The Vampire Megapack: 27 Modern and Classic Vampire Stories

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Afterwards the property came into possession of—, a distant relative of the family, who is a young man and officer in a cavalry regiment at Vienna. It appears that the heir enjoyed his life at the capital and did not trouble himself much about the old castle in the wilderness; he did not even come to look at it, but gave his direction by letter to the old janitor, telling him merely to keep things in order and to attend to repairs, if any were necessary. Thus the castellan was actually master of the house and offered its hospitality to me and my friends.

  “One evening myself and my two assistants, Dr. E—, a young lawyer, and Mr. W—, a literary man, went to inspect the premises. First we went to the stables. There were no horses, as they had been sold; but what attracted our special attention was an old queer-fashioned coach with gilded ornaments and bearing the emblems of the family. We then inspected the rooms, passing through some halls and gloomy corridors, such as may be found in any old castle. There was nothing remarkable about the furniture; but in one of the halls there hung in a frame an oil-painting, a portrait, representing a lady with a large hat and wearing a fur coat. We all were involuntarily startled on beholding this picture; not so much on account of the beauty of the lady, but on account of the uncanny expression of her eyes, and Dr. E—, after looking at the picture for a short time, suddenly exclaimed—

  “‘How strange! The picture closes its eyes and opens them again, and now begins to smile!’

  “Now Dr. E— is a very sensitive person and has more than once had some experience in spiritism, and we made up our minds to form a circle for the purpose of investigating this phenomenon. Accordingly, on the same evening we sat around a table in an adjoining room, forming a magnetic chain with our hands. Soon the table began to move and the name “Elga” was spelled. We asked who this Elga was, and the answer was rapped out ‘The lady, whose picture you have seen.’

  “‘Is the lady living?’ asked Mr. W—. This question was not answered; but instead it was rapped out: ‘If W— desires it, I will appear to him bodily tonight at two o’clock.’ W— consented, and now the table seemed to be endowed with life and manifested a great affection for W—; it rose on two legs and pressed against his breast, as if it intended to embrace him.

  “We inquired of the castellan whom the picture represented; but to our surprise he did not know. He said that it was the copy of a picture painted by the celebrated painter Hans Markart of Vienna, and had been bought by the old Count because its demoniacal look pleased him so much.

  “We left the castle, and W—retired to his room at an inn, a half-hour’s journey distant from that place. He was of a somewhat skeptical turn of mind, being neither a firm believer in ghosts and apparitions nor ready to deny their possibility. He was not afraid, but anxious to see what would come out of his agreement, and for the purpose of keeping himself awake he sat down and began to write an article for a journal.

  “Towards two o’clock he heard steps on the stairs and the door of the hall opened, there was a rustling of a silk dress and the sound of the feet of a lady walking to and fro in the corridor.

  “It may be imagined that he was somewhat startled; but taking courage, he said to himself: ‘if this is Elga, let her come in.’ Then the door of his room opened and Elga entered. She was most elegantly dressed and appeared still more youthful and seductive than the picture. There was a lounge on the other side of the table where W— was writing, and there she silently posed herself. She did not speak, but her looks and gestures left no doubt in regard to her desires and intentions. “Mr. W— resisted the temptation and remained firm. It is not known, whether he did so out of principle or timidity or fear. Be this as it may, he kept on writing, looking from time to time at his visitor and silently wishing that she would leave. At last, after half an hour, which seemed to him much longer, the lady departed in the same manner in which she came.

  “This adventure left W— no peace, and we consequently arranged several sittings at the old castle, where a variety of uncanny phenomena took place. Thus, for instance, once the servant-girl was about to light a fire in the stove, when the door of the apartment opened and Elga stood there. The girl, frightened out of her wits, rushed out of the room, tumbling down the stairs in terror with the petroleum lamp in her hand, which broke and came very near to setting her clothes on fire. Lighted lamps and candles went out when brought near the picture, and many other ‘manifestations’ took place, which it would be tedious to describe; but the following incident ought not to be omitted.

  “Mr. W— was at that time desirous of obtaining the position as co-editor of a certain journal, and a few days after the above-narrated adventure he received a letter in which a noble lady of high position offered him her patronage for that purpose. The writer requested him to come to a certain place same evening, where he would meet a gentleman who would give him further particulars. He went and was met by an unknown stranger, who told him that he was requested by the Countess Elga to invite Mr. W— to a carriage drive and that she would await him at midnight at a certain crossing of two roads, not far from the village. The stranger then suddenly disappeared.

  “Now it seems that Mr. W— had some misgivings about the meeting and drive and he hired a policeman as detective to go at midnight to the appointed place, to see what would happen. The policeman went and reported next morning that he had seen nothing but the well-known, old fashioned carriage from the castle with two black horses attached to it standing there as if waiting for somebody, and that he had no occasion to interfere and merely waited until the carriage moved on. When the castellan of the castle was asked, he swore that the carriage had not been out that night, and in fact it could not have been out, as there were no horses to draw it.

