The Empty Coffins

by John Russell Fearn

“I think,” Meadows continued, “we are facing something dark, something diabolical, and I just can’t help linking it with that mystic’s warning to you, Elsie.”

  “Oh...that.” Elsie’s mouth tightened a little. “I have been trying my utmost to forget it. Now I look back on it I think it was crazy; or at least I keep telling myself so.”

  “If my guess is right,” Meadows said slowly, “you, my dear, are the one person whom George, in his present state as a vampire, will seek. He knew you despised him even though you stuck to him: be knew you remained beside him only for what would come to you when he died.”

  “Perhaps…,” Elsie muttered.

  “He did. He told me so himself one day when he called for treatment, after too many nights on the bottle. I think he would have changed his will, too, only he died too abruptly to manage it. Just before his death, Elsie, he had guessed at last just how much you really hated him. Hatred, I would remark, is the motivating force which turns a dead being into a vampire, which makes it leave its resting place and, in the form of a blood­sucker, seek out those on whom it desires revenge, turning them in turn into vampires.”

  “For heavens’ sake, Doc, take it easy!” Peter protested,

  “I would be doing a disservice if I did,” Mead­ows said, shaking his head. “If the vampire is really George, Elsie, then your life is in danger: it might be George who will make the warning of that mystic come true.”

  Elsie gave a troubled frown. “If it be George why have I not been attacked before now? I don’t mean whilst Peter and I were away, of course: I mean before that, after the first attack on Madge Paignton. Nothing has happened to me so far.”

  “You are quite a distance from the cemetery in this house,” Meadows answered. “A vampire cannot go very far without sustenance. In each case attacks have been made on people either within, or just outside, the cemetery. My guess is that, as yet, George has not enough strength to reach you. He might need to kill at least three people in one night, withdrawing their blood into himself, before having sufficient energy to come this far and deal with you.”

  “Then—what do we do?’ Elsie asked helplessly.

  “I would suggest you leave this district. Go as far away as you can, even to another country if possible. Then you ought to be safe. It can’t be guaranteed, of course, but it is most probable.”

  “And if it isn’t George,” Peter pointed out, “we have run away from nothing. I will have left my business, which is now building up into something worthwhile, and Elsie will have left this home—in which we both have ownership now, by the way.”

  “Up to you,” Meadows said, shrugging. “Just a warning, that’s all—rendered all the more emphat­ic by Singh’s forecast.”

  “Isn’t there some way of proving whether or not this vampire is George?” Elsie asked slowly.

  “Only one. Open his grave and find out.”

  “We’d never get permission,” Peter said, rising to his feet. “And in spite of your own belief in this vampire business, Doc, I still think it’s a lot of rubbish! I also think Elsie is in no more danger than you or I. Last of all, I do not be­lieve what Rawnee Singh said.”

  “I wish I felt the same,” Meadows said. “As far as George is concerned, the only way to open his grave is to do it ourselves. Certainly the Home Secretary won’t agree to exhumation on the basis of vampires. The Government, like Scotland Yard, is singularly unimaginative in regard to matters of the—other world.”

  “It’s desecration,” Mrs. Burrows whispered. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, doctor!”

  “I am thinking of the living,” he answered. “I’m thinking of the possible danger to Elsie. If George is not in his grave we know what to think. He has become a vampire. If we attempt to open his coffin it will be at night, when he too will presumably be on the rampage, and his coffin should be empty. By day it will be empty too, he being in a state of suspended animation.”

  “I’m not attempting anything so—so horrible,” Elsie said at last. “I’m staying right where I am, and I’ll live down my fears.”

  “No more than I expected from you, my dear,” Meadows smiled, patting her shoulder. “Well, let us hope everything will work out for the best.... Now I must be going. And keep on with that pres­cription, Mrs. Burrows.”

  She did not answer. Apparently his grave­ opening suggestion had revolted her completely; so with a nod to Elsie and Peter he picked up his bag and headed for the door.

  “I’ll see you out,” Peter said, and followed him into the hall. On the front doorstep Peter laid a hand on Meadows’ arm.

