by Colin Wilson
“ ‘I then remembered what my mother had said of my Aunt Kristin — that she could drain everyone in the room of vitality while she sat there, apparently absorbed in her knitting. I had taken this to be a figure of speech, but now I wondered if it could have any factual foundation.
“ ‘According to the patient, his “vampire” often visited him in dreams, and drained his life fluid. I therefore installed him in my house and began a series of tests. Every night before he slept, I took readings of his life field and Kirlian photographs of his fingertips. For the first few nights, he showed no signs of depletion — the readings were always slightly higher in the morning, as you would expect after a good night’s sleep, and the Kirlian photographs showed a healthy aura. But on the first night he dreamed of his “vampire,” his life field became significantly lower, and his Kirlian photographs corresponded to those of a man suffering from some wasting disease…’ ”
Carlsen looked up. “What do you think of that?”
She asked: “What happened?”
“I don’t know. That’s as far as I’ve got. But as far as I can gather, his theory is that all people are energy vampires to some extent.”
Jelka was sitting in the chair by the window. She said: “It sounds to me as if it was a straightforward case of sexual hang-ups. All that stuff about lying in a coffin…”
He shook his head, staring past her. Suddenly, it seemed to him that he entirely understood the case, and that he had known about it for a long time. He said slowly: “No… That’s the interesting part of it. She began by worming her way into his affections.” Jelka looked at him with surprise; the phrase sounded uncharacteristic. “Don’t you see? She begins by flattering his ego, saying that she wants to belong to a man of genius — in other words, offering herself on any terms. Then she finds out his secret fantasies — his dreams of rape and violation. And she becomes an instrument of his fantasies until he’s completely dependent on her. She begins drinking his energy, stealing his life fluid. And then comes the twist. When she’s certain he’s enslaved, she tells him that he must submit entirely — become her slave. In other words, she’s completely turned the tables.”
“I’ve known a few women like that.” She stood up. “Anyway, go on reading. I’m dying to find out what happens.”
A quarter of an hour later, she pushed the trolley into the bedroom. She said: “You’re looking better now.”
“Yes, I feel much better. I must have slept too heavily. Ah, that smells delicious. Toasted rolls…”
She picked up the book, which he had dropped onto the floor. “Well, was he cured?”
He said through a mouthful of egg and bacon: “Yes, but it’s rather frustrating. He doesn’t describe exactly how he did it. All he says is he changed his sexual orientation.”
She sat reading as he ate. “Yes, it is rather irritating. Can’t you write to the author?” She looked at the title page. “Oh, no — he must be dead. This came out in twenty thirty-two — nearly fifty years ago.”
The telescreen buzzed. She switched off the picture before answering, and used the close-up telephone. After a moment she said: “It’s Hans Fallada.”
“Oh fine, I’ll talk to him.”
Fallada’s face appeared. “Good morning. Did you receive my manuscript?”
“Yes, thanks. I’m just reading it. What’s the news?”
Fallada shrugged. “None. I’ve just talked to Heseltine. Everything’s quiet. And there’s going to be a question in Parliament this afternoon about why the Vega and Jupiter have been ordered to return. So I’m ringing to warn you. If the press get on to you, claim you know nothing about it. Or say something noncommittal about the need to do these things slowly.”
“All right. Tell me, Doctor, have you actually read this book Spirit Vampirism ?”
“By Count von Geijerstam? A long time ago.”
“I’m reading it now. He seems to believe many of the things you believe. Yet you dismiss him as a crank.”
“Yes. That book is fairly sound. But his later work is quite mad. He ended by believing that most mental illness is caused by ghosts and demons.”
“But this first case he describes — do you remember, the sculptor? — is fascinating. It would be interesting to find out how he cured him. After all, he must have worked out some kind of defence against vampirism.”
Fallada nodded, thoughtfully. “Yes, that is interesting, now you mention it. Geijerstam must be dead, of course. But he had many students and pupils. Perhaps the Swedish embassy could help.”
