The Second Hammer Horror Film Omnibus

by John Burke

  Someone was humming a tuneless chant, an endless rise and fall of disconnected but insistent notes. As they entered the cell, the song bellowed up in a fine abandon and then petered away.

  The room was large and, in spite of its purely functional furniture, somehow comfortable. It had acquired a character of its own by reason of its occupant. Ludwig was a tall man with burning eyes and a wealth of nervous, spasmodic gesture. His ascetic appearance was belied by the litter of brushes and paints, discarded shreds of material and fragments of parchment, which gave color and a human untidiness to the stone puritanism of his cell. On a trestle table lay a quarto page on which he was painting delicately with a fine brush. He sang erratically, but his hand was as steady as a rock, and the line sketched in by the brush was as true as a plumbline.

  “Magnificent,” he said blandly to himself as Charles and Shandor entered. “I think so. Yes. Truly delicate.”

  Carefully he laid down the brush. Then his right hand stabbed out. The palm descended flat on to the table. His face twisted wickedly.

  He was oblivious to the intruders. All that mattered was what lay beneath his hand. With a crafty look of triumph he raised his palm along the inner edge and peered in. Slowly he raised his hand. There was a dark blob on the table—a squashed fly, Charles recognized.

  The man became aware slyly, unresponsively, of the presence of two newcomers. He paid no attention. It was as though, by not even glancing at them, he could deny their existence for as long as he chose. With a bright smile meant for himself alone he prodded the fly to one side of the table. There it joined a small pile of its fellows.

  Father Shandor stepped forward.

  The man at the table scooped the flies up suddenly and popped them all into his mouth. He chewed and crunched swiftly, and then acknowledged the existence of his visitors with a perky little nod.

  Shandor said: “Flies, Ludwig?”

  “A small aperitif, Father. It will soon be dinner.”

  Shandor looked unperturbed. His voice was still measured and friendly. “I was told you wished to see me.”

  “Please be seated.” Ludwig brushed off the bench with an extravagant wealth of gesture. “And you, sir.” He walked solemnly round the table, his jaws working slightly as he masticated the flies. Charles tried to look away, but was fascinated by the incongruity of those fine, stern jaws champing on a mess of dead flies. “Now . . . I have finished the title page for the third folio.”

  One half expected a flourish of trumpets and a stirring roll of drums. Ludwig seized a sheet of parchment and laid it before his guests with pride. He stood back while they admired the design and execution. Charles was no expert, but he was awed by the tiny, flawless detail of the lettering and the colorful sweep of a great decorative initial. Days, perhaps weeks, of niggling work had gone into this.

  “Well?” demanded Ludwig, beginning to fidget. “Well—is it exquisite or merely magnificent?”

  Shandor smiled gently to himself. “Exquisite—eh, Mr. Kent?”

  “Beautiful.”

  Ludwig gave a brisk nod and snatched the sheet away from them.

  “Good. You may leave now. I’ll send for you when I want you again.”

  They went out, and Brother Mark locked the door behind them. The cell, thought Charles uneasily, had become a prison cell. He said:

  “Why do you take such precautions?”

  “He’s harmless enough most of the time,” said Shandor as they walked away, “but he has been known to erupt. The last time, one of the brothers ended up with a fractured skull. Come . . . we have things to discuss.”

  The cracked jangle of a bell pealed along the corridor, stopped, and then sounded twice again. Charles assumed that it called the monks to some part of their devotions, but thought it had a singularly unmusical sound.

  Brother Mark, who had been following the two of them at a respectful distance, scurried suddenly past. They were at the turn of the corridor, where it opened out into a small entrance hall. The brother went to a heavy oak door and opened a small grille. Shandor slowed his pace, waiting to hear what was said. Charles looked up and saw that the tinny bell was in fact an old, rusting doorbell.

  Brother Mark turned.

  “There is a wagoner seeking shelter for the afternoon and the night. He says he has come many furlongs and is weary.”

