

### Varney the Vampire Remixed

By Thomas Preskett Prest & 156 GalleyCat Readers

Edited by Jason Boog

Published by Mediabistro at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Thomas Preskett Prest & 156 GalleyCat Readers

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by the 156 authors who contributed to this book. Thank you for your support.

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# **Table of Contents**

Introduction by Jason Boog

Varney the YA Vampire by Alissa Grosso

Varney X-Files by Peter Anderson

Varney the Vampire the Musical by Tara O'Donnell

She Is Not Yet Dead! by Tiffanie Green

Vampire Tears by Renee Carter Hall

Varney the Buffy Episode by Amanda Makepeace

Easy Listening Vampire by Stan Friedman

Flora Awakens (to Lady Gaga Tune) by Tasha B.

Cliche Cockney Vampire Remix by Jamie Mollart

Varney the Vampire Status Updates by Bridget Thoreson

Vampire Curses by Dorothy Distefano

Vampires & the Long-Barreled Rifle by Sara Walker

Your Entire Family Is As Mad As Hatters by Terry Aldershof

Vampire Text Messages by Michelle Barry

Chilly Willy By Ana Blaze

She May Be On Drugs by Sarah Morgan

Vampire House MD by Barbara Barnett

THE EMBODIMENT by Clotilde LaMarre

A Letter from the Vampire by Cora Zane

For What It's Worth to the Bannerworths by Jessica Topper

Behind the Scenes by Monica Valentinelli

Post-Twilight Varney the Vampire by Candice Hazlett

Whoa, Did You See That? by Rod Redpath

Daisy Dukes by Heather Brady

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder by Kate Lu

CHAPTER VII - THE VISIT TO THE VAULT OF THE BANNERWORTHS, AND IT'S UNPLEASANT RESULT - THE MYSTERY by Lindsey Cline Sutton

Ample Evidence by MM Wittle

Film Noir Varney by Judyth Mermelstein

The Old Elephant Gun by James Garrison

Poppycock! by Joshua Heights

A Foul Odor Wafting About Us by Kae Tienstra

Marmaduke Bannerworth by Adam Bertocci

Believe You Too in Santa Claus? By Gaele L. Hince

A Homage to Sorkinisms by Becky Bowman

Call for the Servants by Melissa-Jane Fogarty

I Am Nearly Mad by Laura Di Giovine

Here She Goes Again by Alison Richards

Flora Bannerworth Is Single by Bethany L. Kesler

Chapter XI: THE COMMUNICATION TO THE LOVER. — THE HEART'S DESPAIR by Carl Bettis

Shakespearian Varny by Steph Dagg

Varney the iPhone Chat by Jennifer Williams

Dr. Seuss & Vampires by Peter Tarnofsky

Chapter XII. CHARLES HOLLAND'S SAD FEELINGS by Margie Conklin

A Game of Questions by Lara Eckener

Graduate School by Mayra París

I Quit by Jerry McGrath

Page 82 in a Single Tweet by Amanda C. Davis

Broken Goblet by Josh Hlibichuk

Stoner Versus Vampire by Mel Neet

Blarney by Donald McGrath

Have You Forgotten about Flora? by Michelle Morris

Extra! Extra By Beth Kopley

Instant Message by Danielle Bullen

The Devil and the Lawyer By Caren Gussoff

Varney the Vampire Projectr by Michael du Plessis

Shark, thief, murderer by Lisa Fantino

Chicka Chicka Boom Boom by Alecia Burke

Varney the Vampire reboot by Adam Chesin

Shiver Me Timbers by Alexander Hollins

Varney the Vampire with a Laugh Track by Kira Dunn

I Watch Oprah by Katelyn Nikic

I Do Love You. This Sucks. by Alicia Wheeler

A Cat That Played with Its Food by Gavin Tonks

A Human Is Beneath My Contempt by Kristina Perez

Large Appetite By Dayle Fogarty Roger

O....M.....G. by Joan Paylo

You Are a Terrible Dancer by Nicole DeGennaro

Land-lubbin' by Sara Kuhns

Not the Sparkly Kind by Helen Davis

I CAN HAZ CHEEZEBURGER? by Brian Truitt

Placate Batty Uncles By Robin Samuels

Varney the Vampire Rewrite (as told by Jack Pringle of the same story) by Emily S. Whitten

Sappy Romance Novels By Brenda Priddy

Get Me a Rewrite By Kaite Stover

A Taste of My Broadsword by Kristin Ramsdell

Orangutans and Undergarments by Timothy King

Varney the Opera by Catherine Mintz

Western Union VARNEGRAM by Larissa Kyzer

Dick & Jane & Varney the Vampire by Kristen Evey

A Softer Touch by Mikel Strom

Holy Cry for Distress, Batman by Cindy Amrhein

Nobody Here But Us Chickens by AM Carley

The Big Pow Wow (aka Why We're Going Nowhere) by Janelle Evans

What Do We Do Now? By Lisa Lee

Trust Me, Son by Cynthea Burns

Odd Fish by Leland Hall

An Opponent Is an Opponent By Cynthea Burns

With His Own Arm by Robert Hart

Silver Tongue By Red Haircrow

Where Have I Seen That Word? By Sheri L. Swift

Vaguely Victorian Vacuum by Lana Cooper

150 Years Old by Mika Star

Strange and Wondrous Things by John Jay

Double Bladed Sharpness by Allan Wallace

The Head of a Fish by Reno MacLeod

Well, Duh by Jaye Valentine

What's the 411? By Victoria Wainwright

Walking in Circles by Mark Stewart

Confounded binnacle by Sara Jo Easton

Varney Haiku by Lorraine Anderson

I'll Marry Miss Flora Myself by Joe Cetta

Henry the Mafia Boss by Nathaniel Phillips

Where Was the Coffee? by Chris Ciolli

Educated Women by Gillian Polack

The Old Admiral by Frankie Lassut

Pirate Business By Donovan Sotam

He Could Not Have Written Them By Alex Mahon

Save the Drama for the Soaps By Pallavi Sathya Babu

Varney the Silent Film by Leila Eadie

Monk Hall by Christina Beggs

This Is More Than a Crush by Allison Carter

I Don't Think Charles Sent Those Letters by Jennifer Windrow

The Odor of Cheese By Tom Bentley

What of Love? By Merri Hiatt

Henry's Montage by Milda Harris

My Old Dog Sal by Jennifer Goltz

I Am Mortal by Michael Bergquist

Varney the Vampire Cheat Sheet by Jacqueline Bryant

Varney Noir by Kelly Robinson

Vegan & Varney by Renate Smith

Does God hear the prayers of monsters like myself? by Justus Stone

Flora's Legendary Clumsiness By Shannon Wedge

Does Anybody Even Read the Middle of a 500 Page Victorian Vampire Novel Remix? By Jason Boog

A Little Sort of Something By Michelle

The Popular Riot by Blue Christian Winterhawk

Varney the Vampyre in Verse by Corrine Bielejeski

Wolf News Gazette By Peggy Townsend

Hope Has Left Him By Jennifer Harbaugh

The Decency To Blush By Keri Peardon

Lonely Vampire by Michael Cain

Jane Austin nightmare by Mercy Walker

She Gasped, Incredulously by Leah Triplett

With Apologies to Quentin Tarantino by Tamara L. Siuda

One Who Was Great Among Men By Laura Meyer

Occupy Cemetery, A Public Event By Alexandra Lozano

Varney, re-written in the style of music reviewer/fake celebrity, Big Ghostfase AKA the Hands of Zeus AKA Phantom Raviolis, of Big Ghost Chronicles by Wythe Marschall

Bannerworth Facebook Conversations by Janine Marshman

Varney the Vampire Remix: A Pantomime by Marianne Edwards Pseudo-couplets featuring purple prose By Jess C Scott

Pseudo-couplets featuring purple prose By: Jess C ScottVarney the Vampire Flash Short Story by Heather Michon

Varney the Vampire Flash Short Story by Heather Michon

Varney the Vampire, The Thornton Heath (South London) version by Claire Leavey

We're in a Bit of a Fix By Wendy Gregory

The Caine Brothers by Kyle Leacock

The Mob Pushed On by Brittni A. Bennett

Vampire Haiku by Paula Grunseit

What Wine? By Randell Carr

Burn 'im out! By Leilani Lum

Varney the Vampire via James Ellroy by Kat Clay

Fire Results in Burning by Christopher Howe

Varney the Vampire in Five Lines by Marnye Hall

There Once Was a House on Fire Michael Yarsky

Bet You I Can Jump This Ditch By Joe Plotbunny

Fictional Space By Sarah Goodman

Chapter LVII: Or, Varney the Vampire In Space by Dean Edwards

About the Authors

# Introduction

In the fall of 2012, we hosted a writing contest to celebrate Mediabistro's Media App Summit.

Illustrating the Media App Summit's spirit of digital innovation, a crew of dedicated writers remixed a single page from Varney the Vampire-a bestselling vampire novel from the 19th Century filled with enough star-crossed romance, vampire action and purple prose to inspire another _Twilight_ trilogy.

More than one hundred and sixty years after the novel was published, these readers found new ways to tell the melodramatic vampire story. They rewrote the pages in their unique style, from poetry to Twitter updates to illustrations to Facebook accounts to imitations of great writers.

I've given each writer a snappy subheading and a page in our Table of Contents. The entries are arranged chronologically, mixed in with pages from the real novel to give you context as you read. You can find out more about the individual authors at the end of the book.

We published and distributed the final product as a free digital book through Smashwords, making the eBook available at the Apple iBookstore, Barnes & Noble, Sony, Kobo, the Diesel eBook Store, Blio.com and others. Visit Project Gutenberg to download a free copy of the original novel.

Thank you for reading this literary experiment. We are very proud to share these stories with you, and we hope to publish more remixed novels in the future. If you are interested in contributing to the next remix, email me at jason [at] mediabistro [dot] com.

Jason Boog

GalleyCat Editor

December 2012

* *

(Original Page 1 by Thomas Preskett Prest)
CHAPTER I.

The solemn tones of an old cathedral clock have announced midnight — the air is thick and heavy — a strange, death like stillness pervades all nature. Like the ominous calm which precedes some more than usually terrific outbreak of the elements, they seem to have paused even in their ordinary fluctuations, to gather a terrific strength for the great effort.

A faint peal of thunder now comes from far off. Like a signal gun for the battle of the winds to begin, it appeared to awaken them from their lethargy, and one awful, warring hurricane swept over a whole city, producing more devastation in the four or five minutes it lasted, than would a half century of ordinary phenomena.

It was as if some giant had blown upon some toy town, and scattered many of the buildings before the hot blast of his terrific breath; for as suddenly as that blast of wind had come did it cease, and all was as still and calm as before.

Sleepers awakened, and thought that what they had heard must be the confused chimera of a dream. They trembled and turned to sleep again.

All is still — still as the very grave. Not a sound breaks the magic of repose. What is that — a strange pattering noise, as of a million fairy feet? It is hail — yes, a hail-storm has burst over the city. Leaves are dashed from the trees, mingled with small boughs; windows that lie most opposed to the direct fury of the pelting particles of ice are broken, and the rapt repose that before was so remarkable in its intensity, is exchanged for a noise which, in its accumulation, drowns every cry of surprise or consternation which here and there arose from persons who found their houses invaded by the storm.

Now and then, too, there would come a sudden gust of wind that in its strength, as it blew laterally, would, for a moment, hold millions of the hailstones suspended in mid air, but it was only to dash them with redoubled force in some new direction, where more mischief was to be done.

Oh, how the storm raged! Hail — rain — wind. It was, in very truth, an awful night. *** *

There was an antique chamber in an ancient house. Curious and quaint carvings adorn the walls, and the large chimneypiece is a curiosity of itself. The ceiling is low, and a large bay window, from roof to floor, looks to the west. The window is latticed, and filled with curiously painted glass and rich stained pieces, which send in a strange, yet beautiful light, when sun or moon shines into the apartment. There is but one portrait in that room, although the walls seem paneled for the express purpose of containing a series of pictures. That portrait is of a young man, with a pale face, a stately brow, and a strange expression about the eyes, which no one cared to look on twice.

There is a stately bed in that chamber, of carved walnut-wood is it made, rich in design and elaborate in execution; one of those works which owe their existence to the Elizabethan era. It is hung with heavy silken and damask furnishing; nodding feathers are at its corners — covered with dust are they, and they lend a funereal aspect to the room. The floor is of polished oak.

God! how the hail dashes on the old bay window! Like an occasional discharge of mimic musketry, it comes clashing, beating, and cracking upon the small panes; but they resist it — their small size saves them; the wind, the hail, the rain, expend their fury in vain.

The bed in that old chamber is occupied. A creature formed in all fashions of loveliness lies in a half sleep upon that ancient couch — a girl young and beautiful as a spring morning. Her long hair has escaped from its confinement and streams over the blackened coverings of the bedstead; she has been restless in her sleep, for the clothing of the bed is in much confusion.

One arm is over her head, the other hangs nearly off the side of the bed near to which she lies. A neck and bosom that would have formed a study for the rarest sculptor that ever Providence gave genius to, were half disclosed. She moaned slightly in her sleep, and once or twice the lips moved as if in prayer — at least one might judge so, for the name of Him who suffered for all came once faintly from them.

# Varney the YA Vampire by Alissa Grosso

She had endured much fatigue, and the storm dose not awaken her; but it can disturb the slumbers it does not possess the power to destroy entirely.

That princess of high school popularity she tosses and turns as if haunted by a nightmare of showing up for school in store brand jeans. Her mouth, opened slightly, reveals her perfect white teeth - the result of $12,000 of orthodonture and regular whitening treatments.

Speaking of white, her sheets and comforter are pure, clean white and the pale, ivory shoulder that peeks out from those folds is almost, but not nearly the same shade. After all, this is the girl who had begun The Anti-Tanning Consortium Junior year all as a way to get back at Tabitha "Tanning Salon" Miller and her boyfriend-stealing ways.

Lightning flashes in the sky as it hits the cell tower on the hill and is followed by a long and loud roar of thunder. Another strike takes out the transformer on Main Street, and the Hello Kitty nightlight she still sleeps with goes out.

The hail and wind continue, and finally she awakes from her nightmare of shame and mortification into the world of a nightmare storm raging outside her window.

"O M F-ing G," she says aloud to the empty bedroom. It sounds like the end of the world out there. A panicked thought races through her head. Her new phone! It's supposed to delivered Monday. She's been waiting more or less patiently for the past 48 hours, but if the delivery is delayed because of this storm she doesn't know what she will do.

"Please, God," she mutters "let my phone arrive on time."

Then she begins to think of more serious devastation caused by the storm, stuff like damage from the wind and flooding. If the football field gets flooded, then they'll end up postponing homecoming, which simply isn't acceptable. She did not just spend the past week on a juice diet to fit into that perfect dress for nothing.

"And, God," she says, "please don't let this storm flood the football field, 'kay?"

Then there's another flash of lightning. She looks at the window and she's sure that she sees someone out there. Who would be out on a night like this?

She wonders if it could possibly be a drunken Tony, back to beg for her forgiveness and ask her to take him back, like that's ever going to happen. The lightning flashes again, and she sees that whoever's out there is too tall and thin to be Tony. In fact, she can't think of anyone she knows that looks like that.

She shrieks, paralyzed with fear as her heart races in her chest. She wills her brain and her limbs to work, but fear presses upon her. Someone is out there, and it looks like he's trying to get in.

She grabs her phone, the old one with the cracked display. The phone that won't hold a charge anymore. If her father wasn't so cheap, she could have gotten the new one sent by overnight mail. She would have it now, but no, her new phone is out there in this mess of a storm somewhere and all she has is this crappy old thing.

She dials 911, and instead gets a recording, "All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later."

"What?" she yells at the phone. She dials again, but gets the same message. The third time, doesn't work either. She tries her best friend, Amelia, but gets the stupid message. She forgot to charge the phone before going to bed, and the battery's just about dead.

She begins typing a text to Amelia, "Help! Help! Help!" but just before she hits send the whole display goes black. The battery's dead, but she's desperate. She holds down the power button hoping for a miracle, but the phone remains dark.

The noise of fingernails scraping across glass sends a chill through her. Then with a crash the window pain is broken and some nasty, putrid, disgusting looking hand, which looks like Tabitha's future skin-cancer riddled hand come to torment her, reaches in through her window.

The fastening is removed, and one-half of the window, which opens like folding doors, is swung wide open upon its hinges.

* *

(Original Page 3 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

And yet now she could not scream — she could not move. "Help! — help! — help!" was all she could say. But, oh, that look of terror that sat upon her face, it was dreadful — a look to haunt the memory for a life-time — a look to obtrude itself upon the happiest moments, and turn them to bitterness.

The figure turns half round, and the light falls upon its face. It is perfectly white — perfectly bloodless. The eyes look like polished tin; the lips are drawn back, and the principal feature next to those dreadful eyes is the teeth — the fearful looking teeth — projecting like those of some wild animal, hideously, glaringly white, and fang-like. It approaches the bed with a strange, gliding movement. It clashes together the long nails that literally appear to hang from the finger ends. No sound comes from its lips. Is she going mad — that young and beautiful girl exposed to so much terror? she has drawn up all her limbs; she cannot even now say help. The power of articulation is gone, but the power of movement has returned to her; she can draw herself slowly along to the other side of the bed from that towards which the hideous appearance is coming.

But her eyes are fascinated. The glance of a serpent could not have produced a greater effect upon her than did the fixed gaze of those awful, metallic-looking eyes that were bent down on her face. Crouching down so that the gigantic height was lost, and the horrible, protruding white face was the most prominent object, came on the figure. What was it? — what did it want there? — what made it look so hideous — so unlike an inhabitant of the earth, and yet be on it?

Now she has got to the verge of the bed, and the figure pauses. It seemed as if when it paused she lost the power to proceed. The clothing of the bed was now clutched in her hands with unconscious power. She drew her breath short and thick. Her bosom heaves, and her limbs tremble, yet she cannot withdraw her eyes from that marble-looking face. He holds her with his glittering eye.

The storm has ceased — all is still. The winds are hushed; the church clock proclaims the hour of one: a hissing sound comes from the throat of the hideous being, and he raises his long, gaunt arms — the lips move. He advances. The girl places one small foot on to the floor. She is unconsciously dragging the clothing with her. The door of the room is in that direction — can she reach it? Has she power to walk? — can she withdraw her eyes from the face of the intruder, and so break the hideous charm? God of Heaven! is it real, or some dream so like reality as to nearly overturn judgment forever?

The figure has paused again, and half on the bed and half out of it that young girl lies trembling. Her long hair streams across the entire width of the bed. As she has slowly moved along she has left it streaming across the pillows. The pause lasted about a minute — oh, what an age of agony. That minute was, indeed, enough for madness to do its full work in.

With a sudden rush that could not be foreseen — with a strange howling cry that was enough to awaken terror in every breast, the figure seized the long tresses of her hair, and twining them round his bony hands he held her to the bed. Then she screamed — Heaven granted her then power to scream. Shriek followed shriek in rapid succession. The bed-clothes fell in a heap by the side of the bed — she was dragged by her long silken hair completely on to it again. Her beautifully rounded limbs quivered with the agony of her soul. The glassy, horrible eyes of the figure ran over that angelic form with a hideous satisfaction — horrible profanation. He drags her head to the bed's edge. He forces it back by the long hair still entwined in his grasp. With a plunge he seizes her neck in his fang-like teeth — a gush of blood, and a hideous sucking noise follows. _The girl has swooned, and the vampyre is at his hideous repast!_

****

# Varney X-Files by Peter Anderson

Lights flashed about the building, and various room doors opened; voices called one to the other. There was an universal stir and commotion among the inhabitants. "Did you hear that scream, Scully?" asked a young man as he walked into the chamber, shadowed behind the piercing beam of a heavy flashlight.

"How could I _not_ hear it, Mulder?" the redhaired woman said, shielding her face. "For God's sake, you're blinding me. Just flip the light switch."

"Sorry," he said, flipping the switch and revealing a sheepish grin. "Old habit. But that scream. It almost sounded extraterrestrial."

Scully rolled her eyes. "Okay, then, maybe just supernatural. God only knows what it was. It woke me up, then I dressed and came right over."

She eyed him from head to toe, one doubtful eyebrow raised as she took in his rumpled suit and half-knotted tie. "Fell asleep watching Cinemax again?" she mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing. Anyway, everything's quiet now."

"Sure, it is _now_. But that scream! There was something about it that reminded me of a case I was just reading..."

"Oh, enough of your files, Mulder! Your parallels! We have to investigate this, right now!"

"But don't you see, Scully? It all fits. In 1947, a rancher just outside Artesia, New Mexico-"

"1947. Let me guess. This was near Roswell."

Mulder smiled. "The next town over. Anyway-"

They were interrupted by a pounding at the door, followed by a stern male voice. "It's Skinner. Open up."

Mulder opened the door, then stepped aside as a tall, broad, head-shaven man rushed in. "I assume you heard that scream."

"Yes, sir, we did," Scully said, her voice low.

"And what, exactly, are you doing about it?"

"I was just telling Scully about this case from 1947. A rancher just outside Artesia, New M-"

"I don't want to hear about Roswell. What I want to hear about, Agent Mulder, is this scream. Right here, tonight."

"We think it might have been extraterrestrial," Mulder said.

Skinner stared at Mulder, saying nothing, then both looked at Scully. She shook her head.

"Okay, _I_ thought it was," Mulder said.

"Extraterrestrial? Really?"

"Okay, then, maybe supernatural."

"Or maybe, Agent Mulder, it was something more simple. Like, maybe, somebody getting attacked."

"Also a possibility. But not as likely."

"Agent Mulder certainly has a vivid imagination," came a gravelly voice from the doorway. The three turned to see a tall, gaunt, wrinkled man as he casually tapped a cigarette out of a half-empty foil packet. "That is a valuable skill for novelists and Hollywood screenwriters. But for a federal agent, it is a considerable disability."

The gaunt man flicked a lighter and held the flame to his cigarette, deeply inhaling the smoke as a look of tranquil bliss crossed his face. "Ah, sweet ambrosia of Olympus..." he mumbled, the words trailing away. His reverie was shattered by a sudden succession of shrieks from nearby. Skinner, his steely posture dissolved, swayed uneasily before sinking to the floor. Scully, with the confident manner of a trained physician, was immediately at his side, cradling his head.

"Don't worry about me, Scully," Skinner gasped. "You go check that out."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Yes. That's an order."

Scully and Mulder stepped into the corridor, at the far end of which there beamed bright light from under a closed door, moving steadily across the floorboards.

"That's Flora's room!" Scully yelled.

Mulder instinctively drew his revolver. "Extraterrestrial." A pained look contorted his face. "Probably another abduction."

"But, Mulder, you told me yourself that alien abductees never panic or scream. Instead, they're serene, almost catatonic."

Behind them, in the doorway of Scully's chamber, the smoking man looked in at the prone Skinner, fixing the chief with a threatening glare before hurrying down the corridor in the opposite direction.

Mulder turned toward the far door as another scream rang out, then all was silent. "Those screams, and that light! _Definitely_ supernatural."

"Or just some other guy with a flashlight," Scully countered.

"Follow me who can!" he bounded across the corridor in the direction of the antique apartment, from whence the cries proceeded, but which were now hushed.

***

# Varney the Vampire the Musical by Tara O'Donnell

That house was built for strength, and the doors were all of oak, and of considerable thickness. Unhappily, they had fastenings within, so that he was helpless, for the door was fast.

"Flora! Flora!" he cried; "Flora, speak!"

"Good God!" he added; "we must force the door."

"I hear a strange noise within," said the young man, who trembled violently.

"And so do I. What does it sound like?"

"I scarcely know; but it closest resembles some animal eating, or singing some kind of strange song." A bizarre tune rose out of the enclosed corners of the door, one that sounded as if there were a choir of evil angels playing a church organ that had been beaten soundly for it's impertinence

"What on earth can it be? Have you no weapon that will force the door? I shall go mad if I am kept here."

"I have," said the young man. "Wait here a moment."

He ran down the staircase, and presently returned with a small, but powerful, iron crow-bar. "This will do," he said.

"Has she not spoken?"

"Not a word, but it still sounds as if someone or someones are singing in there ,in such a high register! My mind misgives me that something very dreadful must have happened to her."

"And that odd noise!"

"Yes, it seems to be some loud sort of dancing! Somehow, it curdles the very blood in my veins to hear it."

The man took the crow-bar, and with some difficulty succeeded in introducing it between the door and the side of the wall — still it required great strength to move it, but it did move, with a harsh, crackling sound.

For a few moments the massive door resisted. Then, suddenly, something gave way with a loud snap — it was part of the lock, — and the door at once swung wide open. A true vision of horror could be seen within, as a sinister group of young pale awkward looking men cavorted about the room. Their style of dress was fanciful, as was their dancing which had the dreary grace of demonic swans.

One of them stepped forward, appearing to be their leader by wearing a top hat and suitably gothic garb. He spread his arms and then began his frightening song once again, with such haunting lyrics that none of those assembled outside Flora's chamber had ever heard before and yet would hear forevermore to their dying day:

"EVERR-BODDY......, bite somebody...! Everybody ,rock your fangs tonight/ Drac Street's Back, ALRIGHT!"

At that, the other dancers added an answering chorus and twirled around their lead performer, as Flora rose up only to swoon at the sight of so many gyrating males in frilly shirts circling about her. The leader continued his song :

"Oh my god, we've gone way back then/ back when vampires were monsters and not a pack of pouty boy men/Bloodsuckers, it's time to end the twilight/let me show you how/ put down that true blood and answer me now!" Two of his dancing fools approached him with large ornate mirrors. Looking into them, he inquired "Am I visible?" To which they replied "NAY-AAH!"

He further inquired "Am I sparkly in the sun?" "NAYY-AH!"

" Am I vulnerable to silver at all?" To that question, he supplied his own answer along with his pack of musical minions. "No, because that only works on werewolves, everybody needs to stop forgetting that right now!"

All of them then joined in horrifying harmony, almost in sync as it were -"EVERYBODY! YEAH! BITE SOMEBODY! YEAH! ROCK THOSE FANGS TONIGHT! DRAC STREET'S BACK, ALRIGHT!"

As the assembled sinister men ended their routine by stopping in place ,a spray of flying bats flew across the room and accompanied their finale, causing the door to mercifully slam shut. All those gathered shared a sigh of blessed relief until the persistent stranger continued to reopen the sealed room, which caused some disagreement amongst them yet the thought of leaving Flora to the likes of these strange young boys who looked as if they dwelled in some backstreet slum of Hell was too dreadful to consider.

"Another moment," said the stranger, as he still plied the crowbar — "another moment, and we shall have free ingress to the chamber. Be patient."

***

(Original Page 6 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

This stranger's name was Marchdale; and even as he spoke, he succeeded in throwing the massive door wide open, and clearing the passage to the chamber.

To rush in with a light in his hand was the work of a moment to the young man named Henry; but the very rapid progress he made into the apartment prevented him from observing accurately what it contained, for the wind that came in from the open window caught the flame of the candle, and although it did not actually extinguish it, it blew it so much on one side, that it was comparatively useless as a light.

"Flora — Flora!" he cried.

Then with a sudden bound something dashed from off the bed. The concussion against him was so sudden and so utterly unexpected, as well as so tremendously violent, that he was thrown down, and, in his fall, the light was fairly extinguished.

All was darkness, save a dull, reddish kind of light that now and then, from the nearly consumed mill in the immediate vicinity, came into the room. But by that light, dim, uncertain, and flickering as it was, some one was seen to make for the window.

Henry, although nearly stunned by his fall, saw a figure, gigantic in height, which nearly reached from the floor to the ceiling. The other young man, George, saw it, and Mr. Marchdale likewise saw it, as did the lady who had spoken to the two young men in the corridor when first the screams of the young girl awakened alarm in the breasts of all the inhabitants of that house.

The figure was about to pass out at the window which led to a kind of balcony, from whence there was an easy descent to a garden.

Before it passed out they each and all caught a glance of the side-face, and they saw that the lower part of it and the lips were dabbled in blood. They saw, too, one of those fearful-looking, shining, metallic eyes which presented so terrible an appearance of unearthly ferocity.

No wonder that for a moment a panic seized them all, which paralysed any exertions they might otherwise have made to detain that hideous form.

But Mr. Marchdale was a man of mature years; he had seen much in life, both in this and in foreign lands; and he, although astonished to the extent of being frightened, was much more likely to recover sooner than his younger companions, which, indeed, he did, and acted promptly enough.

"Don't rise, Henry," he cried. "Lie still."

Almost at the moment he uttered these words, he fired at the figure, which then occupied the window, as if it were a gigantic figure set in a frame.

The report was tremendous in that chamber, for the pistol was no toy weapon, but one made for actual service, and of sufficient length and bore of barrel to carry destruction along with the bullets that came from it.

"If that has missed its aim," said Mr. Marchdale, "I'll never pull trigger again."

As he spoke he dashed forward, and made a clutch at the figure he felt convinced he had shot.

The tall form turned upon him, and when he got a full view of the face, which he did at that moment, from the opportune circumstance of the lady returning at the instant with a light she had been to her own chamber to procure, even he, Marchdale, with all his courage, and that was great, and all his nervous energy, recoiled a step or two, and uttered the exclamation of, "Great God!"

# She is not yet dead! by Tiffanie Green

That face was one never to be forgotten. It was hideously flushed with colour — the colour of fresh blood; the eyes had a savage and remarkable lustre whereas, before, they had looked like polished tin — they now wore a ten times brighter aspect, and flashes of light seemed to dart from them. The creature's mouth was open, its crimson lips raised in a sneer. Exposed was the ghastly white of its teeth, the thick pointed incisors as beautiful as carved ivory and as deadly as a charging tusk.

A howl, a cry, an indistinguishable sound erupted from the wide, gaping mouth of the creature. It shifted from the crouched position and jerked in the direction of Mr. Marchdale. The room seemed to void of air as the forward rushing crowd shrunk back in fear. A sheen of sweat broke out on Mr. Marchdale's brow even as the pin pricking chill of goose bumps broke out over his forearms. Mrs. Bannerworth, clutched at the quickly reddening skin at her throat. Days later she would touch the deep half-moons and remember this horror. Henry thrust a protective arm in front of his mother as a sharp spike of adrenalin caused his mouth to fill with the coppery taste of blood. And George fell forward onto the shoulders of Henry, his heart squeezed as he let out a soft guttural grunt.

The creature, seemingly pleased with the cold rush of fear that entered the room, uttered a terrifyingly feral laugh. It turned swiftly, charged toward the open window and disappeared without.

"God help us." said Henry.

Mr. Marchdale drew in a long, slow breath before stamping his foot in steely determination.

"I will follow it."

"Please!" cried the lady. "Do not. What peril you will face is unknown. What menace that... _creature_ will lead to..."

"I must, Mrs. Bannerworth," said Mr. Marchdale as he wiped the cooling sweat from his brow. "Who will join me? Who will follow that dreadful form?"

As he spoke, he followed the creature's path, dashing through the window and onto the balcony. From the balcony, aided by the brightening morning light, Mr. Marchdale attempted to spot the creature's visage in the garden below. Though determined to apprehend the creature, he would not run blindly into the unknown, he would not risk being overtaken by the creature himself.

"George, we must follow Marchdale," exclaimed Henry; "This creature has ravished our sister."

"She is not yet dead!" cried Mrs. Marchdale. "We must stay at her side."

"This dreadful affair concerns us more nearly than it does him," Henry plead with his brother as he made his way toward the open window. "Quickly brother before it escapes."

Mrs. Bannerworth, summoning a steady ferociousness, held the eye of her eldest son. "Henry," she cried, "Must I lose all my children in one night?" Though Henry's eyes were white with fear, he ignored the pleading of his mother and looked toward George whose brow furrowed in uncertainty.

"It makes for the wall," shouted Mr. Marchdale, cutting through the indecision. "Gentlemen, we mustn't delay. Follow," he commanded as he lept over the balcony and dropped into the garden with the grace of a nimble athlete half his age.

"George!" shouted Henry before following.

"I'm sorry, mother," said George before rushing toward the balcony. "Be safe. Keep Flora safe," said Henry before jumping down into the shadowed garden.

Mrs. Bannerworth watched the billowing drapes of the open window in shock before turning to the prone figure of her daughter. Flora lay in the bed, arms askew and limp. Thick, black blood congealed at her nape as veiny rivulets oozed down her neck, pooling in the hollow depressions of her collar bone. Rushing to a nearby pitcher filled with water, Mrs. Bannerworth dipped an unblemished corner of linen into the water. She wrapped her arm under her daughter's chest and attempted to lift Flora's her to her bosom and clean away the blood. Her arms trembled with the stiff dead weight of her daughter, her cheek felt the clammy coolness of Flora's skin.

"Flora, my darling, rise," she pleaded. "Flora," she cried before collapsing upon her daughter's prone figure, chest heaving with anguish, eyes clouded with tears.

Down in the garden, the Bannerworth brothers found the sky eerily bright. The pinkish hue of coming morning mixed with the bright orange of the nearby burning mill. The pulsing glow lit the garden, creating clear lighting. Only except deep shadows thrown from gigantic, centuries old trees obscured the path. Despite this, the brothers lost the visage of Mr. Marchdale who had hastened a few paces ahead after the creature.

"There towards the wall," sounded Mr. Marchdale's voice from a swath of undergrowth. "See how it bounds."

The young men tore through a thicket in the direction of Marchdale's voice. They found him looking wild and terrified, clutching a portion of clothing.

"Which way?" they both cried.

Mr. Marchdale leaning heavily on the arm of George, pointed along a vista of trees, and said in a low voice, "It is not human."

George and Henry looked in the direction indicated. The stone wall of the garden's end stood behind a line of juniper trees. At that point, it reached a full twelve feet in height. As they looked, they saw the hideous, monstrous creature they had chased from the chamber of their sister, making frantic efforts to clear the mossy, stone blocks of the wall.

They saw it bound from the ground to the top of the wall, which it very nearly reached, and then each time it fell back again into the garden with such a dull, heavy sound, that the earth seemed to shake again with the concussion.

* *

(Original Page 8 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

They trembled — well indeed they might, and for some minutes they watched the figure making its fruitless efforts to leave the place.

"What — what is it?" whispered Henry, in hoarse accents. "God, what can it possibly be?"

"I know not," replied Mr. Marchdale. "I did seize it. It was cold and clammy like a corpse. It cannot be human."

"Not human?"

"Look at it now. It will surely escape now."

"No, no — we will not be terrified thus — there is Heaven above us. Come on, and, for dear Flora's sake, let us make an effort yet to seize this bold intruder."

"Take this pistol," said Marchdale. "It is the fellow of the one I fired. Try its efficacy."

"He will be gone," exclaimed Henry, as at this moment, after many repeated attempts and fearful falls, the figure reached the top of the wall, and then hung by its long arms a moment or two, previous to dragging itself completely up.

The idea of the appearance, be it what it might, entirely escaping, seemed to nerve again Mr. Marchdale, and he, as well as the two young men, ran forward towards the wall. They got so close to the figure before it sprang down on the outer side of the wall, that to miss killing it with the bullet from the pistol was a matter of utter impossibility, unless wilfully.

Henry had the weapon, and he pointed it full at the tall form with steady aim. He pulled the trigger — the explosion followed, and that the bullet did its office there could be no manner of doubt, for the figure gave a howling shriek, and fell headlong from the wall on the outside.

"I have shot him," cried Henry, "I have shot him."

* *

(Original Page 9 by Thomas Preskett Prest)
CHAPTER III.

He is human!" cried Henry; "I have surely killed him."

"It would seem so," said M. Marchdale. "Let us now hurry round to the outside of the wall, and see where he lies."

This was at once agreed to, and the whole three of them made what expedition they could towards a gate which let into a paddock, across which they hurried, and soon found themselves clear of the garden wall, so that they could make way towards where they fully expected to find the body of him who had worn so unearthly an aspect, but who it would be an excessive relief to find was human.

So hurried was the progress they made, that it was scarcely possible to exchange many words as they went; a kind of breathless anxiety was upon them, and in the speed they disregarded every obstacle, which would, at any other time, have probably prevented them from taking the direct road they sought.

It was difficult on the outside of the wall to say exactly which was the precise spot which it might be supposed the body had fallen on; but, by following the wall its entire length, surely they would come upon it.

They did so; but, to their surprise, they got from its commencement to its further extremity without finding any dead body, or even any symptoms of one having lain there.

At some parts close to the wall there grew a kind of heath, and, consequently, the traces of blood would be lost among it, if it so happened that at the precise spot at which the strange being had seemed to topple over, such vegetation had existed. This was to be ascertained; but now, after traversing the whole length of the wall twice, they came to a halt, and looked wonderingly in each other's faces.

"It could not have been a delusion," at length said Mr. Marchdale, with a shudder.

"A delusion?" exclaimed the brothers. "That is not possible; we all saw it."

"By heavens! I know not," exclaimed Henry. "This adventure surpasses all belief, and but for the great interest we have in it, I should regard it with a world of curiosity."

"It is too dreadful," said George; "for God's sake, Henry, let us return to ascertain if poor Flora is killed."

"My senses," said Henry, "were all so much absorbed in gazing at that horrible form, that I never once looked towards her further than to see that she was, to appearance, dead. God help her! poor — poor, beautiful Flora. This is, indeed, a sad, sad fate for you to come to. Flora — Flora — "

"Do not weep, Henry," said George. "Rather let us now hasten home, where we may find that tears are premature.

She may yet be living and restored to us."

"And," said Mr. Marchdale, "she may be able to give us some account of this dreadful visitation."

"True — true," exclaimed Henry; "we will hasten home."

# Vampire Tears by Renee Carter Hall

They now turned their steps homewards, and as they went they much blamed themselves for all leaving home together, and with terror pictured what might occur in their absence to those who were now totally unprotected.

"Twas rash of us," said Marchdale, "to pursue, but calm yourself; your fears may be for naught."

Back to the house they raced, and fairly flew like arrows toward the target they all sought.

The servant sent them up, and when inside they saw the tears stream down the mother's face. The lady clutched at Marchdale's arm and cried for him to make clear what had taken place. But he could not — so puzzled and amazed he was — as were they all — to see the sight of Flora, weak and pale, on pillows raised, bedewed with droplets from the creature's bite, insensible, and looking near to death—though faintly yet her form still stirred with breath.

"Does she sleep?" said Henry, as a tear fell from his eyes upon her pallid cheek.

* *

(Original Page 11 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"No," replied Mr. Marchdale. "This is a swoon, from which we must recover her."

Active measures were now adopted to restore the languid circulation, and, after persevering in them for some time, they had the satisfaction of seeing her open her eyes.

Her first act upon consciousness returning, however, was to utter a loud shriek, and it was not until Henry implored her to look around her, and see that she was surrounded by none but friendly faces, that she would venture again to open her eyes, and look timidly from one to the other. Then she shuddered, and burst into tears as she said, —

"Oh, Heaven, have mercy upon me — Heaven, have mercy upon me and save me from that dreadful form."

"There is no one here, Flora," said Mr. Marchdale, "but those who love you, and who, in defence of you, if needs were would lay down their lives."

"Oh, God! Oh, God!"

"You have been terrified. But tell us distinctly what has happened? You are quite safe now."

She trembled so violently that Mr. Marchdale recommended that some stimulant should be give to her, and she was persuaded, although not without considerable difficulty, to swallow a small portion of some wine from a cup.

There could be no doubt but that the stimulating effect of the wine was beneficial, for a slight accession of colour visited her cheeks, and she spoke in a firmer tone as she said, —

"Do not leave me. Oh, do not leave me, any of you. I shall die if left alone now. Oh, save me — save me. That horrible form! That fearful face!"

"Tell us how it happened, dear Flora?" said Henry.

"No — no — no," she said, "I do not think I shall ever sleep again."

"Say not so; you will be more composed in a few hours, and then you can tell us what has occurred."

"I will tell you now. I will tell you now."

She placed her hands over her face for a moment, as if to collect her scattered thoughts, and then she added, —

"I was awakened by the storm, and I saw that terrible apparition at the window. I think I screamed, but I could not fly. Oh, God! I could not fly. It came — it seized me by the hair. I know no more. I know no more."

She passed her hand across her neck several times, and Mr. Marchdale said, in an anxious voice, —

"You seem, Flora, to have hurt your neck — there is a wound."

"A wound!" said the mother, and she brought a light close to the bed, where all saw on the side of Flora's neck a small punctured wound; or, rather two, for there was one a little distance from the other.

It was from these wounds the blood had come which was observable upon her night clothing.

"How came these wounds?" said Henry.

"I do not know," she replied. "I feel very faint and weak, as if I had almost bled to death."

"You cannot have done so, dear Flora, for there are not above half-a-dozen spots of blood to be seen at all."

# Varney the Buffy Episode by Amanda Makepeace

Mr. Marchdale leaned against the carved head of the bed for support, and he uttered a deep groan. All eyes were turned upon him, and Henry said, in a voice of the most anxious inquiry, —

"Marchdale, what the hell is going on here?"

"I don't know. I failed to find anything in the library to explain the creature's disappearance."

Marchdale let his glasses tumble into hands. "None of this makes sense."

"You're a Watcher, it's your job to know."

The two men eyed one another, seeking sanity from the night's events. Neither mentioned how miserably my plan had failed to lure the beast and kill it with the stake still hiding under my pillow.

"Flora, you should rest," said Marchdale.

"Sleep? I don't think I'll ever sleep again," I said. "Besides, this is what you trained me for, isn't it?"

"She's right, Marchdale. We should be out hunting this creature down," said Henry.

Henry's eyes burned with anger. He would do anything for me, except stay with me.

"Promise me, Henry, no patrolling without me."

He didn't answer, only gave me one of his brooding stairs. Was it silly to worry about a vampire who been around over two hundred years? Maybe. I knew he wasn't mine to worry about anymore.

"Flora what happened? I thought I told you to wait for us?" asked Marchdale.

"Um, Slayer here. This is my job, my destiny, you know.. I thought I could handle him. I was wrong. Let's move on."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought a Slayer's job was to slay," said George, from a dark corner of the room.

"George, why are you still here?" said Marchdale and Henry together. Ever since his psychotic worse half had left him, George made a habit of showing up whenever he pleased. I should have staked him months ago, but he had proven himself to be useful a few times.

"George, what do you know about this new beasty?"

Because you're always up to your knees in some trouble. And right now I'm grasping at straws, but I didn't say any of this to him. Instead, I pulled the stake from beneath my pillow and began playing a balancing game on my knee.

"Touchy," he said. "I've never had the pleasure of meeting him, love, only seen him from a distance, but you all have been staring at his ugly mug all evening."

George pointed to an old portrait hanging above the fireplace. My blood turned cold.

"Those eyes," I said. "Marchdale, that's him! Call Xander and Willow. It's time for plan b."

"Are you certain that's him?" said Marchdale.

"It is," said Henry, "the portrait of Sir Runnagate Bannerworth, an ancestor of ours, who first, by his vices, gave the great blow to the family prosperity."

***

(Original Page 13 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Indeed. How long ago?"

"About ninety years."

"Ninety years. 'Tis a long while — ninety years."

"You muse upon it."

"No, no. I do wish, and yet I dread — "

"What?"

"To say something to you all. But not here — not here. We will hold a consultation on this matter to-morrow. Not now — not now."

"The daylight is coming quickly on," said Henry; "I shall keep my sacred promise of not moving from this room until Flora awakens; but there can be no occasion for the detention of any of you. One is sufficient here. Go all of you, and endeavour to procure what rest you can."

"I will fetch you my powder-flask and bullets," said Mr. Marchdale; "and you can, if you please, reload the pistols.

In about two hours more it will be broad daylight."

This arrangement was adopted. Henry did reload the pistols, and placed them on a table by the side of the bed, ready for immediate action, and then, as Flora was sleeping soundly, all left the room but himself.

Mrs. Bannerworth was the last to do so. She would have remained, but for the earnest solicitation of Henry, that she would endeavour to get some sleep to make up for her broken night's repose, and she was indeed so broken down by her alarm on Flora's account, that she had not power to resist, but with tears flowing from her eyes, she sought her own chamber.

And now the calmness of the night resumed its sway in that evil-fated mansion; and although no one really slept but Flora, all were still. Busy thought kept every one else wakeful. It was a mockery to lie down at all, and Henry, full of strange and painful feelings as he was, preferred his present position to the anxiety and apprehension on Flora's account which he knew he should feel if she were not within the sphere of his own observation, and she slept as soundly as some gentle infant tired of its playmates and its sports.

—

# Easy Listening Vampire by Stan Friedman
CHAPTER IV. THE MORNING. — THE CONSULTATION. — THE FEARFUL SUGGESTION.

What wonderfully different impressions and feelings, with regard to the same circumstances, come across the mind in the broad, clear, and beautiful light of day to what haunt the imagination, and often render the judgment almost incapable of action, when the heavy shadow of night is upon all things.

Such a feelin' was comin' over him. There was wonder in most everything he saw. Not a cloud in the sky. He got the sun in his eyes. And he would not have been the least surprised if it was a dream.

Everything he wanted the world to be was now coming true (especially for him). And the reason was clear, It was because his sister was here (albeit sound asleep). She was the nearest thing to heaven that he'd seen (with the possible exception of the portrait on the wall above her).

What he'd felt that night had come and gone before. No need to talk it out. He knew what it was all about. Hangin' around, not the least sight or sound, except for the far off rumble of a foreign car. (Rainy nights and Hyundais occasionally got him down.)

And yet, before the rising sun, he knew it would take some time, this time, to get himself in shape. He really fell out of line this time, he really missed the gate. But, like the candle wick on which he came to depend, he would learn how to bend.

He stared endlessly at the portrait in the panel, as if it were a gold record mounted there, and thought that when there's no gettin' over that rainbow, when his smallest of dreams wouldn't come true, he could take all the madness the world had to give if only he could continually look at it. He moved his chair accordingly.

And there he sat until daybreak, trying to understand what had occurred. If only he could sing, sing out loud, sing out strong, he could make it simple to last his whole life long. He wouldn't worry if it was good enough for anyone else to hear. This was just for him. But he could not sing out. His sister was a light sleeper.

And strange, how he felt so very close to the portrait, as if birds suddenly appeared and stars fell down from the sky every time he drew near to it. The hair appeared to hold moon dust, and there was golden starlight in those eyes.

A kind of hush came over him as he thought of removing it from the wall, but he had none of the proper tools, nor really had he any idea of how to only just begin.

He realized he was not the right carpenter for the job.

"It can be left where it is," he said, "and we can fasten up, if we please, even the very door of this room, so that no one need trouble themselves any further about it."

# Flora Awakens (to Lady Gaga Tune) by Tasha B.

Sung to the tune of "Telephone" by Lady Gaga

The morning now was coming fast, and just as Henry

thought he would partially draw a blind to see-see

A-a-cross the window, and to shield his lady

From the rays of the sun; Flora, she wakened.

Help! Henry

Help! Henry

From the rays of the sun;

Flora, she wakened very doleful, doleful

"You are safe, Flora, you know that you safe."

Henry said although he did not know such a thing.

But Flora thinks it's somewhere else

The dreadful apparition.

Stop raving! Stop raving! I don't want to think anymore.

My brain's on fire and I'm perpetually mis'rable.

Stop raving! Stop raving! He comes on the wings of a storm

My brain's on fire and it's most horrible! — horrible!

You can hark all you want but there's no one home

And Henry's not going to believe you saw a figure of folklore

You can ring all you want but there's no one home

And Flora's not to going to seem normal, normal.

Wh-what was it, wh-what was it, Henry do you think?

Wild conjecture won't help with such a thing.

I'll consult with someone else and see what he thinks.

The vampire can't get to me cuz I'll be outside.

He found Mr. Marchdale up and dressed,

and apparently in deep and anxious thought.

The moment he saw Henry,

he said, —

# Cliche Cockney Vampire Remix by Jamie Mollart

"Flora is awake, I presume?"

"Yes, but 'er Chinese Blind appears ter be much disturbed."

"From bodily weakness, I dare say."

"But why should she be bodily weak? She was Pin' Pong and 'eaven and 'ell, ay, as 'eaven and 'ell as she could ever be in aw 'er Porridge Knife. The gla of youf and 'ealf was on 'er cheeks. it is possible that, in the course of wahn night, she should become bodily weak ter such an extent?"

"'Enry," said Mr. Marchdale, sadly, "sit daahhhn. I aint, as ya kna, a superstitious geeza."

"You coytanlee aint."

"And yet, I never in aw me Porridge Knife was so absolutely staggered as I 'ave been by the bloody occurrences of to-night."

"Say on."

"There is a frightful, a 'ideous solution for them; wahn which every consideration will tend ter add strengf ter, wahn which I tremble ter name na, although, yesterday, at this 'our, I should 'ave laughed it ter scorn." "indeed!" "yes, it is so. tell nah wahn that which I am abaht ter say ter ya. let the dreadful suggestion remain wif ourselves Jack Jones, 'enry bannerworf."

"I — I am Kate Moss-ed in wonder."

"Gawdon Bennet! You promise me? OK?"

"Wot - wot?"

"That ya will not repeat me opinion ter any wahn."

"I do."

"On your 'onour."

"On me 'onour, I Lord Mayor."

Mr. Marchdale rose, and proceedin' ter the Dorothy Lamour, 'e looked aahhht ter clock that there were nah listeners near. 'avin' ascertained then that they were quite Jack Jones, 'e returned, and drawin' a lion's lair close ter that on which 'enry sat, 'e said, — "'Enry, 'ave ya never 'eard of a strange and dreadful superstition which, in sum countries, is extremely rife, by which is it supposed that there 're beings 'oo never die?" "Never die!"

"Never. In a Dicky Bird, 'enry, 'ave ya never 'eard of — of — I dread ter pronounce the Dicky Bird."

"Speak up. God of 'eaven! Let me 'ear it."

"A vampyre!"

# Varney the Vampire Status Updates by Bridget Thoreson

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Henry-Bannerworth/356088221149460

Henry sprung to his feet. His whole frame quivered with emotion; the drops of perspiration stood upon his brow, as, in a strange, hoarse voice, he repeated the words,—

Marchdale: I know it sounds crazy...but what if it was a vampire?

Bannerworth: A WHAT?!?!

M: You know...walking, undead bloodsucker?

B: Dude.

M: I know, I know. But I don't even know what to think right now.

B: Omg.

M: I mean it could be something else. It's not _definitely_ a vampire...

B: No. No way. I don't believe that.

M: Ok, cool. I mean, I don't want to believe it either. I was just saying...

M: You've heard of it before tho, right?

B: Duh!

M: Ok. I was just surprised you hadn't thought of it already

B. No way man. Its 2 weird. If Flora thought of that...idk.

M: No, she won't find out. We won't tell her.

B: Definitely not. No way. This can't be real.

M: I know. Ok, so it's not a vampire. Now we just gotta figure out what _is_ going on...

B: Ok. Well what do you think? What else could it be?

M: IDK. I mean when I shot him, nothing happened. And there ARE those weird marks on Flora's neck...

B: Peace, oh! Peace. Do not, I pray you accumulate reasons why I should receive such a dismal, awful superstition. Oh, do not, Marchdale, as you love me!

# Vampire Curses by Dorothy Distefano

"Oh, f*** it, Henry," said Marchdale, "Cut that s*** out."

"I'm staying up with Flora tonight. In case... it... comes back." Henry straightened his back like a superhero wannabe.

"S***, I'm in. Why not? Flora's hot. I'm in for the slumber party. Let's do it."

"Are you sure?" Henry asked, "I know you like her, but she isn't going to be in much of a partying mood.

"Why do you even ask? I'm here. I like you. I like her. I'll do the all-nighter thing. Can we get some booze?"

Marchdale flopped into a chair and waited for Henry's answer even though he knew what it would be.

"Okay. But don't tell George. He is such a pain in the ass about being left out, but when we let him tag along he's even worse. And if he thinks it's a vampyre, we are truly screwed."

"Well, let's move Flora to another room. The window's broken and she'll be creeped out by that weird portrait anyway. It'll be harder for George to find us. He is kinda stupid."

"I wanted to take the portrait down, but it's totally built into the wall. How f***ed up is that?"

Henry stared at the picture. "Nobody will want to sleep in here again, anyway. And if George gets really annoying we can make him sit in here and look at it."

"Somebody's coming. Do you hear that? I think whoever it is may be doing the electric slide,"

Marchdale looked lazily at the door just as a knock that mimicked a BeeGees beat echoed through the room. "George," sighed Marchdale.

George looked like he had been hit by a truck. He was shaking like a meth addict in withdrawal. "I've been thinking and thinking and thinking and..."

Henry rolled his eyes. Marchdale examined his nails. There was no real point in interrupting George until he got around to his point.

"... and thinking and thinking and you know what? I think this was a vampire." He looked from Henry to Marchdale, waiting for them to laugh at him.

The two men sighed simultaneously. George continued to ramble on about how he would go mad, without one thought of his sister who had been bitten. He paced and repeated himself and paced some more. Henry and Marchdale watched with slight amusement, despite the seriousness of the situation, until George suddenly stopped, sat down heavily on the carpet and started to cry hysterically.

***

# Vampires & the Long-Barreled Rifle by Sara Walker

"George," said Henry, when he saw that the frantic grief had in some measure abated — "be calm, George, and endeavour to listen to me."

George nodded, indicating he heard his brother, but his fear still showed in the creases around his eyes. The elder brother bit down on his right thumb nail, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. In a chair in the corner, Mr. Marchdale took an oilcloth to a long-barrelled rifle.

Henry narrowed his eyes. "Do you really think you're the only one who thought of that?"

George lifted his head, surprise lifted his eyebrows. "You mean I'm not?"

Henry snorted. "Mr. Marchdale just beat you to it."

The houseguest nodded his confirmation.

"Gracious Heaven!" George began pacing back and forth before the fireplace.

Henry leaned back, settling into the chair. "We discussed it as a possibility, but we've both decided to reject it."

Agast, George came to a halt. "You — reject — it?"

Henry rolled his eyes. "Yes, George."

"And yet — and yet — "

George glanced at Marchdale, but the houseguest kept his attention focussed on the polishing of his weapon, while George's breathing came in hurried gasps.

Henry held up his hands. "Hush, hush! It's not that we don't believe you. It's just if we choose to believe in the monsters we might paralyze ourselves with fear."

George drew a breath to steady himself. "What do you intend to do?"

"To keep this supposition to ourselves, in the first place. In particular to keep it from Flora."

"Do you think she has never heard of vampyres?" George asked, half incredulous, half hopeful.

Henry shrugged. "I never heard her mention them in all her reading. If she has, we'll have to be careful."

"Pray Heaven she has not!"

"Amen to that prayer, George," said Henry. He went to the sideboard and poured out three glasses of brandy, then distributed one to each of them. He caught George staring at the weapon. "Mr. Marchdale and I intend to keep watch over Flora tonight."

As though to confirm Henry's statement, Marchdale tapped the butt of the rifle on the floor and drank down the brandy in one gulp.

George frowned. "Can't I join you?"

Henry almost laughed at the thought of the frightened, fear-filled George confronting a vampyre. Instead, he calmly explained, "Your health, George. This matter will be bad for your health. Go to bed now, and leave the rest to us."

George nodded, relieved. "Very well. I know I am a frail reed, and I do believe this matter will be the death of me. The truth is, I am horrified — utterly and frightfully horrified. Like our poor, dear sister, I do not believe I will ever sleep again."

"Quit your whining, George," said Marchdale. "Let me make one thing clear: for your mother's sake, you must act as as though everything was normal."

"For once in my life," said George, sadly, "I will, to my dear mother, endeavour to play the hypocrite."

"Do so," said Henry. "The motive will sanction any such deceit as that, George, be assured."

* *

(Original Page 20 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

The day wore on, and Poor Flora remained in a very precarious situation. It was not until mid-day that Henry made up his mind he would call in a medical gentleman to her, and then rode to the neighbouring market-town, where he knew an extremely intelligent practitioner resided. This gentleman Henry resolved upon, under a promise of secrecy, making a confidant of; but, long before he reached him, he found he might well dispense with the promise of secrecy.

He had never thought, so engaged had he been with other matters, that the servants were cognizant of the whole affair, and that from them he had no expectation of being able to keep the whole story in all its details. Of course such an opportunity for tale-bearing and gossiping was not likely to be lost; and while Henry was thinking over how he had better act in the matter, the news that Flora Bannerworth had been visited in the night by a vampyre — for the servants named the visitation such at once — was spreading all over the county.

As he rode along, Henry met a gentleman on horseback who belonged to the county, and who, reining in his steed, said to him,

"Good morning, Mr. Bannerworth."

"Good morning," responded Henry, and he would have ridden on, but the gentleman added, —

"Excuse me for interrupting you, sir; but what is the strange story that is in everybody's mouth about a vampyre?"

Henry nearly fell off his horse, he was so much astonished, and, wheeling the animal around, he said, —

"In everybody's mouth!"

"Yes; I have heard it from at least a dozen persons."

"You surprise me."

"Is it untrue? Of course I am not so absurd as really to believe about the vampyre; but is there no foundation at all to it? We generally find that at the bottom of these common reports there is a something around which, as a nucleus, the whole has formed."

"My sister is unwell."

"Ah, and that's all. It really is too bad, now."

"We had a visitor last night."

"A thief, I suppose?"

"Yes, yes — I believe a thief. I do believe it was a thief, and she was terrified."

"Of course, and upon such a thing is grafted a story of a vampyre, and the marks of his teeth being upon her neck, and all the circumstantial particulars."

"Yes, yes."

"Good morning, Mr. Bannerworth."

Henry bade the gentleman good morning, and much vexed at the publicity which the affair had already obtained, he set spurs to his horse, determined that he would speak to no one else upon so uncomfortable a theme. Several attempts were made to stop him, but he only waved his hand and trotted on, nor did he pause in his speed till he reached the door of Mr. Chillingworth, the medical man whom he intended to consult.

#  "Your Entire Family Is As Mad As Hatters" by Terry Aldershof

As Henry had hoped, he found Dr. Chillingworth at home for the day. After a brief introduction, he apologized for the intrusion, and asked the kind Doctor if he had a few moments he could spare. Henry desperately needed the doctor's professional consult.

After nearly an hour, Henry concluded the events of the night before.

Doctor Chillingworth who had sat patiently during Henry's story, perched himself on the edge of his seat with his hands folded in his lap. After a moment of consideration, he looked up at the young man. "Is that all?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"Possibly, however, I do have to admit—your story is a little farfetched in my opinion. I'm rather surprised that you actually seem to believe what you have just told me."

"I assure you Doctor Chillingworth—everything happened exactly as I have described it. Do you have any ideas?"

"Honestly, I don't.——How about yourself?"

"I really don't have any either. My brother George on the other hand, believes full well that we were paid a visit by a Vampyre."

Shifting in the chair, Doctor Chillingworth let out an audible sigh. "That my young friend is without doubt the most preposterous assumption I have ever heard in my life. Your sister's condition may be nothing more complex than oxygen deprived hallucinations, or as simple as a million other minor physical or emotional maladies."

"Then you don't believe."

"Believe in what?"

"That the dead can come to life—and through the blood of the living can not only maintain life—but actually thrive."

"GOOD- GOD- NO! Do you take me for some sort of superstitious fool?"

"But Doctor Chillingworth—for just one moment, look at the facts."

"Henry—there are no facts, just wild assumptions based solely on unfounded speculation. The only undisputable fact, I see right now—is that your entire family is as mad as hatters. That fact would be much easier to believe than the existence of Vampyers."

Henry looked completely deflated, his shoulders slumped forward and his head hung limp—bobbing slightly as if suspended on an invisible wire. In an almost inaudible whisper, "I have to agree."

"Good—now go home. I will be by to see your sister in the next two hours or so. And my advice to you—is to speak to no one about what we have discussed."

#

To avoid direct contact with anyone on the road, Henry rode home as fast as he could on the back trails.

The sun was just beginning to set as he entered the front door of the estate. The room was empty, but he could hear conversation on the second floor.

A chambermaid passed him on his way up the column of stairs. Stopping her for a moment, he asked how his sister was doing. She informed him that her condition had not changed. She had occasionally fallen asleep, only to wake a few minutes later speaking incoherently as if she was running a high fever.

Entering her room, he found that she was awake. Leaning over her, he gently whispered her name. "Flora—my dear Flora—how are you feeling?"

Turning her head slightly to the sound of his voice, Henry almost fainted at the sight of his sister. Her face was pale and gaunt, haloed by black greasy hair—she looked more dead than alive.

Her eyes were as shiny black as a pool of moonlit tar, sunken, and unfocused as she attempted to locate the voice. "Henry—is that you?"

Her breath reeked of rotten meat and old blood. Henry recoiled—and from a more comfortable distance, he answered. "Yes my dear."

* *

(Original Page 22 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Oh, tell me what has happened?"

"Have you not a recollection, Flora?"

"Yes, yes, Henry; but what was it? They none of them will tell me what it was, Henry."

"Be calm, dear. No doubt some attempt to rob the house."

"Think you so?"

"Yes; the bay window was particularly adapted for such a purpose; but now that you are removed here to this room, you will be able to rest in peace."