  “Yes?” Meadows asked, putting on his hat.

  Peter glanced about him—back towards the drawing room, then on to the darkness of the driveway where Meadows’ car stood.

  “For Elsie’s sake, doc,” he said, his voice low, “I’d like to satisfy myself about George. I still don’t believe in vampires, but if there is danger for her— You know what I mean?”

  “You mean you’re willing to open his coffin?”

  “For the sake of Elsie, yes. If George has gone, then I must see to it that Elsie leaves the district, and I’ll go too, of course.”

  Meadows glanced at his watch, then at the night sky.

  “Seven-thirty,” he said. “The night looks as though it ought to be fine, and there’s a full moon rising at quarter-to-ten. Tell you what you do. Meet me at the cemetery gates at midnight. Naturally you don’t want Elsie to know what you’re doing?”

  “No. I’ll see we get off to bed early, then I’ll sneak out without her being any the wiser.”

  Meadows fished inside his overcoat pocket and brought a capsule into view. From it he shook three tablets into his palm and handed them over.

  “See these get into her last drink, tonight,” he said. “Harmless enough, but they’ll ensure she doesn’t wake until morning. And they won’t leave a hangover, either.”

  Peter looked at them. “Something new in sleep­ing tablets, eh?”

  “Exactly.” Meadows gave a smile. “I spend quite a lot of my spare time, what there is of it, creating new drugs and cures. Some of them are in fair demand on the market; others are plain failures.... The only way a country doctor can ever hope to add to his finances, I’m afraid. These sleeping tablets are the only ones that produce healthy sleep without any after-effect. I’ve invented a new form of blood-capsule, too. Restores anaemics to full health, and cures all—or most—other blood diseases. I base my hopes of a for­tune on my blood-capsule.... Anyhow. I’ll be talking shop all night if I’m not careful. See you midnight.”

  “Sure enough,” Peter agreed, shaking hands; then when the doctor’s car had started off down the drive Peter shut the front door and returned to the drawing room.

  “What kept you so long?” Elsie enquired, glancing up from the divan—and breaking off conver­sation with her mother.

  “Oh, nothing. Just talking shop—all about sleeping tablets and blood capsules. The doc’s quite a manufacturer of patent medicines, it seems.”

  “It’s to be hoped some of them are better than this indigestion prescription he’s made up,” Mrs. Burrows remarked sourly. “It doesn’t seem to be doing me a bit of good.”

  Peter smiled a little and then settled at El­sie’s side on the divan. His hand under her chin forced her to look at him. Her blue eyes were half serious, half wistful.

  “Still worrying, dearest, deep down?” he mur­mured.

  She sighed. “Dr. Meadows brought it all back again. I had almost forgotten that horrible warning of death: now I just can’t do anything but think about it. Peter, do you think that perhaps the doc was right? About George....”

  “I think we’d both be more sensible to forget all about the horrible business,” Peter answered. “Best thing we can do is sleep on it.”

  And here he deliberately dropped the subject. He saw to it that the three pills Meadows had given him found their way into Elsie’s bedtime drink, and he noticed too that she fell asleep
almost at the moment her head touched the pillow. He waited until eleven-thirty to be sure, but she did not stir; then he silently slipped out of the bed, dressed, armed himself with a torch, and left the house by a corridor window. Of Mrs. Burrows he had no fear. Nothing short of an earthquake had ever been known to awaken her, and in any case her room was at the far end of the passage.

  For caution’s sake, however, Peter did not use his car in case the engine was heard. He walked the distance to the cemetery, striding out swiftly in the pallid light of the full moon, the still wintry trees motionless at either side of the lane leading to the village.

  At twelve-fifteen he reached the cemetery gates, to find Dr. Meadows’ car parked there without lights. Meadows himself was waiting, a bag of tools in one hand and two shovels over his right shoulder.

  “Everything all right?” he enquired.

  “Yes—Elsie’s none the wiser, and her mother’s sound asleep.”

