Vampire Stories to Tell in the Dark

by Anthony Masters

  ‘Dad.’

  He was in a deckchair, wearing a white linen jacket and an old panama hat. My father seemed reassuringly the same – the Englishman abroad. I loved him for it.

  He looked up and gave me a sweet, slow smile. ‘Had a good walk? Mum’s in the kitchen – producing something delicious.’

  ‘Have you been to the village?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I tried to get a drink in the shop, but she shut the door in my face.’

  ‘They always observe the siesta.’ He yawned, wanting one himself.

  ‘And there’s an old lady by the petrol-pump who gave me a funny sign.’ I repeated it to Dad, feeling rather idiotic as I did so. But he didn’t laugh.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  He looked concerned. ‘Did she cross herself afterwards?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She gave you the evil eye, then.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked indignantly.

  ‘It’s just an old custom.’

  ‘What kind of old custom?’ I persisted, wondering why he was being so evasive.

  ‘It’s to guard against Satan and the supernatural.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘But she only gave it to you because you’re a stranger. They’re very superstitious round here. Anyway – I bet you the old lady’s bonkers.’

  For some reason I didn’t think so.

  ‘What a pong,’ said Mum that evening, as we sat out in the courtyard listening to the noise of the grasshoppers rubbing their feet together.

  It was odd. Darkness had fallen; it had been a hot day and I could smell herbs and wild flowers. But all that was overlaid by a foul smell – something dead? The buried dogs? Surely they couldn’t smell like this – they’d been under the ground far too long for that. But there was a smell all right, and when I walked down to the cracked and sun-baked earth of the mounds the smell got worse. Much worse.

  My father stood beside me, sniffing. ‘That’s drains.’

  ‘There aren’t any, are there?’ I asked.

  ‘Cesspit then.’

  ‘We’re not on one,’ said Mum, coming up. ‘There’s a septic tank and it’s quite OK. I’ve just checked.’

  ‘It must be something buried,’ said my father reflectively.

  ‘Which only smells at night?’ I asked. ‘It certainly wasn’t smelling down here in the heat.’

  ‘Must be some kind of herb that sends off a scent in the evening then.’

  ‘Some scent,’ said Mum.

  I shivered. The night suddenly seemed cold.

  For some reason I woke about three and found the atmosphere of my room stiflingly hot. The contrast with the previous night was startling. I went to the window and flung wide the shutters, only to see the two mounds sharply etched in the moonlight. Both were cracked open.

  Should I get my parents? Should I go down there first and check them out? Maybe it was just a trick of the moonlight. Something inside me was insisting that I should go and find out by myself.

  A cold wind blew through the scrubby garden as I walked slowly down towards the mounds. The change in temperature made me feel exposed and deeply apprehensive, but the smell seemed to have gone.

  Eventually I stood beside the mounds in my dressing-gown, looking down with a mixture of fear and curiosity. They had cracked open at the top and earth had been flung everywhere, but when I peered into them I could only see darkness. Then I heard the click.

  The small gate in the garden wall had closed. Immediately the awful smell returned and I froze. The gate was just behind me and I didn’t want to turn round.

  The disgusting smell increased. Was that a cough I heard? I didn’t want to find out, so I raced for the house, running lightly up the stairs and back into my room. I closed the shutters quickly and huddled under the bedclothes until merciful, exhausted sleep eventually came.

  In the morning, the mounds were back to normal. There was no sign of disturbance and no smell. I felt tired but fairly calm.

  ‘Quite a crowd up at the churchyard this morning,’ said my father. ‘Apparently some graves were desecrated last night.’

  ‘How awful.’ Mum was horrified.

  ‘Terrible.’ I was very taken aback and remembered the click of the latch last night, as well as the all-pervasive smell. I had almost put it down to a dream – but not when I saw the dusty earth on my slippers. Should I tell them now, or would they think I was being idiotic? I decided to wait.

