Far away, Ardeth heard hard laughter, the creak of the cell door closing, footsteps on the stairs. The metal door at the top of the stairway slammed, the sound suddenly so loud it hurt, the echoes rippling in to batter her mind.
The creature’s head turned, lifting to swing towards the doorway. Lips curled back and she saw the glitter of eyeteeth, like bone knives dipped in ice. She closed her eyes.
It’s not real, this isn’t happening. Please God, let me wake up and have it gone.
Trembling, she opened her eyes to discover that, as always, her prayers had gone unanswered.
The Only Thing
That Shines
Only say that word and I will
pour myself like wine
. . .
And you are
the only thing that shines.
From the Diary of Ambrose Delaney Dale
4 April 1898
Success! If not complete yet, then so close I can taste its nectar . . .
Collins brought the woman to the house tonight, taking care to bring her in the back entrance, suitably blindfolded so that she cannot recognize the house again. She was an Irish wench, with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes, though past her first prime and with many of her teeth missing. The scent of smoke and alcohol clung to her shabby clothes. Collins settled her into the chair and took off her blindfold. She blinked a few times and seemed to squint about her. I had kept the fire deliberately low and lit no candles, but if she were afflicted with poor eyesight it would be so much the better.
“Here’s the gentleman I was mentioning to you, Maud,” Collins said, then turned to me. “This is Maud.” He was careful not to use my name.
“It is good of you to come, Maud,” I said, to put her at her ease, for this would go better if she were relaxed and unresisting.
“’Tis my pleasure, sir, and your coin,” she replied. “Your man here said you wanted some information and no more.”
“Very true. You have been visited by a certain client whose identity interests me.”
“They don’t hardly give me their names, sir. Not their true ones.”
“Nonetheless, there may be details about him that are of use to me. So tell your tale and I will ask you questions after.”
Her story was nothing I had not heard from Collins before; a middle-aged man with a European accent who came to her rooms, paid her the agreed fee and then seemed to require the usual service from her. “But I don’t rightly remember it, if you catch my meaning, sir. I remember him undoing my dress then things get a bit muzzy and I must have gone to sleep. When I woke up he was gone. I thought he must be some kind of thief, one of those low scum that prey on hard-working women such as I, but there weren’t nothing missing from my room. And he left me a little extra, a coin or two, on the table.”
She could recall no details about him beyond his accent and his grey hair. A “middling man” she called him—middling height, middling weight, middling appearance. His clothes she described as “gentleman’s things, but not flash.”
When I brought out the subject of mesmerizing her, she protested, citing her fear of being made to act like a chicken, as she had seen some stage magician do at a town fair. But money is the great persuader and at the prospect of leaving the house with no coin to show for her time, she submitted. Despite her initial resistance, she was an easy subject and soon her eyes drooped and her will submerged. I sent Collins out to wait for me in the drawing room beside the study.
“Now Maud,” I said quietly, moving into the light for the first time. “It is the night the stranger came to your rooms. You have just closed the door. Tell me what happens.”
“He takes off his hat and puts it on the chair. I see his face clear for the first time.” Her voice was slow and clear but I confess I crouched closer in anticipation.
“Describe it to me.”
“Oh, but he’s a fine-looking one, finer than I had thought. His hair is grey but he’s younger than I had thought as well. His face is all sharp and fine and clean. His eyes . . .” she frowns, concentrating, “his eyes are grey too.”
“What happens next?”
“He takes the money from his pocket. ‘In advance is the usual arrangement, I understand,’ he says and I nod and he puts the money on the table. I go and sit on the bed to take off my hat and gloves. He watches me with them grey eyes.” Her voice falters for a moment and I urge her on. “When I starts to unhook my dress he comes to sit beside me. ‘Let me,’ he says and I laugh and shake out my hair so it falls over his hands when he touches me. When my dress is undone, he pulls it down to my waist. Then he looks at me. I . . . I . . . I start to say something but . . .”
