by Jan Burke
They slid the coffin lid off the edge of the box. Father and I looked down at Mother’s face. She looked peaceful, remarkably like the day we buried her, despite the three cold months that had passed. Her nails and hair appeared longer, and in places, her skin had turned reddish.
“Ahh,” Winston said, moving closer. “As I suspected. But we must examine the heart to be certain.”
“You’ll not touch her!” my father cried.
Winston smiled, and turned to the others. “Light the fire.”
“By God, Winston—”
“Oh, indeed, I’ll not touch your vampire wife. You must be the one.” He handed my father a long knife.
My father stared at it.
“Get on with it, man!” Winston ordered.
“John,” my father said, anguished, “leave us. Go home. It was wrong of me to bring you here—”
“I’ll not leave you, Father.”
He shook his head, but turned back to the open coffin. He set the knife aside, and with trembling fingers, tenderly moved her burial gown down from her neck. I heard him sob, then saw him lift the knife. He cut a gash in her chest.
“The heart, the heart!” Winston said eagerly.
Father’s face seemed to turn to stone—cold and gray. He pried the wound open, then took the knife and cut away her heart. Bloody fluid ran from the wound onto her dress.
“You see! She’s the one, she’s the vampire!”
As from a distance, I heard the other men gasp, and saw their quick gestures—signs against evil.
“Put it in the fire, Arden!” Winston directed.
“No!” I said weakly, but Father walked toward the blaze. He let the heart drop from his fingers; the fire hissed and sparked as it fell into the center of the flames.
Father walked back to Mother’s coffin, placed the lid on it, and began to hammer it shut. I picked up one of the other hammers—tears blinding me, I worked at his side. Without speaking, several men did the same for the other coffins. Each coffin was slowly lowered back into its grave, and in silence we began to cover them again—but Father buried Mother’s coffin alone, refusing the others’ help with a steely look in his eyes.
I saw Winston warming his hands over the fire. He caught me looking at him and smiled. “You should thank me. I’ve saved your life this day, John.”
Before the others could stop me, I slammed my fist into his jaw.
My father led me away from them, and with Isaac we made our way back home. All the way down the lane, I could not help but be troubled over what I had seen, and wondered at it. That my mother could be a vampire, I did not for a moment believe. I knew there must be a rational, scientific explanation for the blood that had been in my mother’s heart. I swore to myself that I would study anatomy and medicine—yes, and vampires, too—and learn all I could about consumption and its causes.
When we returned to the house, Noah held Nathan’s body in his arms.
• • •
My medical schooling was the best in New England. The Boston area had many fine schools, and Springhaven University was among them. Springhaven was the choice of my godfather, as it was his alma mater, and he was a respected alumnus and benefactor.
Medical school was not easy for me. The work itself was not difficult, though much harder than my earlier schooling, to be sure. I took to the reading, lectures, and discussions with great interest, but it was the hustle and bustle of Boston that caused me discomfort. The size of the city, its noises and smells, always left me ill at ease. Although I loved the work, I was homesick.
Early on, I learned that there had been nothing unusual about the appearance of my mother’s body, given the conditions of her burial—the coldness of the ground, the brief length of time she had been buried. The heart is a pump, my anatomy instructor said, and at death, blood and other fluids often settle there and in the chest cavity after the heart ceases beating.
My professors called consumption by another name—tuberculosis, or TB. Tuberculosis was not an enigma to these men of science. Over forty years before my brother’s death, sanitariums were being established in Europe, and TB patients were living longer lives. But of all the discoveries that had been made about the disease, perhaps the most exciting had come in 1882, when Robert Koch identified its true cause—Mycobacterium tuberculosis. Koch’s discovery proved that TB was transmitted from a consumptive to a healthy person through bacteria contained in the consumptive’s cough—not by vampires.
Although saddened that my knowledge had come too late to save my family, I had no difficulty accepting these new discoveries. But educating the public, whether the poor of Boston or the farmers of Carrick Hollow, was a challenge. I determined to practice medicine in Carrick Hollow upon graduation, to do my best to counter the superstitious remedies that offered no real hope to its inhabitants.
I visited one of my chief correspondents and supporters soon after my return—old Dr. Ashford received me gladly, and we talked at length about the medical histories of families in the area and exchanged information on the latest medical supplies and pharmaceuticals. We also discussed my schooling and how much medical education had changed since he had taken the title “doctor.”
“The War of the Rebellion was where I learned medicine,” he said. “We learned on our feet, not from the books. I haven’t had much of a head for the science of it—just tried to do what worked.” He paused, then added, “Remember, John, that folks here are quite independent, even when it comes to medicine. They take care of their own problems, using the same remedies their grandparents used. It’s hard to fight their traditions.”
“I suspect that will be the hardest part of my job,” I replied. “I have confidence that I can do some good here, if my neighbors will only accept me.”
“You’ve always had both the mind and the manner for medicine,” he said. “You’ll do well in Carrick Hollow. It’s time they had a doctor as fine as yourself.”
