“I don’t do this because I believe it will cure consumption. But it is a cure for mistrust. A bitter remedy, but a necessary one.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will go back to school soon, and perhaps you will never return to Carrick Hollow. No, don’t protest-whether you do or not, Noah and I will continue to live here. We who live in the countryside depend upon our friends and neighbors. My neighbors are depending on me now, to do something which they have come to believe will keep them safe and well. No matter how repulsive I find it, John, I must do this to keep their trust.”

That night, my sleep was fitful. Nathan’s cough was horrible, and nothing I did could bring him any relief. My brief dreams were filled with images of decaying flesh and bones, of coffins unearthed, of Winston’s thick hands reaching into my mother’s grave.

The morning broke bright and warm, unusual for an early spring day in New England. We had agreed that Noah would stay with Nathan; a suggestion that he met with both relief and some guilt. But my father knew that Noah’s anger toward Winston had already nearly led to blows, and asked him to stay home.

A group of ten men, including poor Isaac Gardner, gathered in the village. Winston tried to lead the way to the cemetery, but Isaac shouldered him aside, and let my father go ahead of them. I saw my father hesitate. I took his hand, and together we walked to the familiar section of the churchyard, the one I knew so well from that winter of funerals. As we stood at the foot of the four newest Arden graves, Winston’s voice interrupted my silent prayers.

“Dig up all four coffins,” he directed.

“All four!” my father protested.

“We must be certain!” Winston said. “We’ll place them under that tree. Once they are all exhumed, we’ll open them one at a time. Start with the children.”

Father, Isaac and I stood away from the group. At a nod from Winston, their picks and shovels struck the earth. They began to dig, never looking up at us. My father swayed a little on his feet, and Isaac moved nearer, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Together we stood listening to the rhythm of the digging, the downward scrape and lift, the thudding fall of the soil as they attacked my sister’s grave. Soon, the top of the Rebecca’s coffin was struck. How small that coffin looked! The earth was moved from around its sides, and ropes were placed under the ends. The coffin was lifted from the grave and placed under a nearby tree. In two more hours, two other coffins were taken from the earth-the larger coffins of my brothers, Robert, who had been but eighteen, and Daniel, a year younger-the age I was now. As each coffin was brought up, my prayers became more urgent and the fact of the exhumations more real.

The group moved to Mother’s grave. Again, shovels broke into the soil. The digging slowed now-the first frenzy long past, the men grew tired. At last, they pulled her coffin from the earth and set it with the others, beneath the tree. I moved toward it, and placed my hand on the lid of her box. I felt the cool, damp wood, and the small indentations made by each nail. I broke out in a cold sweat, and my hand shook. I turned when I heard the creak of the nails being pried from the other coffins.

Father’s hand gently touched my arm. I moved away.

When they had finished loosening all the nails on the top of each of the coffins, Winston directed the men to remove the lid of Rebecca’s. With horror, I gazed at the unrecognizable form that-had it not been for her dress and the color of her hair-I would not have known as my sister. This child’s face, impish and smiling not so very long ago, was now nothing more than a skull, covered with sunken, leathery skin; her small, white hands now nothing more than thin bones covered with dark, dried sinew. My throat constricted-I could not swallow, could not breathe. Rebecca! Little Rebecca! My memories of her could not be reconciled with what I saw. I had taught her how to write her name, I thought wildly-I had heard her laughter. This could not be my sister…

Winston was studying her. I wanted to claw his filthy eyes out.

“No,” he said, and the lid was quickly replaced.

He said the same thing when he gazed upon the remains of my brothers, who also appeared mummified, their dry skin stretched tight over their bony frames.

I tried hard to control my emotions, but this was increasingly difficult. By the time we reached my mother’s coffin, only my desire to deny Winston any glimpse of weakness kept me on my feet.

They slid the coffin lid off the edge of the box. Father and I looked down at Mother’s face. She looked peaceful, remarkably like the day we buried her, despite the three cold months that had passed. Her nails and hair appeared longer, and in places, her skin had turned reddish.

“Ahh,” Winston said, moving closer. “As I suspected. But we must examine the heart to be certain.”

“You’ll not touch her!” my father cried.

Winston smiled, and turned to the others. “Light the fire.”

“By God, Winston-”

“Oh, indeed, I’ll not touch your vampire wife. You must be the one.” He handed my father a long knife.

My father stared at it.

“Get on with it, man!” Winston ordered.

“John,” my father said, anguished, “leave us. Go home. It was wrong of me to bring you here-”

“I’ll not leave you, Father.”

He shook his head, but turned back to the open coffin. He set the knife aside, and with trembling fingers, tenderly moved her burial gown down from her neck. I heard him sob, then saw him lift the knife. He cut a gash in her chest.

“The heart, the heart!” Winston said eagerly.

Father’s face seemed to turn to stone-cold and gray. He pried the wound open, then took the knife and cut away her heart. Bloody fluid ran from the wound onto her dress.

“You see! She’s the one, she’s the vampire!”

As from a distance, I heard the other men gasp, and saw their quick gestures-signs against evil.

“Put it in the fire, Arden!” Winston directed.

“No!” I said weakly, but Father walked toward the blaze. He let the heart drop from his fingers; the fire hissed and sparked as it fell into the center of the flames.

Father walked back to mother’s coffin, placed the lid on it, and began to hammer it shut. I picked up one of the other hammers-tears blinding me, I worked at his side. Without speaking, several men did the same for the other coffins. Each coffin was slowly lowered back into its grave, and in silence we began to cover them again-but Father buried mother’s coffin alone, refusing the others’ help with a steely look in his eyes.

I saw Winston warming his hands over the fire. He caught me looking at him and smiled. “You should thank me. I’ve saved your life this day, John.”

Before the others could stop me, I slammed my fist into his jaw.

My father led me away from them, and with Isaac we made our way back home. All the way down the lane, I could not help but be troubled over what I had seen, and wondered at it. That my mother could be a vampire, I did not for a moment believe. I knew there must be a rational, scientific explanation for the blood that had been in my mother’s heart. I swore to myself that I would study anatomy and medicine-yes, and vampires, too-and learn all I could about consumption and its causes.

When we returned to the house, Noah held Nathan’s body in his arms.

My medical schooling was the best in New England. The Boston area had many fine schools, and Springhaven University was among them. Springhaven was the choice of my godfather, as it was his alma mater, and he was a respected alumnus and benefactor.

Medical school was not easy for me. The work itself was not difficult, though much harder than my earlier schooling, to be sure. I took to the reading, lectures, and discussions with great interest, but it was the hustle and bustle of Boston that caused me discomfort. The size of the city, its noises and smells, always left me ill at ease. Although I loved the work, I was homesick.