The Vampire Megapack: 27 Modern and Classic Vampire Stories

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  COPYRIGHT INFO

  The Vampire Megapack is copyright © 2011 by Wildside Press LLC. All rights reserved.

  Cover art © S. R. Nicholl / Fotolia.

  * * * *

  “Mrs. Amworth,” by E. F. Benson, was originally published in 1920.

  “Lost Epiphany,” by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, originally appeared in Saint-Germain: Memoirs. Copyright © 2008 by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Weeping Willow,” by T. A. Bradley, originally appeared in Horror In Words. Copyright © 2009 by T. A. Bradley. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Greater Thirst,” by Marilyn “Mattie” Brahen, originally appeared in Dreams of Decadence #2. Copyright © 1996 by Marilyn “Mattie” Brahen. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Clarimonde,” by Théophile Gautier, originally appeared in 1836 in La Chronique de Paris. Translation by Lafcadio Hearn.

  “Waiting for the Hunger,” by Nina Kiriki Hoffman, originally appeared in Doom City. Copyright © 1986 by Nina Kiriki Hoffman. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Kvetchula,” by Darrell Schweitzer, originally appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, Summer 1997. Copyright © 1997 by Darrell Schweitzer. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “A Vampire,” by Luigi Capuana, originally appeared in 1906. This version has been edited and the language modernized for this publication.

  “Omega,” by Jason Andrew, originally appeared in Horror Carousel #6. Copyright © 2008 by Jason Andrew. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Accommodation,” by Michael R. Collings. Copyright © 2012 by Michael R. Collings. Original to this anthology.

  “The Art of the Smile,” by John Gregory Betancourt, originally appeared in Weirdbook #30. Copyright © 1997 by John Gregory Betancourt. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Renfield’s Syndrome,” by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, originally appeared in Apprehensions and Other Delusions. Copyright © 2004 by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Pimp,” by Lawrence Watt-Evans, originally appeared in Weird Tales #315 (Spring 1999). Copyright © 1999 by Lawrence Watt-Evans. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Runaway,” by Darrell Schweitzer, originally appeared in I, Vampire. Copyright © 1995 by Darrell Schweitzer. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Sympathy for Vampires,” by John Gregory Betancourt, originally appeared in Horrors! 365 Scary Stories. Copyright © 1998 by John Gregory Betancourt. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Secret of Kralitz,” by Henry Kuttner, originally appeared in Weird Tales, October 1936.

  “The Fourth Horseman,” by Peter Darbyshire, originally appeared in On Spec, Summer 1998. Copyright © 1998 by Peter Darbyshire. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Cravat of the Damned,” by Zach Bartlett, originally appeared in The Absent Willow Review, September 2009. Copyright © 2009 by Zach Bartlett. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Help Wanted,” by Michael McCarty and Terrie Leigh Relf, originally appeared in A Little Help From My Fiends, Copyright © 2009 by Michael McCarty. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Siren Song,” by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, originally appeared in Horror Garage #6, copyright © 2002 by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro. Reprinted by permisison of the author.

  “An Authenticated Vampire Story,” by Franz Hartmann, originally appeared in The Occult Review, September 1909.

  “Dracula’s New Dress,” by Ray Cluley, originally appeared in Fem-Fangs. Copyright © 2010 by Ray Cluley. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Dracula’s Guest,” by Bram Stoker, originally appeared in Dracula’s Guest and Other Weird Stories (1914).

  “The Bats,” by David Anderson, originally appeared in 2011. Copyright © 2011 by David Anderson Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Room in the Tower,” by E. F. Benson, originally appeared in 1912.

  “Four Wooden Stakes,” by Victor Rowan, originally appeared in Weird Tales, August-Septemer 1936.

