Rudolph
RONALD HENRY GLYNN CHETWYND-HAYES (1919-2001) was born in Isleworth, West London. Known as “Britain’s Prince of Chill”, his first book was The Man from the Bomb, a science fiction novel published in 1959 by Badger Books. His subsequent novels include The Dark Man (aka And Love Survived), The Brats, The Partaker: A Novel of Fantasy, The King’s Ghost, The Curse of the Snake God, Kepple and The Psychic Detective, while his short fiction was collected in The Unbidden, Cold Terror, The Elemental, Terror by Night, The Night Ghouls, The Monster Club, A Quiver of Ghosts, Tales from the Dark Lands, The House of Dracula, Dracula’s Children, Shudders and Shivers, The Vampire Stories of R. Chetwynd-Hayes (aka Looking for Something to Suck), Phantoms and Fiends and Frights and Fancies, amongst other titles.
In 1976, Chetwynd-Hayes ghost-edited and wrote almost all of the one-shot magazine Ghoul. He also edited the anthologies Cornish Tales of Terror, Scottish Tales of Terror (as “Angus Campbell”), Welsh Tales of Terror, Tales of Terror from Outer Space, Gaslight Tales of Terror and Doomed to the Night, twelve volumes of The Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories and six volumes of The Armada Monster Book series for children.
The author of two film novelizations, Dominique and The Awakening (the latter based on Bram Stoker’s The Jewel of Seven Stars), his own stories have been adapted for the screen in From Beyond the Grave and The Monster Club (in which the author was portrayed by actor John Carradine), and have been translated into numerous languages around the world.
In 1989 Chetwynd-Hayes was presented with Life Achievement Awards by both the Horror Writers Association and the British Fantasy Society.
Sometimes even a vampire needs someone to look after him ...
~ * ~
SINCE YOU INSIST on my telling all—as the saying goes—I’ll start from the beginning. Yes, I think that’s best. Someone should know what’s going on, even if I can’t believe half of it myself. But I’ve got to, seeing as how most of what I’m going to tell you happened to me. Me, Laura Benfield, who at thirty-seven years and three months, lived quite comfortably on a small income my mother had left me, together with the house.
Then I did a part-time job, nothing strenuous you understand, for I’m not all that strong, just addressing envelopes for a mail-order firm three days a week. Then that bastard Michel Adler came into my life and lit a bomb under me.
What? No, I don’t mean literally. For God’s sake! But it would have been kinder if he had. Handsome bastard he was. Looked like Errol Flynn in Captain Blood that I saw on telly twice. And charm! He could bring the birds down from the trees and worms out of the ground and get ‘em to play hop-scotch together.
I met him at the Byfleet Social Club when I was sweating on a full house at bingo. I was just one number missing—legs eleven it was, but of course with my luck a cow from Tyburn Avenue got it. Not legs eleven, but five and three, fifty-three, which filled her house for her.
Then I hears this voice, all soft and gentlemanly like, say:
“Damn bad luck, old dear,” and turning I sees him for the first time.
You know I went right weak at the knees, there and then, me who normally would never talk to a strange man. He had grey eyes, the sort that sort of twinkle and seem to be full of mischief. Know what I mean?
Well, not to make mincemeat out of a cold sausage, when he suggested we have coffee in the club room, I accepted like a shot and made sure Maud Perkins saw me hanging on to the arm of this sexpot, although when we were seated side by side near a ruddy great mirror that some sadistic bastard had stuck on the wall so that it took in the entire room, I began to ask myself where the catch was.
I mean, every woman there from sixteen to eighty was giving him the what-about-it-sign and I—let’s be honest—had nothing bedwise to offer. There again they do say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so I thought maybe my eye was missing out on some of my beauty. Any road that was the only explanation I could think of, for boy, did he give me the treatment.
After pouring coffee down me, he suggests dinner in some quiet restaurant wouldn’t be out of place, he having not eaten since breakfast, due to being run off his feet by business commitments. It seemed that he had popped in the bingo club to unwind, for hearing numbers shouted out over a loud speaker had a relaxing effect on him. He also said it was the play of my features that directed his attention to me, suggesting as they did I had a beautiful soul, which was reflected in my eyes.
No one has ever talked to me like that before and although you may think I’m a silly ‘apporth to be taken in by stuff like that, just you remember that in every plain, dull woman, there’s a beautiful, interesting one trying to get out. And he knew how to order a good dinner and wines with names I couldn’t even pronounce, and when he left the waiter two pounds as a tip, I thought he must really be on the top shelf spondulicks-wise.
Then he took me home and I felt awful about inviting him in, for the place hasn’t seen a decorator’s brush since my mum died and truth to tell, I’m no great dab at housework. But he—Michel—only laughed and said the house had character and personally he had no time for your spotless and everything in its place living unit, where it was impossible for anyone to feel comfortable.