Jelka, who was standing by the door, said: “How about Fred Armfeldt?”
Carlsen said: “Hold on a moment.”
Jelka repeated: “Fred Armfeldt, the man who got so drunk at your reception. He was the Swedish cultural attache.”
Carlsen snapped his fingers. “Yes, of course. He might be able to help. A man who came to my reception in the Guildhall. I think he was from the Swedish embassy. I’ll try to contact him.”
Fallada said: “Good. Ring me back if you make any progress. I’ll let you finish eating.” He had evidently noticed the breakfast tray on the bed.
Carlsen showered and shaved before he called the Swedish embassy. “Could I speak to Fredrik Armfeldt, please?” He gave his name. A moment later, he found himself speaking to a clean-shaven young man with pink cheeks.
Armfeldt said: “How good to hear from you, Commander! What can I do for you?”
Carlsen explained his problem briefly. Armfeldt shook his head. “I have never heard of this Geijerstam. He’s a doctor, you say?”
“A psychiatrist. He wrote a book called Spirit Vampirism .”
“Ah, in that case he would probably be in the Swedish writers’ directory. I have that here in the office. One moment, please.” He reappeared a moment later with a large volume. He searched through it, murmuring: “Eroding, Garborg… ah, Geijerstam, Gustav. Is that the man?”
“No. Ernst von.”
“Yes, here it is: Ernst von Geijerstam, psychologist and philosopher. Born Norrkoping, June 1987. Educated at the University of Lund and University of Vienna… What do you want to know?”
“When did he die?”
Armfeldt shook his head, then looked at the cover of the book. “As far as I can see, he’s still alive. He must be… ninety-three.”
Restraining his excitement, Carlsen said: “Does it give an address?”
“Yes. Heimskringla, Storavan, Norrland. That is an area of mountains and lakes.” Carlsen wrote down the address.
“There’s no telescreen number there?”
“No. But if you like, I can try to find out —”
“No, don’t bother. That’s very useful.”
They exchanged some general remarks, agreed to meet for a drink, and said goodbye. Carlsen immediately rang Fallada. “I’ve just discovered that Geijerstam’s still alive.”
“Incredible! Where does he live?”
“A place call Storavan, in Norrland. I wonder if I should send him a cable? He may have heard my name with all this publicity.”
Fallada shook his head; he said slowly: “No. I think I must try to contact him. In fact, I should have tried years ago. It was sheer laziness and stupidity on my part. After all, he was the first man to recognise the phenomenon of mental vampirism. Can you give me the full address?”
Carlsen spent the remainder of the morning sitting in the sun-lounge, reading. He had intended to read Fallada’s book, but he found Spirit Vampirism so absorbing that he was halfway through it when Jelka fetched the children from play school at lunchtime. The telescreen rang continuously: mostly newsmen wanting comments on the recall of the spaceships. After speaking to three of them, Carlsen told Jelka to say he was out.
At two o’clock, after a salad lunch, he was playing with the children in the paddling pool when Jelka came to the door. “Dr. Fallada on the screen again.”
He went indoors, his eyes adjusting with difficulty after the bright sunlight. Fallada was on the
kitchen extension.
He said: “What are you doing for the rest of the day?”
Carlsen said: “Nothing but reading your book.”
“Can you come with me to Sweden?” He smiled with excitement.
“I suppose so. Why?”
“Geijerstam’s offered to see us. And we can be in Karlsborg by six-thirty if we catch a plane from London Airport at three forty-two.”
“Where’s Karlsborg?”
“It’s a small town at the northern end of the Gulf of Bothnia. Geijerstam’s arranging for an air taxi to meet us there.”
“What shall I bring?”
“Just an overnight bag. And Geijerstam’s book. I’d like to read it on the way there.”
