Netherworld

by Lisa Morton

  R. led the way, and it seemed that we walked for kilometers, although of course that couldn’t possibly have been the case. This cem. seemed long forgotten, and more than once I tripped over ground that had frozen, thawed, and cracked many times, creating numerous obstacles for the unwary visitor. Roots from dead trees still poked up through the earth in places, clutching at my ankles as we walked by.

  Finally R. came to a halt, and after holding the lantern high and peering about briefly, he murmured. “We are here.”

  I looked around and saw nothing that would indicate this area of the cemetery was any different from the rest of it. “Where—”

  Before I’d finished speaking, R. held the lantern out to me and with his other hand pointed into the murk before us. “There, Lord F—” he suggested.

  I took the offered lantern and stepped forward a few paces, looking carefully but seeing nothing…at first. I was about to turn and query him further when some small movement caught the corner of my eye, just off to my left, and I swung the lantern there to look.

  The ground was moving. It pulsed upwards once, twice, just a small area.

  Something underneath was trying to come up.

  I confess I lost the power of movement. I just stared, stupidly, as the ground finally broke, and five tattered fingers with long, claw-like nails pushed through. The hand scrabbled about for an instance, as if testing—

  —and then the earth around it exploded outward and the vampire rose into view.

  Its head, torso and arms came first, and then it pushed itself into a standing position, dirt and splintered bits of coffin wood falling from its grave clothes. The clothing was that of a peasant’s best, a homespun suit in the local style. It was, of course, filthy now, and much of the outer coat hung in tatters. But as bad as the thing’s hands and clothing were, it was the face that was the worst.

  It had evidently been long dead, to judge by the sunken, skull-like features. It was nearly hairless, nothing remained of the nose but a stub of cartilage and an open hole beneath, and the eyes were red fires glowing from within sunken pits. The lips were cracked and peeling, and pulled back to reveal two long fangs where the canines should have been. Even from twenty paces away I was nearly overcome by the thing’s foul stench, which was somehow reminiscent of decaying fruit.

  The only thing that saved me then was the vampire’s movement—it was slow and jerky, as if its joints no longer quite properly worked. It was staggering towards me, its crimson eyes fixed on my neck, but it was so slow I could have easily outrun it.

  Had there not been another one behind me.

  For just as I turned to flee, I beheld a second monster forty feet off in that direction. This one was female, bloated, shambling, but with a bloodlust that had fixed on me.

  I started off in another direction—just in time to see a wooden cross topple over as the earth disgorged another vampire.

  I was turning in every direction, hopelessly, and seeing the fiends everywhere now. There were at least a dozen, of varying ages and stages of decomposition, but all stumbling towards me with insatiable and demonic appetite.

  And R. was nowhere to be seen.

  The first vampire had nearly reached me when I broke my paralysis and frantically scrabbled for the leather satchel under my coat. I found the garlic necklace and fairly flung it at the nearest of the fiends. It hissed and stopped its advance, then staggered back.

  The garlic worked. So much for the villagers’ superstitions being ridiculous.

  I started spinning, holding the garlic out towards the monsters. They had formed a ring around me now, but were evidently repulsed by the herb to the point where they dared approach no closer. I was just beginning to formulate a plan for escape when something hit me from behind. Before I could react, my arms had been pulled back from behind me, and the garlic had fallen to the ground.

  “Very clever, Lord F—,” croaked R., and I realized it was he who held me, “but not clever enough.”

  The first sank its fangs into my neck as R. held me immobilized.

  I was instantly overwhelmed by pain and the horrible odor of the thing. I struggled in vain against his grip, but the man—if such he were– seemed impossibly strong.

  Another of the things fell to its knees before me, ripped my trouser leg open and bit into my ankle.

  Behind me, R. pulled my right arm away, and I felt the icy fingers of more vampires gripping my wrist. That sensation was followed by greater agony, as they tore into the pulsing veins there.

