The Book of the Living Dead

by John Richard Stephens

  By half-past ten we were both getting very tired, and I began to think that perhaps after all we should see nothing that night. However, soon after eleven we observed a light mist rising from the “Sarah Tomb.” It seemed to scintillate and sparkle as it rose, and curled in a sort of pillar or spiral.

  I said nothing, but I heard the Rector give a sort of gasp as he clutched my arm feverishly.

  “Great Heaven!” he whispered, “it is taking shape.”

  And, true enough, in a very few moments we saw standing erect by the tomb the ghastly figure of the Countess Sarah!

  She looked thin and haggard still, and her face was deadly white; but the crimson lips looked like a hideous gash in the pale cheeks, and her eyes glared like red coals in the gloom of the church.

  It was a fearful thing to watch as she stepped unsteadily down the aisle, staggering a little as if from weakness and exhaustion. This was perhaps natural, as her body must have suffered much physically from her long incarceration, in spite of the unholy forces which kept it fresh and well.

  We watched her to the door, and wondered what would happen; but it appeared to present no difficulty, for she melted through it and disappeared.

  “Now, Grant,” I said, “do you believe?”

  “Yes,” he replied, “I must. Everything is in your hands, and I will obey your commands to the letter, if you can only instruct me how to rid my poor people of this unnameable terror.”

  “By God’s help I will,” said I; “but you shall be yet more convinced first, for we have a terrible work to do, and much to answer for in the future, before we leave the church again this morning. And now to work, for in its present weak state the Vampire will not wander far, but may return at any time, and must not find us unprepared.”

  We stepped down from the pulpit and, taking dog-roses and garlic from the vestry, proceeded to the tomb. I arrived first and, throwing off the wooden cover, cried, “Look! It is empty!” There was nothing there! Nothing except the impress of the body in the loose damp mold!

  I took the flowers and laid them in a circle round the tomb, for legend teaches us that Vampires will not pass over these particular blossoms if they can avoid it.

  Then, eight or ten feet away, I made a circle on the stone pavement, large enough for the Rector and myself to stand in, and within the circle I placed the implements that I had brought into the church with me.

  “Now,” I said,“from this circle, which nothing unholy can step across, you shall see the Vampire face to face, and see her afraid to cross that other circle of garlic and dog-roses to regain her unholy refuge. But on no account step beyond the holy place you stand in, for the Vampire has a fearful strength not her own, and, like a snake, can draw her victim willingly to his own destruction.”

  Now so far my work was done, and, calling the Rector, we stepped into the Holy Circle to await the Vampire’s return.

  Nor was this long delayed. Presently a damp, cold odor seemed to pervade the church, which made our hair bristle and flesh to creep. And then, down the aisle with noiseless feet came That which we watched for.

  I heard the Rector mutter a prayer, and I held him tightly by the arm, for he was shivering violently.

  Long before we could distinguish the features we saw the glowing eyes and the crimson sensual mouth. She went straight to her tomb, but stopped short when she encountered my flowers. She walked right round the tomb seeking a place to enter, and as she walked she saw us. A spasm of diabolical hate and fury passed over her face; but it quickly vanished, and a smile of love, more devilish still, took its place. She stretched out her arms towards us. Then we saw that round her mouth gathered a bloody froth, and from under her lips long pointed teeth gleamed and champed.

  She spoke: a soft soothing voice, a voice that carried a spell with it, and affected us both strangely, particularly the Rector. I wished to test as far as possible, without endangering our lives, the Vampire’s power.

  Her voice had a soporific effect, which I resisted easily enough, but which seemed to throw the Rector into a sort of trance. More than this: it seemed to compel him to her in spite of his efforts to resist.

  “Come!” she said—“come! I give sleep and peace—sleep and peace—sleep and peace.”

  She advanced a little towards us; but not far, for I noted that the Sacred Circle seemed to keep her back like an iron hand.

