THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS

by Frederick Cowles

  The darkness filled my soul with a new terror and I lay on the bed in a cold, clammy sweat. Then I heard footsteps approaching, the door was flung open, and the Count entered bearing a candle.

  ‘You must pardon me for what may seem shocking lack of manners on my part,’ he exclaimed, ‘but necessity compels me to keep to my chamber during the day. Now, however, I am able to offer you some entertainment.’

  I tried to rise, but my limbs refused to function. With a mirthless laugh he placed one arm about my waist and lifted me with as little effort as if I were a baby. In this fashion he carried me across the corridor and down the stairs into the hall.

  Only three candles burned on the table, and I could see little of the room for some moments after he had dumped me into a chair. Then, as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I realised that there were two other guests at that board. The feeble light flickered on their faces and I almost screamed with terror. I looked upon the ghastly countenances of dead men, every feature stamped with evil, and their eyes glowed with the same hellish light that shone in the Count’s.

  ‘Allow me to introduce my uncle and my cousin,’ said my gaoler. ‘August von Kaldenstein and Feodor von Kaldenstein.’

  ‘But,’ I blurted out, ‘I was told that Count Feodor died in 1645.’

  The three terrible creatures laughed heartily as if I had recounted a good joke. Then August leaned over the table and pinched the fleshy part of my arm.

  ‘He is full of good blood,’ he chuckled. ‘This feast has been long promised, Ludwig, but I think it has been worth waiting for.’

  I must have fainted at that, and when I came to myself I was lying on the table and the three were bending over me. Their voices came in sibilant whispers.

  ‘The throat must be mine,’ said the Count. ‘I claim the throat as my privilege.’

  ‘It should be mine,’ muttered August. ‘I am the eldest and it is long since I fed. Yet I am content to have the breast.’

  ‘The legs are mine,’ croaked the third monster. ‘Legs are always full of rich red blood.’

  Their lips were drawn back like the lips of animals, and their white fangs gleamed in the candlelight. Suddenly a clanging sound disturbed the silence of the night. It was the castle bell. The creatures darted to the back of the dais and I could hear them muttering. Then the bell gave a more persistent peal.

  ‘We are powerless against it,’ the Count cried. ‘Back to your retreat.’

  His two companions vanished through the small door which led to the underground chapel, and the Count of Kaldenstein stood alone in the centre of the room. I raised myself into a sitting posture and, as I did so, I heard a strong voice calling beyond the main door.

  ‘Open in the Name of God,’ it thundered. ‘Open by the power of the ever Blessed Sacrament of the altar.’

  As if drawn by some overwhelming force the Count approached the door and loosened the bolts. It was immediately flung open and there stood the tall figure of the parish priest, bearing aloft something in a silver box like a watch. With him was the innkeeper, and I could see the poor fellow was terrified. The two advanced into the hall, and the Count retreated before them.

  ‘Thrice in ten years have I frustrated you by the power of God,’ cried the priest. ‘Thrice has the Holy Sacrament been carried into this house of sin. Be warned in time, accursed man. Back to your foul tomb, creature of Satan. Back, I command you.’

  With a strange whimpering cry the Count vanished through the small door, and the priest came over and assisted me from the table. The innkeeper produced a flask and forced some brandy between my lips, and I made an effort to stand.

  ‘Foolish boy,’ said the priest. ‘You would not take my warning and see what your folly has brought you to.’

  They helped me out of the castle and down the steps, but I collapsed before we reached the inn. I have a vague recollection of being helped into bed, and remember nothing more until I awakened in the morning.

  The priest and the innkeeper were awaiting me in the dining-room and we breakfasted together.

  ‘What is the meaning of it all, Father?’ I asked after the meal had been served.