Carlsen’s helicab was late; he and Fallada barely had time to exchange more than a few words before they strapped themselves into their seats on.the Russian Airlines jet bound for Moscow via Stockholm and Leningrad. Carlsen had never lost a childlike sense of delight in air travel. Now, as he watched the green fields of southern England give way to the silver-grey mirror of the sea, he experienced a rising excitement, a feeling of setting out towards adventure.
Fallada asked: “Have you been in northern Sweden?”
“Yes. I wrote my doctoral thesis on suicide in Sweden, and spent many weeks in the north. They are a gloomy and reserved people. But the scenery is beautiful.”
A hostess offered them drinks; both accepted a martini. It was early, but Carlsen felt in a holiday mood. He asked: “Did you actually speak to Geijerstam?” “Indeed. For fifteen minutes. He’s a charming old gentleman. When I told him about my experiments, he became very excited.”
“How much did you tell him about… the aliens?”
“Nothing. It was too risky over the telescreen. All I could say was that I was dealing with the strangest and most complex case I had ever encountered. And he immediately invited me to come and see him. He must be fairly rich, incidentally, because he offered to pay my fare. Of course, I explained that the institute will pay. Incidentally, we are also paying your expenses. You are here officially, as my assistant.”
Carlsen chuckled. “I’ll try to give satisfaction.” They changed planes in Stockholm, moving into a smaller plane from Swedish Airlines. Fallada remained absorbed in his book; Carlsen stared down and watched the green countryside change to pine-covered hills, then to the black tundra veined with rifts of snow. The April sun now looked pale, as if its light were filtered through ice. They were served a snack of salted biscuits and raw fish with vodka; Fallada ate abstractedly, his eyes on the book. Carlsen observed the speed at which he read and the total absorption; in the two and a half hours since they left London, he had read more than three quarters of Geijerstam’s book.
The plane nosed down through misty cloud, over islands that were partly covered with snow. The airport at Karlsborg seemed absurdly small: little more than a control building and a tiny airfield surrounded by log houses. As they stepped out of the plane, Carlsen was surprised by the sharp chill in the air. The taximan who met them was not a Scandinavian type; he had black hair and a round face that reminded Carlsen of an Eskimo. He carried their bags to a six-seater helicopter in a field beside the airport; a few minutes later, they were flying low over snow-covered farmland, then over water again. Carlsen discovered that the pilot spoke a little Norwegian; he was a Lapp from the northern province. When Carlsen asked how big Storavan was, the pilot looked surprised, then said: “About ten kilometres.”
“That is a large town.”
“It is not a town. It is a lake.”
He said no more. The scenery changed to mountains covered with forest; Carlsen caught occasional glimpses of reindeer.
Fallada read on steadily. Finally, he closed the book. “Interesting, but definitely mad.”
“You mean insane?”
“Oh, no. Not exactly. But he believes that vampires are evil spirits.”
Carlsen smiled. “Aren’t they?”
“You saw the moray attack the octopus. Was that an evil spirit?”
“But if these aliens can live outside the body, doesn’t that make them spirits?”
“Not in his sense. He is talking about ghosts and demons.”
Carlsen looked down at the forests that were a mere hundred feet below the aircraft. In this country it was easy to believe in ghosts and demons. There were small, dark-tinted lakes, in which the sky’s reflection looked like blue stained glass. Half a mile away, on the granite hillside, a waterfall threw up a cloud of white mist; Carlsen could hear its thunder over the sound of the engine. In the west, the sky was turning from gold to red. There was something dreamlike and unearthly about the landscape.
A quarter of an hour later, the pilot pointed ahead. “Heimskringla.”
They could see a lake, winding between mountains as far as the eye could see; a few miles to the south, another immense lake gleamed between the trees. Below and to the right, there was a small town; for a moment Carlsen assumed this was Heimskringla, then realised they were heading past it. He asked: ” Var är Heimskringla?” The man pointed. ” Där.” Then he saw the island in the lake, and the roof showing among the trees. As they skimmed low above the trees, they could see the front of the house, grey and turreted like a castle. Its rear overlooked the lake; in front, there were lawns and winding paths among the trees. In an open, grassy space on the edge of the lake there was a small chapel of dark timber.