“But what. What happens, girl?” My voice is sharper than I intend and she winces, shrinks in her chair.
“His eyes . . . My head is spinning around, like I’ve had too much to drink. There is a voice in my head, telling me . . . telling me to go to sleep. So I do . . . but I’m still sitting there with my eyes open. But I can’t see anything or hear anything so I must be asleep. He takes my hair in his hand, gathers it all up, and pulls my head to one side, not hard, not so that it hurts. Then he leans over and kisses me on my neck.” In the firelight, her eyes are wide and staring, her mouth works as she talks. She takes a sharp, in-drawn breath. “Aah, that hurts. It hurts. But then . . . then it doesn’t anymore.”
“What is he doing to you?” She shakes her head.
“Don’t know, can’t tell. Then the voice is back in my head, only it’s like a dream to me now, like I can feel something happening to me but it ain’t.”
“What are you dreaming?”
“That he is taking off my dress and having me, just like all of them do. Then the voice is telling me to go to sleep, shut my eyes, go to sleep. . . .” Her voice trailed off as her body slumped, as if hypnotized by the memory of mesmerism, for I am sure that is what was done to her. It took a sharp slap to bring her back to even the level of consciousness I had left her.
“Then what happened?”
“I went to sleep. He went away.” I can get no more from her so I lay my own instructions in her mind, to prevent her loose tongue from wagging my business, wake her, pay her off, and send her back to town with Collins. I cannot have them gone quickly enough, so that I can sit here in the quiet and record this.
There is no doubt in me now. There is a vampire here. The whore has given me some clues to his appearance and bearing and I will find more, if I must mesmerize every trollop in the stews. I will find him.
Chapter 4
A vampire, dear God, it’s a vampire. Ardeth put her head down against the dirty blanket and tried to think clearly. Abandoned in the cell, dizzy from blood loss and shock, she had crawled onto the cot against the wall and kept her eyes resolutely from the presence in the next cell. She had not as much luck keeping her mind from it as well. It’s not a vampire, her rationality said. It’s a lunatic who thinks he’s a vampire.
Vampires do not exist, except as metaphors. The voice of the professor in her undergraduate Victorian fiction course echoed in her ears. She remembered regurgitating the phrases for a subsequent exam: “Vampires represented the repressed libido breaking out to wreak havoc, causing both death and unfettered sexuality.” She had no dreams of darkly handsome midnight loves (are you sure? very sure? the little voice asked) though she remembered passing a movie poster and Sara’s laughing voice saying that the spiky-haired lead “lost boy” could bite her neck any time he wanted.
We all say things like that, she thought suddenly, because we know it can’t come true. Because it’s just a projection of our own subconscious minds. Because there are no such things as vampires.
But metaphors did not cast shadows or leave darkening bruises on the veins of your inner arm.
And human lunatics did not have teeth that could pierce skin without tearing it or eyes that refracted red.
So she was
back where she started, trapped between the impossible and the inconceivable.
Her mind gave up then, unable to organize chaos or to categorize all the levels of her fear. She closed her eyes and let the dark shadows hovering all around take her in.
She drifted back into wakefulness much later, blinking into the dim light that glowed in the centre of the room. She had just begun to wonder where she was when a movement to her left caught her eye.
The vampire was standing in the centre of his cell, staring up at the door to the cellar. As Ardeth’s drowsy, disoriented mind tried to explain him to itself, he flung back his head and closed his eyes, mouth opening in a long, soundless howl.
This is a dream, Ardeth thought vaguely. I’m sure that in the dream this all makes perfect sense. Then she went back to sleep.
When she woke up again, there was no denying reality. Her stomach was cramped in hunger, her bladder aching, and the arm that had twisted under her while she slept was numb.
She sat up slowly, shifting her shoulders to ease the stiffness from her neck. What time was it? she wondered, peering at her watch. Sometime during the abuse of the previous night, the hour hand had snapped off. It was twenty past something. It must be after noon or else she wouldn’t be so hungry.