  “But this is not all, for on the following day I met a friend who is a great skeptic and disbeliever in ghosts and always used to laugh at such things. Now, however, he seemed to be very serious and said: ‘Last night something very strange happened to me. At about one o’clock this morning I returned from a late visit and as I happened to pass the graveyard of the village, I saw a carriage with gilded ornaments standing at the entrance. I wondered about this taking place at such an unusual hour, and being curious to see what would happen, I waited. Two elegantly dressed ladies issued from the carriage. One of these was young and pretty, but threw at me a devilish and scornful look as they both passed by and entered the cemetery. There they were met by a well-dressed man, who saluted the ladies and spoke to the younger one, saying: “Why, Miss Elga! Are you returned so soon?” Such a queer feeling came over me that I abruptly left and hurried home.’

  “This matter has not been explained; but certain experiments which we subsequently made with the picture of Elga brought out some curious facts.

  “To look at the picture for a certain time caused me to feel a very disagreeable sensation in the region of the solar plexus. I began to dislike the portrait and proposed to destroy it. We held a sitting in the adjoining room; the table manifested a great aversion against my presence. It was rapped out that I should leave the circle, and that the picture must not be destroyed. I ordered a

  Bible to be brought in and read the beginning of the first chapter of St. John, whereupon the above-mentioned Mr. E— (the medium) and another man present claimed that they saw the picture distorting its face. I turned the frame and pricked the back of the picture with my penknife in different places, and Mr. E—, as well as the other man, felt all the pricks, although they had retired to the corridor.

  “I made the sign of the pentagram over the picture, and again the two gentlemen claimed that the picture was horribly distorting its face.

  “Soon afterwards we were called away and left that country. Of Elga I heard nothing more.”

  * * * *

  Thus far goes the account of my friend the editor. There are several points in it which call for an explanation. Perhaps the sages of the S.P.R. will find it by investigating the laws of nature ruling the astral plane, unless they prefer to
take the easier route, by proclaiming it all to be humbug and fraud.

  DRACULA’S NEW DRESS, by Ray Cluley

  “Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past.”

  —Dracula, Bram Stoker)

  The dress was the first thing she saw when she entered the room. That would have been his intention, of course, positioned as it was on a half-body mannequin in the centre of her favourite chamber of the castle. It hung like a frozen tear of silver and lace, and it glowed. The windows, large and splendidly arched, were without curtains to block the moonlight and it bathed everything with a gentle luminescence. Whereas the rest of the room was softened by the light, the dress was illuminated all the more strikingly. It caught the moonbeams in its thread and shone.

  The dress was upsetting inasmuch as it was not meant for her, but it was undeniably a treasure. A fashion new to her eyes, nevertheless it was recognisably expensive and well designed, made of the lightest fabric and adorned with small precious white stones around the throat. They encircled the skirted waist, too, these gems, as if a skilled seamstress had imprisoned a constellation with her embroidery. These were the only decorations on a dress that shimmered with spectral simplicity.

  She went to the dress soundlessly, her own gown silent in its age-old familiarity against her skin. Her bare feet left no prints in the room’s carpet of dust and, save for a new coldness in the air, there was no evidence of her passing. She brought one of the sleeves to her face, the arm limp in her hands, and she thought of the form that would come to occupy it. The wooden torso that modelled it suggested a woman as slender as she, and the cut of the dress suggested a similarity in height, so what would it be that made this new one worth keeping?

  She herself had been brought to the castle because his “beautiful strigoaica” missed her reflection, missed her shadow, and she was more than an adequate substitute for such things. Indeed, she and his first were so much alike that it was impossible to see them without considering them sisters. They had the same dark piercing eyes, the same aquiline nose, the same full lips. They had the same dark hair, the same pale skin (his gift to them) and the same elegance that had them move like flakes of snow on a night breeze.

  He had been thrilled to discover her those, oh, so many years ago. She had been lady-in-waiting to the wealthy Countess Dolingen then and he had treasured her, and wooed her in his way, and taken her from the Lady Countess. Stolen away from Styria to his grand Carpathian castle, she was forced to adapt quickly, not least of all to the knowledge he already had a love to whom she was but a mirror image.

  “She will be beautiful beyond our measure, sister.”

  The voice was more gentle than the light from the stars and colder than the night sky that held them. His beautiful strigoaica. She could not see her yet, but there, from a sliver between glass pane and casement, were the first shimmering grains of her entrance. She paid them little heed as they whirled and glimmered into shape.

  “You don’t truly think so.”

  “I do.”

  She was at her side now, at the dress, the other sleeve in her hands, and at that moment they were each the mirror image of the other they were meant to be. His first was so very much older, of course, though she would show nothing of the years beyond her twentieth.

  “Have you seen her?”

  His first remained quiet. It was a manner she had sometimes, ignoring her shadow.

  She had been more than a shadow once. During her first years at the castle she’d received his fullest attention and she had enjoyed it, much as she had enjoyed showing his first that it was so. Yet his first had cared little for her preening, for she was older and patient; as his first she had been his only for over a century. A gypsy girl from a long line of gypsies, a Szgany, she was loyal without complaint. Her beauty had been enough for him once and would be again.

