Vampires: The Recent Undead
Page 48
When’s the next post? I’m bored. NoE
He posts on the full moon, as anyone intelligent could figure out. Dark Angel
Hi Black Lily. Welcome to hell! Vampira
Testament #3
So many lány, so very little time. I am amazed at how the gentler sex finds it way to me, lepkék-hoz egy láng or, as the English speakers say, moths to the flame. There! I have already tarnished my reputation as a high-born lady by littering this site with clichés. I am an educated woman, an exceptional creature for the place and time of my birth—Hungary, 1560. Destined to be a Countess or to carry some other high-born title, I learned at my mother’s knee to read and write four languages and a smattering of three others at a time when women received little or no education. But this damned English language! It stymies me now, so lacking as it is in innuendo. In any event, I am known to all of you already, I am quite sure. Countess Erzsébet Báthory, aka the Bloody Lady of Čachtice. And now you will hear the truth!
How can I convey my extraordinary life to you VICTIMS who speak with one another electronically and share but an image that may or may not reflect who you are? I can only tell each of you, my precious little ones, that four hundred and fifty years ago life was primitive by today’s standards, even for those of us of noble birth. Primitive and dangerous.
Luckily, I was somewhat protected. For the daughter of parents directly related to two distinguished vivodes, or warlords, of Transylvania, and niece of the King of Poland, how could it have been otherwise? In fact, I was next in line to be Queen of Poland, a task for which I was eminently suited and one which met my ambitions.
At the tender age of eleven, I was were already betrothed for political reasons to a rather rough soldier named Ferenc Nádasdy who stank of garlic morning, noon and night. My parents sent me to Nádasdy Castle in Sárvár. It was not against my will. Perhaps you cannot grasp the concept of an arranged marriage. Such unions were the practice everywhere among the wealthy and this one spoke to the goals of my parents as well as my own. Betrothal is not marriage, and even as a young girl I was keenly aware of the difference. A charming peasant in the village—a blacksmith as I recall—took my maidenhead—oh did I bleed! My first enrapture with blood! From that union I suffered a stillborn daughter. The gods owed me!
You must indulge me. I love talking about myself. So much has been written about me, and I think you should all know the truth. And where better to hear it than from my own, perfect lips!
Yes, you guessed it, I was an exquisite girl, my beauty legendary, and the times were such that four years later Nadasdy, smitten with me, forgave my indiscretions and married me anyway. Perhaps the best part of the marriage was his wedding gift to me, his home Čachtice Castle, situated in the Carpathian Mountains near Trenčín, together with the Čachtice country house and seventeen adjacent villages.
Ferenc was reasonable for a man, but a soldier to the core, and a beautiful, young, intelligent wife could not hold the attention for long of a man who longed for battle. Three years after the nuptials he was appointed chief commander of the Hungarian troops and off to war for much of the remainder of the marriage. I’ll just say that I was not heart-broken.
Managing such a vast estate and being charged with protecting our lands, especially during more than a decade of war, took up much of my time, yes, but not all. There were servants, many, to be managed. The role of Countess is exhausting, yet I fulfilled my responsibilities, even intervening in the causes of peasant women who needed help for one thing or another.
Then, one day, I had a rude awakening. In my silvered hand mirror I found a shocking sight. My flawless porcelain skin, famous in four countries, showed signs of aging. A wrinkle here, a sag there . . . How had I not noticed before? But I did now, and the awareness hit deep in my chest. At that very moment a szolga or servant girl had been brushing my hair and allowed the boar’s bristles to tangle in my dark tresses, yanking my head back sharply. Instinctively, I slapped her, hard enough that a drop of blood splattered onto my cheek. Mesmerized, I stared in the mirror, watching the vitae drip down my skin. Impulsively, I rubbed the glistening ruby liquid into my cheek. And it seemed to me then that the flesh on that side of my face took on a new hue, a glow of vitality.
This discovery led to musing and long discussions with several of my most trusted and loyal servants, including Dorka who was closer to me than the others. We came to the conclusion that the blood produced an alchemical transformation. Blood was the answer, the elixir guaranteed to stave off the ravages of time.