The thought of hunger reminded her of the silent presence in the cell next to hers. Carefully, she glanced to her left. That’s funny, she thought absurdly, I always thought they were supposed to sleep in their coffins, flat on their backs, with their hands crossed. The vampire (may as well call him that, she told herself, it doesn’t mean you believe it) was sleeping on the cot, face to the wall, half-curled into a fetal crouch.
She stood up carefully, keeping a wary eye on the sleeping figure. The leg-iron she could see circling one ankle did not reassure her at all. She knew that the chain was long enough to allow him to reach the edge of her cell. Her legs felt heavy and stiff and she stood still for a few moments before braving a step forward. Her knees did not give out and the vampire did not stir. Ardeth walked to the edge of her cell and looked around her prison.
The walls and floors were of unevenly cut stone and it looked, in the light of the one bare bulb that hung from the ceiling, as if both had once been whitewashed. Now there were only cracks of white tracing their way through the greyness and the dirt. On the wall behind the cot where the vampire lay, she thought she saw the suggestion of dark stains. They looked old; she hoped they were.
The stairs were not quite as treacherous as they had felt last night but there was no railing. In the alcove beneath then, she could see the vague bulk of machinery and furniture, some covered in cloth as well as shadows.
There were eight cells, five in her row, three on the other wall, starting just past the alcove. All but hers and the one beside it were empty. There were no mattresses on the bare metal cots bolted to the walls.
What was this place? Ardeth wondered. An abandoned prison perhaps, someplace outside the city. She inspected the lock on the door. It was new, the metal shining mockingly against the rusted bars.
She turned to lean against the door and stare back into her cell. There was a covered plastic pail and a roll of toilet paper under the cot. Curiously, she crossed the cell and crouched to pull them out. She lifted the lid of the pail carefully. It was empty but the unmistakable odour of urine emanated from inside.
Wonderful, Ardeth thought, I haven’t used a chamber pot since I was three, at Grandpa’s farm. She stared at the roll of paper for a moment. The last sheet had been pulled off unevenly and the remaining edge was ragged.
She didn’t think Wilkens or Roias had brought the pail and paper with them, so it must have been under the cot already. It had obviously been used more than once as a chamber pot. Which meant that she was not the first person to be kept in this cell. Someone else had been imprisoned here, someone else who had probably had her (she knew, somehow, that it was a woman) arm thrust through the bars to let the vampire feed. Someone who wasn’t here any longer.
Shaking suddenly, Ardeth thrust the pail and paper back to their resting place and scrambled onto the cot. She pulled her knees in tight to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs and wished desperately that she could just faint again. She settled for the momentary release of tears.
She was still sitting there, though dry-eyed, when the door at the top of the stairs opened. Wilkens appeared at the top, and as he descended the stairway, Ardeth realized that he was carrying a tray. “If you want to eat, get over here,” he snapped, stopping outside her cell. Ardeth got to her feet and walked carefully to the door, watching him uneasily.
Wilkens thrust the tray through the horizontal slot in the bars and she barely had time to grab it before he let go, backing away. As he turned, Ardeth opened her mouth. But she had no idea what to say, so she let him go.
The door upstairs slammed behind him, and she thought she could hear the snap of locks closing.
Retreating to her bed, she examined the tray. At least, for now, I won’t starve, she thought ruefully, surveying the ham sandwich and jug of water on the tray. Her stomach cramped and complained, but she ate as slowly as she could, not trusting that her captors’ largesse would continue.
When she finished, she knew she could no longer ignore the ache in her bladder. Ardeth glanced towards the next cell. The vampire had not moved. At least it . . . he . . . is a sound sleeper, she tried to console herself. Of course, he’ll probably wake up at the most inopportune moment.
Still, there was no way around it. It was an awkward process, but she managed. The vampire stayed asleep.
