MACABRE, THE VAMPYR;
OR THE NECTAR OF LIFE
——"How graves give up their dead. And how the night air hideous grows with shrieks!"
The six solemn peals of an old tower bell have announced midnight—the air is thick and heavy—a strange, death like stillness pervades all nature. Like the ominous calm which precedes some more than usually terrific outbreak of the elements, they seem to have paused even in their ordinary fluctuations, to gather a terrific strength for the great effort. A faint rumble of thunder now comes from far off. Like a signal for the battle of the winds to begin, it appeared to awaken them from their lethargy, and one awful, warring hurricane swept over a whole city, producing more devastation in the four or five minutes it lasted, than would a half century of ordinary phenomena.
It was as if some giant had blown upon some toy hamlet, and scattered many of the buildings before the hot blast of his terrific breath; for as suddenly as that blast of wind had come did it cease, and all was as still and calm as before.
Sleepers awakened, and thought that what they had heard must be the confused chimera of a dream. They trembled and turned to sleep again. All is still—still as the very grave. Not a sound breaks the magic of repose. What is that—a strange, pattering noise, as of a million of fairy feet? It is hail—yes, a hail-storm has burst over the small village outside the venerable megalopolis called Neverwinter.
Tree leaves are dashed from the branches, mingled with small boughs; glazed panes that lie most opposed to the direct fury of the pelting particles of ice are broken, and the rapt repose that before was so remarkable in its intensity, is exchanged for a noise which, in its accumulation, drowns every cry of surprise or consternation which here and there arose from persons who found their houses invaded by the storm.
Now and then, too, there would come a sudden gust of wind that in its strength, as it blew laterally, would, for a moment, hold thousands upon thousands of the hailstones suspended in mid-air, but it was only to dash them with redoubled force in some new direction, where more mischief was to be done. Oh, how the storm raged! Hail—rain—wind. It was, in very truth, an awful night.
There is an antique chamber in an ancient house. Curious and quaint carvings adorn the walls, and the large chimney-piece is a curiosity of itself. The ceiling is low, and a large bay window, from roof to floor, looks to the west. The glazed panel is latticed, and filled with curiously painted glass and rich stained pieces, which send in a strange, yet beautiful light, when sun or moon shines into the apartment.
There is but one portrait in that room, although the walls seem panelled for the express purpose of containing a series of pictures. That portrait is of a young man, with a pale face, a stately brow, and a strange expression about the eyes, which no one cared to look on twice. There is a stately bed in that chamber, of carved walnut-wood is it made, rich in design and elaborate in execution; one of those works of art which owe their existence to the previous era. It is hung with heavy silken and damask furnishing; nodding feathers are at its corners—covered with dust are they, and they lend a funereal aspect to the room. The floor is of polished oak.
By Talos! how the hail dashes on the old bay window! Like an occasional discharge of thunderous lightning, it comes clashing, beating, and cracking upon the small panes; but they resist it—their small size saves them; the wind, the hail, the rain, expend their fury in vain. The bed in that old chamber is occupied. A creature formed in all fashions of loveliness lies in a half sleep slung upon that ancient couch—a maiden young, beautiful and fresh as a spring morning wet with dew.
Her long tresses have escaped from its confinement and streams over the blackened coverings of the bedstead; she has been restless in her sleep, for the sweat soaked clothing of the bed is in much confusion. One arm is over her head, the other hangs nearly off the side of the bed near to which she lies. A supple neck and tender bosom that would have formed a study for the rarest sculptor that ever Deneir gave genius to, were half disclosed.
She moaned slightly in her agitated sleep, and once or twice the full lips moved as if in prayer—at least one might judge so, for the name of one of the gods who suffered for all came once faintly from them. She has endured much fatigue, and the storm does not awaken her; but it can disturb the slumbers it does not possess the power to destroy entirely. The turmoil of the elements wakes the senses, although it cannot entirely break the repose they have lapsed into.