  MRS. AMWORTH, by E. F. Benson

  The village of Maxley, where, last summer and autumn, these strange events took place, lies on a heathery and pine-clad upland of Sussex. In all England you could not find a sweeter and saner situation. Should the wind blow from the south, it comes laden with the spices of the sea; to the east high downs protect it from the inclemencies of March; and from the west and north the breezes which reach it travel over miles of aromatic forest and heather. The village itself is insignificant enough in point of population, but rich in amenities and beauty. Half-way down the single street, with its broad road and spacious areas of grass on each side, stands the little Norman Church and the antique graveyard long disused: for the rest there are a dozen small, sedate Georgian houses, red-bricked and long-windowed, each with a square of flower-garden in front, and an ampler strip behind; a score of shops, and a couple of score of thatched cottages belonging to labourers on neighbouring estates, complete the entire cluster of its peaceful habitations. The general peace, however, is sadly broken on Saturdays and Sundays, for we lie on one of the main roads between London and Brighton and our quiet street becomes a race-course for flying motor-cars and bicycles.

  A notice just outside the village begging them to go slowly only seems to encourage them to accelerate their speed, for the road lies open and straight, and there is really no reason why they should do otherwise. By way of protest, therefore, the ladies of Maxley cover their noses and mouths with their handkerchiefs as they see a motor-car approaching, though, as the street is asphalted, they need not really take these precautions against dust. But late on Sunday night the horde of scorchers has passed, and we settle down again to five days of cheerful and leisurely seclusion. Railway strikes which agitate the country so much leave us undisturbed because most of the inhabitants of Maxley never leave it at all.

  I am the fortunate possessor of one of these small Georgian houses, and consider myself no less fortunate in having so interesting and stimulating a neighbour as Francis Urcombe, who, the most confirmed of Maxleyites, has not slept away from his house, which stands just opposite to mine in the village street, for nearly two years, at which date, though still in middle life, he resigned his Physiological Professorship at Cambridge University and devoted himself to the study of those occult and curious phenomena which seem equally to concern the physical and the psychical sides of human nature. Indeed his retirement was not unconnected with his passion for the strange uncharted places that lie on the confines and borders of science, the existence of which is so stoutly denied by the more materialistic minds, for he advocated that all medical students should be obliged to pass some sort of examination in mesmerism, and that one of the tripos papers should be designed to test their knowledge in such subjects as appearances at time of death, haunted houses, vampirism, automatic writing, and possession.

  “Of course they wouldn’t listen to me,” ran his account of the matter, “for there is nothing that these seats of learning are so frightened of as knowledge, and the road to knowledge lies in the study of things like these. The functions of the human frame are, broadly speaking, known. They are a country, anyhow, that has been charted and mapped out. But outside that lie huge tracts of undiscovered country, which certainly exist, and the real pioneers of knowledge are those who, at the cost of being derided as credulous and superstitious, want to push on into those misty and probably perilous places. I felt that I could be of more use by settin
g out without misty and probably perilous places. I felt that I could be of more use by setting out without compass or knapsack into the mists than by sitting in a cage like a canary and chirping about what was known. Besides, teaching is very bad for a man who knows himself only to be a learner: you only need to be a self-conceited ass to teach.”