  Shandor said: “The hospitality of this monastery is always offered to . . .” Then he stopped. He took a pace towards the door, frowned, and then shook his head decisively. “No. At this stage we must not open our doors. Not to anyone.”

  Brother Mark looked startled.

  “Until we have discussed the matter which weighs on us, we must have no distractions—and nothing from outside must be carried in, deliberately or accidentally. Tell the man we cannot admit him but that he is welcome to find shelter outside and that the kitchens will send food out to him.”

  Twilight came suddenly to this part of the world. The afternoon faded like a tide ebbing swiftly. Once the sun had gone down behind the mountains, a cloak of darkness was spread over the valley, thickened and strengthened by the dark clumps of forest. In his study, Shandor lit an oil lamp and stood it on his desk. He then brought out two glasses and a carafe of wine.

  “It is a local wine,” he explained as he poured. “One of the better things for which this district is responsible.”

  They drank. The rather tart feel of the wine on his tongue and against the back of his teeth warmed Charles and soothed the instinctive fear of descending darkness.

  He said: “If that . . . that creature walks again tonight . . .”

  “It may walk,” said Shandor, “but it will not come in here. Now, let us make our plans. You said that you considered it your duty to destroy Dracula. I would not wish, as a man of my calling, to encourage a mere desire for revenge. Vengeance is not for human beings. If you have thought the matter over and wish to leave—”

  “I am staying,” said Charles, “until that abomination is wiped out.”

  Shandor nodded. He endeavored to look regretful, but Charles sensed that he had hoped for some such answer as this.

  “Mrs. Kent, however,” said Shandor, “must in no circumstances stay. When she has recovered sufficiently to travel, we will send her home to England. Then you and I will do what has to be done. We will pull that castle down stone by stone if necessary. We will find him where he lies, and this time there will be no mistake.”

  “I don’t see why we can’t start right away.”

  “Last night Count Dracula was robbed of his prey,” said Shandor. “Your wife. He had seen her and coveted her. That much is plain from his use of your sister-in-law to lure her on and then to seize her. He himself has touched her. He considers that she belongs to him already. He will want her badly.”

  Charles looked round at the heavy, reassuring walls of the room. He thought of the monastery as a squat, holy fortress. But how strong would it be if an attack came?

  He said: “He won’t come here?”

  “It is unlikely. And even if he does, he’ll not get in.”

  With vague memories of what he had read, and of that scene in the inn when they had first met, Charles said: “Garlic flowers . . . ?”

  Shandor snorted. “Stupid superstition. What the inhabitants of these parts don’t realize is that a vampire cannot cross a threshold unless invited to do so by someone already inside. If he is invited, all the garlic flowers in the world won’t keep him out.”

  “And it’s not likely that any of us will invite him in.”

  “I think not.”

  Shandor refilled their glasses and they drank in silence. Charles had a lot to think about, and it was evident that Father Shandor was mentally sorting out all the things he knew about the castle and its environs.

  Abruptly Charles got up. “Do you think I could see my wife now? Just to be sure that she . . . well, that she’s all right.”

  “No harm will have come to her. But do by all means go to he
r room. I will show you the way.”

  They went along the dimly-lit corridors to one of the identical doors of the small cells. Charles would not have been able to find his way—was not sure, even, that after days spent here he would be confident of doing so. He wondered how much time had to elapse before a member of the order found the right door or took the right turning automatically, without hesitation.

  Diana’s eyes were still closed, but as he bent quietly over the bed they opened. She started, then put out a hand to him.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.” Charles sat on the bed. Shandor had remained outside, lost in the shadows of his own thoughts. “You’re the one we must worry about. The important thing right now is to get you well enough to go home.”

  Her face lit up. “Home? I do so want to . . . to be there. Away from . . . everything that’s happened.” Her hand gripped his tightly. “It did all really happen, didn’t it: it wasn’t a dream?”

  “No, it wasn’t a dream. I wish it had been. But once you’re well away from here—”

  “When can we leave?”