Oh, what a world of gratification was in that mouth, slightly parted, and exhibiting within the pearly teeth that glistened even in the faint light that came from that bay window. How sweetly the long silken eyelashes lay upon the cheek. Now she shifts, and one shoulder is entirely visible—whiter, fairer than the spotless clothing of the bed on which she lies, is the smooth skin of that fair creature, just budding into womanhood, and in that transition state which presents to us all the charms of the maiden—almost of the child, with the more matured beauty and gentleness of advancing years.
Was that lightning? Yes—an awful, vivid, terrifying flash—then a roaring peal of thunder, as if a thousand mountains were rolling one over the other in the blue velvet of the heavens! Who sleeps now in that ancient city? Not one living soul.
The dread trumpet of eternity could not more effectually have awakened any-one. The hail continues. The wind continues. The uproar of the elements seems at its height. Now she awakens—that beautiful feminine flower on the antique bed; she opens those eyes of celestial blue, and a faint utterance of alarm bursts from her lips.
At least it is a cry which, amid the noise and turmoil without, sounds but faint and weak. She comes upright upon the bed and presses her hands upon her eyes. By the stars above! What a wild torrent of wind, and rain, and hail! The thunder likewise seems intent upon awakening sufficient echoes to last until the next flash of forked lightning should again produce the wild concussion of the air.
She murmurs a prayer—a prayer for those she loves best; the names of those dear to her gentle heart come from her wetted lips full of rose red; she weeps and prays; she thinks then of what devastation the storm must surely produce, and to the great gods of the Second Sundering she prays for all living things. Another flash—a wild, blue, bewildering flash of lightning streams across that bay window, for an instant bringing out every colour in it with terrible distinctness.
A shriek bursts from the lips of the young virgin, and then, with eyes fixed upon that window, which, in another moment, is all darkness, and with such an expression of terror upon her face as it had never before known, she trembled, and the perspiration of intense fear glistens upon her brow and her breast.
"What—what was it?" she gasped; "real, or a delusion? Oh, by the gods greater and lesser, what was it? A figure tall and gaunt, endeavouring from the outside to unclasp the window. I saw it. That flash of lightning revealed it to me. It stood the whole length of the window."
There was a lull of the wind. The hail was not falling so thickly—moreover, it now fell, what there was of it, straight, and yet a strange clattering sound came upon the glass of that long window. It could not be a delusion—she is awake, and she hears it. What can produce it?
Another flash of lightning—another shriek—there could be now no delusion. A tall figure is standing on the ledge immediately outside the long window. It is its finger-nails upon the glass that produces the sound so like the hail, now that the hail has ceased. Intense fear paralysed the limbs of that beautiful maiden. That one shriek is all she can utter—with hands clasped, a face of marble, a heart beating so wildly in her animated bosom, that each moment it seems as if it would break its confines, eyes distended and fixed upon the window, she waits, petrified with horror.
The pattering and clattering of the nails continue. No word is spoken, and now she fancies she can trace the darker form of that figure against the window, and she can see the long arms moving to and fro, feeling for some mode of entrance. What strange light is that which now gradually creeps up into the air? red and terrible—brighter and brighter it grows.
The lightning has set fire to an old mill, and the reflection of the rapidly consuming building falls upon that long window. There can be no mistake. The figure is there, still feeling for an entrance, and clattering against the glaze panel with its long nails, that appear as if the growth of many years had been untouched. She tries to scream again but a choking sensation comes over her, and she cannot.
It is too dreadful—she tries to move—each limb seems weighed down by tons of lead—she can but in a hoarse faint whisper cry,— "Help—help—help—help!" And that one word she repeats like a person in a dream.
The red glare of the fire continues. It throws up the tall gaunt figure in hideous relief against the long window. It shows, too, upon the one portrait that is in the chamber, and that portrait appears to fix its eyes upon the attempting intruder, while the flickering light from the fire makes it look fearfully lifelike.
