I
It began in twilight—a twilight I could not see. My eyes opened on darkness, and for a moment I wondered if I were still asleep and dreaming. Then I slid my hands down and felt the cheap lining of the casket, and I knew that this nightmare was real.
I wanted to scream, but who can hear screams through six feet of earth above a grave?
Better to save my breath and try to save my sanity. I fell back, and the darkness rose all around me. The darkness, the cold, clammy darkness of death.
I could not remember how I had come here, or what hideous error had brought about my premature interment. All I knew was that I lived—but unless I managed to escape, I would soon be in a condition horribly appropriate to my surroundings.
Then began that which I dare not remember in detail. The splintering of wood, the burrowing struggle through loosely-packed grave earth; the gasping hysteria accompanying my clawing, suffocated progress to the sane surface of the world above.
It is enough that I finally emerged. I can only thank poverty for my deliverance—the poverty which had placed me in a flimsy, unsealed coffin and a pauper's shallow grave.
Clotted with sticky clay, drenched with cold perspiration, racked by utter revulsion, I crawled forth from betwixt the gaping jaws of death.
Dusk crept between the tombstones, and somewhere to my left the moon leered down to watch the shadowy legions that conquered in the name of Night.
The moon saw me, and a wind whispered furtively to brooding trees, and the trees bent low to mumble a message to all those
sleeping below their shade.
I grew restless beneath the moon's glaring eye, and I wanted to leave this spot before the trees had told my secret to the nameless, numberless dead.
Despite my desire, several minutes passed before I summoned strength to stand erect, without trembling.
Then I breathed deeply of fog and faint putridity; breathed, and turned away along the path.
It was at that moment the figure appeared.
It glided like a shadow from the deeper shadows haunting the trees, and as the moonlight fell upon a human face I felt my heart surge in exultation.
I raced towards the waiting figure, words choking in my throat as they fought for prior utterance.
"You'll help me, won't you?" I babbled. "You can see… they buried me down there…I was trapped… alive in the grave… out now… you'll understand… I can't remember how it began, but… you'll help me?"
A head moved in silent assent.
I halted, regaining composure, striving for coherency.
"This is awkward," I said, more quietly. "I've really no right to ask you for assistance. I don't even know who you are."
The voice from the shadows was only a whisper, but each word thundered in my brain.
"I am a vampire," said the stranger.
Madness. I turned to flee, but the voice pursued me.
"Yes, I am a vampire," he said. "And… so are you!"
II
I must have fainted, then. I must have fainted, and he must have carried me out of the cemetery, for when I opened my eyes once more I lay on a sofa in his house.
The panelled walls loomed high, and shadows crawled across the ceiling beyond the candlelight. I sat up, blinked, and stared at the stranger who bent over me.
I could see him now, and I wondered. He was of medium height, grey-haired, clean-shaven, and clad discreetly in a dark business suit. At first glance he appeared normal enough.
As his face glided towards me, I stared closer, trying to pierce the veil of his seeming sanity, striving to see the madness beneath the prosaic exterior of dress and flesh.
I stared and saw that which was worse than any madness.
At close glance his countenance was cruelly illumined by the light. I saw the waxen pallor of his skin, and what was worse than that, the peculiar corrugation. For his entire face and throat was covered by a web of tiny wrinkles, and when he smiled it was with a mummy's grin.
Yes, his face was white and wrinkled; white, wrinkled, and long dead. Only his lips and eyes were alive, and they were red… too red. A face as white as corpse-flesh, holding lips and eyes as red as blood.
He smelled musty.
All these impressions came to me before he spoke. His voice was like the rustle of the wind through a mortuary wreath.
"You are awake? It is well."
"Where am I? And who are you?" I asked the questions but dreaded an answer. The answer came.
"You are in my house. You will be safe here, I think. As for me, I am your guardian."
"Guardian?"
He smiled. I saw his teeth. Such teeth I had never seen, save in the maw of a carnivorous beast. And yet—wasn't that the answer?
"You are bewildered, my friend. Understandably so. And that is why you need a guardian. Until you learn the ways of your new life, I shall protect you." He nodded. "Yes, Graham Keene, I shall protect you."
