The Mammoth Book of Dracula - [Anthology]

by Edited By Stephen Jones

  But meanwhile the important battle scenes, all ketchup and zenf though they were, would have to wait on the arrival of Old Grim-Grin, injured in some minor traffic accident.

  Producer Jerry Sollinger was beginning to wish he’d never heard of Vlad the Impaler; or rather, that Harry S. Skatsman had never heard of him. Sollinger could still remember when first the fat little director had snarled into his office to slam down upon his desk a file composed of bits and pieces of collected facts and lore concerning one Vlad Dracula. This Vlad—Vlad being a title of some sort, possibly “Prince”—had been a fifteenth-century warlord, a Wallach of incredible cruelty. Like his ancestors before him, he had led his people against wave after wave of invading Turks, Magyars, Bulgars, Lombards and others equally barbaric, to beat them back from his princedom eyrie in the foreboding mountains of Carpathia.

  He was, in short, the original Dracula; but whichever historian appended the words “the Impaler” to his name had in mind a different sort of impaling than did Bram Stoker when he wrote his popular novel. Vlad V. Tsepeth Dracula of Wallachia had earned his name by sticking the captured hundreds of his enemies vertically on rank after rank of upright stakes, where they might sit and scream out the mercifully short remainder of their lives in hideous agony while he and other nobles laughed and cantered their warhorses up and down amidst the blood and gore.

  The vampire legend in connection with Vlad V. probably sprang up not only from this monstrous method of execution, but also from the fact that a Wallachian curse has it (despite his lying dead for over five hundred years) that Vlad the Impaler “will return from the grave with his warriors of old to protect his lands if ever again invaders penetrate his boundaries”.

  This, roughly, was the information Skatsman’s file contained, and to its cover he had stapled a single sheet of paper bearing the following story-line, his synoptic “plan” of the epic-to-be:

  “Vlad Drac, (Zack Phalanx), scorned by his subjects and the sovereigns of neighbouring kingdoms and princedoms alike for his chicken, pacifist ways, finally loses his cool and takes up the sword against the invader (something like Friendly Persuasion but with mountains and battle-axes). This only after his castle has been burned right off the edge of its precipice by the advancing Turks, and after his niece, the young Princess Minerna, (Shani Silarno), has been raped by the Turk barbarian boss, (Tony Kwinn?).To conclude, we’ll have Vlad V suicide after his boys mistakenly stick his mistress, (Glory Graeme?), who has dressed like a Turk camp-follower to escape the invaders, not realizing that Vlad has already whupped them? Robert Black can whip this up into something good.” To this brief, almost cryptic outline, Skatsman had appended his signature.

  And from that simple seed the idea had blossomed, mushrooming into a giant project, an epic; by which time it had been too late for Sollinger to back out. Truth of the matter was that the producer was a little fearful of these so-called “epic” productions: just such a project had almost ruined him many years ago. But with such a story—with the awesome, disquieting grandeur of the Carpathian Mountains as background, with a list of stars literally typecast into the very parts for which they were acclaimed and which they played best, with Skatsman as director (and he was a very good director, despite his tantrums)—well, what could go wrong?

  Much could go wrong ...

  And yet at first it had seemed like plain sailing. The new peace-pact with the Eastern-bloc countries had helped them in the end to get the necessary visas; that and the promise of recruitment as extras of hundreds of the poor, local villagers into bit parts. And this latter of course had saved much on costumary, for the dress and costumes of these people had not much changed in five centuries. On the other hand, there had been little of the filmstar in them. When they were used, each fragment of each and every scene had to be directed with the most minute attention to detail, always through an interpreter and invariably with the end result that Skatsman, before he could be satisfied, would have the set in uproar. The stars would be threatening to walk out, the local “actors” themselves gibbering in fear of the little man’s temper, as though the director were the great Vlad V. himself resurrected!

  Indeed, when finally those locals—all two hundred and eighty of them—had walked off the set, flatly refusing to work any longer on the giant production, Skatsman had been blamed. Not to his face, of course not, but behind his back the cast and technicians had “known” that he was the spanner in the works. This did not explain, though, the fact that when Philar Jontz the PR man went after the runaways, in fact to pay them their last wages, he discovered two empty villages! Not only had the rather primitive “actors” deserted the film—not that it mattered greatly, for all of their important scenes were already in the can—but they had taken their families, friends, indeed the entire populations of their home villages with them. Stranger still, the quaint old town into which they had all moved en masse was only a mile or so further down the mountain road. Whatever they were running away from, well, they had not bothered to run very far!

  Ever the PR man, Jontz had followed them, only to discover that in the now badly overcrowded town no one would have anything to do with him, neither refugees nor regular inhabitants. Mystified, he had returned to his colleagues.

  Within a day or so, however, rumours had found their way back to the mobile town in the mountains. The whispers were vague and inconclusive and no one really bothered much to listen to them, but in essence they gave the lie to anyone who might try to attach the blame to Skatsman. No (the rumours said), the villagers had not been frightened off by the little boss; and no, they had not found the work distasteful—the money had been more than welcome and they were very grateful.

