSEY CAMPBELL
Conversion
RAMSEY CAMPBELL was born in Liverpool, where he still lives with his wife Jenny. His first book, a collection of stories entitled The Inhabitant of the Lake and Less Welcome Tenants, was published by August Derleth’s legendary Arkham House imprint in 1964, since when his novels have included The Doll Who Ate His Mother, The Face That Must Die, The Nameless, Incarnate, The Hungry Moon, Ancient Images, The Count of Eleven, The Long Lost, Pact of the Fathers, The Darkest Part of the Woods, The Grin of the Dark, Thieving Fear, Creatures of the Pool and The Seven Days of Cain.
His short fiction has been collected in such volumes as Demons by Daylight, The Height of the Scream, Dark Companions, Scared Stiff, Waking Nightmares, Cold Print, Alone with the Horrors, Ghosts and Grisly Things, Told by the Dead, and Just Behind You. He has also edited a number of anthologies, including New Terrors, New Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos, Fine Frights: Stories That Scared Me, Uncanny Banquet, Meddling with Ghosts and Gathering the Bones: Original Stories from the World’s Masters of Horror (with Dennis Etchison and Jack Dann).
He has won multiple World Fantasy Awards, British Fantasy Awards and Bram Stoker Awards, and is a recipient of the World Horror Convention Grand Master Award, the Horror Writers Association Life
time Achievement Award, the Howie Award of the H. P. Lovecraft Film Festival for Lifetime Achievement and the International Horror Guild’s Living Legend Award.
Dracula returns to the Carpathians, but continues to take a great interest in world events and politics. However, some things never change ...
~ * ~
YOU’RE IN SIGHT of home when you know something’s wrong. Moonlight shivers gently on the stream beyond the cottage, and trees stand around you like intricate spikes of the darkness mounting within the forest. The cottage is dark, but it isn’t that. You emerge into the glade, trying to sense what’s troubling you.
You know you shouldn’t have stayed out so late, talking to your friend. Your wife must have been worried, perhaps frightened by the night as well. You’ve never left her alone at night before. But his talk was so engrossing: you feel that in less than a night you’ve changed from being wary of him to understanding him completely. And his wine was so good, and his open-throated brightly streaming fire so warming, that you can now remember little except a timeless sense of comfortable companionship, of communion that no longer needed words. But you shouldn’t have left your wife alone in the forest at night, even behind a barred door. The woodcutter’s cottage is nearby; at least you could have had his wife stay with yours. You feel disloyal.
The Mammoth Book of Dracula - [Anthology] Page 6
