THE VAMPIRE
Vranic, having found out that the Austrian law could do nothing for
him, except punish him for his crime in cutting down the vines of a
man who had done him no harm, shut himself up at home to nurse his
wounded head, to brood over his revenge, and pity himself for all the
mishaps that had befallen him. The more he pitied himself, the more
irritable he grew, and the more he considered himself a poor
persecuted wretch. He durst not go out for fear of being laughed at;
and, in fact, when he did go, the children in the streets began to
call him names, to ask him what he had done with his ears, and
whether he liked cutting people's vines down.
With his bickering and peevish temper, not only his fast friends grew
weary of him, but his own family forsook him; his very brother, at
last, could not abide his saturnine humour, and left him. He then
began to drink to try and drown his troubles; still, he only took
enough to muddle his brains, and, moreover, the greater quantity of
spirits he consumed the more sullen he grew.
Having but one idea in his head--that is, the great wrong that had
been done to him--he hardly fell asleep at nights but he was at once
haunted by fearful dreams. His murdered brother would at once appear
before him and ask him--urge him--to avenge his death:
"While you are enjoying the inheritance I left you, I am groaning in
hell-fire, and my murderer is not only left free, but he is even
made much of."
Masses were said for the dead man's soul, still that was of no avail;
Vranic's dreams got always more frightful. The _morina_, the dreadful
_mara_ or nightmare, took up its dwelling in the tailor's house. No
sooner did the poor man close his eyes than the ponderous ghost came
hovering over him, and at last crushed him with its weight. The sign
of the pentacle was drawn on every door and window. A witch drew it
for him on paper with magical ink, and he placed the paper under his
pillow. He put another on the sheets; then the nightmare left him
alone, and other evil spirits came in its stead. Not knowing the
names of these evil spirits or their nature, it was a difficult task
to find out the planet under which they were subjected, the sign
which they obeyed, and what charm was potent enough to scare them
away.
One night (it was about the hour when his brother had been murdered)
the tailor was lying on his bed in a half-wakeful slumber--that is to
say, his drowsy body was benumbed, but his mind was still quite
awake, when all at once he was roused by the noise of a loud wind
blowing within the house. Outside, everything was perfectly quiet,
but inside a distant door seemed to have been opened down in some
cellar, and a draught was blowing up with a moaning, booming sound.
You might have fancied that a grave had been opened and a ghastly
gale was blowing from the hollow depths of hell below, and that it
came wheezing up. It was dreadful to hear, for it had such a dismal
sound.
Perhaps it was only his imagination, but Vranic thought that this
mysterious draught was cold, damp and chilly; that it had an earthy,
rank smell of mildew as it blew by him.
He lay there shivering, hardly daring to breathe, putting his tongue
between his chattering teeth not to make a noise, and listening to
that strange, weird blast as at last it died far away in a faint,
imperceptible sigh.
No sooner had the sound of the wind entirely subsided than he heard a
cadenced noise of footsteps coming from afar. Were these steps out of
the house or inside? he could not tell. He heard them draw nearer and
ever nearer; they seemed to come across the wall of the room, as if
bricks and stones were no obstacle to his uncanny visitor; now they
were in his room, walking up to his bed. Appalled with terror, Vranic
looked towards the place from where the footsteps came, but he could
not see anybody. Trembling as if with a fit of palsy, he cast a
fearful, furtive glance all around, even in the furthermost corner of
the room; not the shadow of a ghost was to be seen; nevertheless, the
footsteps of the invisible person grew louder as they approached at a
slow, sure, inexorable pace.
At last they stopped; they were by his bed. Vranic felt the breath of
a person on his very face.
Except a person who has felt it, no one can realise the horror of
having an invisible being leaning over you, of feeling his breath on
your face.
Vranic tried to rise, but he at once came in close contact with the
unseen monster; two cold, clammy, boneless hands gripped him and
pinned him down; he vainly struggled to get free, but he was as a
baby in the hands of his invisible foe. In a few seconds he was
entirely mastered, cowed down, overcome, panting, breathless. When he
tried to scream, a limp, nerveless hand, as soft as a huge toad, was
placed upon his mouth, shutting it up entirely, and impeding all
power of utterance. Then the ponderous mass of the ghost came upon
him, crushed him, smothered him. Fainting with fear, his strength and
his senses forsook him at the same time, and he swooned away.