  Here, then, in Francis Urcombe, was a delightful neighbour to one who, like myself, has an uneasy and burning curiosity about what he called the “misty and perilous places”; and this last spring we had a further and most welcome addition to our pleasant little community, in the person of Mrs. Amworth, widow of an Indian civil servant. Her husband had been a judge in the North-West Provinces, and after his death at Peshawar she came back to England, and after a year in London found herself starving for the ampler air and sunshine of the country to take the place of the fogs and griminess of town. She had, too, a special reason for settling in Maxley, since her ancestors up till a hundred years ago had long been native to the place, and in the old churchyard, now disused, are many gravestones bearing her maiden name of Chaston. Big and energetic, her vigorous and genial personality speedily woke Maxley up to a higher degree of sociality than it had ever known. Most of us were bachelors or spinsters or elderly folk not much inclined to exert ourselves in the expense and effort of hospitality, and hitherto the gaiety of a small tea-party, with bridge afterwards and goloshes (when it was wet) to trip home in again for a solitary dinner, was about the climax of our festivities. But Mrs. Amworth showed us a more gregarious way, and set an example of luncheon-parties and little dinners, which we began to follow. On other nights when no such hospitality was on foot, a lone man like myself found it pleasant to know that a call on the telephone to Mrs. Amworth’s house not a hundred yards off, and an inquiry as to whether I might come over after dinner for a game of piquet before bedtime, would probably evoke a response of welcome. There she would be, with a comrade-like eagerness for companionship, and there was a glass of port and a cup of coffee and a cigarette and a game of piquet. She played the piano, too, in a free and exuberant manner, and had a charming voice and sang to her own accompaniment; and as the days grew long and the light lingered late, we played our game in her garden, which in the course of a few months she had turned from being a nursery for slugs and snails into a glowing patch of luxuriant blossoming. She was always cheery and jolly; she was interested in everything, and in music, in gardening, in games of all sorts was a competent performer. Everybody (with one exception) liked her, everybody felt her to bring with her the tonic of a sunny day. That one exception was Francis Urcombe; he, though he confessed he did not like her, acknowledged that he was vastly interested in her. This always seemed strange to me, for pleasant and jovial as she was, I could see nothing in her that could call forth conjecture or intrigued surmise, so healthy and unmysterious a figure did she present. But of the genuineness of Urcombe’s interest there could be no doubt; one could see him watching and scrutinising her. In matter of age, she frankly volunteered the information that she was forty-five; but her briskness, her activity, her unravaged skin, her coal-black hair, made it difficult to believe that she was not adopting an unusual device, and adding ten years on to her age instead of subtracting them.

  Often, also, as our quite unsentimental friendship ripened, Mrs. Amworth would ring me up and propose her advent. If I was busy writing, I was to give her, so we definitely bargained, a frank negative, and in answer I could hear her jolly laugh and her wishes for a successful evening of work. Sometimes, before her proposal arrived, Urcombe would already have stepped across from his house opposite for a smoke and a chat, and he, hearing who my intending visitor was, always urged me to beg her to come. She and I should play our piquet, said he, and he would look on, if we did not object, and learn something of the game. But I doubt whether he paid much attention to it, for nothing could be clearer than that, under that penthouse of forehead and thick eyebrows, his attention was fixed not on the cards, but on one of the players. But he seemed to enjoy an hour spent thus, and often, until one particular evening in July, he would watch her with the air of a man who has some deep problem in front of him. She, enthusiastically keen about our game, seemed not to notice his scrutiny. Then came that evening, when, as I see in the light of subsequent events, began the first twitching of the veil that hid the secret horror from my eyes. I did not know it then, though I noticed that thereafter, if she rang up to propose coming round, she always asked not only if I was at leisure, but whether Mr. Urcombe was with me. If so, she said, she would not spoil the chat of two old bachelors, and laughingly wished me good night.

  Urcombe, on this occasion, had been with me for some half-hour before Mrs. Amworth’s appearance, and had been talking to me about the medizval beliefs concerning vampirism, one of those borderland subjects which he declared had not been sufficiently studied before it had been consigned by the medical profession to the dust-heap of exploded superstitions. There he sat, grim and eager, tracing, with that pellucid clearness which had made him in his Cambridge days so admirable a lecturer, the history of those mysterious visitations. In them all there were the same general features: one of those ghoulish spirits took up its abode in a living man or woman, conferring supernatural powers of bat-like flight and glutting itself with nocturnal blood-feasts. When its host died it continued to dwell in the corpse, which remained undecayed. By day it rested, by night it left the grave and went on its awful errands. No European country in the Middle Ages seemed to have escaped them; earlier yet, parallels were to be found, in Roman and Greek and in Jewish history.

