The Mammoth Book of Vampires: New edition (Mammoth Books)

by Stephen Jones

  Callender had accompanied Felicia and her Aunt Penelope despite his misgivings; he was not a man to tolerate argument from a woman, especially one he expected to have as his bride, and he was deeply suspicious of Felicia’s interest in this spirit medium, who was certainly a charlatan and probably a criminal who prayed on the sentiments of bereaved ladies. And the fact that the man he already thought of as his enemy was so unpretentious in his tastes gave Callender pause. Subtlety always irritated him.

  He helped Aunt Penelope out of the coach, and then Felicia, listening with approval when she told the driver to wait. Soon he would be giving orders to her servants himself, but until his uncle’s estate could be settled he had so little cash on hand that he had been obliged to dismiss his own coachman, although he could hardly get along without the household servants, especially Alice. She would have to go soon enough, he told himself, but a glance at Felicia told him that the sacrifice would be worthwhile. Sometimes he wondered why it was necessary to wed a lady in order to bed her, but that was the way of the world, and meanwhile there were willing wenches in it.

  A shapeless shadow flitted across the window as they approached the house, one of the ladies on each of his arms, and the look of it somehow sickened him, but they did not seem to have noticed. He opened his mouth to begin again his arguments about the foolish recklessness of the business they were embarked upon, but thought better of it. He had already decided to show them, and that was why he was here. The old woman was simply a sensation seeker, and would be just as happy to discover that the spiritualist was a fraud, but Felicia was something of a fanatic on the subject, and that would never do. Still, this night’s work should settle that, and another night’s work, after the wedding, would provide her with a new interest in life. Determined to take matters in his own hand, Callender rapped on the door with a gloved fist.

  While he waited impatiently, Felicia reached past him and pulled on a narrow, rattling chain that he had never noticed. “The bell,” she explained. “He may not hear you knocking from upstairs.”

  “No lights upstairs,” said Callender. “Besides, I saw someone move down here, unless it was one of his confederates.”

  “Mr Newcastle has no need of confederates, nor has he any need of light.”

  Aunt Penelope, thrilled into temporary silence by her approach to the land that lies beyond death, gave a little squeal when the door in front of them abruptly opened.

  A tall man stood on the threshold with a silver candlestick in his hand, a single flame illuminating a lean, pale face that was shadowed by black hair and a long mustache. Callender was startled for a moment by the scar, then dismissed it as an effective theatrical touch and spent most of the next few minutes trying to decide if it were real. The man, who was quite clearly Newcastle rather than a servant, stepped back silently and ushered them into an empty hall with a dusty carpet of no determinable pattern.

  At the end of the hallway was a double door, and beyond that a room that seemed unnaturally dark even after their host had brightened it with his lone candle. Callender saw that both the floor and the ceiling had been painted black, and that black velvet draperies completely covered the walls. A small round table sat there surrounded by four high-backed wooden chairs; all of them appeared to have been made of ebony. The medium set his candlestick in the center of the table and stood quietly waiting for his visitors to follow him into the gloomy chamber. His clothing was a black as Callender’s mourning, so that only his white face and hands were distinctly visible, apparently floating disembodied in the air. When the ladies entered with their dark cloaks and bonnets the effect was much the same, and Callender had no reason to believe that he looked any different. The illusion was disconcerting.

  The two women sat down across from one another, but Mr Reginald Callender remained on his feet, squinting into the shadows where Sebastian Newcastle’s eyes were hidden. He expected the spiritualist to flinch before his penetrating stare, but the fellow was imperturbable, and ultimately it was Callender who turned away in what he told himself was pure disdain. A mounting sense of irritation caused him to break the long silence at last.

  “Well! Bring on your spooks sir, or must we pay you for them first?”