When he came back to life, the cold, grey light of the dawning day,
pouring in through the half-closed shutters, gave the room a squalid,
lurid look. His head was not exactly paining him, but it felt drained
of all its contents, and as light as an empty skull, or an old poppy
head in which the seeds are rattling. He looked around. There was
nothing unusual in the room; everything was just as it had been upon
the previous evening. Had his struggle with the ghost been but a
dream? He tried to move, to rise, but all his limbs were as weary and
sore as if he had really fought and been beaten. Nay, his whole body
was as weak as if he had had some long illness and was only now
convalescent. He recalled to mind all the details of the struggle, he
looked at the places where he felt numb and sore, and everywhere he
remarked livid stains which he had not seen before. He lifted himself
up on his right elbow; to his horror and consternation, there were
two or three spots of blood upon the white sheet.
He felt faint and sick at that sight; he understood everything. His
had not been a dream; his gruesome visitor was a frightful ghost, a
terrible _vukodlaki_, which had fought with him and sucked his blood.
His brother had become a loathsome vampire; he was the first victim.
For a moment he remained bewildered, unable to think; then when he
did manage to collect his wandering senses, the terrible reality of
his misfortune almost drove him mad again.
The ghost, having tasted his blood, would not leave him till it had
drained him to the very last drop. He was a lost man; no medical aid
could be of any use; nourishing food, wine and tonics might prolong
his agony a few days longer and no more. He was doomed to a sure
death. Daily--as if in a decline--he saw himself wasting away, for
the vampire would suck the very marrow of his bones.
His was a dreary life, indeed, and yet he clung to it with might and
main. The days passed on wearily, and he tried to hope against hope
itself; but he was so weak and dispirited that the slightest noise
made him shiver and grow pale. An unexpected footstep, the opening or
shutting of a door, slackened or accelerated the beating of his
heart.
With fear and trembling he waited for night to come on, and when the
sun went down--when darkness came over the earth--his terror grew
apace. Still, where was he to go? He had not a single friend on the
surface of the earth. He, therefore, drank several glasses of
spirits, muttered his prayers and went to bed. No sooner had he
fallen asleep than he fell again a prey to the vampire.
On the third night he determined not to go to bed, but to remain
awake, and thus wait for the arrival of his gruesome guest. Still, at
the last moment his courage failed him, so he went to an old man who
lived hard by. He promised to make him a new waistcoat if he would
only give him a rug to sleep on, and tell him a story until he got
drowsy.
The old man complied willingly, above all as Vranic had brought a
_bukara_ of wine with him, so he at once began the story of
THE PRIEST AND HIS COOK.
In the village of Steino there lived an old priest who was
exceedingly wealthy, but who was, withal, as miserly as he was rich.
Although he had fields which stretched farther than the eye could
reach, fat pastures, herds and flocks; although his cellars were
filled with mellow wine, his barns were bursting with the grace of
God; although abundance reigned in his house, still he was never
known to have given a crust of bread to a beggar or a glass of wine
to a weary old man.
He lived all alone with a skinflint of an old cook, as stingy as
himself, who would rather by far have seen an apple rot than give it
to a hungry child whose mouth watered for it.
Those two grim old fogeys, birds of one feather, cared for no one
else in this world except for each other, and, in fact, the people in
Steino said----, but people in villages have bad tongues, so it's
useless to repeat what was said about them.
The priest had a nephew, a smith, a good-hearted, bright-eyed, burly
kind of a fellow, beloved by all the village, except by his uncle,
whom he had greatly displeased because he had married a bonny lass of
the neighbouring village of Smarje, instead of taking as a wife
the----, well, the cook's niece, though, between us and the wall, the
cook was never known to have had a sister or a brother either, and
the people----, but, as I said before, the people were apt to say
nasty things about their priest.
The smith, who was quite a pauper, had several children, for the
poorer a man is the more babies his wife presents him with--women
everywhere are such unreasonable creatures--and whenever he applied
to his uncle for a trifle, the uncle would spout the Scriptures in
Latin, saying something about the unfitness of casting pearls before
pigs, and that he would rather see him hanged than help him.
Once--it was in the middle of winter--the poor smith had been without
any work for days and days. He had spent his last penny; then the
baker would not give him any more bread on credit, and at last, on a
cold, frosty night, the poor children had been obliged to go to bed
supperless.
The smith, who had sworn a few days before never again to put his
foot in the priest's house, was, in his despair, obliged to humble
himself, and go and beg for a loaf of bread, with which to satisfy
his children on the morrow.
Before he knocked at the door, he went and peeped in through the
half-closed shutters, and he saw his uncle and the cook seated by a
roaring fire, with their feet on the fender, munching roasted
chestnuts and drinking mulled wine. Their shining lips still seemed
greasy from the fat sausages they had eaten for supper, and, as he
sniffed at the window, he fancied the air was redolent with the
spices of black-pudding. The smell made his mouth water and his
hungry stomach rumble.