  ‘There are some policemen up there – and the local priest. They were all very upset.’ Dad turned to me. ‘You’ll be interested to know I got the evil eye too this morning.’

  ‘From the police?’ I stuttered.

  Dad smiled. ‘From the old lady. But the priest did have something to say to me: he wondered if we’d been disturbed last night.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘The vandals, I suppose.’

  That was the time I should have told them everything, but for some reason I just couldn’t.

  Later that morning, when my parents were in the house, I went down to have a look at the mounds again. They were completely undisturbed, so I decided to walk up to the churchyard.

  When I arrived, the police had gone and no one was around, but I could see that the wrought-iron gate of a large mausoleum had been smashed in and a stone sarcophagus had been dragged out of the vault.

  ‘Bonjour.’

  The priest was emerging from the Romanesque church. He was small and thin and spiky-looking.

  ‘Bonjour,’ I replied in a crashingly bad accent. ‘Comment ça va?’ I realized I was probably being too familiar and stopped in confusion, turning red and no doubt looking extremely stupid.

  ‘You are the little Carter girl?’ he said, switching to his good English.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the Benoit house?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m sorry to hear about the vandals,’ I remarked uncertainly, wondering if he would open up.

  ‘A terrible occurrence. Terrible.’ He looked at me closely. ‘There was a dreadful smell at the mausoleum this morning.’

  ‘Smell?’

  ‘Yes, of – putrefaction. Do you understand what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied uneasily. I understood all too well.

  ‘Do you know the smell I mean? You may have noticed it elsewhere?’ he probed.

  ‘Yes. In my – our – the back garden. There are two mounds.’

  ‘Ah.’ He smiled strangely. ‘Do you mind if I walk back to your house with you? We need to arrange an exorcism.’ His words sent a chill through me.

  We walked back through the village, passing the old lady by the petrol-pump. But she gave me no evil eye, looking humbly down at the pavement.

  ‘Marie and André Benoit used to live in the house you are staying in. It is my belief their love was forged in hell.’ The priest spoke seriously, with great sadness.

  ‘What did they do?’ I asked.

  ‘Terrorized the village.’

  ‘In what way?’ I persisted, determined to get him to tell me everything.

  He didn’t answer for what seemed like ages. Then he said unhappily, looking away from me, ‘They liked to drink blood.’

  ‘You mean they were –’

  ‘I’d prefer not to use the word. Eventually they were – dealt with by the community.’

  ‘You mean – killed.’ We were now away from the primitive villagers, but their barbarity seemed to surround us.

  ‘And they were buried in unconsecrated ground.’

  The full force of the situation suddenly hit me. ‘You mean the mounds –’

  ‘Are their graves, yes. But their souls have been restive over the years, particularly if the house is inhabited.’

  ‘You mean they’d like to drink our blood?’ I asked him in horror.

  But the priest shook his head. ‘No – I think they only have one obsession: to gain admission to holy ground. To be
cleansed and forgiven. To lie in peace.’

  ‘So the vandals last night –’

  ‘Were the Benoits, yes. But what can I do? I cannot let them into the graveyard.’

  ‘Not even now?’

  ‘No. If I exorcize them, hopefully their evil spirits will depart. It’s something I have resisted doing until now. It’s our last resort. And I suppose I am still afraid it might fail.’

  ‘Are you going to tell my parents all this?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. We are both priests, your father and I. We should have double strength. You must rely on me, my child.’

  I was possessed by one thought. Don’t bring my father into all this torment. Don’t let my dear dad get mixed up in all this.

  But a couple of hours later both he and the village priest were kneeling by the mounds, Bibles and crucifixes in hand, while my mother and I stood a few yards away. The afternoon was hot and the sweat ran into my eyes. The village priest intoned the prayers, Father provided the odd amen, and absolutely nothing happened. I could hear buzzing in the undergrowth, a dog howling somewhere in the village and, faintly, very faintly, the sound of a barge chugging up the lazy, sandy river.