As it happened, the residents of the village took me in with open arms, proud of my accomplishments, and glad to have a physician so nearby. Several of them helped me to convert a building formerly used by a lawyer into a small clinic, which had the advantage of living quarters on the upper story.
I had the good fortune to be of some help to my first patients, and soon others were ready to follow my medical advice and help me to establish my practice. I fell easily into life in Carrick Hollow, surrounded by the sense of community I so missed in Boston.
Only one problem continued to trouble me—my father’s state of mind.
Father had never fully recovered from the deaths in our family, especially not from the loss of my mother. Noah had been greatly relieved when I told him that I meant to set up my practice in the village. “Perhaps you will be able to cheer him,” he said. “He has not been the same since—since the day Nathan died.”
But although he was always kind to me in those months, my father never smiled, and seldom spoke. His sleep was often disturbed by nightmares, and if not for our constant coaxing, he would not have eaten enough to keep his strength up. He worked hard, but the joy he had once taken in his labors was gone. There was a lost look in his eyes, and the smallest happiness seemed beyond his reach. It was as if, on that long ago day at the cemetery, his own heart had fallen on those flames, and turned to ashes with my mother’s.
His lifelessness was a condition found in others in Carrick Hollow—in Isaac Gardner, in Mr. Robinson, and in others who had performed Winston’s brutal ritual. Bitterly I reflected that nothing in my medical training would cure these men. I vowed that no one in Carrick Hollow would ever be forced to endure that ritual again.
Soon after I had opened my office, I was given an opportunity to make good on that vow. I was visited by Jacob Wilcox, a middle-aged man just returned to Carrick Hollow from factory work in Fall River. His rumbling cough was a tell-tale sign of tu
berculosis, but my examination revealed that the disease was in its early stages.
I recommended the best hope for his recovery—the strict regimens of a sanitarium. I suggested one in the Adirondack Mountains, which had the advantages of being close to Rhode Island and less costly than those in the western United States. He thanked me, took the information, and went on his way.
A few days later, at my father’s request, I visited the farm. Coming down the drive, hearing the welcoming bark of our old dogs, I felt what had become a customary mixture of sadness and deep comfort in returning to my childhood home. Noah and my father came out to help me stable the horse, and my brother and I spoke of inconsequential things. I could not help but notice that Father seemed agitated, and Noah wary.
My father did not broach the subject that concerned him until we had finished eating our simple meal—a meal he had barely touched. He put a log on the fire, then turned to me and said, “I’m told that you saw a patient with consumption today.”
“Yes,” I answered hesitantly. I had not previously told him of my devotion to the study of consumption, and I was concerned that he would be touched on the raw by any mention of it.
He frowned. “I talked to young Wilcox after you saw him. What is this treatment you prescribed? Why do you send him to the mountains?”
“In hope of curing his consumption,” I said.
“Curing! Is it possible?”
“Sometimes, yes.” I began to tell him of the benefits the TB patient might find in life in a sanitarium—exposure to a healthful climate, enforced rest, fresh air, proper care and good nutrition. “And of course, the sanitarium separates those who have this contagion from any who might be vulnerable to it, so the disease is less likely to be spread to others.”
“You have especially concerned yourself with the study of—you call it ‘TB?’ ”
“Yes.”
His questions became more persistent, and soon I was talking to him of Brehmer, Villemin, Koch and all the others whose discoveries had brought us to our present understanding of the disease. My father listened with rapt attention, but I saw that he became more and more uneasy as I spoke. Soon, however, I recognized that he was dismayed not by what I had learned about TB, but by his own previous ignorance.
“Dr. Ashford did not know of this!” he said. “Your mother, the children—their consumption was a death sentence! I should have sought another physician, a younger man, such as yourself. If we had known of these sanitariums—”
“It still might not have helped—sanitariums only give consumptives a chance to recover. Some people survive, others arrive only to die a few weeks later.”
“But Nathan—your mother, Robert and Daniel—all of them, even Rebecca—they might have lived had we sent Rebecca away?”
“I don’t know. There were so many others in Carrick Hollow who were ill that winter. Perhaps they would have caught TB from Mrs. Gardner, or Jane, or another. We cannot always cure this disease, Papa. I can’t say for certain who would live and who would die. For all that men in my profession have learned, life and death are still in God’s hands.”
He was silent.
“We cannot change the past, Papa. I only hope to save others from the horror our family experienced. In truth, my most difficult battle is not against the disease, but rather the ignorance—the sort of ignorance which allows men like Winston to convince others that the afflicted are beset by vampires. As long as he spouts his nonsense, others will die, because he will have his neighbors believing that spiritual mumbo jumbo—and not infection—are at the root of the disease.”
“You are too kind, John,” he said slowly. “You fail to mention the truly damned. Men like your father, who will be persuaded that barbaric rituals must be performed on the bodies of their dead—”
“Papa, you never believed him. You had other reasons. Do not torture yourself so!”
“There is no escape from it.”