"Graham Keene."
It was my name. I knew it now. But how did he know it?
"In the name of mercy," I groaned, "tell me what has happened to me!"
He patted my shoulder. Even through the cloth I could feel the icy weight of his pallid fingers. They crawled across my neck like worms, like wriggling white worms—
"You must be calm," he told me. "This is a great shock, I know. Your confusion is understandable. If you will just relax a bit and
listen, I think I can explain everything."
I listened.
"To begin with, you must accept certain obvious facts. The first being—that you are a vampire."
"But—"
He pursed his lips, his too red lips, and nodded.
"There is no doubt about it, unfortunately. Can you tell me how you happened to be emerging from a grave?"
"No. I don't remember. I must have suffered a cataleptic seizure. The shock gave me partial amnesia. But it will come back to me.
I'm all right, I must be."
The words rang hollowly even as they gushed from my throat.
"Perhaps. But I think not." He sighed and pointed.
"I can prove your condition to you easily enough. Would you be so good as to tell me what you see behind you, Graham Keene?"
"Behind me?"
"Yes, on the wall."
I stared.
"I don't see anything."
"Exactly."
"But—"
"Where is your shadow?"
I looked again. There was no shadow, no silhouette. For a moment my sanity wavered. Then I stared at him. "You have no shadow either," I exclaimed, triumphantly. "What does that prove?"
"That I am a vampire," he said, easily. "And so are you."
"Nonsense. It's just a trick of the light," I scoffed.
"Still sceptical? Then explain this optical illusion." A bony hand proffered a shining object.
I took it, held it. It was a simple pocket mirror.
"Look."
I looked.
The mirror dropped from my fingers and splintered on the floor.
"There's no reflection!" I murmured.
"Vampires have no reflections." His voice was soft. He might have been reasoning with a child.
"If you still doubt," he persisted, "I advise you to feel your pulse. Try to detect a heartbeat."
Have you ever listened for the faint voice of hope to sound within you… knowing that it alone can save you? Have you ever listened and heard nothing? Nothing but the silence of death!
I knew it then, past all doubt. I was of the Undead… the Undead who cast no shadows, whose images do not reflect in mirrors, whose hearts are forever stilled, but whose bodies live on—live, and walk abroad, and take nourishment.
Nourishment!
I thought of my companion's red lips and his pointed teeth. I thought of the light blazing in his eyes. A light of hunger. Hunger for what?
How soon must I share that hunger?
He must have sensed the question, for he began to speak once more.
"You are satisfied that I speak the truth, I see. That is well. You must accept your condition and then prepare to make the necessary adjustments. For there is much you have to learn in order to face the centuries to come.
"To begin with, I will tell you that many of the common superstitions about—people like us—are false."
He might have been discussing the weather, for all the emotion his face betrayed. But I could not restrain a shudder of revulsion at his words.
"They say we cannot abide garlic. That is a lie. They say we cannot cross running water. Another lie. They say that we must lie by day in the earth of our own graves. That's picturesque nonsense.
"These things, and these alone, are true. Remember them, for they are important to your future. We must sleep by day and rise only at sunset.
At dawn an overpowering lethargy bedrugs our senses, and we fall into a coma until dusk. We need not sleep in coffins—that is sheer melodrama, I assure you!—but it is best to sleep in darkness, and away from any chance of discovery by men.
"I do not know why this is so, any more than I can account for other phenomena relative to the disease. For vampirism is a disease, you know."
He smiled when he said it. I didn't smile. I groaned.
"Yes, it is a disease. Contagious, of course, and transmissible in the classic manner, through a bite. Like rabies. What reanimates the body after death no one can say. And why it is necessary to take certain forms of nourishment to sustain existence, I do not know. The daylight coma is a more easily classified medical phenomenon. Perhaps an allergy to the direct actinic rays of the sun.
"I am interested in these matters, and I have studied them.
"In the centuries to come I shall endeavour to do some intensive research on the problem. It will prove valuable in perpetuating my
existence, and yours."
The voice was harsher now. The slim fingers clawed the air in excitement.
"Think of that, for a moment, Graham Keene," he whispered. "Forget your morbid superstitious dread of this condition and look at the reality.