  “Reginald!” Felicia’s voice was harsher than he had ever heard it sound, and before he knew what had happened he was seated beside her, feeling very much like a chastened schoolboy and wondering for the first time if married life might be something less than pleasant. Aunt Penelope suppressed a nervous giggle. Callender had a deep desire to lash out at someone, but had difficulty deciding who it should be. Sebastian Newcastle sat down across the table from him.

  “There will be no charge for your visit, Mr Callender, since I do not expect you to enjoy it.”

  “I don’t know, I’ve always enjoyed conjuring tricks, but you won’t find me as easy to fool as some of your visitors.”

  “Miss Lamb and her aunt are hardly fools, Mr Callender, even if they do seek to be still wiser than they are. And have you never wondered what waits beyond the grave?”

  “We have churches to tell us that, and not for money.”

  “Your churches are far richer than I am, and likely to remain so.”

  “Well, Mr Newcastle, you’ll have a chance to change that tonight. Here’s ten guineas.” Callender reached into his waistcoat pocket and placed the money on the table. He could ill afford to lose it. “If I see anything here that I cannot explain, that belongs to you.” He pointed emphatically to the cash and noticed to his amazement that it was gone. “By God!” he said. “These are very materialistic spirits, sir.”

  “You will find that they have returned the money to your pocket, Mr Callender.”

  Callender felt for the money and almost forgot himself enough to curse.

  “Is it there?” asked Aunt Penelope.

  “I think Reginald’s face answers that question for him,” observed Felicia coldly. “Really, Reginald, we have not come here to insult our host, but to learn from him. Do be quiet, if only to please me. Mr Newcastle has promised to summon my parents tonight.”

  “Your parents were killed in a railway accident twelve years ago, Felicia, and if your father had not been one of the chief stockholders in that railway, this man would have no interest in him or in you.”

  “He will certainly have no interest if you will not give him the peace he needs to pierce the veil.”

  Callender reminded himself again that he had determined to hold his tongue, and realized ruefully that he should have done so. Even Aunt Penelope had said almost nothing.

  “Silence is an aid to concentration,” Newcastle said evenly.

  Callender nodded almost imperceptibly, and was delighted to find himself rewarded at once when Felicia took his hand. He was more than a little startled, though, when Aunt Penelope did the same, and then he surmised that this was common behavior at a seance. Still, it took all his willpower to refrain from comment when he saw his fiancee’s delicate fingers in the pale clutch of the man with the dark eyes.

  The four of them sat quietly in the black room, Callender never taking his eyes from the medium who gradually sank back in his chair and allowed his head to slump forward. He looked like an old man dozing after a heavy dinner, reminding Callender of his Uncle William. After a few minutes the atmosphere grew chilly, and Callender was almost convinced that he could feel a damp breeze waft past him, although he could see no way it could have come into the room. Still, it was enough to make him look around uncomfortably, taking his eyes off the medium just long enough for something strange to happen.

  For a moment Callender thought the man might be on fire. Vague tendrils of smoke seemed to be rising from his head, but they looked more like mist than smoke, and they wove patterns in the air that did not seem natural. Callender turned to his right and his left, but the two women holding his hands were not dismayed, and seemed to be regarding the display with intelligent approval. The medium groaned, and now his head was almost hidden by shif
ting fingers of mist. He seemed to be dissolving into the darkness. Callender started involuntarily and had half risen from his chair when a blast of frigid wind roared at him from across the table. The candle flame went out.

  He felt Felicia’s grip on his fingers increase till it was almost painful, and a certain unexpected weakness in his knees compelled him to sink down into his seat again. Nothing was visible except the writhing cloud of mist which seemed to glow with its own faint luminescence. He tried to convince himself that it was some sort of trick with chemicals, but he was not happy looking at it, especially when it began to coalesce into features which were not those of Sebastian Newcastle.