  ‘It is exactly as I told you,’ was the reply. ‘The Count of Kaldenstein is a vampire—he keeps the semblance of life in his evil body by drinking human blood. Eight years ago a headstrong youth, like yourself, determined to visit the castle. He did not return within reasonable time, and I had to save him from the clutches of the monster. Only by carrying with me the Body of Christ was I able to effect an entrance, and I was just in time. Then, two years later, a woman who professed to believe in neither God nor the Devil made up her mind to see the Count. Again I was forced to bear the Blessed Sacrament into the castle, and, by its power, overcame the forces of Satan. Two days since I watched you climb the cliff and saw, with relief, that you returned safely. But yesterday morning Heinrich came to inform me that your bed had not been slept in, and he was afraid the Count had got you. We waited until nightfall and then made our way up to the castle. The rest you know.’

  ‘I can never thank you both sufficiently for the manner in which you saved me from those creatures,’ I said.

  ‘Creatures,’ repeated the priest in a surprised voice. ‘Surely there is only the Count? The servant does not share his master’s blood-lust.’

  ‘No, I did not see the servant after he had admitted me. But there were two others—August and Feodor.’

  ‘August and Feodor,’ he murmured. ‘Then it is worse than we have ever dreamed. August died in 1572, and Feodor in 1645. Both were monsters of iniquity, but I did not suspect they were numbered among the living dead.’

  ‘Father,’ quavered the innkeeper. ‘We are not safe in our beds. Can we not call upon the government to rid us of these vampires?’

  ‘The government would laugh at us,’ was the reply. ‘We must take the law into our own hands.’

  ‘What is to be done?’ I asked.

  ‘I wonder if you have the courage to see this ghastly business through, and to witness a sight that will seem incredible?’

  I assured him I was willing to do anything to help for I considered I owed my life to him.

  ‘Then,’ he said, ‘I will return to the church for a few things and we will go up to the castle. Will you come with us, Heinrich?’

  The innkeeper hesitated just a moment, but it was evident that he had the greatest confidence in the priest, and he answered, ‘Of course I will, Father.’

  It was almost midday when we set off on our mysterious mission. The castle door stood wide open exactly as we had left it on the previous night, and the hall was deserted. We soon discovered the door under the tapestry and the priest, with a powerful electric torch in his hand, led the way down the damp steps. At the chapel door he paused and from his robes drew three crucifixes and a vessel of holy water. To each of us he handed one of the crosses, and sprinkled the door with the water. Then he opened it and we entered the cavern.

  With hardly a glance at the altar and its gruesome painting he made his way to the entrance of the vault. It was locked, but he burst the catch with a powerful kick. A wave of fetid air leapt out at us and we staggered back. Then, lifting his crucifix before him and crying, ‘In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,’ the priest led us into the tomb. I do not know what I expected to see, but I gave a gasp of horror as the light revealed the interior of the place. In the centre, resting on a wooden bier, was the sleeping body of the Count of Kaldenstein. His red lips were parted in a smile, and his wicked eyes were half open.

  Around the vault niches contained coffins, and the priest examined each in turn. Then he directed us to lift two of them to the floor. I noticed that one bore the name of August von Kaldenstein and the other that of Feodor. It took all our united strength to move the caskets, but at last we had them down. And all the time the eyes of the Count seemed to be watching us although he never moved.

  ‘Now,’ whispered the priest, ‘the most ghastly pa
rt of the business begins.’

  Producing a large screwdriver he began to pry off the lid of the first coffin. Soon it was loose and he motioned us to raise it. Inside was Count August looking exactly as I had seen him the previous night. His red-rimmed eyes were wide open and gleamed wickedly, but the stench of corruption hung about him. The priest set to work on the second casket, and soon revealed the body of Count Feodor with his matted hair hanging about his white face.

  Then began a strange ceremony. Taking the crucifixes from us the priest laid them upon the breasts of the two bodies, and, producing his Breviary, recited some Latin prayers. Finally he stood back and flung holy water into the coffins. As the drops touched the leering corpses they appeared to writhe in agony, to swell as though they were about to burst, and then, before our eyes, they crumbled to dust. Silently we replaced the lids on the coffins and restored them to their niches.