  “There is nothing for you to be concerned about,” the elder assured her, admiring the new garment. “We will be sisters.”

  Such declarations contradicted each other.

  “Do you need yet another shadow? Do I no longer please you as a reflection?”

  His first laughed, a soulless sound, low, without humour. “Don’t pretend you fear the loss of my favour.”

  She continued to laugh as she dispersed and the sound of it carried her shimmering away, motes of dust in mirthless air.

  She was alone again with the new dress.

  She would ignore it. She went to the south window. The castle stood on the corner edge of a monstrous precipice, offering magnificent sights east, south, and west. The drop was sheer. The rooms here were impossible to attack and so without fortifications to obscure the view. She could see for miles. Though all was darkness, she enjoyed the view more than the lack of light allowed mortal others; the treetops were an immense green blanket spread below, creased here and there by unseen chasms and stitched together with delicate strands of silver that were the surrounding rivers, whilst in the distance a jagged range of mountains emerged to cast the land in beautiful gloom.

  Yet despite all before her, she was commanded by the presence of the new dress behind.

  She would ignore it. She would cast it down from her castle eyrie.

  She wouldn’t dare.

  Had she servants, she would have commanded them to tear it down to individual threads and cast them to the winds. Had she servants, she would have commanded them to set it ablaze in the courtyard.

  Alas, she had no servants. He had given her new life, and new riches, and a power she’d not known in any woman except for her lady Countess Dolingen, but he had not given her servants. When it pleased him to do so he would lavish them both himself, her and his first, but now that a new dress spoke of a new bride, when would they be lavished again? His beautiful strigoaica would be patient once more and as his faithful first would always find favour, whereas his newest would have all the benefits of novelty she had once enjoyed. How would she fare now as the middle of three?

  As if voicing her despair, the silence was broken by the baying of wolves. His wolves, his children of the night, howling their music to mock her with feigned sympathy. They forced her away from the window.

  The dress was cut low in the back, a triangular shape as sharp as teeth. It would reveal a pale expanse of flawless skin. When his newest leant to feed, a rosy glow would flush her glorious skin with a momentary blush made all the more attractive by its contrast with such silks. Oh, she would be beautiful.

  His second of three, his neither first nor last, became one with her own sigh and left the chamber in a swirl of elemental twinkling.

  * * * *

  She roamed the corridors as a ghostly glimmer of herself, passing countless locked doors and slipping though room after room in an aimless wander. Here was his library, grand and well stocked, but the most recent tome was still one she had read many times. Here was a parlour where the moth-eaten holes of the furnishings were little more than dimples beneath the dust that lay upon everything, decades thick. In another room, and another, were heaps of gold beyond counting, treasures gathered from where the blue fires guided him, collected by his loyal Szgany. She visited rooms she hadn’t ventured in for decades. All in the castle was as it had always been. There was nothing as new as the dress, in her favourite room, where she was sure to see its splendour.

  He could be so very cruel.

  Such thoughts of cruelty came to her naturally enough, for she had left the chambers of the castle for the open expanse of the courtyard where so many had come to beg for the return of loved ones, or to rage and swear Godly vengeance, only to be torn into fleshy pieces by the wolves, his children. Or by the sisters, his brides. He would watch from among them, chuckling amid the carnage, then stroke with pleasure those lapping at the puddled blood.

  Oh, how she hoped for such touches again!

  The carriage was not in the courtyard, but she had expected its absence. His newest would come to the castle as a lady, or as a woman at least, and he would
drive her through the Borgo Pass at a pace that would exhilarate her and bring the blood to her cheeks. That’s how it had been for her, excited by the freedom he offered her and frightened of it in equal measure. The moon had been full but shy, peeking from behind the Carpathians until that final narrow bend when it dazzled her with its full circle. The castle had been silhouetted within it, a vertical pupil in a great white eye. Not like tonight. If the cycle of the moon was an O in brackets, as she had thought in her more fanciful years, then tonight his third would see only the closing parenthesis. Tonight the moon was a sickle, a peasant’s tool, and the castle an inky blackness in a night-sky background, unseen. She took some petty pleasure in that.

  The wolves continued to call their rise-and-fall song. It was a fanfare of celebration. They were cheering their Master’s return, signalling the start of his honeymoon, and she hated it. She hoped his newest feared the sound, hoped she would despise his children, hoped she longed for children of her own—for she would have none. Not in any maternal way.

  Her spiteful smile revealed the pearly points of teeth that had tasted the blood of babes. His newest would have no children, but she would have her fill of them. His newest would bleed no more each month, but she would have blood each and every evening. It would torment her at first; there’d be some joy in that, at least.

  She drifted from the courtyard like a whispered secret and entered the ruined chapel. It had heard no prayer for centuries and the absence of holy word stifled it, smothered it dead. This was a building poisoned by sobs and screams and suffering and it was filled with the sickly odours of its own demise. A dark tunnel led down into the crypt and this was the dank path she took. She would ignore his return and shun the arrival of his new bride. Though the dawn was some hours distant, she would sleep the empty sleep that mimicked the death denied her.