Adduné (The Vampire's Game)

by Wendy Potocki

  Figgs stared into the glass. It acted as a catalyst for him to tell Reginald the rest of his story. Figgs’ eyes remained on it – staring into it as if it could capture his dream and make it go away.

  “In the dream, I’d walk down this tunnel. I’d push this one stone to get to it. The stone would move and a tunnel would be there. It scared me even in the dream, but I heard my name being called and I had to follow. I’d walk into the tunnel and inside the tunnel was …” Figgs paused. Reginald could guess the rest.

  “The coffin?”

  “Yes, sir, it were right there.

  “And where was this entrance to the tunnel? Where in the basement?”

  “In the room where Mr. Perry keeps part of his collection, sir.”

  Reginald knew where he meant. Arthur kept his 19th century European collection downstairs. There had been no space for it upstairs. Strangely enough, that was the collection Miranda planned on sending to Fairfield. They would be heading down to that very room to tag the rest of Arthur’s collection as soon as lunch was over. Reginald tried to pull-up from memory exactly what the interior looked like. He didn’t remember any loose stones, but then he hadn’t gone pressing on any walls. He shook his head remembering that this was just a dream … none of it was real. If Reginald didn’t know any better, he would have sworn he was caught up in one now. He heard Figgs’ voice come at him as if out of a thickening mist.

  “I’d walk over to it and stand staring at it. I was always so frightened. You know how you get so scared in dreams that you feel paralyzed. Well, that’s how I felt, sir. Paralyzed. I’d be looking at it wanting to run away, but I’d hear my name. It tried to convince me that everything would be okay if I’d just let it out.”

  Figgs’ hands started shaking so badly that the bottom of the glass was hitting against the tabletop. The sound punctuated the horror of the dream and made Reginald more nervous. He wanted to grab the glass from him and set it down, but didn’t dare break the spell.

  “I didn’t want to, sir!” Figgs blurted – tears streaming down his face. He was sniffling now. His whole face was overcome with emotion, but Figgs only continued to stare into the glass. “But I did anyway! It was almost like I had to! I’d feel myself raise up that blasted hammer – pulling out those copper nails one-by-one!”

  Reginald stared at him. His mouth was still movin’. Forming the outline of words that were yet to be spoken. What more was there for him to say? Reginald hoped he was done, but he wasn’t.

  Reginald didn’t want to hear anymore. It was crazy for him to be sitting and listening to this bizarre nightmare, but he couldn’t move. As Figgs had been forced to open the coffin, Reginald knew that he needed to sit and listen until the very end.

  Figgs began mimicking the action that took place in the dream. It looked as if Figgs was pulling out nails – although there was no hammer in his hand and no coffin. Reginald wished he’d stop, but the mad pantomime continued.

  “I just kept on pullin’ ‘em out, sir!” Reginald muttered under his labored breath. He was reliving the nightmare – sucking Reginald in with him. The temperature had dropped in the kitchen. He could see Figgs’ breath now, vapor escaping as he spoke.

  “I knew I shouldn’t and yet I did until … until … I got to the last one,” Figgs gasped as his hand finally dropped to the table. Reginald felt his body jerk in response to the noise. Figgs was struggling to get it all out.

  “Then there was the last one. It was holding the lid in place and … I heard scratching, sir. Coming from inside. Like this, sir …”

  Figgs drew his hands across the table – letting his fingernails scratch against the surface. Despite the frigid cold, his face was dripping with sweat. Reginald was now feeling what Figgs felt. He was experiencing Figgs’ nightmare. He could now fully imagine the fright that Figgs felt in his dream. Knowing that whatever was in the coffin was trying to escape. Knowing that something was alive beneath the lid and that one mere nail kept it at bay.

  The scratching stopped as Figgs went on.

  “I moved my hammer over to the last nail, sir. I dug the claw down underneath it … when I heard this knocking begin. A loud knocking! Like a pair of fists underneath that lid, banging to get out and I pulled it anyway! Pulled out that nail and tossed it to the ground like I wasn’t doing anything wrong!”

  Figgs’ hand pounded against the table. The small bit of water left in the glass was moving – refracting light onto the table. He was crying again. He ducked his head down and squeezed his head with both hands. He looked up pleadingly at Reginald. It looked to Reginald like he was asking for absolution, but from what? That’s what Reginald needed to find out.

  “This is so hard for me to say, sir, but it was what I dreamt! I heard the nail hit the ground! I watched it bounce and as I did, I heard soft creakin’. I knew it was the lid. I knew it was openin’! I turned and looked. The lid was movin’ to the side! I jumped when it hit the ground. I leaned over and looked inside. Damn it to hell, sir! To my everlasting shame, I looked inside!”

  Figgs looked up at Reginald. It was a face begging for answers. Reginald hoped he had one for him. Figgs swallowed softly and ran his hand through his hair. He wiped back tears as he continued in a voice that was no louder than a faint breath.

  “It was a vampire.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s what I saw, sir. A vampire. He opened his eyes and looked at me. I couldn’t move. Not when he looked at me. He sat up and growled like a mad dog. Then he opened his mouth and I saw them teeth. Long and sharp. They could tear through anyone and I was an inch from ‘em. His eyes were like hell itself – they were burning through me. I wanted to run, but couldn’t. He drew back his lips and made this sound. Just like this … sssssssssssssss.”