One thing, as they say, led to another. At first, with Dorka’s help, I drew blood from the servants, but the stupid girls resisted my humane methods and quickly we resorted to the whip. Dorka used the hide liberally and I admit that from time to time I took a turn flailing. The blood of the screaming peasant girls who unfortunately often perished in the experiment was gathered and applied to my face and, astonished, I immediately saw the change occur. Suddenly I looked younger, as if I had discovered the Spanish explorer Juan Ponce de León’s Fountain of Youth.
I acknowledge to you all now that perhaps I allowed Dorka and the others to go too far. They not only whipped but they burned, froze, starved and bit girls, needles under the fingernails, and mutilation of faces and genitalia, all in an effort to, as they assured me, “excite the vér and render it more potent” which, at the time, seemed a reasonable avenue to pursue.
Several years passed and it occurred to me that what worked magic on the face and the neck would transform just as well skin on the entire body. I knew that in order to achieve the desired effect I needed a constant supply of girls. Too quickly I ran out of expendable servants and was forced to bring in female peasant from the villages, lured to the castle with the promise of well-paid work as maidservants. The job required living at the castle full-time, no days off as you modern workers are offered. Consequently these girls never returned home. No one missed them. They were hung upside down, their veins sliced open, their precious offerings caught in my bath. My skin stayed lovely and fresh as the day I’d wed Ferenc. For a time, all was well.
Then, on another fateful day, I stared in my damned mirror lamenting that I was no longer the fairest in the land, despite daily treatments with the magic potent. I became furious and threw the mirror against the wall, shattering it to bits. Dorka, as always, comforted me. She brought me to the realization that it was some basic coarseness in the blood of these paraszt that left my skin unnourished. Dorka insisted that I required refined blood, and the only way to have that would be to acquire refined donors.
Through my many contacts I was able to invite the daughters of nobles to my home, ostensibly to be trained in the ways of the aristocracy. I generously offered to be their mentor, assuring these young women would possess the manners, skills and intelligence needed to function at the level of society to which they aspired—one level up. I was overwhelmed with requests to take in these well-born girls and tutor them. You can see that I had little choice in the matter. Fate called me to preservation.
I procured a house in Bucharest on a small street that has today come to be called Blood Alley. This is where I met these refined girls as they came to the city. With the help of a German clockmaker, I created a design, ingenious if I say so myself, and far ahead of its time. I called it the Iron Virgin—a later design which imitated my own was known as the Iron Maiden. But I named this Virgin for I had realized rather early on the exquisite and dramatic effects of virgin blood which far outweighed that of non-virgins. Anyway, the device allowed me to imprison a girl in a sarcophagus then hoist the apparatus to the ceiling. Within this iron structure with its painted blue eyes, the yellow hair of one of my prettier princesses and the white perfect teeth of another, were long spikes that, as the door slammed shut and automatically locked, pierced the flesh in such a manner and in so many places that the blood was permitted to flow freely down to a tub below in which I was immersed. With a small leap of the imagination I am certain you can envision my ecstasy.
Any woman could.
I can still recall the sharp, sweet aroma and the tangy-sweet taste as the vitae engulfed my flesh, the hot blood burning through my skin, altering it with its magical properties, transforming what had become old and tired and revitalizing my body. I reveled in the blood. It filled my mouth, my nose, and I gulped it down greedily, allowing it to burn away from the inside the dross of age and reveal the hidden, nearly lost beauty of my youth. Call it early Botox!
I am certain that each girl VICTIM understands my pursuit, my desire to stay attractive at any price. And if you do not now understand it, you will!
These noble girls performed a service for me. I took possession of their youth gratefully and they gave up their lives in the same way, gratefully, at least in their hearts. A symbiosis. A sacrifice. For the greater good. Isn’t that obvious?
In any event, I continued in this way for many years, retaining my beauty to the amazement of those in my social circle. During this time, at age forty-four, I became a widow, barely noticing. Ferenc had been absent for some years. He died at the hand of a general, or having been killed in battle, or murdered by a prostitute in Bucharest whom he refused to pay—take your pick. I had little interest in his fate. And upon his demise I inherited his wealth and consequently had no shortage of suitors lured as much by my youthful beauty as by the hope of marrying my money and power. But I barely tolerated these leeches. Especially now that I was in direct line for the throne. I was, you see, on the verge of becoming the Queen of Poland! And now, sweet VICTIMS, you understand the greater good, do you not?