The poor man knocked at the door with a trembling hand; his legs
began to quake, he had not eaten the whole of that long day; but then
he thought of his hungry children, and knocked with a steadier hand.
The priest, hearing the knock, thought it must be some pious
parishioner bringing him a fat pullet or perhaps a sleek sucking-pig,
the price of a mass to be said on the morrow; but when, instead, he
saw his nephew, looking as mean and as sheepish as people usually do
when they go a-begging, he was greatly disappointed.
"What do you want, bothering here at this time of the night?" asked
the old priest, gruffly.
"Uncle," said the poor man, dejectedly.
"I suppose you've been drinking, as usual; you stink of spirits."
"Spirits, in sooth! when I haven't a penny to bless me."
"Oh, if it's only a blessing you want, here, take one and go!"
And the priest lifted up his thumb and the two fingers, and uttered
something like "_Dominus vobiscum,_" and then waved him off; whilst
the old shrew skulking near him uttered a croaking kind of laugh, and
said that a priest's blessing was a priceless boon.
"Yes," replied the smith, "upon a full stomach; but my children have
gone to bed supperless, and I haven't had a crust of bread the whole
of the day."
"'Man shall not live by bread alone,' the Scriptures say, and you
ought to know that if you are a Christian, sir."
"Eh? I daresay the Scriptures are right, for priests surely do not
live on bread alone; they fatten on plump pullets and crisp
pork-pies."
"Do you mean to bully me, you unbelieving beggar?"
"Bully you, uncle!" said the burly man, in a piteous tone; "only
think of my starving children."
"He begrudges his uncle the grub he eats," shrieked the old cat of a
cook.
"I'd have given you something, but the proud man should be punished,"
said the wrathful priest, growing purple in the face.
"Oh, uncle, my children!" sobbed the poor man.
"What business has a man to have a brood of brats when he can't earn
enough to buy bread for them?" said the cook, aloud, to herself.
"Will you hold your tongue, you cantankerous old cat?" said the smith
to the cook.
The old vixen began to howl, and the priest, in his anger, cursed his
nephew, telling him that he and his children could starve for all he
cared.
The smith thereupon went home, looking as piteous as a tailless
turkey-cock; and while his children slept and, perhaps, dreamt of
_kolaci_, he told his wife the failure he had met with.
"Your uncle is a brute," said she.
"He's a priest, and all priests are brutes, you know."
"Well, I don't know about all of them, for I heard my
great-grandmother say that once upon a time there lived----"
"Oh, there are casual exceptions to every rule!" said her husband.
"But, now, what's to be done?"
"Listen," said the wife, who was a shrewd kind of woman; "we can't
let the children starve, can we?"
"No, indeed!"
"Then follow my advice. I know of a grass that, given to a horse, or
an ox, or a sheep, or a goat, makes the animal fall down, looking as
if it were dead."
"Well, but you don't mean to feed the children with this grass, do
you?" said the smith, not seeing the drift of what she meant.
"No; but you could secretly go and give some to your uncle's fattest
ox."
"So," said the husband, scratching his head.
"Once the animal falls down dead, he'll surely give it to you, as no
butcher 'll buy it; we'll kill it and thus be provided with meat for
a long time. Besides, you can sell the bones, the horns, the hide,
and get a little money besides."
"And for to-morrow?"
"I'll manage to borrow a few potatoes and a cup of milk."
On the next day the wife went and got the grass, and the smith,
unseen, managed to go and give it to his uncle's fattest ox. A few
hours afterwards the animal was found dead.
On hearing that his finest ox was found in the stable lying stiff and
stark the priest nearly had a fit; and his grief was still greater
when he found out that not a man in the village would offer him a
penny for it, so when his nephew came he was glad enough to give it
to him to get rid of it.
The cook, who had prompted the priest to make a present of the ox to
his nephew, hoped that the smith and all his family would be poisoned
by feeding on carrion flesh.
"But," said the uncle, "bring me back the bones, the horns, and the
hide."
To everyone's surprise, and to the old cook's rage, the smith and his
children fed on the flesh of the dead ox, and throve on it. After the
ox had all been eaten up, the priest lost a goat, and then a goose,
in the same way, and the smith and his family ate them up with
evident gusto.
After that, the old cook began to suspect foul play on the part of
the smith, and she spoke of her suspicions to her master.
The priest got into a great rage, and wanted to go at once to the
police and accuse his nephew of sorcery.
