by Sax Rohmer
A sort of suppressed excitement was upon Lashmore, but his voice remained low and hollow.
“He asked me,” he continued, “the traditional question: if I had prayed for strength. God knows I had! Then, his stern face very pale, he locked the library door, and from a closet concealed beside the ancient fireplace — a closet which, hitherto, I had not known to exist — he took out a bulky key of antique workmanship. Together we set to work to remove all the volumes from one of the bookshelves.
“Even when the shelves were empty, it called for our united efforts to move the heavy piece of furniture; but we accomplished the task ultimately, making visible a considerable expanse of panelling. Nearly forty years had elapsed since that case had been removed, and the carvings which it concealed were coated with all the dust which had accumulated there since the night of my father’s coming of age.
“A device upon the top of the centre panel represented the arms of the family; the helm which formed part of the device projected like a knob. My father grasped it, turned it, and threw his weight against the seemingly solid wall. It yielded, swinging inward upon concealed hinges, and a damp, earthy smell came out into the library. Taking up a lamp, which he had in readiness, my father entered the cavity, beckoning me to follow.
“I found myself descending a flight of rough steps, and the roof above me was so low that I was compelled to stoop. A corner was come to, passed, and a further flight of steps appeared beneath. At that time the old moat was still flooded, and even had I not divined as much from the direction of the steps, I should have known, at this point, that we were beneath it. Between the stone blocks roofing us in oozed drops of moisture, and the air was at once damp and icily cold.
“A short passage, commencing at the foot of the steps, terminated before a massive, iron-studded door. My father placed the key in the lock, and holding the lamp above his head, turned and looked at me. He was deathly pale.
“‘Summon all your fortitude,’ he said.
“He strove to turn the key, but for a long time without success for the lock was rusty. Finally, however — he was a strong man — his efforts were successful. The door opened, and an indescribable smell came out into the passage. Never before had I met with anything like it; I have never met with it since.”
Lord Lashmore wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
“The first thing,” he resumed, “upon which the lamplight shone, was what appeared to be a blood-stain spreading almost entirely over one wall of the cell which I perceived before me. I have learnt since that this was a species of fungus, not altogether uncommon, but at the time, and in that situation, it shocked me inexpressibly.
“But let me hasten to that which we were come to see — let me finish my story as quickly as may be. My father halted at the entrance to this frightful cell; his hand, with which he held the lamp above his head, was not steady; and over his shoulder I looked into the place and saw ... him.
“Dr. Cairn, for three years, night and day, that spectacle haunted me; for three years, night and day, I seemed to have before my eyes the dreadful face — the bearded, grinning face of Paul Dhoon. He lay there upon the floor of the dungeon, his fists clenched and his knees drawn up as if in agony. He had lain there for generations; yet, as God is my witness, there was flesh on his bones.
“Yellow and seared it was, and his joints protruded through it, but his features were yet recognisable — horribly, dreadfully, recognisable. His black hair was like a mane, long and matted, his eyebrows were incredibly heavy and his lashes overhung his cheekbones. The nails of his fingers ... no! I will spare you! But his teeth, his ivory gleaming teeth — with the two wolf-fangs fully revealed by that death-grin!...
“An aspen stake was driven through his breast, pinning him to the earthern floor, and there he lay in the agonised attitude of one who had died by such awful means. Yet — that stake was not driven through his unhallowed body until a whole year after his death!
“How I regained the library I do not remember. I was unable to rejoin the guests, unable to face my fellow-men for days afterwards. Dr. Cairn, for three years I feared — feared the world — feared sleep — feared myself above all; for I knew that I had in my veins the blood of a vampire!”
CHAPTER IX
THE POLISH JEWESS
There was a silence of some minutes’ duration. Lord Lashmore sat staring straight before him, his fists clenched upon his knees. Then:
“It was after death that the third baron developed — certain qualities?” inquired Dr. Cairn.