  That’s the last thing I remember.

  When I came to, it was a.m., and I lay on hay in the back of a villager’s bouncing cart. The pain was gone, but I was too weak to move. I lost consciousness again for a while, and woke up in the inn just before I started to write this.

  The sun is setting outside the window now, and I fear it sets permanently for me. I’ve no idea why I’m still alive, and even should I survive my current condition, I’m sure that monster Rákóczi—for now I’m certain he must represent some particularly loathesome species of the netherworld—has something else planned for me. The res. of Urveri are a sturdy, courageous people, but they can’t possibly hope to stand against R. and his vampire horde, should he choose to invade here.

  Diana, my love, if you read this…you must understand what has really happened here. Something has changed in that unknown world beyond the g.w. Those in charge there—for something has masterminded this—are no longer merely content with using the g.w. to perpetrate minor horrors. They lured me here, where they knew I would be vulnerable, for a very particular reason. I wish I could tell you what that reason was, but I fear I shall go to my deathbed without discovering it.

  You must exercise extreme caution from now on, D. You will now become the heir of the F— legacy, and the new g-keeper. It could well be, dear, that you are the last surviving g-keeper anywhere on earth. Should that be the case, the same creatures that have ingeniously plotted my demise here will undoubtedly be after your life, as well.

  Promise me, D., that under no circumstances will you come to this region. They may try to lure you here; perhaps I have been left alive to further such an evil scheme, and they will try to convince you that I’m alive and awaiting you to rescue me. Do not believe it, even if they offer proof. My concern extends beyond my considerable love; you may be all that stands between our world and theirs.

  Night has now fallen, and I’ve just become aware of some great commotion downstairs. I hear shouting, cries of alarm and of pain. A woman just shrieked; I can’t imagine that horrid sound coming from anything not facing its own demise. Footsteps are coming up the stairs now. Towards my room. Oh God, the smell

  Chapter V

  November 6, 1879

  Derby

  There was nothing after that, save for a few brown spots which might have been blood.

  William’s blood.

  The train whistle shrieked and Diana jumped, then set the journal down and stared out the window at the passing landscape, her mind reeling. William, her William, murdered by revenants, as part of some fiendish plot to attack those who guarded the gateways. What had Rákóczi really been? Another vampire? Or something worse, some sort of netherworld captain sent to oversee the vampire attack on her husband?

  But was William truly dead? Isadora had received a message from the Netherworld saying he wasn’t. Had he somehow survived the vampire attack? It didn’t seem likely, given the journal’s horrific ending. Had Isadora been lied to in the psychic message?

  Diana went over her conversation with Isadora, thinking about what exactly the medium had told her. She’d said only that William was not dead. Then she asked Diana about his remains, shipped over from Eastern Europe….

  Oh dear God. William’s remains had been shipped over in a sealed casket. William had last been attacked by vampires.

  Diana mentally urged the locomotive on to greater speed.

  It was dark as the hansom cab pulled up the lane towards the fron
t of Hampstead Hall. Howe was somewhat shocked to see her, but not as shocked as when she revealed her purpose in returning so soon.

  At first the stolid butler was aghast; disinter his Lordship’s corpse? And even if it were true…there’d been no vampiric attacks near the grounds. But Howe had had enough experience dealing with the supernatural that he listened when Diana explained her reasons, and finally agreed to assist her.

  Diana had been anxious to proceed immediately to the family crypt, but Howe had convinced her to at least do some research into the vampire folklore before proceeding. After all, she knew little about dealing with these denizens of darkness, and there were no instructions provided for dispatching vampires in The Book of Gateways, Conjurations and Banishments; fortunately, though, the Furnavals had their extensive library of occult and historic references, and she had no difficulty winding through her earlier clutter to locate what she sought: Augustin Calmet’s The Phantom World, the English translation with several handwritten letters from the author on vampires included. She was also glad that Howe had convinced her to wait, since Calmet strongly indicated that vampires should only be exposed during the day, when they were essentially powerless. She also discovered that there were ways to render a vampire unable to leave its coffin, and some—such as placing a holy wafer in the mouth—were quite simple.