"No," said the cook, "we must catch them on the hip, and then we can
act."
"But how are we to find them out?"
After brooding over the matter for some days, the cook bethought
herself that the best plan would be to shut herself up in a cupboard,
and have it taken to the nephew's house.
The priest, having approved of her plan, put it at once into
execution.
"I have," said the uncle to the nephew, "an old cupboard which needs
repairing; will you take it into your house and keep it for a few
days?"
"Willingly," said the nephew, who had not the slightest suspicion of
the trap laid to catch him.
The cupboard was brought, and put in the only room the smith
possessed; the children looked at it with wonder, for they had never
seen such a big piece of furniture before. The wife had some
suspicion. Still, she kept her own counsel.
Soon afterwards the remains of the goose were brought on the table,
and, as the children licked the bones, the husband and wife discussed
what meat they were to have for the forthcoming days--was it to be
pork, veal, or turkey?
As they were engrossed with this interesting topic, a slight, shrill
sound came out of the cupboard.
"What's that?" said the wife, whose ears were on the alert.
"I didn't hear anything," said the smith.
"_Apshee_," was the sound that came again from the cupboard.
"There, did you hear?" asked the wife.
"Yes; but from where did that unearthly sound come?"
The wife, without speaking, winked at her husband and pointed to the
cupboard.
"_Papshee_," was now heard louder than ever.
The children stopped gnawing the goose's bones; they opened their
greasy mouths and their eyes to the utmost and looked scared.
"There's some one shut in the cupboard," said the smith, jumping up,
and snatching up his tools.
A moment afterwards the door flew open, and to everyone's surprise,
except the wife's, the old cook was found standing bolt upright in
the empty space and listening to what they were saying.
The old woman, finding herself discovered, was about to scream, but
the smith caught her by the throat and gave her such a powerful
squeeze, that before knowing what he was doing, he had choked the
cook to death.
The poor man was in despair, for he had never meant to commit a
murder--he only wanted to prevent the old shrew from screaming.
"_Bog me ovari!_ what is to become of me now?"
"Pooh!" said the wife, shrugging her shoulders; "she deserves her
fate; as we make our bed, so must we lie."
"Yes," quoth the smith, "but if they find out that I've strangled
her, they'll hang me."
"And who'll find you out?" said she. "Let's put a potato in her mouth
and lock up the cupboard again; they'll think that she choked herself
eating potatoes."
The smith followed his wife's advice, and early on the morrow the
priest came again and asked for his press.
"Talking the matter over with the cook," said he, "I've decided not
to have my cupboard repaired, so I've come to take it back."
"Your cook is right," said the smith's wife; "she's a wise old woman,
your cook is."
"Very," said the priest, uncomfortably.
"There's more in her head than you suppose," said the wife, thinking
of the potato.
"There is," said the priest.
"Give my kind respects to your cook," said the wife as the men were
taking the cupboard away.
"Thank you," said the priest, "I'll certainly do so."
About an hour afterwards the priest came back, ghastly pale, to his
nephew, and taking him aside said:
"My dear nephew--my only kith-and-kin--a great misfortune has
befallen me."
"What is it, uncle?" asked the smith.
"My cook," said the priest, lowering his voice, "has--eating
potatoes--somehow or other--I don't know how--choked herself."
"Oh!" quoth the smith, turning pale, "it is a great misfortune; but
you'll say masses for her soul and have her properly buried."
"But the fact is," interrupted the priest, "she looks so dreadful,
with her eyes starting out of their sockets, and her mouth wide open,
that I'm quite frightened of her, and besides, if the people see her
they'll say that I murdered her."
"Well, and how am I to help you?"
"Come and take her away, in a sack if you like; then bury her in some
hole, or throw her down a well. Do whatever you like, as long as I am
rid of her."
The smith scratched his head.
"You must help me; you are my only relation. You know that whatever I
have 'll go to you some day, so----"
"And when people ask what has become of her?"
"I'll say she's gone to her--her niece."
"Well, I don't mind helping you, as long as I don't get into a scrape
myself."
"No, no! How can you get into trouble?"
The priest went off, and soon afterwards the smith went to his
uncle's house, and taking a big sack, shoved the cook into it and
tied the sack up, put it on his shoulders and trudged off.
"Here," said the uncle, "take this florin to get a glass of wine on
the way, and I hope I'll never see her any more--nor," he added to
himself--"you either."