Well, I had nothing in the house in the booze line, except for a few bottles of brown ale and I couldn’t offer him that after all the wine and liqueurs he’d lashed out for on me. But he said he’d just as soon have a cup of tea, which he made, after telling me to sit down and put me feet up.
Then we talked. Even now, I have to admit that man had a wonderful brain. He told me all about the stars and how this world is only one among millions of suns and things and there must be billions of civilizations and one day clever, but funny-looking creatures will either visit us or we’ll visit them and ...
Sorry. I didn’t mean to break down like that, but when I think how things could have been if he hadn’t turned out to be a crook, me heart’s fit to break.
Anyway he came to see me quite often and took me out once or twice a week, always somewhere swanky, but there was one thing I thought was strange. After he’d paid the bill, he entered the amount in a little black book. He said it was so he could claim it back against tax, which didn’t sound right, for a friend once told me that you can only get tax rebate for entertaining foreign buyers, but I didn’t say anything, just supposed he knew his business best.
Then he got to talking about money, saying that lots of people did not realize they were sitting on thousands, until the matter was brought to their attention.
“Let’s take your case, Laura,” he said, “that house of yours, you could raise forty thousand quid on it any day. Invested by someone who knows his business, you could double it within six months, pay back the mortgage and use the extra thirty thou for further investments. That kind of thinking has laid the basis of many a fortune. I know—that’s the way I started out.”
Honestly it sounded right, particularly the way he put it, and when I said I wouldn’t like to mortgage my mum’s house, he said fair enough, he was only talking about what could be done, but God forbid he should influence me in any way. But if I should ever consider the idea, he’d be pleased to help me.
The seed had fallen on fertile ground, if you get my meaning. All of us could do with some more money, and the very thought of having thirty thousand nicely invested made me feel good. So one day I said I’d like to investigate the possibilities a little further—and that was it.
He cleaned me out in three weeks. He did all the paperwork—all I had to do was sign, the milkman witnessing my signature. First the mortgage on the house, then liquidating my little investments, for Michel said they were only chicken feed and he’d do much better for me. He explained for tax reasons all the money would be paid into a bank account under his name ...
Thank you for the handkerchief, sir, these little lace things he brought me are no good when you shed buckets as I’ve been doing over the past few months.
What? Of course ... well I had to get myself a proper job, didn’t I? I mean I was down on my uppers. The house gone, me in a shabby bed-sit and not a penny coming in. I got taken on by a local store, but I wasn’t really fitted for it. Me ankles swelled up with all that standing and when the customers got nasty, I answered back, which didn’t please their mightinesses on the sixth floor, so I was soon out on my ear.
Then I read this advertisement. See? I’ve got the newspaper cutting here:
COOK HOUSEKEEPER required by single gentleman. Live-in all found. Salary by negotiation. Ring Mr Rudolph Acrudal 753. 9076.
As I’ve said I’m not all that good at housekeeping, but I’m not all that bad at cooking, so long as no one expects anything fancy. And with a single gentleman there’s no woman to find fault—so why not?
The voice that answered the phone sounded genteel, which reassured me, for I find educated gentry are more easily pleased than your jumped-up-come-by-nights, and it was agreed I should come round right away, so I gave Mr Acrudal (pronounced Ac-ru-dal. I must say it took a bit of getting used to) my name and hired a taxi, for it’s just as well to give the impression that you’re not hard-up when applying for a job, and got myself driven to the address the gentleman had given me over the phone.
An old Victorian terrace house it was, four storeys high including the basement, with a flight of cracked grey steps leading up to the front door. The place didn’t look so much run down as neglected, and I could imagine an old bachelor who just couldn’t be bothered to have it done up.
He answered the door—Mr Rudolph Acrudal—a tall lean man who could have been any age. Honestly, I couldn’t make up my mind if he was a worn-out thirty, or a young seventy. He had a mass of black hair sort of sprinkled with white, as though he had been painting the ceiling and splashed white paint over his hair.
High cheekbones and a hooked nose and two long eye-teeth that dimpled his lower lip, which I might as well say were black. The lips I mean. His ears tapered to a sharp point at the top, making him — what with sunken black eyes—look like those old prints of the devil. He wore a tight-fitting black suit that included stove-pipe trousers. True. I swear on oath. He jerked his head back and forth several times and then said in a rusty kind of voice:
“Miss Benfield—yes? Good. Come in—don’t just stand there. The sun may come out at any time and that won’t be good for my health.” And he all but pulled me into a hall that stunk of damp and what could have been burnt fat, and where every floorboard creaked when you took a step forward, to say nothing of the odd flake of plaster that floated down from the ceiling, particularly when Mr Acrudal slammed the front door.
He led the way into a front room that looked even worse than the hall, being mostly dominated by a giant old desk and a mixture of books and papers that lay everywhere. Honestly I thought for a moment it was the dumping area for Let’s-have-all-your-old-books-and-newspapers-week. But he upended one wooden armchair, so that everything on it—including a huge tom cat—slid on to the floor. He half sat on the desk and gave me the doings.