Alas, nothing continues forever. Mine was a political era and rumors abounded about illicit practices involving witchcraft at my estate and at my house in Bucharest. While the deaths of peasant girls were tolerated or ignored, the offspring of nobles was duly noted. Eventually, in 1610, I was brought to trial, found guilty of twenty-five years of abuses. Three of my most trusted servants were burned alive as witches, including Dorka. From my window I watch her body blacken, her dark hair catch fire and all the while I listened as her screams filled my ears.
I was charged with bringing about the deaths through sadistic torture of 650 girls, an absurd number. Although I kept no written records, I did compile a tally in my head and the numbers had been triple that, at least!
During this sham trial I refused to respond with the regret or remorse expected. After all, I was a Countess and did not deign to address their ridiculous accusations. Consequently, without being found guilty because of my station, I received the harshest punishment—I were walled up alive in the tower of my own castle where I remained for the next three years, being fed through a slot like an animal. Were the powers-that-be concerned with the deaths? Of course not! The entire charade of a trial was a strategic move on the part of the then heads of state to usurp my land and my wealth, which they did, and to keep me from ascending to the throne. A woman then had few legal recourses.
Ah, but did I not have the last laugh? You see, the blood not only changed my skin but it altered every aspect of my being, body and soul. Not only did I return to youth, but that youth became eternal, and my taste for blood infinite.
When I stopped eating, they finally opened the tower door. But I was not there! My body, you see, has never been found. The pathetic paraszt who resided near Nádasdy Castle have insisted for centuries, to this day in fact, that they can hear the wail of girls being tortured to death, and my sparkling laugh as I delight in the voluptuous richness of their young blood. Me, whom these cretins call vámpír!
So many young and pretty girls here! And of course you understand. There are far more important concerns that those of a petty nature, what might be deemed “personal’ problems. The greater good must prevail! You are not VICTIMS but lovers of history, of tradition, of fate. Surely, my pretties, you would like to meet me? Ah, to surrender to a larger fate, what better destiny . . . ?
VICTIMS:
Awesome! Harry Lewis
That story chills my bones, man. Nosferatu
Where’s all the chicks? How come they aren’t posting anymore? NoElm
Maybe they got tired of your stupidity! Harry Lewis
Hey, how’s it going? Thought I’d check this out. Vampire of Dusseldorf
Hey V of D. Good to meet you! Harry Lewis
Yeah, man, it’s getting lonely here without chicks. NoElm
Doesn’t matter to me. I’m gay. And German. Vampire of Dusseldorf
That’s a problem. NoElm
Being gay? Vampire of Dusseldorf
Being German! NoElm
Groan! Nosferatu
Don’t you think it’s weird that every time this guy tells a story, VICTIMS disappear? I mean, the missing people are like the people in the stories! Nosferatu
It’s coincidental, man. Do I have to remind you we’re on the Net. There aren’t any vampires here! NoElm
Testament #4
Landsmann! A Deutsch amongst the VICTIMS! Vampire of Düsseldorf. Düsseldorf. Northwest of Köln, ja? I am familiar with your small city. Und your reputation!
Have you not heard of me? My name is Fritz. Fritz Haarmann. Like you, I have been identified for eternity. They call me The Hanover Vampire, The Butcher of Hanover, oh, so many names! We are alike, you and I, but different. But you have a taste for girls while my predilection is for boys. Not for you but for me, there are many now here amongst the VICTIMS . . .
THE WIDE, CARNIVOROUS SKY
John Langan
Our final story, “The Wide, Canivorous Sky,” was re-published (as was our first) in The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror: 2010. I’m pleased to present this novella again because—like Holly Black’s tale—it is not only an outstanding vampire story, it’s simply an outstanding story. And, pragmatically, I suspect there will be many readers to whom the story will be new. It’s another answer to those who think the vampire is no longer seen as a monster, that the icon appears so often these days as the desirable anti-hero, or the outright hero, or a sexy butt-kicking babe, or a kid’s chum, or a pin-up for tweens to swoon over . . . and so on . . . that there’s nothing left to fear. It’s also more proof that although the “dreaded fiend” trope may suffer from the “same old story too often retold” syndrome, that there’s still such a thing as a highly effective, thoroughly relevant, completely twenty-first century scary vampire story.