It was a warm day, and the cook was heavy. The poor man was in a
great perspiration; his throat was parched; the road was dusty and
hilly. After an hour's march he stopped at a roadside inn to drink a
glass of wine. He quaffed it down at a gulp and then he had another,
and again another, so that when he came out everything was rather
hazy and blurred. Seeing some carts of hay at the door which were
going to the next town, he asked permission to get on top of one of
the waggons. The permission was not only granted, but the carter even
helped him to hoist his sack on top. The smith, in return, got down
and offered the man a glass of wine for his kindness. Then he again
got on the cart and went off to sleep. An hour or two afterwards,
when he awoke, the sack was gone. Had it slipped down? had it been
stolen from him?--he could not tell. He did not ask for it, but he
only congratulated himself at having so dexterously got rid of the
cook, and at once went back home.
That evening his children had hardly been put to bed when the door
was opened, and his uncle, looking pale and scared, came in panting.
"She's back, she's back!" he gasped.
"Who is back?" asked the astonished smith.
"Why, she, the cook."
"Alive?" gasped the smith.
"No, dead in the sack."
"Then how the deuce did she get back?"
"How? I ask you how?"
"I really don't know how. I dug a hole ten feet deep, half filled the
hole with lime, then the other half with stones and earth, and I
planted a tree within the hole, and covered the earth all around with
sods. It gave me two days' work. I'll take and show you the place if
you like."
The priest looked at his nephew, bewildered.
"But, tell me," continued the smith, "how did she come back?"
"Well, they brought me a waggon of hay, and on the waggon there was a
sack, which I thought must contain potatoes or turnips which some
parishioner sent me, so I had the sack put in the kitchen. When the
men had gone I undid the sack, and to my horror out pops the cook's
ugly head, staring at me with her jutting goggle-eyes and her gaping
mouth, looking like a horrid jack-in-the-box. Do come and take her
away, or she'll drive me out of my senses; but come at once."
The smith went back to the priest's house, tied the cook in the sack,
and then putting the sack on his shoulders, he carried his load away.
He had made up his mind to go and chuck her down one of those almost
bottomless shafts which abound in the stony plains of the Karst.
He walked all night; at daybreak he saw a man sleeping on the grass
by the highway, having near him a sack exactly like the one he was
carrying.
"What a good joke it'll be," thought he, "to take that sack and put
mine in its stead."
He at once stepped lightly on the grass, put down the cook, took up
the other sack, which was much lighter than his own, and scampered
back home as fast as his weary legs could carry him.
An hour afterwards the sleeping man awoke, took up his sack, which he
was surprised to find so much heavier than it had been when he had
gone off to sleep, and then went on his way.
That evening the priest came back to his nephew's house, looking
uglier and more ghastly, if possible, than the evening before.
Panting and gasping, with a weak and broken voice:
"She's back again," he said in a hoarse whisper.
The smith burst out laughing.
"It's no laughing matter," quoth the priest, with a long face.
"No, indeed, it isn't," replied the nephew; "only, tell me how she
came back."
"A pedlar, an honest man whom I sometimes help by lending him a
trifle on his goods--merely out of charity--brought me a sack of
shoes, begging me to keep it for him till he found a stall for
to-morrow's fair. I told him to put the sack in the kitchen, and he
did so. When he had gone, I thought I'd just see what kind of shoes
he had for sale, and whether he had a pair that fitted me. I opened
the sack, and I almost fainted when I saw the frightful face of the
cook staring at me."
"And now," asked the smith, "am I to carry her away again, for you
know, uncle, she is rather heavy; and besides----"
"No," replied the priest; "I'll go away myself for a few days; during
that time drown her, burn or bury her; in fact, do what you like with
her, as long as you get rid of her. Perhaps, knowing I'm not at home,
she'll not come back. In the meanwhile, as you are my only relation,
come and live in my house and take care of my things as if they were
your own; and they'll be yours soon enough, for this affair has made
an old man of me."
The priest went home, followed by his nephew. Arriving there, he went
to the stable, saddled the mare, got on her, gave his nephew his
blessing, bade him take care of his house, and trotted off. No sooner
had he gone than the smith saddled the stallion, then went and took
the cook out of the sack, tied her on the stallion's saddle, then let
the horse loose to follow the mare.
The poor priest had not gone a mile before he heard a horse galloping
behind him, and, fearing that it was the police coming to bring him
back, he spurred the mare and galloped on; but the faster he rode,
the quicker the stallion galloped after him.
Looking round, the priest, to his horror and dismay, saw his cook,
with her eyes starting wildly out of their sockets, and her horrid
mouth gaping as black as the hole of hell, chasing him, nay, she was
only a few yards behind.