  Reginald’s body reacted to the low hissing sound. He wanted to put his hands over his ears, but didn’t. It was a primal sound and one that Reginald found disturbing. It was the sound an animal makes before it attacks.

  “I know what you’re thinking, sir. That I’m crazy! Or making this up, but look! Look at my hands and how bad they’re shakin’ just from me telling you about it! It’s even worse when I’m having the dream ‘cause there was so much more! Things I can’t even describe. Like what he looked like! His skin was grey and there was this horrid black smudged around his eyes. His lips were withered and a bright red– like they’d been painted, only they weren’t! And he laughed at me, sir! He laughed right in my face and I felt the spray of warm saliva land on my face and I wanted to wipe it away, but didn’t have time because when he opened his mouth, I knew I had to get away, but he grabbed me right round the back of my head! I felt his long nails dig right into the back of my scalp as he held me! I couldn’t get away! He put his mouth on my neck and bit me! Right here!” he said pointing to the skin of his neck that covered his jugular vein. “I felt his teeth go in. I tried pullin’ away, but I couldn’t! I tried to scream, but nothin’ came out! I was held there feeling him suckin’ the life out of me!! Drinkin’ my blood! Makin’ these sounds and there wasn’t a blessed thing I could do about it! Nothing! I was caught – trapped – and I was going to die!”

  Figgs dropped his head on the table again. He was crying hysterically – mumbling almost incoherently about there being more. Reginald sat speechless not knowing what to do. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Surely, it was no more than a bad dream, but if it were only a bad dream, then why was Figgs so upset? Why was there this cold? And why the unearthly presence of evil?

  From behind Reginald came a sound.

  “Sssssssssst!”

  Reginald flinched. He turned quickly, jumping to his feet. It was the stew boiling over. He’d forgotten all about it.

  “Oh, the blasted stew!” he exclaimed as he ran to the stove. He grabbed an oven mitt and lifted the pot. He turned off the flame setting down the iron kettle to the side. He opened the lid and thrust the spoon into thick gravy. He saw that just the bottom was burned. The rest wou
ld be fine. He was no longer hungry, but at least Miranda could eat.

  The slight emergency with the stew had established a normalcy. It allowed Reginald to think clearly for the first time since Figgs had started relating his relentless tale. Reginald felt his mind clicking into gear along familiar ground. Figgs had said he’d been watching the telly. That meant he might have watched a movie – perhaps one about a vampire? Some of those movies would scare anyone. With the changes in the temperature, falling asleep, the death of Arthur Perry, and the belief he saw something … everything might have snowballed until it became one big overwhelming nightmare. It had badly frightened him and because it had, the bad dream had blossomed into a recurring nightmare. Those were the worst kind for you didn’t feel in control and they robbed you of sleep. Without sleep, you couldn’t be clear-headed and if you weren’t clear-headed, you could start to believe all sorts of things.

  It all made sense. Reginald had no doubt that that was all that happened. He’d have another talk to Figgs. He’d make sure the bad dreams ended this afternoon. He’d send Figgs and his wife on a nice vacation. A week in the sun would do him a world of good. Distancing Figgs from the source of his nightmares would get rid of them. Once he discovered they didn’t follow him to pricey resorts, he’d calm down.

  Reginald threw down the mitt and wiped his hands absent-mindedly on his woolen trousers. He just needed to find out if he had a preference of tropical locations.

  “Sorry, William. Your wife’s stew deserved better than this,” he said turning around. “Now in terms of this job. It occurred to me that you haven’t had a vacation in a long, long time, so …”

  William Figgs was gone – the envelope left on the table. Reginald saw the door was open. He must have bolted. Reginald gave chase out the door and saw Figgs walking away at a rapid pace.

  “William! William please come back here! We need to talk!” He saw his pleading wasn’t working. He hadn’t even had time to talk to him about the vacation. He tried again, “Willliam! At least come back for your check! It’s yours! William, please!”

  Figgs ignored the excuses designed to get him back into that house. They merely ignited his desire to get away. Figgs’ stride lengthened and quickened until he was running – headed towards his home located on the other side of the small wooded area that rimmed the manor’s backyard. His close proximity was another reason Arthur had chosen him for the caretaker’s position. Figgs lived nearby and always chose to walk rather than use his car. He had said in the past how much he enjoyed the stroll. Refreshing was how’d he’d described it. Reginald doubted he’d phrase it that way anymore.

  He gave his clean hands a final rub on the sides of his hips. He wondered if Figgs would ever come back. Not that he blamed him. Reginald might have done the same thing under the circumstances. What with the combination of being scared out of his mind by such sordid dreams and the revealing of such personal information, it must have been unnerving and embarrassing.