"I shall die of terror, Henry. Even now those eyes are glaring on me so hideously. Oh, it is fearful — it is very fearful, Henry. Do you not pity me, and no one will promise to remain with me at night."

"Indeed, Flora, you are mistaken, for I intend to sit by your bedside armed, and so preserve you from all harm."

She clutched his hand eagerly, as she said, —

"You will, Henry. You will, and not think it too much trouble, dear Henry."

"It can be no trouble, Flora."

"Then I shall rest in peace, for I know that the dreadful vampyre cannot come to me when you are by."

"The what, Flora?"

"The vampyre, Henry. It was a vampyre."

"Good God, who told you so?"

"No one. I have read of them in the book of travels in Norway, which Mr. Marchdale lent us all."

"Alas, alas!" groaned Henry. "Discard, I pray you, such a thought from your mind."

"Can we discard thoughts. What power have we but from the mind, which is ourselves?"

"True, true."

"Hark, what noise is that? I thought I heard a noise. Henry, when you go, ring for some one first. Was there not a noise?"

"The accidental shutting of some door, dear."

"Was it that?"

"It was."

"Then I am relieved. Henry, I sometimes fancy I am in the tomb, and that some one is feasting on my flesh. They do say, too, that those who in life have been bled by a vampyre, become themselves vampyres, and have the same horrible taste for blood as those before them. Is it not horrible?"

"You only vex yourself with such thoughts, Flora. Mr. Chillingworth is coming to see you."

"Can he minister to a mind diseased?"

# Vampire Text Messages by Michelle Barry

"But yours is not dear Flora."

She reread Henry's text message over and over, trying to imprint the words onto her brain so she might believe them. Her phone buzzed again with another message from her brother. "Doesn't matter if the doc can treat mental cases - UR not crazy!!!" it read. She tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling, still clutching her phone in her hand. The presence of the cool metal in her hot hand and the reassuring words from her brother soothed her, if only slightly. She sighed deeply, looking back at the phone and reread his last message. "You're not crazy!" she read aloud, although no one could hear her in her empty room.

"IDK what I am," she typed back. "The creep held onto me by my hair. I'm going to shave it all off so it can never grab me again!" she typed furiously. She sent the message and without waiting for Henry to respond she started typing again, even more frantically. "Somethings wrong w me, he did something to me, my heads not right, I'm not myself," Flora wrote. She sent it and immediately started another message. Her fingers, damp from her sweaty palms, slipped over the keys. In her flurry she didn't even bother to correct the mistakes. "His eys were evil Henry they lookd into mine and I remem his hot breaht on my face." She shrieked aloud at the memory, her phone slipping out of her hands and clattering to the floor. She stared at it for a moment, panting, and then bent to retrieve it.

It buzzed as she reached for it, causing her to jump back onto the bed in fright. Shaking her head, trying to clear away the dark, terrifying thoughts, she reached for it again with a pale, trembling hand. This time no sudden buzz or ring startled her as she snatched it off the floor and read Henry's message. "Flora are you alright? Do you need me to come upstairs?" read the concerned reply.

"I'm OK," she wrote back quickly and sent it. "Sry, just thinking about him and those teeth...did I pass out?"

Flora sent the message and waited, reminding herself that the phone would buzz when he replied so she would not drop it again. She stared at the phone, not blinking, so it couldn't startle her. Her strategy nearly worked. When it buzzed again she almost didn't even flinch. Almost. "Yeah you did," it read. "But you were half asleep, don't let your mind run away with you." He's right, she thought. But hadn't they all seen the horrible man, the thing, whatever it was, in her room? She asked him.

"We saw someone, but it was prob just a burglar," he wrote. This should have made her feel better, but it only raised more suspicions in her mind of what she knew she saw. "Was anything stolen?" she typed, holding her breath as she hit "send." If something was stolen, she told herself, then he must be right. It was just a burglar. She reveled in this fleeting moment of doubt, hoping desperately that anything; a shoe, a toothpick, was missing. Her heart quickly fell to her feet as she read the reply that came all too fast. "Don't think so, but your scream prob scared him off."

She rubbed her sweaty palms on her nightgown, then rubbed her eyes with her slightly drier hands. Too many "probablies," she thought. Too many answers that did not wholly fit the events. With a bleak and solemn soul, resigned to its fate, she calmly replied. "That person, that thing wasn't a burglar Henry," she wrote and sent. "IDK if it was even human. It was evil. I wished it had killed me so I wouldn't have to think about it anymore." As soon as she sent the last message she regretted it, wincing at the pain and concern it would cause her brother.

"Don't think like that UR going to drive yourself insane," read the reply. Her phone buzzed again. "UR letting your imagination run away w you."

She sighed. If only it were a dream, a nightmare, that she would wake up from. But she knew in her heart it wasn't. "I wish this was just abad dream," she wrote to him sadly.

"It WAS just a bad dream," he replied. She could sense his desperation to cheer her up even through the phone, but she couldn't oblige him even for his own peace of mind, try as she did. "Somethings wrong w me," she wrote. "I'll be fine and then all of a sudden fall asleep. IDK if I'll ever be the same again."

"Don't think like that. In a few days you'll laugh at how crazy things seem now you'll see." She shook her head, wishing desperately that Henry was right. She started to type to tell him so when she was interrupted by another incoming message.

"Mom says the doc is here," she read. "Can I bring him up to see u? You know Mr. Chillingworth well."

# Chilly Willy By Ana Blaze

"Yes, Henry, yes, I will see him, or who-ever you please." Flora knew her brother meant well, but was growing increasingly frustrated with his smothering attention. She wasn't a child anymore. It was past time her family realized it.

Henry quietly asked the housekeeper to bring Mr. Chillingworth up.

Flora nearly groaned out loud. Of course they'd called William Chillingworth. The whole family had joined Henry in his mission to fix her up with the annoying doctor.

Chilly Willy. It wasn't her nickname for him, at least not originally. She'd overheard her brother and his friends from school call him that. She didn't know the whole story, but she knew enough to suspect it was a reference to unfortunately small male parts, such that gave one the impression they were always hiding from the cold.

He entered her bedroom a few seconds later wheezing slightly from the exertion of running up the stairs. Flora wondered if the man had ever been in a woman's bedroom before. His furtive glances around the room made her doubt it.

When he settled his adoring gaze on her, Flora had to look away to keep from rolling her eyes.

"I hear you had quite a bad dream last night, dear." He gave her a pitying look.

"A dream?" She glared at him. What the hell was he talking about?

"Err yes, as I understand it?"

"You're trying to convince me that last night was just a dream?" Did they really think she was so fragile that they were trying to convince her that she'd imagined the whole thing?

"Of course."

Sighing, Flora arched her eyebrow at the odious man and waited.

He blushed and sputtered a moment later. "If not a dream—"

"Vampire."

"Flora, dear, you can't be—"

She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. "It was a vampire, Willy."

"That's absurd. You—"

"Saw him with my own eyes, my own totally working, twenty-twenty vision eyes." She turned to see Henry carefully avoiding meeting her gaze. "Henry saw him too, as did my mom and Marchdale. Or is the plan here to convince me that we're all going crazy and just happened to see the same hallucination because that's less absurd."

"You've had a shock, Flora. You've lost a lot blood. You should get some rest."

"I didn't lose blood. It was sucked out of me by a vampire." She gestured towards the bite marks on her neck.

Chillingworth licked his lips and dropped his eyes to her neck and, she was certain, lower. When it became obvious he was too distracted by the sight of her breasts in a nightshirt to finish his ridiculous mission, she cleared her throat.

She touched the still-sore wound on her neck. "Look. Vampire bite." She shuddered slightly at the memory. Her family called it an attack, but it hadn't exactly been lacking in pleasure on her part. Flora pushed the foolish thought out of her mind and tilted her head so the doctor could better see the fang marks.

"Could you turn on the light?" Chillingworth asked as he stepped closer. He took a powerful magnifying glass from his pocket, and looked at them through it, and after his examination was concluded, he said, - -

***

#  "She May Be On Drugs" by Sarah Morgan

"They are very trifling wounds, indeed."

"But what could have caused them?" said Henry.

"A vampire," said Flora.

"Most likely some kind of insect," said the doctor. "It is summer, after all, and in this county during the warmer months there are many types of insects about: mosquitoes, houseflies, horseflies, dragonflies, tse-tse flies, gnats, and so on. These could easily be gnat bites."

"Look, I get it," said Flora. "I know my propensity to faint makes it seem like I can't handle bad news. But these are not gnat bites. I was attacked by a vampire."

The doctor, whose advanced age made it difficult for him to hear sounds in the higher registers, such as the voices of ladies, smiled and nodded. "How do you feel now, dear?"

"I feel weak and drowsy, like I lost a lot of blood, to a vampire bite."

"It could be sleeping sickness," Mr. Chillingworth said.

"Or a vampire," Flora said.

"Or perhaps malaria. Very rapid-onset malaria," Mr. Chillingworth said.

"Or rapid-onset vampire bite," Flora said, lying back and closing her eyes.

Mr. Chillingworth waggled his head at Henry to indicate that the two of them should leave Flora to her rest. Henry shook his head, frowned, and pointed at the floor to indicate that he had promised to stay with his sister. Mr. Chillingworth waggled his head again. Henry frowned again, and then raised one finger to indicate that he had an idea. He rang the bell, summoning his mother back from her exile on grounds that she would likely become hysterical in the presence of a sick bed.

She came at once, and Henry raised his eyebrows and waved a finger at her to indicate that she should definitely not become hysterical, and then went downstairs with the doctor, whose interesting theories on insect bites he yearned to hear more of.

Despite being the master of the house, Henry drew the doctor into a closet to talk.

"Well?" he said.

"I didn't want to alarm your sister," the doctor said, "but I frankly have no idea what is going on here."

"I thought you mightn't."

"Doctors don't usually like to admit this, but we are often completely perplexed, as indeed I am now."

"What about the marks on Flora's neck?"

"No idea," said the doctor.

"They look an awful lot like, well, bite marks, don't they?"

"I couldn't say," said the doctor.

"Almost like the kind of wounds you might see from what the unsophisticated layperson might call a pair of fangs."

"Let's not jump to any conclusions," said the doctor. "We know that you saw a man leaning over Flora in the middle of the night, that the man's face was covered in blood when he ran away, that Flora was covered in blood, that she has two small wounds on her neck, and that she is now weak very much in the manner of someone who has lost a lot of blood, but all that could really mean almost anything. Could be tuberculosis."

"I see," Henry said. "And the hysteria resulting from her midnight encounter has caused her to bleed from the neck, and also believe in foolish superstitions?"

"Or she may be on drugs," the doctor said. "To my mind your sister seems to be labouring under the effect of some narcotic."

***

# Vampire House MD by Barbara Barnett

"Indeed?"

Chillingworth put his leather messenger bag on the ornate sofa and whipped out a white board and three colored dry-erase markers, setting them on a small end table. He wrote "Languor" at the top of the board, underlining it in red. Beneath that, in blue meandering letters he wrote "Really amazing drugs" and in red letters seemingly dripping with blood droplets he wrote "AVS!"

"AVS? I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."

"Acute Vampiric Syndrome." Chillingworth's young companion could only shrug.

Chillingworth sighed, clearly annoyed. "There are really only two things that could cause this...condition. And unless you're hiding Count Dracula in the closet, we can rule out AVS. What's she taking?"

"I'm afraid..." But Chillingworth had disappeared down a long hallway towards the bathroom. He began opening cabinets and drawers.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"Needles. This looks like it could be morphine. How long has your sister been using?"

"But that's impossible, my dear sir. I'm confident that there are no such drugs in the house."

"What she's never kept a secret from you before? She's lying. Everybody lies." He continued to search, becoming more annoyed at his lack of success as he found no evidence of narcotic use. "My team is better at this, but they're busy, so..."

"Really, Mr. Chillingworth, I must insist..."

"Look. Whatever it is, slowed... Say you have a steam engine on a train," began Chillingworth, speaking slowly as if to an idiot. "And the guys shoveling coal are working as hard as they can, but the train just keeps slowing down. Eventually, the coal shovelers are just going to give up. And if they give out, the train just stops. Now, what would cause that? One, the shovelers are taking enough drugs that they just don't care and the coal's going everywhere but into the boiler—they keep missing. Other possibility is that the shoveling's efficient but there's a leak somewhere, and the steam is bleeding out and killing the heart."

"What?" Now he was really confused. "I hate metaphors. Can't you just tell me what's wrong with my sister?" Chillingworth stopped his rummaging around and spun on the young man, his eyes flashing angrily.

"Narcotics depress the respiratory system, creating the langorous state in which you found the young lady in question. And unless we take care of it, she will no longer be languorous, but dead. Got that?"

But what about the Vampire...whatever you said..."

Chillingworth chuckled. "Yeah. It's easier to live in denial and believe vampires did this rather than admit she's a junkie," he replied. "Excuse me." He palmed an amber pill bottle, shaking out three oblong tablets and dry swallowing them.

"Oh, that I could believe she's an addict; that would be much simpler, I confess, to comprehend, but I am confident she has taken no narcotic; she could not even do so by mistake, for there is no drug of the sort in the house. Besides, she is not heedless by any means. I am quite convinced that she has not done so. And after what I witnessed last night, your vampire theory makes more sense, I fear."

"I made that up."

"What?"

"AVS. It's not real for one simple reason: there are no vampires. Most symptoms associated with vampire contact through the ages can be attributed to either drugs or acute porphyria."

"But I know what I saw."

"Then I'm the wrong person for this. I have a good friend, slightly peculiar, but smart. Name's Mulder. Fox Mulder. Talk to him. He'd love it, but your friend here is dying. Of course it's up to you." Chillingworth removed his mobile phone from his pocket and started dialing a number.

"I know what I saw."

"I've had delusions too, my friend. Landed me in a haunted house of a psych hospital for six months. In New Jersey."

"But what if you had seen...what..." he hesitated at the recollection, hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. He shivered.

"Me? I would not have lost sight of it for the world's wealth. How cool would that be? Pictures. I would have taken tons of them. Sent them to the Inquirer. Do you know that I once extracted a 24-foot tapeworm from a woman? Now that's impressive. Vampires? Like I said, more likely porphyria for him; drugs for zombie girl."

"You would have felt your blood freeze with horror, that's what you would have done. I wish you had been here. Then you would believe me."

"I wish to Heaven I had. If there was a heaven, which there's not. Trust me; I know."

"I am going to sit up to-night with my sister, and, I believe, our friend Mr. Marchdale will share my watch with me."

"She could die without treatment, but you go ahead and do that."

Mr. Chillingworth appeared to lost in thought, a faraway look in his eye. Suddenly he rose from his chair, using his walking stick for balance. She shook his head derisively at the idiot sitting before him.

"We're done here."

"Is there nothing you can do help her?"

"Well, since you're set on vampires, then, well...do you have any garlic? Whole bulbs? Preferably strung into a..." he gestured around his neck. "...like a loop?"

Henry nodded. "Great on pizza. As for your sister. She needs to be in the hospital and treated with naloxone."

Henry frowned. He didn't need Chillingworth's sarcasm—not now.

"Fine," the older man sighed. "I will send you some medicines, such as I think will be of service to Flora, and depend upon seeing me by ten o'clock to-morrow morning."

"So you know for certain there's no such thing as vampires." It was more a statement than a question.

Another sigh. The doctor had to admit to having read centuries old medical texts in the original Swedish that seemed to suggest at least some truth to the superstition. And some relevant Arabic tomes dating back to the Ottoman Empire that were well argued.

"Yes. The ghouls of the Mahometans are of the same description of beings. All that have heard of the European vampyre has made it a being that can be killed, but is restored to life again by the rays of a full moon falling on the body."

"Yes, yes, I have heard as much."

"And that the hideous repast of blood has to be taken very frequently, and that if the vampyre gets it not he wastes away, presenting the appearance of one in the last stage of a consumption, and visibly, so to speak, dying."

***

# THE EMBODIMENT by Clotilde LaMarre

"That is what I have understood."

"To-night," Mr. Chillingworth said to his companion Henry, taking notice of the fine lad of 18 years perhaps a little too obviously, "is the full of the moon."

"And the night is near at hand," Henry replied, starting for the door.

"How strange that this dreadful adventure should have taken place just the night before. 'Tis very strange. Let me see - let me see."

By now Mr. Chillingworth's hand drifted along Henry's side, inching under the youth's hunting shirt. The moment had passed from paternal caress to lascivious examination. Henry was now frozen in place, his pale green eyes alert and the color rising to his cheeks. Mr. Chillingworth thought the young man might strike him for the elder's boldness.

But Henry yanked Mr. Chillingworth by the hair so their faces were only an inch apart. Mr. Chillingworth could feel the boy's sweet breath and the pleasing smell of wood upon his youthful stubble. Explosively they locked lips, as if writhing in the clutches of a sudden fever-dream. Hands ran over each other's bodies, buttons ripped from shirts and they collapsed to the divan amid the sounds of belt buckles clanging and nipples being fondly kissed.

Mr. Chillingworth was pleased at Henry's naked body, at its muscularity and the fine dusting of hair upon his chest. Mr. Chillingworth knelt at the foot of the divan and proceeded to worship Henry's manhood. Henry groaned. Like a master, Mr. Chillingworth lifted up the young man's legs and applied his oral ministrations to his arse. Henry seemed distressed at this at first but leaned his head back in pleasure. Mr. Chillingworth alternated between Henry's nether regions and his mighty shaft, applying his genius touch to both.

In the middle of it all, Henry pictured a mystery man. But it wasn't out of disinterest to the man he was with, Mr. Chillingworth - he was just as ruggedly-handsome, hairy-chested, and virile as they came. here lurked, however, a third entity nearby. Too close. At least in his mind. Or was it just in his mind? He pictured a tall, thin dark man with the smell of scented oil in his hair. Cloves? Or maybe brimstone? The man's skin was smooth and white as a female's. So delicate and so compellingly and forcefully seductive! This creature embodied the best of both the female and the male. As Mr. Chillingworth devoured Henry's member, this stranger's long tongue darted up Henry's arse, completely taking him with his mouth. Henry found himself sandwiched between two irresistible personages, completely locked into place. The stranger looked at him with gray-colored eyes as he devoured him.

The wiles of which he had never known! It was at that moment that Henry knew he was currently on loan to Mr. Chillingworth but he belonged body and soul to this lovely stranger, whose name came to him only as "V."

Just at the cusp of Henry's release, Mr. Chillingworth halted his sensuous actions with an almost telepathic empathy. The stranger diffused and disappeared in a haze. No, don't!, Henry found himself mentally protesting. Henry settled back into the moment. He and Mr. Chillingworth busied themselves with kissing a while.

Mr. Chillingworth positioned himself on the young man's lap, grimacing as Henry's iron-hard cock split him open.

As he heard his slick balls slap against Mr. Chillingworth's arse, Henry wondered how the master could take all of it. Mr. Chillingworth, however, seemed enveloped in his own private rapture while he provided Henry a secular slice of Paradise.

In the middle of the torrent of passion, Henry had been distracted enough by a thought that was unrelated to the situation at hand. What if...? No, it cannot be so! Nonetheless, Henry broke off suddenly to grab a book from the shelf. He managed to reach it without having to rise from the divan. Mr. Chillingworth, ravenous and undeterred, took this opportunity to reposition himself between Henry's thighs and dedicated himself to orally pleasuring the young man, repaying the debt in triplicate that he had given himself in large proportion moments He had to know right now! The ghostly embodiment of Eros had to have had signified something! "Travels in Norway" - the title dear Flora had mentioned. Henry tried to keep an even head about him (once again he was close) and hurriedly leafed through the volume, which he had placed by his side. There it is! But no - it cannot be!

His young heart racing, Henry read the lines: "With regard to vampyres, it is believed by those who are inclined to give credence to so dreadful a superstition, that they always endeavor to make their feast of blood, for the revival of their bodily powers, on some evening immediately preceding a full moon, because if any accident befall them, such as being shot, or otherwise killed or wounded, they can recover by lying down somewhere where the full moon's rays will fall on them."

No! It cannot be - it defies all logic and all that we know that is wholly rational about the world! Henry's eyes rolled back in his head, intoxicated with sensual delight. He gripped the book tighter. He had seen the creature with his very own eyes! It was all true! Just as the words he had read made felt their full import, he could hold back no longer. Below he also heard Mr. Chillingworth's garbled moans. Henry let the book drop from his hands with a groan and a shudder.

# A Letter from the Vampire by Cora Zane

CHAPTER V. A kind of stupefaction came over Henry Bannerworth, and he sat for about a quarter of an hour scarcely conscious of where he was, and almost incapable of anything in the shape of rational thought.

The library gradually darkened, and it reached his thoughts that the evening air would soon grow cold. But Henry made no move to light a fire. Lost in reverie, he drained the last of the brandy in his glass. Dr. Chillingsworth must think him perfectly mad, but no matter how he tried, it was impossible to rationalize the bites on Flora's neck. Or the monster he had glimpsed on the grounds of the estate. Those dreadful silver eyes, the gruesome face— He pinched his eyes closed briefly in an attempt to push the disturbing image from his mind.

After all, there were other problems yet to face, most pressing being the gossipmongers spreading their clever stories. Undue attention on their household was the last thing he wanted, especially for Flora. The attack was enough to stir curiosity, but it also alarmed him to think someone might pry into their personal affairs and somehow discover he had come into a period of financial distress.

The Bannerworth fortune had kept his family comfortable and welcome amongst polite society for generations. He didn't want anyone to know his family faced imminent hardship. Indeed, they were much poorer than the general appearance of the estate, and he hoped to keep that news out of the public's collective ear, if not forever, then at least until he knew whether or not he would have to part with his ancestral home altogether.

Henry frowned as he considered it. Naturally, Mother did not know, and she would be devastated if it came to that. However, if he were indeed forced to sell the house, perhaps he should look on it as a form of divine intervention. Perhaps he could even arrange the sale so they could leave quietly under the guise of taking Flora away from here to a healthier place where she could fully recover in privacy.

Lost in thought, he had just set the brandy glass on the side table when a hand came down heavily on his shoulder. Henry shot to his feet. He wheeled around and found his brother watching him warily, clearly taken aback by his sudden start from the chair.

Henry gasped, shocked to see him there. "George!" Then again, who else would it be? The vampire's face flickered across his thoughts, sending a phantom chill down his spine. Henry shook off the vision and took an uneven breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you enter."

George's dark eyes skimmed Henry's face as he came around the chair to stand before him. "You look unwell, brother. When was the last time you slept?"

It felt like days since his tired brain had rested, but as he opened his mouth to confess, Henry's attention settled on a letter in George's hand. A curl of trepidation washed over him.

George held out the letter. "It arrived only moments ago. I don't know who it's from."

Henry took the letter and turned it over. To his relief, it was not from a solicitor. Of that, he was certain. The wax seal looked as if it came from someone of consequence, but he did not recognize the signet. He broke the seal and walked to the window where there was just enough dying light to read the elegant, yet unfamiliar script.

Moments passed in silence. Finally, George spoke up. "What does it say?"

Henry read it aloud for him. "Sir Francis Varney presents his compliments to Mr. Bannerworth and is much concerned to hear that some affliction has fallen upon his household. Sir Francis hopes that the genuine and loving sympathy will not be regarded as an intrusion, and begs to proffer any assistance or counsel that may be within the compass of his means."

He folded the letter again then gazed out the window at the gray of the evening while he collected his thoughts. "Sir Francis Varney," he said to George. "Do you know of him?"

"Isn't he the gentleman who recently purchased Ratford Abbey?"

Our new neighbor. Henry's face grew hot, and a quivering uneasiness spread through him.

George rested a hand on the back of the chair. "Should I arrange to send Sir Varney an invitation?"

"No." It would seem rude not to extend an invitation, but that could not be helped. Henry moved away from the window and dropped the letter onto the side table. "With Flora unwell, now is not the time to make a new acquaintance."

"Surely, you don't intend to ignore the man?" George looked disapproving of such a notion.

Indeed, brushing the kindly neighbor aside could prove troublesome.

"Of course, I must return a civil answer to this gentleman, but it must be done in such a way as to repress familiarity."

George frowned. "That will be difficult to do while we remain here, when we come to consider the very close proximity of the two properties, Henry."

# For What It's Worth to the Bannerworths by Jessica Topper

Oh no, not at all.

There's something happening in Bannerworth Hall

But what it is, is not really clear at all

There's Mr. Marchdale with his pistol over there

Telling me and George we got to beware

I reckon it's time we stop

Hark, what's that smell?

Something in Flora's room reeks to hell!

There's Vampyre talk being bandied about

Nobody wants to really say it out and out

But young Flora's speaking her mind

And she's getting so much disbelief

From behind

It's time we stop

Hark, what's that smell?

I think it's emanating from Marchdale?

Vampyre paranoia strikes deep

Into the Hall it will creep

It begins when you're really afraid

Step out at night, the monster comes to take you away

We'd better stop

Hark, what's that smell?

Everybody look - Marchdale claims he tore a lappel

By the name of God

Yes, that's the smell!

It came away in my hands

During the grapple.

Tattered lace from ancient times

Two buttons covered in grime

Rotten, weak and

An unearthly smell it gave

I must confess it smells like it comes from the grave

We'd better stop

Hark, what's that sound?

Everybody in the room must quiet down

Say nothing of this relic of last night's work to any one.

* *

(Original Page 30 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Be assured I shall not. I am far from wishing to keep up in any one's mind proofs of that which I would fain, very fain refute."

Mr. Marchdale replaced the portion of the coat which the figure had worn in his pocket, and then the whole three proceeded to the chamber of Flora.

* * * * *

It was within a very few minutes of midnight, the moon had climbed high in the heavens, and a night of such brightness and beauty had seldom shown itself for a long period of time.

Flora slept, and in her chamber sat the two brothers and Mr. Marchdale, silently, for she had shown symptoms of restlessness, and they much feared to break the light slumber into which she had fallen.

Occasionally they had conversed in whispers, which could not have the effect of rousing her, for the room, although smaller than the one she had before occupied, was still sufficiently spacious to enable them to get some distance from the bed. Until the hour of midnight now actually struck, they were silent, and when the last echo of the sounds had died away, a feeling of uneasiness came over them, which prompted some conversation to get rid of it.

"How bright the moon is now," said Henry in a low tone.

"I never saw it brighter," replied Marchdale. "I feel as if I were assured that we shall not to-night be interrupted."

"It was later than this," said Henry.

"Do not then yet congratulate us upon no visit."

"How still the house is!" remarked George; "it seems to me as if I had never found it so intensely quiet before."

"It is very still."

"Hush! she moves."

Flora moaned in her sleep, and made a slight movement. The curtains were all drawn closely round the bed to shield her eyes from the bright moonlight which streamed into the room so brilliantly. They might have closed the shutters of the window, but this they did not like to do, as it would render their watch there of no avail at all, inasmuch as they would not be able to see if any attempt was made by any one to obtain admittance.

A quarter of an hour longer might have thus passed when Mr. Marchdale said in a whisper —"A thought has just stuck me that the piece of coat I have, which I dragged from the figure last night, wonderfully resembles in colour and appearance the style of dress of the portrait in the room which Flora lately slept in."

"I thought of that," said Henry, "when first I saw it; but, to tell the honest truth, I dreaded to suggest any new proof connected with last night's visitation."

"Then I ought not to have drawn your attention to it," said Mr. Marchdale, "and regret I have done so."

"Nay, do not blame yourself on such an account," said Henry. "You are quite right, and it is I who am too foolishly sensitive. Now, however, since you have mentioned it, I must own I have a great desire to test the accuracy of the observation by a comparison with the portrait."

"That may easily be done."

"I will remain here," said George, "in case Flora awakens, while you two go if you like. It is but across the corridor."

* *

(Original Page 31 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

Henry immediately rose, saying —

"Come, Mr. Marchdale, come. Let us satisfy ourselves at all events upon this point at once. As George says it is only across the corridor, and we can return directly."

"I am willing," said Mr. Marchdale, with a tone of sadness.

There was no light needed, for the moon stood suspended in a cloudless sky, so that from the house being a detached one, and containing numerous windows, it was as light as day.

Although the distance from one chamber to the other was only across the corridor, it was a greater space than these words might occupy, for the corridor was wide, neither was it directly across, but considerably slanting. However, it was certainly sufficiently close at hand for any sound of alarm from one chamber to reach the other without any difficulty.

A few moments sufficed to place Henry and Mr. Marchdale in that antique room, where, from the effect of the moonlight which was streaming over it, the portrait on the panel looked exceedingly life like.

And this effect was probably the greater because the rest of the room was not illuminated by the moon's rays, which came through a window in the corridor, and then at the open door of that chamber upon the portrait.

Mr. Marchdale held the piece of cloth he had close to the dress of the portrait, and one glance was sufficient to show the wonderful likeness between the two.

"Good God!" said Henry, "it is the same!"

Mr. Marchdale dropped the piece of cloth and trembled.

"This fact shakes even your scepticism," said Henry.

"I know not what to make of it."

"I can tell you something which bears upon it. I do not know if you are sufficiently aware of my family history to know that this one of my ancestors, I wish I could say worthy ancestors, committed suicide, and was buried in his clothes."

"You — you are sure of that?"

"Quite sure."

"I am more and more bewildered as each moment some strange corroborative fact of that dreadful supposition we so much shrink from seems to come to light and to force itself upon our attention."

There was a silence of a few moments duration, and Henry had turned towards Mr. Marchdale to say something, when the cautious tread of a footstep was heard in the garden, immediately beneath that balcony.

A sickening sensation came over Henry, and he was compelled to lean against the wall for support, as in scarcely articulate accents he said —

"The vampyre — the vampyre! God of heaven, it has come once again!"

"Now, Heaven inspire us with more than mortal courage," cried Mr. Marchdale, and he dashed open the window at once, and sprang into the balcony.

Henry in a moment recovered himself sufficiently to follow him, and when he reached his side in the balcony, Marchdale said, as he pointed below, —

# Behind the Scenes by Monica Valentinelli

"There is some one concealed there."

"Marchdale" rolled his eyes. Eleven o'clock on a Saturday night. Wasn't rehearsal over yet? "Varney's gonna bite you. WOOOOOOOOO. . ."

"Pay attention, Marchdale," Henry Bannersworth said, wagging his cane. "We film tomorrow!"

"Whatever." Marchdale shrugged his shoulders and pulled out a flask out of his suit. "Where the hell's George, anyway?"

"It's his day off." Henry smoothed out his coiffed hair. Even when they weren't filming, the actor was such a _prima donna_. "Thanks for ruining the twenty-third take."

"Can't help it," Marchdale whined, collapsing into an ornate chair. If he didn't need the money, he never would have signed on for such a boring film. "Guess I'm still not feeling the creep factor."

Bannersworth pulled out an ivory pipe and lit it. No doubt, the Victorian relic was authentic. If it wasn't for Henry's strong whiskey, he'd tell the jerk to save it for the camera. Hell, the actor even insisted they stay in character. What was _that_ about?

"I suppose that's why they call it 'acting,' Marchdale," Henry quipped, interrupting his thoughts. "Maybe you should take some lessons from—"

"—Varney, right?" Marchdale suspected his co-star had a crush on the would-be vampire. Henry was always visiting his run-down trailer.

"Yes, _Varney_."

Marchdale swallowed the contents of his flask. He could tell "Henry" wasn't all there, but he wasn't sure why. Drugs, maybe? Sex? Both?

"How about a little improvisation? To help get you in the mood?"

Marchdale sighed. "I told my girlfriend I'd meet her at midnight."

"We have time," Bannersworth assured him. "I'll retrieve—"

"While you're out, grab me some more of your whiskey." Marchdale tossed the empty flask at his co-star. He caught it easily. "It's good stuff. Tangy, but smooth."

"Of course, Mr. Marchdale."

Twenty minutes later, Henry returned with "Varney the Vampire." His make-up - pasty-white complexion, black beady eyes, and blood-red lips - was flawless and his dark costume was impeccably tailored, like it was stitched out of shadow.

"Damn! Who designed—"

Henry bent over and placed a slender finger on his lips. "You should not be talking."

"You're a pussy, Bannersworth." Marchdale spat. "You know what? I'm done for the night. I need to see my girl."

"I learn by example. Acting, remember?"

"Asshole!" Marchdale tried to jump out of his chair, but couldn't. His legs were frozen in place and he could barely move his head. Worse, something slimy wormed its way under his skin.

Henry smiled and stepped behind Varney. "That's it, Marchdale. _Feel_."

Marchdale wanted to flip his co-star off but, like the rest of his limbs, his fingers betrayed him. If that wasn't frustrating enough, the actor did sense something was invading his body, but he wasn't sure what "it" was. He assumed "it" was bad - _very_ bad - and that there was no word for "it" other than. . . _unnatural_.

"Speak." A puff of stale ash escaped from Varney's waxy lips. Was Marchdale losing his mind? "What are you feeling now?"

Marchdale's teeth chattered uncontrollably. "S-s-s-s-s-s-cared. Like I'm s-s-s-s-s-starring in my own horror movie."

"Good. Will you deliver your lines accurately?" Varney lifted Marchdale's wrist and slowly licked it. The vampire's tongue was cool, scratchy.

Marchdale forced a nod and shuddered. If this was a joke, it wasn't funny anymore.

"Finish this _documentary_?"

At the mention of the word "documentary," Marchdale closed his eyes and squeaked: "There's no such thing as vampires."

Henry scoffed. "What do you think I've been filling your flask with, old boy? Tomato juice?"

Marchdale wanted to laugh, to run, to tell "Varney" and everyone else to fuck off - but his mouth was glued shut. He wasn't just afraid anymore: he was terrified.

"Is he ready, Bannersworth? Has he ingested all the blood I've given you?"

"Yes, Master. I've mixed your blood with alcohol. He'll fall in line, like Chillingworth, George, and the others."

"Join your fellow vampire hunters," Varney urged, stroking Marchdale's cheek. The vampire's fingertips were ice-cold. "Film the truth."

Suddenly, Marchdale felt a sharp pain in his chest, followed by a loud pop. He was free! "Are you g-g-g-g-g-going to k-k-k-k-kill me?"

The vampire chuckled. "I will allow you back into the world, unharmed, _after_ you finish my movie."

Marchdale pinched the back of his hand (to make sure he wasn't dreaming) and stood up. His body felt strange, like it didn't belong to him. "Then I'm ready."

"So you are," Varney said, fading into the hall. "Good-bye for now."

After the vampire left, Bannersworth tested him. "You sure you're all right, Marchdale?"

"Yeah, I guess so," he lied. He was still angry with Bannersworth for. . . What was he mad at him for again?

Henry stepped back into position and yelled: "Chillingworth? You there?"

"Here!" a voice called faintly. "Still waiting!"

Henry hopped up and down. "Right-o, chaps. Let's rehearse this scene properly."

Marchdale nodded, then glanced at his watch. _Two-thirty_. Where'd the time go?

"George says, _'Now go, Henry. I prefer a weapon of this description to pistols much. Do not be gone longer than necessary.'_ And then I reply with, _'I will not, George, be assured.'_ After which, I'll meet you in the hall. We'll leap over the balcony and regroup with Chillingworth in the gardens below."

"Good recap, Bannersworth." Marchdale paused. He was forgetting someone, but who? "Man, I gotta hit the pillow soon. Dizzy."

"Don't worry! Take twenty-four's the last one."

"Twenty- _three_. Right?"

Henry laughed. It was an eerie, high-pitched cackle. "And vampires don't exist."

" _You are, no doubt, much surprised at finding me here,"_ said the doctor; _"but the fact is. . ."_

"Right," Marchdale muttered, massaging his chest. "They can't be real."

" _We are much indebted to you, Mr. Chillingworth,"_ said Henry, _"for making the attempt."_

Marchdale grinned. He couldn't believe his luck. Not only was this gig a lot of fun: that "Varney" fellow fascinated him.

"I am prompted to it by a feeling of the strongest curiosity."

# Post-Twilight Varney the Vampire by Candice Hazlett

"Carry your eye from it in a horizontal line, as near as you can, towards the wood."

Henry looked in that direction. "Ohhhhhahhhhhhhhhh....OMG!" What he saw was the ground rising, even though it was pretty damn dark in the middle of the woods.

"Dude! What is that!?"

Marchdale swore it was a human being churning up the earth in front of them. "Its totally dead, though, right?" he asked with hope that he was right. "We so chased that thing last night! Thats the zombie!"

"The vampire? No way, we killed that sucker."

"He's all glittery and shit! Dude, I knew I shoulda been team Edward instead of team Jacob!"

Henry looked toward the vampire again. "That sucker's moving, there's no way its dead guys."

The moonlight hit the being ever so slightly, causing the figure to tremble and shake with the moves like Jagger.

Marchdale chimed back in: "It's the effin' vampire! We hafta get the bleep outta here."

"But we shot him! How is that possible? We need, like, garlic and a wooden stake! Isn't that how you off a vampire? Ahhh, man, I wish I was paying attention to that damn movie now. What do we do, we need to get outta here, seriously. For real. Let's go."

"The moon is bringing him back to life. Maybe if we throw a blanket over it it will die again." Chillingworth was trying to stay calm.

"You can't throw a blanket over it from here, you hafta go up to it to do that."

"OMG, I have awesome aim, dude, seriously." Marchdale was convinced he could hit the target with no problem. "If I defeat this vampire and save the town, I'll get laid for sure!"

He gathered up the blanket from the pack Henry was carrying and slowly approached the figure. Just as he was about 3 feet from the glittery-faced figure, it turned to face him.

He screamed and dropped the blanket, turned quickly on his heel, and ran off in the opposite direction, past Henry and Chillingworth into the pitch-dark woods.

"Great, now we have to off the vampire ourselves. You paid attention to the Twilight movies, right? Please say you did! I swear, I won't tell the team if you did. Seriously, I won't."

"I can endure this no longer," said Chillingworth, as he sprung from the wall. "Follow me or not, as you please, I will seek the spot where this being lies."

# Whoa, did you see that? by Rod Redpath

"Oh, be not rash," cried Marchdale. "See, it rises again, and its form looks gigantic."

The doctor removes his steel blade and tosses the sheath. His stare is intent on straight ahead. "Come or don't, I don't care, but I believe in fighting for a greater cause" he answered.

Marchdale laughed, following Henry's lead on jumping off the wall, "Let's bring it, I eat fear for breakfast."

The three of them charged towards the creature rising from the dirt and foliage, but before they were close enough to extinguish this lifeless being, it darted towards some nearby woods, trying to hide within the trees. "Whoa, did you see that?! Look how fast it is, it must know we are hunting it!" yelled the doctor. "What are you waiting for Henry?! Shoot it!" demanded Marchdale.

Henry pulls up his rifle and takes aim. The being darted this way and that, making it hard him to get a shot off, but he's been known to be an expert marksman and he pulled the trigger. Either the ammo had no affect, or they were too far away for it to wound it, the vampire made into the thick forest.

Both Henry and Marchdale stopped. They looked at each other, then at the doctor. The doctor stared back at them as if asking them why they haven't continued. "I can't go in there, are you crazy?!" snipped Marchdale as if being accused of being frightened, "In the open field, I could of pounced on it like a that of a wolf on it's prey, but in there, I might as well put a target on me."

"He's right" added Henry, "that piece of evil is already blending into the wood's cover."

Mr. Chillingsworth stared into the blackness of the trees and said, "No, you are right. It would not be safe going in after it in there."

"Then what?!" asked Marchdale.

"Nothing for now, but there is no way I'm going to give up on this, as God as my witness" answered Henry, "Did either of you see what that-that thing was wearing?"

Mr. Chillingsworth pondered the thought and spoke up, "Yes, yes...they were old, I mean really old. I remember seeing my great, great grandfather wear those clothes in pictures."

"Now you mention it, those clothes did look like they were meant for sometime ago" said Marchdale.

Henry smiled, "I thought they looked out of place. You know, before you call me crazy, I'm beginning to believe that creature was the undead, a-a vampire." Henry's eyes grow big, he blurted out, "It could actually be my ancestor that took their own life decades ago."

With the intense pursuit and adrenaline of the chase, there had to be some possible mental stress being experienced. Mr. Chillingsworth softly grabbed him by his arm, saying —

"Come on friend, I think it is best we all call it a night, before we make ourselves seriously unfit in the head."

"What?! God no!"

"Please come home Henry, you are not thinking clearly right now...we all are not. We need to go home, rest, and regroup."

"Seriously Henry, listen to the doc. It is best we all head towards home" said Marchdale, with a hint of plead in his voice.

"I will yield to you; I feel that I cannot control my own feelings — I will yield to you, who, as you say, are cooler on this subject than I can be. Oh, Flora, Flora, I have no comfort for you now."

# Daisy Dukes by Heather Brady

Poor Henry Bannerworth appeared to be in a complete state of mental prostration, on account of the distressing circumstances that had occurred so rapidly and so suddenly in his family, which had had quite enough to contend with without having superadded to every other evil the horror of believing that some preternatural agency was at work to destroy every hope of future happiness in this world, under any circumstances.

Once again, despite his better instincts and years of "reeducation" Henry suffered himself to be led home by Mr. Chillingworth and Marchdale; he no longer attempted to dispute the dreadful facts concerning the supposed vampire or his own base instincts. All the corroborating circumstances were spiraling together for the purpose of proving that which, even when proved, was contrary to all his ingénue-like notions of Heaven, and at variance with all that was recorded and established as part of the accepted social norms.

"Wowzers," he said, when they reached home spent, "that such things are possible but which in the light of day will not bear a moment's investigation."

"There are more things," said Marchdale, "in Heaven, and on earth, than are dreamed in our philosophy."

"There are indeed, it appears," said Mr. Chillingworth.

"Are you a convert?" said Henry, turning to him. "I must know now, before we are all beyond the reach of redemption."

"A convert to what?"

"To a belief in — in — these vampyres and - our pact of three — this love which dare not speak its name," Henry said.

"I? No, indeed; if you were to shut me up in a room full of vampyres, I would tell them all to their teeth that I defied them. But love — who is to define love beyond those who are in possession of it?"

"But after what we have seen to-night?" Henry said.

"What have we seen?"

"You are yourself a witness, nay, a witness and an active participant," Henry said.

"True; I saw a man lying down, and then I saw a man get up; he seemed then to be shot, but whether he was or not he only knows; and then I saw him walk off in a desperate hurry. Beyond that, I saw nothing. It may have been Christian Grey or Keith Richards for all I know. There was only the lingering scent of Drakkar Noir clinging to the dew."

"Yes; but, taking such circumstances into combination with others, have you not a terrible fear of the truth?" Henry asked.

"No — no; on my soul, no. I will die in my disbelief of such an outrage upon Heaven as one of these voyeurs would most assuredly be - only a righteous hypocrite would be worse."

"Oh! If only I were strong like you; but it strikes too nearly to my heart and casts a dark shadow on my soul," Henry said.

"Be of better cheer, Henry — be of better cheer," Marchdale said, smoothing Henry's tousled hair; "there is one circumstance we ought to consider. It is likely that your ancestor, whose portrait hangs in the chamber occupied by Flora, is not only a vampire but our mysterious nightly patron as well."

"The Daisy Dukes are the same," said Henry.

"I noted that."

"And I."

"Do you not, then, think it possible that something might be done to set that part of the question at rest?"

"What — what?"

"Precisely m'man, what what."

"What — what?"

* *

(Original Page 37 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Where is your ancestor buried?"

"Ah! I understand you now."

"And I," said Mr. Chillingworth; "you would propose a visit to his mansion?"

"I would," added Marchdale; "anything that may in any way tend to assist in making this affair clearer, and divesting it of its mysterious circumstances, will be most desirable."

Henry appeared to rouse for some moments, and then he said, —

"He, in common with many other members of the family, no doubt occupies a place in the vault under the old church in the village."

"Would it be possible," asked Marchdale, "to get into that vault without exciting general attention?"

"It would," said Henry; "the entrance to the vault is in the flooring of the pew which belongs to the family in the old church."

"Then it could be done?" asked Mr. Chillingworth.

"Most undoubtedly."

"Will you undertake such an adventure?" said Mr. Chillingworth. "It may ease your mind."

"He was buried in the vault, and in his clothes," said Henry, musingly; "I will think of it. About such a proposition I would not decide hastily. Give me leave to think of it until to-morrow."

"Most certainly."

They now made their way to the chamber of Flora, and they heard from George that nothing of an alarming character had occurred to disturb him on his lonely watch. The morning was now again dawning, and Henry earnestly entreated Mr. Marchdale to go to bed, which he did, leaving the two brothers to continue as sentinels by Flora's bed-side, until the morning light should banish all uneasy thoughts.

Henry related to George what had taken place outside the house, and the two brothers held a long and interesting conversation for some hours upon that subject, as well as upon others of great importance to their welfare. It was not until the sun's early rays came glaring in at the casement that they both rose, and thought of awakening Flora, who had now slept soundly for so many hours.

* *

(Original Page 38 by Thomas Preskett Prest)
CHAPTER VI.

Having thus far, we hope, interested our readers in the fortunes of a family which had become subject to so dreadful a visitation, we trust that a few words concerning them, and the peculiar circumstances in which they are now placed, will not prove altogether out of place, or unacceptable. The Bannerworth family then were well known in the part of the country where they resided. Perhaps, if we were to say they were better known by name than they were liked, on account of that name, we should be near the truth, for it had unfortunately happened that for a very considerable time past the head of the family had been the very worst specimen of it that could be procured. While the junior branches were frequently amiable and most intelligent, and such in mind and manner as were calculated to inspire goodwill in all who knew them, he who held the family property, and who resided in the house now occupied by Flora and her brothers, was a very so-so sort of character.

This state of things, by some strange fatality, had gone on for nearly a hundred years, and the consequence was what might have been fairly expected, namely — that, what with their vices and what with their extravagancies, the successive heads of the Bannerworth family had succeeded in so far diminishing the family property that, when it came into the hands of Henry Bannerworth, it was of little value, on account of the numerous encumbrances with which it was saddled.

The father of Henry had not been a very brilliant exception to the general rule, as regarded the head of the family.

If he were not quite so bad as many of his ancestors, that gratifying circumstance was to be accounted for by the supposition that he was not quite so bold, and that the changes in habits, manners, and laws, which had taken place in a hundred years, made it not so easy for even a landed proprietor to play the petty tyrant.

He had, to get rid of those animal spirits which had prompted many of his predecessors to downright crimes, had recourse to the gaming table, and, after raising whatever sums he could upon the property which remained, he naturally, and as might have been fully expected, lost them all.

He was found lying dead in the garden of the house one day, and by his side was his pocket-book, on one leaf of which, it was the impression of the family, he had endeavoured to write something previous to his decease, for he held a pencil firmly in his grasp.

The probability was that he had felt himself getting ill, and, being desirous of making some communication to his family which pressed heavily upon his mind, he had attempted to do so, but was stopped by the too rapid approach of the hand of death.

For some days previous to his decease, his conduct had been extremely mysterious. He had announced an intention of leaving England for ever — of selling the house and grounds for whatever they would fetch over and above the sums for which they were mortgaged, and so clearing himself of all encumbrances.

He had, but a few hours before he was found lying dead, made the following singular speech to Henry, —

"Do not regret, Henry, that the old house which has been in our family so long is about to be parted with. Be assured that, if it is but for the first time in my life, I have good and substantial reasons now for what I am about to do. We shall be able to go to some other country, and there live like princes of the land."

Where the means were to come from to live like a prince, unless Mr. Bannerworth had some of the German princes in his eye, no one knew but himself, and his sudden death buried with him dhat most important secret.

There were some words written on the leaf of his pocket-book, but they were of by far too indistinct and ambiguous a nature to lead to anything. They were these: —

"The money is — — "

* *

(Original Page 39 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

And then there was a long scrawl of the pencil, which seemed to have been occasioned by his sudden decease. Of course nothing could be made of these words, except in the way of a contradiction, as the family lawyer said, rather more facetiously than a man of law usually speaks, for if he had written "The money is not," he would have been somewhere remarkably near the truth.

However, with all his vices he was regretted by his children, who chose rather to remember him in his best aspect than to dwell upon his faults.

For the first time then, within the memory of man, the head of the family of the Bannerworths was a gentleman, in every sense of the word. Brave, generous, highly educated, and full of many excellent and noble qualities — for such was Henry, whom we have introduced to our readers under such distressing circumstances.

And now, people said, that the family property having been all dissipated and lost, there would take place a change, and that the Bannerworths would have to take some course of honourable industry for a livelihood, and that then they would be as much respected as they had before been detested and disliked.

Indeed, the position which Henry held was now a most precarious one — for one of the amazingly clever acts of his father had been to encumber the property with overwhelming claims, so that when Henry administered to the estate, it was doubted almost by his attorney if it were at all desirable to do so.

An attachment, however, to the old house of his family, had induced the young man to hold possession of it as long as he could, despite any adverse circumstance which might eventually be connected with it. Some weeks, however, only after the decease of his father, and when he fairly held possession, a sudden and a most unexpected offer came to him from a solicitor in London, of whom he knew nothing, to purchase the house and grounds, for a client of his, who had instructed him so to do, but whom he did not mention.

The offer made was a liberal one, and beyond the value of the place.

The lawyer who had conducted Henry's affairs for him since his father's decease, advised him by all means to take it; but after a consultation with his mother and sister, and George, they all resolved to hold by their own house as long as they could, and, consequently, he refused the offer.

He was then asked to let the place, and to name his own price for the occupation of it; but that he would not do: so the negotiation went off altogether, leaving only, in the minds of the family, much surprise at the exceeding eagerness of some one, whom they knew not, to get possession of the place on any terms.

There was another circumstance perhaps which materially aided in producing a strong feeling on the minds of the Bannerworths, with regard to remaining where they were.

That circumstance occurred thus: a relation of the family, who was now dead, and with whom had died all his means, had been in the habit, for the last half dozen years of his life, of sending a hundred pounds to Henry, for the express purpose of enabling him and his brother George and his sister Flora to take a little continental or home tour, in the autumn of the year.

A more acceptable present, or for a more delightful purpose, to young people, could not be found; and, with the quiet, prudent habits of all three of them, they contrived to go far and to see much for the sum which was thus handsomely placed at their disposal.

In one of those excursions, when among the mountains of Italy, an adventure occurred which placed the life of Flora in imminent hazard. They were riding along a narrow mountain path, and, her horse slipping, she fell over the ledge of a precipice.

In an instant, a young man, a stranger to the whole party, who was travelling in the vicinity, rushed to the spot, and by his knowledge and exertions, they felt convinced her preservation was effected.

# Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder by Kate Lu

He told her to lie quiet; he encouraged her to hope for immediate succour; and then, with much personal exertion, and at immense risk to himself, he reached the ledge of rock on which she lay, and then he supported her until the brothers had gone to a neighbouring house, which, by-the-bye, was two good English miles off, and got assistance.

There came on, while they were gone, terrific storm, which rather conveniently mirrored the tumult of emotions roiling within Flora. She knew that without this stranger's help, she surely would have fallen to her death, and therefore, the only logical thing she could do was fall in love with him. Both she and her brothers thanked him profusely for his heroic efforts.

The stranger, who finally gave his name as Charles Holland, was of course likewise smitten with Flora, because that is exactly what happens when you rescue a beautiful woman from certain death. Although he had to leave England to attend to some mysterious family affairs, the siblings promised him that he would always be welcome at the Bannerworth home, knowing that the half hour he must have known the woman would form an everlasting bond of affection between them. Mr. Holland also prayed that the whole "absence makes the heart grow fonder" thing was true, because he would be gone for two years.

A year later, Flora's father expired, and she despaired of ever seeing Mr. Holland again—or at least, for another year while he was away on the continent. Although she longed to visit him, or at least to finally sell the Bannerworths' drafty old house, she thought that, much like a lost dog, he would first seek her out at home upon his return, and so she remained there.

Now, Mrs. Bannerworth had a distant relation named Mr. Marchdale, who in their youth was rather creepily fixated on his cousin and courted her. She, being a seemingly sensible woman, turned him down but, in typical fashion, married the worst suitor of the lot that attempted to woo her: Mr. Bannerworth. Realizing her mistake, she longed to divorce her husband, but ultimately chose not to, things being what they were in those days before the women's rights movements.

However, one month after Mr. Bannerworth departed this world, someone called upon the widow. That one was Mr. Marchdale.

# CHAPTER VII - THE VISIT TO THE VAULT OF THE BANNERWORTHS, AND IT'S UNPLEASANT RESULT - THE MYSTERY by Lindsey Cline Sutton

FADE IN:

INT. HOUSE OF BANNERWORTHS - NIGHT

HENRY BANNERWORTH (35), head of family, GEORGE BANNERWORTH (37), a sibling of not much importance, awoke their sweet, bethrothed sister, FLORA BANNERWORTH (27).

HENRY

Flora, sorry to wake you. How are you feeling?

FLORA

I slept a long time, but I'm feeling quite refreshed now. not had any horrible dreams.

George pats Flora's sheets lovingly.

GEORGE

Thank Heavens!

FLORA

If you will tell dear mother that I am awake, I will get up with her assistance.

Henry and George nod acceptably and leave the room.

INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS Henry and George step lightly down the hall.

HENRY

She is recovering nicely.

GEORGE

I cannot believe she didn't need us to stay and is okay today being alone.

HENRY

Yes, if we could now persuade ourselves that all of this alarm would pass away, and that we should hear no more of it, we might return to our old happy lives.

room.

GEORGE

Let us believe Henry, that we shall. Henry stops short in the hall.

HENRY

And yet, George, I shall not be satisfied in my mind, until I have paid a visit.

GEORGE

A visit where?

HENRY

To the family vault.

George excitedly gets closer to Henry.

GEORGE

Indeed Henry! I thought you had abandoned that idea?

HENRY

I had. But it came across my mind again. Everything that has happened has confirmed a belief in the most horrible of all superstitions. Vampires.

George still excited stares at Henry's apprehensive face.

GEORGE

It has.

HENRY

Now, my great objective George, is to endeavour to disturb such a thing, by getting something however slight, or of a negative character, for the mind to rest upon on the other side of the question.

GEORGE

Ah, yes.

HENRY

At present we are not only led to believe that we have been visited by a vampire, but that that vampire is our ancestor, whose portrait is on the panel of the wall of the chamber into which he made his way.

* *

(Original Page 43 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"True, most true."

"Then let us, by an examination of the family vault, George, put an end to one of the evidences. If we find, as most surely we shall, the coffin of the ancestor of ours, who seems, in dress and appearance, so horribly mixed up in this affair, we shall be at rest on that head."

"But consider how many years have elapsed." "Yes, a great number." "What then, do you suppose, could remain of any corpse placed in a vault so long ago?"

"Decomposition must of course have done its work, but still there must be a something to show that a corpse has so undergone the process common to all nature. Double the lapse of time surely could not obliterate all traces of that which had been."

"There is reason in that, Henry."

"Besides, the coffins are all of lead, and some of stone, so that they cannot have all gone."

"True, most true."

"If in the one which, from the inscription and date, we discover to be that of our ancestor whom we seek, we find the evident remains of a corpse, we shall be satisfied that he has rested in his tomb in peace."

"Brother, you seem bent on this adventure," said George; "if you go, I will accompany you."

"I will not engage rashly in it, George. Before I finally decide, I will again consult with Mr. Marchdale. His opinion will weigh much with me."

"And in good time, here he comes across the garden," said George, as he looked from the window of the room in which they sat.

It was Mr. Marchdale, and the brothers warmly welcomed him as he entered the apartment.

"You have been early afoot," said Henry.

"I have," he said. "The fact is, that although at your solicitation I went to bed, I could not sleep, and I went out once more to search about the spot where we had seen the — the I don't know what to call it, for I have a great dislike to naming it a vampyre."

"There is not much in a name," said George.?"In this instance there is," said Marchdale. "It is a name suggestive of horror." "Made you any discovery?" said Henry.?

"None whatever."?

"You saw no trace of any one?"?

"Not the least." "Well, Mr. Marchdale, George and I were talking over this projected visit to the family vault."

"Yes."

* *

(Original Page 44 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"And we agreed to suspend our judgments until we saw you, and learned your opinion." "Which I will tell you frankly," said Mr. Marchdale, "because I know you desire it freely." "Do so." "It is, you should make the visit."

"Indeed."

"Yes, and for this reason. You have now, as you cannot help having, a disagreeable feeling, that you may find that one coffin is untenanted. Now, if you do fine it so, you scarcely make matters worse, by an additional confirmation of what already amounts to a strong supposition, and one which is likely to grow stronger by time."

"True, most true."

"On the contrary, if you find indubitable proofs that your ancestor has slept soundly in the tomb, and gone the way of all flesh, you will find yourselves much calmer, and that an attack is made upon the train of events which at present all run one way."

"That is precisely the argument I was using to George," said Henry, "a few moments since." "Then let us go," said George, "by all means." "It is so decided then," said Henry.?"Let it be done with caution," replied Mr. Marchdale.

"If any one can manage it, of course we can."

"Why should it not be done secretly and at night? Of course we lose nothing by making a night visit to a vault into which daylight, I presume, cannot penetrate."

"Certainly not." "Then let it be at night." "But we shall surely require the concurrence of some of the church authorities."

"Nay, I do not see that," interposed Mr. Marchdale. "It is to the vault actually vested in and belonging to yourself you wish to visit, and, therefore, you have a right to visit it in any manner or at any time that may be most suitable to yourself."

"But detection in a clandestine visit might produce unpleasant consequences."

"The church is old," said George, "and we could easily find means of getting into it. There is only one objection that I see, just now, and that is, that we leave Flora unprotected."

"We do, indeed," said Henry. "I did not think of that."

"It must be put to herself, as a matter for her own consideration," said Mr. Marchdale, "if she will consider herself sufficiently safe with the company and protection of your mother only."

"It would be a pity were we not all three present at the examination of the coffin," remarked Henry.

# Ample Evidence by MM Wittle

from Varny the Vampire

We must not give Flora a night

of sleeplessness and uneasiness.

We cannot well explain to her

where we are going, or upon what errand.

Certainly not.

There is a trap-door at the bottom

of the pew. It is not only secured down

but it is locked likewise

and I have the key in my possession.

Indeed!

Immediately beneath is a short flight of stone steps

which conduct at once into the vault.

There can be no difficulties, then

None whatever,

unless we meet with actual personal

interruption, which I am inclined to think is very far

from likely. We shall require

a screwdriver, with which to remove

the screws, and then something with which to wrench

open the coffin.

I hope to heaven

this visit to the tomb

will have the effect of easing

your minds, and enable you to make a successful stand

against the streaming torrent of evidence

that has poured in upon us regarding this most fearful of apparitions.

I will go at once to Flora,

and endeavour to convince her she is safe

without us to-night.

All this being arranged, Henry proceeded to Flora, and told her that he and George, and Mr. Marchdale wished to go out for about a couple of hours in the evening after dark, if she felt sufficiently well to feel a sense of security without them.

Flora changed colour,

and slightly trembled,

and then, as if ashamed

of her fears, she said, —

" _Go, go; I will not detain you. Surely no harm can come to me in presence of my mother."_

# Film Noir Varney by Judyth Mermelstein

(starring Humphrey Bogart as Henry and the young Katharine Hepburn as Flora)

=================

(FLORA'S DRAWING ROOM. HENRY pays a morning call to FLORA to tell her he, GEORGE and MARCHCDALE will go out after dark, leaving her alone, if she's not too frightened. He will not tell her they are planning to descend into the crypt where Varney keeps his coffin.)

"Oh, I shall be quite content. Besides, am I to be kept thus in fear all my life? Surely, surely not. I ought, too, to learn to defend myself.

HENRY: I'll leave you my guns if you've got the guts to use them.

FLORA: You just try to stop me.

hENRY: (sets pair of revolvers on table) They're loaded and the safeties are off. If anyone shows up, don't wait: aim low and keep firing 'til they're empty.

FLORA: I will. The cad deserves it. I'd rather die than submit to another visit like the last one.

HENRY: Shut up about it, kiddo. Talking only makes it worse. I'm still hoping it turns out you just got scared and overreacted. We'll leave an hour after sundown and be back in a couple of hours. Read a magazine or something and you'll be fine.

CROSS-FADE TO:

CHURCH PORCH - NIGHT - DARK AND WINDYs

FX - NIGHT SOUNDS: OWL HOOT, CRACKING BRANCH, etc.

HENRY waits impatiently on the steps for GEORGE, MARCHDALE and CHILLINGWORTH. He jumps at sounds, looks around, laughs nervously, turns to light a cigarette.

GEORGE and MARCHDALE come up quietly behind him. GEORGE has a heavy satchel of tools; MARCHDAlE is carrying a long iron crowbar.

HENRY is startled, tries to look nonchalant, tosses his cigarette.

MARCHDALE: Flora okay with being left alone?

HENRY: Yeah. She's scared to death after what she's been through but I left her a couple of Roscoes and she knows how to use 'em. she'll be fine.

"It would have driven some really mad."

# The Old Elephant Gun by James Garrison

"It would. Indeed. Her own reason tottered on its throne. Thank Heaven she has recovered."

"I fervently hope that she may never have another such trial." added Marchdale,

"Such a thing can not possibly occur twice."

"She is exceptional. Quite exceptional. Few could hope to recover from the fearful shock she has suffered. Few indeed." A passing note of suspicion hung in the air for only a moment.