“My wants are simple. Breakfast—black pudding on toast. Lunch—pig’s blood mixed with lightly done mince. Dinner—the same. Nightcap—a glass of pig’s blood.” He looked at me intently. “How does that strike you?”
I spoke boldly—it always pays in the long run: “Well, sir, it wouldn’t suit me, but if that’s what you want—I’ll try to make it as tasty as possible.”
He jerked his head up and down and I could swear he was dribbling as though the very thought of his favourite diet had started his mouth watering. “Good. The last housekeeper I had, heaved up when she saw me shovelling in the mince and blood. That’s settled then. You have a free hand. Make sure I’m fed and moistened three to four times a day and you can do what you like.”
I said, “Thank you, sir. I can see there’s plenty to do. And where will my quarters be?”
“Wherever you care to make them. Plenty of empty rooms on all floors. I use this one and the one next door. No need for you to go in there. As for money ...”
“I was about to mention that, sir.”
He bent down and brought forth a large old carpet-bag from beside the desk, which he dropped in my lap. When I opened it I found wads of bank notes—fifty pounds, tens and fivers. Mr Acrudal waved a dirt-grimed hand.
“Pay yourself a hundred a week, then take whatever is needed for housekeeping.”
I shook my head firmly. “That won’t do at all, sir. We won’t know where we are. I’d like you to keep this bag somewhere safe and pay me whatever is required each week.”
His face—white as a pig’s belly—took on a real bad-tempered expression and I thought to myself: I wouldn’t like to cross you, me lord, that I wouldn’t. For now, his face from dead-white turned to a light grey. Very off-putting it was. Never seen anything like it before. Then he kind of spluttered out words it took me some time to understand.
“Don’t... ar ... r ... g ... u ... e with ... me ... m .... m ... e w...o...m...m...a...n...D...o...o...o...a...s...I ... say.”
He scared the wits out of me and I was about to give him a piece of my mind and then walking out, when I remembered the cold bed-sit and the two quid and small change in my handbag, so I nodded like, an idiot and said: “All right, sir ... calm down. I’ll make a note of all the money I take and let you have a statement once a week.”
He did calm down, but appeared to be tired out as though the outburst had drained him.
I got out of the room as fast as my legs would take me and after I had cooled down a bit, began to explore the house. The kitchen I found in the basement, if the grease-lined hell-hole could be identified in any way as a place for preparing food. Do you know there was an old rusty iron range that heated an antiquated boiler with a tap on one side. A plain deal table collapsed when I tried to move it. Damp rot had done its worst to the floorboards and I almost broke an ankle when my foot sank into rotting wood. I made up my mind then and there—the kitchen was a write-off.
I chose a room two floors up that commanded a view of the overgrown back garden and decided to take a thick wad of notes from that bag and buy a portable oil stove and a complete set of saucepans.
But number one question. When did the old devil want feeding next?
I looked at my watch and saw that the time was twelve-fifteen, so it would be reasonable to suppose that lunch—pigs’ blood and mince—should be served around one o’clock. Frankly I lacked the courage to ask Mr Acrudal where the nauseating mixture could be found—or obtained—but finally I went down into the hall and found a gold-coloured round tin that contained around three pints of thick blood and a bulging newspaper parcel.
I could sympathize with my predecessor who heaved when she saw her employer tuck into this muck, particularly when my nose told me the mince—and maybe the blood as well—was most definitely off.
I washed an iron saucepan as best I could, bunged the soggy mess into it and actually managed to stew it over an old hurricane lamp I found in one corner of the so-called kitchen.
I did my best to flavour this horrible concoction (boiling blood explodes into evil-smelling blisters) with pepper and salt, plus a nutmeg I found the large cat playing with, while pretending fat healthy maggots weren’t being done to death down below.
At one o’clock precisely I carried a tin tray on which slid back and forth a deep bowl containing bubbling, flavoured, blood-seeped, spicy mince. I had also succeeded in washing a dessert spoon, and after pushing the door open with my right knee, lurched across the littered floor to where the old-young man sat behind his desk. He really brightened up when he saw me with the tray and when I bunged it down in front of him, he grabbed the spoon and began shovelling the mess in.
It was a dreadful sight and sound. Slop-slub-lip-smacking with what missed the target dribbling down his chin. When the bowl was half empty he paused for breath and expressed sincere appreciation.
“The best blushie I’ve tasted in years, Miss Benfield. You are talented ... so talented. Just give me the same for dinner and we’ll get along famously. I knew by your smell that we’d haunted the same track.”
I said primly, “So pleased to give satisfaction, sir,” and backed out of the room. I didn’t know what he meant by smell and could only regard the remark as some kind of insult.