  My companion seemed to become demoralized and spellbound. He tried to step forward and, finding me detain him, whispered, “Harry, let go! I must go! She is calling me! I must! I must! Oh, help me! help me!” And he began to struggle.

  It was time to finish.

  “Grant!” I cried, in a loud, firm voice, “in the name of all that you hold sacred, have done and play the man!” He shuddered violently and gasped, “Where am I?” Then he remembered, and clung to me convulsively for a moment.

  At this a look of damnable hate changed the smiling face before us, and with a sort of shriek she staggered back.

  “Back!” I cried. “Back to your unholy tomb! No longer shall you molest the suffering world! Your end is near.”

  It was fear that now showed itself in her beautiful face—for it was beautiful in spite of its horror—as she shrank back, back and over the circlet of flowers, shivering as she did so. At last, with a low mournful cry, she appeared to melt back again into her tomb.

  As she did so the first gleams of the rising sun lit up the world, and I knew all danger was over for the day.

  Taking Grant by the arm, I drew him with me out of the circle and led him to the tomb. There lay the Vampire once more, still in her living death as we had a moment before seen her in her devilish life. But in the eyes remained that awful expression of hate, and cringing, appalling fear.

  Grant was pulling himself together.

  “Now,” I said, “will you dare the last terrible act and rid the world for ever of this horror?”

  “By God!” he said solemnly, “ I will. Tell me what to do.”

  “Help me to lift her out of her tomb. She can harm us no more,” I replied.

  With averted faces we set to our terrible task, and laid her out upon the flags.

  “Now,” I said, “read the Burial Service over the poor body, and then let us give it its release from this living hell that holds it.”

  Reverently the Rector read the beautiful words, and reverently I made the necessary responses. When it was over I took the stake and, without giving myself time to think, plunged it with all my strength through the heart.

  As though really alive, the body for a moment writhed and kicked convulsively, and an awful heart-rending shriek woke the silent church; then all was still.

  Then we lifted the poor body back; and, thank God! the consolation that legend tells is never denied to those who have to do such awful work as ours came at last. Over the face stole a great and solemn peace; the lips lost their crimson hue, the prominent sharp teeth sank back into the mouth, and for a moment we saw before us the calm, pale face of a most beautiful woman, who smiled as she slept. A few minutes more, and she faded away to dust before our eyes as we watched. We set to work and cleaned up every trace of our work, and then departed for the rectory. Most thankful were we to step out of the church, with its horrible associations, into the rosy warmth of the summer morning.

  With the above end the notes in my father’s diary, though a few days later this further entry occurs:—

  July 15th. Since the 12th everything has been quiet and as usual. We replaced and sealed up the “Sarah Tomb” this morning. The workmen were surprised to find the body had disappeared, but took it to be the natural result of exposing it to the air.

  One odd thing came to my ears today. It appears that the child of one of the villagers strayed from home the night of the 11th inst., and was found asleep in a coppice near the church, very pale and quite exhausted. There were two small marks on her throat, which have since disappeared.

  What does this mean? I have, however, kept it to mys
elf, as, now that the Vampire is no more, no further danger either to that child or any other is to be apprehended. It is only those who die of the Vampire’s embrace that become Vampires at death in their turn.

  TEIG O’KANE AND THE CORPSE

  Douglas Hyde

  Douglas Hyde was an Irish scholar of the Gaelic language and the founder of the Gaelic League, which played a significant role in the preservation of Irish culture. He went on to become Ireland’s first president. This story, translated from one of his books, was included in a volume by W. B. Yeats, who described it as a “magnificent story.”

  In it, Teig O’Kane encounters a group of fairies, but these fairies are not the Tinkerbell-type fairies that most people are familiar with. The fairies of Irish folklore that people actually believed in were extremely dangerous shape-shifting spirits who often did terrible things to people. The term had a much broader sense and encompassed a wide variety of spirits, from poltergeist-like creatures to water horses. People generally didn’t mention them at all, for fear of attracting them. When they did speak of them, they usually used euphemisms, such as “the good people” or “the little people,” to keep from pissing them off. Folks did a lot of things to avoid fairies because some of them really enjoyed tormenting people, which is what happens to Teig O’Kane in this tale.