"Not only has she recovered, but a spirit of resistance now possesses her." Henry gushed proudly, oblivious to all but his desperate need for everything to return to normal again. Marchdale chose not to force the issue. Instead he'd keep his peace. Watch. Wait. There would be some sign if she was tainted by her unwholesome experience. Corruption such as that peddled by the vampyre would show itself soon enough if it had indeed polluted her blood. And he would stand ready to do what Henry would never be able to do. Poor Henry.

"Yes, she actually," Marchdale coughed, surreptitiously adjusted the gun in his coat pocket; "I forgot to tell you before — but she actually asked me for a weapon in order to resist any second visitation."

"That surprises me." Henry scowled. The very thought seemed singularly unappealing to him. It was distinctly unfeminine. Disturbing. It opened doors to things she might do that made him uncomfortable.

"Yes, I was surprised myself. And pleased. Really."

Henry gawped at Marchdale. Incomprehension dulled his eyes.

"I would have left her one of my pistols had I been aware of her request. Can she use a hand-gun?" Henry tried to recover his sense of moral equilibrium.

"Yes. Quite well actually." Marchdale smirked.

"What a pity. I have both of mine with me." Henry re-checked his weapons for the thirtieth time in the last twenty minutes. His hands were shaking. This whole affair had unsettled him greatly.

"I took care of it." Marchdale confided with a sinister smile.

"You did?"

"Yes; I found some pistols and an old elephant gun that I used to take with me hunting on the continent. She has them all under her pillow or her comforter. All within easy reach. Loaded. Ready to fire. If the vampyre makes his appearance, he is likely to meet with rather a warm reception."

"Good God! Isn't that a bit dangerous?" Henry paused on the verge of accusing Marchdale of being irresponsible. But he caught himself. Barely.

"Not at all. Not for us." The older man stared coldly at his younger colleague.

"Well, you probably know best. I hope the vampyre does come. I want to see him dead. I want to be done with this horrid business once and for all." Henry could not meet Marchdale's smoldering gaze. It as much accused him of being less of a man without need for the words.

"As do we all." Marchdale nodded. But he wondered just how much young Henry really meant it. He had seen something of the world in his travels. He'd seen young men succumb to the strain on their nerves. And they had all been under substantial nervous strain of late. Henry was starting to crack. He was almost sure of it. He just wasn't sure what to do about it. Yet.

"Bless me, I forgot to get the materials for lights, which I intended to do."

"A most unfortunate oversight..."

"Walk on slowly. I'll run back and get them."

"We are too far — "

"Hilloa!" cried a man some distance in front of them.

"It is Mr. Chillingworth," Henry sighed in relief.

"Hilloa," cried the worthy doctor again. "Is that you, my friend, Henry Bannerworth?"

"It is," cried Henry.

Mr. Chillingworth now came up to them, and said, —

* *

(Original Page 48 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"I was before my time, so rather than wait at the church porch, which would have exposed me to observation perhaps, I thought it better to walk on, and chance meeting with you."

"You guessed we should come this way?"

"Yes, and so it turns out, really. It is unquestionably your most direct route to the church."

"I think I will go back," said Mr. Marchdale.

"Back!" exclaimed the doctor; "what for?"

"I forgot the means of getting lights. We have candles, but no means of lighting them."

"Make yourselves easy on that score," said Mr. Chillingworth. "I am never without some chemical matches of my own manufacture, so that as you have the candles, that can be no bar to our going on at once."

"That is fortunate," said Henry.

"Very," added Marchdale; "for it seems a mile's hard walking for me, or at least half a mile from the hall. Let us now push on."

They did push on, all four walking at a brisk pace. The church, although it belonged to the village, was not in it. On the contrary, it was situated at the end of a long lane, which was a mile nearly from the village, in the direction of the hall; therefore, in going to it from the hall, that amount of distance was saved, although it was always called and considered the village church.

It stood alone, with the exception of a glebe house and two cottages, that were occupied by persons who held situations about the sacred edifice, and who were supposed, being on the spot, to keep watch and ward over it.

It was an ancient building of the early English style of architecture, or rather Norman, with one of those antique, square, short towers, built of flint stones firmly embedded in cement, which, from time, had acquired almost the consistency of stone itself. There were numerous arched windows, partaking something of the more florid gothic style, although scarcely ornamental enough to be called such. The edifice stood in the centre of a grave-yard, which extended over a space of about half an acre, and altogether it was one of the prettiest and most rural old churches within many miles of the spot.

Many a lover of the antique and of the picturesque, for it was both, went out of his way while travelling in the neighbourhood to look at it, and it had an extensive and well-deserved reputation as a fine specimen of its class and style of building.

In Kent, to the present day, are some fine specimens of the old Roman style of church building; and, although they are as rapidly pulled down as the abuse of modern architects, and the cupidity of speculators, and the vanity of clergymen can possibly encourage, in order to erect flimsy, Italianised structures in their stead, yet sufficient of them remain dotted over England to interest the traveller. At Willesden there is a church of this description, which will well repay a visit. This, then, was the kind of building into which it was the intention of our four friends to penetrate, not on an unholy, or an unjustifiable errand, but on one which, proceeding from good and proper motives, it was highly desirable to conduct in as secret a manner as possible.

The moon was more densely covered by clouds than it had yet been that evening, when they reached the little wicket-gate which led into the churchyard, through which was a regularly used thoroughfare.

"We have a favourable night," remarked Henry, "for we are not so likely to be disturbed."

"And now, the question is, how are we to get in?" said Mr. Chillingworth, as he paused, and glanced up at the ancient building.

"The doors," said George, "would effectually resist us."

# Poppycock! by Joshua Heights

"How can it be done, then?"

"The only way I can think of, said Henry" is this, there is rear door, used to bring in caskets for funeral services. The door is secured only by a door slide on the inside and it is to my understanding that if the old wooden door is lifted from the bottom , just a wee bit , that the sliding mechanism will loosened from the open wall bracket and the door can be opened and the four of us simply step into the church. How do you know of the malfunctioning door, asked Marchdale? You all know my brother in-law, Seymour? Asked Henry, The drunk? Sounded off George, ah yes, the drunk smiled Henry, keenly. So tell us Henry, says Mr. Chillingworth, what does your inebriated in-law have to do with our situation. Smiling wide and crafty, Henry dooly notes that Seymour, who in fact is the handyman for said church knows where the sweet blood of Christ is kept , and when funds are low uses the described method , on nights such as this , to break into his holy employers sanctuary to capture a few bottles for himself. Thank God, for Seymour! The emancipator of wine, giggled George. It sounds like a plan Mr. Chillingworth said, let's get on with it.

They walked around the church past the burial ground, where shrouded in a dense and heavy fog were dozens of head stones that seemed to hover above the invisible ground.

As the investigative quartet rounds the corner to the rear of the church and approach a trio of concrete stairs that lead to said door, they are brought to a chilling scare at the sight of a mysterious intruder. The intruder too, was shaken by the unexpected visitors, after the tingling running up and down all parties spines, subsided, Henry, in a hushed tone of anger, growled the name Seymour! For it was, the inebriated in-law, at the very same door, caught red handed performing the method of breaking and entering. For god sake man, whispered Marchdale towards Seymour, you gave us quit a scare. Seymour, visibly not sober, with slurred speech and a hiccup inquired, what the dickens are all of you doing here? , there, for sure, is not enough wine for us all. We are not here for the wine you fool, said Henry, annoyed and embarrassed at the sight of the smashed Seymour. Well, that's good garbled Seymour, Let's say we did not all see one another, and do what we each came here for. Deal! Agreed all. So the vampire killers went their way and Seymour stumbled on his, and not a word about the encounter was ever uttered. Once inside Henry, Mr. Chillingworth, George and Marchdale headed towards the tomb, I wonder, said Marchdale, why a place so easily entered in the dark of the night has never been robbed of more than few cheap bottles of wine. Not a wonder, remarked Mr. Chillingworth, look around, I see nothing worth the trouble of stealing that would bring any profit if sold, even if on the black market. I agree whole heartedly spoke George , not even the velvet on the pulpit has any worth, look at it , for it is stained and faded, and this old box , full of dusty old books , not an article worth the trouble of taking . With that said Henry added, "All we have now to do is find our way inside the tomb and extract the object I have in mind and I am certain heaven will forgive me for desecrating the tomb of my ancestors. It does seem wrong to tamper with the secrets of the tomb, commented Marchdale.

"Poppycock! Announced the doctor, what secrets have the tomb, I wonder?"

"Well, but, my dear sir—"

"I disagree, my dear sir, it is high time that death which is, however the fate of us all, should be regarded with rational eyes than it is. There are no secrets in the tomb, which are not meant to be kept secret."

"What do you mean?"

# A Foul Odor Wafting About Us by Kae Tienstra

Mr. Chillingworth sidled up to Henry from behind. "Henry?" he whispered.

"Yes, Mr. Chillingworth?"

"Nothing," said Mr. Chillingworth, taking Henry's hand, "it's just that I seem to detect a foul odor wafting about us."

"Worry not, dear Mr. Chillingworth. Tis but a decomposing corpse or some such." Suddenly Henry reared back in alarm pulling his hand from Chillingworth's grip. "By the love of God, what is that unholy stickiness on your fingers?"

"Silly old Henry," said Mr. Chillingworth. "Hum de dum dum dum. I love honey and my tumbly is so rumbly!"

Henry wiped his fingers on his pants. "Well, for God's sake, this is no time to be eating honey!"

"But it's what I like best," said Mr. Chillingworth, holding a small honey pot and gazing fondly at his friend. "And you, Henry, are so brave and strong!"

"It's a good thing I am," said Henry. "If all men were as tender as you, dear Mr. Chillingworth, they'd never be able to gaze upon a moldering pile of decaying matter without revulsion. Icky things would never be carved up and naughty people wouldn't get what they deserve."

"Don't underestimate the value of just going along," giggled Mr. Chillingworth, skipping ahead of Henry and throwing lit matches in his wake.

"Mr. Chillingworth, my dear Mr. Chillingworth, stop that!" warned Henry. "The church has many windows and those outside may see the light."

"I'm such a miserable, woebegone wretch," moaned Marchdale who was lurking in the shadows, shoulders slumped and head hung low. "And no one notices me or cares a whit!"

"Oh pipe down Marchdale and quit feeling sorry for yourself! Give me a hand here!" said Henry. "We must hold a match low down in the pew to enable us to open the vault so we can search out our old corpse!"

"Some people care too much," sighed Mr. Chillingworth, patting Henry on the shoulder, his fingers still sticky with honey. "Perhaps it's love."

"Not for me," said Marchdale. "No one loves anyone—especially me!"

"Sometimes," said Mr. Chillingworth, grinning mischievously in the dimness and looking down at the pew, "if you sit on a hillside and watch for bluebirds and rainbows your head gets all buzzy."

"What in the name of heaven are you talking about?" asked Henry, an edge creeping into his voice.

"It means just going along, not listening to anything, and not bothering," laughed Mr. Chillingworth.

"Oh dear," said Marchdale. "We're all going to die anyway!" He turned his attention to the pew. "When was the vault last opened?"

"When my father died," sighed Mr. Chillingworth, "some ten months ago now." With that he pulled a bright red balloon out of his large coat pocket and began to enthusiastically inflate it. Between puffs he gushed, "But who can be uncheered with a red balloon!"

"A balloon? No one ever gave ME a balloon," sighed Marchdale.

"Would the two of you please focus your attention?" barked Henry. "I fear the screws have had ample time to fix themselves with fresh rust. I'll use one of my chemical matches to illuminate the area." He stuck the match and a clear and beautiful flame irradiated the pew and lasted about a minute.

"Henry is clever," said Mr. Chillingworth thoughtfully. "No matter how long he lives I want to live a day less so I'll never ever have to be without him!"

"You just may get your chance," groaned Marchdale. "If that vampire is nearby, as I think he is, we may all get bitten and receive life everlasting!"

"Will we be friends forever and ever Henry?" asked Mr. Chillingworth, ignoring Marchdale's comment.

"Enough, enough, I'm trying to see those rusty screws," said Henry, as he bent over the door to the vault. "Aha, I can turn the screws and, even better, I can turn the key in the lock!"

"Oh, joy!" piped Mr. Chillingworth. "Something exciting is bound to happen today!"

Henry continued at his labors and was soon pulling out the rusty screws willy-nilly, even though the only light he had was streaming in from the starry night outside. "Now I shall light another match to enable me to pick up the screws I've loosened," he said triumphantly.

Mr. Chillingworth scuffed his feet and sulked. "If the person you are talking to doesn't listen, be patient. It may simply be that he is humming a merry little tune to himself."

"Or fending off a vampire," sighed Marchdale, shivering in the dark.

* *

(Original Page 51 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Let us descend," said Henry. "There is no further obstacle, my friends. Let us descend."

"If any one," remarked George, in a whisper, as they slowly descended the stairs which conducted into the vault — "if any one had told me that I should be descending into a vault for the purpose of ascertaining if a dead body, which had been nearly a century there, was removed or not, and had become a vampyre, I should have denounced the idea as one of the most absurd that ever entered the brain of a human being."

"We are the very slaves of circumstances," said Marchdale, "and we never know what we may do, or what we may not. What appears to us so improbable as to border even upon the impossible at one time, is at another the only course of action which appears feasibly open to us to attempt to pursue."

They had now reached the vault, the floor of which was composed of flat red tiles, laid in tolerable order the one beside the other. As Henry had stated, the vault was by no means of large extent. Indeed, several of the apartments for the living, at the hall, were much larger than was that one destined for the dead.

The atmosphere was damp and noisome, but not by any means so bad as might have been expected, considering the number of months which had elapsed since last the vault was opened to receive one of its ghastly and still visitants.

"Now for one of your lights, Mr. Chillingworth. You say you have the candle, I think, Marchdale, although you forgot the matches."

"I have. Here they are."

Marchdale took from his pocket a parcel which contained several wax candles, and when it was opened, a smaller packet fell to the ground.

"Why, these are instantaneous matches," said Mr. Chillingworth, as he lifted the small packet up.

"They are; and what a fruitless journey I should have had back to the hall," said Mr. Marchdale, "if you had not been so well provided as you are with the means of getting a light. These matches, which I thought I had not with me, have been, in the hurry of our departure, enclosed, you see, with the candles. Truly, I should have hunted for them at home in vain."

Mr. Chillingworth lit the wax candle which was now handed to him by Marchdale, and in another moment the vault from one end of it to the other was quite discernible.

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(Original Page 52 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

**CHAPTER VIII.** They were all silent for a few moments as they looked around them with natural feelings of curiosity. Two of that party had of course never been in that vault at all, and the brothers, although they had descended into it upon the occasion, nearly a year before, of their father being placed in it, still looked upon it with almost as curious eyes as they who now had their first sight of it.

If a man be at all of a thoughtful or imaginative cast of mind, some curious sensations are sure to come over him, upon standing in such a place, where he knows around him lie, in the calmness of death, those in whose veins have flowed kindred blood to him — who bore the same name, and who preceded him in the brief drama of his existence, influencing his destiny and his position in life probably largely by their actions compounded of their virtues and their vices.

Henry Bannerworth and his brother George were just the kind of persons to feel strongly such sensations. Both were reflective, imaginative, educated young men, and, as the light from the wax candle flashed upon their faces, it was evident how deeply they felt the situation in which they were placed.

Mr. Chillingworth and Marchdale were silent. They both knew what was passing in the minds of the brothers, and they had too much delicacy to interrupt a train of thought which, although from having no affinity with the dead who lay around, they could not share in, yet they respected. Henry at length, with a sudden start, seemed to recover himself from his reverie.

"This is a time for action, George," he said, "and not for romantic thought. Let us proceed."

"Yes, yes," said George, and he advanced a step towards the centre of the vault.

"Can you find out among all these coffins, for there seem to be nearly twenty," said Mr. Chillingworth, "which is the one we seek?"

"I think we may," replied Henry. "Some of the earlier coffins of our race, I know, were made of marble, and others of metal, both of which materials, I expect, would withstand the encroaches of time for a hundred years, at least."

"Let us examine," said George.

There were shelves or niches built into the walls all round, on which the coffins were placed, so that there could not be much difficulty in a minute examination of them all, the one after the other.

When, however, they came to look, they found that "decay's offensive fingers" had been more busy than they could have imagined, and that whatever they touched of the earlier coffins crumbled into dust before their very fingers.

In some cases the inscriptions were quite illegible, and, in others, the plates that had borne them had fallen on to the floor of the vault, so that it was impossible to say to which coffin they belonged.

Of course, the more recent and fresh-looking coffins they did not examine, because they could not have anything to do with the object of that melancholy visit.

"We shall arrive at no conclusion," said George. "All seems to have rotted away among those coffins where we might expect to find the one belonging to Marmaduke Bannerworth, our ancestor."

"Here is a coffin plate," said Marchdale, taking one from the floor. He handed it to Mr. Chillingworth, who, upon an inspection of it, close to the light, exclaimed, —

# Marmaduke Bannerworth by Adam Bertocci

" **It must have belonged to the coffin you seek."**

"Read it to me. Can't see shit in here."

"All right, all right. 'Ye mortale remains of Marmaduke Bannerworth, Yeoman. God reste his soule.' With letter E's afterwards, after those words. 'A.D. 1640.' A good year for baseball."

"What's with that 'ye' thing?"

"It meant 'the', back then. The Y was a thorn. Look, we're getting off track."

"You're telling me," mumbled Henry. "So I'm guessing this screws us."

George nodded. "Well, unless you can figure out which coffin this goes to. I bet a lot lose their plates. It's not like the occupants complain."

"Nothing's built to last."

"Wait. Wait. Okay," put in Marchdale. "I got kind of an outside-the-box solution for ya. From the things you pick up in pursuit of antiquarian lore. I used to love old stuff. But it ain't what it used to be."

"Right."

"Here's the thing. There's kind of, like, two parts to a coffin—there's the pretty wooden part on the outside and then there's the metal on the inside that holds the box together, keeps the corpse from stinking up the place, you know. Well, wood rots. You can break it apart with your hands."

"Cool beans," said Henry. "This helps us how?"

"Check the engraving. On the inside of the lid, the metal lid. They put names and ranks and stuff there so they can match people up if this exact sort of thing happens. Coffin plates are always falling off. It's like lost socks."

"You sure?"

"Hand to God," said Marchdale.

"Dang," said Mr. Chillingworth. "Dude just dropped some knowledge on us. See if ol' what's-his-name was buried in a lead coffin."

"It's pretty much standard procedure," said Marchdale.

Henry seized the light and grabbed the first coffin he found, clawing at the woodwork, and then called, "Well, shit. It's all lead."

"What's the inscription?" asked George.

"Oh, just some guy."

"Okay, let's do this," said Marchdale. "All we need to check is lead coffins without plates. There can't be that many. We'll be out of here in twenty. Gimme a light."

They touched wicks and commenced with the search. There were more unlabeled coffins than initially expected, and the small talk abated after a moment, and for ten or so minutes the only sound was the peeling of wet, rotting wood.

Then Mr. Marchdale started giggling. "Found it, you dicks."

They all congregated, and Marchdale stabbed his finger at the lid of a coffin, which he'd rubbed with his handkerchief, revealing hidden words. "Check it out," he murmured. "Candles up."

And the words appeared: 'Marmaduke Bannerworth, Yeoman. 1640.'

"What's a yeoman?" asked George.

"Not now," said Henry. "Folks, I think I found our coffin. Which leads us to the fun part."

"You know it," said Marchdale, and he raised an iron crowbar. "Been too long since we had a good crowbar party 'round these parts. Well, gentlemen, all I need is your formal approval to violate the final resting place of Marmaduke Bannerworth: **Shall I open the coffin?"**

***

(Original Page 54 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Do so — do so," said Henry.

They stood around in silence, while Mr. Marchdale, with much care, proceeded to open the coffin, which seemed of great thickness, and was of solid lead.

It was probably the partial rotting of the metal, in consequence of the damps of that place, what made it easier to open the coffin than it otherwise would have been, but certain it was that the top came away remarkably easily. Indeed, so easily did it come off, that another supposition might have been hazarded, namely, that it had never been effectively fastened.

The few moments that elapsed were ones of very great suspense to every one there present; and it would, indeed, be quite safe to assert, that all the world was for the time forgotten in the absorbing interest which appertained to the affair which was in progress.

The candles were now both held by Mr. Chillingworth, and they were so held as to cast a full and clear light upon the coffin. Now the lid slid off, and Henry eagerly gazed into the interior.

There lay something certainly there, and an audible "Thank God!" escaped his lips.?"The body is there!" exclaimed George.?"All right," said Marchdale, "here it is. There is something, and what else can it be?" "Hold the lights," said Mr. Chillingworth; "hold the lights, some of you; let us be quite certain."

George took the lights, and Mr. Chillingworth, without any hesitation, dipped his hands at once into the coffin, and took up some fragments of rags which were there. They were so rotten, that they fell to pieces in his grasp, like so many pieces of tinder.

There was a death-like pause for some few moments, and then Mr. Chillingworth said, in a low voice, —

"There is not the least vestige of a dead body here."

Henry gave a deep groan, as he said, —

"Mr. Chillingworth, can you take upon yourself to say that no corpse has undergone the process of decomposition in this coffin?"

"To answer your question exactly, as probably in your hurry you have worded it," said Mr. Chillingworth, "I cannot take upon myself to say any such thing; but this I can say, namely, that in this coffin there are no animal remains, and that it is quite impossible that any corpse enclosed here could, in any lapse of time, have so utterly and entirely disappeared."

"I am answered," said Henry.

"Good God!" exclaimed George, "and has this but added another damning proof, to those we have already on our minds, of one of the most dreadful superstitions that ever the mind of man conceived?"

"It would seem so," said Marchdale sadly.

"Oh, that I were dead! This is terrible. God of heaven, why are these things? Oh, if I were but dead, and so spared the torture of supposing such things possible."

"Think again, Mr. Chillingworth; I pray you think again," cried Marchdale.

"If I were to think for the remainder of my existence," he replied, "I could come to no other conclusion. It is not a matter of opinion; it is a matter of fact."

* *

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"You are positive, then," said Henry, "that the dead body of Marmaduke Bannerworth has not rested here?"

"I am positive. Look for yourselves. The lead is but slightly discoloured; it looks tolerably clean and fresh; there is not a vestige of putrefaction — no bones, no dust even."

They did all look for themselves, and the most casual glance was sufficient to satisfy the most sceptical.

"All is over," said Henry; "let us now leave this place; and all I can now ask of you, my friends, is to lock this dreadful secret deep in your own hearts."

"It shall never pass my lips," said Marchdale.

"Nor mine, you may depend," said the doctor. "I was much in hopes that this night's work would have had the effect of dissipating, instead of adding to, the gloomy fancies that now possess you."

"Good heavens!" cried George, "can you call them fancies, Mr. Chillingworth?" "I do, indeed." "Have you yet a doubt?"

"My young friend, I told you from the first, that I would not believe in your vampyre; and I tell you now, that if one was to come and lay hold of me by the throat, as long as I could at all gasp for breath I would tell him he was a d — — d impostor."

"This is carrying incredulity to the verge of obstinacy." "Far beyond it, if you please." "You will not be convinced?" said Marchdale.?"I most decidedly, on this point, will not."

"Then you are one who would doubt a miracle, if you saw it with your own eyes."

"I would, because I do not believe in miracles. I should endeavour to find some rational and some scientific means of accounting for the phenomenon, and that's the very reason why we have no miracles now-a-days, between you and I, and no prophets and saints, and all that sort of thing."

"I would rather avoid such observations in such a place as this," said Marchdale.

"Nay, do not be the moral coward," cried Mr. Chillingworth, "to make your opinions, or the expression of them, dependent upon any certain locality."

"I know not what to think," said Henry; "I am bewildered quite. Let us now come away."

Mr. Marchdale replaced the lid of the coffin, and then the little party moved towards the staircase. Henry turned before he ascended, and glanced back into the vault.

"Oh," he said, "if I could but think there had been some mistake, some error of judgment, on which the mind could rest for hope."

"I deeply regret," said Marchdale, "that I so strenuously advised this expedition. I did hope that from it would have resulted much good."

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"And you have every reason so to hope," said Chillingworth. "I advised it likewise, and I tell you that its result perfectly astonishes me, although I will not allow myself to embrace at once all the conclusions to which it would seem to lead me."

"I am satisfied," said Henry; "I know you both advised me for the best. The curse of Heaven seems now to have fallen upon me and my house."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Chillingworth. "What for?"

"Alas! I know not."

"Then you may depend that Heaven would never act so oddly. In the first place, Heaven don't curse anybody; and, in the second, it is too just to inflict pain where pain is not amply deserved."

They ascended the gloomy staircase of the vault. The countenances of both George and Henry were very much saddened, and it was quite evident that their thoughts were by far too busy to enable them to enter into any conversation. They did not, and particularly George, seem to hear all that was said to them. Their intellects seemed almost stunned by the unexpected circumstance of the disappearance of the body of their ancestor.

All along they had, although almost unknown to themselves, felt a sort of conviction that hey must find some remains of Marmaduke Bannerworth, which would render the supposition, even in the most superstition minds, that he was the vampyre, a thing totally and physically impossible.

But now the whole question assumed a far more bewildering shape. The body was not in its coffin — it had not there quietly slept the long sleep of death common to humanity. Where was it then? What had become of it? Where, how, and under what circumstances had it been removed? Had it itself burst the bands that held it, and hideously stalked forth into the world again to make one of its seeming inhabitants, and kept up for a hundred years a dreadful existence by such adventures as it had consummated at the hall, where, in the course of ordinary human life, it had once lived?

All these were questions which irresistibly pressed themselves upon the consideration of Henry and his brother. They were awful questions.

And yet, take any sober, sane, thinking, educated man, and show him all that they had seen, subject him to all which they had been subjected, and say if human reason, and all the arguments that the subtlest brain could back it with, would be able to hold out against such a vast accumulation of horrible evidences, and say, — "I don't believe it."

Mr. Chillingworth's was the only plan. He would not argue the question. He said at once, —

"I will not believe this thing — upon this point I will yield to no evidence whatever."

That was the only way of disposing of such a question; but there are not many who could so dispose of it, and not one so much interested in it as were the brothers Bannerworth, who could at all hope to get into such a state of mind.

The boards were laid carefully down again, and the screws replaced. Henry found himself unequal to the task, so it was done by Marchdale, who took pains to replace everything in the same state in which they had found it, even to laying the matting at the bottom of the pew.

Then they extinguished the light, and, with heavy hearts, they all walked towards the window, to leave the sacred edifice by the same means they had entered it. "Shall we replace the pane of glass?" said Marchdale. "Oh, it matters not — it matters not," said Henry, listlessly; "nothing matters now. I care not what becomes of me — am getting weary of a life which now must be one of misery and dread."

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"You must not allow yourself to fall into such a state of mind as this," said the doctor, "or you will become a patient of mine very quickly."

"I cannot help it." "Well, but be a man. If there are serious evils affecting you, fight out against them the best way you can." "I cannot." "Come, now, listen to me. We need not, I think, trouble ourselves about the pane of glass, so come along." He took the arm of Henry and walked on with him a little in advance of the others.

"Henry," he said, "the best way, you may depend, of meeting evils, be they great or small, is to get up an obstinate feeling of defiance against them. Now, when anything occurs which is uncomfortable to me, I endeavour to convince myself, and I have no great difficulty in doing so, that I am a decidedly injured man."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; I get very angry, and that gets up a kind of obstinacy, which makes me not feel half so much mental misery as would be my portion if I were to succumb to the evil, and commence whining over it, as many people do, under the pretence of being resigned."

"But this family affliction of mine transcends anything that anybody else ever endured." "I don't know that; but it is a view of the subject which, if I were you, would only make me more obstinate." "What can I do?"

"In the first place, I would say to myself, 'There may or there may not be supernatural beings, who, from some physical derangement of the ordinary nature of things, make themselves obnoxious to living people; if there are, d — n them! There may be vampyres; and if there are, I defy them.' Let the imagination paint its very worst terrors; let fear do what it will and what it can in peopling the mind with horrors. Shrink from nothing, and even then I would defy them all."

"Is not that like defying Heaven?"

"Most certainly not; for in all we say and in all we do we act from the impulses of that mind which is given to us by Heaven itself. If Heaven creates an intellect and a mind of a certain order, Heaven will not quarrel that it does the work which it was adapted to do."

"I know these are your opinions. I have heard you mention them before."

"They are the opinions of every rational person, Henry Bannerworth, because they will stand the test of reason; and what I urge upon you is, not to allow yourself to be mentally prostrated, even if a vampyre had paid a visit to your house. Defy him, say I — fight him. Self-preservation is a great law of nature, implanted in all our hearts; do you summon it to your aid."

"I will endeavour to think as you would have me. I though more than once of summoning religion to my aid." "Well, that is religion." "Indeed!"

"I consider so, and the most rational religion of all. All that we read about religion that does not seem expressly to agree with it, you may consider as an allegory."

# Believe you too in Santa Claus? By Gaele L. Hince

"But, Mr. Chillingworth, I cannot and will not renounce the sublime truths of Scripture.

Tis true the Bible is a book

Full of tales wild and old

But contained within

The price for sin

Written out so bold.

Laws of Heaven,

Clearly writ

Applied to one and all

I shan't renounce,

Nor shall I pounce

On faithless remonstration.

It is a miracle I see

Not ready for demonstration. "

"Believe you too

In Santa Claus, a

Jolly fat old elf?

I'll rely on proof scientific

Over milk-toast soporific

Tis faith I have in myself. "

Retorted Mr. Chillingworth

Dismayed at the conversation, Henry and George watched the banter like spectators at Wimbledon, slightly tilted forward to see the amiable expression on Marchdale's face contrasting with the stony set of jaw of Mr. Chillingworth.

Marchdale, erroneously believing that the silence meant he had scored a point for faith, did not see the slight sneer appear as Chillingworth thought over his words: the sneer of dismissal of an idea not worth further contemplation. Henry and George, however, did see the sneer, and chose to believe he thought himself bested in the face of such stalwart and unshakeable faith.

Meanwhile, Marchdale had been trying to reconcile the good man's appalling lack of faith, in an otherwise admirable life. Some things just ARE, he asserted, with a lift of his chin, just are.

Since the small group had reached the point where they travelled in differing directions, they stopped to shake hands and say their goodbyes.

"I shall take my leave, please inform Flora that I shall see her in the morning" said Mr. Chillingworth with a tip of his hat, he turned on his heels and headed off.

Marchdale looked to his companions Henry and George, shrugged his shoulders, and set off homewards. The conversation was earnest, as he explained to the boys that Mr. Chillingworth was a good man, and would come around in time. It was evident that the scene in the vault had made a deep and saddening impression on them, and one which was not likely easily to be eradicated.

***

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**CHAPTER IX.** Despite the full and free consent which Flora had given to her brothers to entrust her solely to the care of her mother and her own courage at the hall, she felt greater fear creep over her after they were gone than she chose to acknowledge.

A sort of presentiment appeared to come over her that some evil was about to occur, and more than once she caught herself almost in the act of saying, —

"I wish they had not gone."

Mrs. Bannerworth, too, could not be supposed to be entirely destitute of uncomfortable feelings, when she came to consider how poor a guard she was over her beautiful child, and how much terror might even deprive of the little power she had, should the dreadful visiter again make his appearance.

"But it is but for two hours," thought Flora, "and two hours will soon pass away."

There was, too, another feeling which gave her some degree of confidence, although it arose from a bad source, inasmuch as it was one which showed powerfully how much her mind was dwelling on the particulars of the horrible belief in the class of supernatural beings, one of whom she believed had visited her.

That consideration was this. The two hours of absence from the hall of its male inhabitants, would be from nine o'clock until eleven, and those were not the two hours during which she felt that she would be most timid on account of the vampyre.

"It was after midnight before," she thought, "when it came, and perhaps it may not be able to come earlier. It may not have the power, until that time, to make its hideous visits, and, therefore, I will believe myself safe."

She had made up her mind not to go to bed until the return of her brothers, and she and her mother sat in a small room that was used as a breakfast-room, and which had a latticed window that opened on to the lawn.

This window had in the inside strong oaken shutters, which had been fastened as securely as their construction would admit of some time before the departure of the brothers and Mr. Marchdale on that melancholy expedition, the object of which, if it had been known to her, would have added so much to the terrors of poor Flora.

It was not even guessed at, however remotely, so that she had not the additional affliction of thinking, that while she was sitting there, a prey to all sorts of imaginative terrors, they were perhaps gathering fresh evidence, as, indeed, they were, of the dreadful reality of the appearance which, but for the collateral circumstances attendant upon its coming and its going, she would fain have persuaded herself was but the vision of a dream.

It was before nine that the brothers started, but in her own mind Flora gave them to eleven, and when she heard ten o'clock sound from a clock which stood in the hall, she felt pleased to think that in another hour they would surely be at home.

"My dear," said her mother, "you look more like yourself, now." "Do I, mother?" "Yes, you are well again." "Ah, if I could forget — "

# A Homage to Sorkinisms by Becky Bowman

"Time, dear Flora, will enable you to do so, and all the rest of what made you so unwell will pass away. You will soon forget it all. Just sit down, relax and take a chill pill."

"I will do those things."

"You can bet your ass that, some day or another, Henry's going to march in here and make you see reason, that all can be explained. Believe this, don't believe it, it's entirely up to you."

"Oh, I will cling to belief; if they take this belief away from me, I got nothing. I don't have a cat. I could get one, but I don't have one. Frankly, I'm not wild about cats. I don't hate them. I'm just not... I could learn to like them, I guess, if I ... but that's not the point. The point is, this will get worse before it gets better."

She continued: "And when the fall is all that's left, it matters a great deal."

Flora put her hand on her mother's arm.

"Listen, Mother," she said in a low, anxious tone. "Well, that was predictable."

Mrs. Bannerworth went pale. "Listen to what, dear?"

"Not for nothing, but I think I hear a slight noise outside," said Flora. She waited a moment. "Forget it."

Still, Flora trembled with fear of the fury of God's own thunder, though the noise was low.

They talked in whispers, wishing for the return of the men. Mrs. Bannerworth had an idea.

"You will be happier and more assured, my dear, with some company," said Mrs. Bannerworth. "Why don't we summon your pets?"

"Mother, weren't you listening? I don't have any pets. I was thinking about getting a pet, but — that doesn't matter. The point is ... I think I hear it again."

"You think? I hear nothing, dear."

"Listen, Mother. You need to listen to me. You have to listen to me. I've heard it six or seven times now. Please, listen to me!"

Flora stands up.

"Where are you going?" Mrs. Bannerworth asks.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm standing up, which is how one speaks in a civilized world."

"Well you go, girl. But don't speak, don't even think. If only we could walk down the hallway, perhaps you could be calm. Your imagination is active and in a state of fright."

"It really is quite something!"

After a few minutes, Mrs. Bannerworth again urged that Flora should consider getting a puppy, for both their sakes.

"Mother, my brothers are out in the dark of night and I'm ill of health from an attack, to say nothing of the fact that a vampire waits to attack me again. Are you sure this is a good time to talk about my need for a pet?"

# Call for the Servants by Melissa-Jane Fogarty

" **Time, dear Flora, will enable you to do so, and all the rest of what made you so unwell will pass away. You will soon forget it all."**

"Hope to do so, hope I will."

"Dear Flora, my dear Flora, the truth it rings one day so clear, to explain the nature of all such things."

"Cling to such a belief I will, that Henry upon whom I can rely, the truth that he will bring without a belly full of lies."

"Listen Mother dear!" said Flora with a voice full of anxious fear.

"I can hear really quite clear and I am certain that there is nothing to fear my dear," said Mrs. Bannerworth as her face paled.

"Do not quiver, I am sure, I am hearing things. What causes me to shiver is only what the wind brings," said Flora with a voice that almost failed.

Speaking now in whispers hushed, they began to wish for the return of the men to be rushed.

"Perhaps some company will calm your nerves," said Mrs. Bannerworth, "I'll call for the servants, they will be happy to serve."

"Hush, hush Mother, I hear another faint sound."

"I hear nothing and there is no one around."

"Listen again, I can perceive, there is something at the window, I will not be deceived."

"No, no darling, do not think the worst, your imagination is on such a high, but your bubble will be burst," she said with a sigh.

"I hope to heaven that I am wrong, but this is now number seven that I have heard in little long."

After a short while had passed, without wanting to be in denial, she thought to ring the servant's bell, but was stopped short as Flora started to tell, "no, not yet, perhaps I am deceived, I will not let us be disbelieved."

Mrs. Bannerworth upon this sat down, but no sooner had she done so than she heartily regretted she had not rung the bell, for, before another word could be spoken, there came too perceptibly upon their ears for there to be any mistake at all about it, a strange scratching noise upon the window outside.

* *

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A faint cry came from Flora's lips, as she exclaimed, in a voice of great agony, —

"Oh, God! — oh, God! It has come again!"

Mrs. Bannerworth became faint, and unable to move or speak at all; she could only sit like one paralysed, and unable to do more than listen to and see what was going on.

The scratching noise continued for a few seconds, and then altogether ceased. Perhaps, under ordinary circumstances, such a sound outside the window would have scarcely afforded food for comment at all, or, if it had, it would have been attributed to some natural effect, or to the exertions of some bird or animal to obtain admittance to the house.

But there had occurred now enough in that family to make any little sound of wonderful importance, and these things which before would have passed completely unheeded, at all events without creating much alarm, were now invested with a fearful interest.

When the scratching noise ceased, Flora spoke in a low, anxious whisper, as she said, —

"Mother, you heard it then?"

Mrs. Bannerworth tried to speak, but she could not; and then suddenly, with a loud clash, the bar, which on the inside appeared to fasten the shutters strongly, fell as if by some invisible agency, and the shutters now, but for the intervention of the window, could be easily pushed open from without.

Mrs. Bannerworth covered her face with her hands, and, after rocking to and fro for a moment, she fell off her chair, having fainted with the excess of terror that came over her.

For about the space of time in which a fast speaker could count twelve, Flora thought her reason was leaving her, but it did not. She found herself recovering; and there she sat, with her eyes fixed upon the window, looking more like some exquisitely-chiselled statue of despair than a being of flesh and blood, expecting each moment to have its eyes blasted by some horrible appearance, such as might be supposed to drive her to madness.

And now again came the strange knocking or scratching against the pane of glass of the window.

This continued for some minutes, during which it appeared likewise to Flora that some confusion was going on at another part of the house, for she fancied she heard voices and the banging of doors.

It seemed to her as if she must have sat looking at the shutters of that window a long time before she saw them shake, and then one wide hinged portion of them slowly opened.

Once again horror appeared to be on the point of producing madness in her brain, and then, as before, a feeling of calmness rapidly ensued.

She was able to see plainly that something was by the window, but what it was she could not plainly discern, in consequence of the lights she had in the room. A few moments, however, sufficed to settle that mystery, for the window was opened and a figure stood before her.

One glance, one terrified glance, in which her whole soul was concentrated, sufficed to shew her who and what the figure was. There was a tall, gaunt form — there was the faded ancient apparel — the lustrous metallic-looking eyes — its half-opened mouth, exhibiting tusk-like teeth! It was — yes, it was — _the vampyre!_

It stood for a moment gazing at her, and then in the hideous way it had attempted before to speak, it apparently endeavoured to utter some words which it could not make articulate to human ears. The pistols lay before Flora. Mechanically she raised one, and pointed it at the figure. It advanced a step, and then she pulled the trigger.

* *

(Original Page 62 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

A stunning report followed. There was a loud cry of pain, and the vampyre fled. The smoke and confusion that was incidental to the spot prevented her from seeing if the figure walked or ran away. She thought he heard a crashing sound among the plants outside the window, as if it had fallen, but she didnot feel quite sure.

It was no effort of any reflection, but a purely mechanical movement, that made her raise the other pistol, and discharge that likewise in the direction the vampyre had taken. Then casting the weapon away, she rose, and made a frantic rush from the room. She opened the door, and was dashing out, when she found herself caught in the circling arms of some one who either had been there waiting, or who had just at that moment got there.

The thought that it was the vampyre, who by some mysterious means had got there, and was about to make her his prey, now overcame her completely, and she sunk into a state of utter insensibility on the moment.

—

# I Am Nearly Mad by Laura Di Giovine

It so happened that George and Henry Bannerworth, along with Mr. Marchdale, had just reached the gate which conducted into the garden of the mansion when they all were alarmed by the report of a pistol.

The garden parted

As Henry reached the window

Flora now lay still

A man held her close

Henry ran to his mother

Her cold lifeless form

The pistols silent

A tall candle tipped over

His companions' shock

What had disturbed

The peace of this dear household

Now in disarray?

"I know not—I know not," said Henry. "Some one summon the servants; I am nearly mad."

* *

(Original Page 64 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

Mr. Marchdale at once rung the bell, for George looked so faint and ill as to be incapable of doing so; and he rung it so loudly and so effectually, that the two servants who had been employed suddenly upon the others leaving came with much speed to know what was the matter.

"See to your mistress," said Henry. "She is dead, or has fainted. For God's sake, let who can give me some account of what has caused all this confusion here."

"Are you aware, Henry," said Marchdale, "that a stranger is present in the room?" He pointed at Mr. Holland as he spoke, who, before Henry could reply, said, —

"Sir, I may be a stranger to you, as you are to me, and yet no stranger to those whose home this is."

"No, no," said Henry, "you are no stranger to us, Mr. Holland, but are thrice welcome — none can be more welcome. Mr. Marchdale, this is Mr. Holland, of whom you have heard me speak."

"I am proud to know you, sir," said Mr. Marchdale.

"Sir, I thank you," replied Holland, coldly. It will so happen; but, at first sight, it appeared as if those two persons had some sort of antagonistic feeling towards each other, which threatened to prevent effectually their ever becoming intimate friends.

The appeal of Henry to the servants to know if they could tell him what had occurred was answered in the negative. All they knew was, that they had heard two shots fired, and that, since then, they had remained where they were, in a great fright, until the bell was rung violently. This was no news at all, and, therefore, the only chance was, to wait patiently for the recovery of the mother, or of Flora, from one or the other of whom surely some information could be at once then procured. Mrs. Bannerworth was removed to her own room, and so would Flora have been; but Mr. Holland, who was supporting her in his arms, said, "I think the air from the open window is recovering her, and it is likely to do so. Oh, do not now take her from me, after so long an absence. Flora, Flora, look up; do you not know me? You have not yet given me one look of acknowledgement. Flora, dear Flora!"

The sound of his voice seemed to act as the most potent of charms in restoring her to consciousness; it broke through the death-like trance in which she lay, and, opening her beautiful eyes, she fixed them upon his face, saying, "Yes, yes; it is Charles — it is Charles." She burst into a hysterical flood of tears, and clung to him like some terrified child to its only friend in the whole wide world.

"Oh, my dear friends," cried Charles Holland, "do not deceive me; has Flora been ill?"

"We have all been ill," said George.

"All ill?"

"Ay, and nearly mad," exclaimed Harry. Holland looked from one to the other in surprise, as well he might, nor was that surprise at all lessened when Flora made an effort to extricate herself from his embrace, as she exclaimed, —

"You must leave me — you must leave me, Charles, for ever! Oh! never, never look upon my face again!"

"I — I am bewildered," said Charles.

"Leave me, now," continued Flora; "think me unworthy; think what you will, Charles, but I cannot, I dare not, now be yours."

"Is this a dream?"

# Here She Goes Again by Alison Richards

"Oh, would it were, Charles, if we had never met, you would be happier - I could not be more wretched."

"Why are you saying these things to me, Flora? Haven't I given you everything you've asked me to?"

"No, it's not that, Charles. I swear -"

"Then what is it, huh? What have they been talking about that makes you act like this?"

"It was.... "

Henry was at her side in an instant. He gave Flora a knowing look. "It came to you again, didn't it?"

"Yes."

"And you sent it away, like we discussed?"

Flora turned her head, tears welling up in her eyes. "I tried, but it flew away. It will come again, though. I know it will."

"Well, at least she didn't sleep with it," Mr. Marchdale commented as he took another shot of whiskey. "At least this time."

Charles looked between the two men, and then turned to Flora. "What are they talking about?"

"You don't want to ask her that. Trust me." George handed Charles a second tumbler with whiskey and patted his back. "We'll explain later."

"No, someone needs to explain this to me now. " He downed the whiskey and handed the glass back before kneeling down in front of Flora. "Flora, baby, please. Tell me what's going on."

"I can't do this." Flora left her window seat and went to stand next to the window. She placed her hand on the pane of glass as she stared outside. "Charles, I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry, but you need to leave. I can't allow you to get caught up in this mess of mine."

"Here she goes again." George refilled his whiskey and went to take a seat by the fireplace. "Let me know when she reveals that she..."

"I think you need to shut your mouth," Henry stated, taking the glass of whiskey and sitting next to him. "What are they talking about?"

Flora shook her head, unable to look at Charles. "I love you with all of my heart, but after last night, I'm so confused. I don't know what I want, so I need to let you go."

"What the hell happened last night? What could make you push me away like this?"

"Please don't ask me that."

"No, I am asking and I demand an explanation."

"I have never been unfaithful to our love, Charles. Please believe me."

"Neither have I. That's why I don't understand why you would do this now. Please, Flora, I love you and all I can think about when I'm away is when I will be back with you again. For you to tell me that you've changed your mind..."

"No, Charles. I still love you with my whole being. But this thing... I refuse to let it hurt you."

"I can take care of myself, and you. I will protect you from whatever this is."

Flora gave a sad laugh. "There is nothing that can be done to save me. "

"Then I will take you away." Charles grabbed Flora's hand, turning her to face him. "Far from here where we can just be together and not worry about whatever this is that is affecting you so."

"There is no 'getting away'. "

"I will not leave you, Flora. Hate me all you want, but until you tell me that there is another man in your life that you choose over me, I will remain here and fight to win back your heart. "

Pulling her hand from his, Flora walked to the window seat and collapsed in it. Her hands wiped at her face. "You never listen to reason, Charles. I am just trying to do the right thing, and yet you treat me as if I am the one being unkind to you."

"Unkind!" echoed Holland.

# Flora Bannerworth Is Single by Bethany L. Kesler

"Heed her not," said Henry; "she means not you."

***

Charles Holland

is getting very mixed signals here. What's going on?  
Like * Comment * Share * 10 minutes ago near Bannerworth Hall  
Mr. Marchdale and 4 other friends like this.

**Flora Bannerworth** I dislike this, dear Charles, no.

**Charles Holland** Say that again. It's the first time, dear Flora, that anyone has ever...such sweet music to my ears. Say that word again.

**Flora Bannerworth** and the last time, at least from me, it must be the last time.

**Charles Holland** No. I reject this reality.

**Flora Bannerworth** It must be. I love you. This is how I will prove it.

**Charles Holland** By breaking up with me?

**Flora Bannerworth** It is the only way.

**Flora Bannerworth  
** I have been marked as the lost and accursed. Destiny is a foul mistress - I wish I were dead so that no one else might suffer for this horrible curse.  
Like * Comment * Share * 4 minutes ago near Bannerworth Hall

**Flora Bannerworth** is single.

**Charles Holland  
** Doesn't know what to think.  
Like * Comment * Share * 4 minutes ago near Bannerworth Hall

**Henry B** I'll explain everything.

**Flora Bannerworth** Henry, tell him that I'm not right and ease his mind, oh brother, tell him it's all me and not him.

**Henry B** > **Charles Holland  
** Seriously come with me now and I will tell you everything. In your wildest dreams you;d never guess what's happened.  
Like * Comment * Share * 3 minutes ago near Bannerworth Hall

**George BDubs  
** Hanging with the little sis!!!!!!!!!! <3 the little flower —with **Flora Bannerworth**  
Like * Comment * Share * 2 minutes ago near Bannerworth Hall

**Charles Holland  
** Needs a drink or eight. This was not the welcome I was expecting.  
Like * Comment * Share * 1 minute ago near Bannerworth Hall

**Henry B  
** is in a meeting —with **Charles Holland  
** Like * Comment * Share * 3 minutes ago near Bannerworth Hall

But, as Henry had truly said to him, not in the wildest freak of his imagination could he conceive of anything near the terrible strangeness and horror of that which he had to tell him, and consequently he found himself closeted with Henry in a small private room, removed from the domestic part of the hall, to the full in as bewildered a state as he had been from the first.

# Chapter XI: THE COMMUNICATION TO THE LOVER. — THE HEART'S DESPAIR by Carl Bettis

Consternation is sympathetic, and any one who had looked upon the features of Charles Holland, now that he was seated with Henry Bannerworth, in expectation of a communication which his fears told him was to blast all the dearest and most fondly cherished hopes for ever, would scarcely have recognised in him the same young man who, one short hour before, had knocked so loudly, and so full of joyful hope and expectation, at the door of the hall.

But yes. His thoughts had walked around and paced through Henry many times many times. Henry was in him now and a number of thens as well. Was his hallway to himself where he stopped and took off his shoes and put on old slippers, that was the place in him Henry was. No dream would leech the blood from Henry's face. It was a face to face full-blooded any inward that might out.

And Flora too, she had not danced her don't on lightest toes indeed she had not. Holland would have wrapped warmer flesh on less leaden bones if she had but butted him, mean or mocking or by the way. Pride had always been his great counterweight to woe be I. But that poundage was nowhere in or near or to be bought or sought.

And no it was yes that she tugged him to shrug her out, but with such pet fingers. She wore her face of thorns and stretched her thin over too much him. There was a wrinkled quiz in all of it.

But some all of it and maybe all all of it he was now or nearly now to have. And all full of it Holland already was. As Holland looked on Henry's pale and planed and pondering face he doubled within himself, both hungered and gorge-risen. Holland lifted his hand half between Henry's lips and his own ear.

"Draw me in and fill me out then Henry" Holland said. "Let your lungs pace out my earth and I swear I will stand on it."

Henry's words carried rainwater in their hollows that spilled when they jostled. "I will hide no pin in my haystack. The knowing of good and evil is a guilty good, owed and needful to you and a debt I bewail and keenly weep but cleanly sweep. Open your ears to the apocalypse of the antipodes."

"The facts are in the flesh" said Holland but he thought Henry should move now he has been so still so long and still.

"And the words are but the flaying. Now you would do well to exhale my tale when I have breathed it into you and keep eyes closed as you listen and after that forever. It makes it prettiest if you do not see."

"You read me and spell me, but I'd rather be written and righted."

"I read sir correctly and spell sir with decorous expression. Flora was yes yes in her lust for your no, and wildly wished your forget?"

"Indeed, in did and in done."

"And so she has deftly shown the fine vein and bone of her, the throb and muscle of virtue. Our hold is woe-fallen. Stand edge-balanced and ponder. You might blench to blend with our brood."

"It's a glass mountain you ask me to clamber. No cup can snuff my love of my love of my love. Wherever she rests or roams is my thicket to push through."

"It was no sparse harvest she reaped for you, no dinner of crumbs she served. We brave our flaunts and groan our boards, and our hoard is at no hazard."

"If not naught then what has drawn you so taut?"

"A shadow cast from the nether lands. In all your travels, and in all your reading, did you ever come across anything about vampyres?"

# Shakespearian Varny by Steph Dagg

"About what?" cried Charles, drawing his chair forward a little. "About what?"

Henry

Dost thou mistrust what thine own ears do hear?

Must I repeat what I to thee hath said?

What knowest thou of vampyres of the night,

This foul diseaséd curse upon mankind?

Look deep into my eyes and tell the truth.

In sooth, I see what thoughts thy mind dost hold

Yet can I feign not wonder nor dismay.

Thou thinkest I am mad. Am I not right?

Charles

Bigad, i'faith. What fool demand is this?

Henry

Hah! Truth will out. Dissemblest not, my friend.

Indeed, if it were I that wore your skin

I too wouldst tremble, stumble with my words

To thus reveal the bitter, bitter truth -

That one with whom I share my flesh and blood

No mortal being is, but hath becoméd changed

Into a fearful creature of the night:

Human no more, but vampyre foul and strange.

Charles

Zounds, have at you. Why lettest thou thy mind

To crawl upon the lowest, darkest depth

And conjure forth such superstitious thought?

Henry

Believest thou that this troubles me not?

Full many a time have I in disbelief

My brain becudgell'd, beaten to a pulp,

In full denial that this could ever be.

'Tis against all sense, against what I believe,

'Tis foul and tainted, most unnatural,

And yet hath my eye seen: these orbs within my head

Hath all beheld, and burned into my skull

An image that I never can deny.

I'faith, holdst thou thy tongue, thy silence guard.

List well, and heed my words. All shall be known

If thou wilt only let me have my say.

Narrator

And so the dismal tale did Henry thus relate

His face awash with tears, his soul prostrate,

Until his trembling, troubled friend had heard

Of every awful thing that had occurred.

Henry

Now you know all. 'Tis yours to ponder on,

And from these facts that four or five can swear

Upon their lives, before their God, are true

Your own incredulous conclusion draw.

Charles

In sooth, my friend, I know what to say.

Henry

Nor I. All are dismayed to learn this news.

Charles

My mind rebels. Begad, it cannot be!

Henry

Alas, it is. I wish it were not so.

Charles

No, no. There yet must be some other way

To all explain. This is some dire mistake.

Henry

Pray then, in God's sweet name, enlighten me!

Explain the dread phenomena I hath seen

In ways that conjure not a vampyre forth.

No one will happier hear thy tale than I.

Charles

A phantom one perhaps could comprehend,

And many hath seen tormented souls to walk

After their deaths upon the earth once more.

But thou speakest of a horror far more foul,

One so accursed and so unnatural -

My mind this concept cannot grasp, forsooth.

Henry

Yet it is so. Much as we fight to learn the truth,

All human reason vanquishéd must be

Since human eyes have seen all to be true.

Charles

Mine own I would misdoubt to see such things.

Henry

Perchance, but witnesses there are too many now

To misbelieve the naughtiness that's seen.

'Tis no delusion, 'tis the wicked truth.

Charles

Henry, my gentle friend, no more, I pray,

Batter not my ears and soul with thy dire news.

I quake, I tremble at thy awful words

Which sore I wish did not contain the truth.

"I am, believe me, Charles, most unwilling to oppress any one with the knowledge of these evils; but you will clearly understand that you may, with perfect honour, now consider yourself free from all engagements you have entered into with Flora.

# Varney the iPhone Chat by Jennifer Williams

# Dr. Seuss & Vampires by Peter Tarnofsky

Varney The Vampyre, page 70, remixed by Peter Tarnofsky

"I do not know, just at present, but I will give the subject the most attentive consideration.

If in your home I choose to stay,

Good sir, will that, sir, be okay?"

"My dear Charles treat this house as yours.

Use its doors and floors and stores.

But Charles, the peril is so strong

I fear you should not stay here long."

"You wouldst that I should run away?

I'll stay! I'll stay! I'll stay! I'll stay!

If it turns out your story's true

There will be much for me to do.

And there will be no chance for fun

Till what I'll have to do is done."

"Sir, talk to those who saw the scene

And you'll soon see what it must mean.

You'll have no doubt the beast is real -

Oh yes, dear sir, the real deal."

"Oh Henry, how I hope you're wrong!

But if you're right, I'll not be gone!

I'll stay till the beast's gone away

Then there'll be better games to play.

My courting Flora's just begun -

I've not yet even pinched her bum."

"I truly hope that day will come

When, sir, your fingers pinch her bum."

"Yes, I'll look after my poor Flora

Will not let a vampyre gore her

Will not let his teeth explore her

And if you should stop me, you're a...

Fool, sir, cad, sir, swine, sir, bounder

Footpad, rascal, honour confounder,

Cold and slimy as a flounder -

I'll not have you hanging round her."

"I would not in that way behave -

What do you take me for - a knave?"

"No Henry, that's not how I feel.

I know you know the danger's real.

You know I know you know that's true.

If you know me and I know you.

I was just stating how I felt.

Dear Flora! Oh! My heart would melt."

"And I too will do all I can

But as brother, not lustful man.

My brother George will too help out

And Marchdale if we give a shout."

"Good sir, that is good, sir, to know

That three good men will help me so.

Now I have heard what you have said

And I would have this vampyre dead.

Maybe we should cut off its head

Or shoot the curs'd beast full of lead."

"But, sir, you'll find the stories say

You cannot kill them in that way

Do not use lead, sir, please I pray

Just silver or there's hell to pay."

"I have no silver here myself.

But see much on that mantel-shelf."

"That, sir, is all owed to the bank."

"That situation, sir, is rank."

"I know but, with the credit crunch

We're lucky to find food for lunch."

"Then I must find another tack

To make up for that which I lack.

Or never get Flora in the sack...

Alas, Alack! Alas, Alack!

Now, sir, this thing is not a ghost

And so he quickly will be toast.

If he should drag me to his lair

I will, sir, deal, sir, with him there.

Or I'll catch him in box or cage -

Though finding one may take an age."

"I do not like them in a box

They can escape from any locks

I do not like them in my house

They make a man act like a mouse

I do not like them here or there

I do not like them anywhere."

"Fear not, good sir, he will be caught.

His ghastly schemes will come to naught.

I'll fight! I'll fight! And when I've fought

I'll drink some wine and then some port."

"I'll make sure the drinks are ready.

Have one now to make you steady.

For the beast will chill your veins

And sir, and sir, will loose your brains.

Your legs will feel tied down with chains.

You'll want to throw up in the drains."

"You're speaking like a little kid!"

"I felt like that! I did. I did."

* *

(Original Page 71 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"I will endeavour to make head against such feelings. The love of Flora shall enable me to vanquish them. Think you it will come again to-morrow?"

"I can have no thought one way or the other."

"It may. We must arrange among us all, Henry, some plan of watching which, without completely prostrating our health and strength, will always provide that some one shall be up all night and on the alert."

"It must be done."

"Flora ought to sleep with the consciousness now that she has ever at hand some intrepid and well-armed protector, who is not only himself prepared to defend her, but who can in a moment give an alarm to us all, in case of necessity requiring it."

"It would be a dreadful capture to make to seize a vampyre," said Henry.

"Not at all; it would be a very desirable one. Being a corpse revivified, it is capable of complete destruction, so as to render it no longer a scourge to any one."

"Charles, Charles, are you jesting with me, or do you really give any credence to the story?"

"My dear friend, I always make it a rule to take things at their worst, and then I cannot be disappointed. I am content to reason upon this matter as if the fact of the existence of a vampyre were thoroughly established, and then to think upon what is best to be done about it."

"You are right."

"If it should turn out then that there is an error in the fact, well and good — we are all the better off; but if otherwise, we are prepared, and armed at all points."

"Let it be so, then. It strikes me, Charles, that you will be the coolest and the calmest among us all on the emergency; but the hour now waxes late, I will get them to prepare a chamber for you, and at least to-night, after what has occurred already, I should think we can be under no apprehension."

"Probably not. But, Henry, if you would allow me to sleep in that room where the portrait hangs of him whom you suppose to be the vampyre, I should prefer it."

"Prefer it!"

"Yes; I am not one who courts danger for danger's sake, but I would rather occupy that room, to see if the vampyre, who perhaps has a partiality for it, will pay me a visit."

"As you please, Charles. You can have the apartment. It is in the same state as when occupied by Flora. Nothing has been, I believe, removed from it."

"You will let me, then, while I remain here, call it my room?"

"Assuredly."

This arrangement was accordingly made to the surprise of all the household, not one of whom would, indeed, have slept, or attempted to sleep there for any amount of reward. But Charles Holland had his own reasons for preferring that chamber, and he was conducted to it in the course of half an hour by Henry, who looked around it with a shudder, as he bade his young friend good night. —

# Chapter XII. CHARLES HOLLAND'S SAD FEELINGS by Margie Conklin

Charles Holland wished to be alone, if ever any human being had wished fervently to be so.

Charles could not believe

nor could he wrap his head around

what Henry had just told him

about his lovely and faithful Flora.

This terrible news had not shaken Charles'

knowledge that she still loved him

and he had not forgotten her faith

nor the loss of his devotion to her.

Charles could not get past something Henry had said,

"Charles Holland, will you have a vampire for a bride?"

A vampire?...... Flora a vampire?

Could it be true? Is it possible?

Charles had finally stopped pacing and was sitting down

when a portrait on the wall caught his eye.

It was mysterious and highly interesting portrait

as portraits go.

It was so very life like,

it was staring back at Charles as he stared at it.

It even seemed to follow him around the room,

move for move.

The portrait's affect was intensified by the candle-light,

so much so that Charles couldn't take his eyes off of it.

The life like appearance had drawn him in so much

he knew this to be true skill.

Unconsciously, too, he aided the effect, which he justly enough called life-like, by a slight movement of the candle, such as anyone not blessed with nerves of iron would be sure to make, and such a movement made the face look as if it was inspired with vitality.

* *

(Original Page 73 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

Charles remained looking at the portrait for a considerable period of time. He found a kind of fascination in it which prevented him from drawing his eyes away from it. It was not fear which induced him to continue gazing on it, but the circumstance that it was a likeness of the man who, after death, was supposed to have borrowed so new and so hideous an existence, combined with its artistic merits, chained him to the spot. "I shall now," he said, "know that face again, let me see it where I may, or under what circumstances I may. Each feature is now indelibly fixed upon my memory — I can never mistake it."