"Picture yourself as you were before you awoke at sunset. Suppose you had remained there, inside that coffin, nevermore to awaken! Dead—dead for all eternity!"
He shook his head. "You can thank your condition for an escape. It gives you a new life, not just for a few paltry years, but for centuries. Perhaps—forever!
"Yes, think and give thanks! You need never die, now. Weapons cannot harm you, nor disease, nor the workings of age. You are immortal—and I shall show you how to live like a god!"
He sobered. "But that can wait. First we must attend to our needs. I want you to listen carefully now. Put aside your silly prejudices and hear me out. I will tell you that which needs to be told regarding our nourishment.
"It isn't easy, you know.
"There aren't any schools you can attend to learn what to do. There are no correspondence courses or books of helpful
information. You must learn everything through your own efforts. Everything.
"Even so simple and vital a matter as biting the neck—using the incisors properly—is entirely a matter of personal judgment.
"Take that little detail, just as an example. You must choose the classic trinity to begin with—the time, the place, and the girl.
"When you are ready, you must pretend that you are about to kiss her. Both hands go under her ears. That is important, to hold her neck steady, and at the proper angle.
"You must keep smiling all the while, without allowing a betrayal of intent to creep into your features or your eyes. Then you bend your head. You kiss her throat. If she relaxes, you turn your mouth to the base of her neck, open it swiftly and place the incisors in position.
"Simultaneously—it must be simultaneously—you bring your left hand up to cover her mouth. The right hand must find, seize, and pinion her hands behind her back. No need to hold her throat now. The teeth are doing that. Then, and only then, will instinct come to your aid. It must come then, because once you begin, all else is swept away in the red, swirling blur of fulfilment."
I cannot describe his intonation as he spoke, or the unconscious pantomime which accompanied the incredible instructions. But it is simple to name the look that came into his eyes.
Hunger.
"Come, Graham Keene," he whispered. "We must go now."
"Go? Where?"
"To dine," he told me. "To dine!"
III
He led me from the house, and down a garden pathway through a hedge.
The moon was high, and as we walked along a windswept bluff, flying figures spun a moving web across the moon's bright face.
My companion shrugged.
"Bats," he said. And smiled.
"They say that we—have the power of changing shape. That we become bats, or wolves. Alas, it's only another superstition.
Would that it were true? For then our life would be easy. As it is, the search for sustenance in mortal form is hard. But you will soon understand."
I drew back. His hand rested on my shoulder in cold command.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked.
"To food."
Irresolution left me. I emerged from nightmare, shook myself into sanity.
"No—I won't!" I murmured. "I can't—"
"You must," he told me. "Do you want to go back to the grave?"
"I'd rather," I whispered. "Yes, I'd rather die."
His teeth gleamed in the moonlight.
"That's the pity of it," he said. "You can't die. You'll weaken without sustenance, yes. And you will appear to be dead. Then, whoever finds you will put you in the grave.
"But you'll be alive down there. How would you like to lie there undying in the darkness… writhing as you decay… suffering the torments of red hunger as you suffer the pangs of dissolution?
"How long do you think that goes on? How long before the brain itself is rotted away? How long must one endure the charneal consciousness of the devouring worm? Does the very dust still billow in agony?"
His voice held horror.
"That is the fate you escaped. But it is still the fate that awaits you unless you dine with me.
"Besides, it isn't something to avoid, believe me. And I am sure, my friend, that you already feel the pangs of—appetite."
I could not, dared not answer.
For it was true. Even as he spoke, I felt hunger. A hunger greater than any I had ever known. Call it a craving, call it a desire—call it lust. I felt it, gnawing deep within me. Repugnance was nibbled away by the terrible teeth of growing need.
"Follow me," he said, and I followed. Followed along the bluff and down a lonely country road.
We halted abruptly on the highway. A blazing neon sign winked incongruously ahead.
I read the absurd legend.
"DANNY'S DRIVE-IN."
Even as I watched, the sign blinked out.
"Right," whispered my guardian. "It's closing time. They will be leaving now."
"Who?"