Having taken care of my new employer’s requirements, I began to sort out my own. I explored the house from attic to basement and confirmed my original opinion that neglect had resulted in devastation, but a few weeks’ hard work could make the place at least liveable again. But not by me. As money seemed to be no object, I decided to dig well down into that carpet bag and hire a cleaning firm; the kind of organization that takes care of offices and showrooms. In the meanwhile I turned out a small bedroom on the third floor, took over a quilted double divan that must have cost a pretty penny when new, shook the dust out of some red blankets, unwrapped pink sheets and pillow-cases that sometime in the past had been sent to a well known laundry.
I uncovered three bathrooms—literally—and threw their contents out of a landing window and watched them land in an enclosed dank area. Two tubs had to be written off as what appeared to be cinders and wood ash had been thrown into at least six inches of water, resulting in corrosion that in some places had eaten through the metal. But one was still in reasonable condition and I managed to scrape it clean and plug two holes with putty that I found clinging to the banisters. By five o’clock that part of the house that I would be using was at least clear of surface rubbish and filth and I was free to think of my own needs.
I visited Mr Acrudal and to my disgust found he had licked the bowl clean and by his greedy enquiring look clearly thought I had brought a replacement.
I said, “Sir, I will need money, mainly for food for myself and having this house cleaned from top to bottom.”
He put his head on to one side and looked not unlike an intelligent dog that is trying to understand what it is being told to do. Then there came from his throat what I can only describe as growled words.
“Cleaned ... from ... top ... to ... bottom?”
“Yes, sir. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, the place is a disgrace the way it is. I was thinking of engaging a cleaning company.”
“More than two strangers ... strangers ... in ... the ... house?”
“Well, there’s no way I can do all the work myself and we can’t leave it the way it is.”
He reached down and produced that carpet bag again and dumped it on the desk. He fumbled around inside for a few moments and brought out a bundle of fifty pound notes that must have totalled at least seven hundred pounds. Then for the first time so far as I was concerned, he got up and eased his way round the desk, clutching the money in one hand and supporting himself with the other. I think there was something wrong with the left foot—or rather I thought so then. In fact as he drew nearer I couldn’t dismiss the thought that he was in some way deformed, terribly deformed, although a slight limp was the only outward sign.
Then he was close up—breathing on me.
I all but choked on the stench of decay that might have seeped through water-logged churchyard loam. I retreated back one step, before his right hand formed a band of steel round my left arm and jerked me forward until our faces were only a few inches apart. Then he smiled, a strangely sweet smile that revealed beautiful white teeth and instantly I forgot his grotesque appearance, the foul breath and the oddness about him; instead I became aware of a rising wave of excitement that later made me distrust my own senses. His voice came quivering from his open mouth as a thrilling whisper.
“Do whatever you wish ... at all times the house is yours, but never ... never ... allow strangers ... to cross my threshold.” His smile became more pronounced and such was my fascination I could even ignore those long eyeteeth. “Please understand that. If work is too much ... leave it. Confine yourself to preparing the so excellent blushie and I will demand no more.”
He released me, thrust the money into my hand, then returned to his chair and became engrossed in reading what looked like an old document.
After a while my limbs became once again capable of movement, so I bolted back into the hall and took refuge in the room I had requisitioned for my own use. The bundle of money still clutched in my left hand forbade all thoughts of decamping and making for the nearest YWCA for even the most incorruptible soul must surrender to greed when loot is constantly thrust into its vicinity.
But there was another reason why I would find it increasingly more difficult to leave this house, no matter how fearsome it might become.
Rudolph Acrudal was without doubt ugly, repulsive and sinister, but I knew now he radiated some kind of charm that sooner or later I would find irresistible.
~ * ~
I got some kind of routine working—and surprised myself.
Mr Acrudal’s rations came from the local butcher, who dumped can and parcel on the top step each morning, plus whatever I ordered for myself. I may add my spiced blushie so pleased my employer that he would eat nothing else—not even the black pudding, a fact that aroused the interest of the butcher when I paid him every Friday morning.
Having done things to an elaborate cash register, I was given a printed receipt, before a red face creased into a wide confidential grin.
“Tell us the truth, love. What the ‘ell does he do with all this blood and mince? I mean it’s not as though it comes from fresh meat. From the beginning I was told it must be high. Straight up. Warm, runny and smelly. And the blood—thickish.”
I always started out by giving the same answer: “That’s Mr Acrudal’s business and mine,” but after a while the need to talk to someone who is nice to me, got the better of discretion and I finally admitted I had to cook the horrible mess which Mr Acrudal was so kind as to say he enjoyed. And although Mr Redwing—that was the butcher’s name—expressed disbelief, I could see he wanted to believe and pass on what he believed to an enthralled public.
Then while carving me a nice piece of topside: “No one seems to know what he looks like, him never coming out in daylight. Is it true he has ‘orns under his hair?”
Of course I could only gasp: “Of course not. It’s not as bad as that. Don’t be silly.”
I think it was about then that I became aware that the house was being watched. Not openly, but sometimes from a parked car, or the shadow cast by an old tree. Dark, squat, round-shouldered men was the only impression I got, never actually seeing them close-up, you understand. I wasn’t all that worried, assuming that such was the interest as to what took place in the house, some nosy parker—or parkers—were hoping to catch a glimpse of Mr Acrudal at one of the windows.