He turned aside as he uttered these words, and as he did so his eyes fell upon a part of the ornamental frame which composed the edge of the panel, and which seemed to him to be of a different colour from the surrounding portion.

Curiosity and increased interest prompted him at once to make a closer inquiry into the matter; and by a careful and diligent scrutiny, he was almost induced to come to the positive opinion, that at no very distant period in time past, the portrait had been removed from the place it occupied.

When once this idea, even vague and indistinct as it was, in consequence of the slight grounds he had formed it on, had got possession of his mind, he felt most anxious to prove its verification or its fallacy.

He held the candle in a variety of situations, so that its light fell in different ways on the picture; and the more he examined it, the more he felt convinced that it must have been moved lately. It would appear as if, in its removal, a piece of the old oaken carved framework of the panel had been accidentally broken off, which caused the new look of the fracture, and that this accident, from the nature of the broken bit of framing, could have occurred in any other way than from an actual or attempted removal of the picture, he felt was extremely unlikely.

He set down the candle on a chair near at hand, and tried if the panel was fast in its place. Upon the very first touch, he felt convinced it was not so, and that it was easily moved. How to get it out, though, presented a difficulty, and to get it out was tempting.

"Who knows," he said to himself, "what may be behind it? This is an old baronial sort of hall, and the greater portion of it was, no doubt, built at a time when the construction of such places as hidden chambers and intricate staircases were, in all buildings of importance, considered desiderata."

That he should make some discovery behind the portrait, now became an idea that possessed him strongly, although he certainly had no definite grounds for really supposing that he should do so.

Perhaps the wish was more father to the thought than he, in the partial state of excitement he was in, really imagined; but so it was. He felt convinced that he should not be satisfied until he had removed that panel from the wall, and seen what was immediately behind it.

After the panel containing the picture had been placed where it was, it appeared that pieces of moulding had been inserted all around, which had had the effect of keeping it in its place, and it was a fracture of one of these pieces which had first called Charles Holland's attention to the probability of the picture having been removed. That he should have to get two, at least, of the pieces of moulding away, before he could hope to remove the picture, was to him quite apparent, and he was considering how he should accomplish such a result, when he was suddenly startled by a knock at his chamber door.

Until that sudden demand for admission at his door came, he scarcely knew to what a nervous state he had worked himself up. It was an odd sort of tap — one only-a single tap, as if some one demanded admittance, and wished to awaken his attention with the least possible chance of disturbing any one else.

"Come in," said Charles, for he knew he had not fastened his door; "come in."

There was no reply, but after a moment's pause, the same sort of low tap came again.

Again he cried "come in," but, whoever it was, seemed determined that the door should be opened for him, and no movement was made from the outside. A third time the tap came, and Charles was very close to the door when he heard it, for with a noiseless step he had approached it intending to open it. The instant this third mysterious demand for admission came, he did open it wide. There was no one there! In an instant he crossed the threshold into the corridor, which ran right and left.

* *

(Original Page 74 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

A window at one end of it now sent in the moon's rays, so that it was tolerably light, but he could see no one. Indeed, to look for any one, he felt sure was needless, for he had opened his chamber- door almost simultaneously with the last knock for admission.

"It is strange," he said, as he lingered on the threshold of his room door for some moments; "my imagination could not so completely deceive me. There was most certainly a demand for admission." Slowly, then, he returned to his room again, and closed the door behind him. "One thing is evident," he said, "that if I am in this apartment and to be subjected to these annoyances, I shall get no rest, which will soon exhaust me."

This thought was a very provoking one, and the more he thought that he should ultimately find a necessity for giving up that chamber he had himself asked as a special favour to be allowed to occupy, the more vexed he became to think what construction might be put upon his conduct for so doing. "They will fancy me a coward," he thought, "and that I dare not sleep here. They may not, of course, say so, but they will think that my appearing so bold was one of those acts of bravado which I have not courage to carry fairly out."

Taking this view of the matter was just the way to enlist a young man's pride in staying, under all circumstances, where he was, and, with a slight accession of colour, which, even although he was alone, would visit his cheeks, Charles Holland said aloud, "I will remain the occupant of this room come what may, happen what may. No terrors, real or unsubstantial, shall drive me from it: I will brave them all, and remain here to brave them."

Tap came the knock at the door again, and now, with more an air of vexation than fear, Charles turned again towards it, and listened. Tap in another minute again succeeded, and most annoyed, he walked close to the door, and laid his hand upon the lock, ready to open it at the precise moment of another demand for admission being made.

He had not to wait long. In about half a minute it came again, and, simultaneously with the sound, the door flew open. There was no one to be seen; but, as he opened the door, he heard a strange sound in the corridor — a sound which scarcely could be called a groan, and scarcely a sigh, but seemed a compound of both, having the agony of the one combined with the sadness of the other. From what direction it came he could not at the moment decide, but he called out, —

"Who's there? who's there?"

The echo of his own voice alone answered him for a few moments, and then he heard a door open, and a voice, which he knew to be Henry's, cried, —

"What is it? who speaks?" "Henry," said Charles.?"Yes — yes — yes." "I fear I have disturbed you." "You have been disturbed yourself, or you would not have done so. I shall be with you in a moment."

Henry closed his door before Charles Holland could tell him not to come to him, as he intended to do, for he felt ashamed to have, in a manner of speaking, summoned assistance for so trifling a cause of alarm as that to which he had been subjected. However, he could not go to Henry's chamber to forbid him from coming to his, and, more vexed than before, he retired to his room again to await his coming.

He left the door open now, so that Henry Bannerworth, when he had got on some articles of dress, walked in at once, saying, —"What has happened, Charles?"

"A mere trifle, Henry, concerning which I am ashamed you should have been at all disturbed." "Never mind that, I was wakeful."

* *

(Original Page 75 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Did you hear me open my door?"

"I heard a door open, which kept me listening, but I could not decide which door it was till I heard your voice in the corridor."

"Well, it was this door; and I opened it twice in consequence of the repeated taps for admission that came to it; some one had been knocking at it, and, when I go to it, lo! I can see nobody."

"Indeed!"

"Such is the case."

"You surprise me."

"I am very sorry to have disturbed you, because, upon such a ground, I do not feel that I ought to have done so; and, when I called out in the corridor, I assure you it was with no such intention."

"Do not regret it for a moment," said Henry; "you were quite justified in making an alarm on such an occasion."

"It's strange enough, but still it may arise from some accidental cause; admitting, if we did but know it, of some ready enough explanation."

"It may, certainly, but, after what has happened already, we may well suppose a mysterious connexion between any unusual sight or sound, and the fearful ones we have already seen."

"Certainly we may."

"How earnestly that strange portrait seems to look upon us, Charles."

"It does, and I have been examining it carefully. It seems to have been removed lately."

"Removed!"

"Yes, I think as far as I can judge, that it has been taken from its frame; I mean, that the panel on which it is painted has been taken out."

"Indeed!"

"If you touch it you will find it loose, and, upon a close examination, you will perceive that a piece of the moulding which holds it in its place has been chipped off, which is done in such a place what I think it could only have arisen during the removal of the picture."

"You must be mistaken."

"I cannot, of course, take upon myself, Henry, to say precisely such is the case," said Charles.

"But there is no one here to do so."

"That I cannot say. Will you permit me and assist me to remove it? I have a great curiosity to know what is behind it."

"If you have, I certainly will do so. We thought of taking it away altogether, but when Flora left this room the idea was given up as useless. Remain here a few moments, and I will endeavour to find something which shall assist us in its removal."

* *

(Original Page 76 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

Henry left the mysterious chamber in order to search in his own for some means of removing the frame-work of the picture, so that the panel would slip easily out, and while he was gone, Charles Holland continued gazing upon it with greater interest, if possible, than before. In a few minutes Henry returned, and although what he had succeeded in finding were very inefficient implements for the purpose, yet with this aid the two young men set about the task.

It is said, and said truly enough, that "where there is a will there is a way," and although the young men had no tools at all adapted for the purpose, they did succeed in removing the moulding from the sides of the panel, and then by a little tapping at one end of it, and using a knife as a lever at the other end of the panel, they got it fairly out.

Disappointment was all they got for their pains. On the other side there was nothing but a rough wooded wall, against which the finer and more nicely finished oak panelling of the chamber rested. "There is no mystery here," said Henry.

"None whatever," said Charles, as he tapped the wall with his knuckles, and found all hard and sound. "We are foiled."

"We are indeed."

"I had a strange presentiment, now," added Charles, "that we should make some discovery that would repay us for our trouble. It appears, however, that such is not to be the case; for you see nothing presents itself to us but the most ordinary appearances."

"I perceive as much; and the panel itself, although of more than ordinary thickness, is, after all, but a bit of planed oak, and apparently fashioned for no other object than to paint the portrait on."

"True. Shall we replace it?"

Charles reluctantly assented, and the picture was replaced in its original position. We say Charles reluctantly assented, because, although he had now had ocular demonstration that there was really nothing behind the panel but the ordinary woodwork which might have been expected from the construction of the old house, but he could not, even with such a fact staring him in the face, get rid entirely of the feeling that had come across him, to the effect that the picture had some mystery or another.

"You are not yet satisfied," said Henry, as he observed the doubtful look of Charles Holland's face.

"My dear friend," said Charles, "I will not deceive you. I am much disappointed that we have made no discovery behind that picture."

"Heaven knows we have mysteries enough in our family," said Henry.

Even as he spoke they were both startled by a strange clattering noise at the window, which was accompanied by a shrill, odd kind of shriek, which sounded fearful and preternatural on the night air.

"What is that?" said Charles.

"God only knows," said Henry.

The two young men naturally turned their earnest gaze in the direction of the window, which we have before remarked was one unprovided with shutters, and there, to their intense surprise, they saw, slowly rising up from the lower part of it, what appeared to be a human form. Henry would have dashed forward, but Charles restrained him, and drawing quickly from its case a large holster pistol, he levelled it carefully at the figure, saying in a whisper, "Henry, if I don't hit it, I will consent to forfeit my head."

He pulled the trigger — a loud report followed — the room was filled with smoke, and then all was still. A circumstance, however, had occurred, as a consequence of the concussion of the air produced by the discharge of the pistol, which neither of the young men had for the moment calculated upon, and that was the putting out of the only light they there had.

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(Original Page 77 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

In spite of this circumstance, Charles, the moment he had discharged the pistol, dropped it and sprung forward to the window. But here he was perplexed, for he could not find the old fashioned, intricate fastening which held it shut, and he had to call to Henry, "Henry! For God's sake open the window for me, Henry! The fastening of the window is known to you, but not to me. Open it for me."

Thus called upon, Henry sprung forward, and by this time the report of the pistol had effectually alarmed the whole household. The flashing of lights from the corridor came into the room, and in another minute, just as Henry succeeded in getting the window wide open, and Charles Holland had made his way on to the balcony, both George Bannerworth and Mr. Marchdale entered the chamber, eager to know what had occurred. To their eager questions Henry replied, "Ask me not now;" and then calling to Charles, he said, — "Remain where you are, Charles, while I run down to the garden immediately beneath the balcony."

"Yes — yes," said Charles.

Henry made prodigious haste, and was in the garden immediately below the bay window in a wonderfully short space of time. He spoke to Charles, saying, "Will you now descend? I can see nothing here; but we will both make a search."

George and Mr. Marchdale were both now in the balcony, and they would have descended likewise, but Henry said, "Do not all leave the house. God only knows, now, situated as we are, what might happen."

"I will remain, then," said George. "I have been sitting up to-night as the guard, and, therefore, may as well continue to do so."

Marchdale and Charles Holland clambered over the balcony, and easily, from its insignificant height, dropped into the garden. The night was beautiful, and profoundly still. There was not a breath of air sufficient to stir a leaf on a tree, and the very flame of the candle which Charles had left burning in the balcony burnt clearly and steadily, being perfectly unruffled by any wind.

It cast a sufficient light close to the window to make everything very plainly visible, and it was evident at a glance that no object was there, although had that figure, which Charles had shot at, and no doubt hit, been flesh and blood, it must have dropped immediately below.

As they looked up for a moment after a cursory examination of the ground, Charles exclaimed, "Look at the window! As the light is now situated, you can see the hole made in one of the panes of glass by the passage of the bullet from my pistol."

They did look, and there the clear, round hole, without any starring, which a bullet discharged close to a pane of glass will make in it, was clearly and plainly discernible.

"You must have hit him," said Henry.

"One would think so," said Charles; "for that was the exact place where the figure was."

"And there is nothing here," added Marchdale. "What can we think of these events — what resource has the mind against the most dreadful suppositions concerning them?"

Charles and Henry both were silent; in truth, they knew not what to think and the words uttered by Marchdale were too strikingly true to dispute for a moment. They were lost in wonder.

"Human means against such an appearance as we saw to-night," said Charles, "are evidently useless."

"My dear young friend," said Marchdale, with much emotion, as he grasped Henry Bannerworth's hand, and the tears stood in his eyes as he did so, — "my dear young friend, these constant alarms will kill you. They will drive you, and all whose happiness you hold dear, distracted. You must control these dreadful feelings, and there is but one chance that I can see of getting the better of these."

# A Game of Questions by Lara Eckener

"What is that?"

"Is it to be a game of Questions, then?" Henry said.

"Would that be amenable to Mr. Marchdale?"

"It would be amenable to me," Mr. Marchdale began, "if you were to leave this place and never return. I would hope it would be most amenable to you as well, Mr. Holland."

"Statement and statement." Henry held up his right hand, as it was closest to Charles, and held up two fingers. "Two - love."

The look on Mr. Marchdale's face, with its screwed up mouth and bulging eyes, telegraphed to Henry and Charles that he was in no way amenable to a game of questions. He seemed to realize rather quickly that he was helpless to both of them. He closed his eyes and counted to ten before he said, "Would you please leave this place, Mr. Holland, and never darken its door again?"

"Where am I to go?" Charles said.

"Why should you care where you go, if it takes you from such horrors as have surrounded you here?"

"How can I be sure that I will, as you say, escape such horrors?"

"What is there for you here without Flora?"

Charles was caught off guard. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Henry raised his left hand and held up one finger. "Hesitation, two - one."

"Why speak of Flora?"

"Why do you let her existence haunt you so?"

"Is she not my beloved?"

"Is she not now a vampire?"

"What care you for how she is?"

"Will she not set herself upon you at the first chance?"

"I would be better dead than without," Charles muttered.

"Statement. Two - two," Henry said, raising another finger on his left hand.

Mr. Marchdale looked Charles up and down. "What about children?"

"What of them?"

"How can you raise children healthily to this world with a mother who would suck the very roses from their cheeks?"

"How can you say such things?"

"One of us has to," Mr. Marchdale shouted, puffing his chest out and raising his arms in exasperation as if asking the question with the whole of his being.

"Statement and match," Henry said. "Three - two, Charles Holland."

"That is just as well, because I am through playing your frivolous games," Mr. Marchdale said.

Charles turned his back to Mr. Marchdale and made a show of studying the moonlight in the garden. "If not for you we wouldn't have started."

"Someone needs to put some sense into your head, Charles."

"Yes, yes. And now your duty's done. We are all very proud of how well you hold up your end of all morality. Now please desist. I wish to hear no more of this."

# Graduate School by Mayra París

"Do not be angered with Mr. Marchdale, Charles," said Henry, and I groaned out loud. Ever since he began writing his thesis, Henry had been talking more and more like a character in those horrible gothic novels. He started shaving too, and his unruly grad school beard was replaced by a pair of thick muttonchops. His friend Eddie seemed to have caught the same bug and now insisted on being called Mr. Marchdale or Edmund (I suspected his name was actually Edward).

At the moment, we were standing in the ER, waiting for some news about my fiancée. For some reason, Flora thought it was a hoot that her brother and his friend had been seemingly possessed by the ghosts of Darcy and Bingley, and when they suggested we take a walk through the forest at night "to sample the beauties the pale satellite has bestowed upon us", she jumped at the suggestion. Not fifteen minutes into the hike, she was attacked by a bat and bit on the neck. Marchdale— I mean, Eddie was insisting now that it had actually been a vampire and that Flora was going to be turned into a vampire herself. Henry didn't like my eloquent reply.

He stood in the middle of the waiting room, arms spread, and continued his speech, with a slight English accent, "He can have no motive but our welfare in what he said. We should not condemn a speaker because his words may not sound pleasant to our ears."

"For fuck's sake, Henry. I don't see why he has to say something so stupid. Vampires? Come on. And stop talking like this."

Eddie rose his voice above mine. "Tomorrow, I leave this town," he boomed, sweeping the waiting room with his eyes, probably looking for an attentive audience. All he got was a bored nurse and a man holding a pack of ice to his left eye.

Henry gasped. "Leave us?"

"Aye, forever."

"Nay, now, Mr. Marchdale, is this generous?"

I muttered, "For fuck's sake," and turned to the coffee machine. I looked down the empty hallway while I waited for my drink to pour. Flora was in the third room to the right. She'd been in there for over an hour and the doctor hadn't come back out. It was a slow night and I figured rabies shots were simple. Maybe something had gone wrong. "Guys, I'm gonna go check on Flora," I said.

Henry looked at me with wide eyes. "Charles, I know your generous nature. Say you meant no offense to my old friend."

Eddie refused to look at me and stared instead at the TV up on the wall. An old film was playing, possibly a horror B-movie from the fifties. There seemed to be a lot of running in it.

"Henry," I said, "you're being overly dramatic. You both are." Eddie let out a huff and Henry raised his eyebrows at me, like Come on, work with me. "Fine. Eddie, I'm sorry if I was rude."

"Enough," he said. "I am satisfied."

I continued, "But please, cut the vampire bullshit. She could actually have rabies. I don't think it's anything to make fun of. Actually, I'm a little worried. The doctor hasn't come out of the exam room yet."

"Charles!" Henry had real tears in his eyes. "Dear Charles, my more than friend — brother of my heart — noble Charles!"

"Chill out, Henry. I'm sure she's fine."

"What if what Mr. Marchdale says is true?" He grabbed my hands and held them tight. The tears were streaming down his face now. "What if a wretched creature of the night has risen up from the bowels of hell to take her from you and this life she holds so dear?"

If I didn't think Flora would hate me afterwards, I would have punched Henry right then, square in the jaw. This was getting tedious and more than a little unsettling. Maybe if I played along, though, he'd tone it down just long enough for me to go check on Flora. I tapped my reserve of Victorian prose, and said, affecting an accent, "Come what may, I am the affianced husband of your sister, and she, and only she can break asunder the tie that binds me to her."

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(Original Page 80 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

**Chapter XIII.** The party made a strict search through every nook and corner of the garden, but it proved to be a fruitless one: not the least trace of any one could be found. There was only one circumstance, which was pondered over deeply by them all, and that was that, beneath the window of the room in which Flora and her mother sat while the brothers were on their visit to the vault of their ancestors, were visible marks of blood to a considerable extent.

It will be remembered that Flora had fired a pistol at the spectral appearance, and that immediately upon that it had disappeared, after uttering a sound which might well be construed into a cry of pain from a wound.

That a wound then had been inflicted upon some one, the blood beneath the window now abundantly testified; and when it was discovered, Henry and Charles made a very close examination indeed of the garden, to discover what direction the wounded figure, be it man or vampyre, had taken.

But the closest scrutiny did not reveal to them a single spot of blood, beyond the space immediately beneath the window; — there the apparition seemed to have received its wound, and then, by some mysterious means, to have disappeared.

At length, wearied with the continued excitement, combined with want of sleep, to which they had been subjected, they returned to the hall.

Flora, with the exception of the alarm she experienced from the firing of the pistol, had met with no disturbance, and that, in order to spare her painful reflections, they told her was merely done as a precautionary measure, to proclaim to any one who might be lurking in the garden that the inmates of the house were ready to defend themselves against any aggression.

Whether or not she believed this kind deceit they knew not. She only sighed deeply, and wept. The probability is, that she more than suspected the vampyre had made another visit, but they forbore to press the point; and, leaving her with her mother, Henry and George went from her chamber again — the former to endeavour to seek some repose, as it would be his turn to watch on the succeeding night, and the latter to resume his station in a small room close to Flora's chamber, where it had been agreed watch and ward should be kept by turns while the alarm lasted.

At length, the morning again dawned upon that unhappy family, and to none were its beams more welcome.

The birds sang their pleasant carols beneath the window. The sweet, deep-coloured autumnal sun shone upon all objects with a golden lustre; and to look abroad, upon the beaming face of nature, no one could for a moment suppose, except from sad experience, that there were such things as gloom, misery, and crime, upon the earth.

"And must I," said Henry, as he gazed from a window of the hall upon the undulating park, the majestic trees, the flowers, the shrubs, and the many natural beauties with which the place was full, — "must I be chased from this spot, the home of my self and my kindred, by a phantom — must I indeed seek refuge elsewhere, because my own home has become hideous?"

It was indeed a cruel and a painful thought! It was one he yet would not, could not be convinced was absolutely necessary. But now the sun was shining: it was morning; and the feelings, which found a home in his breast amid the darkness, the stillness, and the uncertainty of night, were chased away by those glorious beams of sunlight, that fell upon hill, valley, and stream, and the thousand sweet sounds of life and animation that filled that sunny air!

Such a revulsion of feeling was natural enough. Many of the distresses and mental anxieties of night vanish with the night, and those which oppressed the heart of Henry Bannerworth were considerably modified.

He was engaged in these reflections when he heard the sound of the lodge bell, and as a visitor was now somewhat rare at this establishment, he waited with some anxiety to see to whom he was indebted for so early a call.

# I Quit by Jerry McGrath

In the course of a few minutes, one of the servants came to him with a letter in her hand.

The seal was a mark of high estate. Vexatious Varney's script slouched in a corner.

Henry hadn't had the pleasure. Nor did he wish to.

His servant lingered.

"What?" Henry said.

"I quit," she said.

"Come now," Henry said.

"Not another night, sir, could I bed down among vampyres. I don't come from that kind of family. It's just not in my blood."

"Well then," Henry said.

"I'll have my pay and be on my way," his servant said.

"See Mum," Henry said.

Better to agree than engage. Argument was the sport of her sex. Well, he wouldn't rise to it.

He turned his attention to the envelope and broke the seal and extracted a foolscap sheet.

Thus, it read:

Hi Neighbour,

"How are things at Bannerworth Hall? Not so great, I hear. You must be bleeding money - a place that size. Besides which, the undead put a damper on things. Call it buddy intuition, but I'd say you don't like living there. I'm right, right?

"Sooner or later someone's gonna git bitten. Word leaks out - that's when the market gets tough. You know that. I know that. We know that. So, how about a deal? I just might be saving your neck here, Bud. And to be fair, I'm not gonna beat you up on price. Another man could, knowing what I know, but not me. I'm not a selfish man.

"I trust, sir, that you will give a kindly consideration to my offer, and even if you reject it, I hope."

# Page 82 in a Single Tweet by Amanda C. Davis

that, as neighbours, we may live on in peace and amity, and in the interchange of those good offices which should subsist between us. Awaiting your reply,

"Believe me to be, dear sir,

"Your very obedient servant, "FRANCIS VARNEY.

"To Henry Bannersworth, Esq."

Amanda C. Davis @davisac1

Henry: "Everyone wants me to leave this house! Marchdale, what do you think?" Marchdale: "Leave this house." #varney #pg82 #1tweet

7:24 PM - 4 Nov 12

"It may be so."

# Broken Goblet by Josh Hlibichuk

"There appears to me every likelihood of it."

Henry heaved a sigh and stared out the window at the wind rattling the shutters. "Vampires, dragons, what does it matter, Marchdale? This creature means to follow me until my death, and then what good would it be to rid ourselves of Bannerworth Hall?"

"You would stand to gain little." Henry knew well enough Marchdale's true opinion on the matter, and had enough of the man's hedging.

"Nothing, you mean," he said gruffly. "We would stand to gain nothing."

"Henry, if I may, perhaps I have a plan that will save you yet from this predicament. One that should benefit House Bannerworth greatly." Henry muttered an oath under his breath, and Marchdale took that as his sign to continue. "Allow Ser Varney to have the Hall in lease, for one year, to get a feel for the place. It would give your enemies pause, too. Meanwhile, you can take up residence anywhere else that pleases you. Perhaps my own estates, to the south. I do owe you for our previous arrangements, and as you know a Marchdale always pays his-"

"Out with it," ejaculated Henry.

"As I was saying, we can hope to see most quickly if the vampire continues to torment your household abroad, or if it remains here. If Ser Varney no longer wishes to make the purchase, the Hall reverts to you. Or, if the vampire does give chase, you could retire here where you're happy."

Henry threw his goblet to the ground in a fury, splattering red wine across the wooden floor. He would never hear the end of this from mother, no. She could barely manage to part with her room, let alone part with the Hall. In days past, she had overseen too many evenings of merrymaking and too many happy campaigns with Lord Bannerworth riding into battle to simply give up the Hall to a stranger for any period of time. Twelve months indeed.

"Happy! Seven hells!"

"Perhaps that was the wrong word. But this could be the end of your vampire, and then perhaps your happiness is not as far off as you'd think. If, of course, you'd consider my proposal."

Marchdale was a strong ally, and a shrewd one. Henry considered further: it was a decent plan, if he could devise a way to convince his mother to give up her Hall, for a time. Even if he was still the one responsible for it.

"Do not mock me, Marchdale," Henry warned, but his heart wasn't in it. "Perhaps you're right. After all, there's a chill to the air these days. You've felt it, surely. Winter is coming."

"It is."

"I will speak to my mother, and to George, and to my sister. It is not for me alone to decide." Marchdale grinned, and his smile winked the scar near his eyes; they both knew it was indeed his alone to decide. But this way was polite. This way was the way business had been done in Bannerworth Hall for generations. Who was to let something as silly as a vampire get in the way of all that?

Marchdale poured them both another goblet of wine and regaled Henry with the story of how his late cousin - the brute - cheated three rival house bannermen in a game of dice, before they kindly divested him of his insides in repayment; a jovial tale, if a bit dark for the mood with all the other... business afoot.

Henry, although he felt not much comfort from these kindly efforts, yet could feel gratitude to him who made them; and after expressing such a feeling to Marchdale, in strong terms, he repaired to the house, in order to hold a solemn consultation with those whom he felt ought to be consulted as well as himself as to what steps should be taken with regard to the Hall.

* *

(Original Page 84 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

The proposition, or rather the suggestion, which had been made by Marchdale upon the proposition of Sir Francis Varney, was in every respect so reasonable and just, that it met, as was to be expected, with the concurrence of every member of the family.

Flora's cheeks almost resumed some of their wonted colour at the mere thought now of leaving that home to which she had been at one time so much attached.

"Yes, dear Henry," she said, "let us leave here if you are agreeable so to do, and in leaving this house, we will believe that we leave behind us a world of terror."

"Flora," remarked Henry, in a tone of slight reproach, "if you were so anxious to leave Bannerworth Hall, why did you not say so before this proposition came from other mouths? You know your feelings upon such a subject would have been laws to me."

"I knew you were attached to the old house," said Flora; "and, besides, events have come upon us all with such fearful rapidity, there has scarcely been time to think."

"True — true." "And you will leave, Henry?" "I will call upon Sir Francis Varney myself, and speak to him upon the subject."

A new impetus to existence appeared now to come over the whole family, at the idea of leaving a place which always would be now associated in their minds with so much terror. Each member of the family felt happier, and breathed more freely than before, so that the change which had come over them seemed almost magical. And Charles Holland, too, was much better pleased, and he whispered to Flora, —

"Dear Flora, you will now surely no longer talk of driving from you the honest heart that loves you?" "Hush, Charles, hush!" she said; "meet me in an hour hence in the garden, and we will talk of this." "That hour will seem an age," he said.

Henry, now, having made a determination to see Sir Francis Varney, lost no time in putting it into execution. At Mr. Marchdale's own request, he took him with him, as it was desirable to have a third person present in the sort of business negotiation which was going on. The estate which had been so recently entered upon by the person calling himself Sir Francis Varney, and which common report said he had purchased, was a small, but complete property, and situated so close to the grounds connected with Bannerworth Hall, that a short walk soon placed Henry and Mr. Marchdale before the residence of this gentleman, who had shown so kindly a feeling towards the Bannerworth family.

"Have you seen Sir Francis Varney?" asked Henry of Mr. Marchdale, as he rung the gate-bell.

"I have not. Have you?"

"No; I never saw him. It is rather awkward our both being absolute strangers to his person."

"We can but send in our names, however; and, from the great vein of courtesy that runs through his letter, I have no doubt but we shall receive the most gentlemanly reception from him."

A servant in handsome livery appeared at the iron-gates, which opened upon a lawn in the front of Sir Francis Varney's house, and to this domestic Henry Bannerworth handed his card, on which he had written, in pencil, likewise the name of Mr. Marchdale.

"If your master," he said, "is within, we shall be glad to see him."

# Stoner Versus Vampire by Mel Neet

"Sir Francis is at home, sir," was the reply, "although not very well. If you will be pleased to walk in, I will announce you to him."

EXT. NIGHT. MANSION.

HANK, a stoner, one toke closer to paranoia, and DALE, a stoner, one toke closer to law school, bound up to door, laughing, ready to _storm the castle_. The castle, and, possibly its inhabitants, doesn't look as amused as its guests.

HANK

So, how do you know this dude again?

DALE

I don't. You told me you knew him from kindergarten, or prep school. I get them confused.

HANK

If you had gone to a prep school, you'd know the difference.

DALE

(Looks at HANK, who resembles a hipster Nixon.)

Would I?

HANK

(Circles, sees DALE looking at him. Knows he's the joke; he's _always_ the joke.)

Fuuu - Just knock already. I don't know what we're doing here.

DALE

Frank's our new friend, that's what we're doing here. Don't tell me that our new friend Frank's not sitting on some fine homegrown. Look how remote this place is. It's a grower's paradise. Maryjane heaven.

HANK

Yeah, remote. Heaven. Angels looking down on us. FBI behind the clouds -

DALE

Hank, settle, will you? You're breaking our agreement. We don't put those three letters together unless what? Unless we _see_ any representatives of the aforementioned letters. So, let's put this old knocker to the test and greet our new friend Frank.

(Lifts knocker and lets it fall, which causes door to open. Even DALE steps back, startled.)

HANK

Maybe no one's here.

DALE

No, someone's here.

HANK

Then why is the door wide open?

DALE

The door isn't wide-open. It wasn't locked.

HANK

Maybe we weren't expected.

DALE

Bull. We were.

(Bends down, picks up paper. Reads:)

"Gentlemen, make yourselves at home. I'm a day sleeper, but will come down presently. There are beers and food in the kitchen, down the hallway from the living room."

HANK

I don't know...

DALE

I do. We're tired, we're out of gas, and Frank's got food, money, grass and room to put us up for the night.

HANK

How do you know he's got grass? Or, money?

DALE

How do you not know? You don't live in the middle of nowhere unless you're stocked up for long winters. Our friend Frank wants some company. We need gas money and some provisions to get back to town. Perfect set-up.

HANK

(Following HANK in the dark house, looking behind him.)

Yeah, perfect.

INT. MANSION.

DALE

(Lights a match, looking for a switch.)

Gaslight. Friend Frank's a little old fashioned. (Lights a lamp, which illuminates old painting.) Dig the family portrait.

(Trips down a step.)

Uh, watch that first step.

(Gaslight illuminates room as DALE lights the others and switches on a couple table lamps. HANK walks to center of the room: A massive oil painting of a man - maybe the patriarch of friend Frank's family - the clothing looks old enough to be 19th century. HANK stands mesmerized in front of the mahogany-framed portrait.

HANK

They must not have had dentists back then.

DALE

(Runs fingers through hair, looking around.)

Why you say that?

HANK

Well, look at that dude's teeth. They stick out.

DALE

Everything about that dude sticks out. Look at that hair. He looks like Bela Lugosi.

HANK

(Not wanting to agree, something's not sitting well with that name and the impression the painting's already made on him.)

Don't say that.

DALE

You're the one who brought it up.

HANK

No, I said look at his teeth.

DALE

And, I said look at his hair.

HANK

I know. It - they're the same!

DALE

(Laughs, tired, shrugs.)

Teeth and hair. Groovy-Grisly. Mmm, maybe Frank's got some corned beef. Beer and a corned beef on rye would make this room look a lot better.

(Waits for HANK. Gives up.)

If not brighter.

(Elbows HANK.)

Hey! Food: Remember? Let's forage.

INT. NIGHT. Kitchen of Mansion.

HANK and DALE sit at table, plates and empty beer bottles in front of them.

HANK

(Elbows resting on table.)

I could drop right now.

DALE

(Tilting on two legs of chair, head back.)

We're in the country. They go to bed early out here.

HANK

Not if they sleep all day.

DALE

Our friend Frank's a day sleeper because he's a night grower.

HANK

Did we find any proof of this, or are you just already convinced in your mind?

DALE

We didn't look.

HANK

I looked.

DALE

And? What are you holding out on me for?

HANK

I'm not. I looked, and I didn't find anything!

DALE

(DALE clatters back to all four legs with a scrape on the porcelain floor.)

Unnecessary, Hank. Had the sandwich, the beer, the after-sandwich smoke, waiting for friend Frank. You're like the tour guide of _Dante's Inferno_.

HANK

Not funny, Dale. Look, I know what I think I know. This isn't where we should be.

DALE

(Slow turn.)

You know what you think you know? Oh, man, a Hank classic.

HANK

(About to speak when kitchen door swings, revealing Friend Frank, a pale, skinny dude with serious overbite.)

FRANK

Ah, you're where I hoped I would find you. Good evening.

DALE

(Rising, nudging HANK to stand.)

Oh, hey, you must be Frank. (Wipes hands on pants leg and extends handshake.) I'm Dale.

HANK

(Staring at Frank, trying to recover, but looks like Nixon-meets Munch's _The Scream_.)

It's him!

FRANK

Your friend a little paranoid?

DALE

He's just a little high-strung. (Lowers mouth to HANK's ear.) Hank! Man, chill.

HANK

This man, Frank? He's the dude in the portrait.

FRANK

(Both men startle when he speaks.)

The painting is of my great, great ancestor. Of course, there's a resemblance.

HANK

(Squints at FRANK, who bears what might be called a fang, as he smiles again. HANK shivers.)

It can't be. You. The painting's you, but that can't be. (Looks at DALE, caught between helpless and pissed.) It can't be.

"You must surprise me," said Sir Francis.

# Blarney by Donald McGrath

Henry sunk into the chair which was near him and he trembled violently.

(Violently, violently, O so violently!)

"Is this the vampyre?"

"Say, Sire?"

"Say, is Varney thy true name?"

Or is that moniker mere blarney?"

"No blarney, Sire, but an appellation  
of the highest and most noble station."

"None other hath thou that might a title bear?"

"None other so attuned to bear it!"

"I am, Sire, most distressed to hear it!"

"I sense ill health hath thy nerves undone."

"Not ill health, Sire, though undone they be."

" _Pardonnez cette présumption de l'esprit_.

Tis your visage, Sire, gives me no respite.

"I am, Sire, most distressed to hear it!"

"I know not what to say. How shall I..."

"Unburden thyself, Sire, as well thou may."

"Horrible conjecture attends thy physiognomy..."

"Do not spare us!"

"In my esteemèd family, of late, an heiress...."

"Hath had a visitor she deemed a vampyre."

"How are you in possession of such knowledge, Sire?"

"Ways I have but pay the point no heed."

"In truth, a vampyre, who expressed a need...

"Are you not above such superstition, Sire?"

v

[At this Sir Varley's teeth

glisten like a baby being Christened]

"Would it were so! But no!

Mine judgment hath been much assaileth...."

"'Then of _mine_ yourself availeth."

[This from Mr. Marchdale, whom we have secreted

safely in the wings til he were needed.]

"Tis scarcely civil," saith our tardy guest,

to tell Sir Francis to his face

that this countenance of his is also one

of an unredeemed and undying race....."

"But tell I must, I must," saith Henry.

"Pray, Sire!" [Sir Varney, now, with greater pallor]

"Permit Mr. Bannerworth to speak freely,

for there is nothing I admire so much as candour.

"You are his spitting image, Sire."

"Is it possible?" saith Varney.

"Nay, more than possible, a damning fact!"

"Well, it's unfortunate for me, I presume? Eh!"

* *

(Original Page 87 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

Varney gave a twinge of pain, as if some sudden bodily ailment had attacked him severely.

"You are unwell, sir?" said Marchdale.

"No, no — no," he said; "I — hurt my arm, and happened accidentally to touch the arm of this chair with it."

"A hurt?" said Henry.

"Yes, Mr. Bannerworth."

"A — a wound?"

"Yes, a wound, but not much more than skin deep. In fact, little beyond an abrasion of the skin."

"May I inquire how you came by it?"

"Oh, yes. A slight fall."

"Indeed."

"Remarkable, is it not? Very remarkable. We never know a moment when, from some most trifling cause, we may receive some serious bodily hurt. How true it is, Mr. Bannerworth, that in the midst of life we are in death."

"And equally true, perhaps," said Henry, "that in the midst of death there may be found a horrible life."

"Well, I should not wonder. There are really so many strange things in this world, that I have left off wondering at anything now."

"There are strange things," said Henry. "You wish to purchase of me the Hall, sir?" "If you wish to sell." "You — you are perhaps attached to the place? Perhaps you recollected it, sir, long ago?"

"Not very long," smiled Sir Francis Varney. "It seems a nice comfortable old house; and the grounds, too, appear to be amazingly well wooded, which, to one of rather a romantic temperament like myself, is always an additional charm to a place. I was extremely pleased with it the first time I beheld it, and a desire to call myself the owner of it took possession of my mind. The scenery is remarkable for its beauty, and, from what I have seen of it, it is rarely to be excelled. No doubt you are greatly attached to it."

It has been my home from infancy," returned Henry, "and being also the residence of my ancestors for centuries, it is natural that I should be so."

"True — true."

"The house, no doubt, has suffered much," said Henry, "within the last hundred years."

"No doubt it has. A hundred years is a tolerable long space of time, you know."

"It is, indeed. Oh, how any human life which is spun out to such an extent, must lose its charms, by losing all its fondest and dearest associations."

"Ah, how true," said Sir Francis Varney.

He had some minutes previously touched a bell, and at this moment a servant brought in on a tray some wine and refreshments.

* *

(Original Page 88 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

**Chapter XIV.** On the tray which the servant brought into the room, were refreshments of different kinds, including wine, and after waving his hand for the domestic to retire, Sir Francis Varney said, —

"You will be better, Mr. Bannerworth, for a glass of wind after your walk, and you too, sir. I am ashamed to say, I have quite forgotten your name."

"Marchdale."

"Mr. Marchdale. Ay, Marchdale. Pray, sir, help yourself."

"You take nothing yourself?" said Henry.

"I am under a strict regimen," replied Varney. "The simplest diet alone does for me, and I have accustomed myself to long abstinence."

"He will not eat or drink," muttered Henry, abstractedly.

"Will you sell me the Hall?" said Sir Francis Varney.

Henry looked in his face again, from which he had only momentarily withdrawn his eyes, and he was then more struck than ever with the resemblance between him and the portrait on the panel of what had been Flora's chamber. What made that resemblance, too, one about which there could scarcely be two opinions, was the mark or cieatrix of a wound in the forehead, which the painter had slightly indented in the portrait, but which was much more plainly visible on the forehead of Sir Francis Varney. Now that Henry observed the distinctive mark, which he had not done before, he could feel no doubt, and a sickening sensation came over him at the thought that he was actually now in the presence of one of those terrible creatures, vampyres.

"You do not drink," said Varney. "Most young men are not so modest with a decanter of unimpeachable wine before them. Pray help yourself."

"I cannot."

Henry rose as he spoke, and turning to Marchdale, he said, in addition, —

"Will you come away?"

"If you please," said Marchdale, rising.

"But you have not, my dear sir," said Varney, "given me yet an answer about the Hall?"

"I cannot yet," answered Henry, "I will think. My present impression is, to let you have it on whatever terms you may yourself propose, always provided you consent to one of mine."

"Name it."

"That you never show yourself in my family."

"How very unkind. I understand you have a charming sister, young, beautiful, and accomplished. Shall I confess, now, that I had hopes of making myself agreeable to her?"

"You make yourself agreeable to her? The sight of you would blast her for ever, and drive her to madness."

* *

(Original Page 89 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Am I so hideous?" "No, but — you are — " "Hush, Henry, hush," cried Marchdale. "Remember you are in this gentleman's house." "True, true. Why does he tempt me to say these dreadful things? I do not want to say them."

"Come away, then — come away at once. Sir Francis Varney, my friend, Mr. Bannerworth, will think over your offer, and let you know. I think you may consider that your wish to become the purchaser of the Hall will be complied with."

"I wish to have it," said Varney, "and I can only say, that if I am master of it, I shall be very happy to see any of the family on a visit at any time."

"A visit!" said Henry, with a shudder. "A visit to the tomb were far more desirable. Farewell, sir."

"Adieu," said Sir Francis Varney, and he made one of the most elegant bows in the world, while there came over his face a peculiarity of expression that was strange, if not painful, to contemplate. In another minute Henry and Marchdale were clear of the house, and with feelings of bewilderment and horror, which beggar all description, poor Henry allowed himself to be led by the arm by Marchdale to some distance, without uttering a word. When he did speak, he said, —

"Marchdale, it would be charity of some one to kill me." "To kill you?" "Yes, for I am certain otherwise that I must go mad." "Nay, nay; rouse yourself."

"This man, Varney, is a vampyre."

"Hush! hush!"

"I tell you, Marchdale," cried Henry, in a wild, excited manner, "he is a vampyre. He is the dreadful being who visited Flora at the still hour of midnight, and drained the life-blood from her veins. He is a vampyre. There are such things. I cannot doubt now. Oh, God, I wish now that your lightnings would blast me, as here I stand, for ever into annihilation, for I am going mad to be compelled to feel that such horrors can really have existence."

"Henry — Henry."

"Nay, talk not to me. What can I do? Shall I kill him? Is it not a sacred duty to destroy such a thing? Oh, horror — horror. He must be killed — destroyed — burnt, and the very dust to which he is consumed must be scattered to the winds of Heaven. It would be a deed well done, Marchdale."

"Hush! hush! These words are dangerous."

"I care not."

"What if they were overheard now by unfriendly ears? What might not be the uncomfortable results? I pray you be more cautious what you say of this strange man."

"I must destroy him." "And wherefore?"

# Have you forgotten about Flora? by Michelle Morris

"Can you ask? Is he not a vampyre?"

"Yes," Mr. Marchdale said, "but let's carry that argument to its natural conclusion. If vamypres are not made by sucking the blood and letting their victims die from exsanguination like any other poor soul, but instead they were simply attacked and infected, so when they die of the vampyre disease, they become a vampyre."

"Well — well, what does that mean to me?" asked Henry. Mr. Marchdale felt only irritation at Henry's reply. Of all the men in involved in this case he was the most reliable and committed, but that did not mean he was the most intelligent.

"Have you forgotten about Flora?"

To his credit, Henry quickly picked up the relationship between their current predicament and Marchdale's lecture. Henry Bannerworth let out a cry of despair and threw himself on the couch in a fit of pique that was unbecoming of a man of his station. It was childish and surprisingly vulnerable. Marchdale found it endearing. What a queer man! Perhaps in both senses of the word. He felt oddly protective of Henry.

"God of Heaven!" he moaned. "I had forgotten her!"

"I thought you had," Marchdale deadpanned.

"Oh, if the sacrifice of my own life would suffice to put an end to all of this accumulating horror, how gladly would I lay it down. Ay, in any way - in any way. No mode of death would appal me. No amount of pain makes me shrink. I could smile then upon the destroyer, and say, "Welcome - welcome - most welcome."

Marchdale noted that the melodrama of Henry's reaction was sincere, but not for Flora's sake, but his own. Yes, it confirmed what Marchdale had speculated about the young man. Flora was his cover. He loved her not in a romantic way but for how she would help him keep him place in society. He clearly liked her and had great affection for her. He would do anything to save her unlike Charles Holland, who could easily find another woman to marry. To live without Flora would be a form of death for him, social suicide and something emotionally crippling, too.

"Rather, Henry," Mr. Marchdale said, "seek to live for those whom you love than die for them. Your death would leave them desolate. In life you may ward off many a blow of fate from them."

"I may endeavor to do so," Henry said forlornly.

"Consider that Flora may be wholly dependent upon such kindness as you may be able to bestow upon here." Mr. Marchdale hoped that steering the conversation back to how Henry might help Flora would strengthen his ally.

"Charles clings to her."

"Humph!" Marchdale would have to be more direct with Henry.

"You do not doubt him?"

"My dear friend, Henry Bannerworth, although I am not an old man, yet I am so much older than you that I have seen a great deal of the world, and am, perhaps, far better able to come to accurate judgments with regard to individuals."

"No doubt - no doubt; but yet -"

"Nay hear me out. Such judgments, founded upon experience, when uttered have all the character of prophecy about them. I, therefore, now prophecy to you that Charles Holland will yet be so stung with horror at the circumstance of a vampire visiting Flora, that he will never make her his wife." Marchdale was certain that Holland, like Henry was concerned with social appearance, but he was also controlling and the affair with the vampire hinted to a wilder nature in Flora that Charles would not be able to control and be haunted by in a relationship. Henry would forgive Flora's past and future indiscretions and he hoped she would forgive his.

"Marchdale, I differ from you most completely," said Henry. "I know Charles Holland is the very soul of honor."

Male honor, perhaps, but Charles probably believed that any honor a woman had was determined by the men she consorted with and the company she kept. Flora would fail in that respect, but Marchdale did not want to waste time by arguing with his new ally.

"I cannot argue the matter with you. It has not become a thing of fact. I have only sincerely to hope that I am wrong." Marchdale was solely concerned with Flora's future - not Charles Holland's sense of honor.

"You are entirely wrong. I cannot be deceived in Charles. Your words produce no effect but regret that you should so much err in your estimate of any one. From anyone but yourself they would have produced in me a feeling of anger I might have found difficult to smother."

"It has been my misfortune through life," said Mr. Marchdale, sadly, "to give the greatest offence where I feel the truest friendship, because it is in such quarters that I am always tempted to speak too freely."

* *

(Original Page 91 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Nay, no offence," said Henry. "I am distracted, and scarcely know what I say. Marchdale, I know that you are my sincere friend; but, I tell you, I am nearly mad."

"My dear Henry, be calmer. Consider upon what is to be said concerning this interview at home."

"Ay; that is a consideration."

"I should not think it advisable to mention the disagreeable fact, that in your neighbour you think you have found out the nocturnal disturber of your family."

"No — no."

"I would say nothing of it. It is not at all probable that, after what you have said to him, this Sir Francis Varney, or whatever his real name may be, will obtrude himself upon you."

"If he should he surely dies."

"He will, perhaps, consider that such a step would be dangerous to him."

"It would be fatal, so help me, Heaven; and then would I take especial care that no power of resuscitation should ever enable that man again to walk the earth."

"They say the only way of destroying a vampyre is to fix him to the earth with a stake, so that he cannot move, and then, of course, decomposition will take its course, as in ordinary cases."

"Fire would consume him, and be a quicker process," said Henry. "But these are fearful reflections, and, for the present, we will not pursue them. Now to play the hypocrite, and endeavour to look composed and serene to my mother, and to Flora, while my heart is breaking."

The two friends had by this time reached the hall, and leaving his friend Marchdale, Henry Bannerworth, with feelings of the most unenviable description, slowly made his way to the apartment occupied by his mother and sister.

—

# Extra! Extra By Beth Kopley

Chapter XV: _While those matters of most grave and serious import were going on at the Hall, while each day, and almost each hour in each day, was producing more and more conclusive evidence upon a matter which at first had seemed too monstrous to be at all credited, it may well be supposed what a wonderful sensation was produced among the gossip-mongers of the neighbourhood by the exaggerated reports that had reached them._

EXTRA!

Dateline: Bannerworth Hall

Servants flee amidst rumours of savage vampyre attacks!

Gruesome accounts from family manse!

Uxotter Village is abuzz with tales from the seat of the Bannerworth family! All the servants have fled, and the family remains in terrified thrall of a sepulchral beast...to whom many give scant credence.

Toffs on the high street pooh-pooh the rumours and dismiss the horrifying tales from the accursed Bannerworth Hall. In an interview exclusive to **EXTRA!** , Lord Butlin of Pudsey Grange shared his views: "Vampyres do not exist, I assure you. This is just women's stuff and nonsense. Yet I do hear that an unsavoury person has visited the Bannerworth daughter in the night. Curdles my blood to imagine that a lady would permit such an occurrence, with her mother at home, as well!"

But behind closed doors, the word is out: from hovel to hall, from cowpaths to country lanes, all talk is of the vampyre, who clutches the poor inhabitants of Bannerworth Hall in his loathsome claws. Nannies warn their young charges of the evil one's wrath. Forget the bogeyman - the vampyre will scare those children into bed!

The shocking news surges among the swells at the Nelson's Arms, in Uxotter Village. There, lovers of the horrible hold their macabre congress. As they work up a powerful thirst, the landlord was heard to declare, whilst crossing himself: "The vampyre, he's better than a by-election for driving men to strong drink."

On the same day that Marchdale and Henry, two of Bannerworth Hall's ill-starred denizens, paid a call upon the blackguard Sir Francis Varney, a postchaise was seen drawing up to the inn. Bystanders observed two strangers inside, unlike each other in manner as chalk and cheese.

**WHO** are these questionable characters?

**WHAT** does this mysterious pair seek in sleepy Uxotter village, menaced by a fiend?

**WHAT** can their peculiar mission bode for the Bannerworth clan?

**EXTRA!** has the answers! Stay tuned.....

EXTRA!

Dateline: Bannerworth Hall

Exclusive on unexplained visitors to the Nelson's Arms!

" **Chalk and Cheese" revealed to have naval ties!**

Dateline has made astonishing discoveries about the two baffling strangers who arrived at the Nelson's Arms, in Uxotter Village, just this afternoon.

The elder was described by Mrs Anna Fellowes, a local washerwoman, who spoke exclusively with **EXTRA!** : "Nearly threescore and ten, by the look of him, brown as a berry. Spoke up like the prime minister, he did. No airs and graces for him, his voice echoed halfway across the yard. Mind you, man as lively as him, he'll be keeping the devil at bay for another score, if he's lucky."

Our eyewitness testimony continued as Lucius Gravesend, a 90-year-old patron of the hostelry, noted, "There's somethin' of the navy man about him, anchors on his buttons, like one of them admirables I saw as a young lad. Not that I paid him much mind. In the village we sees to our own business, we does."

As to the younger, Mrs. Fellowes commented: "Younger man likes a bit o' beef, by my lights. He's a gurt great feller, a heifer of a man - a hearty sailor by the looks of 'im."

Witnesses - who spoke exclusively with **EXTRA!** \- overheard the younger call out as they drew up to the inn.

"A-hoy!"

Very puzzling, as if they were still at sea...but Uxotter Village is miles from the coast.

"Well, lubber, what now?" the older man was heard to say.

**WHAT** could these two maritime strangers possibly desire in landlocked Uxotter? **WHAT** brings them inland, far from the briny deep?

**HOW** is their visit linked to the torment of the damned Bannerworth family?

Witnesses revealed their deep secrets to **EXTRA!** Let's listen...

" _They call this the Nelson's Arms; and you know, shiver me, that for the best half of his life he had but one."_

# Instant Message by Danielle Bullen

"D — n you!" was the only rejoinder he got for his observation; but, with that, he seemed very well satisfied.

**SailorGuyJack:** stop!

what r u doin asshole?

we dont want to go to the dock

**TheAdmiral:** stop swearing!

**SailorGuyJack:** havent been on land in 10 yrs itchin to be gone

**The Admiral:** be quiet!

**SailorGuyJack:** let's go

**TheAdmiral:** help your elder into the inn

**SailorGuyJack:** fine

**InkeeperNelson:** welcome, sirs, we have the best food, wines . . .

**SailorGuyJack:** out of the way!

**InkeeperNelson:** yes, yes, of course

**TheAdmiral:** Jack, where are those instructions?

**SailorGuyJack:** in my pocket

**The Admiral:** hand it here. what does it say?

Stop at Nelson's Arms at Utoxxer and send for me and I will tell you more Josiah Crinkles who the devil is he?

**InkeeperNelson:** you are in the right place, sirs, but \I do not know any Josiah

**TheAdmiral:** silence!

**InkeeperNelson:** Yes, sir, — oh, of course."

# The Devil and the Lawyer By Caren Gussoff

"Who the devil is Josiah Crinkles?" the admiral asked.

He looked up and down the line as I did the old-look-down-but-not-too-far-down, the look that let me surf out of high school on a low C average and straight into the Navy without ever really knowing the answer to anything.

To this, though, the admiral wanted an answer. And he stopped right in front of me. My look was iron shavings to a magnet. "Who the devil is he, seaman?"

"Who the devil, sir?" I answered. My grandfather told some old joke about devils and lawyers, along with taking his wife, please, how tired his arms were. The devil is a lawyer? Lawyers worship the devil? I couldn't remember, but I smiled and even forced a few "Ha, ha's" out of respect.

The admiral looked at me as if I had just taken a crap right there on the deck. "Ha? Ha?" he repeated at me. He made it sound like I'd crapped on the deck. "Son, I'll knock the yellow from your teeth out your ass unless you answer me."

I straightened up. "Sir, he's a lawyer, sir," I said.

"A lawyer?"

"Yes, sir, a lawyer. Quite a few of his trials that made it to TV."

The admiral paced a few steps away from me, and then turned back. He dismissed us, but as I broke line, he called me back. "Not you, crapstack."

I reassumed attention. "Sir."

"Tell me, son. Why would a TV lawyer warrant a boat this size to go one hundred and seventy miles out of her way?"

I didn't know. Frankly, I was surprised at myself that I even remembered enough to associate the name Crinkle with anything at all. The devil and a lawyer walk into a bar? "Sir?"

"Since you're the expert, I want you to tell me why I received orders at oh-fuck-thirty that this boat was docking and I am to await the arrival of some ambulance chaser."

I couldn't answer that. I wasn't sure I was supposed to.

"Son," said the admiral. "Are you hypnotized? Answer me."

"I don't know, sir."

"Fuck all." The admiral started to walk towards the mess and motioned for me to follow. "You like television, son?"

"Who doesn't, sir?"

"I don't, for one." The admiral pulled himself a cup of coffee from the industrial carafe against the wall. "You drinking coffee, son, or are you on a diet?"

I hated the mess coffee. It tasted like tea made of wood. "Please, sir."

The admiral sat down at an empty table. "I should walk off this boat and send you all back out where you belong. TV lawyer."

I added four sugars to my cup. "It must be something important, sir."

"What did you say?"

"I said, sir, it must be something important if you were asked to meet Crinkle." A lawyer says to the devil...? How many lawyers and devils does it take to...?

"No, shit." The admiral eyed my empty sugar packets. I could literally see him deciding whether to make a crack. "Are you joking around again with me, seaman?

"No, sir," I said. The sugars just made the coffee taste like overly sweet wood tea. "I have no idea why Josiah Crinkle would be meeting you, but..."

"But, what?" The admiral looked at me. "Be frank, son. It's not like you are less in my sights."

"It can't be anything good," I finished.

"Can't be anything good what?"

"Sir," I finished.

"You fuckwitted gnat," The admiral said. ""I should have you taken off this boat."

"Please do, sir."

The admiral sighed. "You ever remember Paw-paw's joke about the devil and the lawyer? That's what you were grinning at, weren't you?"

"No, dad," I said. "Sir." I pushed away my coffee.

The admiral stood up and motioned again for me to follow. Ahead of me, he walked with a bit of limp, which meant his back was bothering him — old football injury. I never was good at football. He led me to the Commissioned Warrant Officers' galley.

I saluted him. "Good luck, sir. May I be dismissed now?"

"Hell, no, son," he said and opened the door. "You aren't going anywhere. Except maybe to help me with this Crinkle." He stepped inside and looked at me. "Come in, then."

# Varney the Vampire Projectr by Michael du Plessis

"Don't tell me I'm no seaman. Call me a wagabone if you like, but don't hurt my feelings. There I'm as tender as a baby, I am. -Don't do it."

Admiral Bell and Jack Pringle

much as they linger

at the inn and bicker as they might

for all the wine and a cozy bed,

not too far away in the night

all the sea devils are already ahead

where fast travel the dead

and their sails are red.

"Good—so we will."

# Shark, thief, murderer by Lisa Fantino

"And, then, again, he may know something about Master Charles, sir, you know. Lord love him, don't you remember when he came aboard to see you once at Portsmouth?"

"Ah! I do indeed. Fat hobbit was not so polite"

"No, not polite, indeed. Hobbit hated the French, he did, and such a baby! Stupid Hobbit"

The admiral laughed and rubbed his hands, as he cried aloud,

"Remember, Jack, I remember him. Skulking off. "

"Skulking, skulking, yes you were, my precious. You ruins it."

"Come, come. Jack!"

"Skulking, name-calling, Jack don't like Admiral Hobbit."

"Skulking, Why, Jack, you bear malice like a marine."

"Malice, marine, you go away now and don't come back."

"You saved my life, Jack."

"No."

"You did."

"No, Jack just hedging all bets. Now, go away."

"But you did, you did save my precious life and I won't be contradicted on my own ship."

"Call this your ship? Not so precious now, eh."

"Jack, be nice. Admiral is your friend"

"Mr. Crinkles," said the landlord, flinging the door wide open.

"Shark, thief, murderer" said Jack. "I'm not listening. I'm not listening. Go away, go away now"

"You're a liar and a shark."

"No. I am your friend."

"Jack has no friends. Admiral looks after us now."

The little, neatly dressed man advanced rather timidly.

"So you are Crinkles, are you?" cried the admiral. "Sit, though you are a shark."

"I am an attorney, sir."

"Look at that. How precious"

The admiral placed the letter in the little lawyer's hands, who said, —

# Chicka Chicka Boom Boom by Alecia Burke

""Am I to read it?"

"Yes, to be sure."

"Aloud?"

"Read it to the devil, of you like, in a pig's whisper, or a West India hurricane."

Crinkles told Bell,

And Bell agreed,

"I'll meet you at the Nelson's Arms

in Britannia

"Whee! Said Charles

To his beauty

I'll beat you to the alter

In Britannia."

Chicka chicka boom boom!

Will there be enough room?

Here comes Jack

to Britannia

Chicka chicka boom boom!

Will there be enough room?

Look who's coming!

Flora's family!

The whole Bannerworth clan

In - Oh, no!

Chicka chicka...

BOOM! BOOM!

Skit skat skoodle doot.

Flip flop flee.

Everybody running to Britannia.

Admiral

Uncle Bell wants

To hug his dear Charles, then dust his pants.

"Flora is a VAMPYRE,"

Cried the attorney.

Charles is tangled with a vamp

Crinkles is about to cry.

Jack will knot him like a tie.

Bell is looped.

Jack is stooped.

Bannerworths are twisted alley oop.

Skit skat skoodle doot.

Flip flop flee.

Look what's coming!

Ruinous consequences.

Ruin

And distress.

Then Vampyre children

Wiggle-jiggle free.

At last we see

Crinkles is confused

Bell bemused.

And the sun goes down in Britannia

But -

Chicka chicka boom boom!

Look, there's a moon.

Charles is out of bed,

And this is what he said,

"Dare double dare,

You can't catch me.

I'll beat you to the alter

In Britannia

Chicka chicka

Boom! Boom!

# Varney the Vampire reboot by Adam Chesin

**Chapter XV:** "Just this much," said Mr. Crinkles, recovering himself a little, "just this much, sir, that I never saw that letter before in all my life."

Dismayed, the Admiral said, "You...never saw it?"

Crinkles shook his head vigorously. "Never."

"Didn't e mail it?"

Pringle looked on intently at his perplexed customers, saw that the Admiral had grown paler. Crinkles said, "I can't for the life of me think of anyone who'd send an e mail like this, or put my name to it. I know your name—every Brit does. But I sure as hell don't have your e mail address—sir."

The Admiral saw Jack looking at him; he kept his fingers clasped around his drink as though he might down it, and immediately demand a second, then a third. He turned back to Crinkles, "Did _any_ lawyer write this, then, man?"

Crinkles thought for a moment; he smiled politely and said, "The only honest parts of that e mail are the compliments to you, sir. But it's a forgery. Somebody's hacked into my account and sent it to you, put my name on it." The Admiral watched as he downed his drink; nervously, he stood up and straightened his coat. "It was an honor to meet you sir. I'm sorry about the circumstances. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

Jack watched as he prepared to leave. Suddenly, he said, "Hang about," and bolted to the door, put his back against it. Crinkles stopped abruptly, staring in dismay, as did the others. He said, "Stay for a round, man—a toast to the queen, your health, sir."

The Admiral stared at Jack for a moment, bemused. At last he said, " Why not? Christ, I've know two decent blokes who were lawyers. One of 'em's the JAG officer at Clyde, and my instinct tells me the other's you. Jack—your finest bunch of grapes, man."