“There were six cases of death in the district within twelve months,” replied Lashmore. “The gruesome cry of ‘vampire’ ran through the community. The fourth baron — son of Paul Dhoon — turned a deaf ear to these reports, until the mother of a child — a child who had died — traced a man, or the semblance of a man, to the gate of the Dhoon family vault. By night, secretly, the son of Paul Dhoon visited the vault, and found....
“The body, which despite twelve months in the tomb, looked as it had looked in life, was carried to the dungeon — in the Middle Ages a torture-room; no cry uttered there can reach the outer world — and was submitted to the ancient process for slaying a vampire. From that hour no supernatural visitant has troubled the district; but—”
“But,” said Dr. Cairn quietly, “the strain came from Mirza, the sorceress. What of her?”
Lord Lashmore’s eyes shone feverishly.
“How do you know that she was a sorceress?” he asked, hoarsely. “These are family secrets.”
“They will remain so,” Dr. Cairn answered. “But my studies have gone far, and I know that Mirza, wife of the third Baron Lashmore, practised the Black Art in life, and became after death a ghoul. Her husband surprised her in certain detestable magical operations and struck her head off. He had suspected her for some considerable time, and had not only kept secret the birth of her son but had secluded the child from the mother. No heir resulting from his second marriage, however, the son of Mirza became Baron Lashmore, and after death became what his mother had been before him.
“Lord Lashmore, the curse of the house of Dhoon will prevail until the Polish Jewess who originated it has been treated as her son was treated!”
“Dr. Cairn, it is not known where her husband had her body concealed. He died without revealing the secret. Do you mean that the taint, the devil’s taint, may recur — Oh, my God! do you want to drive me mad?”
“I do not mean that after so many generations which have been free from it, the vampirism will arise again in your blood; but I mean that the spirit, the unclean, awful spirit of that vampire woman, is still earth-bound. The son was freed, and with him went the hereditary taint, it seems; but the mother was not freed! Her body was decapitated, but her vampire soul cannot go upon its appointed course until the ancient ceremonial has been performed!”
Lord Lashmore passed his hand across his eyes.
“You daze me, Dr. Cairn. In brief, what do you mean?”
“I mean that the spirit of Mirza is to this day loose upon the world, and is forced, by a deathless, unnatural longing to seek incarnation in a human body. It is such awful pariahs as this, Lord Lashmore, that constitute the danger of so-called spiritualism. Given suitable conditions, such a spirit might gain control of a human being.”
“Do you suggest that the spirit of the second lady—”
“It is distinctly possible that she haunts her descendants. I seem to remember a tradition of Dhoon Castle, to the effect that births and deaths are heralded by a woman’s mocking laughter?”
“I, myself, heard it on the night — I became Lord Lashmore.”
“That is the spirit who was known, in life, as Mirza, Lady Lashmore!”
“But—”
“It is possible to gain control of such a being.”
“By what means?”
“By unhallowed means; yet there are those who do not hesitate to employ them. The danger of such an operation is, of course, enormous.”<
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“I perceive, Dr. Cairn, that a theory, covering the facts of my recent experiences, is forming in your mind.”
“That is so. In order that I may obtain corroborative evidence, I should like to call at your place this evening. Suppose I come ostensibly to see Lady Lashmore?”
Lord Lashmore was watching the speaker.
“There is someone in my household whose suspicions you do not wish to arouse?” he suggested.
“There is. Shall we make it nine o’clock?”
“Why not come to dinner?”
“Thanks all the same, but I think it would serve my purpose better if I came later.”
Dr. Cairn and his son dined alone together in Half-Moon Street that night.
“I saw Antony Ferrara in Regent Street to-day,” said. Robert Cairn. “I was glad to see him.”
Dr. Cairn raised his heavy brows.
“Why?” he asked.
“Well, I was half afraid that he might have left London.”
“Paid a visit to Myra Duquesne in Inverness?”