  After the priest left, Mum made light of the ritual. I suppose she was trying to cheer us up and not spoil the holiday. I now hoped the whole deadly business had been a dream, but as I went to bed I was afraid. My last thought was of my father’s troubled face, refusing to be jollied out of his serious view by Mum. ‘No,’ he had told her. ‘It really isn’t just a superstitious ritual …’

  *

  I woke as the church clock struck two, with the familiar smell pervading the room.

  Struggling to breathe, I got out of bed and ran to open the shutters. In the moonlight I saw the priest had returned and was standing silently on the mounds, holding aloft the cross from the altar of the church. As he said his incantations, the dry earth began to split open, the vile smell increased and the priest’s voice faltered.

  Then I heard my father hurrying down the stairs. I wanted to stop him going outside, but he was already opening the back door and striding across the scrubby, dew-laden grass towards the body of the priest, which now lay on the ground. Then I heard the gate click open.

  The terrible couple were walking slowly but purposefully up the road, their ragged shapes just visible in the faint moonlight.

  ‘Don’t follow them,’ said Dad.

  ‘We’ve got to warn the village,’ I cried.

  But I needn’t have panicked. The villagers were ready.

  The dark crowd, armed with stakes, crosses and hammers, waited by the churchyard wall. The Benoits, arm in arm, walked towards them. I heard the dreadful sound of the dry husk of their voices as they pleaded – and pleaded again.

  My parents took me away as the stakes found their mark.

  A long silence followed Sarah’s story. Then Jodie put her arms round her.

  ‘Now,’ said Tom. ‘Let me tell you a story about a laboratory.’

  6

  A Deadly Experiment

  For many years my friend Vic’s father Don had been employed by STL, a specialist laboratory, which was under threat from government cutbacks. But surprisingly Don, a distinguished chemist, had recently resigned from the company.

  His explanation seemed rational but out of character for such a dedicated scientist. ‘I’m sorry, Vic. I can’t take any more attacks and break-ins from these Animal Rights activists. I want to find a job somewhere which is safer. I have to think of you and your mother.’

  The Animal Rights group considered STL were being cruel to the many mice, rats and monkeys they bred and studied. Don had always denied any cruelty and Vic had believed him implicitly. He was a good, kind man and would never hurt anything helpless. But now Don couldn’t sleep and, in the early evenings, spent much of his time anxiously scanning the heavens. Was he having a nervous breakdown, wondered Vic.

  On several occasions he had tried to tackle him, but his latest attempt met with a sharp rebuff.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Mm?’ He was standing absently in the front room, looking out across the suburban street and up at the fading light in the autumn sky.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Up?’ He looked startled and then recovered himself. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘This is the fourth evening in a row I’ve found you here, looking up at the sky. Always at twilight. And you seem worried. Something must be going on.’ There was no reply, but his father seemed to be gazing intently at a gaunt little tree in the opposite front garden. Vic watched his father’s hands shake as he secured the latch on the window.

  ‘You must make sure the windows are closed these early evenings.’

  ‘But it’s so hot –’

  ‘There’s an autumn chill. Definitely a chill. I don’t want to find them open. I’ve already told your mother.’

  ‘OK. What’s so special about that tree?’ asked Vic.

  ‘What tree?’

  ‘The one you were staring at just now.’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  Don moved away from the window quickly, pulling the curtains behind him, but not before Vic had seen what looked like a dark shape in amongst the top branches.

  When he woke the next morning, the house was in commotion: his parents’ voices were raised and his little sister was sobbing. What on earth could have happened, wondered Vic. Then he heard his mother’s tread on the stairs. She knocked on the door but came in immediately, looking devastated.

  ‘What’s happened?’ He was scared now, sitting bolt upright in bed. He had never seen her like this before.