Crinkles stood between Jack and the Admiral for a minute, looking back and forth at each. He saw the Chief looking up at him, a wry smile on his hard face, watched as he downed his Scotch. Crinkles swallowed hard, loosened his collar, managed a smile at last. "Alright. Why the hell not—maybe a glass or two." He headed back to the table, and the Chief pushed out his chair for him with a booted foot. Nervously, he stammered, "Look...sir, while this e mail's a blatant forgery, there are...some things in it that have...become quite infamous around here. Maybe I can help...clear it up."

Dryly, the Admiral said, "Please do—have a seat." He turned to Pringle, who'd been waiting patiently. "Jack—the wine please." Pringle saluted crisply, and headed to the wine cellar. The Admiral turned back to Crinkles. "So...who do you think wrote it, Esquire?"

Crinkles looked from him to the Chief and back, dismayed. "I...I have no idea, sir."

The Admiral narrowed his eyes for a moment, looked to the Chief, who sat patiently, as if waiting for orders. At last he said, "Well...whoever did obviously wanted me here, and it's a good thing I am. I didn't know my nephew was back in England, but I guaran-damn-ty you I'm gonna' get to the bottom of this...this business with the..."

Chillingly, Crinkles whispered, "The vampire."

"Ah! the vampyre."

# Shiver me timbers by Alexander Hollins

"Shiver me timbers!" said Jack Pringle. He entered the room with a gallon jug of wine. The waiter fanned his glove in front of his face, scandalized that a patron would bring in wine himself. Jack gave him a grimace, and the waiter nearly fainted as he caught sight of the label.

Jack thumped the jug on the table, the silverware clattering.

"Damn me if I know what a wamp for hire is, unless it's one of Davey Jone's dark guards!"

"Hold your ignorant tounge!" Cried the Admiral, "Unless you'd prefer it cut out, as no one wants to hear it wag, you lubber!"

"Well, fine, fine Admiral!" Jack poured himself a glass of the wine and left, muttering. "Lubber is it. Don't hear you call me a lubber when the air is thicker with lead than seagull droppings, and we're being boarded by all manners of fatherless dogs. Then it's Oh great Jack, oh strong Jack, hold me Jack, kill them Jack. Lubber he calls me..."

The lawyer grew quite white overhearing the tirade, but Admiral Bell shoved a full glass into his hand. "Arr, drink, drink. And have another Mister Lawyer. Shiver MY own timbers, but I likes you, pasty skin, soft hands and all. Lets finish our business, then perhaps we can get some drinks in private?"

"I uh... that is... umm, that would be, very good of you sir?" Mr. Crinkles wasn't sure what to make of this turn of conversation, but he found himself clenching his cheeks, and remembering stories of sailors alone with each other for months on the sea.

"Not at all, not at all. Why, once was the day that I'd rather call a shark to visit in me cabin then an otter like yourself, but you've led me to believe there might be a good man or two who practices law! You'll never want for a bottle, OR a friend, while Admiral Bell is in your port!"

"Bullshit!" Exclaimed Jack from across the room.

"Damn me! What do you mean by that Mr. Pringle!" The Admiral rose from his chair.

Jack eyed him over his glass. "I wasn't speaking to you!" he shrieked, his voice rising. "Two men out in the bar were making wagers, and."

"Enough! Shut your porthole!"

Jack rose to his feet to leave. "Aye, shut it I will. It wasn't shut it when we were getting scuttled in Beiruit, going down on the Captain as he went down with his ship. "

"Never mind him Mr. Lawyer. Mouth stretches wider than his, well, never mind. You were going to tell me about... "

"Yes, ah, the vampyre!" Crinkles jumped at the chance to change the subject.

"Aye. Vampyre. I'm always forgetting the names of odd fish. A cryptid, like old nessie, is it?"

"That, I cannot say, but the story has spread faster than the latest dirty drawings of the Queen."

"You don't say?"

"I do sir. Let me tell the tale. It begins with one Miss Flora Bannerworth, a local beauty, well respected, chased by everything in pants, and a few in dresses. She may be used to visitations at her window, but the one the night of the storm... unnatural. "

"Aye, from the sounds of it, I'd wished to be a stranger at that window. Or her brother's."

"In... indeed. Well, the creature so enthralled her, she was barely able to scoot half off the bed before it had her by the hair, dragging her around like a barbie doll. "

"Damn my pig tail, that must have been a squall!" Said Jack from behind them.

The Admiral whipped him in the face with the jug. "Aye Jack, you see this empty bottle?"

"To be sure, I does; I think as it's time I seed another."

* *

(Original Page 100 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"You scoundrel, I'll make you feel it against that d — — d stupid head of yours, if your interrupt this gentleman again."

"Don't be violent."

"Well, as I was saying," continued the attorney, "she did, by great good fortune, manage to scream, which had the effect of alarming the whole house. The door of her chamber, which was fast, was broken open."

"Yes, yes — "

"Ah," cried Jack.

"You may imagine the horror and the consternation of those who entered the room to find her in the grasp of a fiend-like figure, whose teeth were fastened on her neck and who was actually draining her veins of blood."

"The devil!"

"Before any one could lay hands sufficiently upon the figure to detain it, it had fled precipitately from its dreadful repast. Shots were fired after it in vain."

"And they let it go?"

"They followed it, I understand, as well as they were able, and saw it scale the garden wall of the premises; there it escaped, leaving, as you may well imagine, on all their minds, a sensation of horror difficult to describe."

"Well, I never did hear anything the equal of that. Jack, what do you think of it?" "I haven't begun to think, yet," said Jack.?"But what about my nephew, Charles?" added the admiral.?"Of him I know nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Not a word, admiral. I was not aware you had a nephew, or that any gentleman bearing that, or any other relationship to you, had any sort of connexion with these mysterious and most unaccountable circumstances. I tell you all I have gathered from common report about this vampyre business. Further I know not, I assure you."

"Well, a man can't tell what he don't know. It puzzles me to think who could possibly have written me this letter."

"That I am completely at a loss to imagine," said Crinkles. "I assure you, my gallant sir, that I am much hurt at the circumstance of any one using my name in such a way. But, nevertheless, as you are here, permit me to say, that it will be my pride, my pleasure, and the boast of the remainder of my existence, to be of some service to so gallant a defender of my country, and one whose name, along with the memory of his deeds, is engraved upon the heart of every Briton."

"Quite ekal to a book, he talks," said Jack. "I never could read one myself, on account o' not knowing how, but I've heard 'em read, and that's just the sort o' incomprehensible gammon."

"We don't want any of your ignorant remarks," said the admiral, "so you be quiet." "Ay, ay, sir." "Now, Mister Lawyer, you are an honest fellow, and an honest fellow is generally a sensible fellow."

* *

(Original Page 101 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Sir, I thank you."

"If so be as what this letter says it true, my nephew Charles has got a liking for this girl, who has had her neck bitten by a vampyre, you see."

"I perceive, sir."

"Now what would you do?"

"One of the most difficult, as well, perhaps, as one of the most ungracious of tasks," said the attorney, "is to interfere with family affairs. The cold and steady eye of reason generally sees things in such very different lights to what they appear to those whose feelings and whose affections are much compromised in their results."

"Very true. Go on."

"Taking, my dear sir, what in my humble judgment appears a reasonable view of this subject, I should say it would be a dreadful thing for your nephew to marry into a family any member of which was liable to the visitations of a vampyre."

"It wouldn't be pleasant."

"The young lady might have children."

"Oh, lots," cried Jack.

"Hold your noise, Jack."

"Ay, ay, sir."

"And she might herself actually, when after death she became a vampyre, come and feed on her own children."

"Become a vampyre! What, is she going to be a vampyre too?"

"My dear sir, don't you know that it is a remarkable fact, as regards the physiology of vampyres, that whoever is bitten by one of these dreadful beings, becomes a vampyre?"

"The devil!"

"It is a fact, sir."

"Whew!" whistled Jack; "she might bite us all, and we should be a whole ship's crew o' _wamphigaers_. There would be a confounded go!"

"It's not pleasant," said the admiral, as he rose from his chair, and paced to and fro in the room, "it's not pleasant. Hang me up at my own yard-arm if it is."

"Who said it was?" cried Jack.

"Who asked you, you brute?"

"Well, sir," added Mr. Crinkles, "I have given you all the information I can; and I can only repeat what I before had the honour of saying more at large, namely, that I am your humble servant to command, and that I shall be happy to attend upon you at any time."

"Thank ye — thank ye, Mr. — a — a — "

# Varney the Vampire with a Laugh Track by Kira Dunn

"Crinkles."

[Opening scene: Two men standing in a room of a mansion; one is holding a briefcase and looks uncomfortable; the other in an admiral's uniform, holding a large tumbler of whiskey. A large storm is brewing outside; trees hitting the windows, wind howling, etc.]

[Awkward laughter that slowly builds into an eruption of screaming and hollering once Jack, the star, walks over with a drink in his hand, obviously mugging for the camera; Crinkles looks increasingly uncomfortable, glancing around the house.]

_Jack_ : "Crinkles? Seriously? I don't think I've ever heard such an...interesting name before. [Light audience laughter.] "What, are you Santa's ugly brother who got stuck going to law school?" [Audience erupts with howls and catcalls.]

_Crinkles_ : "Sorry, sir, I prefer to look professional—"

_Jack_ : [interrupting Crinkles] "Have you heard of Charles Holland? Of course you should have, if you're my lawyer; he's my sister's son. Quite annoying, really. [Light audience laughter.] But, he's the only relative I have left, so I suppose I have to take care of him." [Audience 'aww.']

_Crinkles_ : "Ah, of course, sir. I didn't know you cared so much for him. [Begins to blubber with tears, overdramatically.]

_Jack_ : "Be a man, Crinkles! Well, as much of a man as you can be with that name. [Audience laughter.] "Good thing you're a lawyer—if I had a name like yours, I'd sue my parents!" [Audience laughter.]

_Crinkles_ : "Um...well...okay..." [Audience chuckles at his obvious stuttering.] "I guess I'll leave then, if you don't need anything else—"

_Admiral_ [from the other side of the room]: "Good day to you, then!" [He waves him away with a dramatic gesture, spilling some of his drink. Audience laughter. Crinkles leaves, nearly getting blown away as he exits the front door because the wind is so strong. Audience laughter.]

_Jack_ [calling after Crinkles from the doorway]: "Be careful out there, my good man! Wouldn't want to blow away and ruin Christmas for your brother!" [Audience laughter.]

[Jack closes the door as the admiral stumbles over to an overstuffed chair and tries to sit down in it, spilling more of his drink. He nearly falls onto the ground, unable to get into the chair. This continues for a minute until he finally gets seated. Audience laughter unbearable at this point.]

Admiral: "Well, what do we do now?"

[Jack goes over to a window and pushes it open, comically spitting out some of the tobacco he'd been chewing.]

Jack: "Well, we've got no choice but to catch that _wamphigher_ , right?"

Admiral: "The _what_?" [Audience laughter.]

Jack: "Vampire, you idiot, _vampire_!" [Audience laughter.] "We'll get Charles to give us a fleet of ships as well. Can't bloody well raft across the ocean, can we?" [Audience laughter.]

Admiral: "Brilliant plan!" [Waves his drink around and goes to finish it, but finds it empty. Audience laughter.]

Jack: "Of _course_ it is, I thought of it!" [Audience laughter.]

Admiral: "We should hire someone to steer the ship _for_ us. That way if something goes wrong, we can blame him!" [Audience laughter.]

"Which is a mighty great consolation," said Jack. "Come along."

* *

(Original Page 103 by Thomas Preskett Prest)
**CHAPTER XVI.** THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS IN THE GARDEN

Our readers will recollect that Flora Bannerworth had made an appointment with Charles Holland in the garden of the hall. This meeting was looked forward to by the young man with a variety of conflicting feelings, and he passed the intermediate time in a most painful state of doubt as to what would be its result.

The thought that he should be much urged by Flora to give up all thoughts of making her his, was a most bitter one to him, who loved her with so much truth and constancy, and that she would say all she could to induce such a resolution in his mind he felt certain. But to him the idea of now abandoning her presented itself in the worst of aspects.

"Shall I," he said, "sink so low in my own estimation, as well as in hers, and in that of all honourable-minded persons, as to desert her now in the hour of affliction? Dare I be so base as actually or virtually to say to her, 'Flora, when your beauty was undimmed by sorrow — when all around you seemed life and joy, I loved you selfishly for the increased happiness which you might bestow upon me; but now the hand of misfortune presses heavily upon you — you are not what you were, and I desert you?' Never — never — never!"

Charles Holland, it will be seen by some of our more philosophic neighbours, felt more acutely than he reasoned; but let his errors of argumentation be what they may, can we do other than admire the nobility of soul which dictated such a self denying generous course as that he was pursuing?

As for Flora, Heaven only knows if at that precise time her intellect had completely stood the test of the trying events which had nearly overwhelmed it.

The two grand feelings that seemed to possess her mind were fear of the renewed visits of the vampyre, and an earnest desire to release Charles Holland from his repeated vows of constancy towards her.

Feeling, generosity, and judgment, all revolted holding a young man to such a destiny as her's. To link him to her fate, would be to make him to a real extent a sharer in it, and the more she heard fall from his lips in the way of generous feelings of continued attachment to her, the more severely did she feel that he would suffer most acutely if united to her.

And she was right. The very generosity of feeling which would have now prompted Charles Holland to lead Flora Bannerworth to the altar, even with the marks of the vampyre's teeth upon her throat, gave an assurance of the depth of feeling which would have made him an ample haven in all her miseries, in all her distresses and afflictions.

What was familiarly in the family at the Hall called the garden, was a semicircular piece of ground shaded in several directions by trees, and which was exclusively devoted to the growth of flowers. The piece of ground was nearly hidden from the view of the house, and in its centre was a summer-house, which at the usual season of the year was covered with all kinds of creeping plants of exquisite perfumes, and rare beauty. All around, too, bloomed the fairest and sweetest of flowers, which a rich soil and a sheltered situation could produce.

Alas! though, of late many weeds had straggled up among their more estimable floral culture, for the decayed fortunes of the family had prevented them from keeping the necessary servants, to place the Hall and its grounds in a state of neatness, such as it had once been the pride of the inhabitants of the place to see them. It was then in this flower-garden that Charles and Flora used to meet.

As may be supposed, he was on the spot before the appointed hour, anxiously expecting the appearance of her who was so really and truly dear to him. What to him were the sweet flowers that there grew in such happy luxuriance and heedless beauty? Alas, the flower that to his mind was fairer than them all, was blighted, and in the wan cheek of her whom he loved, he sighed to see the lily usurping the place of the radiant rose.

# I watch Oprah by Katelyn Nikic

"Dear, dear Flora," he ejaculated, "you must indeed be taken from the place, whichi s so full of the most painful remembrances now. Marchdale is no buddy of mine. Still, his advice is pretty solid. He didn't have to be such a jerk about everything, but that doesn't mean he isn't right."

Like the beat behind an excellent bass line, a steady tap alerted Charles' ears. He turned and saw his girl, his Flora, walking his way.

It was her - and it wasn't her. Her model quality body was still there, present and accounted for. But her eyes were flat, dead as a swimming pool in January. You even could see the suffering in her steps, which were heavy despite their perch in last season's Blahniks. Charles reached out to catch her hand as she approached. In a moment he had her pressed against the full length of his warm body.

"Hey, baby," he said, "do you feel any better? Is fresh air what you needed?"

She couldn't answer.

"Flora, honey, sweetie," he tempted with all the endearments an ineloquent heart could offer, "Say something. Say anything, please."

She looked up for a moment, tears sparkling in those hopeless eyes. All she managed was "Charles," before the levies were breeched. She collapsed against his firm chest, and would have fallen but for his muscular arms. Good thing he hadn't skipped the gym that morning.

Charles hated her pain so much he felt himself welling up, but through superhuman effort managed to curb the emotion. Instead, he held Flora and encouraged her flood. Let it all out.

Finally, when the worst of the storm was over, Charles decided to try some tenderness yet again.

"Flora, baby, you know that everyone loves you. I love you more than anything. It doesn't matter what happened. What we have, it's bigger than everything."

"Charles, stop."

"Why? You've been through Hell. I watch Oprah \- I know that you need comfort and reassurance."

"No."

"Why?"

"Don't. I can't stand it. Don't tell me you love me now."

"Don't tell you I love you? All I do is love you. Every breath I take, every move I make, I'll be...loving you. Not watching you, like the song. That would be creepy."

"I can't listen to this. Great God of Heaven give me strength to carry out the purpose of my soul."

* *

(Original Page 105 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"What purpose is it, Flora, that you have to pray thus fervently for strength to execute? Oh, if it savour aught of reason against love's majesty, forget it. Love is a gift from Heaven. The greatest and the most glorious gift it ever bestowed upon its creatures. Heaven will not aid you in repudiating that which is the one grand redeeming feature that rescues human nature from a world of reproach."

Flora wrung her hands despairingly as she said, —

"Charles, I know I cannot reason with you. I know I have not power of language, aptitude of illustration, nor depth of thought to hold a mental contention with you."

"Flora, for what do I contend?"

"You, you speak of love."

"And I have, ere this, spoken to you of love unchecked."

"Yes, yes. Before this."

"And now, wherefore not now? Do not tell me you are changed."

"I am changed, Charles. Fearfully changed. The curse of God has fallen upon me, I know not why. I know not that in word or in thought I have done evil, except perchance unwittingly, and yet — the vampyre."

"Let not that affright you." "Affright me! It has killed me." "Nay, Flora, you think too much of what I still hope to be susceptible of far more rational explanation."

"By your own words, then, Charles, I must convict you. I cannot, I dare not be yours, while such a dreadful circumstance is hanging over me, Charles; if a more rational explanation than the hideous one which my own fancy gives to the form that visits me can be found, find it, and rescue me from despair and from madness."

They had now reached the summer-house, and as Flora uttered these words she threw herself on to a seat, and covering her beautiful face with her hands, she sobbed convulsively.

"You have spoken," said Charles, dejectedly. "I have heard that which you wished to say to me."

"No, no. Not all, Charles."

"I will be patient, then, although what more you may have to add should tear my very heart-strings."

"I — I have to add, Charles," she said, in a tremulous voice, "that justice, religion, mercy — every human attribute which bears the name of virtue, calls loudly upon me no longer to hold you to vows made under different auspices."

"Go on, Flora."

"I then implore you, Charles, finding me what I am, to leave me to the fate which it has pleased Heaven to cast upon me. I do not ask you, Charles, not to love me."

"'Tis well. Go on, Flora."

"Because I should like to think that, although I might never see you more, you loved me still. But you must think seldom of me, and you must endeavour to be happy with some other — "

"You cannot, Flora, pursue the picture you yourself would draw. These words come not from your heart."

# I Do Love You. This Sucks by Alicia Wheeler

"Yes—yes—yes."

"So, you don't love me. Was I just some kind of fun game? Some bit of distraction?"

"Geez Charles! No. Why don't you just take the knife and twist it a little more? There's some of my organs still intact."

"Well what am I supposed to say? One second you love me, then you don't, then you act like you do but tell me to date someone else. What do you want me to say? Do you love me or not?"

She could only stare at him. Gawd she loved him. Really, really loved him. But what could she do? She had to let him go.

He'd stopped speaking and was just staring at her. It was too much. She couldn't resist holding him one last time so threw her arms around him.

"I do love you. This sucks."

"Why on earth do you sound so miserable about it?" He pushed her back a little so he could see her face. "Together we can do anything."

He leaned in to kiss her, and just as their lips met there was a loud boom of thunder. It shook the ground.

Flora squealed and stumbled back from him.

"What the hell was that?"

"Thunder."

"Thunder doesn't sound like that."

"Yeah it does." Charles was starting to think maybe they were right. Maybe she was going mad.

"No, that sound wasn't natural." She started to pace and mumble to herself. "Right as you kissed me too. It's a sign."

"Flora, it's just a storm brewing." He walked into her path so she'd have to stop and look at him. "They happen. Stop being so superstitious."

"It's getting dark, too." Her eyes were fixed over his shoulder at the darkening sky. She looked terrified.

"Because the sun is behind the storm clouds. It rains, there's wind, thunder and lightening. It's natural."

Another loud boom of thunder had Flora jumping and squealing again.

"Charles, there's something else going on here." She backed even further away from him looking around like she expected something to jump out at them any moment. "I can't be with you. You have to go."

"What?! Ok, this is crazy. There is nothing wrong here, it's just a flash storm. And there's nothing wrong with us being together either." He reached out and caught her arm so she'd stop moving away from him. "Look, the sun's coming back out."

There was a small break in the clouds, like a window looking into Heaven. From it streamed one beam of sunlight, so bright, so dazzling, and so beautiful, that is was a sight of wonder to look upon. It fell upon the face of Flora.

* *

(Original Page 107 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

It warmed her cheek; it lent lustre to her pale lips and tearful eyes; it illuminated that little summer-house as if it had been the shrine of some saint.

"Behold!" cried Charles, "where is your omen now?"

"God of Heaven!" cried Flora; and she stretched out her arms.

"The clouds that hover over your spirit now," said Charles, "shall pass away. Accept this beam of sunlight as a promise from God."

"I will — I will. It is going."

"It has done its office."

The clouds closed over the small orifice, and all was gloom again as before.

"Flora," said Charles, "you will not ask me now to leave you?"

She allowed him to clasp her to his heart. It was beating for her, and for her only.

"You will let me, Flora, love you still?"

Her voice, as she answered him, was like the murmur of some distant melody the ears can scarcely translate to the heart.

"Charles, we will live, love, and die together."

And now there was a wrapt stillness in that summer-house for many minutes — a trance of joy. They did not speak, but now and then she would look into his face with an old familiar smile, and the joy of his heart was near to bursting in tears from his eyes. * * * *

A shriek burst from Flora's lips — as shriek so wild and shrill that it awakened echoes far and near. Charles staggered back a step, as if shot, and then in such agonised accents as he was long indeed in banishing the remembrance of, she cried, —

"The vampyre! the vampyre!" -

* *

(Original Page 108 by Thomas Preskett Prest)
Chapter XVII.

THE EXPLANATION. — THE ARRIVAL OF THE ADMIRAL AT THE HOUSE. — A SCENE OF CONFUSION, AND SOME OF ITS RESULTS.

So sudden and so utterly unexpected a cry of alarm from Flora, at such a time might well have the effect of astounding the nerves of any one, and no wonder that Charles was for a few seconds absolutely petrified and almost unable to think.

Mechanically, then, he turned his eyes towards the door of the summer-house, and there he saw a tall, thin man, rather elegantly dressed, whose countenance certainly, in its wonderful resemblance to the portrait on the panel, might well appal any one.

The stranger stood in the irresolute attitude on the threshold of the summer-house of one who did not wish to intrude, but who found it as awkward, if not more so now, to retreat than to advance.

Before Charles Holland could summon any words to his head, or think of freeing himself from the clinging grasp of Flora, which was wound around him, the stranger made a very low and courtly bow, after which he said, in winning accents, —

"I very much fear that I am an intruder here. Allow me to offer my warmest apologies, and to assure, sir, and you, madam, that I had no idea any one was in the arbour. You perceive the rain is falling smartly, and I made towards here, seeing it was likely to shelter me from the shower."

These words were spoken in such a plausible and courtly tone of voice, that they might well have become any drawing-room in the kingdom.

Flora kept her eyes fixed upon him during the utterance of these words, and as she convulsively clutched the arm of Charles, she kept on whispering —

"The vampyre! the vampyre!"

"I much fear," added the stranger, in the same bland tones, "that I have been the cause of some alarm to the young lady!"

"Release me," whispered Charles to Flora. "Release me; I will follow him at once."

"No, no — do not leave me — do not leave me. The vampyre — the dreadful vampyre!"

"But, Flora — "

"Hush — hush — hush! It speaks again."

"Perhaps I ought to account for my appearance in the garden at all," added the insinuating stranger. "The fact is, I came on a visit — "

Flora shuddered.

"To Mr. Henry Bannerworth," continued the stranger; "and finding the garden-gate open, I came in without troubling the servants, which I much regret, as I can perceive I have alarmed and annoyed the lady. Madam, pray accept of my apologies."

"In the name of God, who are you?" said Charles. "My name is Varney."

# A cat that played with its food by Gavin Tonks

**"Oh, yes. You are the Sir Francis Varney, residing close by, who bears so fearful a resemblance to —** "I could not remember what I wanted to say, I was mesmerised by Mr.Varney's eyes.

The softly falling rain dripped from the summer house roof and patted on the large terracotta tiles. The intoxicating smell of jasmine and roses wafted in the air and reminded me of a funeral with Mr. Varney as a stick-like Vicar.

Flora was chilled, "My dear we need to get you out of the rain," Her body absorbed my warmth, huddled into my arms. Her shivering eased. Her damp white dress fitted her in places that made me embarrassed. Her heaving chest and flawless white neck were tantalizingly within the reach of my lips. I was puzzled at two small scars an inch apart on the smooth, milk coloured flesh of her neck.

"I am sorry Mr. Varney, it appears I have difficulty keeping my focus. What was I saying now?"

Mr. Varney's outline against the gray clouds appeared odd, not human. I shook my head but an image remained - goat legs, horned and hairy talons and goat-like face, lithe and athletic.

I shook my head again and Mr. Varney stood there, wax-like, immoveable and pale.

Unable to remember made me angry. Was it Mr. Varney's doing? The idea flashed in my head. My intense anger, freeing the thoughts from the cloying mud of my memory.

"I was commenting on how you resemble the portrait..." I blurted out to his surprise, which cracked his wax-like demeanour as he raised an eyebrow.

"Yes I am right, an uncanny resemblance, but it is..." I stumbled on the words and my memory shut down, replaced with a carnal hunger for Flora.

"Pray go on, sir. I am all attention." Mr. Varney answered me and I felt a new sensation, of being naked and wet, like bloody raw meat.

"Indeed! Now I reflect a moment." Mr. Varney replied, so condescendingly, with a cat smile.

A cat that played with its food

"Mr. Henry Bannerworth did incidentally mention something of the sort." He continued in his smooth and ever so reasonable voice.

I saw the alien outline again in his aura, hairy, bipedal and the leathery bat-like wings.

The garden gate creaked loudly as it was flung back. Harry and George flapped through, their coat tails spread like the tail feathers of ravens. They stumbled over the lawn in a mock run. Perspiration beaded among the drops of rain spattered across their faces.

I watched their comical entrance, followed by Mr.Marchdale, walking briskly. At least he did not pretend he could still run.

Harry bent over; his hands on his knees taking great gulps of air. "We heard," he panted, "or fancied we heard," he tried to talk and breathe; "we thought it a cry of alarm?" He managed to get out.

The three of them clustered together like sheep, I expected them to baaa any minute when they exclaimed in unison, "It is Sir Francis Varney!" Sounding as though the Queen herself was in their presence.

Mr. Varney stood a little taller if that were possible and executed another all too perfect bow. I would swear he was excited. It was preposterous that anyone could possibly believe this stick-like man was a vampyre.

I tried to consider what that even meant - human, animal, dead, alive, feeder on humans?

Flora opened her eyes, 'Take me away from here" she whispered, her eyes pleading,"

I was confused for a moment. "Hush." I whispered back a little sternly, "Many people look the same, I am sure you are mistaken," I tried to be gentle and squeezed her a bit more than comfort required.

She found strength somewhere inside and pushed against my body, "The vampyre!" she shouted the words, an accusation that I had not believed her, "It is the vampyre!" she scolded me with her accusing eyes and now the frustration in her voice pounded out that no one believed her. The two marks on her neck glowed and mocked me for my unbelief.

"The young lady, I fear, is very much indisposed," remarked Sir Francis Varney, in a sympathetic tone of voice. "If she will take my arm, I shall esteem it a great honour."

Flora went wild in my embrace; beating my chest with the flat of her hands "No! No! No!" She stopped and with a desperate plea she cried "God! No." It was the last desperate shout of a woman without hope. It was then that I glimpsed her arms.

"Madam, I will not press you." Mr Varney voice cut against my new horror. He bowed, and when I looked up he had moved silently closer to the three men. His progress was supernatural, demonic, as he stalked insect-like across the lawn. It was hardly walking.

"Flora." I said as soothingly as possible, "Mr Varney is probably the man in the portrait in your old room." I needed to reassure her, make her believe and regain her trust, in any case I had a sense it was the truth. I felt whatever was happening to her arms must be the source of her anxiety and stress.

I looked at her pale white arms, and said nothing to her about there inhuman condition, so as not to alarm her. Under the translucent porcelain white skin of my beloved, ran spiral veins of pink and blue. Ugly, thick, glowing, gelatinous snake-like welts, just above the wrist. They pulsed softly, a caduceus twined up her arm. I do not know how I had not noticed them before. I shivered in disgust.

The changing events unsettled me, "Good God! What can be done?" I responded in a panicked voice.

Mr. Varney toneless voice answered me, **"I know not. I am nearly distracted."**

Illustration - the true image of Mr Varney against the sky

* *

(Original Page 110 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Be calm, Flora. If this man be really what you name him, we now know from what quarter the mischief comes, which is, at all events, a point gained. Be assured we shall place a watch upon him."

"Oh, it is terrible to meet him here."

"And he is so wonderfully anxious, too, to possess the Hall."

"He is — he is."

"It looks strange, the whole affair. But, Flora, be assured of one thing, and that is, for your own safety."

"Can I be assured of that?"

"Most certainly. Go to your mother now. Here we are, you see, fairly within doors. Go to your mother, dear Flora, and keep yourself quiet. I will return to this mysterious man now with a cooler judgment than I left him."

"You will watch him, Charles?" "I will, indeed." "And you will not let him approach the house here alone?" "I will not." "Oh, that the Almighty should allow such beings to haunt the earth!" "Hush, Flora, hush! we cannot judge of his allwise purpose." "'Tis hard that the innocent should be inflicted with its presence." Charles bowed his head in mournful assent.?"Is it not very, very dreadful?"

"Hush — hush! Calm yourself, dearest, calm yourself. Recollect that all we have to go upon in this matter is a resemblance, which, after all, may be accidental. But leave it all to me, and be assured that now I have some clues to this affair, I will not lose sight of it, or of Sir Francis Varney."

So saying, Charles surrendered Flora to the care of their mother, and then was hastening back to the summer- house, when he met the whole party coming towards the Hall, for the rain was each moment increasing in intensity.

"We are returning," remarked Sir Francis Varney, with a half bow and a smile, to Charles.

"Allow me," said Henry, "to introduce you, Mr. Holland, to our neighbour, Sir Francis Varney."

Charles felt himself compelled to behave with courtesy, although his mind was so full of conflicting feelings as regarded Varney; but there was no avoiding, without such brutal rudeness as was inconsistent with all his pursuits and habits, replying in something like the same strain to the extreme courtly politeness of the supposed vampyre.

"I will watch him closely," thought Charles. "I can do no more than watch him closely."

Sir Francis Varney seemed to be a man of the most general and discursive information. He talked fluently and pleasantly upon all sorts of topics, and notwithstanding he could not but have heard what Flora had said of him, he asked no question whatever upon that subject.

This silence as regarded a matter which would at once have induced some sort of inquiry from any other man, Charles felt told much against him, and he trembled to believe for a moment that, after all, it really might be true.

Charles warred with himself, the logic of his past against the love of his fiancé and that which she and her brother previously relayed. The supposition that this frail-appearing man could indeed be a vampire seemed outlandish at best.

"What a marvelous estate," issued Varney as he cautiously stepped toward the shocked party of gentlemen. Continuing with little regard for the obviously rude reception he was receiving, the stately gentleman continued, "The architecture and vegetation are beyond measure."

"Indeed, we are quite fond of our home and grounds." Henry shifted uneasily, still laboring under the belief that he was indeed conversing with a vampire. His hand itched to reach within the folds of his cape to withdraw the stake he'd only recently secured. The one staying question was his fear of ineptitude. Did he possess the courage to dispose of their unwanted guest?

"And the young lady, she is exquisite as well, as if she were born to light up the world around her." Varney looked off toward the house, after Flora. The look on his face could only be described as hungry, though what type of hunger none could ascertain.

"She is spoken for, sir," Charles stepped forward, barring a good portion of Varney's view in the most menacing fashion he could muster.

"I meant no offense, simply passing on a well-deserved compliment." Varney took a step back, bowing low in an old fashioned manner. "I understand she has been troubled as of late."

Through gritted teeth Henry intervened, "I assume you are referring to the tales of a vampire disturbing my sister's peace." Henry reached within the folds of his cape and fingered the wooden edge of his stake.

"Indeed. Again, I do not intend to offend, only to proffer my assistance and redouble my efforts to purchase your estate and relieve you of the burden of this incessant gossip-mongering." Varney shifted backward a step and arranged his face into a mask of concern and innocence.

"I believe I made it quite clear that you were not welcome on this estate or around my family at this time." Henry drew himself up, calling on every ounce of bravery he now possessed. Charles stood firm at his side, fists clenched in fury and frustration. "I have told you of your resemblance to a portrait in our halls and to the likelihood of your presence disturbing my sister yet you strolled into our garden uninvited. How bold you are indeed, sir."

Again Varney bowed in the long outdated fashion, "Apologies again, sir. I was merely curious about the portrait of which you spoke and eager to see it for myself."

"And it did not occur to you after my warning that you may offend my sister with your presence?" Henry shifted his weight, still toying with the end of the stake.

"No, really."

# A Human Is Beneath My Contempt by Kristina Perez

I really do enjoy this part, I tell you. The moment when the door opens and the light spills out from the inside. Just before I'm invited in—right as I know for certain that I will be.

We lock eyes; he nods his assent.

You can take the measure of a man by the look in his eyes as he doffs his proverbial cap. If he looks at you straight on, he hates you; if he glances down, he's a coward. Either way, a human is beneath my contempt. Or, he should be.

I cross the threshold unhindered. "Thank you," I tell him. I have been invited. I have already won.

When I look into Henry's eyes, I see nothing but a hypocrite. Nor would you. I have lived a long, long time—if you'll pardon the anachronism—and I know what I'm talking about. Trust me.

"It's very kind of you to invite me in for a drink, seeing as how I'm new in town," I say, removing my overcoat and folding it crisply over my arm. I am the oldest thing in this town. In this entire county.

"Of course, what are neighbors for?" Henry thins his lips into a smile.

You know the kind of smile I mean. The kind a woman gives you in the morning after you tell her you have to leave early for work. Not that I see much of mornings anymore; nor do the woman with whom I keep company. But I remember. I remember their bitter smiles and how I found them so sweet. Truly delectable.

My smile is a predatory one. "We're as close as neighbors can be," I say. "I don't see why we shouldn't be close friends as well."

I hated exchanging pleasantries long before I was dead, I tell you. I cannot tell a lie. Now I try to see them as a means to an end: just part of the hunt.

"Certainly." Henry coughs into his hand. There is something overly cautious about the way he lifts his fist to cover his face. Does he suspect? Does he suspect I'm a demon? You can't take too many chances in my line of work and keep your neck.

"Actually, it's nice to have another man about the place. My wife is away at the moment, just me and the girls. And I think they're growing rather tired of my company."

"I doubt that," I say, not doubting it at all. I can think of nothing but plump pink cheeks, rosy with life. The taste of innocent blood.

Then, remembering himself, he adds, "And Charlie, of course. Charlie's here."

I haven't been back long but I've already heard from the innkeeper that Henry's son is, let's just say, "slow" to be polite.

He laughs faintly and leads me into the library. An oil painting hangs over the fireplace. A portrait in a zealously Baroque frame.

It's me.

"You bear an uncanny resemblance to your forbearer, Sir Francis Varney," Henry tells me.

"Quite. Pleasingly uncanny."

This, of course, is the reason for the visit that I have contrived—that my great-great-so-and-so was once the lord of Henry's manor. Nevermind that he got it on the cheap from a bank auction; his type never likes to admit when they've gotten a bargain. You know what I mean.

Charlie scurries out from behind the heavy brocade curtains, points at the painting and then gapes that me. "It's _you_."

I smile disinterestedly. Henry is grateful for my disinterest. He's the kind of man who can't stomach pity. I never have any to spare, anyway.

"And you must be Charlie," I say to the boy, glancing back at the portrait. "The artist was a psychic, indeed. I feel as if I've been here before."

I wink and he squeals. The high-pitched squeal of a girl. It's really rather distasteful.

Henry echoes his son. "A bit of _déjà vu_ , eh?"

"Or voodoo," I reply, gritting my fangs.

The boy tugs on his father's hand. "It's _him_. Let me ask him if it's him!"

* *

(Original Page 113 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"I will not."

"He is beneath my roof now, and, after all, it is but a hideous suspicion we have of him."

"Rely upon me."

Charles stepped forward, and once again confronting Varney, with an earnest gaze, he said —

"Do you know, sir, that Miss Bannerworth declares the vampyre she fancies to have visited this chamber to be, in features, the exact counterpart of this portrait?"

"Does she indeed?"

"She does, indeed."

"And perhaps, then, that accounts for her thinking that I am the vampyre, because I bear a strong resemblance to the portrait."

"I should not be surprised," said Charles.

"How very odd."

"Very."

"And yet entertaining. I am rather amused than otherwise. The idea of being a vampyre. Ha! ha! If ever I go to a masquerade again, I shall certainly assume the character of a vampyre."

"You would do it well."

"I dare say, now, I should make quite a sensation."

"I am certain you would. Do you not think, gentlemen, that Sir Francis Varney would enact the character to the very life? By Heavens, he would do it so well that one might, without much difficulty, really imagine him a vampyre."

"Bravo — bravo," said Varney, as he gently folded his hands together, with that genteel applause that may even be indulged in in a box at the opera itself. "Bravo. I like to see young persons enthusiastic; it looks as if they had some of the real fire of genius in their composition. Bravo — bravo."

This was, Charles thought, the very height and acme of impudence, and yet what could he do? What could he say? He was foiled by the downright coolness of Varney.

As for Henry, George, and Mr. Marchdale, they had listened to what was passing between Sir Francis and Charles in silence. They feared to diminish the effect of anything Charles might say, by adding a word of their own; and, likewise, they did not wish to lose one observation that might come from the lips of Varney.

But now Charles appeared to have said all he had to say, be turned to the window and looked out. He seemed like a man who had made up his mind, for a time, to give up some contest in which he had been engaged.

And, perhaps, not so much did he give it up from any feeling or consciousness of being beaten, as from a conviction that it could be the more effectually, at some other and far more eligible opportunity, renewed.

Varney now addressed Henry, saying, — "I presume the subject of our conference, when you did me the honour of a call, is no secret to any one here?"

"None whatever," said Henry.

# Large Appetite By Dayle Fogarty Roger

"Then, perhaps, I am too early in asking you if you have made up your mind?"

Henry and Charles looked at one another, feigning their true worries and suspicions, however, fear was lingering deep within. Could they trust this stranger? Was he one of them? Or was he a revolting human posing as one of them, a Vampire?

Earlier on Varney had asked them both to show him the Facebook page of the person they believed to have attacked Flora. To the surprise of them both, Varney had appeared far from perplexed; wandering about the room, canvassing the artwork that adorned the apartment walls, scanning the bookshelf for familiar authors and titles.

"We'll have to check the booking schedule to see if the function room is available on that date." Charles said, as his eyes followed Varney's every move.

"Great variety," Varney said, referring to Henry's record collection.

Henry nodded.

"Well once you have checked the schedule just shoot me an email or text."

Within the blink of an eye, an ear-splitting shrill sounded from inside one of the apartment bedrooms. Varney jolted with terror. However, the other two remained rather calm, as if all they heard were the fluttering wings of a butterfly.

"What in the hell was that?"

Henry strode towards the bedroom door, opened it, stepped inside and shut the door behind him. From where Varney and Charles stood they could hear a scuffle, a slight shriek, a _thump_...then silence.

Varney suddenly transformed from the colour of cream to chalk white. He now appeared as pale and as dead as his two hosts. Charles noticed this and spoke up. "I wonder what's going on...in there."

With perfect timing Henry emerged from the room, holding a tray, that was carrying a large canister of blood and three generous sized glasses. He carefully set the tray down and began pouring the drinks. The blood was thick, almost slimy in its fresh liquid form, oozing from the canister into each glass. Charles was licking his lips with pure intent. He hadn't had anything all day.

"So, new friend," Henry held a glass out for Varney. "Do you care for a drink?" He asked, fangs protruding from his red lips.

"Wait, Henry. We didn't even ask him if he was thirsty." Charles said. "He may have already had something today."

He suggested, amused by the bewildered expression on Varney's face as he accepted the drink.

Varney realised instantly that they were testing his authenticity and honesty. He seemed to have no other choice in the matter. "Ah, you're right I have had a drink today. Although..." He gulped. "I have a fairly...large appetite."

"Oh well, in that case..." Henry shot up like a lightning bolt and motioned towards the bedroom door. "I can go get the body, if you would like more?"

"No, no. I can't stay for long." Varney excused himself nervously.

Charles held up his glass. "Then just one, hey."

Varney nodded. He took one speedy gulp, slammed the glass down on the tray and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Well, I better go. So, just message me the details." He was already at their front door. "We'll talk soon." He covered his mouth as he left, skin turning green.

"Of course." Henry exclaimed.

"Bye Varney." Charles had to almost shout before Varney had disappeared from sight. The front door slammed shut, leaving them alone to divulge in what had just happened. Both looked to one another and Henry burst out laughing.

"You are seriously disturbed." Charles chuffed. "Did you really think that would work?"

"No, no; but what can we do?"

# O....M.....G. by Joan Paylo

You are right. Nothing we can do at present. We have a clue now, and be it our mutual inclination, as well as a duty, to follow it. Oh, you shall see how calm I will be.

"Quickly, George," said Henry. "Begin to record his every move."

"We just got these i-Phone 5's on the family plan yesterday. I'm not sure which app...."

"We didn't spend two hours in the Verizon Store line for naught, did we, dear brother?" Henry said mockingly. With the tip of his forefinger, he poked the proper icon in George's hand.

"Gentlemen, are you so discourteous as to Tweet while I am a guest in your man cave?"

"My apologies, sir, but I can't tear myself away from the World Cup scores. I will put it on vibrate."

"Now, as I said, I don't take my wine at this time of day, although a Finger Lakes varietal of this vintage is almost too good to present to an unexpected guest."

"George, what are you Googling now?" A whisper.

"Lyme disease," dear brother," sotto voce. "It's the only alternative to the ridiculously superstitious idea that a vampire caused our dear sister's bite. If those deer who roam the property were bitten by ticks who then bit Flora during one of her clandestine naked runs in the moonlight that she's been given to ever since she's been cursed by her unrequited postpubescent longing for the suddenly-present Charles Holland. She's going to need a super mega dose of antibiotics from Mr. Chillingworth. I hope Obamacare covers it.

"U 2 r so in denial,'' texted Charles.

"Mr. Varney," Marchdale interjected, "while our younger associates are navigating the vicissitudes of their new handheld communicators, may I say that we also are fortunate to have several of the few remaining 24-ounce Big Gulp cups sold in Gotham that make a fine vessel for cola flavored with not your everyday genetically-modified corn syrup. Perhaps you would do us the honor of sharing some with us. You may choose either the Obama/Biden or Romney/Ryan cup, and express your candidate preference at the same time.

"If the undead are allowed to vote," Charles texted Henry.

"Only in Chicago," thumbed Henry.

"I prefer the plastic goblet with the image of Congressmember Paul Ryan with his shiny black widow's peak, thank you," Varney replied. " With his near superhuman athletic abilities, he reminds me of a cousin who works the lobster shift."

"You mean the _graveyard_ shift, Mr. Varney?"

" _Your_ choice of words, Mr. Marchand. Gentlemen, to our future meetings, and to that shapely young sister of yours who exudes a maddening aura of moist heat sweeter than rose hips and Taylor Swift visiting the Kennedy Compound on a sultry summer night."

He put the Big Gulp cup to his thin lips, and appeared to drink.

"Mr. Varney, you did not really sip, you didn't complete your toast," exploded Charles Holland.

George surreptitiously zoomed in and recorded sharp tooth indentations on the rim of the red plastic cup. His long, metallic blue nails resembled those of rock legend Steven Tyler.

"I make it a habit of not raising my blood sugar this time of day, although I enjoy having the carbonated bubbles tickle my wide, lascivious nostrils. I have a dog's sensitivity of smell."

" _Seri_ ously, where were you at the last full moon, which is so beautiful over our contiguous landscapes?" asked Marchand.

The gentleman hosts seemed to circle the bloodsucker for the kill.

"Ding. The last full moon was October 23," chimed Siri.

"Stifle that damned smartphone," cried Varney. " I'm _seri_ ous! Why don't you bring your sister here now?"

"Ding. I do not have a sister, but I can dial _your_ sister now. Or would you rather email your sister?"

"O....M.....G. "

"What is it, Henry"?

"His Facebook profile. Look. His timeline stretches back to before, well, before there _were_ timelines. Look at his friends... Marie Antoinette. Lucretia Borgia. Torquemata...Montezuma."

Charles drew himself up: "Mr. Varney, I ask you directly. Why do you bear such an uncanny resemblance to the vampire who bit the fair Flora in her bedchamber?"

"The one you wish to be your baby mama, with all due respect, watches altogether too many telenovelas."

"Mr. Varney, we have reason to believe that there are vampires afoot in this subdivision, and your recent sudden appearance and your resemblance to a man who lived 200 years ago give us reason to suspect that you..."

" _You_ , my son. OH, heaven forbid that you ever be my son! _You_ , young man, must immediately surrender your _seri_ ous addiction to the World of Warcraft.

"Ding. Do you want directions to the nearest addiction treatment center?"

"Begone, Satan, from any proximity to my dearest Flora."

"Oh, your perception and apparent lack of experience in a social setting have been eroded by your video games. Were I your mother I would have cancelled your hi-speed Internet contract."

"That will not do, Sir Francis Varney _alias_ Bannerworth."

# You are a terrible dancer by Nicole DeGennaro

"Oh—oh! Be calm—be calm."

Henry glared at Sir Francis Varney.

"I won't be calm until you've been put in your place," Henry said, taking a step toward the man. Varney glanced around at the others in the room, grinning.

"What's his problem?" Varney asked the others, as if Henry were an object in the room that could be spoken about with no threat of retaliation.

"Varney, I challenge you—"

"Henry, please—" Mr. Marchdale started, motioning at Henry to be silent.

"—to a dance-off!" Henry finished, crossing his arms and tilting his chin up in defiant triumph. Mr. Marchdale grabbed Henry by the shoulder and spun him around just as Varney began to laugh.

"Is he serious?" Varney asked between peals of laughter.

"I assure you he is _not_ ," Mr. Bannerworth said as Mr. Marchdale dragged Henry a couple yards away to speak to him privately.

"Oh, I am! Deadly serious!" Henry called over his shoulder, struggling in Marchdale's grip.

"What in God's name are you doing?" Marchdale hissed, releasing Henry but blocking him in a corner of the room so he couldn't continue to confront Varney.

"He's embarrassed my sister, and now I will embarrass him so he'll never show his face here again."

"Henry, Varney is a renowned breakdancer. Have you gone crazy?"

"Mr. Marchdale," Varney called across the room, hints of his amusement still ringing in his voice. "When you're done, I accept the boy's challenge." He broke into laughter again at the end, barely able to get the last few words out.

"GOOD!" Henry answered. Marchdale prodded Henry in the chest with a finger.

"Henry, you _can't dance_ ," Marchdale whispered. Henry turned his attention back to Marchdale, confused.

"I'm perfectly capable of dancing, Marchdale."

"No, you misunderstand. You are a _terrible_ dancer."

Henry blinked a couple of times as the words sank in.

"But mom always—"

"—she was being nice, Henry."

"All these years?"

"I'm afraid so. None of us had the heart to tell you."

Henry and Marchdale stared at one another in silence for a few moments.

"So there's no chance I could..." Henry trailed off, frowning.

"Even if you were an excellent dancer, the odds of you winning a dance-off against Varney would be slim. Currently that outcome is impossible."

Henry sighed, and Marchdale stepped away from him. Varney had started stretching, preparing for the dance-off.

"My apologies, Sir Francis," Marchdale said as he approached, leaving Henry dejected in the corner. "Henry withdraws his challenge. It was a moment of delusion."

"More than a moment, I'd say." Varney smirked at Henry. Something about it seemed sinister for a second, but then it was back to all joviality. "But I was quite looking forward to it, so perhaps I'll give a demonstration of my skill so the young man doesn't forget himself in the future."

Marchdale glanced back at Henry, who was still too despondent to react. It would take him some time to cope with the reality of being a terrible dancer.

"We would be honored," Bannerworth said, to avoid offending Varney further. Varney nodded and proceeded through the French doors into the garden to begin. Even with no music, Varney's breakdancing was mesmerizing. His combination of floats, pops and locks, among other moves, was devastatingly masterful. As Henry watched, he knew he had been a fool to think he could challenge Varney.

While they were thus occupied, a tremendous ringing came at the gate, but their attention was so riveted to what was passing in the garden that they paid not the least attention to it.

# Land-lubbin' by Sara Kuhns

The violent ringing of the bell continued uninterruptedly until at length George volunteered to answer it. All the servants had left. The last was so fearful that she fled without notice—sending a boy after the fact to collect her pay. This left the bell ringing through the halls of the manor, echoing from empty room to empty room unattended.

Each continued spurt of the bell annoyed George a bit more. Jogging through the house to the gate he jerked it open. "Ever hear of giving a man a damned chance to get to the door?" He barely glanced at the callers.

"Fine way to greet visitors!" Admiral Bell groused.

George figured there was no point in attempting civility. He wasn't in the mood for it—not with a vampyre stalking his sister and insinuating itself into their lives. "What do you want?"

"What's it to you?" The Admiral matched his tone.

"Aye, aye!" Jack interrupted before growling. "You miserable land-lubbin' strawb—answer the man."

"Whatever you're selling, we don't want any!" George began to close the gate.

Jack thrust a thick stick into the opening, preventing him from closing it. "Avast! We've no time for insubordination! Whatever kind of servant you be, tell us where the Mister Charley is."

" _Servant_." George chuffed. Drawing himself up, he finally allowed himself a full look at the men. The older chap would have looked decidedly upper-crust a half century earlier. Now, however, his expensive clothes, while well-cared for, were quite out of date. The younger, rounder fellow with the threatening tone was in sailor garb. He seemed to be itching for a fight, or in need of a stiff drink. They must be mad, he thought, and as impatient with him as he'd been when he first unlatched the gate. The old aristocrat was scanning the estate and no longer seemed to be paying attention, so George responded to the crude sailor. "And I'm supposed to know _who_ or _what_ Mister Charley is? Are you looking for a dog?"

"The admiral's _nevey_." Jack bowed his head, in an apparent attempt at manners. "If you _please_."

"Nevey? Did you say _nevey_ and expect me to know what you mean?"

" _Neh-vee_..." Jack repeated this slowly, as if it would help him understand. "In particulars, _Charles Holland_."

"Well, Charles Holland _is_ here. Why didn't you ask for him from the get-go?" George shook his head. What a pair these two were.

The Admiral faced him with renewed interest. "Charles—he's here?"

"He is."

"Take us to him." He motioned for George to invite them in then paused. "First, though, tell me this... Has he dispatched the vampyre?"

George caught his breath. It was bad enough that the whole of the county was gossiping up their unfortunate turn of events—now, men were coming to the door and outright inquiring! Friends of Charles or not, George had half a mind to throw these two blokes out or send them on over to Varney himself. Instead, he took the next best action—feigning ignorance. He frowned at the sailor. "The _what_?"

"The wamphigher," said Jack, by way of being as he considered, a little more explanatory than the admiral.

# Not the Sparkly Kind by Helen Davis

"I do not know what you mean," said George; "if you wish to see Mr. Charles Holland walk in and see him. He is in this house; but for myself, as you are strangers to me, I decline answering any questions, let their import be what they may."

"Hey! What's going on over there?" Jack pointed his scrawny finger toward the other side of the road. There, in the meadow, two men were faced each other with neither in a position of polite discourse. Mr. Marchdale stood with his arms akimbo and his legs spread, a stalwart siege tower on the field of war. Sir Francis Varney had his fist up and swinging, hard. No doubt the smaller man would ring like a bell when he struck Marchdale's chin.

Instead, Marchdale flew backwards off his feet and landed in a bush some distance to the rear.

Sir Varney leapt forward, crabbed hands reaching for Marchdale, but he pulled up short. His face whipped toward the watching men as a sneer slid across his sickly face. He stumbled backwards, then turned and ran.

"What the..." George slammed forward, but the Admiral was in the way. By the time George had untangled himself from the bulkier man's form, Marchdale was already pulling himself to his feet. He grimaced as he brushed leaves and clumps of mud from his now third best hunting jacket, and then gingerly touched his chin.

Meanwhile, Varney was speeding off over the hill as if he had a motorbike hidden under his voluminous cloak.

"He's getting away!" George shouted.

Mr. Marchdale waved a condescending after the fleeing man and limped toward the house. "We'll deal with him later, when I've got my elephant gun on me. That bastard wanted to kill me—would have, if you hadn't been standing there, watching."

The admiral scoffed. "A dubious exaggeration. Civilized men..."

Mr. Marchdale rubbed his chin. George could see the blue shadow of a rising bruise. "Don't beef themselves up with steroids. Probably eats a bowlful for breakfast every morning. I doubt he'll like what they do to his sex drive, though. So, George, who're your friends?"

"Visitors to see Mr. Holland. I don't know who the admiral is, but the smaller one is Jack."

"Oh, you may know my name as soon as you like," cried the admiral. "The enemies of old England know it, and I don't care if all the world knows it. I'm old Admiral Bell, something of a hulk now, but still able to head a quarterdeck if there is any need to do so.'

"Aye, aye," cried his companion as he pulled out a boatswain's whistle. He blew a hard, shrill blast.

George wondered if these two men were retired thespians or escapees from the memory unit. Should he let them in, or call the police?

Mr. Marchdale seemed to come to a different conclusion. "Are you—would you happen to be related to Mr.

Holland?"

"I'm his uncle, and no matter what he thinks of me, I've come to see about these rumors of his marrying a mermaid.

Or was it a ghost, Jack?"

The smaller man shook his head. "A vampire, I think. Not the sparkly kind."

They were definitely from the memory unit. George wondered how to ask Mr. Marchdale to keep an eye on them long enough for him to call the police.

"And I'm to tell him no, for the sake of his poor mother, may she rest in peace. We'll not have any of that spectral blood in our family. We're a proud family, a pure family, and the scamp needs to hear the word no."

George nodded in agreement with that. Perhaps Admiral Bell _could_ get the message across to Mr. Holland. "Come in, sir," said George, "I will conduct you to Mr. Holland. I presume this is your servant?"

# I CAN HAZ CHEEZEBURGER? by Brian Truitt

"Why, not exactly. That's Jack Pringle, he was my boatswain, you see, and now he's a kind o' something betwixt and between. Not exactly a servant."

At this time the party was joined by Charles Holland and Henry, drawn away from the house by the boatswain's piping. Charles, upon spying his uncle, rushed forward to greet him with much cheering and hand pumping. Henry suddenly came to a halt, distracted by a buzz in his pocket. Fishing about, he retrieved his phone from its hiding place.

VAMPY-V: I have been within your domicile, making personal possessions out of your lesser acquaintances. Ha! Ha!

TheHB: It's "IN UR BASE, PWNING UR NOOBS LOL"

TheHB: Don't use memes if you're gonna screw them up.

TheHB: And leave the servants alone dammit!

VAMPY-V: Are you in a state of anger my familial compatriot?

TheHB: That's "umadbro?"

TheHB: Just stop, you're embarrassingly out of date.

TheHB: And yes I am!

Vampy-V: Oh really?

TheHB: Yeah, really

TheHB: Damn you, STOP THAT!

Vampy-V: LOL

Vampy-V: Let us try a few more.

Vampy-V: Do you have stairs in your house?

Vampy-V: Nevermind, I see that you do.

TheHB: Wait, where are you?

Vampy-V: I CAN HAZ CHEEZEBURGER?

Vampy-V: LET'S DO THIS!!!!

Henry turned towards the house, but before he could move a step closer chaos broke loose on the porch. The door burst open and Varney dashed out with a basket from the kitchen under one arm, and the cook under the other. He sped across the lawn and jumped the wall in one bound, hollering the entire way.

"FRRRRANCIIIIISS! VVVVVAAAAARRRRRNEEEEEEYYYY!"

Henry pitched his phone into the fountain in disgust. He turned to face the rest of the group as they stared at him. Jack chuckled. "Swabby nicked your geedunk while you scuttlebutted."

"That he did, and the last of the staff."

Henry looked at the Admiral. "I dunno why you came, but if it was for a free meal I hope you can cook."

"Confound your impudence."

# Placate Batty Uncles By Robin Samuels

"What brought him here I cannot tell; but he is a brave officer, and a gentleman."

Bell's facial features twisted and a flush rose to his cheek and nose

Astonished by this impudence to which his nephew boldly rose

"You'll speak to me with due respect and deference perceptible

I am a man of gravitas, your Uncle Bell the Admiral."

Though Charles intended no offense he thought it wiser policy

To placate batty uncles so he offered an apology

Then apropos of nothing Pringle up and introduced himself

A little miffed that it had not been done by Bell or someone else.

"There is no task upon a ship which I do not find tenable

My skills are so surpassing and I find them all amenable

I am the greatest hater of the French you'll meet this side of hell

I hope you will describe me thus in all the tales you'll ever tell."

The servants had all exited through circumstance mysterious

And household upkeep is a matter Henry finds quite serious

He hoped the guests would acquiesce to lodgings unluxurious

and left the quirky tale untold, disheartening the curious

"How did you come to find me here? I thought that I was hidden well,"

"A letter came to me describing things you've chosen not to tell

A marriage to a bird so odd that rumors were assured to swell.

You really should be truthful with your uncle Bell the Admiral."

There was a wedding planned, this was a fact quite indisputable

He certainly would never choose a mate who was unsuitable

With tactfulness and candor he exposed the truth immutable

The Admiral would have his way, and that was irrefutable!

So full of trepidation Holland posed the question plain as day

Was it a vampyre that the missive spoke of in this twisted way?

"Indeed it was!" his uncle cried, "related to your fiancée!"

Denying nothing, Holland nodded, to his uncle's great dismay.

"I beg of you please do not share this information with my friends!

Allow me to explain the situation in my own defense."

"You think that you can con me and I'm just a fool you can enthrall,

Don't kid yourself, I'm not obtuse, I'm Uncle Bell the Admiral!"

"Very good. Make it as soon as you can, and as short as you can, that's all I ask of you."

# Varney the Vampire Rewrite (as told by Jack Pringle of the same story) by Emily S. Whitten

"I will, I will," swore young Charley Holland ta th' Right Honorable Admiral Bell. "Arrrr, uncle, I do promise ye on th' grave o' yer first mate that I will tell ye all afore th' sun next climbs o'er th' yardarm, an' in right short order, too."

Charley's uncle, th' old sea salt that he was, nodded briskly an' went on his way, an' just in th' nick, too, for now is th' season ta be pausing in our long-winded yarn o' present times an' tellin' th' past tale o' young Mr. Holland, th' poor starrrr-crossed lover.

Ye see, mateys, th' way of it was that young Mr. Charles was a thumpin' rich man, but also right poor. For while all th' other young buccaneers were delving into their inherited pieces o' eight at th' age o' one-an'-twenty, under th' writ o' his inheritance, poor Charley was not allowed ta touch his chest o' gold until he was a full year older than all those other young buckos.

Charley's uncle was right fussed about this. He fretted that th' company his young nevvy kept might turn out ta be a crew fulla scurvy worthless seadogs, who'd call Charley yaller if he didn't spend his doubloons apace with them, until he was dressed like a king, decked out with a fancy pair o' ponies an' a high flyer, downing many a pint o' brew, an' pounding th' boards with them, drunker than a bedbug in a whisky fact'ry. An' since Charley didn't have his bags o' bounty yet ta spend, th' old Admiral figured that th' pressure o' keeping up with th' uppity folks o' his high society set might cause th' poor boy ta pile on th' chits an' debts until he was hornswaggled out o' every shiny sixpence an' landed smack in th' debtors' gaol.

Now his uncle was in charge o' his funds, so he an' a fine upstandin' gentleman o' th' legal establishment or some such had a quick palaver an' thought it would behoove 'em ta send young Mr. Holland across a patch o' sea ta th' Continent, where he could make his berth hither an' yon for a deuce o' years until th' situation had changed. An' so off young Charley went, happy as a lark, travelin' th' high seas an' hill an' dale an' doin' a fair bit o' loungin' an' leisurin' about.

All was well until, alas! Cupid struck, an' our young Mr. Charley did meet a bonny lass, by th' name o' Flora Bannerworth. An' hoist me up th' mizzen mast an' use me as a sail if she didn't turn his head right away from all his other carryin' ons until th' clubs were all pinin' for him an' th' young skippers he went 'round with didn't know where th' dickens he'd got to. Th' two young things got on like a house on fire until it was time for th' bonny lassie an' her folk ta set sail fer home.