The terrified priest spurred on the mare, which began to gallop along
the highway; but withal she flew like an arrow, the stallion was
gaining ground at every step. The priest, fainting with fear, lost
all his presence of mind; he then spurred the mare across country.
The poor animal reared at first, and then began to gallop over the
stony plain; no obstacles could stop her, she jumped over bushes and
briars, stumbling almost at every step.
The priest, palsied with terror, as ghastly pale as a ghost, could
not help turning round; alas! the cook was always at his heels. His
fear was such that he almost dropped from his horse. He lashed the
poor mare, forgetful of all the dangers the plains of the Karst
presented, for the ground yawned everywhere--here in huge, deep
clefts, there in bottomless shafts; or it sank in cup-like hollows,
all bordered with sharp, jagged rocks, or concealed in the bushes
that surround them. His only thought was to escape from the grim
spectre that pursued him. The lame and bleeding mare had stopped on
the brink of one of these precipices, trembling and convulsed with
terror. The priest, who had just turned round, dug his spurs into the
animal's sides; she tried to clear the cleft, but missed her footing,
and rolled down in the abyss. The stallion, seeing the mare
disappear, stopped short, and uttered a loud neigh, shivering with
fear. The shock the poor beast had got burst the bonds which held the
corpse on his back, and the cook was thus chucked over his head on
the prone edge of the pit.
A few days afterwards some peasants who happened to pass by found the
cook sitting, stiff and stark, astride on a rock, seemingly staring,
with eyes starting from their sockets and her black mouth gaping
widely, at the mangled remains of her master's corpse.
As the priest had told the clerk that he was going away for a few
days, everybody came to the conclusion that his cook, having followed
him against his will, had frightened the mare and thus caused her own
and her master's death.
The smith having been left in possession of his uncle's house, as
well as of all his money and estates, and being, moreover, the only
legal heir, thus found himself all at once the richest man in the
village. As he was beloved by everybody, all rejoiced at his good
luck, especially all those who owed money to the priest and whose
debts he cancelled.
"You liked this story?" said the old man to Vranic, as soon as he had
finished.
"Yes," replied the tailor, thinking of the ghastly, livid corpse,
with grinning, gaping mouth, and glassy, goggle eyes, galloping after
the priest, and wondering whether she was like the vampire. "Yes,
it's an interesting story, but rather gruesome."
"Well, but it's only a story, and, whether ghastly or lively, it's
only words, which--as the proverb says--are evanescent as
soap-bubbles. Now," continued he, "if you want to go off to sleep,
look at this," and he gave him a bit of cardboard, on which were
traced several circles; "look at it till you see all these rings
wheeling round. When they disappear, you'll be asleep."
The old man put the bit of cardboard before Vranic, who leaned his
elbows on the table and his head between the palms of his hands, and
stared at the drawing. Five minutes afterwards he was fast asleep.
When he awoke the next morning, his head was not only aching, but his
weakness had so much increased that he had hardly strength enough to
stand on his feet. He, therefore, made up his mind to go to the
parish priest, and lay the whole matter before him.
Priests are everywhere but fetich men; therefore, if they have burnt
witches for using charms and philters, it is simply because these
women trespassed on their own domains, and were more successful than
they themselves. Of what use would a priest be if he could not pray
for rain, give little _sacre coeur_ bits of flannel as talismans
against pestilence, or brass medals to scare away the devil? A priest
who can do nothing for us here below, must and will soon fall into
discredit. The hereafter is so vague and indefinite that it cannot
inspire us with half the interest the present does.
The priest whom Vranic consulted was of the same opinion as the
tailor. He, too, believed that probably his brother had become a
vampire, who nightly left the tomb to go and suck his blood. For his
own sake, as well as for that of the whole town, it would be well to
exorcise the ghost. The matter, however, had to be kept a profound
secret, as the Government had put its veto on vampire-killing, and
looked upon all such practices as illegal.
It was, therefore, agreed that Vranic, together with his relations
and some friends, should go to the curate's about ten o'clock at
night; there the curate would be waiting for them with another
priest; from there the little party would stealthily proceed to the
cemetery where the ceremony was to be held.
The Friday fixed upon arrived. The night was dark, the weather
sultry; a storm had been brooding in the heavy clouds overhead and
was now ready to burst every moment.
As soon as the muffled people got to the gate of the burying-ground
the mortuary chapel was opened to them by the sexton. The priests put
on their officiating robes, recited several orisons appropriate to
the occasion; then, with the Cross carried before them, bearing a
holy-water sprinkler in their hands, followed by Vranic and his
friends--all with blessed tapers--they went up to the murdered man's
tomb. The priest then bade the sexton dig up the earth and bring out
the coffin.