  It was the face of a woman, its mouth working feebly as if it did not have the strength to speak. A sound came from somewhere that was like whispering, or the scurrying of rats. The face shifted and flickered, and sometimes it seemed to be a man with a full beard. Now there were two whispers, one lower than the other, and Callender began to believe that he could hear what they were saying. It was one word, repeated over and over again: “Felicia.”

  Callender knew that his hands were trembling, and hoped the women would not notice. The light of the glowing mist was gleaming in Felicia’s eyes as she leaned forward across the table, and Callender was dismayed by the eagerness with which she seemed to welcome this horror, whether it was fraudulent or not. He hoped it was an illusion, for he had no wish to think it real, yet it infuriated him to realize that he could be frightened by a humbug. He closed his eyes, but the sound of the whispering, wavering voices was even more disturbing when he was blind to their source. He would have preferred to leave.

  “Felicia,” whispered the sibilant chorus. “Beware, daughter. Beware of false friends. There is one here whom you must not trust.”

  “Who is it?” asked Felicia breathlessly. She and her aunt stared into the shifting mist.”

  “It is the man,” the voices cried.

  “Which man?”

  “The man who tells you these damned lies!” shouted Callender. He pushed back his chair and pulled his hands free while the floating faces burst into brilliant light and disappeared into impenetrable darkness. He fumbled for a match while Aunt Penelope screamed.

  Callender struck a light on the side of the table and applied it at once to the candle. The two women stood behind him, clutched in one another’s arms, and an indistinct figure sat slumped in the medium’s chair. Callender waited for another trick, fearful that the flame would be extinguished again, but there was only silence in the black room. The body of Sebastian Newcastle was ominously still.

  “Is he dead?” asked Aunt Penelope.

  “I hope so,” muttered Callender. He walked briskly to the figure in the chair and grasped it roughly by the hair to pull its hanging head up into the light. The features that rose up to meet him were those of his Uncle William.

  The waxy eyelids were closed, but the full lips moved. “Dead,” said Uncle William.

  Aunt Penelope gasped and swayed into the arms of her niece, who hurried the fainting woman from the room with brisk efficiency, while Callender stood as if paralyzed and stared into the face of a familiar corpse. His fingers slipped slowly from its head, and its lips twisted themselves into a comfortable grin. When the eyes opened they were William Callender’s: he might have been alive again.

  “Surprised, are you my boy? Well, there will be more surprises in store for you soon. Wait till you talk to old Frobisher tomorrow about my will!”

  Callender was hardly listening, although he would have cause to remember those words soon enough. Whatever it was in the chair seemed so relaxed and genial that it convinced him more than an army of phantoms could have done. “Is it really you?” he asked.

  “Of course it’s me!”

  “Back from the dead?”

  “Not so far to come, really. Takes time to travel on, you know. Especially for someone like me, who’s not what you could call spiritually advanced. But this Newcastle is a very clever fellow, and he’s helping me along. Don’t trifle with him, my boy.”

  Callender had almost forgotten that he was speaking to a ghost. Everything was very natural, and full of the ordinary irritations of talking with his uncle. “The man is a threat to Felicia,” insisted the irate nephew. “Even the spirits of her parents told her so.”

  “Oh, no, my dear boy. They were talking about you.”

  “Me? Why should she beware of me?”

  “You’re not so spiritually advanced yourself, are you, Reginald? Much too interested in the pleasures of the flesh, of course, and very bad tempered on top of it. And possessive, of course. I’m sure you’d make the poor girl miserable. And I’m sorry to say you’re really no more than a fortune hunter. You really should be more careful. Look.”

  Uncle William pointed to the door, and Reginald Callender turned to find Felicia standing there. Evidently she had heard everything. Callender felt a hot flush roar up his throat as he whirled to confront his uncle, but the figure in the chair was Sebastian Newcastle, smiling with his sharp teeth and holding a pack of cards in one hand. “Will you have your fortune told before you go, Mr Callender? No? Then I bid you a good evening.” And with that the medium glided out of the chair and through the black velvet curtains that covered the walls.