  But did the rich American bosses not know that there had been strange rumblings in the mountains? And were they not aware that in Recjaviscjorska a priest had foretold queer horror in the highlands? Why!—wasn’t it common knowledge that an ancient burial place in the grounds of certain crumbling and massive ruins high in the rocky passes was suddenly most—unquiet? No, better that the Americans be given a wide berth until, one way or the other, they were gone and the mountains were peaceful again.

  Though of course he had his ear to the ground, still it was all far beyond Philar Jontz’s understanding, and even had he thought or bothered himself to look at a map of the region (though there was no reason why he should) it is doubtful that he would have noticed anything at all out of the ordinary. Maps being what they are in that country, in all probability the ancient boundaries would not be marked, and so Jontz would not have seen that the two deserted villages lay within the perimeter of what once had been the princedom of Vlad V. Tsepeth Dracula of Wallachia, or that the now bulging town lower down the mountain slopes lay outside the centuried prince’s domain ...

  ~ * ~

  Now all this had happened before the latest crisis, but even then Phalanx had been overdue on location, delayed for first one reason and then another in Hollywood. And so a number of restless, wasted days had gone by, until finally came that great morning when the poisonous little director received the telephone message everyone had been waiting and praying for. Old Grim-Grin was on his way at last; he would be on the mid-afternoon flight into Jlaskavya; could someone meet him and his retinue at the airport to escort them to the location?

  Could someone meet them, indeed! Skatsman himself would meet them; and without further ado the delighted director had set out in his huge car with Joe, his driver, down the steep mountain roads to distant Jlaskavya.

  For once in his life Skatsman had been truly happy. He had known (he told Joe) that it was all going to be okay. Nothing ever went wrong on his birthday—nothing dared go wrong on his birthday! And thus he had snarled cheerfully to Joe all the way to the dismal airport ... where finally he had been informed of his superstar’s latest and most serious delay.

  Having picked up a smattering of the local language, it was Joe who first received the news, and when Skatsman had recovered from his initial co
nvulsions it was Joe who phoned the facts through to Philar Jontz in the overcrowded town where the PR man had not yet given up trying to solve the mystery of the runaway extras. Jontz, in turn, had taken the dread message back to his film friends in the mountains.

  Later, it also fell to the PR man to spot the horde of extras -all costumed for a battle scene, helmeted and leather-sandalled, with a variety of shields, swords, maces and lances—as they came creeping down out of the higher passes, flanked by riders astride great warhorses. The PR man had been astounded, but only for a moment, and then he had given a whoop of understanding.

  Why, Skatsman, the old fraud! They might have expected something like this of him. Wasn’t it his birthday? This explained everything. The runaway extras, the alleged “accident” of Zack Phalanx: it had all been a build-up to the Big Surprise. And surely that great, grim-faced, leading rider was Zack Phalanx?

  Dusk was settling over the mountains like a great grey mantle by that time, and the actors and technicians and all were already settling in their caravans and tents, preparing for the next day’s work or bedding down for the night. Philar Jontz’s cry went up for all of them to hear:

  “Well, I’ll be damned! Zack! Zack Phalanx! Where’s that old rogue Skatsman hiding?” Then they heard his quavering, querying exclamation of disbelief, and finally his awful, rising scream, cut off by a thick sound not unlike a meat cleaver sinking into a side of beef...

  ~ * ~

  Something less than an hour later, Harry S. Skatsman’s big car came round the last bend in the winding mountain road and turned off onto the fringe of the flat, cleared area that housed the sprawling units of the vast, mobile film town. The headlights cut a swathe of light between the shadowed ranks of shacks, trailers, trucks, caravans and tents—illuminating a scene that caused Joe to slam on his brakes so hard that Skatsman almost shot headlong over into the front of the car. Twin rows of stakes stretched away towards a bleak background of dark and sullen mountains, and atop each stake sat the motionless form of a dressed dummy, head down and arms bound.

  “What in hell—?” Skatsman snarled, leaping from the car with an agility all out of character with his shape and size. A hundred torches suddenly flared in the dark behind the shacks, trucks and tents, and their bearers came forward out of the shadows to form a circle about Skatsman and the car.

  And suddenly the director knew, just as Philar Jontz had “known”, what it was all about. Why, this was one of Zack’s scenes! The stakes, torches, the grimly helmeted warriors ...

  “Where is he?” Skatsman roared, slapping his thigh and doing a little jig. “Where’s that bastard Zack Phalanx? I might have known he wouldn’t forget my birthday!”

  The silent torch-bearers closed in, tightening the circle. Down the path of stakes horses came clopping, the lead horse carrying a huge figure clad in the cape and apparel of a warrior prince.

  “Zack! Zack!” cried Skatsman, pushing forward—to be grabbed and held tight between two of the encircling torch-bearers. And then he smelled a smell that was not greasepaint, and beneath the nearest helmet he saw -

  “Zack!” he uselessly croaked once more.

