clumped to the door and opened it.
"Evening, sir."
Frank stared at the handsome, mustached young man in the jaunty sports clothes.
"I'm from the Exchange," the man said. "Wife home?"
No Such Thing as a Vampire
In the early autumn of the year 18-Madame Alexis Gheria awoke one morning to a sense of utmost torpor. For more than a minute, she lay inertly on her back, her dark eyes staring upward. How wasted she felt. It seemed as if her limbs were sheathed in lead. Perhaps she was ill, Petre must examine her and see.
Drawing in a faint breath, she pressed up slowly on an elbow. As she did, her nightdress slid, rustling, to her waist. How had it come unfastened? she wondered, looking down at herself.
Quite suddenly, Madame Gheria began to scream.
In the breakfast room, Dr. Petre Gheria looked up, startled, from his morning paper. In
an instant, he had pushed his chair back, slung his napkin on the table and was rushing for the hallway. He dashed across its carpeted breadth and mounted the staircase two steps at a time.
It was a near hysterical Madame Gheria he found sitting on the edge of her bed looking down in horror at her breasts. Across the dilated whiteness of them, a smear of blood lay drying.
Dr. Gheria dismissed the upstairs maid, who stood frozen in the open doorway, gaping at her mistress. He locked the door and hurried to his wife.
"Petre!" she gasped.
"Gently." He helped her lie back across the bloodstained pillow.
"Petre, what is it?" she begged.
"Lie still, my dear." His practiced hands moved in swift search over her breasts. Suddenly, his breath choked off. Pressing aside her head, he stared down dumbly at the pinprick lancinations on her neck, the ribbon of tacky blood that twisted downward from them.
"My throat," Alexis said.
"No, it's just a-" Dr. Gheria did not complete the sentence. He knew exactly what it was.
Madame Gheria began to tremble. "Oh, my God, my God," she said.
Dr. Gheria rose and foundered to the washbasin. Pouring in water, he returned to his wife and washed away the blood. The wound was clearly visible now-two tiny punctures close to the jugular. A grimacing Dr. Gheria touched the mounds of inflamed tissue in which they lay. As he did, his wife groaned terribly and turned her face away.
"Now listen to me," he said, his voice apparently calm. "We will not succumb, immediately, to superstition, do you hear? There are any number of-"
"I'm going to die," she said.
"Alexis, do you hear me?" He caught her harshly by the shoulders.
She turned her head and stared at him with vacant eyes. "You know what it is," she said. Dr. Gheria swallowed. He could still taste coffee in his mouth.
"I know what it appears to be," he said, "and we shall-not ignore the possibility. However-"
"I'm going to die," she said.
"Alexis!" Dr. Gheria took her hand and gripped it fiercely. "You shall not be taken from me," he said.
Solta was a village of some thousand inhabitants situated in the foothills of Rumania's Bihor Mountains. It was a place of dark traditions. People, hearing the bay of distant wolves, would cross themselves without a thought. Children would gather garlic buds as other children gather flowers, bringing them home for the windows. On every door there was a painted cross, at every throat a metal one. Dread of the vampire's blighting was as normal as the dread of fatal sickness. It was always in the air.
Dr. Gheria thought about that as he bolted shut the windows of Alexis' room. Far off, molten twilight hung above the mountains. Soon it would be dark again. Soon the citizens of Solta would be barricaded in their garlic-reeking houses. He had no doubt that every soul of them knew exactly what had happened to his wife. Already the cook and upstairs maid were pleading for discharge. Only the inflexible discipline of the butler, Karel, kept them at their jobs. Soon, even that would not suffice. Before the horror of the vampire, reason fled.
He'd seen the evidence of it that very
"Evening, sir."
Frank stared at the handsome, mustached young man in the jaunty sports clothes.
"I'm from the Exchange," the man said. "Wife home?"
No Such Thing as a Vampire
In the early autumn of the year 18-Madame Alexis Gheria awoke one morning to a sense of utmost torpor. For more than a minute, she lay inertly on her back, her dark eyes staring upward. How wasted she felt. It seemed as if her limbs were sheathed in lead. Perhaps she was ill, Petre must examine her and see.
Drawing in a faint breath, she pressed up slowly on an elbow. As she did, her nightdress slid, rustling, to her waist. How had it come unfastened? she wondered, looking down at herself.
Quite suddenly, Madame Gheria began to scream.
In the breakfast room, Dr. Petre Gheria looked up, startled, from his morning paper. In
an instant, he had pushed his chair back, slung his napkin on the table and was rushing for the hallway. He dashed across its carpeted breadth and mounted the staircase two steps at a time.
It was a near hysterical Madame Gheria he found sitting on the edge of her bed looking down in horror at her breasts. Across the dilated whiteness of them, a smear of blood lay drying.
Dr. Gheria dismissed the upstairs maid, who stood frozen in the open doorway, gaping at her mistress. He locked the door and hurried to his wife.
"Petre!" she gasped.
"Gently." He helped her lie back across the bloodstained pillow.
"Petre, what is it?" she begged.
"Lie still, my dear." His practiced hands moved in swift search over her breasts. Suddenly, his breath choked off. Pressing aside her head, he stared down dumbly at the pinprick lancinations on her neck, the ribbon of tacky blood that twisted downward from them.
"My throat," Alexis said.
"No, it's just a-" Dr. Gheria did not complete the sentence. He knew exactly what it was.
Madame Gheria began to tremble. "Oh, my God, my God," she said.
Dr. Gheria rose and foundered to the washbasin. Pouring in water, he returned to his wife and washed away the blood. The wound was clearly visible now-two tiny punctures close to the jugular. A grimacing Dr. Gheria touched the mounds of inflamed tissue in which they lay. As he did, his wife groaned terribly and turned her face away.
"Now listen to me," he said, his voice apparently calm. "We will not succumb, immediately, to superstition, do you hear? There are any number of-"
"I'm going to die," she said.
"Alexis, do you hear me?" He caught her harshly by the shoulders.
She turned her head and stared at him with vacant eyes. "You know what it is," she said. Dr. Gheria swallowed. He could still taste coffee in his mouth.
"I know what it appears to be," he said, "and we shall-not ignore the possibility. However-"
"I'm going to die," she said.
"Alexis!" Dr. Gheria took her hand and gripped it fiercely. "You shall not be taken from me," he said.
Solta was a village of some thousand inhabitants situated in the foothills of Rumania's Bihor Mountains. It was a place of dark traditions. People, hearing the bay of distant wolves, would cross themselves without a thought. Children would gather garlic buds as other children gather flowers, bringing them home for the windows. On every door there was a painted cross, at every throat a metal one. Dread of the vampire's blighting was as normal as the dread of fatal sickness. It was always in the air.
Dr. Gheria thought about that as he bolted shut the windows of Alexis' room. Far off, molten twilight hung above the mountains. Soon it would be dark again. Soon the citizens of Solta would be barricaded in their garlic-reeking houses. He had no doubt that every soul of them knew exactly what had happened to his wife. Already the cook and upstairs maid were pleading for discharge. Only the inflexible discipline of the butler, Karel, kept them at their jobs. Soon, even that would not suffice. Before the horror of the vampire, reason fled.
He'd seen the evidence of it that very
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