The smell, as the pit was being dug lower down, became always more
offensive; but when, at last, the rotting deal coffin was drawn out
and opened, it became overpoweringly loathsome. The corpse, however,
being found in a good state of preservation, there could be no doubt
that the dead man was a vampire. It is true that the tapers which
everyone held gave but a dim and flickering light; moreover, that the
stench was so sickening that all turned at once their heads away in
disgust; still, they had all seen enough of the corpse to declare it
to be but seemingly dead. The priest, standing as far from it as he
possibly could, began at once to exorcise it in the name of the
Trinity, the Virgin and all the saints; to sprinkle it with holy
water, commanding it not to move, not to jump out of its box and run
away--for these ghouls are cunning devils, and if one is not on the
alert they skedaddle the moment the coffin is opened. Our priest,
however, was a match even for the dead man, and his holy-water
sprinkler was uplifted even before the lid of the loathsome chest was
loosened.
The storm which had been threatening the whole of that day broke out
at last. No sooner had the sexton begun to dig the grave than the
wind, which had been moaning and wailing round the stones and wooden
crosses, began to howl with a sinister sound. Then, just as the
priest uttered the formula of the exorcism--when the coffin was
uncovered and the uncanny corpse was seen--a flash of lurid lightning
gleamed over its livid features, and the rumbling thunder ended in a
tremendous crash; the earth shook as if with the throes of
childbirth; hell seemed to yawn and yield forth its fulsome dead. As
the priest sprinkled the corpse with holy water, the rain came down
in torrents as if to drown the world.
Although the noise was deafening, still some of the men affirm that
they heard the corpse lament and entreat not to be killed; but the
priest, a tall, stalwart man of great strength and courage, went on
perfectly undaunted, paying no heed to the vampire, mumbling his
prayers as if the man prostrate before him was some ordinary corpse
and this was a commonplace, every-day funeral.
The priest, having reached in his orisons the moment when he uttered
the name of Isukrst, or God the Son, Josko Vranic, who stood by,
shivering from head to foot, and looking like a cat extracted from a
tub of soap-suds, drew out a dagger from under his coat, where it had
been carefully concealed from the ghost's sight, and stabbed the
corpse. It was, of course, a black steel stiletto, for only such a
weapon can kill a vampire. He should have stabbed the dead man in his
neck and through the throat, but he was so sick that he could hardly
stand; besides, his candle that instant went out, and, moreover, he
was terribly frightened, for although he was stabbing but a corpse,
still that corpse was his own brother.
A flash of lightning which followed that instant of perfect darkness
showed him that the dagger, instead of being stuck in the dead man's
neck, was thrust in the right cheek.
The ceremony being now over, the priests and their attendants
hastened back to the chapel to take shelter from the rage of the
storm, as well as to escape from the pestilential stench.
The sexton alone remained outside to heap up the earth again on the
uncanny corpse, and shut up the grave.
"Are you sure you stabbed the corpse in the neck, severing the
throat, and thus preventing it from ever sucking blood again?" asked
the priest.
"Yes, I believe I have," answered Vranic, with a whining voice.
"I don't ask you what you believe; have you done it--yes, or no?"
said the ecclesiastic, sternly.
"Well, just as I lifted my knife to stab, the candle went out. I
couldn't see at all; the night was so dark; you all were far from me.
Besides, as I bent down, the smell made me so sick that----"
"You don't know where you stabbed?" added the priest, angrily.
"He stabbed him in the cheek!" said the sexton, coming in.
"Fool!" burst out the priest, in a stentorian voice.
"I was sure this would be the case," cried out one of the party.
"Vranic has always been a bungler of a tailor."
"You have done a fine piece of work, you have, indeed, you wretch!"
hissed the priest, looking at Vranic scornfully.
"You have endowed that cursed brother of yours with everlasting
life," said the other priest, "and now the whole town will be
infested with another vampire for ever!"
"Do you really think so?" asked Vranic, ready to burst out crying.
"Think so!" said all the other men, scornfully. "To bring us here in
the middle of the night with this storm, to stifle us with this
poisonous stench, and this is the result!"
"But really----" stammered Vranic.
"Anyhow, he'll not leave you till he has sucked the last drop of
blood from your body."
The storm having somewhat abated, all the company wended their way
homewards, taking no notice of the tailor, who followed them like a
mangy cur which everyone avoids.
