A Vampire Christmas Carol

by Sarah Gray

  “Ah, the feast tomorrow! Perhaps it is worth waiting for. But could we have one of those?” Griselda asked as he rushed her past the carol singers.

  “One of what?”

  “Why, one of those.” She pointed at a child in the crowd of singers. “I like the little one with the red nose and lips. He looks delicious.”

  “Not tonight, my love. But perhaps I can add a carol singer or two to the menu.” Wahltraud smiled indulgently at his wife, and led her down the street.

  8

  Scrooge left the baker’s and went to a tavern. Once having read all the newspapers and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s-book, he set out for home. He took the same route as he did each night, a creature of habit as we all are, but tonight somehow felt different and twice he turned to gaze behind. In the feeble lamplight, he saw nothing but a gloomy gray mass, a trick of the eyes in the fog, no doubt.

  Only a few blocks from home, he halted in front of a clean white house, of a staid and venerable air, with a quaint old arched door, choice little long, low lattice-windows, and a roof of three gables. The silent street was full of gables, with old beams and timbers carved into strange faces. It was oddly garnished with a queer old clock that projected over the pavement out of a grave red-brick building, as if Time carried on business there, and hung out his sign. Abandoned to the centuries of weather, which have so defaced the dark apertures in its walls, that the ruin looked as if the rooks and daws had pecked its eyes out. Above the arched door hung a carved sign:

  RICHARD WATTS, ESQ. BY HIS WILL, DATED 22 AUG. 1579,

  FOUNDED THIS CHARITY FOR SIX POOR TRAVELERS,

  WHO NOT BEING ROGUES, OR PROCTORS,

  MAY RECEIVE GRATIS FOR ONE NIGHT,

  LODGING, ENTERTAINMENT, AND FOUR PENCE EACH.

  He had passed this abode a hundred times, a thousand, but had never noticed the ridiculous sign. A preposterous concept, to offer poor travelers a roof! While he was yet surveying the shoddy place, he espied, at one of the upper lattices which stood open, a decent body, of a wholesome slender appearance, whose eyes he caught inquiringly addressed to his.

  So shocked by the blue-eyed gaze that met his, he stumbled back and then set out along the street again.

  He almost thought he made his escape, but then heard her steps behind him. She called out and yet he continued on, wondering what had so addled him as to cause him to linger in the first place.

  “Ebenezer!”

  Still he did not turn. Not until she caught the sleeve of his coat and voiced him to halt or drag her through the frozen slush of the street.

  “Ebenezer,” she repeated, more softly this time, her voice as haunting as the black and gray glooms that followed him each day and night.

  When he turned, for the briefest moment, he did not see a woman of the age she was (younger than he but not by many years), but as she had been in past. He remembered Belle at about twenty, when her hair was not tucked matronly upon her head but fell free in natural ringlets. A lovely girl, with a frank face, and wonderful eyes, eyes so large, so soft, so bright, set to such perfection in her kind good head. He remembered once saying that he was certain the blue of her eyes must have been the very color of heaven. Belle had been round then, and fresh and dimpled and spoilt, and there was in her an air of timidity and dependence, which was the best weakness in the world, and gave her the only crowning charm a girl so pretty and pleasant could have been without.

  He did not see the timidity nor dependence in her face today, and found himself wanting nothing but to escape her presence.

  “Ebenezer, were you looking for me?”

  He found himself stuttering and then stammering. “Certainly . . . m-m-most certainly not.”

  She gazed into his eyes, not seeming in the least bit fearful of him, or angry, as most were. Which was quite miraculous, actually, considering that she of all people might have thought she had the most reason to hold a grudge against him.

  “But I saw you standing at my doorstep,” she said with rosy lips. Her breath came in great white puffs of frost, for the temperature was still dropping. “I thought, perhaps, you had decided to accept my invitation for Christmas breakfast tomorrow after church, and you were stopping to tell me yourself.” There was hope in her voice that seemed to blossom as a rose opened to the summer sunshine.

  “You send me an invitation every year,” he grumbled.

  “And every year I wait for you, and every year you do not come.”

  The gray gloom that had been following him since he left the tavern seemed to creep closer, gliding along the filthy gutter. He did not know if Belle saw it or just sensed it, but she glanced over her shoulder and drew her cloak, hastily thrown on, tighter around her neck, lifting the hood. The cloak appeared quite worn out and very old; the crushed remains of a bonnet on her head seemed as if it had been picked up from a ditch or dunghill.

  “Then you would be better not to waste the pen and ink, would you not?” he demanded.

  “I will not give up on you, Ebenezer,” she cried, her voice quite full of a passion for a woman dressed so poorly. “I never will. I told you that. I told you that from the beginning. I will not let them have you.”

  He ignored her words, which made him uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach. She would not let who have him? “So that is where you live?”

  “You know it is,” she said in a soft, earnest voice. “I have seen you walk by. You have stood gazing in my windows. I know you have seen me, though you pretend you do not.”

  “And you give respite to poor travelers?”

  “It is my calling, that among other things.” She looked into his eyes, putting emphasis on those last words.