A small pane of clear glaze is broken, and the form from without introduces a long gaunt hand, which seems utterly destitute of flesh. The fastening is removed, and one-half of the window, which opens like folding doors, is swung wide open upon its hinges. And yet now she could not scream—she could not move.
"Help!—help!—help!" was all she could say. But, oh, that look of terror that sat upon her face, it was dreadful—a look to haunt the memory for a lifetime—a look to obtrude itself upon the happiest moments, and turn them to bitterness.
The figure turns half round, and the light falls upon the face. It is perfectly white— perfectly bloodless. The eyes look like polished tin; the lips are drawn back, and the principal feature next to those dreadful eyes is the teeth—the fearful looking teeth— projecting like those of some wild animal, hideously, glaringly white, and fang-like. It approaches the bed with a strange, gliding movement. It clashes together the long nails that literally appear to hang from the finger ends. No sound comes from its lips.
Is she going mad—that young and beautiful lass vulnerable and exposed to so much terror? she has drawn up all her limbs; she cannot even now say help. The power of articulation is gone, but the power of movement has returned to her; she can draw herself slowly along to the other side of the bed from that towards which the hideous appearance is coming. But her eyes are fascinated.
The glance of a serpent could not have produced a greater effect upon her than did the fixed gaze of those awful, metallic-looking eyes that were bent on her face. Crouching down so that the gigantic erect proportion was lost, and the protruding, shocking white flesh was the most prominent object, came on the figure. What was it?—what did it want there?—what made it look so grotesque—so unlike an inhabitant of the world, and yet to be on it?
Now she has got to the verge of the bed, and the figure pauses. It seemed as if when it paused she lost the power to proceed. The clothing of the bed wet with fear was now clutched in her hands with unconscious power. She drew her breath short and thick. Her moist bosom heaves, and her four alabaster limbs tremble and spasm, yet she cannot withdraw her eyes from that marble-looking erect visage. He holds her with his glittering eye.
The storm has ceased—all is still. The winds are hushed; the tower bell proclaims the hour of midpoint to thuldark: a hissing sound comes from the throat of the hideous being, and he raises his long, gaunt arms—the lips move. He advances.
The chaste lass places one small foot from the bed on to the floor. She is unconsciously dragging the bed clothing with her. The door of the room is in that direction—can she reach it? Has she power to walk?—can she withdraw her eyes from the face of the intruder, and so break the hideous charm?
Gods of the Pantheon! is it real, or some dream so like reality as to nearly overturn the judgment for-ever? The figure has paused again, and half on the bed and half out of it that ingénue lies trembling. Her long hair streams across the entire width of the bed. As she has slowly moved along she has left it streaming across the pillows.
The pause lasted about a minute—oh, what an age of agony. That minute was, indeed, enough for madness to do its full work in. With a sudden rush that could not be foreseen—with a strange howling cry that was enough to awaken terror in every breast, the figure seized the long tresses of her hair, and twining them round his bony hands he held her firmly to the bed.
Then she screamed — Selûne granted her then power to scream. Shriek followed shriek in rapid succession. The bed-clothes fell in a heap by the side of the bed—she was dragged by her long silken hair completely on to it again. Her beautifully rounded form quivered with the agony of her soul. The glassy, horrible eyes of the figure ran over that angelic form with a hideous, delicious satisfaction—horrible profanation. He drags her head to the bed's edge. He forces it back by the long hair still entwined in his grasp, her mouth slight gaped as she drew a shallow breath instinctively preparing herself.
With a plunge he seizes her exposed neck in his fang-like teeth—a gush of fluid—red on flesh, and a hideous suckling noise follows. The maiden has swooned, exposed in fullness to his taking and the Vampyr is at his hideous bloody repast!
[See Macabre the Vampyr, Chapter 2]
**Minor adaptation made to the famous Penny Dreadful classic, Varney the Vampire.