"Mr. Danny and his waitress. She serves customers in their cars. They always leave together, I know. They are locking up for the night now. Come along and do as you are told."
I followed him down the road. His feet crunched gravel as he stalked towards the now darkened drive-in stand. My stride quickened in excitement. I moved forward as though pushed by a gigantic hand. The hand of hunger—
He reached the side door of the shack. His fingers rasped the screen.
An irritable voice sounded.
"What do you want? We're closing."
"Can't you serve any more customers?"
"Nah. Too late. Go away."
"But we're very hungry."
I almost grinned. Yes, we were very hungry.
"Beat it!" Danny was in no mood for hospitality.
"Can't we get anything?"
Danny was silent for a moment. He was evidently debating the point. Then he called to someone inside the stand.
"Marie! Couple customers outside. Think we can fix 'em up in a hurry?"
"Oh, I guess so." The girl's voice was soft, complaisant. Would she be soft and complaisant, too?
"Open up. You guys mind eating outside?"
"Not at all."
"Open the door, Marie."
Marie's high heels clattered across the wooden floor. She opened the screen door, blinked out into the darkness.
My companion stepped inside the doorway. Abruptly, he pushed the girl forward.
"Now!" he rasped.
I lunged at her in darkness. I didn't remember his instructions about smiling at her, or placing my hands beneath her ears. All I knew
was that her throat was white, and smooth, except where a tiny vein throbbed in her neck.
I wanted to touch her neck there with my fingers—with my mouth—with my teeth.
So I dragged her into the darkness, and my hands were over her mouth, and I could hear her heels scraping through the gravel as I pulled her along. From inside the shack I heard a single long moan, and then nothing.
Nothing… except the rushing white blur of her neck, as my face swooped towards the throbbing vein…
IV
It was cold in the cellar—cold, and dark. I stirred uneasily on my couch and my eyes blinked open on blackness. I strained to see, raising myself to a sitting position as the chill slowly faded from my bones.
I felt sluggish, heavy with reptilian contentment. I yawned, trying to grasp a thread of memory from the red haze cloaking my
thoughts.
Where was I? How had I come here? What had I been doing?
I yawned. One hand went to my mouth. My lips were caked with a dry, flaking substance.
I felt it—and then remembrance flooded me.
Last night, at the drive-in, I had feasted. And then—
"No!" I gasped.
"You have slept? Good."
My host stood before me. I arose hastily and confronted him.
"Tell me it isn't true," I pleaded. "Tell me I was dreaming."
"You were," he answered. "When I came out of the shack you lay under the trees, unconscious. I carried you home before dawn
and placed you here to rest. You have been dreaming from sunrise to sunset, Graham Keene."
"But last night—?"
"Was real."
"You mean I took that girl and—?"
"Exactly." He nodded. "But come, we must go upstairs and talk. There are certain questions I must ask."
We climbed the stairs slowly and emerged on ground level. Now I could observe my surrounding with a more objective eye. This house was large, and old. Although completely furnished, it looked somehow untenanted. It was as though nobody had lived there for a long time.
Then I remembered who my host was, and what he was. I smiled grimly. It was true. Nobody was living in this house now.
Dust lay thickly everywhere, and the spiders had spun patterns of decay in the corners. Shades were drawn against the darkness, but still it crept in through the cracked walls. For darkness and decay belonged here.
We entered the study where I had awakened last night, and as I was seated, my guardian cocked his head towards me in an attitude of inquiry.
"Let us speak frankly," he began. "I want you to answer an important question."
"Yes?"
"What did you do with her?"
"Her?"
"That girl—last night. What did you do with her body?"
I put my hands to my temples. "It was all a blur. I can't seem to remember."
His head darted towards me, eyes blazing. "I'll tell you what you did with her," he rasped. "You threw her body down the well. I saw it floating there."
"Yes," I groaned. "I remember now."
"You fool—why did you do that?"
"I wanted to hide it… I thought they'd never know—"
"You thought!" Scorn weighted his voice. "You didn't think for an instant. Don't you see, now she will never rise?"
"Rise?"
"Yes, as you rose. Rise to become one of us."
"But I don't understand."
"That is painfully evident." He paced the floor, then wheeled towards me.