  Scrooge had no idea what she referred to and did not wish to know. “Good evening, then,” he said, striding away.

  “Must you go so quickly? Could you not come in for a hot drink?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Belle remained on the street until he disappeared in the darkness, the gray gloom following close behind.

  9

  Inside her front door, Belle removed her cloak, shook it out, and left it in the entryway. Inside her parlor, a quaint room with a snug fireplace at the upper end, a glimpse of the snowy street shone through the low mullioned window and beams over the window.

  She found one of her travelers, wrapped in a quilt, seated before the fire, a cup of mulled cider in his hand. He was no traveler at all, in actuality, but a native Londoner, come to Belle to seek asylum and medical care. Belle had purchased the meager property many years ago under the guise of continuing the intentions of the original owner, Richard Watts, when in fact it was a haven for vampire slayers.

  Any slayer in trouble could come to Belle’s door, be he running from a particularly nasty vampire, or injured in a fight against one of the beasts. Belle hid the men, patched them up, fed them, clothed them, and sent them back onto the streets when they were ready to fight another day against the infestation that threatened the very existence of Londoners.

  “Who was that man? Come closer and warm yourself. You should not be going out on the street on a night like this,” said Mortimer Ginsby. The young man had been with Belle near a fortnight. Vampires had killed his parents and little brother and left Mortimer for dead in his burning house. Slayers returning from a meeting had found his nearly drained body and brought him to Belle. He was already looking pink-cheeked again and was eager to return to the streets and avenge the death of his family.

  Belle thrust her chapped hands out to the warmth of the fire. She needed to return upstairs to check on the gentleman she had been nursing when she spotted Ebenezer from the window. He had a child, his daughter, with him. But she would linger for a moment to warm herself and then take the gentleman a cup of tea.

  “I knew him once.”

  “Miss?” The gentleman had a cheerful face, still possessing two rows of white teeth, and bright hazel eyes that reached out with compassion.

  Belle w
orked her chilly hands before the fire, as if by warming the flesh, she could warm her heart. “We were once engaged to be married, Mr. Scrooge and I. We were very much in love.” She smiled at the memory of it.

  “What happened?” Ginsby asked.

  “Quite simply, sir?” She gazed over her shoulder to him. “The vampires.”

  “But . . . but he is still alive.”

  She exhaled. “He is, indeed, for the vampires have never touched his flesh, to my knowledge.”

  “Never bitten him? Then how . . .” He let his sentence drift into silence, sensing she needed a moment before telling the tale.

  “No one knows but me, and I cannot even tell you how I know, but . . . the vampires have, for years, been trying to make him one of their own,” she said softly, gazing into the fire. “Why, I do not know, but they have . . . swayed him. He was once a good-hearted man. Kind, loving, but somehow they have convinced him to turn away from those he loves, from all mankind.”

  “How is that possible?” Ginsby asked, unable to contain himself, for he had never heard such a tale. All he knew of the vampires was what he had experienced. They attacked humans, sucked their blood until they were dead, and then cast their bodies aside. If you challenged them, they fought wildly. The only way to kill a vampire was to put a pike through his heart, or decapitate him. And once they discovered you were a slayer, they could be unrelenting in their pursuit of you, if they chose to do so. It was for this reason that Ginsby’s family was dead, his home burned out, and he was living here out of the kindness of Belle.

  “I do not know how they have done it,” Belle said. “I . . . I have no proof. I only know it to be true in my heart.”

  “Is . . . is there hope for Mr. Scrooge, then, or is he lost?”

  Belle stood, a tiny smile up the curve of her lips, for she was still a pretty woman. Her eyes shone. “Oh, Mr. Ginsby, there is always hope. I only wish I knew how to help him before his soul is lost.”

  “Is there a way?”

  As he spoke, Belle turned her head toward the window. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “That sound. That howl?”

  “A howl?” Mr. Ginsby turned to look in the direction Belle stared. “I hear nothing but the shift of coal in the fire, miss.”

  It was at that moment that Belle realized what she heard was most definitely real, but not being entirely earthly; it could not be heard by every ear. She had a caller, but not of human flesh.

  “Might you excuse me, Mr. Ginsby? I think I’ll put another pot of water on for tea.”

  But instead of going into the kitchen, Belle donned her cloak and stepped out onto the dark, deserted street. The fog was so thick now that it would have been hard to say what lurked there. She looked one way and then the other, for you see, she was one of those who had the gift of being able to see and hear the dead almost as easily as the living. It was not a gift exactly, and most assuredly sometimes a curse, but an ability she had learned to live with since she was a child.

  Holding her hood with numbing fingers, she called out into the darkness, praying she did not call to a vampire rather than a spirit. “Are you there?” she called. “Have . . . have you need of assistance?” She asked this because it was rare that the dead contacted the living, except when in dire need of aid. “Good evening?” Still, there was no answer.

  Belle was just about to turn and run back up her steps when suddenly an apparition appeared before her, so ghastly to the view that despite having encountered many spirits through the years, she shrieked aloud, and recoiled in horror. “Do I know you, sir?” she asked in a shaking voice.