  ‘And now,’ said the priest, ‘we are powerless. Ludwig von Kaldenstein by evil arts has conquered death—for the time being at any rate, and we cannot treat him as we have treated these creatures whose vitality was only a semblance of life. We can but pray that God will curb the activities of this monster of sin.’

  So saying he laid the third cross upon the Count’s breast and sprinkling him with holy water uttered a Latin prayer. With that we left the vault but, as the door clanged behind us, something fell to the ground inside the place. It must have been the crucifix falling from the Count’s breast.

  We made our way up into the castle and never did God’s good air taste sweeter. All this time we had seen no sign of the old servant and I suggested we should try to discover him. His quarters, I remembered, were in the north turret. There we found his crooked old body hanging by the neck from a beam in the roof. He had been dead for at least twenty-four hours, and the priest said that nothing could be done other than to notify his death to the proper quarter and arrange for the funeral to take place.

  I am still puzzled about the mystery of Kaldenstein Castle. The fact that Count August and Count Feodor had become vampires after death, although it sounds fantastic enough, is more easily understandable than Count Ludwig’s seeming immunity from death. The priest could not explain the matter and appeared to think that the Count might go on living and troubling the neighbourhood for an indefinite period.

  One thing I do know. On the last night at Kaldenstein I opened my window before retiring to bed and looked out upon the castle. At the top of one of the turrets, clear in the bright moonlight, stood a black figure—the shadowy form of the Count of Kaldenstein.

  Little more remains to be told. Of course my stay in the village threw all my plans out, and by the time I arrived back at Munich my tour had taken nearly twenty days. Peter Schmidt laughed at me and wondered what blue-eyed maiden had caused me to linger in some Bavarian village. I didn’t tell him that the real causes of the delay had been two dead men, and a third who by all natural laws should have been dead long ago.

  Lavender Love

  I

  MY NAME IS Lavender—Lavender McLaren, and I live at Marchester Towers in Worcestershire. The house was built by Sir Roderick McLaren towards the end of the eighteenth century. I have heard it said that he grew so high and mighty that the old residence was too small for his dignity, and so he built the new house to match his pride. This statement is a malicious untruth. Sir Roderick was a kindly, simple man who loved his home. He had one daughter and her name, like mine, was Lavender McLaren. She fell in love with Ralph Hilton, a handsome young actor from Drury Lane, and wished to marry him, but her father had other ideas. Ralph was sent about his business and soon afterwards he was killed in a duel, defending the fair name of his lost love.

  Lavender mourned for him until her eyes ached with weeping, and her beauty faded. She would wander the corridors of the old house calling her lover’s name, or sit at the harpsichord playing and singing a song he had written for her. Life without him became unbearable, and one morning she was found in the rose-garden with a tiny dagger in her breast.

  Sir Roderick loved his daughter and he blamed himself for her death—blamed himself so much that he could no longer live in the house that had known her happy laughter and her bitter tears. He closed the mansion and built another home for himself about a mile away. The old house was left standing: he even kept some of the rooms furnished, for he had an idea that she would come again.

  He was right. She has come again, for I am that same Lavender McLaren who loved Ralph Hilton and died of a broken heart so long ago.

  II

  How do I know all this? I must have known it all my life, but I only realised it with certainty when, on my eighteenth birthday, my mother showed me a miniature of Sir Roderick’s daughter and I looked upon a painting of my own face. In a flash I remembered all that had happened in that previous life. My mother told me the story of Lavender’s unhappy love. But I knew the whole tale and was able to correct her in small details.

  And then the old house began to call to me. Day and night I heard its voice whispering an invitation from the past. At first I was frightened and refused to go, but resistance was useless. One May morning I took the key which hangs behind the door in the gun-room of Marchester Towers, and made my way towards the house in which I lived and loved two centuries ago. Beyond the encircling belt of trees the garden was a tangle of early roses and, in the centre of the overgrown lawn, I saw the grey sundial against which that other me so often leaned at night and listened to the song of the nightingale.

  The key turned in the heavy lock and the door opened silently. It was my first visit to the house since my return to this earth, and I could feel it welcoming me.