  Charles hesitated. He said carefully: “I won’t be coming with you. Not right away, that is. I have something to do here first.”

  Diana tried to get up in bed, but he firmly pressed her back, and kissed her shoulder.

  “You’re not going back to that place,” she cried.

  “I have to.”

  “No. No, you don’t have to. Please, Charles, you mustn’t.”

  “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  “No. Now.” Charles tried to get up, but Diana was clinging desperately to him. “I won’t leave,” she insisted, “unless . . .”

  “Now, Mrs. Kent.” Shandor stepped solemnly into the room. “No more talking. It’s important that you rest.”

  “You must tell him, Father. Tell him it’s madness to go back to that place.”

  Shandor stood over her. He smiled, and for a moment his huge hand covered hers and Charles’s. “Your husband is right, my dear. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  He drew Charles away. Diana tried to call after them, but sank back on her pillow with a sigh. Shandor closed the door gently.

  He said: “She will be all right in the morning. We must make her understand what has to be done.”

  “She’s a stubborn girl.” Charles felt a great wave of love for Diana, and wanted to turn back towards her room.

  “Yes. But a loyal and obedient wife when it is necessary, I would say.”

  Charles nodded.

  “I suggest that you, too, go to bed early,” Shandor concluded. “You are still more tired than you imagine. Here you may sleep—and fear nothing. Our doors are barred. You and your wife are safe. No enemy will set foot in this monastery tonight.”

  A night mist swirled beyond the windows. Grey fingers were drawn silently across the panes, sadly dissolving into their own futility.

  The doors were barred. Nothing to fear . . .

  8

  The refuge became a prison. The walls closed in on her and instead of welcoming their protection she struggled to escape. Halfway between waking and sleeping, Diana felt herself back in Castle Dracula, penned in a corner as the faceless shape raised its wings and came at her. Faceless because she did not let herself remember those cruel features. She raised her arms against his talons and tried to beat him off.

  But there was only the coarse edge of the blanket on her bed, rasping against her cheek and tangling in her arms as she flailed out.

  Diana opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling for a minute. She fought to calm herself. Her heart was beating wildly. It was ridiculous: she was safe in the monastery, well guarded, out of the clutches of that obscene creature.

  There was a faint tapping sound. She could not tell whether it was real or part of her drowsy imaginings. It came again. Branches tapping the wall . . . a gust of rain pattering on the low roof of the monastery . . .

  There were three louder taps, quite distinct this time and quite real. Diana sat bolt upright in bed and stared at the window.

  It was slightly misted over inside, and a clinging fog brushed it outside. But the face at the window was clear enough—the tormented, mouthing, imploring face of Helen.

  Diana shivered. She sat where she was, not daring to move. She wanted to cry out but could not.

  Helen’s lips moved. “Please,” she was saying inaudibly: “please . . .”

  Diana got out of bed. When her feet touched the cold stone floor she felt the impulse to turn and go in search of Charles. But Helen raised her hands and clawed at the window, and her mouthings grew frantic. Diana was drawn irresistibly towards the misted panes.

  Helen’s face was bleached and agonized. Close to the window, it was possible to hear her.

  “Please . . . let me in, Diana. It’s cold out here. So cold.”

  Diana hesitated. She glanced back at the door. If only Charles would come in. If only Father Shandor were close at hand, ready to make the decisions.

  “Diana, I beg you . . .” Helen was pressed to the glass in utter, desperate self-abasement. “It’s all right now. Everything is all right. I’ve escaped from him. Please . . . it’s freezing out here.”

  Diana unlatched the window. As the catch grated free, she started to pull the window open.

  The night air was harsh, and the fog seethed in like a wild, leaping thing. And Helen snarled. It was a bestial snarl of triumph. Through the tendrils of fog her hand struck down and grasped Diana’s wrist. The grip was cruel. Diana tried to throw herself back, away from the window and into the safety of her cell. But Helen pulled, and now her head struck down and she sank her teeth in Diana’s wrist.