That night, Vranic had not a wink of sleep. No one would have him in
his house; nobody would sleep with him, for fear of falling
afterwards a prey to the vampire. As soon as he lay down and tried to
shut his eyes, the terrifying sight appeared before him. The
festering ghost with the horrible gash in the cheek, just over the
jaw-bone, was ever present to his eyes; nor could he get rid of the
loathsome, sickening stench with which his clothes, nay, his very
body, seemed saturated. If a mouse stirred he fancied he could see
the ghost standing by him. He hid his head under the bed-cover not to
see, not to hear, until he was almost smothered, and every now and
then he felt a human hand laid on his head, on his shoulder, on his
legs, and his teeth chattered with fear.
The storm ceased; still, the sky remained overcast, and a thin,
drizzling rain had succeeded the interrupted showers. The dreadful
night came to an end; he was happy to see the grey light of dawn
succeed the appalling darkness. Daylight brought with it happier
thoughts.
"Perhaps," said he to himself, "my brother was no vampire, after all!
Perhaps the blade of the dagger, driven in the cheek, had penetrated
slantingly into the neck, severed the throat, and thus killed the
vampire; for something must have happened to keep the ghost away."
On the next day Vranic remained shut up at home. He felt sure that
his own relations would henceforth hate him, and his acquaintances
would stone him if they possibly could. Nothing makes a man not only
unjust, but even cruel, like fear, and no fear is greater than the
vague dread of the unknown. That whole day he tried to work, but his
thoughts were always fixed either on the festering corpse he had
stabbed or on the coming night.
Would the ghoul, reeking of hell, come and suck up his blood?
As the light waned his very strength began to flow away, his legs
grew weak, his flesh shivered, the beating of his heart grew ever
more irregular.
He lighted his little oil-lamp before it was quite dark, looked about
stealthily, trembling lest he should see the dreaded apparition
before its time, started and shuddered at the slightest noise.
He was weary and worn out by the emotions of the former sleepless
night; still, he could not make up his mind to go to bed. He placed
his elbows on the board, buried his head within his hands, and
remained there brooding over his woes. Without daring to lift up his
eyes or look around, he at times stretched out his hand, clutched a
gourd full of spirits and took a sip. Time passed, the twilight had
faded away into soft, mellow darkness without; but in the tailor's
room the little flickering light only rendered the shadows grim and
gruesome.
Drink and lassitude at last overpowered the poor man; his head began
to get drowsy, his ideas more confused; the heaviness of sleep
weighed him down.
All at once he was roused from his lethargy by a sound of rushing
winds. He hardly noticed it when it blew from afar, like the slight
breeze that ruffles the surface of the sea; but, now that it came
nearer, he remembered having heard it some evenings before. He grew
pale, panted, and then his breath stopped, convulsed as he was by
fear.
As upon the previous night, the wind was lost in the distance, and
then in the stillness of the night he heard the low, hushed sound of
footsteps coming from afar; but they drew nearer and ever nearer,
with a heavy, slow, metrical step. The night-walker was near his
house, at his door, on his threshold. The loathsome, sickening smell
of corruption grew stronger and stronger. Now it was as
overpoweringly nauseous as when he had bent down to stab his dead
brother. The sound of footsteps was now within his room; the spectre
must surely be by his side. He kept his eyes tightly shut and his
head bent down. A cold perspiration was trickling from his forehead
and through his fingers on to the table.
All at once, something heavy and metallic was thrown in front of him.
Although his eyes were tightly shut, he knew that it was the black
dagger that his brother had come to bring him back, and he was not
mistaken.
Was there a chuckle just then?
Almost against his will he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and
looked at his guest. The vampire was standing by his side grinning at
him hideously, notwithstanding the gash in his right cheek.
"Thank you, brother," said he, in a hollow, mocking voice, "for what
you did yesterday; you have, in fact, given me everlasting life; and,
as one good turn deserves another, you soon will be a vampire along
with me. Come, don't look so scared, man; it's a pleasant life, after
all. We sleep soundly during the day, and, believe me, no bed is so
comfortable as the coffin, no house so quiet as the grave; but at
night, when all the world sleeps and only witches are awake, then we
not only live, but we enjoy life. No cankering care, no worry about
the morrow. We have only fun and frolic, for we suck, we suck, we
suck."
Vranic heard the sound of smacking lips just by his neck, the vampire
had already laid his hands upon him.
He tried to rise, to struggle, but his strength and his senses
forsook him; he uttered a choked, raucous sound, then his breath
again stopped spasmodically, his face grew livid, he gasped for
breath, his face and lips got to be of a violet hue, his eyes shut
themselves, as he dropped fainting in his chair.