The helicopter touched down lightly on the gravel in front of the house. As the rotor blades stopped moving, they saw a man coming towards them from the front door, followed by three girls. Fallada said: “Ah, what a delightful reception committee.”
The man who advanced to meet them was tall and thin, and he walked with a vigorous, purposeful stride. Fallada said: “Surely this can’t be the Count? He is too young.”
As they stepped onto the gravel, the wind blew cold on their faces; Carlsen thought it smelt of snow. The man held out his hand. “How good to see you. I am Ernst von Geijerstam. It is kind of you to come so far to see an old man.” Carlsen wondered if he was joking. Although the moustache was grey, and the thin, handsome face was lined, he looked scarcely more than sixty. The youthful impression was reinforced by the immaculate dress: black coat, pin-striped trousers, a white bow tie. His English was perfect and without accent.
Carlsen and Fallada introduced themselves. Geijerstam turned: “Allow me to introduce three of my students: Selma Bengtsson, Annaleise Freytag, Louise Curel.”
Miss Bengtsson, a tall blonde, held Carlsen’s hand a moment longer than necessary. Accustomed to the gleam of recognition in the eyes of strangers, he knew what she was going to say next. “I have seen you on television. Are you not the captain of —”
“The Hermes . Yes.”
Geijerstam said: “And you are here as Dr Fallada’s assistant.” It was a statement, but there was no irony in it.
Fallada said blandly: “That is what I shall say when I claim his expenses.”
“Ah, I see.” The Count turned and spoke to the taximan in Lettish; the man saluted and climbed into the helicopter. “I have told him to return at midday tomorrow — unless, of course, you decide to stay longer… Would you care to see the lake before we go indoors?” The helicopter roared overhead, whipping the girls’ dresses tight against their legs.
A liveried manservant took the bags. Carlsen said: “You live in a beautiful spot.”
“Beautiful, but too cold for an old man with thin blood. Would you come this way?” He Jed them down a moss-grown path towards the water, which reflected the reddening sunlight.
As Fallada walked ahead with Geijerstam, Carlsen said to the blonde girl: “The Count is a great deal younger than I expected.”
She said: “Of course. We keep him young.”
He looked at her in astonishment, and all three girls laughed.
They stood on the pebbled foreshore, looking across at the forest of firs and pine. The sunlight in the treetops made them loo
k as though they were on fire. Overhead, the deepening sky was pure blue.
Geijerstam pointed. “The chapel is older than the house. In the time of Gustavus Vasa, there was a monastery on this island. The house was built on its site about 1590.”
Fallada asked him: “Why do you live so far north?”
“In Norrkoping, they have a saying: that in Norrland, oaks, nobelmen and crayfish cease. So when I was a child, I always wanted to live here. But I found this house nearly forty years ago, when I came here to investigate the story of Count Magnus. He is buried in a mausoleum behind the chapel.”
Carlsen said: “Wasn’t he a lover of Queen Christina?”
“That was his uncle. The nephew inherited the title.” They walked along the beach, the stones crunching underfoot. “When I came here, the house had been empty for half a century. People said it was because it was too big to keep up. But the real reason was that the people of Avaviken were still afraid of the Count. He had a reputation as a vampire.”
“Had he died recently?”
“No. He died at the battle of Poltava, in 1709. His body was brought back here. His coffin is still in the mausoleum.”
“What happened to the body?”
“In 1790, the owner of the house drove a stake through the heart and burnt it to ashes. They say that it was in an excellent state of preservation.” They were within a hundred yards of the chapel. “Would you care to look in the mausoleum?”
The French girl, Louise, said: “I’m cold.”
“Ah, in that case, we can look in the morning.” They crossed the lawn, passing a large ornamental pond; a skin of ice glittered on its surface. “The monks used to keep their trout in here.”