  There was once a grown-up lad in the County Leitrim, and he was strong and lively, and the son of a rich farmer. His father had plenty of money, and he did not spare it on the son. Accordingly, when the boy grew up he liked sport better than work, and, as his father had no other children, he loved this one so much that he allowed him to do in everything just as it pleased himself. He was very extravagant, and he used to scatter the gold money as another person would scatter the white. He was seldom to be found at home, but if there was a fair, or a race, or a gathering within ten miles of him, you were dead certain to find him there. And he seldom spent a night in his father’s house, but he used to be always out rambling, and, like Shawn Bwee long ago, there was “grádh gach cailin i mbrollach a léine,” “the love of every girl in the breast of his shirt,” and it’s many’s the kiss he got and he gave, for he was very handsome, and there wasn’t a girl in the country but would fall in love with him, only for him to fasten his two eyes on her, and it was for that someone made this rann on him—

  “Feuch an rógaire ’g iarraidh póige,

  Ni h-iongantas móré a bheith mar atá

  Ag leanamhaint a gcómhnuidhe d’árnán na gráineóige

  Anuas ’s anios’s nna chodladh ’sa’ lá.”

  “Look at the rogue, it’s for kisses he’s rambling,

  It isn’t much wonder, for that was his way;

  He’s like an old hedgehog, at night he’ll be scrambling

  From this place to that, but he’ll sleep in the day.”

  At last he became very wild and unruly. He wasn’t to be seen day nor night in his father’s house, but always rambling or going on his kailee (night-visit) from place to place and from house to house, so that the old people used to shake their heads and say to one another, “it’s easy seen what will happen to the land when the old man dies; his son will run through it in a year, and it won’t stand him that long itself.”

  He used to be always gambling and card-playing and drinking, but his father never minded his bad habits, and never punished him. But it happened one day that the old man was told that the son had ruined the character of a girl in the neighborhood, and he was greatly angry, and he called the son to him, and said to him, quietly and sensibly—“Avic [my son],” says he, “you know I loved you greatly up to this, and I never stopped you from doing your choice thing whatever it was, and I kept plenty of money with you, and I always hoped to leave you the house and land, and all I had after myself would be gone; but I heard a story of you today that has disgusted me with you. I cannot tell you the grief that I felt when I heard such a thing of you, and I tell you now plainly that unless you marry that girl I’ll leave house and land and everything to my brother’s son. I never could leave it to anyone who would make so bad a use of it as you do yourself, deceiving women and coaxing girls. Settle with yourself now whether you’ll marry that girl and get my land as a fortune with her, or refuse to marry her and give up all that was coming to you; and tell me in the morning which of the two things you have chosen.”

  “Och! Domnoo Sheery! father, you wouldn’t say that to me, and I such a good son as I am. Who told you I wouldn’t marry the girl?” says he.

  But his father was gone, and the lad knew well enough that he would keep his word too; and he was greatly troubled in his mind, for as quiet and as kind as the father was, he never went back of a word that he had once said, and there wasn’t another man in the country who was harder to bend than he was.

  The boy did not know rightly what to do. He was in love with the girl indeed, and he hoped to marry her some time or other, but he would much sooner have remained another while as he was, and follow on at his old tricks—drinking, sporting and playing cards; and, along with that, he was angry that his father should order him to marry, and should threaten him if he did not do it.

  “Isn’t my father a great fool,” says he to himself. “ I was ready enough, and only too anxious, to marry Mary; and now since he threatened me, faith I’ve a great mind to let it go another while.”