  “Good. I think we’ll get into the cemetery by that twisted railing. Easier than climbing with all this stuff.” Meadows started walking. “I’ve got a crowbar, screwdriver, torch, the two shovels, and some rope. And other odds and ends we may need. We ought to manage all right.”

  “You know where George’s grave is, of course?”

  “On the right of the church. I was present when they put him down.”

  Peter nodded in the moonlight and said no more for a while; then when they had found their way into the cemetery precincts via the broken rail­ing he remarked:

  “This moonlight is going to show us up pretty clearly if anybody happens to be prowling.”

  “I know—but it also helps us to see what we’re doing. We will have to risk being spotted. Not that I think we will be. The talk of vampires has scared everybody away from here—including Scotland Yard, apparently.”

  So Peter did not pursue the subject. They reached George Timperley’s grave in another five minutes, identified it by the stone, and then be­gan the task of removing the granite chippings from the topsoil. They worked hard, and in silence, their breath hanging on the still, frosty air. Now and again they paused to look about them, but nothing stirred in the expanse of the burial ground.

  Until at last Peter’s shovel struck something with a soggy thud. With his hands he pushed away the soil and revealed the still comparatively new oak of George Timperley’s coffin.

  “This is it,” he murmured, as Meadows crouched beside him. “Still think we should go through with it?”

  “Definitely! That’s what we came for.”

  The remaining soil was brushed to one side so that the lid with its brass nameplate became re­vealed. From his bag Dr. Meadows took two screwdrivers, handing one to Peter.

  “Better unscrew it instead of using the crow­bar,” he said. ‘We’ll have to screw it up again when we’ve finished. We’ll only use the bar if the screws are too tough.”

  Peter nodded and began his task. He did not enjoy one minute of it. As each screw finally succumbed to pressure he began to wonder what would be revealed when the lid was removed. He kept picturing the inroads which decomposition might have made on George Timperley’s body. After all, he had been buried for some months, now—

  With a protesting squeak the final screws came out and the lid was ready for moving. Peter and Meadows exchanged glances as they stood deep in the grave.

  “Ready?” Meadows asked quietly.

  “Go ahead. I can stand it if you can.”

  Meadows gripped his end of the lid, hesitated for a moment, and then heaved it to one side. Fixedly he stared into the coffin. After a second or two Peter brought himself to looking also. He gave a little gasp.

  The coffin was empty.

  For a moment or two neither man spoke. There was the moonlight, leprous and cold, glowing down into the grave-pit and clearly revealing the empty box. Peter gave a little shiver, and it was not the frostiness in the air, either.

  “You were right, Doc,” he whispered at last.

  “I begin to think I—” Meadows broke off, so suddenly that Peter looked at him in surprise. He found him staring fixedly upwards at the edge of the grave-pit. Peter looked too, and his mind reeled for a moment with sheer incredulity. George Timperley was standing on the edge of the grave, looking down at them. He was in the shroud of death from neck to ankles. His feet, just visible above the piled-up soil, were bare. His arms were motionless at his sides.

  “Great God,” Meadows whispered, feeling for the crowbar in the bag beside him. “It’s—it’s he! George! We—”

  He got no further. Suddenly George Timperley flew into whirlwind action. With a tremendous jump he landed in the grave, his hands clutching savagely about Dr. Meadows’ neck. Catching his foot, Mead­ows stumbled backwards and into the coffin, then he was fighting for his life as Timperley’s bared teeth made frantic efforts to get at his throat.

  Then Peter attacked. He could not reach the crowbar so he stabbed hard with his screwdriver—or at least intended to do so. Instead Timperley anticipated him, swung round, and lunged out with his white, deadly cold hands. Peter struggled frantically, realizing he was fighting something of superhuman strength. He was borne down onto the coffin edge, his back nearly cracking under the pressure. Everywhere his hands clawed and pulled he felt cold, flabby flesh without a spark of living warmth. The very feel of it turned his stomach inside-out.

  Then he saw Timperley’s teeth. They were not the teeth he had possessed in life—those even rows in a fairly handsome face. Every one was fanged and extra long, like those of a tiger. They snarled and snapped close to his face and the breath of the attacker was like something from a sewer.