  Although Howe had retired, Diana was unable to sleep that night; she paced the library, pulling still more reference books and rereading William’s journal. She discovered that Rákóczi was a famous name in Transylvanian history—George I Rákóczi was a seventeenth-century ruler who had presided over Transylvania’s golden era—and Diana castigated herself for not doing more investigation into the supposed gatekeeper’s letter before letting William ride off to his doom. It was obvious that whomever—or whatever—had written the letter had simply chosen a name from the province’s history. How easily deceived she and William had been.

  Shortly after dawn Howe appeared, dressed in his hunting clothes. He’d just come from the kitchen, where he himself had selected a cord of ash wood and carved a lethally-pointed, heavy stake from it; he’d also gathered a sexton’s spade, crowbars, garlic, and lantern (since the crypt interior was dark).

  A few moments later, Howe and Diana (with Mina trotting by her side) were off for the crypt. Hampstead Hall included its own small chapel and graveyard, located a short distance from the main house, with an extravagant family mausoleum that had housed all the deceased Furnavals for the last three centuries. The sun had barely risen above the surrounding trees as they passed the ruins of the old hall and reached the crypt; the day was hazy and cold, and Diana shivered as she waited for Howe to thumb through his huge key ring. He finally found the key to the crypt door, unlocked it, and entered first so he could light the way for Diana.

  Half-a-dozen steps downward led to a large stone chamber with ledges around all the walls, on which were stacked caskets. A stone pedestal in the room’s center still held a sarcophagus, which Diana knew contained William’s casket; his casket would be moved out to one of the ledges when the next Furnaval passed on and was placed within the sarcophagus—Diana herself, in other words.

  Howe jumped slightly as the crypt door swung closed behind them, sealing them in the dank, stone chamber. The only light came from his lantern, and fell upon the dusty, cobwebbed surface of the huge, heavy sarcophagus. As Howe moved the lantern along the length of the stone lid, Diana took her place on the opposite side, Mina rubbing around her ankles. That the cat was calm gave no comfort to either of them.

  Howe finally set the lantern aside and looked at Diana. “Are you ready, Lady Furnaval?”

  She took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be, Howe. Let’s get this done with.”

  Howe picked up the crowbars and handed one to her, then placed his own beneath the lip of one side of the sarcophagus lid. Diana joined him, and together they levered the weighty stone top far enough ajar that they were able to lift the edges and set the covering aside. Howe raised the lantern, and they peered down into the sarcophagus, where William’s ornate coffin lay, its polished wood only slightly dusted with age.

  Diana started to reach for it, but Howe cautioned her: “It’s been nailed shut. We’ll need the crowbars.”

  Diana nodded, and picked up her crowbar again. She took a moment to gird herself; she wasn’t sure which she feared more—finding him or not finding him. And if she found him, she’d be witness to either his withered corpse, long and truly dead, or something far worse.

  “A moment, Howe.”

  Howe thoughtfully gave her the time she needed—and then she leaned over the edge of the sarcophagus and placed her crowbar’s tip under the coffin’s lid. Howe did likewise, and they started straining against the lid’s bonds.

  This lid was harder to move than the sarcophagus lid, and Diana was breaking into a mild sweat, despite the clammy chill of the crypt, before it came free, nails squealing out from the wood with banshee-like cries. They moved the crowbars down to the other end of the lid, and that portion worked free with less effort. Finally Howe set his crowbar down and reached in. With a few seconds of tugging, he finally freed the lid completely. He looked up at Diana, who nodded, and then he pulled the lid from the sarcophagus and set it aside.

  Diana cried out involuntarily when she saw what was in the coffin.