  His mind was so much excited that he remained between two notions as to what he should do. He walked out into the night at last to cool his heated blood, and went on to the road. He lit a pipe, and as the night was fine he walked and walked on, until the quick pace made him begin to forget his trouble. The night was bright, and the moon half full. There was not a breath of wind blowing, and the air was calm and mild. He walked on for nearly three hours, when he suddenly remembered that it was late in the night, and time for him to turn. “Musha! I think I forgot myself,” says he; “it must be near twelve o’clock now.”

  The word was hardly out of his mouth, when he heard the sound of many voices, and the trampling of feet on the road before him. “I don’t know who can be out so late at night as this, and on such a lonely road,” said he to himself.

  He stood listening, and he heard the voices of many people talking through other, but he could not understand what they were saying.

  “Oh, wirra!” says he, “I’m afraid. It’s not Irish or English they have; it can’t be they’re Frenchmen!”

  He went on a couple of yards farther, and he saw well enough by the light of the moon a band of little people coming towards him, and they were carrying something big and heavy with them.

  “Oh, murder!” says he to himself, “sure it can’t be that they’re the good people that’s in it!”

  Every rib of hair that was on his head stood up, and there fell a shaking on his bones, for he saw that they were coming to him fast.

  He looked at them again, and perceived that there were about twenty little men in it, and there was not a man at all of them higher than about three feet or three feet and a half, and some of them were grey, and seemed very old. He looked again, but he could not make out what was the heavy thing they were carrying until they came up to him, and then they all stood round about him. They threw the heavy thing down on the road, and he saw on the spot that it was a dead body.

  He became as cold as the Death, and there was not a drop of blood running in his veins when an old little grey maneen came up to him and said, “ Isn’t it lucky we met you, Teig O’Kane?”

  Poor Teig could not bring out a word at all, nor open his lips, if he were to get the word for it, and so he gave no answer.

  “Teig O’Kane,” said the little grey man again, “isn’t it timely you met us?”

  Teig could not answer him.

  “Teig O’Kane,” says he, “the third time, isn’t it lucky and timely that we met you?”

  But Teig remained silent, for he was afraid to return an answer, and his tongue was as if it was tied to the roof of his mouth.

  The little
grey man turned to his companions, and there was joy in his bright little eye. “And now,” says he, “ Teig O’Kane hasn’t a word, we can do with him what we please. Teig, Teig,” says he, “you’re living a bad life, and we can make a slave of you now, and you cannot withstand us, for there’s no use in trying to go against us. Lift that corpse.”

  Teig was so frightened that he was only able to utter the two words, “I won’t”; for as frightened as he was, he was obstinate and stiff, the same as ever.

  “Teig O’Kane won’t lift the corpse,” said the little maneen, with a wicked little laugh, for all the world like the breaking of a lock of dry kippeens [a bundle of twigs], and with a little harsh voice like the striking of a cracked bell. “ Teig O’Kane won’t lift the corpse—make him lift it”; and before the word was out of his mouth they had all gathered round poor Teig, and they all talking and laughing through other.

  Teig tried to run from them, but they followed him, and a man of them stretched out his foot before him as he ran, so that Teig was thrown in a heap on the road. Then before he could rise up the fairies caught him, some by the hands and some by the feet, and they held him tight, in a way that he could not stir, with his face against the ground. Six or seven of them raised the body then, and pulled it over to him, and left it down on his back. The breast of the corpse was squeezed against Teig’s back and shoulders, and the arms of the corpse were thrown around Teig’s neck. Then they stood back from him a couple of yards, and let him get up. He rose, foaming at the mouth and cursing, and he shook himself, thinking to throw the corpse off his back. But his fear and his wonder were great when he found that the two arms had a tight hold round his own neck, and that the two legs were squeezing his hips firmly, and that, however strongly he tried, he could not throw it off, any more than a horse can throw off its saddle. He was terribly frightened then, and he thought he was lost. “Ochone! forever,” said he to himself, “it’s the bad life I’m leading that has given the good people this power over me. I promise to God and Mary, Peter and Paul, Patrick and Bridget, that I’ll mend my ways for as long as I have to live, if I come clear out of this danger—and I’ll marry the girl.”