John Langan is the author of novel House of Windows (2009) and collection Mr. Gaunt and Other Uneasy Encounters (2008). Creatures, an anthology he is editing with Paul Tremblay will be published this fall. He lives in Upstate New York with his wife, son, dog, and two cats.
I
9:13 PM
From the other side of the campfire, Lee said, “So it’s a vampire.”
“I did not say vampire,” Davis said. “Did you hear me say vampire?”
It was exactly the kind of thing Lee would say, the gross generalization that obscured more than it clarified. Not for the first time since they’d set out up the mountain, Davis wondered at their decision to include Lee in their plans.
Lee held up his right hand, index finger extended. “It has the fangs.”
“A mouthful of them.”
Lee raised his middle finger. “It turns into a bat.”
“No—its wings are like a bat’s.”
“Does it walk around with them?”
“They—it extrudes them from its arms and sides.”
“ ’Extrudes’?” Lee said.
Han chimed in: “College.”
Not this shit again, Davis thought. He rolled his eyes to the sky, dark blue studded by early stars. Although the sun’s last light had drained from the air, his stomach clenched. He dropped his gaze to the fire.
The Lieutenant spoke. “He means the thing extends them out of its body.”
“Oh,” Lee said. “Sounds like it turns into a bat to me.”
“Uh-huh,” Han said.
“Whatever,” Davis said. “It doesn’t—”
Lee extended hi
s ring finger and spoke over him. “It sleeps in a coffin.”
“Not a coffin—”
“I know, a flying coffin.”
“It isn’t—it’s in low-Earth orbit, like a satellite.”
“What was it you said it looked like?” the Lieutenant asked. “A cocoon?”
“A chrysalis,” Davis said.
“Same thing,” the Lieutenant said.
“More or less,” Davis said, unwilling to insist on the distinction because, even a year and three-quarters removed from Iraq, the Lieutenant was still the Lieutenant and you did not argue the small shit with him.
“Coffin, cocoon, chrysalis,” Lee said, “it has to be in it before sunset or it’s in trouble.”
“Wait,” Han said. “Sunset.”
“Yes,” Davis began.
“The principle’s the same,” the Lieutenant said. “There’s a place it has to be and a time it has to be there by.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lee said. He raised his pinky. “And, it drinks blood.”
“Yeah,” Davis said, “it does.”
“Lots,” Han said.
“Yeah,” the Lieutenant said.
For a moment, the only sounds were the fire popping and, somewhere out in the woods, an owl prolonging its question. Davis thought of Fallujah.
“Okay,” Lee said, “how do we kill it?”
II
2004
There had been rumors, stories, legends of the things you might see in combat. Talk to any of the older guys, the ones who’d done tours in Vietnam, and you heard about a jungle in which you might meet the ghosts of Chinese invaders from five centuries before; or serve beside a grunt whose heart had been shot out a week earlier but who wouldn’t die; or find yourself stalked by what you thought was a tiger but had a tail like a snake and a woman’s voice. The guys who’d been part of the first war in Iraq—“The good one,” a sailor Davis knew called it—told their own tales about the desert, about coming across a raised tomb, its black stone worn free of markings, and listening to someone laughing inside it all the time it took you to walk around it; about the dark shapes you might see stalking through a sandstorm, their arms and legs a child’s stick-figures; about the sergeant who swore his reflection had been killed so that, when he looked in a mirror now, a corpse stared back at him. Even the soldiers who’d returned from Afghanistan talked about vast forms they’d seen hunched at the crests of mountains; the street in Kabul that usually ended in a blank wall, except when it didn’t; the pale shapes you might glimpse darting into the mouth of the cave you were about to search. A lot of what you heard was bullshit, of course, the plot of a familiar movie or TV show adapted to new location and cast of characters, and a lot of it started off sounding as if it were headed somewhere interesting then ran out of gas halfway through. But there were some stories about which, even if he couldn’t quite credit their having happened, some quality in the teller’s voice, or phrasing, caused him to suspend judgment.