In fact, he stayed asleep the whole of the longest day of Ardeth’s life. It became evident quickly, once she had eaten, and explored her surroundings, that there was nothing to do in the cell. For a while she found herself glancing compulsively at her watch every few minutes. But, with no hour hand to mark the passage from one hour to the next, she seemed to be trapped in an endless cycle of repeating minutes. She also found herself subject to crying fits or attacks of panic that sent her stumbling to the cell door to clutch and tug at the bars, as if the lock might have somehow answered her silent pleas and unlocked itself in the time since her last futile attempt. She paced the short diagonal length of the cell, tried to sleep, desperately attempting to hold off the soul-curdling fear that she could feel prowling around the edges of her mind. She thought more than once that she might willingly put her arm into the next cell, if only someone would bring her a book to read.
When her watch read ten-to-something, Wilkens reappeared with another tray. He retrieved the old one in silence and again, she did not dare to try to talk to him.
He paused at the vampire’s cell. “The sun’s down, monster, so I know you’re awake. Time to get up. We’ve got work for you to do soon.”
The vampire turned and sat up slowly. He focused on Wilkens for a moment, then his eyes shifted to Ardeth. She froze, clenching the tray between trembling fingers. Then the dead gaze dropped to stare, unblinking, at the floor.
“Jesus,” Wilkens muttered and stamped up the stairs. Ardeth withdrew to the farthest corner of the cot and ate her dinner, barely tasting the tinned spaghetti and packaged cake desert. When she finished, she set the tray down slowly, and huddled back against the wall.
If you keep still, stay quiet, maybe he won’t notice you, she thought desperately. She dreaded the weight of his gaze, the memory of the avid hunger she’d seen there the night before. Still, she couldn’t help the careful glances she stole at him. He held a dreadful fascination for her, like the perverse human desire to stare at death that manifested itself at traffic accidents.
He was not as inhuman as he had appeared the night before. The face that seemed like a skull was, in profile, rather fine, with pale, translucent skin stretched over arched, Slavic cheekbones, a straight nose, and a narrow jaw unshadowed by beard. His hair was long over his neck, ears and brow and was an odd shade of grey that was not t
he colour of age, or perhaps of age so great it was beyond reckoning. He was wearing a white shirt and dark pants, but the fabric of both was fraying and decayed. His feet were bare but he did not seem to be bothered by the cold stone beneath them.
The vampire shifted a little, head coming up, and Ardeth hastily looked away, fearful of being caught by the hot gaze, transfixed like a rabbit before a snake. She closed her eyes and willed herself not to look at him again.
For a moment, she was almost relieved when the door opened and Roias bounded down the stars. His entrance at least broke the empty stillness and interrupted her aching awareness of the thing she was trying to ignore. Then she saw the anticipation in his sudden grin and her stomach churned, as the fear edged hungrily closer.
“Come on, Alexander,” he called. “Time for the show.”
Chapter 5
“What show?” she asked, taking a step back and shooting one nervous glance at the silent vampire. Roias opened the door to her cell and stepped inside.
“You’ll see. Now turn around.” When she obeyed, he jerked her arms behind her and she felt the chill of metal handcuffs snap about her wrists.
“Let’s go.” He seized her arm and pushed her out of the cell ahead of him. The stairs were easier this time, without the blindfold. On the other side of the metal door, he went through the ritual of relocking it. Two locks, two keys. Ardeth noticed that he put them back in the front pocket of his pants. That’s three locks so far, the cynical little voice noted. Do you think that Wilkens or Roias will just drop the keys by accident in your cell someday?
Roias escorted her down the long corridor, towards the centre of the building. Small rooms with barred doors lined the hallway. “What was this place? A prison?” Ardeth dared to ask.
“An asylum. Not that it’s any concern of yours,” he answered with a warning glance. Ardeth lowered her eyes and hoped she looked sufficiently cowed. She felt it. After a moment, Roias took her arm again and drew her to a halt in front of a solid doorway. He unlocked this door as well and pushed her through into darkness.
The Night Inside Page 5