  At the same time Joe, too, noticed something very wrong—namely, the skeletal claw that held a torch close to his driver’s window. He convulsively gunned the car’s big motor, twisting the wheel, spinning the car on madly screaming tyres. A hurled lance crashed through the windscreen and pinned him like a fly to the upholstery of his seat. His arms flew wide in a last spasm and the car turned on its side, splintering the nearest stake and flinging the grisly corpse it supported in a welter of entrails at the director’s feet. No dummy this but a dumb blonde!—Shani Silarno, naked but for a torn and bloodstained dressing-gown, eyes glazed and bulging.

  Skatsman swayed and would have fallen, but he was flanked now by two great horses. Their riders reached down to lift him bodily from the ground. He kicked feebly at thin air as they cantered with him down between the ranks of stakes to where the caped Vlad V. now waited.

  Before the director’s unbelieving eyes there passed a bobbing procession of mutilated forms, some of them still writhing weakly on the cruel stakes. Jerry Sollinger, Glory Graeme, Sam “Sugar” Sweeney, they were all there. Even Philar Jontz, though only his head decorated its stake.

  As the horses drew level with the bony horror in the cape, Skatsman was lifted higher still and he saw the waiting, needle-sharp point of the last, empty stake. He might perhaps have screamed but only knew how to snarl. He did neither but threw back his head and laughed—albeit hysterically, insanely—laughed right into the fleshless, helmeted face whose black eye-sockets so keenly regarded him.

  He was Harry S. Skatsman, wasn’t he? And this was his epic, wasn’t it? This was his big scene!

  What else could he do?

  “Action! Camera!” he snarled—as they rammed him down onto that last terrible fang of Vlad the Impaler.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  BASIL COPPER

  When Greek Meets Greek

  BASIL COPPER became a full-time writer in 1970. His first story in the horror field, “The Spider”, was published in 1964 in The Fifth Pan Book of Horror Stories, since when his short fiction has appeared in numerous collections and anthologies, and been extensively adapted for radio and television.

  Along with two non-fiction studies of the vampire and werewolf legends, his other books include the novels The Great White Space, The Curse of the Fleers, Necropolis, The Black Death and The House of the Wolf. Copper has also written more than fifty hardboiled thrillers about Los Angeles private detective Mike Faraday, and has continued the adventures of August Derleth’s Sherlock Holmes-like consulting detective Solar Pons in several volumes of short stories and the novel Solar Pons versus The Devil’s Claw.

  Darkness, Mist & Shadow from PS Publishing recently collected all the author’s macabre fiction in two substantial volumes, while Basil Copper: A Life in Books was a bio-bibliography from the same imprint.

  Dracula wanders across the world, often spending long periods observing humanity...

  ~ * ~

  I

  FROM WHERE THOMPSON sat at the high terrace, the sea was a blinding incandescence below him, the sun stippling the wavetops to points of fire. Across it crawled black shadows like beetles: fishing boats returning from their afternoon catches. Thompson had been involved in a bad motor smash some weeks before and had come down to the Cote d’Azur for a month’s rest to complete his recovery. For this reason and because he had come so close to death, the beauty of the world and the merest minutia of everyday life arrested his attention as never before.

  He had chosen the Magnolia because it was high up and far from the coast road and also because close friends had stayed there some while before. He had escaped the roar of traffic and the resultant fumes, but the shrill chirring of the cicadas at their day-long worship of the sun, and the occasional whine of a jet belonging to the French Air Force making white scratches across the blue, did not disturb him and after three days he did not even notice them.

  Below him, on the lower terrace, he could see the Greek pacing with long athletic strides, his shadow stencilled on the dusty tiles as a hard, black silhouette. A tall commanding figure in an impeccable white drill suit and collar and tie, despite the heat. He had deep black hair brushed back from his broad forehead, and a sensitive, highly intelligent face, which, however, often wore an expression of intense melancholy. Thompson had first noticed him two mornings before, when he was crossing the hotel lobby to set out on one of his solitary walks.

  The Greek, whose name was Karolides, was accompanied by a dazzlingly beautiful girl. The Englishman was so taken by her strange, almost ethereal beauty, that he had questioned the proprietor of the Magnolia, who had told him she was the guest’s daughter. The couple came there for a month every year and Thompson’s informant had added that the Greek was reputed to be fabulously wealthy but unlike many people who gave that impression when the
y came to stay, was actually a millionaire. But the girl was in delicate health and needed sunshine and sea air.

  Perhaps that was the reason for his melancholy, Thompson thought. Now, as he sat on with the early dusk beginning to slant across the sea, he saw that the Greek had been joined by his daughter. Darkness comes early on that side of the Mediterranean as the sun descends behind the mountains, so that the solitary watcher was unable to make out the details of her features at this distance.

  That she was beautiful, he had no doubt. Although he had only momentarily glimpsed her in the hotel lobby, she had the sort of striking looks that made men’s heads turn to stare after her. Some, possibly older men, would retain the memory of her until the end of their lives.