I started another kitchen on the first floor, buying one of those elaborate oil stoves complete with oven and grill; and a table high fridge and sink unit. Getting the sink connected up without letting Mr Acrudal know, took a bit of organizing, but I did it by donning a boiler suit and putting in an occasional appearance in the Master’s room, complaining how wrong it was for a woman to have to do this kind of work without help.
He never commented, but tried to hide behind a massive tome that looked as if it had been stored in a damp cellar for a few years. In fact all the books in that room gave me that impression. Any road, by the end of the first month I had made myself as comfortable as the surroundings would permit and more or less adapted to what could only be called a bizarre situation. But that failing that my dear mother had so often stressed had killed the cat—namely curiosity -would not give me any peace.
For example: he had never allowed me to see his bedroom or so much as move a book in that awful room where he spent so much of his time.
So I gave the rest of the house a good going-over, and got the impression Mr Acrudal had been there a long time.
I found newspapers going back to 1870, some announcing the abdication of Napoleon III. Cupboards were crammed with them, some seemingly unopened, others with rectangular holes where paragraphs and entire columns had been cut out. I unearthed books bound in plain covers lacking both title and author, the script in some foreign language which I would never understand in a thousand years.
I was about to replace one when I saw a piece of paper sticking out from the middle pages, thrust in hurriedly I would imagine as a book marker, which turned out to be a letter written—thankfully—in English.
I would have you believe me, Sir, that I do not as a rule pry into other people’s correspondence; my mother raised me properly but when you’re eaten up by curiosity and badly want to know who -what—your employer is, you’d be a saint—which I beg leave to say I’m not—not to read a few lines scrawled on a piece of paper.
I can remember every word.
Rudolph, a word of warning: Total abstinence of essential fluid will age a body that should retain youth for nigh on eternity. Waste not the gift our sire gave you. The blushie diet will only sustain.
H.
And that was all. I put the paper back in the book, then settled down to have a good think. When I was a kid my dad was always swearing to practise Total Abstinence, which meant not drinking booze in any form whatsoever. His good intentions were usually drowned in about fourteen days.
But I had never heard booze called essential fluid—although my dad might have thought it was—and certainly couldn’t entertain the idea not drinking the stuff would age the body. Quite the contrary I would have thought.
And my employer’s diet was mainly blood and rotten meat. Blushie. To my mind the only nourishing meal he ever ate was his early morning black pudding—or blood sausage as I’ve heard it called. But now he’d given that up.
Blood!
It would seem that my employer needed blood in some form or another to sustain life, but according to H he wasn’t getting it in the right quantities—or quality. In other words he wasn’t getting the right kind of blood.
Yes, sir, I’ve seen my ration of horror films and my mind came up with the question: What kind of being needs a diet of blood to exist?—and supplied an instant answer.
A vampire.
And it was no use calling myself a silly twit and repeating “Vampires don’t exist” over and over again, for my bloody brain came up with another question: How do you know they don’t exist? And I remembered the long eye-teeth and suddenly imagination created a fantasy-picture, complete with sound, touch and colour. I was being held by one large hand while the other tore my dress leaving my throat bare, hot stinking breath on my skin; then came a sharp pain and I became as a virgin on her wedding night, terrified, gasping—and shuddering with ecstasy.
~ * ~
“We were reckoning the other day,” Mr Redwing said, adjusting his straw hat to a more becoming angle, “that your boss must have eaten his weight in rotten mince several times over. Doesn’t he have any vegetables? Or salad?”
I’m not good at lying so I just shook my head.
“Thought not. My missus says if you just eat meat and nothing else, you’re in line for scurvy. Like they did in Nelson’s navy. Hope you look after yourself, love.”
“I do that. Plenty of salad and fruit. But is that true about scurvy?”
“Sure thing. Ask any doctor. Must have a balanced diet.”
After the lapse of three days I had come round to ridiculing the very idea of Mr Acrudal being a vampire. Or at least half convinced myself I was ridiculing the idea, which is almost the same thing. But certain facts could not be erased, particularly my employer’s strange diet and the damned letter, which for my peace of mind, I should have never read.
Now Mr Redwing’s little snippet of information had set fire to the dry grass of conjecture, highlighting the fantastic more vividly than ever. If a hundred percent protein diet resulted in scurvy, then Mr Acrudal should have been dead long ago. If one thought about his health at all, the only reasonable assessment must be neither good or bad, but Acrudal-normal.
So far as I knew he took no exercise, the only movement being from workroom to bedroom, with periodical visits to the bathroom. Presumably he washed there, but I was willing to swear he never took a bath or shaved. I assumed that his hair must grow, that is to say on his head, but his face remained smooth, which made me wonder if there was any hair on his body at all.
I had been in the house just over three months when Janice turned up.