  Reginald walked back inside the kitchen. He shut the door and made sure it was locked by using the newly-installed deadbolt. If it were an intruder entering the house, he wouldn’t get in this way. He stared at the envelope on the table trying to figure what to do next. There was something in his memory that was triggered by what Figgs had said. Something about that 19th century collection. Something that Arthur had said … or done. Reginald couldn’t remember, but if it was important it would come to him. Reginald’s body may have slowed down a beat due to age, but none of his mental faculties had been impaired or compromised. Information, names, numbers took their time getting to him now, but they got there. That was the main thing.

  Reginald picked up the envelope and placed it back into his pocket. He’d make sure Figgs received it. He’d put it in the mail. Figgs was in no position to be turning down money. He wasn’t wealthy and most likely would find it coming in handy. He was sure he’d feel differently if accepting the check didn’t have to be done in person. He’d also put in a nice letter letting him know the position was still open if he changed his mind. He’d add a bit about the vacation. After all, he’d earned one. Most of all, he wanted to assure Figgs that his story hadn’t tainted Reginald’s good opinion about him. That was important. It was only a bad dream brought on by a silly, stupid show on the telly. A person couldn’t help their dreams – nor could they be held responsible.

  Reginald would make sure to communicate that to Figgs, but right now there was a ravenous girl – and some delicious stew that needed plating

  .

  CHAPTER 4

  Reginald was more than happy that lunch went smoothly. The only exception was Miranda never letting up on the fact that Reginald had lied to her. He was more than willing to take the punishment she meted out as Miranda was behaving like her old self and not some frightened child. She was intact, as was her hubris and sense of invincibility. For the moment, Reginald was not seeing that as a negative. He was just glad that whatever damage he’d done had become officially undone. It was the old Miranda that he shared lunch with. He’d never welcomed a luncheon guest more warmly.

  Soon after, they resumed the business of cataloguing. It required a trip downstairs – to the room that was the source of Figgs’ nightmares. Although Reginald adopted a plausible, reasonable explanation for their inception, he was skittish about bringing Miranda downstairs. While the dreams didn’t present a problem, a possible intruder did. It just might be an uninvited guest that had been helping himself to hospitality that had never been extended. Miranda immediately picked up on Reginald’s reticence, but then not very much got past her. However, this time she’d misread the clues. She misinterpreted his trepidation as fear and taken the occasion to relentlessly taunt him by asking the question, “Who’s the scaredy-cat now?” He let it go at that, feeling no compulsion to fill her in on his real motivation.

  Reginald played the part of gracious loser. Miranda would be none the wiser. He was confident that when his courtroom persona was in place, that nobody but God himself could see through it. While Miranda often saw herself that way, she wasn’t close. If she had been all-powerful and all-seeing, then she would have seen through his performance. Instead, the untamable, slightly arrogant young girl took another jab at Reginald. He did nothing but smile sheepishly. He would not give away his ulterior motives and alarm her more than he’d done already.

  They headed to the staircase – Miranda gladly skewering the strangely passive Reginald every chance she got. She was expecting more of a fight, but was glad that he was accepting of her abuse. She didn’t question his behavior, putting it down to him knowing that he more than deserved the onslaught.

  Miranda followed Reginald through the thick door, noting with annoyance its mournful admonishment of the pair using it for access. The sound was more analogous to the final groan of a long-suffering patient. It harkened back to haunted houses and ghosts – the very thoughts that Miranda had recently banished from her mind. The sorrowful note was dredging up those fears. She could well imagine the next noise to be chains being dragged along the ground, or a knight still in his coat of armor batting the wall with his mace.

  When the door finally shuddered closed, it spitefully took the light with it. Reginald turned on a small comforting light that shone down on stone steps. Reginald went first, taking inordinate care in navigating the old staircase. Miranda noted the precautions taken to ensure a safe journey down. She was well past the age when a spill down the stairs on her backside could be shaken off with childish laughter.

  She wasn’t used to conforming to someone’s lead, but the unevenness of the footing, the looseness of the stone, and the shaking banister all assured Miranda that Reginald knew best. She complied and followed suit, slowing her pace to a crawl as she inched her way down the clumsy, claustrophobic passageway.

  Miranda rocked a bit with each footstep. Although the stairs appeared uniform, it wasn’t until you tried to descend them that their unwieldy crookedness was discovered. She kept he
r hand firmly clenched on the wooden frame built to support the treacherous climb, but didn’t put much faith in it preventing a tumble. It seemed as solid as a matchstick cathedral. The fact the temperature went down with each step taken was not helping in any way. If Miranda had thought it cold upstairs, the cellar was like wading into a bath of ice. It was as if she dipped her toe in an ice pond and kept going until completely immersed. She wasn’t a member of the Polar Bear Club and preferred her baths warm and steamy. By the time she reached the bottom step, she was tense from the effort taken to surmount the obstacles – the treacherous footing and the merciless cold.

  The hearty, hot stew consumed a few minutes ago was a thing of the past, as was the raging fire still going strong in the upstairs fireplace. They both had fortified her, but obviously not for long. She was forlorn and abandoned of any comfort. Even the lighting seemed to be working against her. The meager ceiling lamp at the top of the landing was too weak to properly light the entire staircase. She stood unable to see into the utter blackness of the estate’s basement. She made due until Reginald maneuvered his way to a light switch. He knew where they were located and went ahead.