  ‘So you have come back again,’ it seemed to say. ‘Your friends will meet you here: your lover will come from the past to kiss your lips and hold your hand.’

  In the music room the carpet had crumbled into dust, but the harpsichord still stood in front of the window—the very instrument which I so often played in that other life. I did not raise the lid, for there were other things to see before I awakened the dead days of the past. In the long gallery, where we used to dance, the tapestry hung in tatters on the walls, and in the tarnished sconces were a few brown candle ends.

  I wandered through the empty rooms and then down the turret staircase to the study. The door was closed, but I tapped gently on its panels and a cheery voice cried, ‘Come in.’ He rose from his desk as I entered and bent to kiss my cheek.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘you look lovely this morning. Like May herself you are clothed in sunshine.’

  ‘Flatterer,’ I laughed. ‘It is a good thing you are only my father or my head would be quite turned.’

  ‘Mind some other heads are not turned on Thursday,’ he replied. ‘Garrick writes to say he will be here by midday and he is bringing Ralph Hilton, a young member of his company. Reynolds is also coming and Sheridan hopes to be here. It will be a fine party, my dear. Now run away and leave me to my accounts. They are plaguey things, but must be attended to.’

  I left him standing by the window with the sun streaming upon his brocade coat—a dream man from the past. I left him in that house of dreams and returned to the world into which I have been reborn.

  III

  Thursday came and I was there again. The house had come to life. The rooms were furnished, the carpets were thick and beautiful, the tapestries were bright and fresh, and as dusk had already fallen, candles gleamed in the silver candelabra. Sir Joshua Reynolds kissed my hand and vowed he must paint my portrait. Sheridan gave me a whimsical smile. There were ladies there, too, but I could not remember their names.

  Mr Garrick and his friend did not arrive until later. Some accident to the coach had delayed them, and they were both tired and dishevelled. Sir Roderick conducted them to their rooms, and an hour passed before they joined the company and were presented to me.

  I watched Ralph’s face and saw startled recognition leap into his eyes. He knew me as I knew him: our love had b
ridged the centuries. It was he who led me in to dinner—that strange meal when a living girl, belonging to the past yet reborn into the present, ate and drank with the ghosts of yesterday. And they raised their glasses and drank to ‘Lavender—the May Queen of Marchester’.

  Later we danced in the gallery, and he held me in his arms. ‘Is this a dream,’ he whispered, ‘or can it be true that I have found you again?’

  ‘What are life and death but dreams?’ I replied. ‘We both belong to the past and yet, by some mischance, I have been born again whilst you are only a shadow.’

  ‘And is not a shadow also a dream?’ he answered.

  ‘Dreams, dreams, dreams, and no reality. What is the explanation of the riddle? If you know it, my dear, please tell me,’ I pleaded.

  ‘I do not know, but I think it is this. My end was swift and violent, but I died to defend your honour. Your end was also sudden, and you died for love of me. For some purpose you have been reborn into the world, but your soul belongs to the days of the past—the time of our love. Because of this we are able to live those hours over again—to meet as man and woman, not as two pale ghosts. But what the end will be I cannot say.’

  Without warning the music died away, and I found myself alone in that haunted gallery with the silver moonlight shining through the cracked windows upon the tattered tapestries.

  IV

  It was afternoon on the following day before I could return to the old house. My parents in this life watch me strangely, and it was difficult to slip away without being seen. But at last I managed it.

  The company awaited me in the music room and Ralph kissed my hand. Mr Garrick, Sir Joshua, Mr Sheridan, and my father were playing cards, and continued their game after greeting me. Two ladies were gossiping in a corner and an elderly gentleman, whom I did not recognise, was dozing by the fire. Ralph took my arm and led me through the windows into the garden. It had changed. The lawns were trim and smooth, the roses hung in orderly clusters, a mass of blue lupins shone at the foot of the sundial. We strolled along to an arbour behind the house, and there he knelt before me and declared his love.