  Whatever ghastly thing she’d expected—a bloated monster, a bloodstained revenant—it hadn’t been this horror: A corpse, showing the effects of three years’ decay, and with twisted hands upraised at chest level.

  He had evidently been buried alive, and fought in vain to escape.

  Diana turned away in horror, and struggled to keep from retching. “Oh my William…no…William, no…!”

  Diana barely heard Howe as he exclaimed, “There’s something in the mouth….”

  It took several seconds for those words to work through her tortured brain, and suddenly she whirled. “Howe, don’t—!”

  Too late. Howe had removed a white, disc-shaped object from the corpse’s mouth and was holding it up to the lantern’s rays. “It’s a holy Eucharist—”

  Mina suddenly hissed and began backing away to a corner. At the same moment the corpse’s withered hand shot upward and grasped Howe’s throat in a lethal stranglehold.

  Howe uttered one choked gasp of surprise, then he was struggling vainly to free the dead fingers. The corpse was rising to a sitting position now, baring fangs as long as Diana’s little finger. Its eyes popped open, and revealed a hellish red glow, fixed on Howe.

  Diana instinctively leaped forward, raising her crowbar. She brought it down on the vampire’s arm, and was satisfied to hear the rotting bones snap, severing the arm just above the wrist.

  The severed hand continued to strangle Howe.

  Diana overcame her revulsion and grabbed the thing with both hands, but realized she would be unable to free Howe from the deathgrip before the vampire would be on her. She upended the bag of supplies they had brought, grabbed for a string of garlic bulbs, and held them up before the vampire, struggling to rise. It snarled and hissed, then fell back into the coffin, twisting its head aside to avoid the garlic scent.

  Diana threw the garlic chain onto the writhing monster, then grabbed Howe’s stake in her left hand and the spade in the right. She hesitated, trying to recall exactly what the books had said about this process: The stake needed to be driven cleanly through the heart with one blow of the spade. It would have been difficult for a strong man under the best of circumstances. But Howe was grappling with the severed hand clawing the life from him, and she knew if she didn’t act quickly Howe would surely die here, in this nightmarish crypt.

  “I’m sorry, William,” she whispered, then placed the stake’s pointed tip above where she hoped the fiend’s heart was. The vampire’s twisting made this nigh impossible, and she fought to hold the stake steady.

  With a deep breath, she raised the spade high overhead, and brought it down with all her migh
t upon the stake.

  The beast’s response was instantaneous and astonishing. The vampire screeched, a deafening and unnatural sound that was amplified in the stone crypt until it was literally painful. Thick, noxious vapors geysered up out of the thing’s convulsing chest, and Diana staggered back, crying out. Howe gulped in air as the severed hand released its deathgrip on his throat and tumbled lifeless to the floor.

  When she could catch a breath again, Diana turned to Howe. “Are you all right?”

  Howe was pale and still sucking in air, but he nodded as he fingered his throat, already purpling with bruises

  Diana swallowed back her fear and stepped forward to look down at the thing she had slain. The corpse, now dusted with the fetid essence Diana had released from it, lay unmoving. Diana studied it…and gasped before reaching into the coffin.

  Howe saw the motion, and choked out, “What is it, Lady—?”

  She touched the head of the ruined corpse, which still bore the hair of its former life. A thick head of light brown hair, now matted with debris.

  William’s hair had been black.

  “It’s not him, Howe. This is not William.”

  Howe looked down, saw the hair, and then looked up sharply at her. “Lady Furnaval, this is my mistake. I should have unsealed the coffin when it first arrived—”

  Diana cut him off. “That doesn’t matter now. What does matter is that this isn’t William. My William may still be alive somewhere!”

  Howe looked at her, not daring to tell her there was surely very little chance of that.

  There was still some work left, though. Diana had just enough strength to raise the spade overhead and sever the vampire’s head from its body with one blow; then she shoved one of the garlic bulbs into the putrid mouth, and finally the horrific thing was done.