“Then try to find some peace where I have—in helping the living. That is how my mother’s memory is best served—the sooner we educate our neighbors in the truth of this matter, the less influence men of Winston’s stripe will have over them.”
I was gratified, the next day, to see that he seemed to have dedicated himself to this cause, and that he was to some degree transformed by his devotion to it. Whenever I happened to glance out my office window, I saw my father talking in an animated fashion to any who would hear him. He was a respected member of the community, and had no shortage of listeners. Isaac Gardner was with him, and he, too, seemed to have taken up the banner. By the early afternoon, Mr. Robinson had stopped into my office to ask if what my father said was true—that vampires had nothing to do with consumption, that some people were being cured of it in sanitariums. I verified that it was so, and watched his eyes cloud with tears. “Then what Winston told me to do to Louisa’s body—the ritual—that was all for naught?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said gently.
He swore rather violently regarding Mr. Winston, then begged my pardon, and left. I watched him walk across the street to join the growing crowd that had gathered around my parent. I smiled. My father, Isaac Gardner and Mr. Robinson would all do a better job of convincing the others than I ever could.
I was vaguely aware that the crowd was moving off down the street, but I was soon caught up in the care of a young patient who had fallen from a tree, and forgot all about vampires and consumption. I set his broken arm, and sent him and his grateful mother on their way. I had just finished straightening my examination room when the door to my office burst open, and my father, Noah, Isaac Gardner, Robinson and a great many others came crowding into the room. They carried between them a man whose face was so battered and clothing so bloodied that I would not have recognized him were it not for a memorable piece of ostentation he was never without—a heavy gold watch chain.
“Winston!”
The others looked at me, their eyes full of fear.
“Lay him on the table!” I ordered.
It took only the briefest examination to realize that he was beyond any help I could offer. He was already growing cold. “He’s dead.”
I thought I heard sighs of relief, and I turned to face them. They all stood silently, hats in hand.
“Who did this?” I asked.
No one answered, and all lowered their eyes.
“Who did this?” I asked again.
“Vampires,” I heard someone whisper, but I was never to know who spoke the word. No matter what I asked, no matter how I pleaded to be told the truth, they remained resolutely silent. Winston’s blood was on all of them; there was no way to distinguish a single killer from among the group. I went to my basin, to wash his blood from my own hands. The thought arrested me. These were neighbors, friends—my father, my brother. I knew what had driven them to this—I knew. Had I not lived in Carrick Hollow almost all my life?
“What shall we do with him?” one of them asked. I dried my hands and said, in a voice of complete calm, “I believe it is said that for the good of the community, one who is made into a vampire must be cremated.”
• • •
I could show you the place in the woods where it was done, where the earth has not yet healed over the burning. Nature works to reclaim it, though, as nature ever works to reclaim us all.
I would like to tell you that the last vampire of Carrick Hollow had been laid to rest there, and that we now live in peace. But it is not so.
Not long after Winston’s death, people who had lived in our village all their lives began to leave it. Farms were abandoned. We would tell strangers that it was the economy—and in truth, some left because it was easier to make a living in the cities. But that would not explain the mistrust the inhabitants sometimes seem to feel toward one another, or the guilty look one might surprise in the faces of those who hastily travel past Winston’s
farm.
I thought the peddler was unlikely to return. He had seen something that frightened him, though he might not know enough to put a name to the emptiness in a young doctor’s eyes. I knew it for what it was, for I had seen it in my father and Isaac and Mr. Robinson and so many others—Carrick Hollow is a haunted place, haunted by the living as well as the dead.
Oh yes, I believe in vampires—though not the sort of bogeyman imagined by fanatics like the late and unlamented Winston.
But if vampires are the animated dead, dead who walk upon the earth—restless, hungry, and longing to be alive again—then I could never deny their existence. You see, I know so very many of them.
Indeed, I am one.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While Carrick Hollow and its inhabitants are entirely fictional, some New Englanders were ascribing the cause of consumption (tuberculosis) to vampires late into the 19th century; newspaper accounts and other evidence indicate rituals such as the one described here occurred at least as late as the 1890’s in rural Rhode Island.
Mea Culpa
It was going to be my turn next, and I should have been thinking about my sins, but I never could concentrate on my own sins—big as they were—once Harvey started his confession. I tried not to listen, but Harvey was a loud talker, and there was just no way that one wooden door was going to keep me from hearing him. There are lots of things I’m not good at anymore, but my hearing is pretty sharp. I wasn’t trying to listen in on him, though. He was just talking loud. I tried praying, I tried humming “Ave Maria” to myself, but nothing worked. Maybe it was because Harvey was talking about wanting to divorce my mother.
It was only me and Father O’Brien and Harvey in the church then, anyway. Just like always. Harvey said he was embarrassed about me, on account of me being a cripple, and that’s why he always waited until confessions were almost over. That way, none of his buddies on the parish council or in the Knights of Columbus would see him with me. But later, I figured it was because Harvey didn’t want anybody to know he had sins.