“It would not have surprised me.”
“Nor would it have surprised me, Rob, but I think he is stalking other game at present.”
Robert Cairn looked up quickly.
“Lady Lashmore,” he began —
“Well?” prompted his father.
“One of the Paul Pry brigade who fatten on scandal sent a veiled paragraph in to us at The Planet yesterday, linking Ferrara’s name with Lady Lashmores.’ Of course we didn’t use it; he had come to the wrong market; but — Ferrara was with Lady Lashmore when I met him to-day.”
“What of that?”
“It is not necessarily significant, of course; Lord Lashmore in all probability will outlive Ferrara, who looked even more pallid than usual.”
“You regard him as an utterly unscrupulous fortune-hunter?”
“Certainly.”
“Did Lady Lashmore appear to be in good health?”
“Perfectly.”
“Ah!”
A silence fell, of some considerable duration, then:
“Antony Ferrara is a menace to society,” said Robert Cairn. “When I meet the reptilian glance of those black eyes of his and reflect upon what the man has attempted — what he has done — my blood boils. It is tragically funny to think that in our new wisdom we have abolished the only laws that could have touched him! He could not have existed in Ancient Chaldea, and would probably have been burnt at the stake even under Charles II.; but in this wise twentieth century he dallies in Regent Street with a prominent society beauty and laughs in the face of a man whom he has attempted to destroy!”
“Be very wary,” warned Dr. Cairn. “Remember that if you died mysteriously to-morrow, Ferrara would be legally immune. We must wait, and watch. Can you return here to-night, at about ten o’clock?”
“I think I can manage to do so — yes.”
“I shall expect you. Have you brought up to date your record of those events which we know of, together with my notes and explanations?”
“Yes, sir, I spent last evening upon the notes.”
“There may be something to add. This record, Rob, one day will be a weapon to destroy an unnatural enemy. I will sign two copies to-night and lodge one at my bank.”
CHAPTER X
THE LAUGHTER
Lady Lashmore proved to be far more beautiful than Dr. Cairn had anticipated. She was a true brunette with a superb figure and eyes like the darkest passion flowers. Her creamy skin had a golden quality, as though it had absorbed within its velvet texture something of the sunshine of the South.
She greeted Dr. Cairn without cordiality.
“I am delighted to find you looking so well, Lady Lashmore,” said the doctor. “Your appearance quite confirms my opinion.”
“Your opinion of what, Dr. Cairn?”
“Of the nature of your recent seizure. Sir Elwin Groves invited my opinion and I gave it.”
Lady Lashmore paled perceptibly.
“Lord Lashmore, I know,” she said, “was greatly concerned, but indeed it was nothing serious—”
“I quite agree. It was due to nervous excitement.”
Lady Lashmore held a fan before her face.
“There have been recent happenings,” she said— “as no doubt you are aware — which must have shaken anyone’s nerves. Of course, I am familiar with your reputation, Dr. Cairn, as a psychical specialist — ?”
“Pardon me, but from whom have you learnt of it?”
“From Mr. Ferrara,” she answered simply. “He has assured me that you are the greatest living authority upon such matters.”
Dr. Cairn turned his head aside.
“Ah!” he said grimly.
“And I want to ask you a question,” continued Lady Lashmore. “Have you any idea, any idea at all respecting the cause of the wounds upon my husband’s throat? Do you think them due to — something supernatural?”
Her voice shook, and her slight foreign accent became more marked.
“Nothing is supernatural,” replied Dr. Cairn; “but I think they are due to something supernormal. I would suggest that possibly you have suffered from evil dreams recently?”
Lady Lashmore started wildly, and her eyes opened with a sort of sudden horror.
“How can you know?” she whispered. “How can you know! Oh, Dr. Cairn!” She laid her hand upon his arm— “if you can prevent those dreams; if you can assure me that I shall never dream them again — !”