"I see that I shall have to explain certain things to you. Perhaps you are not to blame, because you don't realize the situation. Come with me."
He beckoned. I followed. We walked down the hall, entered a large, shelf-lined room. It was obviously a library. He lit a lamp, halted.
"Take a look around," he invited. "See what you make of it, my friend."
I scanned the titles on the shelves—titles stamped in gold on thick, handsome bindings; titles worn to illegibility on ancient, raddled leather. The latest in scientific and medical treatises stood on these shelves, flanked by age-encrusted incunabula.
Modern volumes dealt with psychopathology. The ancient lore was frankly concerned with black magic.
"Here is the collection," he whispered. "Here is gathered together all that is known, all that has ever been written about—us."
"A library on vampirism?"
"Yes. It took me decades to assemble it completely."
"But why?"
"Because knowledge is power. And it is power I seek."
Suddenly a resurgent sanity impelled me. I shook off the nightmare enveloping me and sought an objective viewpoint. A question crept into my mind, and I did not try to hold it back.
"Just who are you, anyway?" I demanded. "What is your name?"
My host smiled.
"I have no name," he answered.
"No name?"
"Unfortunate, is it not? When I was buried, there were no loving friends, apparently, to erect a tombstone. And when I arose from the grave, I had no mentor to guide me back to a memory of the past. Those were barbaric times in the East Prussia of 1777."
"You died in 1777?" I muttered.
"To the best of my knowledge," he retorted, bowing slightly in mock deprecation. "And so it is that my real name is unknown.
Apparently I perished far from my native heath, for diligent research on my part has failed to uncover my paternity, or any contemporaries who recognized me at the time of my—er—resurrection.
"And so it is that I have no name; or rather, I have many pseudonyms. During the past sixteen decades I have travelled far, and have been all things to all men. I shall not endeavour to recite my history.
"It is enough to say that slowly, gradually, I have grown wise in the ways of the world. And I have evolved a plan. To this end I have amassed wealth, and brought together a library as a basis for my operations.
"Those operations I propose will interest you. And they will explain my anger when I think of you throwing the girl's body into the well."
He sat down. I followed suit. I felt anticipation crawling along my spine. He was about to read something—something I wanted to hear; yet dreaded. The revelation came, slyly, slowly.
"Have you ever wondered," he began, "why there are not more vampires in the world?"
"What do you mean?"
"Consider. It is said, and it is true, that every victim of a vampire becomes a vampire in turn. The new vampire finds other victims.
Isn't it reasonable to suppose, therefore, that in a short time—through sheer mathematical progression—the virus of vampirism would run epidemic throughout the world? In other words, have you ever wondered why the world is not filled with vampires by this time?"
"Well, yes—I never thought of it that way. What is the reason?" I asked.
He glared and raised a white finger. It stabbed forward at my chest—a rapier of accusation.
"Because of fools like you. Fools who cast their victims into wells; fools whose victims are buried in sealed coffins, who hide the bodies or dismember them so no one would suspect their work.
"As a result, few new recruits join the ranks. And the old ones—myself included—are constantly subject to the ravages of the centuries. We eventually disintegrate, you know. To my knowledge, there are only a few hundred vampires today. And yet, if new victims all were given the opportunity to rise—we would have a vampire army within a year. Within three years there would be millions of vampires! Within ten years we could rule earth!
"Can't you see that? If there was no cremation, no careless disposal of bodies, no bungling, we could end our hunted existence as creatures of the night—brothers of the bat! No longer would we be a legendary, cowering minority, living each a law unto himself!
"All that is needed is a plan. And I—I have evolved that plan!" His voice rose. So did the hairs upon my neck. I was beginning to comprehend, now—
"Suppose we started with the humble instruments of destiny," he suggested. "Those forlorn, unnoticed, ignorant little old men—night watchmen of graveyards and cemeteries."
A smile creased his corpse-like countenance. "Suppose we eliminated them? Took over their jobs? Put vampires in their places— men who would go to the fresh graves and dig up the bodies of each victim they had bitten while those bodies were still warm and pulsing and undecayed?