After that, poor Charley was like ta be pinin' away from th' loss o' his fair lass, an' nothin' would do but for him ta batten down th' hatches, hoist th' mainsail, an' weigh anchor for home an' his lady love. When he made shore, where did he head but straight there, not even sendin' a missive or a halloo ta his uncle first. An' no one wouldha been th' wiser, but for some strange scallywag named Josiah Crinkles, if that be his real name, up an' writin' ta th' old Admiral ta say his young nevvy was in town an' about ta bend th' knee in front of a right strange female.

An' strange she was now, for when poor Charley found her again in dear ol' Blighty, he heard tell she'd just almost shaken hands with Davy Jones, after a bilge-suckin' _vampyre_ came along ta snack on her marrow. Well you couldha blown th' man down, after he heard that tale, an' for a bit he felt like mebbe he was twelve sheets ta th' wind an' imagining such a story about such a varmint. But _no_ , his bonny lass did say, it was jolly well th' truth, an' after a time he stopped muckin' about in his opinions an' resolved ta believe her.

An' such was th' tale o' woe in which young Charley did find himself when his uncle came ta call, after hearin' from th' mysterious Mr. Crinkles, what wrote him. Mr. Charley did want ta share th' whole darned yarn, but he did think mayhap he ought ta discourse with his fine lassie's brother first, ya see, as tellin' tales outta th' classroom about his fiancée might send him ta th' brig o' her family's favor.

But Miss Flora's brother, Henry as he was called, did bid him tell th' whole tale from stem ta stern, avouching, ", but I do abhor hidin' even th' strangest goings-on from folk. Avast, me bucko, let us down a pint o' grog - an' then I beg you tell him all."

# Sappy Romance Novels By Brenda Priddy

"I will: And with it, Henry, I will tell him that my heart is irrevocably Flora's."

The pair shook hands and each retired to their respective rooms. Later that night, Charles received a text from Henry:

traveling_henry: Flora just told me about your meeting. You are so good to her.

hollandary_artist: Time will tell if my love is enough for her.

traveling_henry: We're just happy you haven't left yet. Flora has had trouble with guys leaving before.

hollandary_artist: Wait, what?

traveling_henry:...

hollandary_artist: Where is Flora? I'm going to have to talk to her about this.

traveling_henry: She is in her room. I think she's reading?

hollandary_artist: What books does she like?

traveling_henry: Mostly those sappy romance novels.

hollandary_artist: I have just the thing! I'll meet you in your room.

traveling_henry: kk.

A few minutes later, Henry opened his door to Charles' gentle tap. Charles shoved a book into his hands. "It's 50 Shades of Grey," noticing Henry's amusement, Charles hastily added, "It isn't mine. I found it in the gift shop."

Henry raised one eyebrow. "What?" Charles said in defense. "The back cover calls it a "wild adventure." Isn't that what Flora needs right now? Distraction from her ordeal?"

Henry sighed. "I suppose. She'll probably get all sorts of wild ideas from it. But I guess that's your problem now!"

Charles stood awkwardly in the doorway. "So, can I see Flora now?"

Henry held out his hand for the book. "Actually, I think she is asleep right now. I can give it to her tomorrow." He took the book from Charles unresisting hand and set it on a nearby table.

Charles cleared his throat. "Oh, Ok then. He looked up at Henry. "I guess I'll go see my uncle tomorrow. I'd like him to meet Flora."

Henry grinned, "Charles and Flora sitting in a tree-"

"Knock it off Henry," Charles growled.

"Fine," Henry pouted. "You're no fun, you know? I'll text Flora about the meeting so she isn't surprised, OK?"

Charles nodded assent. "See you tomorrow then?"

The young men now separated- Henry to seek his beautiful sister; and Charles, to communicate to his uncle the strange particulars connected with Varney, the Vampyre.

* *

(Original Page 123 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

**CHAPTER XIX:** Henry found Flora in her chamber. She was in deep thought when he tapped at the door of the room, and such was the state of nervous excitement in which she was that even the demand for admission made by him to the room was sufficient to produce from her a sudden cry of alarm. "Who — who is there?" she then said, in accents full of terror.

"'Tis I, dear Flora," said Henry.

She opened the door in an instant, and, with a feeling of grateful relief, exclaimed, "Oh, Henry, is it only you?"

"Who did you suppose it was, Flora?"

She shuddered. "I — I — do not know; but I am so foolish now, and so weak-spirited, that the slightest noise is enough to alarm me."

"You must, dear Flora, fight up, as I had hoped you were doing, against this nervousness."

"I will endeavour. Did not some strangers come a short time since, brother?"

"Strangers to us, Flora, but not to Charles Holland. A relative of his — an uncle whom he much respects, has found him out here, and has now come to see him."

"And to advise him," said Flora as she sunk into a chair, and wept bitterly; "to advise him, of course, to desert, as he would a pestilence, a vampyre bride."

"Hush, hush! for the sake of Heaven, never make use of such a phrase, Flora. You know not what a pang it brings to my heart to hear you."

"Oh, forgive me, brother."

"Say no more of it, Flora. Heed it not. It may be possible — in fact, it may well be supposed as more than probable — that the relative of Charles Holland may shrink from sanctioning the alliance, but do you rest securely in the possession of the heart which I feel convinced is wholly yours, and which, I am sure, would break ere it surrendered you."

A smile of joy came across Flora's pale but beautiful face, as she cried, "And you, dear brother — you think so much of Charles's faith?"

"As heaven is my judge, I do."

"Then I will bear up with what strength God may give me against all things that seek to depress me; I will not be conquered."

"You are right, Flora; I rejoice to find in you such a disposition. Here is some manuscript which Charles thinks will amuse you, and he bade me ask you if you would be introduced to his uncle."

"Yes, yes — willingly."

"I will tell him so; I know he wishes it, and I will tell him so. Be patient, dear Flora, and all may yet be well." "But, brother, on your sacred word, tell me do you not think this Sir Francis Varney is the vampyre?"

"I know not what to think, and do not press me for a judgment now. He shall be watched." Henry left his sister, and she sat for some moments in silence with the papers before her that Charles had sent her.

* *

(Original Page 124 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Yes," she then said, gently, "he loves me — Charles loves me; I ought to be very, very happy. He loves me. In those words are concentrated a whole world of joy — Charles loves me — he will not forsake me. Oh, was there ever such dear love — such fond devotion? — never, never. Dear Charles. He loves me — he loves me!"

The very repetition of these words had a charm for Flora — a charm which was sufficient to banish much sorrow; even the much-dreaded vampyre was forgotten while the light of love was beaming up on her, and she told herself, "He is mine! — he is mine! He loves me truly."

After a time, she turned to the manuscript which her brother had brought her, and, with a far greater concentration of mind than she had thought it possible she could bring to it, considering the many painful subjects of contemplation that she might have occupied herself with, she read the pages with very great pleasure and interest.

The tale was one which chained her attention both by its incidents and the manner of its recital. It commenced as follows, and was titled, "Hugo de Verole; or, the Double Plot." In a very mountainous part of Hungary lived a nobleman whose paternal estates covered many a mile of rock and mountain land, as well as some fertile valleys, in which reposed a hardy and contented peasantry.

The old Count Hugo de Verole had quitted life early, and had left his only son, the then Count Hugo de Verole, a boy of scarcely ten years, under the guardianship of his mother, an arbitrary and unscrupulous woman. The count, her husband, had been one of those quiet, even-tempered men, who have no desire to step beyond the sphere in which they are placed; he had no cares, save those included in the management of his estate, the prosperity of his serfs, and the happiness of those around him.

His death caused much lamentation throughout his domains, it was so sudden and unexpected, being in the enjoyment of his health and strength until a few hours previous, and then his energies became prostrated by pain and disease. There was a splendid funeral ceremony, which, according the usages of his house, took place by torch-light.

So great and rapid were the ravages of disease, that the count's body quickly became a mass of corruption. All were amazed at the phenomena, and were heartily glad when the body was disposed of in the place prepared for its reception in the vaults of his own castle. The guests who came to witness the funeral, and attend the count's obsequies, and to condole with the widow on the loss she had sustained, were entertained sumptuously for many days.

The widow sustained her part well. She was inconsolable for the loss of her husband, and mourned his death bitterly. Her grief appeared profound, but she, with difficulty, subdued it to within decent bounds, that she might not offend any of her numerous guests.

However, they left her with the assurances of their profound regard, and then when they were gone, when the last guest had departed, and were no longer visible to the eye of the countess, as she gazed from the battlements, then her behaviour changed totally.

She descended from the battlements, and then with an imperious gesture she gave her orders that all the gates of the castle should be closed, and a watch set. All signs of mourning she ordered to be laid on one side save her own, which she wore, and then she retired to her own apartment, where she remained unseen.

Here the countess remained in profound meditation for nearly two days, during which time the attendants believed she was praying for the welfare of the soul of their deceased master, and they feared she would starve herself to death if she remained any longer.

Just as they had assembled together for the purpose of either recalling her from her vigils or breaking open the door, they were amazed to see the countess open the room-door, and stand in the midst of them. "What do you here?" she demanded, in a stern voice. "We came, my lady, to see — see — if — if you are well." "And why?"

* *

(Original Page 125 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Because we hadn't seen your ladyship these two days, and we thought that your grief was so excessive that we feared some harm might befall you."

The countess's brows contracted for a few seconds, and she was about to make a hasty reply, but she conquered the desire to do so, and merely said, "I am not well, I am faint; but, had I been dying, I should not have thanked you for interfering to prevent me; however, you acted for the best, but do so no more. Now prepare me some food."

The servants, thus dismissed, repaired to their stations, but with such degree of alacrity, that they sufficiently showed how much they feared their mistress. The young count, who was only in his sixth year, knew little about the loss he had sustained; but after a day or two's grief, there was an end of his sorrow for the time.

That night there came to the castle-gate a man dressed in a black cloak, attended by a servant. They were both mounted on good horses, and they demanded to be admitted to the presence of the Countess de Hugo de Verole.

The message was carried to the countess, who started, but said, "Admit the stranger."

Accordingly the stranger was admitted, and shown into the apartment where the countess was sitting. At a signal the servants retired, leaving the countess and the stranger alone. It was some moments ere they spoke, and then the countess said in a low tone, —

"You are come?"

"I am come."

"You cannot now, you see, perform your threat. My husband, the count, caught a putrid disease, and he is no more."

"I cannot indeed do what I intended, inform your husband of your amours; but I can do something as good, and which will give you as much annoyance."

"Indeed."

"Aye, more, if will cause you to be hated. I can spread reports."

"You can."

"And these may ruin you."

"They may."

"What do you intend to do? Do you intend that I shall be an enemy or a friend? I can be either, according to my will."

"What, do you desire to be either?" inquired the countess, with a careless tone.

"If you refuse my terms, you can make me an implacable enemy, and if you grant them, you can make me a useful friend and auxiliary," said the stranger.

"What would you do if you were my enemy?" inquired the countess.

"It is hardly my place," said the stranger, "to furnish you with a knowledge of my intentions, but I will say this much, that the bankrupt Count of Morven is your lover."

"Well?" "And in the second place, that you were the cause of the death of your husband."

# Get me rewrite By Kaite Stover

"How dare you, sir -"

"Bitch, please. Those drugs I sold your addled boytoy? Nice work, mixing them in your old man's Ovaltine. Hope I don't get drunk at the Secret Policeman's Ball and overshare at the bar."

"Get me rewrite. So now we're on the same page. What now?" asked the countess evenly.

"I can keep a secret. And detour anyone else in your way, like this Count of Morven, who's next on your cocoa-cooler list, if I'm not mistaken."

"86 the Count! Seriously?"

"Yep. I know you have some stash stashed."

"Right in one. The Count's days are numbered."

"You'll poison him?"

"Done."

"Righto. How about booking me a suite in this drafty castle? I have work to do."

"Um, hello? The Count? He's gonna see you here and figure out he's next on Deathwatch."

"Nah. Brought a wig, fake beard, lifts for the Fryes. Tell him I'm the new interior decorator or personal yoga instructor. No one will care."

"If you say so."

"Ah ah ah, sweetheart. Not so fast. The gold? Hmm?

"As soon as the will is read. Right now all I can seize is the petty cash and rents."

"Good enough for now. But you're picking up my expenses. I'll be staying a while."

"Really?!"

"Yep. And fire my assistant. I hate to do the dirty work."

The countess called her assistant to fire the stranger's assistant and make arrangements for a long-time unpleasant houseguest.

****

The Count of Morven dropped in a few weeks later and, like the new yoga instructor, showed no signs of leaving anytime soon. The countess was cordial to the Count in front of guests and servants. She turned up the heat once alone.

"It's just you and me and the bearskin rug, Count baby. What's been keeping you?"

"Well, you know. Had to skip out on the landlord and the utilities. Lost my cell and the car wouldn't start. I'm kinda broke right now."

"The old complaint again."

* *

(Original Page 127 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"No; but having come to the end of my store, I began to grow serious."

"Ah, Morven!" said the countess, reproachfully.

"Well, never mind; when my purse is low my spirits sink, as the mercury does with the cold. You used to say my spirits were mercurial — I think they were."

"Well, what did you do?" "Oh, nothing." "Was that what you were about to tell me?" inquired the countess.

"Oh, dear, no. You recollect the Italian quack of whom I bought the drug you gave to the count, and which put an end to his days — he wanted more money. Well, as I had no more to spare, I could spare no more to him, and he turned vicious, and threatened. I threatened, too, and he knew I was fully able and willing to perform any promise I might make to him on that score. I endeavoured to catch him, as he had already began to set people off on the suspicious and marvellous concerning me, and if I could have come across him, I would have laid him very low indeed."

"And you could not find him?"

"No, I could not."

"Well, then, I will tell you where he is at this present moment."

"You?"

"Yes, I."

"I can scarcely credit my senses at what you say," said Count Morven. "My worthy doctor, you are little better than a candidate for divine honours. But where is he?"

"Will you promise to be guided by me?" said the countess.?"If you make it a condition upon which you grant the information, I must." "Well, then, I take that as a promise." "You may. Where — oh, where is he?" "Remember your promise. Your doctor is at this moment in this castle." "This castle?" "Yes, this castle." "Surely there must be some mistake; it is too much fortune at once." "He came here for the same purpose he went to you." "Indeed!" "Yes, to get more money by extortion and a promise to poison anybody I liked." "D — n! it is the offer he made to me, and he named you."

# A Taste of My Broadsword by Kristin Ramsdell

"He named you to me, and said I should be soon tired of you."

"And have you locked up this devious wretch?" the Count of Morven asked.

"Not at all." A self-satisfied smile flitted across the countess's face. "He is my guest in one of the eastern tower apartments passing himself off as a dark wizard. No one bothers him—and I know exactly where he is."

Morven raised a questioning eyebrow but said nothing.

"He made me an offer he didn't think I could refuse. He also promised to help me poison you when I tire of you." Her smile was wicked.

Morven's eyes glinted. "Perhaps I should give him a taste of my broadsword."

"Oh, no, my dear. Nothing so obvious—or so final. I have a much better plan. We need more men for the mines, and our "guest" would be a perfect addition, don't you think?"

"I'd much rather kill him and be done with it," the count grumbled.

"No, I want no more killing. The mines are secure and a lifetime there will be torture enough."

"All right," Morven agreed. " But what about the boy? He's ten now and the heir." Morven sent a thoughtful glance toward the countess. "Perhaps he should fall victim to the same illness as his father?"

"No." The countess shook her head abruptly.

"No more lives, as I told you; but we can easily secure him in some other way, and we shall be equally as free from him and them."

# Orangutans and Undergarments by Timothy King

"That is enough- there are dungeons, I know, in this castle, and he can be kept there safe enough."

"He can... or cannot. It is not for me to irrationally debate. I have lost any sense in this conversation and have long since forgotten what we are talking about!"

"Excellent!"

"It is?"

"I just checked my credit score."

"Psha! Give credit where credit is due, I say. The situation at hand is like containers of hygiene products- more aerodynamic with each passing year. The more I gather in my hands, the more I drop and end up kicking to the door!'

"But what of the reading of the book?"

"The Tenement Elemental shall prosper in the essence of leopard shoe leather."

"You speak nonsensical...nonsensically...non-sensuous. Your words suck!"

"And all in theme to pretentious vampire promotion."

"I am impatient. I deserve a long rest in my coffin...er...I mean bed. My satin-lined bed."

"Yes."

"I must contrive to have him seized and carried to the mines."

"Who?"

"What's his face."

"Paradigm?"

"No. He shan't be born for another century."

"Oh. I often forget what time period I reside in. I guess going to Chili's is out of the question."

"Quite. In the mines there is a trap-door and a vault, from which, by means of another trap and vault is a trap-door and a vault void of traps."

"How disappointing."

"Genius-ly disappointing."

"So the plan is to bore him to death?"

"Yes."

"And if he will not die?"

"Then he will be scourged in such a manner that he will wish he had an abacus or a hair comb."

"I don't follow you."

"It is just as well since I will need you to pull me from a pit once I walk into it."

"That will do, but the doctor is quite boring himself."

"How did you now he is a doctor?"

"He signs his name with 'M. D.'."

Some weeks passed over and the Count of Marven had a cup of tea with the doctor. The kind with little mint leaves floating on the surface to choke you when you swallow them. It was fortunate that the doctor was a doctor when the Count of Marven turned blue with asphyxiation.

"Worthy doctor," sang the Count to him one day,"You have become acquainted with science in your studies, no doubt."

"You mean...intimately? Of course not! Whatever you heard about the orangutans and undergarments is completely heresy!"

"Indeed!"

# Varney the Opera by Catherine Mintz

Yes, the midnight lamp has burned till the glorious sun has reached the horizon, and brings back the day, and yet have I been forbade my books.

**

Principals: The Doctor, a young tenor, made up as a bald old man. The Count, an older bass, made up as a hirsute young man. Each thinks the other is fooled by his disguise. Both are wrong.

Scene: Daybreak in a coffee shop facing a garden with an ornate, gilded gate. On one wall an array of television screens turned to various news channels, with commodity quotes from around the world running across the bottom of the screen and a crowd mutter of talking heads at low volume. Baristas operate their machines throughout this scene as takeout customers come and go. A number of people remain, unmoving, hunched before their laptop screens: Wi-Fi is free here, which is why the Doctor is using it as an office.

As the curtain rises, the =Internet Theme= plays softly until it is overwhelmed by the urgent ringing of the NYSE opening bell on all channels at once.

The Doctor: Connected! Connected again! (He seats himself at a small table and drinks his coffee furiously, eyes darting from screen to screen.)

The entire cast except the principals sings the =Connection Chorus=, softly but with great fervor, as the Count, carrying a copy of _The Wall Street Journal_ , enters and looks around. Seeing the Doctor he purchases a latte and takes a seat across from him at the small table as the chorus fades away leaving only the ambient noise of the televisions and the coffee machines.

The Doctor, seeing the _WSJ_ , says "May I?" and unfolds it.

The Count: "The only secure investments are commodities."

The Doctor: (not really interested) "Commodities?"

The Count: "The best commodity is—but you can tell me, I am sure. Unchanging, beautiful, compact, and in limited supply."

The Doctor: (feigning indifference now) "Gold."

(The two look at one another, as the opening bars of the =Gold Song= are played.)

The Count: (sings) "Strangers we be."

The Doctor: (sotto voce) "Although strangely familiar."

Both: (sing) "Gold unites men!

Gold, Gold!

Gold unites men!

Strangers no longer!

Friends we can be."

The Count: (sotto voce) For a while, at least.

Both: (sing) "Strangers no longer!

Friends we can be."

The orchestra plays the entire song over twice as, in the background, the ballet enters for the =Dance of the Baristas=. Downstage the two principals converse.

The Count: "Beneath their holdings, our hosts own mines. Gold mines."

The Doctor: "Empty mines. Worthless mines. Mines without gold."

(For the next exchange there is absolute silence and no one, not even the images on the televisions, move.)

The Count: (bass rumble) "Not so."

The Doctor: (ringing tenor) "No?"

(The sounds and motions resume, softly, stealthily)

The Count: "They put that about because of the taxes."

The Doctor: "Taxes."

The Count: (confiding) "They hide it deep."

The Doctor: (dreamily) "Deep. Gold in the deep." Then, all business, "How much?"

The Count: "Too much to know how much. (intense) If we sampled a little—"

The Doctor: "Skimmed a little—"

The Count: "Ah, you know the game!"

The Doctor: "Something I heard once." He sips coffee, although the cup is empty. "Why are you telling me this?"

The Count: "With two, we could take a little more."

The Doctor: (skeptical) "A little—"

The Count: "A lot.

The Doctor: (singing) "Seeing is believing."

The Count: (agreeing harmoniously) "Seeing is believing, believing."

The chorus sings =Seeing Is Believing= as the principals eye one another over their cups.

The Count:(harshly) "You know the place, the Garden of the Gilded Gate. Tonight. Bring a light."

The Doctor: "I will be there."

[scene change] The Count walks along the edge of the scenery turntable as a new set rotates into view, veiled by a scrim of evening sky, which will disappear as the new set is lit for the scene following this exchange.

The Count: (speaking into his cell phone) "He went for it."

"Is he not suspicious?"

END

* *

(Original Page 131 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Not at all." * * * *

That night, about an hour before midnight, the Count Morven stole towards the philosopher's room. He tapped at the door.

"Enter," said the philosopher.

The count entered, and saw the philosopher seated, and by him a lamp of peculiar construction, and incased in gauze wire, and a cloak.

"Are you ready?" inquired the count. "Quite," he replied.?"Is that your lamp?" "It is."

"Follow me, then, and hold the lamp tolerably high, as the way is strange, and the steps steep."

"Lead on."

"You have made up your mind, I dare say, as to what share of the undertaking you will accept of with me."

"And what if I will not?" said the philosopher, coolly.

"It falls to the ground, and I return the keys to their place."

"I dare say I shall not refuse, if you have not deceived me as to the quantity and purity of the metal they have stored up."

"I am no judge of these metals, doctor. I am no assayest; but I believe you will find what I have to show you will far exceed your expectations on that head."

"'Tis well; proceed."

They had now got to the first vault, in which stood the first door, and, with some difficulty, they opened the vault door.

"It has not been opened for some time," said the philosopher.

"I dare say not, they seldom used to go here, from what I can learn, though it is kept a great secret."

"And we can keep it so, likewise."

"True."

They now entered the vault, and came to the second door, which opened into a kind of flight of steps, cut out of the solid rock, and then along a passage cut out of the mountain, of some kind of stone, but not so hard as the rock itself.

"You see," said the count, "what care has been taken to isolate the place, and detach it from the castle, so that it should not be dependent upon the possessor of the castle. This is the last door but one, and now prepare yourself for a surprise, doctor, this will be an extraordinary one."

So saying, the count opened the door, and stepped on one side, when the doctor approached the place, and was immediately thrust forward by the count and he rolled down some steps into the mine, and was immediately seized by some of the miners, who had been stationed there for that purpose, and carried to a distant part of the mine, there to work for the remainder of his life.

# Western Union VARNEGRAM by Larissa Kyzer

Western Union

VARNEGRAM

Countess de Verole

Castle

Hungary

Re recent events at castle COMMA doctor secure STOP Will shortly procure unfortunate imposter COMMA mangled COMMA for your immediate identification as true heir STOP

Nefariously COMMA

Count Morven

Mines COMMA Distant

Western Union

VARNEGRAM

Count Morven

Mines COMMA Distant

What news regarding actual COMMA true heir QUESTION MARK

Countess de Verole

Castle

Hungary

Western Union

VARNEGRAM

Countess de Verole

Castle

Hungary

Your son COMMA true heir COMMA secure COLON mines STOP Will labor COMMA miserable COMMA hopeless COMMA forever STOP

Efficiently COMMA

Morven

PAGE VI

If this careful observer isn't mistaken...Wedding bells will soon be ringing for the stately **Countess de Verole** , following the end of her extended period of mourning for both her late husband, the **Count de Verole** , and her son, found dead just weeks after the death of his beloved father. Although sources close to the Countess affirm that she is still devastated by the loss of her son, whispers have been heard around the well that the lady doth protest too much, and rather that the Castle de Verole has been planning a high feast of sensational proportions for nigh on a twelvemonth. Salacious rumors that the disfigured body of the de Verole heir was, in fact, that of a recently disappeared country youth have been unceremonious quashed by "close friend" of the de Verole family, the brooding (and always elegantly attired) **Count Morven**.

Page VI lays double odds that the Lady de Verole will soon dry her tears and take solace in the arms of Morven, no doubt in a celebration of the most magnificent, splendid, and decadent proportions.

(Additional reporting by Jon, the Crier.)

DANK HUNGARIAN MINE, LTD.

CONFIDENTIAL

MEMO 322.B.1

**Memo To:** Overseer

**From:** Shift Leader,

Team B (Vengeance Shift)

**Re:** Recent Escape / Kerfuffle in the Mines

October 31, 17XX

Please be advised that this afternoon, shortly after the staff's mid-week meal, two members of Team B—the Drudge Formerly Known as Count Verole's Heir and the conniving but ineffective blackmailing doctor—were discovered to have fled their positions as Digger 13 and Digger 27, respectively.

You will recall from previous communications (see memos 32.A.5, 122.C.12, 245.X.76, etc.) that both Digger 13 and 27 had been observed to show signs of collusion, mutiny, and a general ill will toward their supervisors starting very early in their tenure in these mines, and had been both informally censured (hung by the ankles for several days, deprived of sleep) and formally written up for their regular infractions against company policy and Best Practices.

Upper management has been incrementally rolling out new leadership training programs for Shift Leaders, focusing on behavioral adjustment strategies for employees. The creation of an incentive program for the purpose of engendering Digger 'buy-in,' and improved mine morale has also been discussed, but at the time of this incident, no such strategies have been implemented in the most distant sectors of the mine, where Diggers 13 and 27 were stationed.

I hereby request the guidance of Upper Manangement in mitigating the fallout from this incident among remaining diggers, and more particularly, in preventing any and all knowledge of the event to be disseminated among the public or the mine's primary shareholders, Count Morven and Countess Morven (neé de Verole). I also propose that an accelerated vote be taken by the Administration on the issue of the aforementioned incentive program.

Western Union

VARNEGRAM

Benefactors

Leyden

Sirs COLON I send you a new pupil COMMA formerly the heir to great fortune SLASH title in Hungary STOP Educate him well COMMA esp in re the life he would have lived COMMA were not for conniving mother STOP

Your Friend COMMA

Ineffective Blackmailer COMMA Doctor

Western Union

VARNEGRAM

Recently Liberated Doctor Friend

Leyden

Sir COLON Will educate pupil well COMMA board him until he is of age COMMA able to bring legal action against conniving mother and nefarious count STOP

Obliging Benefactors

Page VI

Who's Hung(a)ry? A delicious scandal has been unfolding at the **Castle de Verole** in Hungary's most fashionable mountain district. Local authorities confirm that the **Count and Countess Morven** have been "seized upon by cuirassiers" and accused of the murder of the countess' much-beloved late husband, **Count de Verole**. The accusation was made by no other than the countess' own son, the heir to the de Verole fortune, who has been presumed dead since his tenth year. In fact, the heir apparent testified that he had been put to work in his father's mines—the very same mines that he would have inherited!—by his own mother and her nefarious lover, Count Morven. With the assistance of a former doctor who had also been put, involuntarily, to work in the mines, the young would-be Count de Verole escaped the mining hell and fled to Leyden, where he has been educated by the doctor's benevolent friends.

So what now for Hungary's most infamous lovers? Though found guilty of these incredible crimes, neither the Count nor Countess Morven will be executed, per the will of young de Verole, who prefers that "the de Verole name not be tainted by a public execution or association with common criminals." Rather, the murderous pair will be exiled to Italy where sources close to Count Morven affirm they will "not be compelled to do any menial office," and will undoubtedly live the rest of their wretched lives in no small amount of style.

Young Count de Verole will take possession of his birthright immediately—Page VI wishes him much (better) luck in the future.

The doctor continued to hide his crime from the young count, and the perpetrators denying all knowledge of it, he escaped; but he returned to his native place, Leyden, with a reward for his services from the young count.

* *

(Original Page 133 by Thomas Preskett Prest)
**CHAPTER XX.** THE DREADFUL MISTAKE

The footstep which Flora, upon the close of the tale she had been reading, heard approaching her apartment, came rapidly along the corridor.

"It is Henry, returned to conduct me to an interview with Charles's uncle," she said. "I wonder, now, what manner of man he is. He should in some respect resemble Charles; and if he do so, I shall bestow upon him some affection for that alone."

Tap — tap came upon the chamber door.

Flora was not at all alarmed now, as she had been when Henry brought her the manuscript. From some strange action of the nervous system, she felt quite confident, and resolved to brave everything. But then she felt quite sure that it was Henry, and before the knocking had taken her by surprise.

"Come in," she said, in a cheerful voice. "Come in."

The door opened with wonderful swiftness — a figure stepped into the room, and then closed it as rapidly, and stood against it. Flora tried to scream, but her tongue refused its office; a confused whirl of sensations passed through her brain — she trembled, and an icy coldness came over her. It was Sir Francis Varney, the vampyre!

He had drawn up his tall, gaunt frame to its full height, and crossed his arms upon his breast; there was a hideous smile upon his sallow countenance, and his voice was deep and sepulchral, as he said, —

"Flora Bannerworth, hear that which I have to say, and hear it calmly. You need have nothing to fear. Make an alarm — scream, or shout for help, and, by the hell beneath us, you are lost!"

There was a death-like, cold, passionless manner about the utterance of these words, as if they were spoken mechanically, and came from no human lips.

Flora heard them, and yet scarcely comprehended them; she stepped slowly back till she reached a chair, and there she held for support. The only part of the address of Varney that thoroughly reached her ears, was that if she gave any alarm some dreadful consequences were to ensue. But it was not on account of these words that she really gave no alarm; it was because she was utterly unable to do so.

"Answer me," said Varney. "Promise that you will hear that which I have to say. In so promising you commit yourself to no evil, and you shall hear that which shall give you much peace."

It was in vain she tried to speak; her lips moved, but she uttered no sound.

"You are terrified," said Varney, "and yet I know not why. I do not come to do you harm, although harm have you done me. Girl, I come to rescue you from a thraldom of the soul under which you now labour."

There was a pause of some moments' duration, and then, faintly, Flora managed to say, —

"Help! help! Oh, help me, Heaven!"

Varney made a gesture of impatience, as he said, —

"Heaven works no special matters now. Flora Bannerworth, if you have as much intellect as your nobility and beauty would warrant the world in supposing, you will listen to me."

"I — I hear," said Flora, as she still, dragging the chair with her, increased the distance between them.

* *

(Original Page 134 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"'Tis well. You are now more composed."

She fixed her eyes upon the face of Varney with a shudder. There could be no mistake. It was the same which, with the strange, glassy looking eyes, had glared upon her on that awful night of the storm, when she was visited by the vampyre. And Varney returned that gaze unflinchingly. There was a hideous and strange contortion of his face now as he said, —

"You are beautiful. The most cunning statuary might well model some rare work of art from those rounded limbs, that were surely made to bewitch the gazer. Your skin rivals the driven snow — what a face of loveliness, and what a form of enchantment."

She did not speak, but a thought came across her mind, which at once crimsoned her cheek — she knew she had fainted on the first visit of the vampyre, and now he, with a hideous reverence, praised beauties which he might have cast his demonic eyes over at such a time.

"You understand me," he said. "Well, let that pass. I am something allied to humanity yet."

"Speak your errand," gasped Flora, "or come what may, I scream for help to those who will not be slow to render it."

"I know it."

"You know I will scream?"

"No; you will hear me. I know they would not be slow to render help to you, but you will not call for it; I will present to you no necessity."

"Say on — say on."

"You perceive I do not attempt to approach you; my errand is one of peace."

"Peace from you! Horrible being, if you be really what even now my appalled imagination shrinks from naming you, would not even to you absolute annihilation be a blessing?"

"Peace, peace. I came not here to talk on such a subject. I must be brief, Flora Bannerworth, for time presses. I do not hate you. Wherefore should I? You are young, and you are beautiful, and you bear a name which should command, and does command, some portion of my best regard."

"There is a portrait," said Flora, "in this house."

"No more — no more. I know what you would say."

"It is yours."

"The house, and all within, I covet," he said, uneasily. "Let that suffice. I have quarrelled with your brother — I have quarrelled with one who just now fancies he loves you."

"Charles Holland loves me truly."

"It does not suit me now to dispute that point with you. I have the means of knowing more of the secrets of the human heart than common men. I tell you, Flora Bannerworth, that he who talks to you of love, loves you not but with the fleeting fancy of a boy; and there is one who hides deep in his heart a world of passion, one who has never spoken to you of love, and yet who loves you with a love as afar surpassing the evanescent fancy of this boy Holland, as does the mighty ocean the most placid lake that ever basked in idleness beneath a summer's sun."

There was a wonderful fascination in the manner now of Varney. His voice sounded like music itself. His words flowed from his tongue, each gently and properly accented, with all the charm of eloquence.

* *

(Original Page 135 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

Despite her trembling horror of that man — despite her fearful opinion, which might be said to amount to a conviction of what he really was, Flora felt an irresistible wish to hear him speak on. Ay, despite, too, the ungrateful theme to her heart which he had now chosen as the subject of his discourse, she felt her fear of him gradually dissipating, and now when he made a pause, she said, —

"You are much mistaken. On the constancy and truth of Charles Holland, I would stake my life."

"No doubt, no doubt."

"Have you spoken now that which you had to say?"

"No, no. I tell you I covet this place, I would purchase it, but having with your bad-tempered brothers quarrelled, they will hold no further converse with me."

"And well they may refuse."

"Be that as it may, sweet lady, I come to you to be my mediator. In the shadows of the future I can see many events which are to come."

"Indeed."

"It is so. Borrowing some wisdom from the past, and some from resources I would not detail to you, I know that if I have inflicted much misery upon you, I can spare you much more. Your brother or your lover will challenge me."

"Oh, no, no."

"I say such will happen, and I can kill either. My skill as well as my strength is superhuman."

"Mercy! mercy!" gasped Flora.

"I will spare either or both on a condition."

"What fearful condition?"

"It is not a fearful one. Your terrors go far beyond the fact. All I wish, maiden, of you is to induce these imperious brothers of yours to sell or let the Hall to me."

"Is that all?"

"It is. I ask no more, and, in return, I promise you not only that I will not fight with them, but that you shall never see me again. Rest securely, maiden, you will be undisturbed by me."

"Oh, God! that were indeed an assurance worth the striving for," said Flora.?"It is one you may have. But — " "Oh, I knew — my heart told me there was yet some fearful condition to come." "You are wrong again. I only ask of you that you keep this meeting a secret." "No, no, no — I cannot."

"Nay, what so easy?" "I will not; I have no secrets from those I love."

* *

(Original Page 136 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Indeed, you will find soon the expediency of a few at least; but if you will not, I cannot urge it longer. Do as your wayward woman's nature prompts you."

There was a slight, but a very slight, tone of aggravation in these words, and the manner in which they were uttered.

As he spoke, he moved from the door towards the window, which opened into a kitchen garden. Flora shrunk as far from him as possible, and for a few minutes they regarded each other in silence.

"Young blood," said Varney, "mantles in your veins." She shuddered with terror.?"Be mindful of the condition I have proposed to you. I covet Bannerworth Hall." "I — I hear."

"And I must have it. I will have it, although my path to it be through a sea of blood. You understand me, maiden? Repeat what has passed between us or not, as you please. I say, beware of me, if you keep not the condition I have proposed."

"Heaven knows that this place is becoming daily more hateful to us all," said Flora.?"Indeed!" "You well might know so much. It is no sacrifice to urge it now. I will urge my brothers." "Thanks — a thousand thanks. You many not live to regret having made a friend of Varney — " "The vampyre!" said Flora. He advanced towards her a step, and she involuntarily uttered a scream of terror.

In an instant his hand clasped her waist with the power of an iron vice; she felt his hot breath flushing on her cheek. Her senses reeled, and she found herself sinking. She gathered all her breath and all her energies into one piercing shriek, and then she fell to the floor. There was a sudden crash of broken glass, and then all was still.

—

# Dick & Jane & Varney the Vampire by Kristen Evey
Chapter XXI: THE CONFERENCE BETWEEN THE UNCLE AND NEPHEW, AND THE ALARM

Meanwhile Charles Holland had taken his uncle by the arm, and led him in to a private room.

See Charles. He wants to talk to Uncle.

Why does he want to talk to Uncle?

See Uncle. He is irritated.

"Sit, Uncle, sit.

Sit, sit, sit."

"Damn it, Charles," said Uncle.

Uncle does not want to sit.

See Uncle walk and pace the room.

Uncle is very agitated.

"Uncle, you would have done the same," said Charles.

Uncle is angry. He does not like Charles telling him what to do.

"I would not have done the same, and don't call me uncle anymore."

"Yes, sir," said Charles.

Charles is mocking Uncle. Oh, silly Charles.

Uncle does not like to be mocked.

"How dare you laugh at me," said Uncle. "I'll teach you to laugh at me."

"I did not laugh at you," said Charles. "I laughed at the joke."

"Damn, there was no joke!"

See Uncle walk and pace the room.

Uncle is pretending to be mad.

"Sit, Uncle, sit," said Charles.

Uncle finally sits.

"Well, what did you have to tell me?" Uncle asks.

See Charles blush. Charles is embarrassed.

Why is Charles embarrassed?

"I am in love, Uncle!"

Uncle does not believe it.

"I do not believe it," said Uncle.

"It is true, Uncle!

With Flora Bannerworth, abroad; she is not only the most beautiful of created beings - -"

* *

(Original Page 138 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Bah!"

"But her mind is of the highest order of intelligence, honour, candour, and all amiable feelings — "

"Bah!"

"Really, uncle, if you say 'Bah!' to everything, I cannot go on."

"And what the deuce difference, sir, does it make to you, whether I say 'Bah!' or not?"

"Well, I love her. She came to England, and, as I could not exist, but was getting ill, and should, no doubt, have died if I had not done so, I came to England."

"But d — -e, I want to know about the mermaid." "The vampyre, you mean, sir." "Well, well, the vampyre."

"Then, uncle, all I can tell you is, that it is supposed a vampyre came one night and inflicted a wound upon Flora's neck with his teeth, and that he is still endeavouring to renew his horrible existence from the young, pure blood that flows through her veins."

"The devil he is!"

"Yes. I am bewildered, I must confess, by the mass of circumstances that have combined to give the affair a horrible truthfulness. Poor Flora is much injured in health and spirits; and when I came home, she, at once, implored me to give her up, and think of her no more, for she could not think of allowing me to unite my fate with hers, under such circumstances."

"She did?"

"Such were her words, uncle. She implored me — she used the word 'implore' — to fly from her, to leave her to her fate, to endeavour to find happiness with some one else."

"Well?" "But I saw her heart was breaking." "What o' that?"

"Much of that, uncle. I told her that when I deserted her in the hour of misfortune that I hoped Heaven would desert me. I told her that if her happiness was wrecked, to cling yet to me, and that with what power and what strength God had given me, I would stand between her and all ill."

"And what then?"

"She — she fell upon my breast and wept and blessed me. Could I desert her — could I say to her, 'My dear girl, when you were full of health and beauty, I loved you, but now that sadness is at your heart I leave you?' Could I tell her that, uncle, and yet call myself a man?"

"No!" reared the old admiral, in a voice that made the room echo again; "and I tell you what, if you had done so, d — n you, you puppy, I'd have braced you, and — and married the girl myself. I would, d — -e, but I would."

"Dear uncle!"

# A Softer Touch by Mikel Strom

"Don't dear me, sir. Talk of deserting a girl when the signal of distress, in the shape of a tear, is in her eye?"

Charles stammered, stood, and tried to find footing in the shadow of the man he could only think of as Admiral, never just his Uncle.

"Shut up, you little lout." The Admiral was not taller than Charles, but at the moment he towered over the simpering younger man.

"You're wrong about me."

"Sure, Charlie," Despite his smile, there was contempt in the Admiral's voice. "You're getting to be quite the whale, aren't you? So where's this girl I've been hearing so much about?" said the Admiral, wiping his lips with his sleeve.

Charles, too quickly, said, "Just keep your hands to yourself uncle. She's a little young-"

"Does that matter? I thought girls like a little attention, or have I been at sea too long?" The Admiral's smile became more expansive then dropped as he snapped at his nephew. "You have any idea what it's like at sea? Sailors, nothing but sailors." The Admiral shuddered. "It'd be nice to see a pretty face"

"But a girl like her needs a... softer touch."

"You don't think I can be soft? I know from soft. Where is she?"

"Why are you so mad at me?"

"This isn't mad, kid. Besides, you couldn't help yourself. With my blood in those veins how could you be anything but honest?" It would be difficult for the Admiral to sound less admiring of young Charles.

"Sir, if things were different, what would you have done?"

"Does it matter?" The Admiral could see how much Charles sought the approval of his Uncle, but he had none for his nephew. "If you hadn't, you'd be dead to me."

Charles cowered more, if that was possible. "I guess that's one way to answer the question."

"Not even a question Charles, you turn your back on people that love you, like me, you're no better than chum, get it, chum?"

"I can't argue with that." Charles was ashen now. "When'd you turn into such a bastard?"

"Damn right you can't, no nephew of mine's going to run my name into the ground. And stop whining, if I weren't so soft you'd be six feet under." The Admiral took the chair Charles had vacated. "Now, about this girl needing a softer touch?"

"I will fetch her, uncle."

# Holy cry for distress, Batman by Cindy Amrhein

"Ah, do; I'll be bound, now, she's one of the right build — a good figure-head, and don't make too much stern-way."

"Could you be any more lame? The right build? And no woman wants you talking about the size of their ass, cause no matter what you say about it, it's always going to be the wrong thing—so skip the stern-way stuff, OK Uncle?

"Screw off, and mind your own business. I've picked up a few things in my forty years at sea. I know how to come up with some compliments to say to a woman."

"Those were compliments? Listen, whatever you picked up at sea, no woman is going to want to know about that either, and besides... wait. Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"A scream I swear I just heard a woman scream."

"Holy cry for distress, Batman!" His uncle's eyes glazed over as he laughed.

"You think it's funny making bat jokes with a vampire nibbling on people's necks?" In that moment Charles realized after four decades at sea his uncle the admiral, had lost his mind. There was nothing he could do about that now other than to try and keep Flora away from him. Charles strained his ear to the door without opening it. "There it is again!"

"I shall save her," his Uncle cried. The admiral and Charles slammed into each other as they tried to squeeze through the doorway, but the admiral pushed his way by Charles into the hallway running in no particular direction.

Charles heard the scream again. It was Flora. He ran to her room to find Henry crouching over her motionless body.

"Henry, what the hell did you do?" cried Charles.

"It wasn't me," said Henry; " Flora! Flora! Say something."

Flora looked up, blood dripping from her neck.

"Quick Henry, get her some water," cried Charles.

Henry dropped Flora, grabbed the pitcher and poured the water over her head.

"I meant to drink you idiot!"

"Won't it pour out of the holes in her neck?' asked Henry.

Charles got down on the floor next her and cradled her head in his arm. Only a faint breath escaped her lips.

Mrs. Bannerworth, hearing the commotion ran into the room dressed only in her petticoats.

The admiral was right behind her, his eyes as wide as saucers. "Madam, may I say your stern-way is exceptional!"

"Uncle," said Charles, "Keep it in your pants. The vampire has attacked Flora!"

"D — n me, and he's gone, too, and carried half the window with him. Look there!"

# Nobody here but us chickens by AM Carley

It was literally true; the window, which was a long latticed one, was smashed through.

Charles splashed water on Flora's face. As she came to, she put her hands to her face and called out incoherently.

"It's OK, Flora, it's OK," Henry said.

"Flora," said Charles, "everyone here loves you. Look around the room - see? You're safe now."

"He's gone?" Flora opened her eyes wide and peered out.

"Nobody here but us chickens, honey," said Charles. "Look around - See? You're among friends."

"True friends and tried friends, my dear," said Admiral Bell, "excepting me; and whenever you like to try me, afloat or ashore, d — n me, shew me Old Nick himself, and I won't shrink — yard arm and yard arm — grapnel to grapnel — pitch pots and grenades!"

Flora saw Charles, and her brother, but who was this old man from another century?

"Flora, meet my uncle, Admiral Bell," said Charles.

"Um, pleased to meet you, sir," said Flora, faintly.

"All right!" whispered the admiral to Charles; "what a figure-head to be sure! Poll at Swansea would have made just about four of her, but she wasn't so delicate, d — n me!"

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about, Uncle Joe," Charles replied under his breath. He turned back to Flora and patted her hand.

"Why did you scream, honey?"

"Varney — Varney, the vampire."

"Varney!" Henry exclaimed. "Varney was here?"

"Yes, he came through that door. When I screamed, I guess he took off through the window."

"You _guess_ , Flora? You're not sure? "This," said Henry, "is too much. I _can't_ take this. _I won't take it anymore_."

Flora inclined her head toward Charles.

"Back off, Henry. This isn't about you," said Charles. "I'll take care of this. I'll find him and make him pay."?

"No, Charley," said Flora, as she grabbed his arm. "I have a better idea."

"What idea?" Charles asked, his posture stiffening.

Flora looked at the young men, and took a breath: "Face it - Varney has taken over the whole place already. Let's just let him have it. What if we just walk away?"

"Walk away? Let him have it?" Her brother was still outraged, and the veins in his neck showed it.

"Think about it. He's not human, you know. We can't really fight him.

"Why would we want him to keep showing up and trying to hurt us?

"Why would we stay in such danger?

" _Why should you allow yourselves to risk a personal encounter with such a man, who might be glad to kill you that he might have an opportunity of replenishing his own hideous existence from your best heart's blood?_ "

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The young men looked aghast.

"Besides," added Flora, "you cannot tell what dreadful powers of mischief he may have, against which human courage might be of no avail."

"There is truth and reason," said Mr. Marchdale, stepping forward, "in what Flora says."

"Only let me come across him, that's all," said Admiral Bell, "and I'll soon find out what he is. I suppose he's some long slab of a lubber after all, ain't he, with no strength."

"His strength is immense," said Marchdale. "I tried to seize him, and I fell beneath his arm as if I had been struck by the hammer of a Cyclops."

"A what?" cried the admiral.

"A Cyclops."

"D — n me, I served aboard the Cyclops eleven years, and never saw a very big hammer aboard of her."

"What on earth is to be done?" said Henry.

"Oh," chimed in the admiral, "there's always a bother about what's to be done on earth. Now, at sea, I could soon tell you what was to be done."

"We must hold a solemn consultation over this matter," said Henry. "You are safe now, Flora."

"Oh, be ruled by me. Give up the Hall."

"You tremble."

"I do tremble, brother, for what may yet ensue. I implore you to give up the Hall. It is but a terror to us now — give it up. Have no more to do with it. Let us make terms with Sir Francis Varney. Remember, we dare not kill him."

"He ought to be smothered," said the admiral.

"It is true," remarked Henry, "we dare not, even holding all the terrible suspicions we do, take his life."

"By foul means certainly not," said Charles, "were he ten times a vampyre. I cannot, however, believe that he is so invulnerable as he is represented."

"No one represents him here," said Marchdale. "I speak, sir, because I saw you glance at me. I only know that, having made two unsuccessful attempts so to seize him, he eluded me, once by leaving in my grasp a piece of his coat, and the next time he struck me down, and I feel yet the effects of the terrific blow."

"You hear?" said Flora.

"Yes, I hear," said Charles.

"For some reason," added Marchdale, in a tone of emotion, "what I say seems to fall always badly upon Mr. Holland's ear. I know not why; but if it will give him any satisfaction, I will leave Bannerworth Hall to-night."

"No, no, no," said Henry; "for the love of Heaven, do not let us quarrel."

"Hear, hear," cried the admiral. "We can never fight the enemy well if the ship's crew are on bad terms. Come now, you Charles, this appears to be an honest, gentlemanly fellow — give him your hand."

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"If Mr. Charles Holland," said Marchdale, "knows aught to my prejudice in any way, however slight, I here beg of him to declare it at once, and openly."

"I cannot assert that I do," said Charles.?"Then what the deuce do you make yourself so disagreeable for, eh?" cried the admiral.?"One cannot help one's impression and feelings," said Charles; "but I am willing to take Mr. Marchdale's hand." "And I yours, young sir," said Marchdale, "in all sincerity of spirit, and with good will towards you."

They shook hands; but it required no conjuror to perceive that it was not done willingly or cordially. It was a hand- shaking of that character which seemed to imply on each side, "I don't like you, but I don't know positively any harm of you."

"There now," said the admiral, "that's better."

"Now, let us hold counsel about this Varney," said Henry. "Come to the parlour all of you, and we will endeavor to come to some decided arrangement."

"Do not weep, mother," said Flora. "All may yet be well. We will leave this place."

"We will consider that question, Flora," said Henry; "and believe me your wishes will go a long way with all of us, as you may well suppose they always would."

They left Mrs. Bannerworth with Flora, and proceeded to the small oaken parlour, in which were the elaborate and beautiful carvings which have been before mentioned.

Henry's countenance, perhaps, wore the most determined expression of all. He appeared now as if he had thoroughly made up his mind to do something which should have a decided tendency to put a stop to the terrible scenes which were now day by day taking place beneath that roof.

Charles Holland looked serious and thoughtful, as if he were revolving some course of action in his mind concerning which he was not quite clear.

Mr. Marchdale was more sad and depressed, to all appearance, than any of them.

As for the admiral, he was evidently in a state of amazement, and knew not what to think. He was anxious to do something, and yet what that was to be he had not the most remote idea, any more than as if he was not at all cognisant of any of those circumstances, every one of which was so completely out of the line of his former life and experience.

George had gone to call on Mr. Chillingworth, so he was not present at the first part of this serious council of war. -

# The Big Pow Wow (aka Why We're Going Nowhere) by Janelle Evans

This was certainly the most seriously reasonable meeting which had been held at Bannerworth Hall on the subject of the much dreaded vampyre. And I'd been turning this over in my head, over and over again. I'd know that Mom and my sibs were in danger for a long time now. And even worse, I'd understood how badly the fear was affecting them, especially Flora; all of those nightly shadows creeping up her blankets like so many inquisitive spiders. Having to undress and bathe with the searing presence of invisible eyes, always caressing her body with the same joyful reverence used to unwrap antique Christmas ornaments. There was no safety here and the only question was why I hadn't gotten Flor and Mom away sooner

The reason was not only too private but too humiliating to get into with a bunch of strangers. These people still thought of us as the fabulous Bannerworths, people who presided over multi-billion dollar companies. Even Flor's fiancé thinks this. And in theory, that was true. Sort of. The part that made the truth only a partial one is the fact that Dad had gone through all of the Bannerworth's personal wealth in twenty-one short years. From my birth to his death last year, he'd burned through half a billion dollars. If Mom hadn't collected life insurance policies the way her friends had collected lovers, the Bannerworths would be paupers.

When Dad was busy renting entire Vegas hotels to party in, his best friend, Joseph Donovan III, convinced Dad to "temporarily" give Joe a spot on the Board of Directors. In exchange, Joseph would manage all of the stuff dad found "boring". Subsequently, old Jo-Jo "managed" to get himself permanently elected to the board, then "managed" to redirect all of our family's residual incomes into a "managed" trust account. The trust fund was invested into schemes that all went bust. The only thing my idiot father hadn't signed away was right of heritage clause. So now, Bannerworths Enterprise is forced to retain a Bannerworth on its board (although I spend most days surfing) and as salary my family lives this fifteen thousand square foot, beachfront monstrosity for free.

"Pack up whatever you need, y'all are comin' to stay at Standing Oak until this mess is cleared up." Standing Oak is the Hollands' ranch in Texas.

"If we leave here, the board is under no obligation to let us return." I laid it all out for them.

"Certainly my attorneys can make short work of anything thrown together in some Vegas strip club," Marchdale sneered. He meant to be supportive, but he's such a pompous blowhard that it's hard to feel anything but annoyed.

"I was only thinking of movin' y'all 'cause of that jack-ass Varney!"

We all grinned as unexpected humor ate through the gloom clotting our arteries. Up to this point, none of us had even been sure that Charles Holland knew what upset was.

"Whoa," I clapped Charles on the back, "that's some strong language."

"So," Charles blushed, "any suggestions?"

'There's the usual, garlic dinners, dawn-lit strolls."

"Henry, be serious." Charles's cowboy boots thonk-thonk as he strides from one side of the room to the other. Each time he got to the easternmost part, he stopped, apparently stymied by the ridiculous extravagance of a marble fireplace in a state renowned for sunshine.

"I favor stakes through the heart." Marchdale runs one meaty, ex-linebacker hand through his bushy curls. "Is silver as sturdy as wood?."

"Murder," Charles paused to laugh, "is illegal."

"Not if he's already dead, Chuck." Mentally, I'd already melted down mom's George II candlesticks.

"Well, he's only half dead, which is half of our problem." Charles's face twitched, trying to form the smile that would make him "in" on the joke.

"Look at that at my family tree. Start with me as a little kid, and then move left."

Charles looked long and hard at the procession of art that showed my entire family tree and his eyes widened every time I got to "the old guy" who appeared, unchanged in all of the pictures. I shut up, and let him take it all in. Sooner or later he'd have to come to the painting of the original Holland, who came here before America had a name. And in that painting he'd see Old Holland sitting with his child-bride dandled on one knee. He'd notice how much that little girl's heart-shaped face looked like Flora's. He'd get to that and know that this wasn't just some old peeping Tom who was harassing his fiancée.

"The necklace and the doll," his voice made croaking protests around each word. "Just like the ones left in Florie's room."

"Not like, they're the same ones."

"A fifteen carat diamond! How...how could anyone?"

"Eternity is a long time, Chuck." Marchdale had moved over to the mantelpiece and was now hefting the silver candlesticks in his massive hand. Anything that he deemed heavy immediately acquired greater density in one's mind.

"What are we saying here? Somebody! Anybody!" At this point Charles Holland's eyes had begun to roll wildly in his head and his lips were stretched taught, with fluffy spittle decorating the corners.

"He's the start of my family line, Charles. The guy's been making little Bannerworth babies and big Bannerworth fortunes for only God-knows how long. And right now, he's pretty pissed that my dad flushed away all of the dough that he'd accumulated. But plus one for us because we've got Flora and he needs a virgin from this bloodline in order to keep his mojo working."

"Say. The. Word." Charles's teeth clipped and gnashed each word into existence.

"Vampyre." Marchdale and I said the words in unison. It didn't make us buddies, no more than the earlier handshake had established us as trusting each other.

"I'll be hanged if I believe it," said Admiral Bell! "Stuff and nonsense! Vampyre, indeed! Bother the vampyre."

# What Do We Do Now? By Lisa Lee

"Sir," said Henry, "you have not had brought before you, painfully, as we have, all the circumstances upon which we, in a manner, feel compelled to found this horrible belief. At first incredulity was a natural thing. We had no idea that ever we would be brought to believe in such a thing."

* *

(Original Page 146 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"I have no objection," said Henry, "I do not know that three days can make any difference in the state of affairs. Let it be so, if you wish, Charles." "Then I am satisfied," said Charles. "I cannot but feel that, situated as I am regarding Flora, this is almost more my affair than even yours, Henry."

"I cannot see that," said Henry. "Why should you take upon yourself more of the responsibility of these affairs than I, Charles? You induce in my mind a suspicion that you have some desperate project in your imagination, which by such a proposition you would seek to reconcile us to."

Charles was silent, and Henry then added, "Now, Charles, I am quite convinced that what I have hinted at is the fact. You have conceived some scheme which you fancy would be much opposed by us?" "I will not deny that I have," said Charles. "It is one, however, which you must allow me for the present to keep locked in my own breast."

"Why will you not trust us?"

"For two reasons."

"Indeed!"

"The one is, that I have not yet thoroughly determined upon the course I project; and the other is, that it is one in which I am not justified in involving anyone else."

"Charles, Charles," said Henry, despondingly; "only consider for a moment into what new misery you may plunge poor Flora, who is, Heaven knows, already sufficiently afflicted, by attempting an enterprise which even we, who are your friends, may unwittingly cross you in the performance of."

"This is one in which I fear no such result. It cannot so happen. Do not urge me."

"Can't you say at once what you think of doing?" said the old admiral. "What do you mean by turning your sails in all sorts of directions so oddly? You sneak, why don't you be what do you call it — explicit?"

"I cannot, uncle."

"What, are you tongue-tied?"

"All here know well," said Charles, "that if I do not unfold my mind fully, it is not that I fear to trust any one present, but from some other most special reason."

"Charles, I forbear to urge you further," said Henry, "and only implore you to be careful."

At this moment the room door opened, and George Bannerworth, accompanied by Mr. Chillingworth, came in. "Do not let me intrude," said the surgeon; "I fear, as I see you seated, gentlemen, that my presence must be a rudeness and a disturbance to some family consultation among yourselves?"

"Not at all, Mr. Chillingworth," said Henry. "Pray be seated; we are very glad indeed to see you. Admiral Bell, this is a friend on whom we can rely — Mr. Chillingworth."

"And one of the right sort, I can see," said the admiral, as he shook Mr. Chillingworth by the hand. "Sir, you do me much honour," said the doctor. "None at all, none at all; I suppose you know all about this infernal odd vampyre business?"

"I believe I do, sir." "And what do you think of it?" "I think time will develop the circumstances sufficiently to convince us all that such things cannot be."

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(Original Page 147 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"D — n me, you are the most sensible fellow, then, that I have yet met with since I have been in this neighbourhood; for everybody else is so convinced about the vampyre, that they are ready to swear by him."

"It would take much more to convince me. I was coming over here when I met Mr. George Bannerworth coming to my house."

"Yes," said George, "and Mr. Chillingworth has something to tell us of a nature confirmatory of our own suspicions."

"It is strange," said Henry; "but any piece of news, come it from what quarter it may, seems to be confirmatory, in some degree or another, of that dreadful belief in vampyres."

"Why," said the doctor, "when Mr. George says that my news is of such a character, I think he goes a little too far. What I have to tell you, I do not conceive has anything whatever to do with the fact, or one fact of there being vampyres."

"Let us hear it," said Henry.?"It is simply this, that I was sent for by Sir Francis Varney myself." "You sent for?"

"Yes; he sent for me by a special messenger to come to him, and when I went, which, under the circumstances, you may well guess, I did with all the celerity possible, I found it was to consult me about a flesh wound in his arm, which was showing some angry symptoms."

"Indeed."

"Yes, it was so. When I was introduced to him I found him lying on a couch, and looking pale and unwell. In the most respectful manner, he asked me to be seated, and when I had taken a chair, he added, "'Mr. Chillingworth, I have sent for you in consequence of a slight accident which has happened to my arm. I was incautiously loading some fire-arms, and discharged a pistol so close to me that the bullet inflicted a wound on my arm.'

"'If you will allow me,' said I, 'to see the wound, I will give you my opinion.'

"He then showed me a jagged wound, which had evidently been caused by the passage of a bullet, which, had it gone a little deeper, must have inflicted a serious injury. As it was, the wound was trifling.

"He had evidently been attempting to dress it himself, but finding some considerable inflammation, he very likely got a little alarmed."

"You dressed the wound?"

"I did."

"And what do you think of Sir Francis Varney, now that you have had so capital an opportunity," said Henry, "of a close observation of him?"

"Why, there is certainly something odd about him which I cannot well define, but, take him altogether, he can be a very gentlemanly man indeed."

"So he can."

"His manners are easy and polished; he has evidently mixed in good society, and I never, in all my life, heard such a sweet, soft, winning voice."

"That is strictly him. You noticed, I presume, his great likeness to the portrait on the panel?"

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"I did. At some moments, and viewing his face in some particular lights, it showed much more strongly than at others. My impression was that he could, when he liked, look much more like the portrait on the panel than when he allowed his face to assume its ordinary appearance."

"Probably such an impression would be produced upon your mind," said Charles, "by some accidental expression of the countenance which even he was not aware of, and which often occurs in families."

"It may be so."

"Of course you did not hint, sir, at what has passed here with regard to him?" said Henry.

"I did not. Being, you see, called in professionally, I had no right to take advantage of that circumstance to make any remarks to him about his private affairs."

"Certainly not."

"It was all one to me whether he was a vampyre or not, professionally, and however deeply I might feel, personally, interested in the matter, I said nothing to him about it, because, you see, if I had, he would have had a fair opportunity of saying at once, 'Pray, sir, what is that to you?' and I should have been at a loss what to reply."

"Can we doubt," said Henry, "but that this very wound has been inflicted upon Sir Francis Varney, by the pistol- bullet which was discharged at him by Flora?" "Everything leads to such an assumption certainly," said Charles Holland. "And yet you cannot even deduce from that the absolute fact of Sir Francis Varney's being a vampyre?"

"I do not think, Mr. Chillingworth," said Marchdale, "anything would convince you but a visit from him, and an actual attempt to fasten upon some of your own veins." "That would not convince me," said Chillingworth.

"Then you will not be convinced?"

"I certainly will not. I mean to hold out to the last. I said at the first, and I say so still, that I never will give way to this most outrageous superstition."