  ‘It’s your dad’s ex-colleague –’

  ‘Professor Simmons?’

  ‘He’s been murdered. Your dad’s gone down to the lab, but he said he’d be back as soon as he could.’

  As it was a Saturday, Vic waited impatiently for his father to come home, but when he eventually arrived he looked stricken.

  ‘Who was it?’ Vic asked cautiously.

  ‘They don’t know. They’re talking about muggers. But the police can’t – oh, it doesn’t matter.’ He stopped short and it was as if a wall had come down between them.

  ‘Dad –’ Vic said desperately.

  ‘Leave it!’ His father replied sharply. ‘Just leave it.’

  Later, as Vic sat in his room, he heard the telephone ring and his father answer. There was some muttered conversation and then he heard the sound of a falling body. Vic rushed down to discover his father picking himself up, a look of horror on his face.

  Vic was terrified. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

  ‘He told me the same would happen to me,’ he muttered.

  ‘Who told you? And what will happen?’

  Immediately his father clammed up. ‘It’s nothing. Something went wrong at the lab.’

  ‘Another murder?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Then what?’ demanded Vic.

  His father paused, as if he was thinking quickly. ‘An experiment went wrong. Someone got hurt, but not badly.’ He was clearly pulling himself together now, shutting Vic out again. ‘It was just a shock. I’m afraid that Professor Simmons’ death – has made me – feel very shaken up. I’ll go upstairs and lie down.’

  Late in the afternoon, Vic decided to go to the lab. He knew he wouldn’t be allowed inside, but he had to think, make a plan, be near the place where such sinister events were happening. Above all, he had to devise some way to help his father.

  The police had gone when he arrived at the long, low, one-storey building on the industrial estate at the edge of town. Looking at his watch, Vic saw that it was almost time for the staff to leave, so he hid in the space between the fence and the wall.

  He waited for an hour until well after the staff had gone home. In fact the whole industrial estate emptied out at around six, so he thought it would be safe enough to have a look round the back of the building, even if he had no cha
nce of getting in.

  Vic climbed quickly over the fence and jumped down into the yard behind the lab. Then, after a long and panicky search, he was amazed to find a small window that would lever up sufficiently for him to squeeze through.

  Vic had visited the building several times and, once inside, he soon found his way through to the main lab and headed towards the section where his father had worked. There was complete silence, except for the quiet humming of the central heating.

  Fixed to a wall over one. of the work stations was a cage with a heavy steel mesh on the front. It looked brand new; he definitely hadn’t seen it on his previous visits. Vic thought there was a slight scratching sound inside, but before he could investigate he heard the sound of wheels on the drive outside. He froze. Could this be an intruder? An Animal Rights activist who might do him some harm? A minute or so later the sound of a key turning in a lock threw Vic into a state of total panic.

  Where could he hide? There seemed nowhere in the gleaming, methodically planned lab. The only possible place was a steel filing cabinet that stood slightly away from the wall and had cleaning materials behind it. Tucking himself into the gap with frantic speed, he managed to conceal himself, one foot all too near a can of cleaning fluid.

  A few moments later a quiet, brisk, anonymously dressed man stepped into the room, and Vic instantly recognized him as STL’s managing director, Simon Maxted. He was wheeling a trolley. Going over to the cage he detached it from the wall and held it up to the security light. Maxted stared inside for a good long time as if he was thinking deeply. Then he seemed to come to a decision. Slowly, carefully, he placed the cage on the trolley and stood listening. All Vic could hear was the dry scratching sound he had picked up earlier. He shuddered. What on earth could be inside that made such a sinister sound? A fanciful thought came into his head. Could the lab be developing some mutant species?

  Maxted slowly, delicately, wheeled the trolley out of the room. Straining his ears, Vic heard the main door open, shut quietly and the key turn in the lock. After another minute or so, he could just make out the sound of a car engine. He listened until it died away. Then the silence around him deepened.