It was a plea and a confession. This was what had lain behind her coldness — this horror which she had not dared to confide in another.
“Tell me,” he said gently. “You have dreamt these dreams twice?”
She nodded, wide-eyed with wonder for his knowledge.
“On the occasions of your husband’s illnesses?”
“Yes, yes!”
“What did you dream?”
“Oh! can I, dare I tell you!—”
“You must.”
There was pity in his voice.
“I dreamt that I lay in some very dark cavern. I could hear the sea booming, apparently over my head. But above all the noise a voice was audible, calling to me — not by name; I cannot explain in what way; but calling, calling imperatively. I seemed to be clothed but scantily, in some kind of ragged garments; and upon my knees I crawled toward the voice, through a place where there were other living things that crawled also — things with many legs and clammy bodies....”
She shuddered and choked down an hysterical sob that was half a laugh.
“My hair hung dishevelled about me and in some inexplicable way — oh! am I going mad! — my head seemed to be detached from my living body! I was filled with a kind of unholy anger which I cannot describe. Also, I was consumed with thirst, and this thirst....”
“I think I understand,” said Dr. Cairn quietly. “What followed?”
“An interval — quite blank — after which I dreamt again. Dr. Cairn, I cannot tell you of the dreadful, the blasphemous and foul thoughts, that then possessed me! I found myself resisting — resisting — something, some power that was dragging me back to that foul cavern with my thirst unslaked! I was frenzied; I dare not name, I tremble to think, of the ideas which filled my mind. Then, again came a blank, and I awoke.”
She sat trembling. Dr. Cairn noted that she avoided his gaze.
“You awoke,” he said, “on the first occasion, to find that your husband had met with a strange and dangerous accident?”
“There was — something else.”
Lady Lashmore’s voice had become a tremulous whisper.
“Tell me; don’t be afraid.”
She looked up; her magnificent eyes were wild with horror.
“I believe you know!” she breathed. “Do you?”
Dr. Cairn nodded.
“And on the second occasion,” he said, “you awoke earlier?”
Lady Lashmore slightly moved her head.
“The dream was identical?”<
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“Yes.”
“Excepting these two occasions, you never dreamt it before?”
“I dreamt part of it on several other occasions; or only remembered part of it on waking.”
“Which part?”
“The first; that awful cavern—”
“And now, Lady Lashmore — you have recently been present at a spiritualistic séance.”
She was past wondering at his power of inductive reasoning, and merely nodded.
“I suggest — I do not know — that the séance was held under the auspices of Mr. Antony Ferrara, ostensibly for amusement.”
Another affirmative nod answered him.
“You proved to be mediumistic?”
It was admitted.
“And now, Lady Lashmore” — Dr. Cairn’s face was very stern— “I will trouble you no further.”
He prepared to depart; when —
“Dr. Cairn!” whispered Lady Lashmore, tremulously, “some dreadful thing, something that I cannot comprehend but that I fear and loathe with all my soul, has come to me. Oh — for pity’s sake, give me a word of hope! Save for you, I am alone with a horror I cannot name. Tell me—”
At the door, he turned.
“Be brave,” he said — and went out.
Lady Lashmore sat still as one who had looked upon Gorgon, her beautiful eyes yet widely opened and her face pale as death; for he had not even told her to hope.
Robert Cairn was sitting smoking in the library, a bunch of notes before him, when Dr. Cairn returned to Half-Moon Street. His face, habitually fresh coloured, was so pale that his son leapt up in alarm. But Dr. Cairn waved him away with a characteristic gesture of the hand.
“Sit down, Rob,” he said, quietly; “I shall be all right in a moment. But I have just left a woman — a young woman and a beautiful woman — whom a fiend of hell has condemned to that which my mind refuses to contemplate.”
Robert Cairn sat down again, watching his father.
“Make out a report of the following facts,” continued the latter, beginning to pace up and down the room.