"We could save the lives of most of the recruits we make. Reasonable, is it not?"
To me it was madness, but I nodded.
"Suppose that we made victims of those attendants? Then carried them off, nursed them back to reanimation, and allowed them to
resume their posts as our allies? They work only at night—no one would know.
"Just a little suggestion, but so obvious! And it would mean so much!"
His smile broadened.
"All that it takes is organization on our part. I know many of my brethren. It is my desire soon to call them together and present this plan. Never before have we worked cooperatively, but when I show them the possibilities, they cannot fail to respond.
"Can you imagine it? An earth which we could control and terrorize—a world in which human beings become our property, our cattle?
"It is so simple, really. Sweep aside your foolish concepts of Dracula and the other superstitious confectionery that masquerades in the public mind as an authentic picture. I admit that we are—unearthly. But there is no reason for us to be stupid, impractical figures of fantasy. There is more for us than crawling around in black cloaks and recoiling at the sight of crucifixes!
"After all, we are a life-form, a race of our own. Biology has not yet recognized us, but we exist. Our morphology and metabolism has not been evaluated or charted; our actions and reactions never studied. But we exist. And we are superior to ordinary mortals.
Let us assert this superiority! Plain human cunning, coupled with our super-normal powers, can create for us a mastery over all living things. For we are greater than Life—we are Life-in-Death!"
I half-rose. He waved me back, breathlessly.
"Suppose we band together and make plans? Suppose we go about, first of all, selecting our victims on the basis of value to our ranks? Instead of regarding them as sources of easy nourishment, let's think in terms of an army seeking recruits. Let us select keen brains, youthfully strong bodies. Let us prey upon the best earth has to offer. Then we shall wax strong and no man shall stay our hand—or teeth!"
He crouched like a black spider, spinning his web of words to enmesh my sanity. His eyes glittered. It was absurd somehow to see this creature of superstitious terror calmly creating a super-dictatorship of the dead.
And yet, I was one of them. It was real. The nameless one would do it, too.
"Have you ever stopped to wonder why I tell you this? Have you ever stopped to wonder why you are my confidant in this
venture?" he purred.
I shook my head.
"It is because you are young. I am old. For years I have laboured only to this end. Now that my plans are perfected, I need assistance. Youth, a modern viewpoint. I know of you, Graham Keene. I watched you before… you became one of us. You were selected for this purpose."
"Selected?" Suddenly it hit home. I fought down a stranglehold gasp as I asked the question. "Then you know who—did this to me? You know who bit me?"
Rotting fangs gaped in a smile. He nodded slowly.
"Of course," he whispered. "Why—I did!"
V
He was probably prepared for anything except the calmness with which I accepted this revelation.
Certainly he was pleased. And the rest of that night, and all the next night, were spent in going over the plans, in detail. I learned that he had not yet communicated with others—in regard to his ideas.
A meeting would be arranged soon. Then we would begin the campaign. As he said, the times were ripe. War, a world in unrest— we would be able to move unchallenged and find unusual opportunities.
I agreed. I was even able to add certain suggestions as to detail. He was pleased with my cooperation.
Then, in the third night, came hunger.
He offered to serve as my guide, but I brushed him aside.
"Let me try my own wings," I smiled. "After all, I must learn sooner or later. And I promise you, I shall be very careful. This time I will see to it that the body remains intact. Then I shall discover the place of burial and we can perform an experiment. I will select a likely recruit, we shall go forth to open the grave, and thus will we test our plan in miniature."
He fairly beamed at that. And I went forth that night, alone.
I returned only as dawn welled out of the eastern sky—returned to slumber through the day.
That night we spoke, and I confided my success to his eager ears.
"Sidney J. Garrat is the name," I said. "A college professor, about 45. I found him wandering along a path near the campus. The trees form a dark, deserted avenue. He offered no resistance. I left him there. I don't think they'll bother with an autopsy—for the marks on his throat are invisible and he is known to have a weak heart.
"He lived alone without relatives. He had no money. That means a wooden coffin and quick burial at Everest tomorrow. Tomorrow night we can go there."
My companion nodded.
"You have done well," he said.