"I wish I could think with you," said Marchdale, with a shudder; "but there may be something in the atmosphere of this house which has been rendered hideous by the awful visits that have been made to it, which forbids me to disbelieve in those things which others more happily situated can hold at arm's length, and utterly repudiate."

"There may be," said Henry; "but as to that, I think, after the very strongly expressed wish of Flora, I will decide upon leaving the house."

"Will you sell it or let it?"

"The latter I should much prefer," was the reply. "But who will take it now, except Sir Francis Varney? Why not at once let him have it? I am well aware that this does sound odd advice, but remember, we are all the creatures of circumstance, and that, in some cases where we least like it, we must swim with the stream."

"That you will not decide upon, however, at present," said Charles Holland, as he rose. "Certainly not; a few days can make no difference."

"None for the worse, certainly, and possibly much for the better."

"Be it so; we will wait."

"Uncle," said Charles, "Will you spare me half an hour of your company?" "An hour, my boy, if you want it," said the admiral, rising from his chair. "Then this consultation is over," said Henry, "and we quite understand that to leave the Hall is a matter determined on, and that in a few days a decision shall come as to whether Varney the Vampyre shall be its tenant or not."

* *

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**Chapter XXIII:** When Charles Holland got his uncle into a room by themselves, he said, —

"Uncle, you are a seaman, and accustomed to decide upon matters of honour. I look upon myself as having been most grievously insulted by this Sir Francis Varney. All accounts agree in representing him as a gentleman. He goes openly by a title, which, if it were not his, could easily be contradicted; therefore, on the score of position in life, there is no fault to find with him. What would you do if you were insulted by this gentleman?"

The old admiral's eyes sparkled, and he looked comically in the face of Charles, as he said, — "I know now where you are steering." "What would you do, uncle?" "Fight him!"

"I knew you would say so, and that's just what I want to do as regards Sir Francis Varney."

"Well, my boy, I don't know that you can do better. He must be a thundering rascal, whether he is a vampyre or not; so if you feel that he has insulted you, fight him by all means, Charles."

"I am much pleased, uncle, to find that you take my view of the subject," said Charles. "I knew that if I mentioned such a thing to the Bannerworths, they would endeavour all in their power to persuade me against it."

"Yes, no doubt; because they are all impressed with a strange fear of this fellow's vampyre powers. Besides, if a man is going to fight, the fewer people he mentions it to the most decidedly the better, Charles."

"I believe that is the fact, uncle. Should I overcome Varney, there will most likely be at once an end to the numerous and uncomfortable perplexities of the Bannerworths as regards him; and if he overcome me, why, then, at all events, I shall have made an effort to rescue Flora from the dread of this man."

"And then he shall fight me," added the admiral, "so he shall have two chances, at all events, Charles."

"Nay, uncle, that would, you know, scarcely be fair. Besides, if I should fall, I solemnly bequeath Flora Bannerworth to your good offices. I much fear that the pecuniary affairs of poor Henry, — from no fault of his, Heaven knows, — are in a very bad state, and that Flora may yet live to want some kind and able friend."

"Never fear, Charles. The young creature shall never want while the old admiral has got a shot in the locker."

"Thank you, uncle, thank you. I have ample cause to know, and to be able to rely upon your kind and generous nature. And now about the challenge?"

"You write it, boy, and I'll take it."

"Will you second me, uncle?"

"To be sure I will. I wouldn't trust anybody else to do so on any account. You leave all the arrangements with me, and I'll second you as you ought to be seconded."

"Then I will write it at once, for I have received injuries at the hands of that man, or devil, be he what he may, that I cannot put up with. His visit to the chamber of her whom I love would alone constitute ample ground of action."

"I should say it rather would, my boy."

# Trust me, son by Cynthea Burns

"And after this corroborative story of the wound, I cannot for a moment doubt that Sir Francis Varney is the vampyre, or the personifier of the vampyre."

"Only a fool would say otherwise. Now, put it writing and I will personally deliver it to the bastard."

Charles nodded. Although grateful for the support, he was also slightly puzzled by the old man's nonchalance to this bizarre invitation. Charles quickly dismissed it to his uncle's unorthodox way of life. After all, this was a man whose entire sense of reality was thrived on tension and confrontation. The admiral was not shocked easily. Perhaps if Charles had been a little more observant, a bit more worldly, he could have read deeper into the eyes of the old man. He may have paused before putting the challenge in writing, but he did not. Instead he quickly composed his demand for the vampire to face him in a gentlemen's challenge. Charles read the note to his uncle.

"Sir Francis Varney,

It is only out of respect for the propriety held in high regard by the Bannerworths that I send this formal notice to you. Your inherent contempt towards me is of little consequence to me, however your inexcusable behavior of which you are aware will no longer be tolerated. We must settle the matter face to face in the immediate future. My uncle, Admiral Bell, will handle the details with whomever you choose to represent you. Charles Holland"

"Enough said, Admiral?"

"Enough said, Charles. To the point with enough left unsaid. He has been challenged. Excellent!"

This time Charles was more observant of the admiral. The words he spoke were serious enough, but there was something beneath their meaning. Was Charles' own uncle enjoying the fact that this deadly confrontation might be his last?

"Well then, son, I said it was exactly right. What is that look on your face?"

"I'm just thinking, uncle. That's all."

"About what? My comments?"

"Of course not." Charles said, attempting to hide his discomfort. "It just seemed you were actually enjoying this."

"Oh, my boy, you read too much into an old man's face. You know I have always had your best interest at heart. Now I must be off to take this to the son of a bitch...can't wait to see HIS face."

The admiral started towards the door, paused and pivoted back towards Charles. "Trust me, son." He gave a wink to his nephew and turned away.

"I'll be off and see the fellow at once."

* *

(Original Page 151 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"The admiral bustled out of the room, and in a few moments Charles heard him calling loudly, —

"Jack — Jack Pringle, you lubber, where are you? — Jack Pringle, I say."

"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack, emerging from the kitchen, where he had been making himself generally useful in assisting Mrs. Bannerworth, there being no servant in the house, to cook some dinner for the family.

"Come on, you rascal, we are going for a walk."

"The rations will be served out soon," growled Jack.

"We shall be back in time, you cormorant, never fear. You are always thinking of eating and drinking, you are, Jack; and I'll be hanged if I think you ever think of anything else. Come on, will you; I'm going on rather a particular cruise just now, so mind what you are about."

"Aye, aye, sir," said the tar, and these two originals, who so perfectly understood each other, walked away, conversing as they went, and their different voices coming upon the ear of Charles, until distance obliterated all impression of the sound.

Charles paced to and fro in the room where he had held this brief and conclusive conversation with his uncle. He was thoughtful, as any one might well be who knew not but that the next four-and-twenty hours would be the limit of his sojourn in this world.

"Oh, Flora — Flora!" he at length said, "how happy we might to have been! but all is past now, and there seems nothing left us and that is in my killing this fearful man who is invested with so dreadful an existence. And if I do kill him in fair and in open fight, I will take care that his mortal frame has no power again to revisit the glimpses of the moon."

It was strange to imagine that such was the force of many concurrent circumstances, that a young man like Charles Holland, of first-rate abilities and education, should find it necessary to give in so far to a belief which was repugnant to all his best feelings and habits of thought, as to be reasoning with himself upon the best means of preventing the resuscitation of the corpse of a vampyre. But so it was. His imagination had yielded to a succession of events which very few persons indeed could have held out against.

"I have heard and read," he said, as he continued his agitated and uneasy walk, "of how these dreadful beings are to be kept in their graves. I have heard of stakes being driven through the body so as to pin it to the earth until the gradual progress of decay has rendered its revivification a thing of utter and total impossibility. Then, again," he added, after a slight pause, "I have heard of their being burned, and the ashes scattered to the winds of Heaven to prevent them from ever again uniting or assuming human form."

These were disagreeable and strange fancies, and he shuddered while he indulged in them. He felt a kind of trembling horror come over him even at the thought of engaging in conflict with a being who, perhaps, had lived more than a hundred years.

"That portrait," he thought, "on the panel, is the portrait of a man in the prime of life. If it be the portrait of Sir Francis Varney, by the date which the family ascribe to it he must be nearly one hundred and fifty years of age now."

This was a supposition which carried the imagination to a vast amount of strange conjectures.

"What changes he must have witnessed about him in that time," thought Charles. "How he must have seen kingdoms totter and fall, and how many changes of habits, of manners, and of custom must he have become a spectator of. Renewing too, ever and anon, his fearful existence by such fearful means."

This was a wide field of conjecture for a fertile imagination, and now that he was on the eve of engaging with such a being in mortal combat, on behalf of her he loved, the thoughts it gave rise to came more strongly and thickly upon him than ever they had done before.

* *

(Original Page 152 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"But I will fight him," he suddenly said, "for Flora's sake, were he a hundred times more hideous a being than so many evidences tend to prove him. I will fight with him, and it may be my fate to rid the world of such a monster in human form."

Charles worked himself up to a kind of enthusiasm by which he almost succeeded in convincing himself that, in attempting the destruction of Sir Francis Varney, he was the champion of human nature.

It would be aside from the object of these pages, which is to record facts as they occurred, to enter into the metaphysical course of reasoning which came across Charles's mind; suffice it to say that he felt nothing shaken as regarded his resolve to meet Varney the Vampyre, and that he made up his mind the conflict should be one of life or death.

"It must be so," he said. "It must be so. Either he or I must fall in the fight which shall surely be."

He now sought Flora, for how soon might he now be torn from her for ever by the irresistible hand of death. He felt that, during the few brief hours which now would only elapse previous to his meeting with Sir Francis Varney, he could not enjoy too much of the society of her who reigned supreme in his heart, and held in her own keeping his best affections.

But while Charles is thus employed, let us follow his uncle and Jack Pringle to the residence of Varney, which, as the reader is aware, was so near at hand that it required not many minutes' sharp walking to reach it.

The admiral knew well he could trust Jack with any secret, for long habits of discipline and deference to the orders of superiors takes off the propensity to blabbering which, among civilians who are not accustomed to discipline, is so very prevalent. The old man therefore explained to Jack what he meant to do, and it received Jack's full approval; but as in the enforced detail of other matters it must come out, we will not here prematurely enter into the admiral's plans.

When they reached the residence of Sir Francis Varney, they were received courteously enough, and the admiral desired Jack to wait for him the handsome hall of the house, while he was shewn up stairs to the private room of the vampyre.

"Confound the fellow!" muttered the old admiral, "he is well lodged at all events. I should say he was not one of those vampyres who have nowhere to go to but their own coffins when the evening comes."

The room into which the admiral was shewn had green blinds to it, and they were all drawn down. It is true that the sun was shining brightly outside, although transiently, but still a strange green tinge was thrown over everything in the room, and more particularly did it appear to fall upon the face of Varney, converting his usually sallow countenance into a still more hideous and strange colour. He was sitting upon a couch, and, when the admiral came in, he rose, and said, in a deep-toned voice, extremely different to that he usually spoke in, —

"My humble home is much honoured, sir, by your presence in it."

"Good morning," said the admiral. "I have come to speak to you, sir, rather seriously."

"However abrupt this announcement may sound to me," said Varney, "I am quite sure I shall always hear, with the most profound respect, whatever Admiral Bell may have to say."

"There is no respect required," said the admiral, "but only a little attention." Sir Francis bowed in a stately manner, saying, —?"I shall be quite unhappy if you will not be seated, Admiral Bell."

"Oh, never mind that, Sir Francis Varney, if you be Sir Francis Varney; for you may be the devil himself, for all I know. My nephew, Charles Holland, considers that, one way and another, he has a very tolerable quarrel with you."

# Odd Fish by Leland Hall

"I much grieve to hear it."

Varney spoke with care; this was not a comical figure after all. He recalled the encounter with the young man vividly, and had been impressed. He reassessed his view of the Admiral; the white bristled eyebrows and muttonchops were a mark of his generation, not an affectation. It would not do to underestimate this man.

" _Grieve_ , you say?" Not the response Admiral Bell had expected. He had been distracted momentarily, taking the man's measure—all this vampire business is blarney. Charles is right about that.

"Believe me, I do." Varney affected genuine concern, and gestured another invitation to be seated. "I am always careful to say what I mean." He paused to reinforce his eye-to-eye contact. "I strive to maintain harmony and positive relations in every way possible." The subdued light enabled him to appear as if his eyes remained fixed; he focused on the Admiral's attire and demeanor. The embossed buttons, the fabric and fit—all were genuine. He determined what was needed quickly.

The Admiral was taken by surprise. This affability and apparent sincerity was entirely unexpected. He took a moment; he needed to regain the initiative. The subdued greenish light was discomforting; he was unable to discern any evidence of the escape that shattered the Bannersworth Hall window—the fellow did not appear to have suffered any injury; he must have been able to repair his appearance. Tall, but lean—a strange enough fish, to be sure; but close up I can see he's no man-o'-war. Marchdale's account of his strength was poppycock.

"Well, well, never mind that; Charles is a young man, only recently into his majority." The Admiral allowed that his nephew might well be driven overmuch by youthful passion. "He loves a girl who is, I am proud to say, worthy of him in every way."

"I am most happy for you—and for the young man, of course," he nodded sagely, inferring that he shared the value and the confidence.

"Just hear me out, if you please."

"With pleasure, sir—with pleasure." Varney seated himself on the sofa and gestured to the adjacent side chair.

The Admiral took the seat, reluctantly—this dialogue had grown altogether too friendly. Still, this man was behaving as a gentleman. He sat straight however—he did not settle in. He cleared his throat and began afresh. "Well, then; when a young, hot-headed fellow thinks he has grounds for quarrel, it shouldn't surprise you that he would want to fight it out."

"No, not at all; it is to be expected of any gentleman."

"Well, then, to come to the point: my nephew, Charles Holland, has determined that the lady's peace of mind and safety require satisfaction—that fighting with you is the solution." It was a relief to get that presented. Now let's see what the scoundrel has to say for himself.

"Ah!" Varney sat back with a leisurely smile.

Admiral Bell expected a different response. When it did not follow, he frowned. The air in the opulent closed-in chamber stifled, intensifying the silence; plush drapery absorbed all sound. "You don't take it seriously?"

"My dear sir, why should I? That you have a concern is most understandable—he is your nephew." Varney paused to examine the status of the fingernail on his left forefinger. "I have no particular reason to worry—I do, however, share feelings of sympathy and compassion." He looked up with a smile. "I daresay these qualities inhabit my breast as well as any person's."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, he is such a young man. As you say, he is just beginning to assume the responsibilities of life; it would be a pity to cut him off like a flower in the bud, so to speak."

The Admiral was incredulous; he took Varney's remark to be overconfidence or bluff. "Oh! You are quite sure of settling the matter in your favor, are you?" He watched carefully for any sign of weakness.

Varney was pleased at the direction the conversation had taken—yet he felt an impulse to stoke the fire. He sat up and looked earnestly into the Admiral's eyes.

"Please: young men are often hot-headed and troublesome. My dear sir, consider my situation: I grant that your nephew might be very troublesome, indeed." He gave the slightest suggestion of a shrug and sighed regretfully. "Alas, if I were only to maim him, he might be a continual and never-ceasing annoyance to me. I think prudence would compel me in such a case, to—in a manner of speaking—cut him off."

"The devil you say!" The Admiral was not accustomed to meeting such arrogance.

"I do indeed, sir." His nod underlined the certainty in his voice.

" _Damn_ your assurance, Mr. Vampire, or whatever odd fish you may be." The Admiral had never met such an attitude. Life and death and honor treated thus? He struggled to remain calm, mindful this was not a dispute with Jack Pringle.

Varney paused briefly; he needed to remain in control of the conversation. He assumed a polite and restrained tone: "Admiral Bell, please. Have I ever called upon you and, after receiving a most courteous reception, replied with a personal insult?"

"Well, sir—" the Admiral flushed. Why do you talk of cutting off a better man than yourself?" He knew his nephew's talent with a pistol. "Damnation! He's more like to cut _you_ off! How would you reply to that?

"Oh, as for me, my good sir, that's quite another thing. Cutting me off is very doubtful."

# An Opponent Is an Opponent By Cynthea Burns

Sir Francis Varney gave a strange smile as he spoke, and shook his head, as if some most extraordinary and extravagant proposition had been mooted, which it was scarcely worth the while of anybody possessed of common sense to set about expecting.

The admiral drew upon all of physical strength to contain the fury boiling within him. He could only pray that the unnatural greenish illumination of the room would mask his blood-red face from the vampyre's eyes.

"Point taken, sir," he said, "and all the more reason for you to carefully consider the offer I make to you."

"Indeed? I'm intrigued. Go on."

"Fight me. You said it yourself. Charles is little more than a pesky twit of a boy. Surely not worth the time it would take you to dress for the occasion."

Sir Varney appeared surprised, even amused, at the suggestion. "You?"

"Why not? It won't my first go at an adversary who thinks he is unbeatable. An opponent is an opponent."

"Not so fast, Admiral Bell. Isn't it customary to confront the person who actually threw down the challenge?"

"Perhaps. I wonder, though. If I am willing to take his place, what could you possibly object to?" The admiral's question slipped subtly from a statement into a challenge in itself.

"Interesting. And Charles? He actually agrees with this?"

"Not yet. This is my offer and he will learn of it soon enough." Observing Sir Varney's bewilderment, he continued. "Of course, you can decline and insist on doing battle with Charles first. I say first because if you do any harm to my nephew it will only be a matter of time before you come to terms with me...and you WILL come to terms with me, Sir Varney."

"Indeed."

"You can count on it."

"Well then it is settled." said Sir Francis Varney, "it really doesn't matter to me one of you dies first."

Admiral Bell nodded a gentleman's agreement and was about to make his exit when the vampire added, "I do hope your will is in order, sir. I would hate to see your family endure the stress of dealing with financial worries as well as your death. "

"Well, well, well Sir Varney. You seem quite sure that it is I, and not you, who will have grieving family." With a slight chuckle, the admiral added, "I hope you have considered your own."

The vampire merely smiled and said, "My will is quite a unlikely concern to be sure, sir."

"Well, make it or not, as you like. I am old, I know, but I can pull a trigger as well as any one."

# With His Own Arm by Robert Hart

VARNEY

Do what?

Bell looks Varney in the eyes.

BELL

Shoot you. Charlie wanted to do it himself after what you did to his Flora, but he's young. Hotheaded. I do this sort of thing for a living.

BELL (voice-over)

I didn't quite know what to make of the guy. I mean, Charlie was family. It sounds sentimental, but sentiment is important to a guy like me. Besides that, the chippie's people were paying me. Standing in front of old Varney, though, I couldn't make out if I was over-charging or not. I guess it depended on whether you believed the whole vampyre hoakum. I wasn't sure I did.

Bell takes a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket, never taking his eyes from Varney. He taps the pack against the knuckles of his right hand, then puts the pack to his mouth and extracts a single smoke with his lips. He puts the pack away, takes a Zippo from another pocket, snaps it alight and holds the flame to the end of his cigarette. He closes the lighter and puts it back in his pocket, still looking Varney in the eye.

BELL

Did you hear what I said?

Varney smiles.

VARNEY

I assure you, Mister Bell, your words do not incommode me in the slightest.

BELL

That's swell. I hate to incommode anyone.

VARNEY

You will always find me amenable. You imply guns, though I find them vulgar, guns it shall be. Unless, of course, you'd prefer something more personal. Swords, perhaps? Knives? I am proficient with a variety of lethal implements. Why, I once dispatched a very vigorous fellow with his own arm.

Bell raises an eyebrow. The cigarette still smolders between his thumb and forefinger.

BELL

His own arm?

Varney shrugs slightly and makes an expansive, swirling motion with his right hand.

VARNEY

In simple terms yes, his arm. You see, he was very determined. He attacked me quite viciously. I was forced to defend myself. In the melee, his left arm was broken, a decidedly unsavory injury, yet he persisted. We grappled afresh and, in his struggles against me, the unfortunate man's arm became severed at the break, leaving a jagged point of bone protruding from the flesh of his arm and me holding the errant limb.

Varney sighs deeply and nods his head slightly.

VARNEY

So driven was he, so mad for my blood, that he came at me again. Single-handed, one might say.

BELL (v.o.)

I made an effort not to laugh. He was a real card, this Varney guy.

VARNEY

Well. I ask you, Mister Bell. As a man of action, what would you have done in my position?

Bell puts his cigarette to his lips and inhales a lungful of smoke. He holds it, waiting, but Varney remains silent, expectant. Bell blows smoke at the ceiling. He doesn't get anywhere near it.

BELL

Okay. I give. What did you do?

VARNEY

What could I do? I stabbed him to death with his own ulna.

BELL

Ulna?

Varney looks at the high ceiling for a moment, considering.

VARNEY

I suppose it could have been his radius.

The Vampyre shrugs again.

VARNEY

In the end, it matters so little. He died, poor wretch, at the feet of the one he set out to destroy.

BELL (v.o.)

He was confident for an old timer. I had to give him that. I could tell why Charlie was so hot to wax him.

Bell drops his cigarette on the expensive looking carpet and grinds it out with the toe of his cheap shoe.

BELL

Let's get one thing straight, chum. I'm not challenging you to any duel. That was Charlie's idea, not mine. I'm telling you that I'm gunning for you. If I'd thought to bring a rod with me to your little lair, I'd have used it by now and you'd be three or four slugs heavier.

Varney laughs, deep in the back of his throat. It makes a noise like heavy pieces of meat being dropped from a height.

VARNEY

That's very good, Mister Bell I like an opponent with spirit. It makes the endeavor so much more entertaining for me.

BELL

I'm glad you find me amusing. I've been called a lot of things in my time. Entertaining isn't one of them.

BELL (v.o.)

I didn't like the look on his face. It said I might as well have offered him a drink as given him a death sentence. He just didn't care. I could see it in his eyes. They went clear on down to the ninth circle.

Bell tips his hat back and stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets.

BELL

You must have gotten a mite deaf in your dotage, Francis. I'm here telling you that I aim to wash my socks in your blood and you're telling me fairy stories about your misspent youth.

VARNEY

Such happy, carefree times.

Bell shakes his head and whistles thinly.

BELL

Just so you understand. You can bring whatever you want. Sword, knife, battleaxe, harpoon, you name it. The important fact for you to stick in that cracked old chamberpot you're using for a head is that I'm going to shoot you. And I won't say sorry after.

The Vampyre laughs again. He claps his long, thin hands twice and rubs them together.

VARNEY

I tremble with elated anticipation, Mister Bell.

BELL (v.o.)

I was done now. I'd told him and I wanted to scram. The guy was giving me the heebie-jeebies. I might end up hammering a stake through his heart after all.

Bell turns on his heel and walks to the door. At the door, he turns to face the Vampyre.

BELL

Is that all?

# Silver Tongue By Red Haircrow

"Not quite. I will have a surgeon on the ground, in case, when I pink you, there should be a chance of saving your life. It always looks humane."

"When you do what?" cried the admiral.

"When I pierce your sallow flesh in some minor way with my sword," Varney smiled, merely a turning up of the corners of his mouth, "so that a flow of blood will stain your clothing."

"Upon my word, you take these affairs devilishly cool, but I suppose you have offed many opponents."

"Enough. Enough to know that people like you worry me not at all, except when they might consider themselves my better at swordplay so that I must then definitively end their delusion of grandeur."

The admiral narrowed his eyes at Sir Francis Varney, looking him up and down, from the soles of his boots to the crown of his head. "You are either a very good actor, ridiculously overconfident, or both. There is no way to be sure of the results of a duel, and in any case, if you are such an expert, it is unfair to choose this weapon."

Varney's mouth settled into a grim line, yet the humor in his eyes grew. "I quite beg to differ. I deal harshly with the fools who have the ill-sense to call me out choosing a weapon I know well. And then, of course, I take care of the matter handily."

"Yet you are the one who incites the situation! You, with your superior airs and insults!"

Varney tsked dismissively.

"Just so," the admiral said. "You do it even now."

Varney waved a hand as if swiping away a bothersome insect. "How would you feel were you in my position, made the center of macabre speculation and innuendo if not outright maliciousness? Accused of being a vampyre based on some idiot know-it-all's imagination?"

"But there was proof! The portrait," the admiral said, "there was the portrait of...of what looked to be—."

"Merely a passing likeness between myself a man in an old portrait and suddenly I must be this incarnation of evil? Chance that I saw a drawing of a carnival fool holding the exact expression present upon your face this very moment, yet I am not idiot enough to believe that was you."

"Damn you, Varney. You have an answer for everything, and a nasty wit as well!"

"Accurate, dear fellow, but never nasty."

Huffing in suppressed rage, the old man buttoned up his coat in a great passion, casting a baleful look up at Varney. He opened his mouth to say something more but seemed to think better of it.

Varney's small smile had returned. "Just so," he drawled, which two words of condescension sparked the admiral's last outburst.

"I've not a silver tongue like you, damn you, but I have enough spirit that you sha'n't keep me down!"

Varney tilted his head in a half bow.

"Very good, sir."

* *

(Original Page 157 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"It is not very good. You shall hear from me."

"I am willing."

"I don't care whether you are willing or not. You shall find that when once I begin to tackle an enemy, I don't so easily leave him. One or both of us, sir, is sure to sink."

"Agreed."

"So say I. You shall find that I'm a tar for all weathers, and if you were hundred and fifty vampyres all rolled into one, I'd tackle you somehow."

The admiral walked to the door in high dudgeon; when he was near to it, Varney said, in some of his most winning and gentle accents, —

"Will you not take some refreshment, sir, before you go from my humble house?" "No!" roared the admiral.?"Something cooling?" "No!"

"Very good, sir. A hospitable host can do no more that offer to entertain his guests."

Admiral Bell turned at the door, and said, with some degree of intense bitterness, "You look rather poorly. I suppose, tonight, you will go and suck somebody's blood, you shark — you confounded vampyre! You ought to be made to swallow a red-hot brick, and then let dance about till it digests."

Varney smiled as he rang the bell, and said to a servant, —

"Show my very excellent friend Admiral Bell out. He will not take any refreshments."

The servant bowed, and preceded the admiral down the staircase; but, to his great surprise, instead of a compliment in the shape of a shilling or half-a-crown for his pains, he received a tremendous kick behind, with a request to go and take it to his master, with his compliments.

The fume that the old admiral was in beggars all description. He walked to Bannerworth Hall at such a rapid pace, that Jack Pringle had the greatest difficulty in the world to keep up with him, so as to be at all within speaking distance.

"Hilloa, Jack," cried the old man, when they were close to the Hall. "Did you see me kick that fellow?"

"Ay, ay, sir."

"Well, that's some consolation, at any rate, if somebody saw it. It ought to have been his master, that's all I can say to it, and I wish it had."

"How have you settled it, sir?" "Settled what?" "The fight, sir." "D — n me, Jack, I haven't settled it at all."

# Where Have I Seen That Word? By Sheri L. Swift

"That's bad, sir."

"I know it is; but it shall be settled for all that; I can tell him, let him steam as much as he may about piercing me, and one thing and another."

"Piercing you, sir?"

"Yes. He wants to fight with swords, and then he must have a surgeon on the ground, for fear when he stabs me I shouldn't die in a regular way, and he should be blamed."

Jack gave a long whistle, as he replied, —

"Going to do it, sir?"

"I don't know what I'm going to do. Mind, Jack, mum's the word."

"Ay, ay, sir."

"I'll turn the matter over in my mind, piercing, pierce; where have I seen that word of late?

I think it was the library; if only I could remember what was written on that stained glass window. Let's go have a look shall we?"

"Ay, ay, sir."

When they reached the library, they pulled back the heavy cloth drapes which caused dust to swirl about. They saw the words etched in the glass window and was encased in silver. The words were:

Beware the Lord who walks these halls

By darkness of night until the cock calls

None can quench his thirst so great

Many have tried and sealed their fate

Look to the trees to find his bane

Pierce his heart and end his reign

"What does it mean Sir?"

"I am not quite sure, I will think on the matter. Something must be done, and quickly too. Zounds, here's Charles"

— what the deuce shall I say to him, by way of an excuse, I wonder, for not arranging his affair with Varney? Hang me, if I ain't taken aback now, and don't know where to place a hand."

—

# Vaguely Victorian Vacuum by Lana Cooper

**CHAPTER XXIV. It was Charles Holland who now advanced hurriedly to meet the admiral.** Pacing back and forth and fretting in a most unbecoming manner, the young man became even more unbecoming — if not downright belligerent — prodding the admiral for Sir Francis Varney's response to his challenge.

"Uncle," he said, "tell me at once! Will he meet me? You can talk of particulars afterwards, but tell me now if he will meet me?"

_Good Lord, he's like a junior varsity cheerleader wondering if the quarterback will ask her to prom_ , thought Jack Pringle to himself.

A man of high tolerance for both the idiosyncrasies of those around him and large quantities of alcohol (one mostly due to the other), Jack played as well as could be expected with the hand that fate had dealt him. Brought back through a rift in the time space continuum, Jack traversed from the early 21st century to this place — wherever "this place" with its convoluted setting may be.

Doomed to be a repository of popular culture knowledge in an era where this knowledge was not only _un_ popular, it didn't even exist; few constants remained for this wayward son as he carried on through this vaguely Victorian vacuum:

1. Jack was saddled with the burden of being Admiral Bell's sidekick until he croaked or somehow found a way back to the 21st century; and

2. Booze. Sweet, sweet booze. With no one to truly relate to, Jack took a sort of soused solace in being a sot. As an added bonus, any accidental references to his native time and place could easily be explained away as drunken ramblings.

Nevertheless, Jack hung back, steeping himself in drink and watched as Charles and the admiral engaged in a Sharks-versus-Jets-style nervous-off, swapping jazz hands for a tandem of hand-wringing.

"Shall Sir Francis Varney meet you?" spoke the admiral, repeating his nephew's question. The admiral twisted his plumed bicorn hat in his hands. "Why, as to that," he hedged, "you see, I can't exactly say."

"Not say?!"

"No. He's a very odd fish. Don't you think he's a very odd fish, Jack Pringle?"

_And who better to know of an odd fish than an old seaman._ Jack lamented that no one else in the room heard his witty, internal quip.

"Ay, ay, sir." Jack quaffed a mighty gulp of his drink. _Here we go_ , he thought to himself. _One drink for every time the admiral asks me to back him up like a Supreme._

"There! You hear that, Charles? Jack is of my opinion that your opponent is an odd fish."

"But, uncle, why trifle with my impatience thus? Have you seen Sir Francis Varney?"

"Seen him? Oh, yes."

"And what did he say?"

"Why, to tell the truth, my lad, I advise you not to fight with him at all."

_This is starting to feel like a bad episode of Two and a Half Men_ , thought Jack Pringle to himself as he observed the exchange. _Only Charles is no Charlie Sheen. I think he's more a Jon Cryer type. Or maybe a Woody Allen with a stronger jaw line, if we're veering from the small screen to the silver screen._

"Uncle, this is not like you! Advising me to compromise my honour, after sending a man a challenge?"

"Damn it all, Jack! I don't know how to get out of it!" exclaimed the admiral in a deep state of frustration.

_Don't bring me into this,_ Jack mused, rolling his eyes and chugging some more hooch in accordance with the rules of his own game.

"I tell you what it is, Charles, he wants to fight with swords. How do you expect to engage a fellow who has been practicing at his weapon for over a hundred years?"

Jack suddenly had a vision of the vampiric nobleman standing over the prone and bleeding body of his young, bested challenger. He imagined Varney pointing a talon-like finger and declaring in his indeterminable accent of European origin: "You got served!"

Jack stifled a giggle behind another swig of booze, completely disregarding the rules of his own drinking game in an attempt at self-preservation.

"Well, uncle, if anyone had told me that you would be terrified by this Sir Francis Varney into advising me not to fight, I should have had no hesitation whatever in saying such a thing was impossible."

"I? Terrified?"

"Why, you advise me not to meet this man, even after I have challenged him."

"Pussy," Jack coughed into his drink, not quite sure if he had sputtered the word out loud.

"Jack," said the admiral. "I can't carry it on, you see. I never could go on with anything that was not as plain as an anchor, and quite straightforward, I must just tell all that has occurred."

"Ay, ay sir. The best way," spoke Jack before glugging another round of rye.

"You think so, Jack?"

By this point, Jack was duly in his cups. In fact, he had already spilled out of his cups and onto the floor.

In his inebriated state, Jack mustered a muddled modern / middle / ye olde English answer to the admiral's question: "I know it is, sir, always axing pardon for having any opinion at all, excepting when it happens to be the same as yourn, sir." _Take that, you salty, old seaman! Jack Pringle: Center Square for the win!_ Jack was feeling 50 shades of Paul Lynde right now. He was a zinger-spouting machine!

"Hold your tongue, you libelous villain! Now, listen to me, Charles. I got up a scheme of my own."

His moment of victory past, Jack opened a fresh bottle. _Hoo, boy,_ he thought to himself. _Charles is most definitely not in charge._

Charles gave a groan, for he had a very tolerable appreciation of his uncle's amount of skill in getting up a scheme of any kind of description.

* *

(Original Page 160 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Now here am I," continued the admiral, "an old hulk, and not fit for use any more. What's the use of me, I should like to know? Well, that's settled. But you are young and hearty, and have a long life before you. Why should you throw away your life upon a lubberly vampyre?"

"I begin to perceive now, uncle," said Charles, reproachfully, "why you, with such apparent readiness, agreed to this duel taking place."

"Well I intended to fight the fellow myself, that's the long and short of it, boy."

"How could you treat me so?"

"No nonsense, Charles. I tell you it was all in the family. I intended to fight him myself. What was the odds whether I slipped my cable with his assistance, or in the regular course a little after this? That's the way to argufy the subject; so, as I tell you, I made up my mind to fight him myself."

Charles looked despairingly, but said, —

"What was the result?"

"Oh, the result! D — n me, I suppose that's to come. The vagabond won't fight like a Christian. He says he's quite willing to fight anybody that calls him out, provided it's all regular."

"Well — well."

"And he, being the party challenged — for he says he never himself challenges anybody, as he is quite tired of it — must have his choice of weapons."

"He is entitled to that; but it is generally understood now-a-days that pistols are the weapons in use among gentlemen for such purposes."

"Ah, but he won't understand any such thing, I tell you. He will fight with swords."

"I suppose he is, then, an adept at the use of the sword?"

"He says he is."

"No doubt — no doubt. I cannot blame a man for choosing, when he has the liberty of choice, that weapon in the use of which he most particularly, from practice, excels."

"Yes; but if he be one half the swordsman he has had time enough, according to all accounts, to be, what sort of chance have you with him?"

"Do I hear you reasoning thus?"

"Yes, to be sure you do. I have turned wonderfully prudent, you see: so I mean to fight him myself, and mind, now, you have nothing whatever to do with it."

"An effort of prudence that, certainly."

"Well, didn't I say so?"

"Come — come, uncle, this won't do. I have challenged Sir Francis Varney, and I must meet him with any weapon he may, as the challenged party, choose to select. Besides, you are not, I dare say, aware that I am a very good fencer, and probably stand as fair a chance as Varney in a contest with swords."

"Indeed!"

# 150 Years Old by Mika Star

You do realize this man, if that something to call him, is at least a hundred and fifty years old, right? Doesn't that bother to you?

"Uncle, I couldn't care less."

"Well, it bothers me."

Charles unsheathed his sword. He spun the handle in his hand, and then abruptly thrust it into the dirt at his feet, announcing, "That man will feel the steel of this blade, Uncle. I haven't been able to track him down on my own, but I know you can. I'm telling you make the arrangement. If you won't help me, I'll find someone else who will. My honor depends on it." By the end of the statement his voice held disdain and a commanding anger, as if he'd forgotten whom he was talking to.

"Ease your tone boy, or you may regret it. Give me some time - an hour or two. Don't go to anyone else. You'll have your fight and your honor intact."

"I'll wait, Uncle, as you ask, but don't make any promises you can't keep. As important as this matter is all resources must be exhausted.

"I'm aware of that, boy. Whom do you think you're talking to? "The admiral walked away, not bothering to wait for his nephew's answer.

Still frustrated about the delay, Charles returned to the house. He wasn't there long before a knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Come in," he shouted from where he stood across the room. The door knob turned and the kid Henry'd hire as a temporary gate keeper that morning peeked around the corner of the wood. Stepping in, he thrust an envelope at Charles.

"Sir, a man, he claimed to be a servant, left this for you just now."

Charles held the boy's earnest gaze as he retrieved the piece of paper from the boy's hand. A puzzled look crossed his face. "Well, that's strange; I don't know anyone around here. Is anyone waiting at the gate?"

"No sir."

He stared down at the note addressed to Charles Holland and slipped a finger under the paper's seam breaking the seal. He unfolded it and glanced at the bottom of the page. The note was signed by his enemy, Sir Francis Varney. His pulse quickened with anticipation, as his eyes lifted to the top of the page.

Your uncle, or so he's indicated to me, Admiral Bell, informed me today of a challenge you're insisting upon.

The admiral seems to be under the delusion that I'd give myself up so easily as to simply be a moving target for anyone's disposal. He even went as far as to offer himself up for the challenge. Should he fail to take me out of this world you then would take his place with a chance to exhibit your skills. Ha!

You should know I hardly agree to such terms. Since the challenge originated with you, it will be only you I fight, and no one else.

Don't misunderstand me, sir, I know you had nothing to do with your uncle's proposal. Clearly, his intentions were to serve you in any way he could. However, if you wish to proceed with this madness meet me in the middle of the park tonight -the one surrounding your friends' estate.

* *

(Original Page 162 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Come alone, or you will not see me. It shall be at your own option entirely, to convert the meeting to a hostile one or not. You need send me no answer to this. If you are at the place I mention at the time I have named, well and good. If you are not, I can only, if I please, imagine that you shrink from a meeting with "FRANCIS VARNEY."

Charles Holland read this letter twice over carefully, and then folding it up, and placing it in his pocket, he said, —

"Yes, I will meet him; he may be assured that I do not shrink from Francis Varney. In the name of honour, love, virtue, and Heaven, I will meet this man, and it shall go hard with me but I will this night wring from him the secret of what he really is. For the sake of her who is so dear to me — for her sake, I will meet this man, or monster, be he what he may."

It would have been far more prudent had Charles informed Henry Bannerworth or George of his determination to meet the vampyre that evening, but he did not do so. Somehow he fancied it would be some reproach against his courage if he did not go, and go alone, too, for he could not help suspecting that, from the conduct of his uncle, Sir Francis Varney might have got up an opinion inimical to his courage.

With all the eager excitement of youth, there was nothing that arrayed itself to his mind in such melancholy and uncomfortable colours as an imputation upon his courage.

"I will show this vampyre, if he be such," he said, "that I am not afraid to meet him, and alone, too, at his own hour — at midnight, even when, if his preternatural powers be of more avail to him than at any other time, he can attempt, if he dare, to use them."

Charles resolved upon going armed, and with the greatest care he loaded his pistols, and placed them aside ready for action, when the time should come to set out to meet the vampyre at the spot in the park which had been particularly alluded to in his letter.

This spot was perfectly well known to Charles; indeed, no one could be a single day at Bannerworth Hall without noticing it, so prominent an object was that pollard oak, standing, as it did, alone, with the beautiful green sward all around it. Near it was the pool which had been mentioned, which was, in reality, a fish-pond, and some little distance off commenced the thick plantation, among the intricacies of which Sir Francis Varney, or the vampyre, had been supposed to disappear, after the revivification of his body at the full of the moon.

This spot was in view of several of the windows of the house, so that if the night should happen to be a very light one, and any of the inhabitants of the Hall should happen to have the curiosity to look from those particular windows, no doubt the meeting between Charles Holland and the vampyre would be seen.

This, however, was a contingency which was nothing to Charles, whatever it might be to Sir Francis Varney, and he scarcely at all considered it was worth consideration. He felt more happy and comfortable now that everything seemed to be definitely arranged by which he could come to some sort of explanation with that mysterious being who had so effectually, as yet, succeeded in destroying his peace of mind and his prospects of happiness.

"I will this night force him to declare himself," thought Charles. "He shall tell me who and what he really is, and by some means I will endeavor to put an end to those frightful persecutions which Flora has suffered."

This was a thought which considerably raised Charles's spirits, and when he sought Flora again, which he now did, she was surprised to see him so much more easy and composed in his mind, which was sufficiently shown by his manner, than he had been but so short a time before.

"Charles," she said, "what has happened to give such an impetus to your spirits?"

"Nothing, dear Flora, nothing; but I have been endeavoring to throw from my mind all gloomy thoughts, and to convince myself that in the future you and I, dearest, may yet be very happy."

"Oh, Charles, if I could but think so."

* *

(Original Page 163 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Endeavour, Flora, to think so. Remember how much our happiness is always in our own power, Flora, and that, let fate do her worst, so long as we are true to each other, we have a recompense for every ill."

"Oh, indeed, Charles, that is a dear recompense."

"And it is well that no force of circumstances short of death itself can divide us."

"True, Charles, true, and I am more than ever now bound to look upon you with a loving heart; for have you not clung to me generously under circumstances which, if any at all could have justified you in rending asunder every tie which bound us together, surely would have done so most fully."

"It is misfortune and distress that tries love," said Charles. "It is thus that the touchstone is applied to see if it be current gold indeed, or some base metal, which by a superficial glitter imitates it."

"And your love is indeed true gold."

"I am unworthy of one glance from those dear eyes if it were not."

"Oh, if we could but go from here, I think then we might be happy. A strong impression is upon my mind, and has been so for some time, that these persecutions to which I have been subjected are peculiar to this house."

"Think you so?"

"I do, indeed!"

"It may be so, Flora. You are aware that your brother has made up his mind that he will leave the Hall."

"Yes, yes."

"And that only in deference to an expressed wish of mine he put off the carrying such a resolve into effect for a few days."

"He said so much."

"Do not, however, imagine, dearest Flora, that those few days will be idly spent."

"Nay, Charles, I could not imagine so."

"Believe me, I have some hopes that in that short space of time I shall be able to accomplish yet something which shall have a material effect upon the present posture of affairs."

"Do not run into danger, Charles."

"I will not. Believe me, Flora, I have too much appreciation of the value of an existence which is blessed by your love, to encounter any needless risks."

"You say needless. Why do you not confide in me, and tell me if the object you have in view to accomplish in the few days delay is a dangerous one at all."

"Will you forgive me, Flora, if for once I keep a secret from you?" "Then, Charles, along with the forgiveness I must conjure up a host of apprehensions." "Nay, why so?" "You would tell me if there were no circumstances that you feared would fill me with alarm."

* *

(Original Page 164 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Now, Flora, your fears and not your judgment condemn me. Surely you cannot think me so utterly heedless as to court danger for danger's sake."

"No, not so — — " "You pause." "And yet you have a sense of what you call honour, which, I fear, would lead you into much risk."

"I have a sense of honour; but not that foolish one which hangs far more upon the opinions of others than my own. If I thought a course of honour lay before me, and all the world, in a mistaken judgment, were to condemn it as wrong, I would follow it."

"You are right, Charles, you are right. Let me pray of you to be careful, and, at all events, to interpose no more delay to our leaving this house than you shall feel convinced is absolutely necessary for some object of real and permanent importance."

Charles promised Flora Bannerworth that for her sake, as well as his own, he would be most specially careful of his safety; and then in such endearing conversation as may well be supposed to be dictated by such hearts as theirs another happy hour was passed away.

They pictured to themselves the scene where first they met, and with a world of interest hanging on every word they uttered, they told each other of the first delightful dawnings of that affection which had sprung up between them, and which they fondly believed neither time nor circumstance would have the power to change or subvert.

In the meantime the old admiral was surprised that Charles was so patient, and had not been to him to demand the result of his deliberation.

But he knew not on what rapid pinions time flies, when in the presence of those whom we love. What was an actual hour, was but a fleeting minute to Charles Holland, as he sat with Flora's hand clasped in his, and looking at her sweet face.

At length a clock striking reminded him of his engagement with his uncle, and he reluctantly rose. "Dear Flora," he said, "I am going to sit up to watch to-night, so be under no sort of apprehension." "I will feel doubly safe," she said.?"I have now something to talk to my uncle about, and must leave you."

Flora smiled, and held out her hand to him. He pressed it to his heart. He knew not what impulse came over him, but for the first time he kissed the cheek of the beautiful girl. With a heightened colour she gently repulsed him. He took a long lingering look at her as he passed out of the room, and when the door was closed between them, the sensation he experienced was as if some sudden cloud has swept across the face of the sun, dimming to a vast extent its precious lustre.

A strange heaviness came across his spirits, which before had been so unaccountably raised. He felt as if the shadow of some coming evil was resting on his soul — as if some momentous calamity was preparing for him, which would almost be enough to drive him to madness, and irredeemable despair. "What can this be," he exclaimed, "that thus oppressed me? What feeling is this that seems to tell me, I shall never again see Flora Bannerworth?"

Unconsciously he uttered these words, which betrayed the nature of his worst forebodings.

"Oh, this is weakness," he then added. "I must fight out against this; it is mere nervousness. I must not endure it, I will not suffer myself thus to become the sport of imagination. Courage, courage, Charles Holland. There are real evils enough, without your adding to them by those of a disordered fancy. Courage, courage, courage.

# Strange and Wondrous Things by John Jay

Charles then sought the admiral whom he found with his hands behind him, pacing to and fro in one of the long walks in the garden, evidently in a very unsettled state of mind. When he noticed Charles, he hurried toward him, his demeanor such an extraordinary mask of perplexity as to make him a preposterous sight to behold.

"I should think you've no doubt completely settled the matter in your mind by now, uncle."

"Actually I'm not so sure of that, my boy."

"I'm surprised. You've been thinking about it for some time. I thought you'd have reached a conclusion by now. I'm sorry I disturbed you before you had come to a conclusion."

"To tell you the truth I can't say that you have, but my thinking has been rather slow and it seems that I have a rather annoying tendency to come back to the beginning after so long a time mulling over the possibilities which the matter offers.

"Well then uncle, have you been able to come to any conclusion at all?"

"Just one but it is not a very satisfactory one."

"May I know what this unsatisfactory conclusion might be?"

"I wish it were otherwise but I'm afraid that you have cast the die Charles. You challenged this vampire chap and so you are honor bound to fight him. I can find no other course for you in the circumstance."

"Ah, I see. That's why you say you keep coming round to where you started. That's what you thought in the beginning isn't it?"

"Why do you think so?"

"Well it's the obvious course isn't it? What you've been struggling with is your desire to find a way for me to avoid the consequences of my rash action. Now you've come to the place where you have to admit that you have been unable to find any way other than to follow through on my challenge and fight him. I hope that you are now resigned to allow me to do as I must and that you will do nothing to deter me."

"I will not attempt to deter you, Charles, even though I think you must know it is unwise to fight such a creature as a vampire."

"No matter, uncle, it isn't possible to avoid the confrontation on the grounds that he's a vampire since he denies he is one and if he is wrongly accused wouldn't you say he has been unfairly slandered."

"Slandered?! That's ridiculous. If, as he claims, he's not a vampire, then he's some other king of outlandish creature just as bad. I've never encountered such an odd looking man in all my travels on land or at sea! I don't know what he is but he's surely not human."

"Not human? How can you be sure?"

"All I can say is that when I look at him my mind goes to sights I've seen in my seafaring days. The sea is a place of mysteries and wonders. A day at sea reveals more of life than a year on shore by the fire. I have seen many strange things, Charles."

"Was a vampire among those strange and wondrous things uncle? I think not!"

I can't say yes or no. I've seen many things I couldn't identify at sea and on land. I wouldn't know a vampire if I saw one. I was totally ignorant about vampires until you encountered this thing. I never came across on that I was aware of but there could have been many among the strange creatures I encountered."

"Oh, certainly, but as regards this duel, will you wait until to-morrow morning, before you take any further steps in the matter?"

# Double Bladed Sharpness by Allan Wallace

"Till to-morrow morning?"

"Yes, delay but that little uncle."

"Why, Your eagerness had the double bladed sharpness of a dagger only a nonce past. Why have you now so resolutely shoved your haste into its scabbard?"

"To look at haste's blade was to act; I had to remove it from sight while I resolve another issue prior to morning next."

"So the action you solicited must halt behind an alley wall of your young resolve until your newest whim is satisfied? Well, initiating actions were taken at your behest and shall now cease. I shall docilely stand at parade rest, staring at the wall's plastered bills and graffiti, as I await your further biding."

"There is no need to tarry, my uncle of blessings. I have another pressing need you can address while we await the proper moment for completing your forestalled action on my behalf."

"What is it!"

"You know Henry Bannerworth receives but a token amount of the estate's income. His father broadcasts most of the wealth in extravagance before it reaches Henry's hands."

"So laugh the old sailors."

"I am certain Henry has spent beyond his means, and I'm close to financially exhausted myself. I wish to offer him fifty pounds if you will provide it, and I will endeavor to survive on your last bequest until you next give me an allowance to pay you back."

"Of course! I'm well aware that you would rather owe me the money for the rest of your life than cheat me out of it. The assurance that I may pay myself back is of course a great comfort."

"I'm sure Henry will gladly receive it in the same openness as myself, knowing it is so freely offered. Due to Flora's and my engagement he will see it as a family support of no unexpected consequence."

"I'm sure he will, such it is with any child before they mature into adult responsibilities. As children you are expected to live in the moment, but a child that never learns to wait for more propitious opportunities will never find success. Here is a fifty pound note. my boy. Take it, spend it all on wine, women, and song if you wish; or waste it by giving it away. When next you feel constrained by your allowance come see me about another advance."

"I fear I may have exceeded my allowable requests against your kindness and generosity, uncle."

"There can be no excess, you've proven that yourself. Learning to ask uncomfortable requests is itself an important knowledge. Do speak up when need arises.

"I shall express my gratitude in many ways for the wondrous actions you've taken as your part. On the morrow, you will again be free to arrange the duel for me."

"Since you desire it, it will have to be so. But I don't look forward to visiting that fellow on his own property. His disingenuous smile sets my teeth on edge."

"Then we can have messages sent, and worry the deed to completion by correspondence. That should do."

"Very good. Do so. Your adversary reminds me of circumstance that happened a good while ago, when I was at sea, and not so old a man as I am now."

"Puts you in mind of a circumstance, uncle?"

"Indeed, he's far too similar to a person I encountered during an action I am quite familiar with. That person tended more to a private life than this one. In fact, even though I was there, much still remains a mystery. There is more transparency in the slime off a sea toad's scuppered back than in the affairs of that gentleman. But that is the way of happenings at sea."

"Indeed!"

"Without doubt. There is nothing that happens when shore bound that is not multiplied in its shadowing and complexity when encountered over unfathomable depths filled with creatures strange beyond reckoning."

"Oh, you only fancy that, uncle, because you have spent so long a time at sea."

# The Head of a Fish by Reno MacLeod

"There ain't nothing on land you can flap your lips to me about worse than what I've seen out on the sea. I've seen some s—t that would send the curly hair on your n—s straight on end."

Poetic. "You've seen something _that_ terrifying in the ocean, Uncle?"

"Yeah, that's right. I was on this frigate in the southern ocean. We were lookin' to join up with our buddies, when the guy on watch started hollering about seeing them up ahead to our port side. None of us thought anything of it, so we headed that way. What do you think was waiting for us?"

"I haven't a clue."

The Admiral leaned in close, for obvious dramatic effect. "The head of a fish."

"A fish?" Charlie snorted and shook his head. "That's lame."

"It was a g— —m zombie fish, bigger than the hull of the ship!" the Admiral shouted, his hands coming up to demonstrate how monstrous the head had been. "It swam with its snout barely out of the water."

"But where were the sails, Uncle?"

"Sails? Fish don't have sails. What are you talking about?"

"Yes, the man taking watch must have been blind not to question the lack of sails."

"Don't be smart or I'll crack you, Master Charley. I'm getting to the part about the sails. You newbies think you know everything."

"Alright then, so?"

"That's easy. This fish swam so fast, the spray it sent up looked thick and white like sails." He seemed pleased with himself for coming up with an answer on the spot.

"Yeah, _right_."

"Don't you believe me? The whole group saw it. The thing was there for a long time, staring up at us with gray, lifeless eyes. I guess when it figured out it couldn't make a lunch out of us, it dove down like a hooker on her john. Rocked our boat so hard I thought we were goners."

"Did you ever figure out what it was?"

"I already told you. A zombie fish."

"Did you ever see it again?"

"Nope, although I've heard stories of other folks catchin' sight of him now and then. Never as close as we came, though."

"I guess you were just lucky!"

"Luck or not, it pales to the other crazy s—t I can tell you about. I've seen things, but if I shared with you, you'd say I was full of crap."

"You? Full of crap?" Charlie rolled his eyes. "No one would _ever_ accuse you of such a thing."

# Well, Duh by Jaye Valentine

"Well, duh," Charles said, rolling his eyes.

"Okay, then. I'll totally tell you something now that I, like, haven't told anybody, like, ever."

"For reals? How come?"

"On account of I didn't want to be continually—Oh my God, I just split an infinitive!—fighting people for thinking my story is bogus, but I'm, like, totally telling the truth and here's how it goes:—

Us guys were, like, outward bound; a totally bitchin' ship, a gnarly captain, and awesome dining companions, you know, go way long towards making a trippin' voyage a totally radical one, and like, on this shopping excursion we had totally righteous expectations.

The totally babe-a-licious ship hands were super-experienced—they'd been born sailors straight from the womb, like, literally; none of those totally dorky Frenchmen that only stick around long enough to figure out how bad they totally suck and then go back to doing whatever Frenchmen do, which _for sure_ includes dressing badly, because oh my God! Those silly sailor hats with the blue band and the ribbon? Totally makes them look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from _Ghostbusters_. I mean, seriously, a grown man wearing that outfit? In public? Oh my God, bag your face! But I totally digress. Oh no, these hotties were dedicated to the max, and they totally loved the ocean like I loved shoes by Prada and my father's American Express Platinum Card. And, you know, myself.

Those dudes had that kind of massive love for the sea that, like, made all the sailors become closer over the years, if you catch my drift—wink wink, nudge nudge—and made men love one another so hard even though their wardrobes weren't much better than those of the French. Plus they didn't do that weird shrugging thing with the raised hands and the downturned mouth that the French did when perplexed or undecided. I mean, gag me with a spoon, but that's _ever_ so unattractive. Don't the French have mirrors?

So, like, anyway, we were on our way to Ceylon—which is totally called Sri Lanka now because, whoa, no more British occupation—and we had oodles of cargo like after a good Saturday haul at the Galleria, and we were supposed to bring spices and other junk home from the Indian market. The ship was major fresh and total eye candy. She sat like a cute little yacht on the water, and a mad wind carried her along the surface of the waves without need for a barf bag. There wasn't even enough rocking, pitching, and tossing to even mess up my newly permed tresses, like on some of the grody ships that I've had the grotesque misfortune to sail on before.

We were filled up with the spices and other junk, and we were totally stoked about that plus the awesome smooth ride and the lack of Frenchmen, and we weighed anchor amidst totally tubular festivities.

Anyway, we glided down the river and soon we rounded the North Foreland—whatever that is—and stood out in the Channel. It was windy like whoa and it carried us through the water, like, wicked fast.

"Jack," I told one of my fellow sailors.

Jack stood looking at the skies, which were gloomy but in a gnarly, artsy kind of way. Then he looked at the sails, which were totally in need of a decent laundering (in retrospect, if the French _were_ here, we would at least have clean sails). Finally, Jack considered the water, which was totally wet, and he did all that deep, introspective contemplating with a super-serious attitude that seemed sort of, well, weird-o-rama.

"Well," Jack replied, him not being the most gregarious sailor I've ever met in my life in, like, _ever_.

Naturally, I totally copped a 'tude on him. I was all like, "What's your damage, Jack? You're James Dean brooding, as if we're about to cast lots to see who has to lead the fight against a horde of French zombie pirates. Have you gone, like, mental or something?"

Jack rolled his eyeballs halfway to the Barbary Coast. "God, you are so nosy! I'm fine, but I am _so_ not loving this breeze."

What a spazz. "That's it? You don't like this awesome gentle breeze? I totally think you're mental. Would you rather have a stiff gale?"

I totally cringe as I suddenly recall that Jack's bunkmate's name is Gale, and I'm pretty sure Gale is at least part French. What—I mentally pause most dramatically for maximum effect— _ever_.

"No," Jack retorted. "I fear a good stiff gale, too."

"With such a radical ship and such a fine group of dedicated, able-bodied seamen"—and I totally paused there and giggle at that word, because oh my God, funny double entendre (and crap, that's French, isn't it?)—"I think this wicked cool boat can manage even the stiffest gale."

I began to wonder if the dipstick and I were engaged in the same conversation.

And then Jack goes, "That may be true, and I totally hope so, but I really believe and think so."

I'm all, wait—what? What in heck is this charter member of _Future Psych-Ward Residents of America_ babbling about? Jeez. I totally glared at him and asked, "Then why are you so depressing and space cadet-ish?"

"I don't know." Jack looked even more brooding, which I was, like, _so_ very over by then. "But I can't help it. It seems to me as though there was something, like, hanging over us, and I can't tell what."

Oh. My. God. What a major lame-o. "It's a flag, you dweeb."

# What's the 411? By Victoria Wainwright

"Ah! ah!" said Jack, looking up at the colours, and then went away without saying anything more, for he had some

piece of duty to perform.

["Bitchin!" Jack remarked, checking out the scene, then split without another peep. He was on some other mission.] _if I wrote it._

I thought my pal was bummed out, but it didn't confront me. All was groovy in a couple of days.

There was a squall off Biscay, but everything was totally copacetic.

"Jack, how bout this transport?" I crowed.

"Far out." said Jack.

"Right on. She is a sweet ride and I say we're golden."

"I'm hip."

So, we cruised for like three weeks. The drink was keen. A nifty zephyr and we rocked the deep blue sea. Nothing but diddly-squat as far as the eye could see.

"I never peeped a more righteous cat," said the captain. "Be outta sight to cash my chips in on this badass boat."

So, yeah, three weeks on board when we saw some weird scrub just hanging out. For sure we all took a gander at him. We were all on the q.t. and funky man looked at us all chill then eyeballed the heavens like he had some kind of hang up.

"Where that home boy from?" said one guy on the down low to his bro.

"The hell I know?" said his mate. "That pimp just fell out the sky. Maybe he's gonna rollout."

That daddio just sat there all ninja not really even checking us out.

Chief was slick. Looked mighty rad. All Joe Six Pack. But there was still something creepy about him that I couldn't put my finger on. Reminded me of a tweaker. Groady eyes were sending out bad vibes. He looked whack.

["Dude," I popped off, "what's the 411?"] _if I wrote it._

"Well," said I, after we had stood some minutes, "where did you come from, shipmate?"

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(Original Page 170 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

He looked at me and then up at the sky, in a knowing manner.

"Come, come, that won't do; you have none of Peter Wilkin's wings, and couldn't come on the aerial dodge; it won't do; how did you get here?"

He gave me an awful wink, and made a sort of involuntary movement, which jumped him up a few inches, and he bumped down again on the water-cask.

"That's as much as to say," thought I, "that he's sat himself on it."

"I'll go and inform the captain," says I, "of this affair; he'll hardly believe me when I tell him, I am sure."

So saying, I left the deck and went to the cabin, where the captain was at breakfast, and related to him what I had seen respecting the stranger. The captain looked at me with an air of disbelief, and said, —

"What? — do you mean to say there's a man on board we haven't seen before?"

"Yes, I do, Captain, I never saw him afore, and he's sitting beating his heels on the water-cask on deck."

"The devil!"

"He is, I assure you, sir; and he won't answer any questions."

"I'll see to that. I'll see if I can't make the lubber say something, providing his tongue's not cut out. But how came he on board? Confound it, he can't be the devil, and dropped from the moon."

"Don't know, captain," said I. "He is evil-looking enough, to my mind, to be the father of evil, but it's ill bespeaking attentions from that quarter at any time."

"Go on, lad: I'll come up after you."

I left the cabin, and I heard the captain coming up after me. When I got on deck, I saw he had not moved from the place where I left him. There was a general commotion among the crew when they heard of the occurrence, and all crowded round him, save the man at the helm who had to remain at his post.

The captain now came forward, and the men fell a little back as he approached.

For a moment the captain stood silent, attentively examining the stranger, who was excessively cool, and stood the scrutiny with the same unconcern that he would had the captain been looking at his watch.

"Well, my man," said the captain, "how did you come here?"

"I'm part of the cargo," he said, with an indescribable leer.

"Part of the cargo be d — — d!" said the captain, in sudden rage, for he thought the stranger was coming his jokes too strong, "I know you are not in the bills of lading."

"I'm contraband," replied the stranger; "and my uncle's the great cham of Tartary."

The captain stared, as well he might, and did not speak for some minutes; all the while the stranger kept kicking his heels against the water-casks and squinting up at the skies; it made us feel very queer.

"Well, I must confess you are not in the regular way of trading." "Oh, no," said the stranger; "I am contraband — entirely contraband."

# Walking in Circles by Mark Stewart

"And how did you get on board?"

The stranger snubbed the captain by deliberately turning his back.

"I demand you tell me how you were able to sneak on board my ship without being noticed?"

Instead of answering the question the stranger studied the sky again. A full minute had ticked by before he lowered his gaze, turned and faced the man standing before him.