  Diana screamed. Helen let go and disappeared. But the frame of the window was filled suddenly and hideously with the gloating face of Dracula, his arms raising his cloak as though to catch Diana up in his suffocating embrace.

  Behind her there was a crash as the door was flung open. Dracula retreated swiftly into the night like a bird of prey scared off by a sudden noise.

  Diana fell. She felt herself going backwards, and then Charles was holding her and helping her towards the bed.

  “What happened?”

  It was Father Shandor’s voice. She was vaguely aware of him striding towards the window. He closed it and fastened it securely, then swung round and pounced on her. Charles snapped a protest, but Shandor took her by the shoulders and shook her furiously.

  “Tell me—what happened?”

  Diana reached out for Charles. He took a step towards her and then froze, staring at her wrist as she held it out. Shandor’s head turned and he, too, looked. Then he growled: “Hold her.”

  She was free. He let go, and Charles came to put his arm round her. Shandor took up the oil lamp that was burning on the small corner table.

  “Hold out her hand.”

  Charles seized Diana’s arm and twisted it towards Shandor so that two tiny puncture marks and the faint globules of blood oozing from them were exposed. Shandor’s left hand gripped her fingers so that they could not move. With his right hand he brought the lamp forward and pressed the scorching glass against the marks.

  Agony raced up Diana’s arm and consumed her. She screamed and tried to fight away. Charles held fast, and there was no shaking Father Shandor off.

  The burning pain had to stop . . . had to be made to stop . . . she couldn’t endure any more, couldn’t let herself be engulfed . . . had to stop, stop, stop . . .

  “For pity’s sake,” Charles was crying, “enough!”

  Shandor pulled the lamp away from her wrist. The pain abated; but then the cool air on the seared flesh redoubled it, and Diana whimpered once and collapsed. She was conscious of being picked up and laid on the bed. In the far distance, Shandor was shouting: “Brother Mark . . . salve and bandages . . .” And Charles was close to her, murmuring to her. She wanted to reach up and put her arms round him but was too exhausted and too frightened th
at the slightest movement might bring on a new refinement of torture.

  “We were just in time,” said Shandor.

  There was a shuffle of feet. She heard the men muttering together, and then something very cold was smeared on her wrist. It burned with an icy fire, intolerable for a few seconds and then numbing the pain. The ice fought with the flame. She tried to think of something else, to be conscious only of the rest of her body; but the throbbing in her arm pounded everything else into insensibility.

  “Are there strangers in the monastery?” Shandor was asking.

  “None, Father.” It was Brother Mark, allowing himself to sound gently offended. “Your orders were that we should admit no one. But there is the wagoner, you will recall, spending the night outside the main gates. We sent food out to him.”

  “A wagoner. Yes. Perhaps we would have been better advised . . .” Shandor broke off and said abruptly: “Mr. Kent, come with me. No, do not worry: your wife will be all right. Brother Mark will bandage her wrist and stay with her.”

  Again Diana wanted to reach out and hold Charles in her arms. She wanted him to stay with her. But they were going. They went out of the room and their footsteps hurried away along the resonant corridor.

  She opened her eyes and met Brother Mark’s solicitous gaze. When she made a feeble indication that she wanted to sit up, he put his arm behind her and lifted her. It made it easier for him to complete the bandaging. When he had finished, she sat on the edge of the bed. She did not want to succumb again. She did not want to rest, to sleep, to lay herself open to nightmares.

  Brother Mark understood without their needing to exchange a word. He sat on the hard chair against the wall, folded his hands in his lap, and sank into a reverie. She knew that if she wished to talk he would respond at once. But their shared silence was what she needed most at this moment. She was grateful to him for his gentle intuition.

  A rap at the door broke the spell. Brother Mark was on his feet at once. He went to the door and opened it.

  A man with a striking but ravaged face stood in the opening. He half crouched as though waiting for a blow—or as though, thought Diana obscurely, waiting to spring.