  “It’s a large order to set all that evidence aside as being moonshine,” he said. “Hundreds of totally independent witnesses in many ages have testified to the occurrence of these phenomena, and there’s no explanation known to me which covers all the facts. And if you feel inclined to say ‘Why, then, if these are facts, do we not come across them now?’ there are two answers I can make you. One is that there were diseases known in the Middle Ages, such as the black death; which were certainly existent then and which have become extinct since, but for that reason we do not assert that such diseases never existed. Just as the black death visited England and decimated the population of Norfolk, so here in this very district about three hundred years ago there was certainly an outbreak of vampirism, and Maxley was the centre of it. My second answer is even more convincing, for I tell you that vampirism is by no means extinct now. An outbreak of it certainly occurred in India a year or two ago.”

  At that moment I heard my knocker plied in the cheerful and peremptory manner in which Mrs. Amworth is accustomed to announce her arrival, and I went to the door to open it.

  “Come in at once,” I said, “and save me from having my blood curdled. Mr. Urcombe has been trying to alarm me.”

  Instantly her vital, voluminous presence seemed to fill the room.

  “Ah, but how lovely!” she said. “I delight in having my blood curdled. Go on with your ghost-story, Mr. Urcombe. I adore ghost-stories.”

  I saw that, as his habit was, he was intently observing her.

  “It wasn’t a ghost-story exactly,” said he. “I was only telling our host how vampirism was not extinct yet. I was saying that there was an outbreak of it in India only a few years ago.”

  There was a more than perceptible pause, and I saw that, if Urcombe was observing her, she on her side was observing him with fixed eye and parted mouth. Then her jolly laugh invaded that rather tense silence.

  “Oh, what a shame!” she said. “You’re not going to curdle my blood at all. Where did you pick up such a tale, Mr. Urcombe? I have lived for years in India and never heard a rumour of such a thing. Some story-teller in the bazaars must have invented it: they are famous for that.”

  I could see that Urcombe was on the point of saying something further, but checked himself.

  “Ah! very likely that was it,” he said.

  But something had disturbed our usual peaceful sociability that night, and s
omething had damped Mrs. Amworth’s usual high spirits. She had no gusto for her piquet, and left after a couple of games. Urcombe had been silent too; indeed, he hardly spoke again till she departed.

  “That was unfortunate,” he said, “for the outbreak of—of a very mysterious disease, let us call it, took place at Peshawar, where she and her husband were. And—”

  “Well?” I asked.

  “He was one of the victims of it,” said he. “Naturally I had quite forgotten that when I spoke.”

  * * * *

  The summer was unreasonably hot and rainless, and Maxley suffered much from drought, and also from a plague of big black night-flying gnats, the bite of which was very irritating and virulent. They came sailing in of an evening, settling on one’s skin so quietly that one perceived nothing till the sharp stab announced that one had been bitten. They did not bite the hands or face, but chose always the neck and throat for their feeding-ground, and most of us, as the poison spread, assumed a temporary goitre. Then about the middle of August appeared the first of those mysterious cases of illness which our local doctor attributed to the long-continued heat coupled with the bite of these venomous insects. The patient was a boy of sixteen or seventeen, the son of Mrs. Amworth’s gardener, and the symptoms were an anemic pallor and a languid prostration, accompanied by great drowsiness and an abnormal appetite. He had, too, on his throat two small punctures where, so Dr. Ross conjectured, one of these great gnats had bitten him. But the odd thing was that there was no swelling or inflammation round the place where he had been bitten.

  The heat at this time had begun to abate, but the cooler weather failed to restore him, and the boy, in spite of the quantity of good food which he so ravenously swallowed, wasted away to a skin-clad skeleton.

  I met Dr. Ross in the street one afternoon about this time, and in answer to my inquiries about his patient, he said that he was afraid the boy was dying. The case, he confessed, completely puzzled him: some obscure form of pernicious anemia was all he could suggest. But he wondered whether Mr. Urcombe would consent to see the boy, on the chance of his being able to throw some new light on the case, and since Urcombe was dining with me that night, I proposed to Dr. Ross to join us. He could not do this, but said he would look in later.