She let herself in the front door, having it appeared her own key. A pretty, impudent teenager—or so she seemed—dressed in a white jersey with red stripes and a pair of well-washed jeans. Black, windblown hair, thick eyebrows and dark sparkling blue eyes. A broad intelligent face that seemed to be always lit by a faintly mocking smile, and really beautiful white skin that positively glowed with obscene good health. I noticed she had large well-shaped hands. When she spoke her voice had a brittle quality, enhanced by a slight foreign accent.
“Hallo, don’t tell me you’re the new cook and bottle-washer! I’m Janice, sort of niece to old thingy.”
I said, “I’m pleased to meet you, miss. I’ve been Mr Acrudal’s housekeeper for three months now. I’ll inform your uncle you’re here.”
She laughed, a lovely soul-warming sound in that dreadful house, and shook her head until the black hair bounced.
“No need. I’ll surprise the old sod.”
And while I was shaking my head, for I’ve no time for bad language, to say nothing of disrespect for elders and betters, she pranced along the hall and without so much as a tap on the door, entered her uncle’s room.
I heard a roar that had much in common with a lion suddenly spotting an extra and quite unexpected meat ration. When I arrived at the open doorway, I was greeted by a spectacle that both shocked and angered me.
She—Janice—was sitting on his lap and he had pulled the jersey down from her left shoulder and was pressing his lips into the white flesh, and she—brazen hussy—was laughing with head well back and turned towards the door, so that she was looking directly at me. To this day the picture is etched on my memory. The young girl with laughter expressed in every line on her face and Mr Acrudal pressing his lips into her bare shoulder, as though he were preparing to eat her.
And another smell had been added to those which already pervaded the house—the smell of lust. But not the healthy lust that even a left-on-the-shelf type like me can understand, but something alien—foreign I think that means, sir—that made my flesh crawl. But I couldn’t move, just stand there watching them; and gradually there came to me another emotion that filled me with self-disgust.
Jealousy.
I wished with revolting envy he was doing it to me.
The spell was broken when that wool jersey ripped exposing most of her back, for then she flowed off his lap, rolled across the floor, then sprang to her feet with one graceful bound that would not have disgraced a sleek, well-conditioned cat. She stood staring down at Mr Acrudal in his chair, her hands raised, the palms facing him.
“Steady on.” Her voice held a hint of menace. “I’m one of the family, remember? So far—so good—or bad. And humey eyes are watching and the thing is going green.”
And she turned her head and grinned at me in such a fashion my hand itched to decorate her smooth white cheek with my fingerprints. But at least anger had set me free and I was able to run up to the makeshift kitchen and there whisk two eggs with a fork, consoling myself with the thought that if the young bitch wanted lunch, she could get it herself.
She came up some ten minutes later, the jersey pinned together with a safety pin, but still not doing much to cover the left shoulder.
I said, “Yes, miss, anything I can do for you?” in a tone of voice that suggested I’d prefer her room to her company. At least that’s what I intended to convey, but it didn’t have any effect. She gave me another impudent grin, then sat on the table, swinging one leg.
“Have you got hot pants for the old sod? Don’t get aereated, they all do, even if he is off-putting. You’ll go crawling back regardless.”
“You insolent slut.”
She leaned over and actually tickled me under the chin. “Am I? I expect you’d like to belt me, wouldn’t you? But don’t try it on, I could break your back in three different places before you’d raised a hand.” She giggled and put her head on one side and I couldn’t help admitting how pretty she looked. “Funny how you humes pretend horror, but drop your knicks when one of the Count’s by-blows breathes on you. It’s the smell what does it. Gets the old glands going.”
I sat down on a chair and took a shuddering breath and although I knew the veil must be torn from the face of truth, nevertheless curiosity fought a bitter battle with dread. Eventually I asked:
“What’s all this in aid of, miss?”
How the little bitch laughed. Came right up close and ran one large beautiful hand down my leg, so that the desire I had kept so well under control, broke free and flooded my loins with liquid fire. And the safety pin must have come unfastened for the torn Jersey slipped down from her shoulder and I could see one rounded breast—and oh, my God! I didn’t know where I was or what kind of machinery was ticking away in my body, and the house was saturated with evil—well it must have been, only what the hell is evil?—because how else were such thoughts belting around in my brain. Then her low, thrilling voice with its slight accent, spoke again.
“Oh, come off it. Don’t tell me you don’t know the score. Been in the house for three months or more, looked at him, smelt him, and not known him for a second-generation vampire? The count’s son? Sooner or later you’ll be down under him taking the shagging of a lifetime, so that in around a year you’ll drop a little humvam.”
I screamed, “No!” and her laughter should have choked her.