  Callender hurried to his fiancee’s side. “Did you see him? Did you see Uncle William?”

  Felicia nodded. “And so did Aunt Penelope. I had to help her out to the carriage, but she swears she never had such a stimulating evening in her life.”

  “And did you hear what he said?”

  “Only what Mr Newcastle said to you. And since he has retired I believe we should follow his example.”

  Callender wondered for the first time but not the last if it was possible that she was mocking him. Yet he was confused enough to take her arm and walk halfway down the hall with her before he pulled away.

  “He’s a fraud, I tell you, and I can prove it.” He hurried back into the black room, devoid of a strategy but determined to redeem himself. He glared around at emptiness and then rushed to a wall. “All tricks,” he told himself. “The curtains!”

  He grasped two fistfuls of midnight velvet and pulled them apart, peering fiercely through them, ready for almost any sight but the one that confronted him. There was no machinery, no hidden door. There was not even a wall. There was only the night, an ebony void where clouds of yellow fog obscured the stars. Callender swayed, keeping his feet only because he held onto the curtains. For a moment he felt like a man lying on his back and staring up at the sky. His head reeled.

  Then he turned on his heel and walked stiffly out of the house to the carriage where the women waited.

  IV. The Inheritance

  Callender would have wasted no time in visiting his uncle’s solicitor in any case, but the ghostly warning he had received was so alarming that he was awake and dressed and in the offices of Frobisher and Jarndyce long before the hour of noon. He tried to convince himself that what he had seen had been a dream, or a trick, or perhaps the result of mesmerism, which reportedly had the power to make a man see anything, but certainly the previous evening’s entertainment was enough to make an heir curious about the terms of the will that would determine his future.

  Rising early proved to be a fruitless gesture, however, since Callender was not expected until afternoon, and Clarence Frobisher had chosen to spend the morning in Chancery. A clerk had left the heir apparent to cool his heels in Frobisher’s dusty chambers with no company and no entertainment except a shelf of leather bound law books. More than once Callender toyed with the idea of nipping out for a quick one, but missing his man would have been intolerable, and truth to tell, he had an almost superstitious conviction that fortune would favor him if he remained sober until the momentous meeting had been concluded.

  Nothing prevented him from dozing, however, and his brain was as foggy as the streets of London when he opened one eye suspiciously and discovered the solicitor making his stately e
ntrance, marred only by a cough which may have been intended to wake his client.

  Clarence Frobisher, as Callender had had occasion to observe before, was a man with a very dry manner and an equally wet face. His voice was rasping and sandy; his attitude was distant and aloof; but his brow was perpetually dabbled with perspiration, his rheumy eyes seemed always on the verge of tears, and a soiled handkerchief was never far from his dripping nose. Callender had never liked Frobisher, but he was prepared to overlook the solicitor’s personal shortcomings in exchange for the speedy delivery of Uncle William’s estate.

  Frobisher nodded and adjusted his rusty black suit as he lowered himself into an old horse-hair chair behind his heavy mahogany desk, its surface littered with papers and broken bits of sealing wax. He glanced at a document, reached for a quill pen, then seemed to recollect himself and peered at Callender over his gold eyeglasses.

  “Mr Callender?”

  “I’ve come about my Uncle William’s estate.”

  “Well, sir. You are prompt. More than prompt, I might say.”

  “There is no difficulty with the will, I hope?”

  “Difficulty?”

  “No changes?”

  “Changes? Certainly not.”

  Reginald Callender, now a man of property, allowed himself the luxury of a sigh. Yet something continued to nag at him. Perhaps it was the expression on Frobisher’s moist lips. Had it been anyone else, he would have suspected the man was smiling.

  “Then I am still the sole heir?”

  “Sole heir? Yes, in a manner of speaking. There are other considerations. My fee, for one.”

  “Well,” said Callender expansively, “I hope you will be handsomely paid.”