“You are too kind, John,” he said slowly. “You fail to mention the truly damned. Men like your father, who will be persuaded that barbaric rituals must be performed on the bodies of their dead-”

“Papa, you never believed him. You had other reasons. Do not torture yourself so!”

“There is no escape from it.”

“Then try to find some peace where I have-in helping the living. That is how my mother’s memory is best served-the sooner we educate our neighbors in the truth of this matter, the less influence men of Winston’s stripe will have over them.”

I was gratified, the next day, to see that he seemed to have dedicated himself to this cause, and that he was to some degree transformed by his devotion to it. Whenever I happened to glance out my office window, I saw my father talking in an animated fashion to any who would hear him. He was a respected member of the community, and had no shortage of listeners. Isaac Gardner was with him, and he, too, seemed to have taken up the banner. By the early afternoon, Mr. Robinson had stopped into my office to ask if what my father said was true-that vampires had nothing to do with consumption, that some people were being cured of it in sanitariums. I verified that it was so, and watched his eyes cloud with tears. “Then what Winston told me to do to Louisa’s body-the ritual-that was all for naught?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said gently.

He swore rather violently regarding Mr. Winston, then begged my pardon, and left. I watched him walk across the street to join the growing crowd that had gathered around my parent. I smiled. My father, Isaac Gardner and Mr. Robinson would all do a better job of convincing the others than I ever could.

I was vaguely aware that the crowd was moving off down the street, but I was soon caught up in the care of a young patient who had fallen from a tree, and forgot all about vampires and consumption. I set his broken arm, and sent him and his grateful mother on their way. I had just finished straightening my examination room when the door to my office burst open, and my father, Noah, Isaac Gardner, Robinson and a great many others came crowding into the room. They carried between them a man whose face was so battered and clothing so bloodied that I would not have recognized him were it not for a memorable piece of ostentation he was never without-a heavy gold watch chain.

“Winston!”

The others looked at me, their eyes full of fear.

“Lay him on the table!” I ordered.

It took only the briefest examination to realize that he was beyond any help I could offer. He was already growing cold. “He’s dead.”

I thought I heard sighs of relief, and I turned to face them. They all stood silently, hats in hand.

“Who did this?” I asked.

No one answered, and all lowered their eyes.

“Who did this?” I asked again.

“Vampires,” I heard someone whisper, but I was never to know who spoke the word. No matter what I asked, no matter how I pleaded to be told the truth, they remained resolutely silent. Winston’s blood was on all of them; there was no way to distinguish a single killer from among the group. I went to my basin, to wash his blood from my own hands. The thought arrested me. These were neighbors, friends-my father, my brother. I knew what had driven them to this-I knew. Had I not lived in Carrick Hollow almost all my life?

“What shall we do with him?” one of them asked.

I dried my hands and said, in a voice of complete calm, “I believe it is said that for the good of the community, one who is made into a vampire must be cremated.”

I could show you the place in the woods where it was done, where the earth has not yet healed over the burning. Nature works to reclaim it, though, as nature ever works to reclaim us all.

I would like to tell you that the last vampire of Carrick Hollow had been laid to rest there, and that we now live in peace. But it is not so.

Not long after Winston’s death, people who had lived in our village all their lives began to leave it. Farms were abandoned. We would tell strangers that it was the economy-and in truth, some left because it was easier to make a living in the cities. But that would not explain the mistrust the inhabitants sometimes seem to feel toward one another, or the guilty look one might surprise in the faces of those who hastily travel past Winston’s farm.

I thought the peddler was unlikely to return. He had seen something that frightened him, though he might not know enough to put a name to the emptiness in a young doctor’s eyes. I knew it for what it was, for I had seen it in my father and Isaac and Mr. Robinson and so many others-Carrick Hollow is a haunted place, haunted by the living as well as the dead.

Oh yes, I believe in vampires-though not the sort of bogeyman imagined by fanatics like the late and unlamented Winston.

But if vampires are the animated dead, dead who walk upon the earth-restless, hungry, and longing to be alive again-then I could never deny their existence. You see, I know so very many of them.

Indeed, I am one.

Author’s Note

While Carrick Hollow and its inhabitants are entirely fictional, some New Englanders were ascribing the cause of consumption (tuberculosis) to vampires late into the 19th century; newspaper accounts and other evidence indicate rituals such as the one described here occurred at least as late as the 1890’s in rural Rhode Island.

The Abbey Ghosts

I did not meet the Eighth Earl of Rolingbroke until he was twelve years old. I was in some measure compensated for the lack of our acquaintance during those first dozen years of his life, not only by the deep friendship my stepbrother and I formed over the years we did have together, but also because I was occasionally allowed to spend time with him after his death.

His death had come unexpectedly, and before he attained his thirtieth year. That first evening after his funeral, I sat before the fire in the Abbey library, weary and yet certain that my grief for him would not allow me to sleep. Not many hours earlier, my late stepbrother had been laid to rest in the family crypt. Lucien’s body had been placed next to that of his wife-who had died five years before, shortly after giving birth to Charles, their only child.

Lucien’s orphaned son was much on my mind. I had looked in on Charles just before ten o’clock. The day’s events had been exhausting for him as well, and he slept, though his young face seemed sad even in repose.

I poured another glass of port as the mantel clock struck eleven. I had dismissed the servants for the evening, not able to bear their solicitude, nor their misery. They had loved Lucien as much as I, and the strain of this terrible day was telling on us all. I chose to spend the last few hours of it alone, thinking of Lucien and the years we had shared as brothers. How I would miss him!

I clearly recalled our first meeting.

Lucien’s father married my widowed mother, and my mother and I came to live at the Abbey. I had met the Seventh Earl of Rolingbroke, my new stepfather, on only two previous occasions-brief interviews which had put me quite in awe of that forceful man. I entered his home believing I was quite without a champion-my mother, for all her beauty and good-heartedness, was a timid soul, far more likely to suffer a fit of the vapors than to defend me.

The Abbey itself was daunting-a rambling structure, larger by far than the small estate where I had been raised, and very much older. I fully expected that a boy of my size might be lost within it, and even if his newly remarried mother should take the trouble to look for him, she might never discover which winding staircase or long gallery held his remains.

Not the least of my anxieties concerned my new stepbrother. I expected resentment from Lucien, then twelve, and two years my senior. My first impression of him led me to believe that he was a cool and distant fellow. As we entered the Abbey, he stood back from the others, regarding me lazily from his greater height. I was afraid, and trying not to show it-but I must have failed, for his father muttered something about “Master Quakeboots.”