“Yes. Yes ... yes ... yes. He likes the over-ripe, retarded type. The spark in the belly waiting to erupt into a mighty flame. After a session with my Lord the Prince Rudolph, my sort of uncle, a stallion won’t satisfy you. But,” she leaned over and inserted one long finger into the crease between my breasts, “guess what. He, descended from the most ancient line in the world, is ashamed of being what he is. Son of the vampire king. He won’t partake from the neck, or even intake vital essence from a bottle. Makes do with pig’s blood and rich mince. That’s why he looks so weird. And all he’s got to do is imbibe once—and, oh boy, you’ll see the difference. He almost gives way when I get to work on him, but no way. I don’t mind slap bot and fumble, but no give with the vital. Well, it wouldn’t be decent.”
I took a firm grip of my reeling senses, drove a shaft of iron through my quivering soul and transformed a spoonful of courage into a little spear of anger.
“You’re a dirty little trollop, miss. At least that’s what my old mum would have called you. You must have a mind like a cesspool, only it’s probably so twisted you can’t tell the difference between fact and fancy. Me, I’m going to hang on to my sanity and assume that dirty old man is over the edge, or if you prefer, up the pole, then get the hell out of this place.”
She patted my cheek and I smacked her hand away. “You can’t. No way. You’ve let him come real close and the smell of him is in your blood. And just supposing you were real strong and managed to get away—the pack would get you. The pack of shadmads. Or maybe as you’re someone special—vammads. They’ve been watching the house since you arrived. Looking after you. Once they get on your track they never let up until you’re a flabby bag of nothing in the gutter. No hume ever lives to spill the beans on the family.”
I closed my eyes and muttered a kind of prayer.
“Let me disbelieve now and know I am protected by invisible angels and can never be pulled down. Never.”
Her giggling flooded my being with cold wavelets and for the first time I knew my soul was confined in a castle that crouched half way up a flame-tipped mountain, where it waited for death to set it free. And in the valley there waited the demons, the unnamed, who feed on immortal essence, and breathe their fire-dreams into our sleeping brains.
Large beautiful hands stroked my naked thighs and I screamed total, absolute surrender.
“Take me to him,” I screamed. “Take me to him.”
She purred a soft little chuckle.
“That’s why I came. Uncle Rudolph must be up and around soon, there’s so much for him to do. Help bend time for example. And he must have that what is essential for him to look young again.”
She was behind me, her hands on my breasts, guiding me out of the room, down the stairs. Realization of what lay in store made me struggle when we crossed the hall, and the mere sight of him -immortal son of Dracula—seated on the desk, exploded a fear bomb in my stomach and I passed into a fire-streaked darkness where the five senses merged into one, or took on an extra.
Tell me, sir, you might know, is it possible for all of us to have extra senses that sleep within our bodies, but could be awakened if the conditions are right—or wrong?
They—Mr Acrudal and the young bitch—did something to me, for it seemed as if I slid down a tunnel through days, weeks and months, even years, and only allowed me to pop my head up through a ventilation hole, once now and again.
Did they bury me? If not, then how is it I can still remember the cloying dampness pressing on me everywhere; breathing rich soil that gave me a joyous half-sleeping life. Every now and again I became aware of one of their faces gazing down at me, his grown strangely young, glowing with a special kind of beauty that I suddenly realized had always been lurking just beneath the surface.
My blood gave a deeper red to his lips, my vital essence lit candles in his eyes; weakness fought tingling strength in my veins, blood had been replaced by something more interesting. Strangely, I cannot remember during that twilight period being other than happy. Or if not happy, then blissfully content. I became dimly aware that somewhere along the road to eternity I would take a dark turning and never come back, but even that prospect could not mar the safely insulated present.
I came to understand, sir, that fear and even dread can so easily change from black to bright red. Can you understand that?
~ * ~
The birth pangs were muted.
Like having a tooth pulled when the cocaine hasn’t quite taken effect. I mentioned that dread had changed from black to bright red, well, during the birth I existed in a red mist. I could see the young bitch (only she wasn’t young), moving about, feel her hands on me, forcing my legs apart, but when she and Mr Acrudal spoke, their voices seemed to come from a long way off and I couldn’t understand a word they were saying.
The explosion that tore my guts apart rocketed me into full consciousness for around two minutes and I felt the agony, the pure seething terror and knew ... knew—knew exactly what I was giving birth to, but then he, Mr Acrudal, Prince Rudolph, filled my brain with wonderful pictures, so that fear, the pain, the knowledge, were banished and I was permitted to sink back into my nice cosy insulated happiness.
~ * ~
I awoke in my own bed.
That which had come from my body was confined to a black wooden cradle and when it raised its head and spat at me, I screamed and strained at the broad straps which only permitted limited movement. Even now, sir, when more immediate horror whimpers just beyond that door, a cold shudder sends limb-freezing dread down my body, when I think of that tiny face twisted up into a grimace, hissing like a snake, then spitting ... No, please don’t ask me to describe it. Please don’t ... Thin and white, two jutting teeth, black gleaming eyes ... yes, like those of a snake. A black mamba ... Rudolph was very gentle with me—the young bitch had disappeared for the time being—and he explained over and over again that it would improve beyond recognition in time, become beautiful, as did the entire race down to the fourth generation. The right nourishment took care of that. But... but—I will be all right, sir, in just a minute—but I must tell you ... must ... he said for the first few weeks I must ... feed ... feed it ... but ... he explained wonderfully ... it was not milk it needed ... so it wouldn’t suck ... but bite ... chew ... chew ... sometimes nibble ... nibble ...