  He could not answer because his chin was bound up with a kerchief, which was odd, but not as odd as his pigtail hair bristling out from his head or the heavy chain he wore bound around his waist and dragging behind him. Tangled in the chain’s links were what appeared, in the mist of his semiopaque body, to be keys, paddocks, and purses. With horny hands bound by the chain, and glassy eyes, the spook traced a finger in the very drops of sweat upon his brow, one word—Marley.

  “Marley?” she questioned, taking a closer look at the horrid face. “Not . . . Mr. Jacob Marley?” She gave a little laugh, for once upon a time she had known a Jacob Marley well; he had been Ebenezer’s partner and his friend before that. But Jacob had been dead many years, and this . . . this apparition did not much resemble him.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Marley?” she asked earnestly, sensing it really was him. As she spoke, she kept an eye on the street; apparitions sometimes drew vampires. (They seemed as fascinated by them as humans were.) In her eagerness to waylay the spirit that called, she had not brought with her the pike she often toted at night for protection; she now considered going back for it. It would be of no protection against this spirit (they were rarely threatening, anyway), but it might save her life should one of the beasties choose the moment to show himself.

  The spirit untied the handkerchief, his jaw fell open, and he spoke to her then, in something of his own voice, but sharpened and made hollow, like a dead man’s face. What he said, God knows. He seemed to utter words, but they were such as man or woman had never heard. And this was the most fearful circumstance of all, to Belle, to see Jacob Marley standing there, gabbling in an unearthly tongue.

  “I am sorry,” she said firmly, willing away her fear (for no matter how many times she encountered these unearthly specters, they still gave her unease). “You’ll have to speak English. I cannot understand your tongue.”

  There was more garbling, then, “You seek me?”

  She shook her head, surprised by the notion. Did anyone seek such ghastly spirits as this? “No, no, I’m sorry. I did not call you.”

  He nodded grimly, but in disagreement.

  “No, no, I’m sure I did not.” Then she looked at him more closely. “Wait . . . when I said to Mr. Ginsby, I wished there was a way I could help Ebenezer, did you hear my words?”

  He nodded, this time in the affirmative.

  “And you’ve come on his behalf?”

  Again, he nodded, the chains making a racket that she thought certain could be heard clearly to the tailor’s shop on the next block. “On your behalf and his.”

  “His? You mean Ebenezer’s?”

  “Do you love him?” the ghost of Jacob Marley demanded, seeming to fight the weight of the chains bound around him. “Still after all these years? After all he has done to turn you, to turn all of mankind away?”

  Tears filled Belle’s eyes. It had been a very long time since she and Ebenezer had been in love, so long that she could barely remember them as they had been, young and full of hope. But the love was still there deep in her heart. “I do love him,” she told the specter, shivering now not just from the cold, but for fear that maybe Ebenezer truly was now lost. “Is there anything you can do?” she begged. “Anything any of us can do? I never married, but have instead devoted my life to fighting the vampires, caring for those who fight them, perhaps because I could not help Ebenezer.”

  “Ask,” Marley howled, lifting his feet off the ground, chains rattling.

  “What?” She drew her cloak closer, truly afraid now.

  “You must ask me to go to him,” Marley cried. “I cannot save myself. I am lost, but that which threatens him is far worse even than my fate.”

  “What do you mean?” she cried. “Whatever could be worse than your fate?” She motioned to his clanging, chain-ridden form.

  “They wish to make him one of them.”

  “No!” she cried. But she knew it was true. Somehow, she had always known it was true. She heard a dog bark in the distance and flinched. “Oh, please, Jacob, do come inside. The streets are dangerous at night. We are not safe.”

  “I do not have time!” he cried. “The request for a spirit such as myself must be made out of true love. Only true and abiding love can carry me through the veil to Ebenezer Scrooge.”

  Realizing what he was saying, Belle clasped her hands
together as if in the front pew of a cathedral. Her hood fell away and her dark hair, streaked only lightly with silver, came down round her shoulders. “Please, Jacob, I beg of you. Go to him. Help him see the error of his ways. Save him from the vampires! Can you do that?” Tears filled her eyes. “I do not know how the vampires have controlled him and turned his heart sour. I only know that they have. If . . . if it is possible, please help him. Save him from their clutches. Save him from his fate.”

  The ghost of Jacob Marley rose up with a cry and a howl so loud, so frightening, that Belle covered her ears with her hands, squeezed her eyes shut, and fell to her knees in the wet, muddy snow. When she opened her eyes a moment later, she was alone in the street.

  10

  Perhaps there is always hope, perhaps there is not, for as Belle was begging the ghost of Marley to save Scrooge, Scrooge, having finished a dismal dinner in a dismal tavern, did approach his home, where his tenants were waiting for him (of which of course he was not aware). He lived in the chambers upstairs, which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten the way out again. The structure was old enough now, and dreary enough, perfect for a vampire couple. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the genius of the weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold.

  Now, it is a fact that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London, even including—which is a bold word—the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven-years-dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change—not a knocker, but Marley’s face.