We spent the remainder of the night in perfecting our plans. We would go to Everest, locate the night watchman and put him out of
the way, then seek the new grave of Professor Garrat.
And so it was that we re-entered the cemetery on the following evening.
Once again a midnight moon glared from the Cyclopean socket of the sky. Once more the wind whispered to us on our way, and the trees bowed in black obeisance along the path.
We crept up to the shanty of the graveyard watchman and peered through the window at his stooping figure.
"I'll knock," I suggested. "Then when he comes to the door—"
My companion shook his grey head. "No teeth," he whispered. "The man is old, useless to us. I shall resort to more mundane weapons."
I shrugged. Then I knocked. The old man opened the door, blinked out at me with rheumy eyes.
"What is it?" he wheezed, querulously. "Ain't nobuddy suppose' tuh be in uh cemetery this time uh night—"
Lean fingers closed around his windpipe. My companion dragged him forth towards nearby shrubbery. His free arm rose and fell, and a silver arc stabbed down. He had used a knife.
Then we made haste along the path, before the scent of blood could divert us from our mission—and far ahead, on the hillside dedicated to the last slumbers of Poverty, I saw the raw, gaping edges of a new-made grave.
He ran back to the hut, then, and procured the spades we had neglected in our haste. The moon was our lantern and the grisly work began amidst a whistling wind.
No one saw us, no one heard us, for only empty eyes and shattered ears lay far beneath the earth.
We toiled, and then we stooped and tugged. The grave was deep, very deep. At the bottom the coffin lay, and we dragged forth
the pine box.
"Terrible job," confided my companion. "Not a professionally dug grave at all, in my opinion. Wasn't filled in right. And this coffin is pine, but very thick. He'd never claw his own way out. Couldn't break through the boards. And the earth was packed too tightly.
Why would they waste so much time on a pauper's grave?"
"Doesn't matter," I whispered. "Let's open it up. If he's revived, we must hurry."
We'd brought a hammer from the caretaker's shanty, too, and he went down into the pit itself to pry the nails free. I heard the board covering move, and peered down over the edge of the grave.
He bent forward, stooping to peer into the coffin, his face a mask of livid death in the moonlight. I heard him hiss.
"Why—the coffin is empty!" he gasped.
"Not for long!"
I drew the wrench from my pocket, raised it, brought it down with every ounce of strength I possessed until it shattered through his skull.
And then I leaped down into the pit and pressed the writhing, mewing shape down into the coffin, slammed the lid on, and drove the heavy nails into place. I could hear his whimperings rise to muffled screams, but the screams grew faint as I began to heap the clods of earth upon the coffin-lid.
I worked and panted there until no sound came from the coffin below. I packed the earth down hard—harder than I had last night
when I dug the grave in the first place.
And then, at last, the task was over.
He lay there, the nameless one, the deathless one; lay six feet underground in a stout wooden coffin.
He could not claw his way free, I knew. And even if he did, I'd pressed him into his wooden prison face down. He'd claw his way to hell, not to earth.
But he was past escape. Let him lie there, as he had described it to me—not dead, not alive. Let him be conscious as he decayed, and as the wood decayed and the worms crawled in to feast. Let him suffer until the maggots at last reached his corrupt brain and ate away his evil consciousness.
I could have driven a stake through his heart. But his ghastly desire deserved defeat in this harsher fate.
Thus it was ended, and I could return now before discovery and the coming of dawn—return to his great house which was the only home I knew on the face of the earth.
Return I did, and for the past hours I have been writing this that all might know the truth.
I am not skilled with words, and what I read here smacks of mawkish melodrama. For the world is superstitious and yet cynical— and this account will be deemed the ravings of a fool or madman; worse still, as a practical joke.
So I must implore you; if you seek to test the truth of what I've set down, go to Everest tomorrow and search out the newly-dug grave on the hillside. Talk to the police when they find the dead watchman, make them go to the well near Danny's roadside stand.
Then, if you must, dig up the grave and find that which must still writhe and crawl within. When you see it, you'll believe—and
injustice, you will not relieve the torment of that monstrous being by driving a stake through his heart.
For that stake represents release and peace.
I wish you'd come here, after that—and bring a stake for me…
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