~ * ~
After two weeks they took the thing I had bred away from me, which may have saved the remnants of my sanity, for it had begun to develop tiny claws on fingers and feet, although I was assured that they would soon disappear, being in fact the equivalent of milk teeth.
Rudolph—how beautiful he had grown—fed me on stewed mince and maybe because I didn’t think about it too much, it tasted quite nice and most certainly did me good. I put on weight and when I was quite strong—and not before, for he really was most considerate—the Prince took my left hand in his and explained all I needed to know.
Actually all he wanted was to live a quiet eternity writing a history of his illustrious family, but it would seem it was his duty once now and again, to father an offspring, which would be a half-breed, but help spread the Dracula blood among the humes. Only a woman who could remain in that dreadful house for not less than three lunar months, was suitable for vam breeding.
Rudolph bared his sharp white teeth in an engaging smile that I found to be so irresistible. “You are to be congratulated, my dear. Many were interviewed, few were chosen.”
“And what happens to me now?” I asked.
He sighed deeply. “Why did you have to ask that question? Whatever answer I give is certain to hurt. I should put you down, but I lack the necessary ruthlessness. So, I am going to set you free. Whatever happens will not be the result of my action. Take my advice, get well away from the house. Travel by day. The pack are not happy in daylight and whimper most piteously when caught under the naked sun. I cannot give you hope for a long life, for that on reflection will not be desirable, but you may derive some satisfaction in evading the pack for a quite considerable period.
“Tell someone of your experience if you so wish and it eases your mind by doing so. No one will believe, but a version may be passed on and that will give birth—in the fullness of time—to an interesting legend. But of course should someone even half believe and start to investigate—more work for the pack.”
The pack.
He always pronounced that word in a peculiar way, as though it were distasteful to him and its implication something no gentleman would ever consider. Oddly enough, I did not even think about it, although at the back of my mind I knew what eventually my fate would be. The young bitch had told me plainly enough.
Instead, I began to wonder who prepared the wonderful meals that were served up on a wooden tray and came to the conclusion it must be Rudolph. A gifted family and, when necessary, domesticated. After all, the original count cooked excellent meals for Jonathan Harker and made his bed into the bargain. Yes, he actually gave me Dracula to read.
Then came the morning when he kissed me on the lips and as always my legs turned to jelly and you would never believe how young and beautiful he looked.
My luggage stood in the hall, but I couldn’t really believe I’d have a use for it—not now. The young bitch opened the door and I ignored her impudent grin, but I will confess I’d go to my end more happily after an hour alone with her, just supposing she was tied down or something.
“Goodbye,” Rudolph whispered. “There’s plenty of money in your handbag. More than you’ll ever need.”
A taxi stood waiting and someone—Rudolph I suppose—carried my luggage out and piled it at my feet. Then I was away and again knew nothing until the cab drew up outside a rather dingy hotel. The driver spoke over one shoulder.
“The Imperial, ma’am. That was where I was told to bring you.”
I must have blacked out or maybe time-jumped forward a few hours, for I remember nothing more until finding myself lying on a double bed looking up at a cracked ceiling.
And you want to hear something really weird? I was homesick for that awful old house and Rudolph and the young bitch. I think I must have passed around three days eating and sleeping, and quite possibly have remained in that hotel until my money ran out, if I had not seen them from my window.
It must have been early evening for the street was silver-gold with lamplight and I could easily see the black car standing opposite with three or four figures leaning against it, staring up at my window. Dressed entirely in black, with long dog-like faces; jutting mouths, black lips, flattened noses, tapering ears and gleaming red-tinted eyes. I breathed two words:
“The pack!”
I’d forgotten them.
I sat by the window and watched them all night. So far as I could see not one moved until the first streak of dawn lit the grey roofs. Then they all piled into the car and drove away.
I left the hotel ten minutes later and have been more or less on the move ever since. But the pack have never really been far behind and I’ve no doubt are somewhere in this vicinity now. I’ve seen them several times, but they keep their distance, because I suppose I’m not quite ready for the kill yet. When I leave, sir, it might be well if, for your own sake, you waited for a while before leaving. Don’t let them think you’re at all interested in me. But you may be safe enough, for Rudolph said I could tell my story, but it’s best not to take risks.
Well I’ll be on my way. Thank you for being such a good listener—and, yes, buying me that drink after that silly fainting spell. They’ll be calling time soon, so you can go out with the crowd. Lovely full moon tonight... wolf moon I’ve heard it called. Good luck, sir ... good luck ...
~ * ~