  Battling and struggling uselessly Peter tumbled fully back into the coffin, then his hair was seiz­ed and his head hammered relentlessly on the coffin bottom until his senses spun crazily in darkness...

  He drifted back to consciousness only slowly, aware of the bitter after-taste of brandy in his mouth. Opening his eyes he recognized Dr. Meadows against the glow of the moon. He put away a flask and breathed heavily.

  “Good,” he whispered. “I’m glad I brought you round….”

  Peter fingered his throat gently, but apparently it was unhurt. His head ached abominably and he was laid nearly full length in the coffin. With Meadows’ help he sat up and his head swam viciously.

  “What—what happened to George?” he asked shak­ily.

  “I thrust a Crucifix in front of his eyes. That did it. I remembered reading somewhere that a vampire cannot face a crucifix—the exact antith­esis of itself—so I brought one with me just in case. He flew—literally—out of this grave and I haven’t seen him since.”

  Peter struggled to his feet. “Thank heaven for your foresight, Doc,” he muttered. ‘I certainly don’t need any more convincing in regard to vamp­ires: I’ve seen enough to satisfy me.”

  “We’d better get this coffin fastened up again and refill the grave,” Meadows said. “We’ve learned all we need to know. You fit enough to get busy?”

  “I’ll be all right,” Peter acknowledged, holding his throbbing forehead. “Give me that screw­driver, will you? If I stoop I’m afraid my skull will explode.”

  Meadows said nothing. He handed over the screw­driver and then heaved the coffin lid back into position. When it was finally screwed down he and Peter scrambled up out of the grave and began the job of shovelling back the earth. At the end of an hour the task was finished and the granite chippings duly returned as surface covering.

  “Now you know the facts what do you propose doing?” Meadows asked, collecting the shovels and the tool bag.

  “Have to tell Elsie, of course, and then I suppose we must get away from here.’ Peter looked about him moodily in the leprous moonlight. “The very last thing I wanted, with my garage business nicely built up. Still, we know George is on the rampage so there’s nothing else for it. At all costs I have to do all that is humanly possible to prevent Rawnee Singh’s forecast coming true.”

&n
bsp; “I’ve been thinking,” Meadows said, as they began moving. “You might be able to stay just as you are and still ward off George. I mean the Crucifix. It doesn’t have to be mine, though you’re welcome to it if you want it. As long as you have that for protection you will be safe. A vampire cannot attack where the Cross faces him.”

  Peter nodded slowly. “That might solve the difficulty. I’ll have yours, if you don’t mind, and give it to Elsie. I haven’t one of my own but I can soon buy one.”

  Meadows nodded, and when he and Peter had come beyond the cemetery the doctor removed the Cruc­ifix from his pocket and handed it over.

  “There it is. Peter, and I pray heaven it will protect you. As far as George is concerned, I must make arrangements with the villagers, the police—and if possible Scotland Yard—to have him captured and slain by a stake through his heart. Tell Elsie as much as you think she should know. Now, shall I give you a lift home?”

  “No thanks, Doc. I’ll walk. I can do with the fresh air to clear my head up a bit. It’s still pretty woolly— See you again. ’Night.”

  Peter shook hands, and holding the Crucifix so he could use it instantly if danger threatened he went up the lane in the moonlight, thinking as he went of the ghoulish experience through which he had passed. Somewhere at the back of his mind plain commonsense told him that the episode just could not have been real, then the pain in his head and the Crucifix in his hand convinced him otherwise.

  He re-entered the house the way he had left it, via the top landing window. Without a sound he returned to the bedroom, softly closing the door. Then as he turned into the room he stopped dead— The windows were flung wide open and the draperies were writhing gently in the night wind.

  Peter hurried forward, to the bed. Elsie was still there, but the whiteness of the pillow was defiled with dark stains. In the slanting moon­light they looked like—

  “Elsie!” Peter whispered in horror; then he switched on the bedside lamp. Instantly the dark stains became red.

  The girl was lying motionless, her face deathly white, two vivid punctures at either side of her throat from which trickles of blood had come. It appeared to have dried now.