"Sir, keeping silent won't cut it with me. Mother Shipton came on a birch broom. I demand you explain your presence on board my ship?"

The stranger's voice was slow, monotonous and steady. It was as though he wanted the captain to fall into a trance. "I walked on board."

The captain crossed his arms about his chest and glared at the stranger. "If you aren't lying, where was your hiding place?"

"I found a nice cozy place below deck on this magnificent ship."

The captain scratched the stubble on his thickening beard. "If it was so nice why didn't you stay below?"

"I decided I needed to revitalize my senses. The air below deck is a trifle stale."

"You took it upon yourself to blatantly climb the stairs and walk about on deck?"

"My health is in a delicate state. I can't stay in a confined space for too long."

The captain commenced walking in circles, mumbling under his breath. It was a ritual he did when confronted by a problem he was struggling with. "Damn this problem." He stopped pacing and stood to full height, managing to look down his nose on the stranger. "Delicate condition, you Sir are lying."

The stranger stared back through eyes more frigid than the winter snow. "I'm quite frail. My health isn't what it used to be."

The captain was quickly growing tired of the interrogation. "Explain how you've managed to survive since coming aboard?"

"I assure you I have not eaten any condiments or drank anything."

"If your health is in a delicate state like you claim, then you must have eaten something?"

The stranger lowered his gaze to the deck.

The captain picked up on his nervousness. "What's wrong, have I finally caught you out?" he snapped sarcastically.

"I have been sucking my thumbs." With a raised eyebrow the stranger placed both thumbs in his mouth. He smirked at the captain's shocked look.

Several seconds later he showed them to the captain. The nails were deformed and looked more like knives that could easily slice open a man's lips.

The stranger sighed and studied what remained of his thumbs. "A long time ago they didn't look like they do now. A pity really, but they serve me well when I want a cheap cruise."

"Damn this problem," muttered the captain. "Where did you think we're going?"

"I'm going there and back," said the stranger. For the first time he flashed a smirk.

The captain unfolded his arms. "That's exactly where we are going."

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(Original Page 172 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Then we are brothers," exclaimed the stranger, hopping off the water-cask like a kangaroo, and bounding toward the captain, holding out his hand as though he would have shaken hands with him.

"No, no," said the captain; "I can't do it."

"Can't do it!" exclaimed the stranger, angrily. "What do you mean?"

"That I can't have anything to do with contraband articles; I am a fair trader, and do all above board. I haven't a chaplain on board, or he should offer up prayers for your preservation, and the recovery of your health, which seems so delicate."

"That be — "

"The strange didn't finish the sentence; he merely screwed his mouth up into an incomprehensible shape, and puffed out a lot of breath, with some force, and which sounded very much like a whistle; but, oh, what thick breath he had, it was as much like smoke as anything I ever saw, and so my shipmate said.

"I say, captain," said the stranger, as he saws him pacing the deck.

"Well."

"Just send me up some beef and biscuit, and some coffee royal — be sure it's royal, do you hear, because I'm partial to brandy, it's the only good thing there is on earth."

I shall not easily forget the captain's look as he turned towards the stranger, and gave his huge shoulders a shrug, as much as to say, —

"Well, I can't help it now; he's here, and I can't throw him overboard."

The coffee, beef, and biscuit were sent him, and the stranger seemed to eat them with great _gout_ , and drank the coffee with much relish, and returned the things saying,

"Your captain is an excellent cook; give him my compliments."

I thought the captain would think that was but a left-handed compliment, and look more angry than pleased, but no notice was taken of it.

It was strange, but this man had impressed upon all in the vessel some singular notion of his being more than he should be — more than a mere mortal, and not one endeavored to interfere with him; the captain was a stout and dare devil a fellow as you would well meet with, yet he seemed tacitly to acknowledge more than he would say, for he never after took any further notice of the stranger nor he of him.

They had barely any conversation, simply a civil word when they first met, and so forth; but there was little or no conversation of any kind between them.

The stranger slept upon deck, and lived upon deck entirely; he never once went below after we saw him, and his own account of being below so long.

This was very well, but the night-watch did not enjoy his society, and would have willingly dispensed with it at that hour so particularly lonely and dejected upon the broad ocean, and perhaps a thousand miles away from the nearest point of land.

At this dread and lonely hour, when no sound reaches the ear and disturbs the wrapt stillness of the night, save the whistling of the wind through the cordage, or an occasional dash of water against the vessel's side, the thoughts of the sailor are fixed on far distant objects — his own native land and the friends and loved ones he has left behind him.

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(Original Page 173 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

He then thinks of the wilderness before, behind, and around him; of the immense body of water, almost in places bottomless; gazing upon such a scene, and with thoughts as strange and indefinite as the very boundless expanse before him it is no wonder if he should become superstitious; the time and place would indeed unbidden, conjure up thoughts and feelings of a fearful character and intensity.

The stranger at such times would occupy his favourite seat upon the water cask and looking up at the sky and then on the ocean, and between whiles he would whistle a strange, wild, unknown melody.

The flesh of the sailors used to creep up in knots and bumps when they heard it; the wind used to whistle as an accompaniment and pronounce fearful sounds to their ears.

The wind had been highly favourable from the first, and since the stranger had been discovered it had blown fresh, and we went along at a rapid rate, stemming the water, and dashing the spray off from the bows, and cutting the water like a shark.

This was very singular to us, we couldn't understand it, neither could the captain, and we looked very suspiciously at the stranger, and wished him at the bottom, for the freshness of the wind now became a gale, and yet the ship came through the water steadily, and away we went before the wind, as if the devil drove us; and mind I don't mean to say he didn't.

The gale increased to a hurricane, and though we had not a stitch of canvass out, yet we drove before the gale as if we had been shot out of the mouth of a gun.

The stranger still sat on the water casks, and all night long he kept up his infernal whistle. Now, sailors don't like to hear any one whistle when there's such a gale blowing over their heads — it's like asking for more; but he would persist, and the louder and stronger the wind blew, the louder he whistled.

At length there came a storm of rain, lightning, and wind. We were tossed mountains high, and the foam rose over the vessel, and often entirely over our heads, and the men were lashed to their posts to prevent being washed way.

But the stranger still lay on the water casks, kicking his heels and whistling his infernal tune, always the same. He wasn't washed away nor moved by the action of the water; indeed, we heartily hoped and expected to see both him and the water cask floated overboard at every minute; but, as the captain said, —

"Confound the binnacle! the old water tub seems as if it were screwed on to the deck, and won't move off and he on the top of it."

There was a strong inclination to throw him overboard, and the men conversed in low whispers, and came round the captain, saying, —

"We have come, captain, to ask you what you think of this strange man who has come so mysteriously on board?"

"I can't tell you what to think, lads; he's past thinking about — he's something above my comprehension altogether, I promise you."

"Well, then, we are thinking much of the same thing, captain." "What do you mean?" "That he ain't exactly one of our sort." "No, he's no sailor, certainly; and yet, for a land lubber, he's about as rum a customer as ever I met with." "So he is, sir."

"He stands salt water well; and I must say that I couldn't lay a top of those water casks in that style very well."

* *

(Original Page 174 by Thomas Preskett Prest)"Nor nobody amongst us, sir."

"Well, then, he's in nobody's way, is he? — nobody wants to take his berth, I suppose?"

The men looked at each other somewhat blank; they didn't understand the meaning at all — far from it; and the idea of any one's wanting to take the stranger's place on the water casks was so outrageously ludicrous that at any other time they would have considered it a devilish good joke and have never ceased laughing at it.

He paused some minutes, and then one of them said, —

"It isn't that we envy him his berth, captain, 'cause nobody else could live there for a moment. Any one amongst us that had been there would have been washed overboard a thousand times over."

"So they would," said the captain.

"Well, sir, he's more than us."

"Very likely; but how can I help that?"

"We think he's the main cause of all this racket in the heavens — the storm and hurricane; and that, in short, if he remains much longer we shall all sink."

"I am sorry for it. I don't think we are in any danger, and had the strange being any power to prevent it, he would assuredly do so, lest he got drowned."

"But we think if he were thrown over board all would be well."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, captain, you may depend upon it he's the cause of all the mischief. Throw him over board and that's all we want."

"I shall not throw him overboard, even if I could do such a thing; and I am by no means sure of anything of the kind."

"We do not ask it, sir."

"What do you desire?"

"Leave to throw him over board — it is to save our own lives."

"I can't let you do any such thing; he's in nobody's way."

"But he's always a whistling. Only hark now, and in such a hurricane as this, it is dreadful to think of it. What else can we do, sir? — he's not human."

At this moment, the stranger's whistling came clear upon their ears; there was the same wild, unearthly notes as before, but the cadences were stronger, and there was a supernatural clearness in all the tones.

"There now," said another, "he's kicking the water cask with his heels." "Confound the binnacle!" said the captain; "it sounds like short peals of thunder. Go and talk to him, lads." "And if that won't do, sir, may we — " "Don't ask me any questions."

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(Original Page 175 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"I don't mind trying," said one.

Upon this the whole of the men moved to the spot where the water casks were standing and the stranger lay.

There he was, whistling like fury, and, at the same time, beating his heels to the tune against the empty casks. We came up to him, and he took no notice of us at all, but kept on in the same way.

"Hilloa!" shouted one.

"Hilloa!" shouted another.

No notice, however, was taken of us, and one of our number, a big, herculean fellow, an Irishman, seized him by the leg, either to make him get up, or, as we thought, to give him a lift over our heads into the sea. However, he had scarcely got his fingers round the calf of the leg, when the stranger pinched his leg so tight against the water cask, that he could not move, and was as effectually pinned as if he had been nailed there. The stranger, after he had finished a bar of the music, rose gradually to a sitting posture, and without the aid of his hands, and looking the unlucky fellow in the face, he said, —

"Well, what do you want?"

"My hand," said the fellow.

"Take it then," he said.

He did take it, and we saw that there was blood on it.

The stranger stretched out his left hand, and taking him by the breech, he lifted him, without any effort, upon the water-cask beside him.

We all stared at this, and couldn't help it; and we were quite convinced we could not throw him over board but he would probably have no difficulty in throwing us over board.

"Well, what do you want?" he again exclaimed to us all. We looked at one another, and had scarce courage to speak; at length I said, —

"We wish you to leave off whistling." "Leave off whistling!" he said. "And why should I do anything of the kind?" Because it brings the wind." "Ha! ha! why that's the very reason I am whistling, to bring the wind." "But we don't want so much." "Pho! pho! you don't know what's good for you — it's a beautiful breeze, and not a bit too stiff." "It's a hurricane." "Nonsense." "But it is."

"Now you see how I'll prove you are wrong in a minute. You see my hair, don't you?" he said, after he took off his cap. "Very well, look now."

# Confounded binnacle by Sara Jo Easton

The captain turned to the only tried-and-true method of dealing with bizarre occurrences: cursing out the instruments.

"Confounded...binnacle!" he shouted, along with several other choice words to make a sailor's mother blush.

The strange man stood proudly and laughed like a Bond movie villain. "Ha! There's no wind now! My grey hair isn't moving, and surely it would move if there was wind." Why the grey hairs had more or less sway than his other hairs was a question clearly meant for another time.

"Confounded...binnacle!" muttered the captain as he gave the instrument a few choice kicks before walking away. "He's too many for me..."

The weirdo then turned to us and grinned. "Well, then?"

We had no interest in getting into an argument involving a captain, his instruments, or if someone was "too many" for us, so we did the only sensible thing; we pretended to look busy before hiding in our quarters.

It was a good thing we did; as soon as we left, the stranger used the cask as a couch and proceeded to whistle badly for three weeks straight, stopping only to consume all of our coffee and biscuits. As if this wasn't bad enough, one day he got bored and started singing with a voice that would make the average rejected American Idol audition sound like a siren's song. Three days of this, and we finally had enough to shove coffee down his throat to shut him up. Only, when we were brave enough to get close to the stranger, he had disappeared.

Having no desire to hear the singing anymore, we searched everywhere. The stranger was gone, and we were somehow at our port far earlier than should have been possible. We were very curious as to why this had happened in the first place, but we didn't get much out of the captain other than "Confounded binnacle..." and some new swear words.

# Varney Haiku by Lorraine Anderson

The old admiral showed such a strong disposition to take offence at Charles if he should presume, for a moment, to doubt the truth of the narrative than was thus communicated to him, that the latter would not anger him by so doing, but confined his observations upon it to saying that he considered it was very wonderful, and very extraordinary, and so on, which very well satisfied the old man.

Moonlight. Charles kills time,

Packs guns for duel with Vampyre;

The Admiral spies.

Charles Holland, in order to avoid the likelihood of meeting with any one who would question him as to where he was going, determined upon leaving his room by the balcony, which, as we are aware, presented ample facilities for his so doing.

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(Original Page 178 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

He cast a glance at the portrait in the panel before he left the apartment, and then saying —

"For you, dear Flora, for you I essay this meeting with the fearful original of that portrait," he immediately opened his window, and stepped out on to the balcony.

Young and active as was Charles Holland, to descend from that balcony presented to him no difficulty whatever, and he was, in a very few moments, safe in the garden of Bannerworth Hall.

He never thought, for a moment, to look up, or he would, in an instant, have seen the white head of his old uncle, as it was projected over the sill of the window of his chamber.

The drop of Charles from the balcony of his window, just made sufficient noise to attract the admiral's attention, and, then, before he could think of making any alarm, he saw Charles walking hastily across a grass plot, which was sufficiently in the light of the moon to enable the admiral at once to recognise him, and leave no sort of doubt as to his positive identity.

Of course, upon discovering that it was Charles, the necessity for making an alarm no longer existed, and, indeed, not knowing what it was that had induced him to leave his chamber, a moment's reflection suggested to him the propriety of not even calling to Charles, lest he should defeat some discovery which he might be about to make.

"He has heard something, or seen something," thought the admiral, "and is gone to find out what it is. I only wish I was with him; but up here I can do nothing at all, that's quite clear."

Charles, he saw, walked very rapidly, and like a man who has some fixed destination which he wishes to reach as quickly as possible.

When he dived among the trees which skirted one side of the flower gardens, the admiral was more puzzled than ever, and he said —

"Now where on earth is he off to? He is fully dressed and has his cloak about him."

After a few moments' reflection he decided that, having seen something suspicious, Charles must have got up, and dressed himself, to fathom it.

The moment this idea became fairly impressed upon his mind, he left his bedroom, and descended to where one of the brothers he knew was sitting up, keeping watch during the night. It was Henry who was so on guard; and when the admiral came into the room, he uttered an expression of surprise to find him up, for it was now some time past twelve o'clock.

"I have come to tell you that Charles has left the house," said the admiral. "Left the house?" "Yes; I saw him just now go across the garden." "And you are sure it was he?"

"Quite sure. I saw him by the moonlight cross the green plot."

"Then you may depend he has seen or heard something, and gone alone to find out what it is rather than give any alarm."

"That is just what I think." "It must be so. I will follow him, if you can show me exactly which way he went."

* *

(Original Page 179 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"That I can easily. And in case I should have made any mistake, which it is not at all likely, we can go to his room first and see if it is empty."

"A good thought, certainly, that will at once put an end to all doubt upon the question."

They both immediately proceeded to Charles's room, and then the admiral's accuracy of identification of his nephew was immediately proved by finding that Charles was not there, and that the window was wide open.

"You see I am right," said the admiral.

"You are," cried Henry; "but what have we here?"

"Where?"

"Here on the dressing-table. Here are no less than three letters, all laid as if on purpose to catch the eye of the first one who might enter the room."

"Indeed!"

"You perceive them?"

Henry held them to the light, and after a moment's inspection of them, he said, in a voice of much surprise, —

"Good God! what is the meaning of this?"

"The meaning of what?"

"The letters are addressed to parties in the house here. Do you not see?"

"To whom?"

"One to Admiral Bell — "

"The deuce!"

"Another to me, and the third to my sister Flora. There is some new mystery here."

The admiral looked at the superscription of one of the letters which was handed to him in silent amazement. Then he cried, —

"Set down the light, and let us read them."

Henry did so, and then they simultaneously opened the epistles which were severally addressed to them. There was a silence, as of the very grave, for some moments, and then the old admiral staggered to a seat, as he exclaimed, —

"Am I dreaming — am I dreaming?"

"Is this possible?" said Henry, in a voice of deep emotion, as he allowed the note addressed to him to drop on to the floor.

"D — n it, what does yours say?" cried the old admiral in a louder tone. "Read it — what says yours?" "Read it — I am amazed."

* *

(Original Page 180 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

The letters were exchanged, and read by each with the same breathless attention they had bestowed upon their own; after which, they both looked at each other in silence, pictures of amazement, and the most absolute state of bewilderment.

Not to keep our readers in suspense, we at once transcribe each of these letters.

The one to the admiral contained these words, —

"MY DEAR UNCLE,

"Of course you will perceive the prudence of keeping this letter to yourself, but the fact is, I have now made up my mind to leave Bannerworth Hall.

"Flora Bannerworth is not now the person she was when first I knew her and loved her. Such being the case, and she having altered, not I, she cannot accuse me of fickleness.

"I still love the Flora Bannerworth I first knew, but I cannot make my wife one who is subject to the visitations of a vampyre.

"I have remained here long enough now to satisfy myself that this vampyre business is no delusion. I am quite convinced that it is a positive fact, and that, after death, Flora will herself become one of the horrible existences known by that name.

"I will communicate to you from the first large city on the continent whither I am going, at which I make any stay, and in the meantime, make what excuses you like at Bannerworth Hall, which I advise you to leave as quickly as you can, and believe me to be, my dear uncle, yours truly, "CHARLES HOLLAND

Henry's letter was this: —

"MY DEAR SIR,

"If you calmly and dispassionately consider the painful and distressing circumstances in which your family are placed, I am sure that, far from blaming me for the step which this note will announce to you I have taken, you will be the first to give me credit for acting with an amount of prudence and foresight which was highly necessary under the circumstances.

"If the supposed visits of the vampyre to your sister Flora had turned out, as at first I hoped they would, a delusion, and been in any satisfactory manner explained away I should certainly have felt pride and pleasure in fulfilling my engagement to that young lady.

"You must, however, yourself feel that the amount of evidence in favour of a belief that an actual vampyre has visited Flora, enforces a conviction of its truth.

"I cannot, therefore, make her my wife under such very singular circumstances.

"Perhaps you may blame me for not taking at once advantage of the permission given me to forego my engagement when first I came to your house; but the fact is, I did not then in the least believe in the existence of the vampyre, but since a positive conviction of that most painful fact has now forced itself upon me, I beg to decline the honour of an alliance which I had at one time looked forward to with the most considerable satisfaction.

"I shall be on the continent as fast as conveyances can take me, therefore, should you entertain any romantic notions of calling me to an account for a course of proceeding I think perfectly and fully justifiable, you will not find me.

"Accept my assurances of my respect of yourself and pity for your sister, and believe me to be, my dear sir, your sincere friend, "CHARLES HOLLAND."

# I'll Marry Miss Flora Myself by Joe Cetta

These two letters might well make the admiral stare at Henry Bannerworth, and Henry stare at him.

Henry: What an unimaginable douche!

Admiral: Unconceivable!

Henry: Inconceivable too!

Admiral: I want nothing more to do with him forever.

Henry: Well, it looks like he's already taken care of that for you, admiral.

Admiral: To think, the same blood that courses through my veins like the Agulhas Current trickles pathetically in his body like the runoff from a warped dingy.

Henry: - ?

Admiral: Shame is on me like an Arctic squall!

Henry: This shock is like a vicious slug to the gonads, it's true. I'm stunned, more than ever I remember. I mean, this is far worse than coming home early and finding the plowman plowing more than the fields, I tell you what.

Admiral: If only I could get him within reach, Bannerworth, I would do unspeakable things to his face, throat, and abdomen.

Henry: No, please, speak them, I'm a gentleman, I can take it.

Admiral: Well, by gum, I tell you, I'll marry Miss Flora myself. My nephew! Leaving her on this island devoid of affection!

Henry: Yes, marry my sister, that'll get back at ol' Chuck but good. Get some etchings made of you two in the act, that'll really roast his goat.

Admiral: (crying) I can't believe I was once proud and happy to call myself his uncle!

Henry: This display of emotion is not an attractive shade of masculine, admiral. Please effort to compose yourself.

Admiral: I could die of sorrow.

Henry: Yes, and straight away, if you insist on filling our discourse with blubbering.

Admiral: (sniffling) Poor Miss Flora.

Henry: But what exquisite child bearing hips, am I right? So, what say we never speak of your cowardly, worthless nephew again, eh?

Admiral: O Charles!

Henry: See, right there. Let's stop with all that.

Admiral: I held him in such high regard. He was to me a modern, heterosexual Alexander the Great.

Henry: Well, we all exaggerate in the moment, don't we? Just threw your bonnet at the wrong jockey, that's all. Seriously, screw that guy. May he get leprosy in the most inconvenient of places and be balmless in Gilead.

Admiral: Oh, drop the anchor and smack the boson! Did he give you fifty pounds?

Henry: What?

# Henry the Mafia Boss by Nathaniel Phillips

"Did he give you fifty pounds?"

"Why would he give me fifty clams?" asked Henry.

"He borrowed fifty pounds from me this morning, said he was going to lend it to you."

Henry frowned. "Do I look like the kind o' guy who would borrow dough from an empty suit like your nephew?"

"The villain!" said Admiral Bell.

"No doubt the cafone took the scarol to help him go on the lamb," said Henry.

"You know, if someone had said to me that my nephew, Charles Holland, was a thundering rogue, I'd have said that he was a liar," said the Admiral.

"Well he's vamoosed, Admiral. Let us forget about him and mention him no more. I think a convenient lapse of memory would be most beneficial at this time."

"But what about your sister? The poor girl must be devastated," said the Admiral. "What shall we say to her?"

"Nothing. I'll just give her all the letters and let her read. Let her find out what a jabone he is for herself," said Henry.

"Perhaps that would be best. She would not believe it if we told her."

"She'll get over him once she learns the truth," said Henry.

Admiral Bell's chest inflated. "Well, sir, I shall find him and bring him to you and you shall fight him. He shall give you satisfaction."

"That won't be necessary," said Henry.

"No? But he shall."

"Admiral, when I got a beef with someone, I don't bump them personally. I got muscle for that," said Henry.

"Why not? He has dishonored you and your sister. You shall have satisfaction. You must."

Henry said. "He is too far beneath me to whack him personally. I have a guy who will take him on a sea voyage."

"You are going to assist him in his escape?" asked Admiral Bell.

Henry sighed. "No Admiral. My guy will take him out on a boat, fit him for some cement swim fins, and see to it that he _accidentally_ falls overboard. In front of a number of very reliable witnesses, I might add. He might even bust his kneecaps first just to make my dissatisfaction known."

"Oh dear!" said the Admiral. "Will cement swim fins really work?"

"They will serve their intended purpose nicely, Admiral," said Henry.

"Very well. A good long swim back to shore will teach the scoundrel a lesson. And now, Henry, I fear that my presence here is a dishonor upon you and your sister. I am ashamed of the actions of my nephew, and so I must depart," said the Admiral.

"Hey, Compare, you're a stand-up guy! You ain't responsible for the actions of that babbo. You are always welcome here," said Henry.

Admiral Bell shook Henry's hand and said, "Tomorrow - wait until tomorrow; we will talk over this matter tomorrow. I cannot tonight, I have not patience, but tomorrow, my dear boy, we will have it all out. God bless you. Good night."

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(Original Page 183 by Thomas Preskett Prest)
**Chapter XXVII:** THE NOBLE CONFIDENCE OF FLORA BANNERWORTH IN HER LOVER

To describe the feelings of Henry Bannerworth on the occasion of this apparent defalcation from the path of rectitude and honour by his friend, as he had fondly imagined Charles Holland to be, would be next to impossible.

If, as we have taken occasion to say, it be a positive fact, that a noble and a generous mind feels more acutely any heartlessness of this description from one on whom it has placed implicit confidence, than the most deliberate and wicked of injuries from absolute strangers, we can easily conceive that Henry Bannerworth was precisely the person to feel most acutely the conduct whence all circumstances appeared to fix upon Charles Holland, upon whose faith, truth, and honour, he would have staked his very existence but a few short hours before.

With such a bewildered sensation that he scarcely knew where he walked or whither to betake himself, did he repair to his own chamber, and there he strove, with what energy he was able to bring to the task, to find out some excuse, if he could, for Charles's conduct. But he could find none. View it in what light he would, it presented by a picture of the most heartless selfishness it had ever been his lot to encounter.

The tone of the letters, too, which Charles had written, materially aggravated the moral delinquency of which he had been guilty; better, far better, had he not attempted an excuse at all than have attempted such excuses as were there put down in those epistles.

A more cold blooded, dishonourable proceeding could not possibly be conceived.

It would appear, that while he entertained a doubt with regard to the reality of the visitation of the vampyre to Flora Bannerworth, he had been willing to take to himself abundance of credit for the most honourable feelings, and to induce a belief in the minds of all that an exalted feeling of honour, as well as a true affection that would know no change, kept him at the feet of her whom he loved.

Like some braggart, who, when there is no danger, is a very hero, but who, the moment he feels convinced he will be actually and truly called upon for an exhibition of his much-vaunted prowess, had Charles Holland deserted the beautiful girl, who, if anything, had now certainly, in her misfortunes, a far higher claim upon his kindly feeling than before.

Henry could not sleep, although, at the request of George, who offered to keep watch for him the remainder of the night, he attempted to do so.

He in vain said to himself, "I will banish from my mind this most unworthy subject. I have told Admiral Bell that contempt is the only feeling I can now have for his nephew, and yet I now find myself dwelling upon him, and upon his conduct, with a perseverance which is a foe to my repose."

At length came the welcome and beautiful light of day, and Henry rose fevered and unrefreshed.

His first impulse now was to hold a consultation with his brother George, as to what was to be done, and George advised that Mr. Marchdale, who as yet knew nothing of the matter, should be immediately informed of it, and consulted, as being probably better qualified than either of them to come to a just, a cool, and a reasonable opinion upon the painful circumstance, which it could not be expected that either of them would be able to view calmly.

"Let it be so, then," said Henry; "Mr. Marchdale shall decide for us."

They at once sought this friend of the family, who was in his own bed-room, and when Henry knocked at the door, Marchdale opened it hurriedly, eagerly inquiring what was the matter.

"There is no alarm," said Henry. "We have only come to tell you of a circumstance which has occurred during the night, and which will somewhat surprise you."

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(Original Page 184 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Nothing calamitous, I hope?"

"Vexatious; and yet, I think it is a matter upon which we ought almost to congratulate ourselves. Read those two letters, and give us your candid opinion upon them."

Henry placed in Mr. Marchdale's hands the letter addressed to himself, as well as that to the admiral.

Marchdale read them both with marked attention, but he did not exhibit in his countenance so much surprise as regret.

When he had finished, Henry said to him, —

"Well, Marchdale, what think you of this new and extraordinary episode in our affairs?"

"My dear young friends," said Marchdale, in a voice of great emotion, "I know not what to say to you. I have no doubt but that you are both of you much astonished at the receipt of these letters, and equally so at the sudden absence of Charles Holland."

"And are not you?"

"Not so much as you, doubtless, are. The fact is, I never did entertain a favourable opinion of the young man, and he knew it. I have been accustomed to the study of human nature under a variety of aspects; I have made it a matter of deep, and I may add, sorrowful, contemplation, to study and remark those minor shades of character which commonly escape observation wholly. And, I repeat, I always had a bad opinion of Charles Holland, which he guessed, and hence he conceived a hatred to me, which more than once, as you cannot but remember, showed itself in little acts of opposition and hostility."

"You much surprise me."

"I expected to do so. But you cannot help remembering that at one time I was on the point of leaving here solely on his account."

"You were so."

"Indeed I should have done so, but that I reasoned with myself upon the subject, and subdued the impulse of the anger which some years ago, when I had not seen so much of the world, would have guided me."

"But why did you not impart to us your suspicions? We should at least, then, have been prepared for such a contingency as has occurred."

"Place yourself in my position, and then ask yourself what you would have done. Suspicion is one of those hideous things which all men would be most specially careful not only how they entertain at all, but how they give expression to. Besides, whatever may be the amount of one's own internal conviction with regard to the character of any one, there is just a possibility that one may be wrong."

"True, true."

"That possibility ought to keep any one silent who has nothing but suspicion to go upon, however cautious it may make him, as regards his dealings with the individual. I only suspected from little minute shades of character, that would peep out in spite of him, that Charles Holland was not the honourable man he would fain have had everybody believe him to be."

"And had you from the first such a feeling?" "I had." "It is very strange."

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(Original Page 185 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Yes; and what is more strange still, is that he from the first seemed to know it; and despite a caution which I could see he always kept uppermost in his thought, he could not help speaking tartly to me at times."

"I have noticed that," said George.

"You may depend it is a fact," added Marchdale, "that nothing so much excites the deadly and desperate hatred of a man who is acting a hypocritical part, as the suspicion, well grounded or not, that another sees and understands the secret impulses of his dishonourable heart."

"I cannot blame you, or any one else, Mr. Marchdale," said Henry, "that you did not give utterance to your secret thought, but I do wish that you had done so."

"Nay, dear Henry," replied Mr. Marchdale, "believe me, I have made this matter a subject of deep thought, and have abundance of reasons why I ought not to have spoken to you upon the subject."

"Indeed!"

"Indeed I have, and not among the least important is the one, that if I had acquainted you with my suspicions, you would have found yourself in the painful position of acting a hypocritical part yourself towards this Charles Holland, for you must either have kept the secret that he was suspected, or you must have shewn it to him by your behaviour."

"Well, well, I dare say, Marchdale, you acted for the best. What shall we do now?"

"Can you doubt?"

"I was thinking of letting Flora at once know the absolute and complete worthlessness of her lover, so that she could have no difficulty in at once tearing herself from him by the assistance of the natural pride which would surely come to her aid, upon finding herself so much deceived."

"The test may be possible." "You think so?" "I do, indeed."

"Here is a letter, which of course remains unopened, addressed to Flora by Charles Holland. The admiral rather thought it would hurt her feelings to deliver her such an epistle, but I must confess I am of the contrary opinion upon that point, and think now the more evidence she has of the utter worthlessness of him who professed to love her with so much disinterested affection, the better it will be for her."

"You could not, possibly, Henry, have taken a more sensible view of the subject."

"I am glad you agree with me."

"No reasonable man could do otherwise, and from what I have seen of Admiral Bell, I am sure, upon reflection, he will be of the same opinion."

"Then it shall be so. The first shock to poor Flora may be severe, but we shall then have the consolation of knowing that it is the only one, and that in knowing the very worst, she has no more on that score to apprehend. Alas, alas! the hand of misfortune now appears to have pressed heavily upon us indeed. What in the name of all that is unlucky and disastrous, will happen next, I wonder?"

"What can happen?" said Marchdale; "I think you have now got rid of the greatest evil of all — a false friend." "We have, indeed."

# Where Was the Coffee? by Chris Ciolli

"Go, then, to Flora. Tell her that that lying jerk is a waste of her time and we love her no matter what."

Mr. Marchdale was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. God knows he was madder than a marshmallow roasting in hell-fire and didn't want to make things any worse by making a scene. He turned his head towards the peeling floral wall-paper and started counting roses to compose himself. But it wasn't working very well—

"That no-account piece of bird-shit! That worthless son of a bitch! Who does that? Who dumps such a gorgeous, sweet girl? First she's attacked by a vampire, now the man who promised to love her, come rain, shine, and blood-sucking has disappeared in the middle of the night....what's the world coming to?"

"Lower your voice, and calm down, already" said George. "I've never seen you in such a state. You'll make things worse. Flora doesn't need to be worried about you and how you feel on top of everything else."

"Sorry," he said. "I'm only human, and as hard as I try to be cool, sometimes I just can't deal with things."

"Understandable."

"Still, I'm sorry. My reaction was out of line."

"Come with us to break the news? Maybe you'll know what to say to Flora, because God knows I don't."

Mr. Marchdale nodded. "Let's go —everyone be calm and let me do the talking." He paused and looked at the brothers. " It goes without saying that after this morning, Charles will be a subject to avoid."

"Of course," Henry knocked on his own forehead and rolled his eyes.

Mr. Marchdale slipped into his winter coat and he and the brothers went to find Flora in the breakfast nook.

Flora was curled up with a book in the corner bench where she had so often snuggled up to Charles. She heard the footsteps and looked up. When she saw the look on her brothers' faces she knew something was up—and it wasn't that they were out of coffee or eggs, although now that she thought about it, where was the coffee? Damned timer must be broke. She shook her head lightly.

Mr. Marchdale strode through the kitchen and sat down beside her. " Promise me you won't cry Flora. We've got to tell you something, but you should be angry, not sad."

"What's this about?" said Flora, crossing her arms across her chest, inching away from Mr. Marchdale and glaring at her brothers.

"We're still waiting for Admiral Bell," said Henry, "This relates to him, too."

"I'm here, now" said the admiral, walking into the kitchen. "I'm here, so get on with it so she can get over him and go on with her life."

"Him? You mean Charles?" said Flora, her eyebrows raising, "where is Charles, anyway?"

"D—n Charles!" cried the admiral, who had not been much accustomed to control his feelings.

# Educated Women by Gillian Polack

"Hush! Hush!" said Henry; "my dear sir, hush! Do not indulge now in any invectives."

This was cruel of him, for all the admiral had said was "Damn Charles," and in all likelihood Charles was entirely damned already. If he wasn't, he should have been. This was Jane's unservantlike thought as she placed the tea tray softly on an occasional table. If they were really worried, they would not be having tea at all. Strong liquor, maybe. Jane could do with a spot of strong liquor herself.

Jane nipped smartly out of the way as Henry handed Flora three letters. She took up the tea pot with a sigh. Why did she have to be a part of this? Normally she avoided such goings-on entirely. Illness was to blame. Faintness and pallor and strange sickness that was going round belowstairs. Jane wondered what the big house did at night. She herself had been borrowed from her parents to serve as a maid during the days until the pestilence should ease. The vicarage was more wholesome than this mess of fainting and fits and Jane was as hale as a milkmaid. She was not, however, as happy as a milkmaid. Visiting her parents did not normally entail this kind of foolishness.

Jane handed the admiral his tea just as Henry handed Flora three letters. Henry, that prosy bore, was full of explanations. "Flora, here are three letters," Jane wondered if Flora also needed telling that the sky was blue or that the tea was getting cold? "You will see that the one which is unopened is addressed to yourself. However, we wish you to read the whole three of them, and then to form your own free and unbiased opinion."

That, at least, Flora was capable of. She had Jane had many arguments about Socratic philosophy down in the orchard. This was before Flora grew up and Jane was told that she had to earn a living, for educated women were a pest and a disease upon society unless gainfully employed. Jane put extra sugar into Henry's tea. He needed sweetening, to stop him saying such things. He would have girls himself one day and she would personally ensure they read classics if they were sent to her for their education. Mary Wollstonecraft, for instance, had written a classic.

Henry's manners were impeccable, even though his brain was bastard, so he moved most of the party to the window. Flora was left to read those three letters in peace.

Jane sighed and followed him, to hand him his cup of oversweetened brown liquid. He put it down, untasted. Jane wondered if she should have added cyanide instead of sugar. Her father thought that she and Henry would marry, many years ago and now, simply because she was serving him tea, he would not even catch her eye. Did he even know what was happening belowstairs, or was life all about people like himself?

Jane had to refill Mrs Bannerworth's tea, for Mrs Bannerworth waved peremptorily to this effect. She was about to make a declaration. Jane hated those declarations with a passion. She wondered how stupid this one would be.

Mrs Bannerworth told Flora she was ill. Mrs Bannerworth had enjoyed telling people they were ill for as long as Jane had known her. What she didn't actually enjoy was doing anything to cure those ailments, which is why most of the staff were wandering around like pale ghosts, incapable of serving tea without dropping the cup.

The letters fluttered to the floor. Jane's thoughts were interrupted.

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" moaned Flora, in fine form, "what is all that has occurred compared to this? Charles — Charles — Charles!"

Jane wanted to rush to her side, but she was constricted by her temporary role as maid. All she could do was pick up the letters, put them on the table, and make Flora more tea. She hated this. Tomorrow she would return to school, three days early. This tea was the last she would serve. Someone else could solve the servant-crisis. Her father could preach at her until the moon turned blue and until fairy stories came to life: she would finish her current task, pack her bags, and return to her real life.

Charles reinforced Jane's resolve by suddenly turning from the window and exclaiming, vilely, "Flora! Flora, is this worth of you?" Jane hated Charles with a rekindled passion. He was going to call upon noble women's sentiment; she would lay odds on it. He did. He even used that terrible phrase "I did hope, that women's pride would have supported you."

Everything was about him, always, and it didn't surprise Jane at all when Henry pointed out how terribly Flora was behaving, for they stung him. Oh, poor Charles. Oh, idiot Charles.

Jane waited at the door to hear what Flora would say. Flora was melodramatic, but she was no fool. The intelligence in the family had all gone to the girl-child.

"Where did you find these most disgraceful forgeries?" Flora asked.

The room was suddenly still. Jane broke the stillness by leaving her current-betters to their own devices. Thus she missed Flora's return to histrionics when she bewailed, her face a sight and her hands distraught, "Oh, Charles, Charles, are you lost to me for ever?"

# The Old Admiral by Frankie Lassut

The old admiral (who quite enjoyed piracy every now and then) seeing his chance to impress this little 'trophy' pushed his way through the people ... he knew women liked confidence and, ' respect' from his contemporaries ... as a 'leader' should receive.

Flora thought **"Oh wow! Look at him go!"** and she, watched closely by her mother (trainer), got the number three special innocent yet 'naughty' smile ready, and thought **'if you want it old man, come and get it'**.

She would have to blag the 'letter' bit as she couldn't read ... well ok, she could read her name. Her mother had taught her ... 'read? Read?! ... Learn to Smile!'

He took her small, gloriously smooth hands in his bear pads and tried to struggle in voice and add a little emotion ... women liked that, a man showing emotion? A drug ... "Look at me dear **(stare into my eyes dear, I've studied hypnotism)** , I'm an old man **('I'm mature and experienced')** , old enough to be your grandfather **('sexy father figure')** ... so you needn't mind looking me directly in the face **(look into my eyes my dear ... deeply, deeply)**.

Flora raised her gorgeous eyes and suddenly found herself staring into the experienced 'fathoms' of an old sea dog ... ( **'a rich old sea dog?')** She felt the words ( **'Rich old pirate')** shiver through her nubile body ... ( **the hypnosis book he had found while plundering a ship was working! All those hours reading it in secret on the toilet was paying off ... oh yeah!)**

"Have you read those letters my dear?"

('Sod the letters, how would you like an old experienced sea dog my dear?')

( **'Don't panic Flora')** thought Flora.

"I have sir" ... she lied, 'smileeasily'! ...

(Actually, he wasn't too bad; it all depended now on the size of his chest, the one with the treasure in it. 'She suddenly wanted to be a 'Wagoos', which only worked as plural ... Wives And Girlfriends Of Old Seadogs, unless you counted Oldseadogs as one word, which she didn't care about but still, it sounded wrong'.)

"What did you think of them?"

(What do you reckon? Do you think we could make a go of it? Not swashbuckling romance, just sex ...)

"I don't think they were written by Charles Holland your nephew" **('as if I give a shit ... and, I know for a fact Charles has no money, so ...')**.

She also gave him the number 4, a devastatingly sexy smile designed to make the man feel relieved and chase harder.

Suddenly, he clearly imagined her nude, and his grip on her hands grew tighter ...

**('Act normal')** he thought **... (tell her she's a dear sweet girl and kiss her on the cheek, we can re navigate later').**

**('My what strong hands you have')** , she thought ...

('I bet you're picturing me with no clothes on you dirty old dog' ... remember though, 'treasure equals pleasure' ... 'more gold, you can be more bold'. When did he go away? How often did he visit port? Just how many times did she have to 'wrinkle it' to have a decent stash so she had no need to worry about money any more?'

She had better get back to the conversation and stop dreaming about her new 'husband's' gold ... the handbags and shoes would have to wait a bit. Where was she? Letters? Nephew? Erm ...)

"How could you believe they were from him? There is some villainy afoot (hopefully!) ... oh find him! Find him! I implode you! ... The amateur acting lessons had come in useful there.

"Pardon dear? You implode me?"

"Yes Admiral! I implode you, find him!"

"You mean 'implore.'"

( **'Whatever!')** Yes, I implore you ... the two words are very similar, you must admit? All of you?"

The room laughed politely')

"Worry not my dear! I will find him ... he was the best man for you **(what crap!),** he loved you **(but I don't think you want soppy love my dear, you need a bit of slap and a lot of tickle from an old sea dog like me ... EXPERIENCE my dear! You want excitement from a man they call the Great White Shark! ... Forget my nephew, he's a wimp!)** , and if he is above ground my dear, I shall find him and bring him to your" **(very, very very, extremely, beautiful, globular, titanic, special, mesmeric ... bosom ... now please twist your waist from side to side .... she didn't, and he decided that telepathic hypnosis still needed some toilet time ... especially with this picture in his mind).** The Admiral was astounded that the mind could talk and think this wonderful hip tingling stuff at the same time. **Marvelousamundo!**

"You will seek him?!" Sobbed Flora who had seen this coming and prepared the tear ducts in advance ...

"I think he's innocent, the world thinks he's guilty ..."

(Actually, I don't give a damn ... don't bother looking, yet you must ... come stand under my window and I'll lower some knotted sheets, so we can canoodle and talk future security plans which will mature very quickly so that I may prepare a decent hedge fund ... I will have my servant bury some in the garden; then have him killed ...)

Henry sat down at the table, he had fancied Flora for ages, and here was the Admiral stealing her fair bosomness from right under his nose.

The Admiral slapped him on the back ... "So, what do you think old fellow?! Things look a little different now? What ho? I thought she would only want me for my money, but that smile said ... 'money doesn't matter, just loads of sex with 'you' Admiral. Sometimes I just feel too lucky Henry. Anyway Henry, her mum's free you know ..."

(Oh Cheers! You jammy old bastard! See you in the subway soon) **.**

# Pirate Business By Donovan Sotam

"I knew you would say that, because you could not possibly help it, my dear boy. Now we are all right again, and all we have got to do is to find out which way the enemy has gone, and then give chase to him."

"Aye! Let's go find that scallywag," said the admiral.

"Mr. Marchdale, what's your opinion?" asked George.

"Please excuse me. I'd prefer if you didn't ask me my opinion," he replied.

"Arr! And what do ye mean by that?" asked the admiral.

"Precisely what I said, sir."

"Shiver me timbers. There once was a lad amongst the hearties who never had an opinion. Mostly because we never cared about that bilge rat's opinion. But also because he had the irritating habit of saying I've told ye so. He _accidently_ was made into shark bait." The admiral laughed.

"With all due respect sir, I was never in the pirate business." Marchdale said coldly while fixing his bowtie.

"Nor did I say ye were matey. Arr!" bellowed the admiral.

Marchdale was at lost. Speaking to the admiral was well, speaking to a pirate. And speaking to a pirate is not only confusing, but also quite dangerous. Since you might end in David Jones' Locker. Which if you're not acquainted with is a very small and smelly locker. Or so the records go.

"Well," added the admiral, "I really don't care, and never did, for anybody's opinion..."

"Then why on bloody earth was that sermon for?" Marchdale interrupted the admiral, while putting on his top hat.

"Arr! This one's quite the sensitive type. I was just... Never mind..." the admiral blushed. "Like I was saying, I don't care for anybody's opinion when I know am right. And I'd back this dear lass on anything. I'd sail the seven seas and fight its scourges for only the chance of meeting such a fine lass. That I would."

"Oh, lose no time!" said Flora, hugging the Admiral. "If Charl-" she got herself caught in the admiral's hook. She pulled and pulled until the hook ripped part of her dress. "Oh..."' she flushed, trying to hide her bare leg. She continued, "If Charles isn't in the house, then lose no time my dear admiral... admiral... ADMIRAL!"

The admiral was staring at Flora's leg.

"Up here admiral." Flora snapped her fingers.

"Sorry lass."

Flora once again continued, "I pray you seek him, wherever he might be."

"Even if he's cracking Jenny's teacup?" asked the admiral.

"What? Who's Jenny?" asked Flora.

"Nothing sis. It's just an old silly pirate's expression," said George trying to appease his suspicious sister.

"Don't meddle in other people's conversation George," said Marchdale, "It's rude."

"I had to. I was only given one line in this bloody page the author is remixing. And also, I stop appearing after chapter thirty-six. Did the page where I got killed disappeared or something?" George argued.

"Like I was saying admiral," Flora continued, ignoring her brother and Marchdale, "Please seek him. Do not let him think we abandoned him," she pleaded.

"Yo-ho-ho!" cried the admiral. "Don't worry lass. If he's out there, we shall find him. Pirat- err... admiral's word."

"Oh, and one more thing admiral, if there's a Jenny in the story I want a stake through her heart," Flora whispered to the admiral.

"Blimey!" said the admiral to himself "Come along Master Henry, ye and I will consider the next course of action in this ugly matter."

Henry and George followed the admiral from the breakfast room, leaving Marchdale there, looking serious and full of melancholy.

Numerous thoughts crossed his mind. For one it was clear for him that Flora was thinking with her heart and not with her mind. But there was also this one question which kept creeping up on his train of thought, "What on earth did he mean by chapter thirty six."

When he was now alone with her and Mrs. Bannerworth, he spoke in a feeling and affectionate tone regarding the painful and inexplicable events which had transpired.

# He Could Not Have Written Them By Alex Mahon

It was, perhaps, very natural that, with her feelings towards Charles Holland, Flora should shrink from every one who seemed to be of a directly contrary impression, and when Mr. Marchdale now spoke, she showed but little inclination to hear what he had to say in explanation.

However, his calm demeanour made her sit up and take notice of what he had to say. And much to her surprise, she even found herself agreeing with him.

His tone rose, not in anger, but in the same calm, sincere manner as before. "Flora," he said. "Your mother will bear witness to what I have to say so I implore you to listen. You probably assume that because I am not so easily convinced as the admiral that the letters are forgeries, we are not friends. Please do not think that way."

"The letters," said Flora, "were not written by Charles Holland."

He waved away her suggestion, like he was shooing an annoying child out of the room. "That is your opinion."

She suddenly found him as disagreeable as the rest. Why did he insist on Charles's guilt? "It is more than an opinion," she snapped. "He could not have written them." There. She had vented her strong feelings on the matter. She hoped that would be the end of that and he would stop trying to convince her otherwise. However, his face showed that he was not content to end things there.

"I certainly would not defend this conviction even if I wanted to," he said. "The case for the prosecution is too strong. Anyway, I have no desire to do so. And my doubting his innocence is not my fault. Nobody would be more pleased than I if he were innocent.

Flora's anger eased. "I'm glad," she said. "But as far as I am concerned, his innocence has never been in doubt."

"That may well be. So you ascertain that these letters are not genuine?"

"Definitely."

"And that Charles Holland did not steal away in the night, but was abducted?"

"Yes."

"In that case I will work tirelessly to discover his whereabouts. Any advice you can give me will be greatly appreciated and I pomise I will use it to find him.

"I am grateful," she said.

Flora's mother interrupted. "Trust him, darling."

"I do," Flora replied. "As long as he believes that Charles did not pen those horrible letters. And I am sure the admiral will also do his utmost to help me."

"Mr. Marchdale too," her mother said.

"Yes, I know. For that I am forever grateful."

Mr. Marchdale released a deep sigh. "Don't be too sure," he said. "I am very sorry that such should be the case; I will not, however, trouble you any further, nor, give me leave to assure you, will I relax in my honest endeavours to clear up this mystery."

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(Original Page 191 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

So saying, Mr. Marchdale bowed, and left the room, apparently more vexed than he cared to express at the misconstruction which had been put upon his conduct and motives. He at once sought Henry and the admiral, to whom he expressed his most earnest desire to aid in attempting to unravel the mysterious circumstances which had occurred.

"This strongly-expressed opinion of Flora," he remarked, "is of course amply sufficient to induce us to pause before we say one word more that shall in any way sound like a condemnation of Mr. Holland. Heaven forbid that it should."

"No," said the admiral; "don't." "I do not intend." "I would not advise anybody." "Sir, if you use that as a threat — " "A threat?"

"Yes; I must say, it sounded marvelously like one."

"Oh, dear, no — quite a mistake. I consider that every man has a fair right to the enjoyment of his opinion. All I have to remark is, that I shall, after what has occurred, feel myself called upon to fight anybody who says those letters were written by my nephew."

"Indeed, sir."

"Ah, indeed."

"You will permit me to say such is a strange mode of allowing every one the free enjoyment of his opinion."

"Not at all."

"Whatever pains and penalties may be the result, Admiral Bell, of differing with so infallible authority as yourself, I shall do so whenever my judgment induces me."

"You will?"

"Indeed I will."

"Very good. You know all the consequences."

"As to fighting you, I should refuse to do so."

"Refuse?"

"Yes; most certainly."

"Upon what ground?"

"Upon the ground that you were a madman."

"Come," now interposed Henry, "let me hope that, for my sake as well as for Flora's, this dispute will proceed no further."

"I have not courted it," said Marchdale. "I have much temper, but I am not a stick or a stone."

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"D — -e, if I don't think," said the admiral, "you are a bit of both."

"Mr. Henry Bannerworth," said Marchdale, "I am your guest, and but for the duty I feel in assisting in the search for Mr. Charles Holland, I should at once leave your house."

"You need not trouble yourself on my account," said the admiral; "if I find no clue to him in the neighbourhood for two or three days, I shall be off myself."

"I am going," said Henry, rising, "to search the garden and adjoining meadows; if you two gentlemen choose to come with me, I shall of course be happy of your company; if, however, you prefer remaining here to wrangle, you can do so."

This had the effect, at all events, of putting a stop to the dispute for the present, and both the admiral and Mr. Marchdale accompanied Henry on his search. The search was commenced immediately under the balcony of Charles Holland's window, from which the admiral had seen him emerge.

There was nothing particular found there, or in the garden. Admiral Bell pointed out accurately the route he had seen Charles take across the grass plot just before he himself left his chamber to seek Henry.

Accordingly, this route was now taken, and it led to a low part of the garden wall, which any one of ordinary vigour could easily have surmounted.

"My impression is," said the admiral, "that he got over here."

"The ivy appears to be disturbed," remarked Henry.

"Suppose we mark the spot, and then go round to the other side?" suggested George.

This was agreed to; for, although the young might have chosen rather to clamber over the wall than go round, it was doubtful if the old admiral could accomplish such a feat.

The distance round, however, was not great, and as they had cast over the wall a handful of flowers from the garden to mark the precise spot, it was easily discoverable.

The moment they reached it, they were panic-stricken by the appearances which it presented. The grass was for some yards round about completely trodden up, and converted into mud. There were deep indentations of feet-marks in all directions, and such abundance of evidence that some most desperate struggle had recently taken place there, that the most sceptical person in the world could not have entertained any doubt upon the subject.

Henry was the first to break the silence with which they each regarded the broken ground.

"This is conclusive to my mind," he said, with a deep sigh. "Here has poor Charles been attacked."

"God keep him!" exclaimed Marchdale, "and pardon me my doubts — I am now convinced."

The old admiral gazed about him like one distracted. Suddenly he cried —

"They have murdered him. Some fiends in the shape of men have murdered him, and Heaven only knows for what."

"It seems but too probably," said Henry. "Let us endeavour to trace the footsteps. Oh! Flora, Flora, what terrible news this will be to you."

"A horrible supposition comes across my mind," said George. "What if he met the vampyre?"

"It may have been so," said Marchdale, with a shudder. "It is a point which we could endeavour to ascertain, and I think we may do so."

* *

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"How?" "By some inquiry as to whether Sir Francis Varney was from home at midnight last night." "True; that might be done." "The question, suddenly put to one of his servants, would, most probably, be answered as a thing of course." "It would."

"Then it shall be decided upon. And now, my friend, since you have some of you thought me luke-warm in this business, I pledge myself that, should it be ascertained that Varney was from home at midnight last evening, I will defy him personally, and meet him hand to hand."

"Nay, nay," said Henry, "leave that course to younger hands." "Why so?" "It more befits me to be his challenger." "No, Henry. You are differently situated to what I am."

"How so?"

"Remember, that I am in the world a lone man; without ties or connexions. If I lose my life, I compromise no one by my death; but you have a mother and a bereaved sister to look to who will deserve your care."

"Hilloa," cried the admiral, "what's this?"

"What?" cried each, eagerly, and they pressed forward to where the admiral was stooping to the ground to pick up something which was nearly completely trodden into the grass.

He with some difficulty raised it. It was a small slip of paper, on which was some writing, but it was so much covered with mud as not to be legible.

"If this be washed," said Henry, "I think we shall be able to read it clearly."

"We can soon try that experiment," said George. "And as the footsteps, by some mysterious means, show themselves nowhere else but in this one particular spot, any further pursuit of inquiry about here appears useless."

"Then we will return to the house," said Henry, "and wash the mud from this paper."

"There is one important point," remarked Marchdale, "which appears to me we have all overlooked."

"Indeed!"

"Yes."

"What may that be?"

"It is this. Is any one here sufficiently acquainted with the handwriting of Mr. Charles Holland to come to an opinion upon the letters?"

"I have some letters from him," said Henry, "which we received while on the continent, and I dare say Flora has likewise."

* *

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"Then they should be compared with the alleged forgeries."

"I know his handwriting well," said the admiral. "The letters bear so strong a resemblance to it that they would deceive anybody."

"Then you may depend," remarked Henry, "some most deep-laid and desperate plot is going on."

"I begin," added Marchdale, "to dread that such must be the case. What say you to claiming the assistance of the authorities, as well as offering a large reward for any information regarding Mr. Charles Holland?"

"No plan shall be left untried, you may depend."

They had now reached the house, and Henry having procured some clean water, carefully washed the paper which had been found among the trodden grass. When freed from the mixture of clay and mud which had obscured it, they made out the following words, —

" — it be so well. At the next full moon seek a convenient spot, and it can be done. The signature is, to my apprehension, perfect. The money which I hold, in my opinion, is much more in amount than you imagine, must be ours; and as for — "

Here the paper was torn across, and no further words were visible upon it.

Mystery seemed now to be accumulating upon mystery; each one, as it showed itself darkly, seeming to bear some remote relation to what preceded it; and yet only confusing it the more.

That this apparent scrap of a letter had dropped from some one's pocket during the fearful struggle, of which there were such ample evidences, was extremely probably; but what it related to, by whom it was written, or by whom dropped, were unfathomable mysteries.

In fact, no one could give an opinion upon these matters at all; and after a further series of conjectures, it could only be decided, that unimportant as the scrap of paper appeared now to be, it should be preserved in case it should, as there was a dim possibility that it might, become a connecting link in some chain of evidence at another time.

"And here we are," said Henry, "completely at fault, and knowing not what to do."

"Well, it is a hard case," said the admiral, "that, with all the will in the world to be up and doing something, we are lying here like a fleet of ships in a calm, as idle as possible."

"You perceive we have no evidence to connect Sir Francis Varney with this affair, either nearly or remotely," said Marchdale.

"Certainly not," replied Henry.

"But yet, I hope you will not lose sight of the suggestion I proposed, to the effect of ascertaining if he were from home last night."

"But how is that to be carried out?" "Boldly." "How boldly?" "By going at once, I should advise, to his house, and asking the first one of his domestics you may happen to see." "I will go over," cried George; "on such occasions as these one cannot act upon ceremony."

He seized his hat, and without waiting for a word from any one approving or condemning his going, off he went.

# Save the Drama for the Soaps By Pallavi Sathya Babu

"If", said Henry, "we find that Varney has nothing to do with the matter, we are completely at fault."

"Completely, utterly, and truly , without a shadow of doubt", echoed Marchdale.

"Uh, okay Mr Marchdale, you've made your point. Admiral, I suppose we have no choice but to go ahead with whatever your brilliant mind pops up with ".

"About time", remarked the admiral. "I propose a reward of a hundred pounds to anybody who brings news of Charles."

"Good Heavens! That's a ridiculously huge amount!" exclaimed Marchdale.

"Not when it comes to family; in fact, now that you mention it, I think I'll double it! That ought to be enough to bribe some underpaid minion for invaluable info."

"Hmm..I guess you're right", remarked Marchdale.

"Thank you for stating the obvious."

Marchdale shot a look at the self-absorbed admiral, who regarded no one's opinion higher than his own. He hoped that his vexed expressions and sheer silence would convey his distaste for the old man; and decided to turn his attention to more important activities, such as anxiously awaiting George's return.

As if in an attempt to aid him in his mission of ignorance, George walked in through the door far sooner than expected, much to everyone's delight.

"We were wrong..again! Apparently, Varney stayed rooted in his crib after eight yesterday evening."

"Splendid! That leaves Lucifer out of the equation, and we're now officially on the road to progress. Are you absolutely certain he didn't have any contribution in my nephew's disappearing act?"

"Defo"

"And where might I ask do you get this reliable info of yours George?", questioned Henry, in a rather desponding tone.

"If you must know, I ran into one of his many servants at the pub and it was also confirmed by another one I met at his place."

While the men were questioning the credibility of the sources and the newly gathered info, the door swung open and Flora stormed into the room. A usually well maintained girl, the current appearance of Flora revealed a grief-

stricken face, pale as a corpse. To anyone who'd once witnessed to her former glory, her present state was simply painful to glance at, if not completely unacceptable.

Gone were the vibrant aura and charm she exuded that seemed to dominate any room she walked into; and in its place stood a frail looking creature that seemed to have lost all hope and faith in the surrounding world.

"Have you heard any news? Anything at all? Please, don't keep it from me, I need to know. I can't stand this anymore", cried Flora.

"Woman! Save the drama for the soaps please.", said Henry as he stood there gazing at his inconsolable sister.

Taken aback by the insensitivity of her brother's comment Flora shot a shocked and puzzled look at Henry. Upon feeling the odd emotions that rose in the room as a consequence of his unexpected comment, Henry exclaimed,

"Chillax people! I was just trying to lighten the mood, a rather feeble attempt, I now realize, but my intentions were noble all the same. I'm sorry if what I said hurt you Flora, but you honestly do have to get a grip! Look at yourself! You're a total mess! And I don't think moping around is going to bring Charles back any sooner."

Composing herself, Flora asked with a weak voice , "You want me to STOP moping around? Well isn't that mighty easy for you to say brother. What do you know about waiting around wondering and not knowing if the person you've loved for as long as you can remember, is ever coming back?! You want to help me? Alright then, why don't you start by putting me out of misery; is he dead or alive? Have you found him yet?"

Instantly regretting his previous statement, Henry guiltily said, "We have not, Flora".

* *

(Original Page 197 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Providence guarded you," said Marchdale.

"Yes, that's true enough, I dare say. I was in a storm once off Cape Ushant, and it was only through Providence, and cutting away the mainmast myself, that we succeeded in getting into port."

"You have one hope," said Marchdale to Flora, as he looked in her wan face. "One hope?" "Yes. Recollect you have one hope." "What is that?"

"You think that, by removing from this place, you may find that peace which is here denied you." "No, no, no." "Indeed. I thought that such was your firm conviction." "It was; but circumstances have altered."

"How?"

"Charles Holland has disappeared here, and here must I remain to seek for him."

"True he may have disappeared here," remarked Marchdale; "and yet that may be no argument for supposing him still here."

"Where, then, is he?"

"God knows how rejoiced I should be if I were able to answer your question."

"I must seek him, dead or alive! I must see him before I bid adieu to this world, which has now lost all its charms for me."

"Do not despair," said Henry; "I will go to the town now at once, to make known our suspicions that he has met with some foul play. I will set every means in operation that I possibly can to discover him. Mr. Chillingworth will aid me, too; and I hope that not many days will elapse, Flora, before some intelligence of a most satisfactory nature shall be brought to you on Charles Holland's account."

"Go, go, brother; go at once."

"I go now at once."

"Shall I accompany you?" said Marchdale.

"No. Remain here to keep watch over Flora's safety while I am gone; I can alone do all that can be done."

"And don't forget to offer the two hundred pounds reward," said the admiral, "to any one who can bring us news of Charles, on which we can rely."

"I will not."

"Surely — surely something must result from that," said Flora, as she looked in the admiral's face, as if to gather encouragement in her dawning hopes from its expression.

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"Of course it will, my dear," he said. "Don't you be downhearted; you and I are of one mind in this affair, and of one mind we will keep. We won't give up our opinions for anybody."

"Our opinions," she said, "of the honour and honesty of Charles Holland. That is what we will adhere to."

"Of course we will."

"Ah, sir, it joys me, even in the midst of this, my affliction, to find one at least who is determined to do him full justice. We cannot find such contradictions in nature as that mind, full of noble impulses, should stoop to such a sudden act of selfishness as those letters would attribute to Charles Holland. It cannot — cannot be."

"You are right, my dear. And now, Master Henry, you be off, will you, if you please."

"I am off now. Farewell, Flora, for a brief space."

"Farewell, brother; and Heaven speed you on your errand."

"Amen to that," cried the admiral; "and now, my dear, if you have got half an hour to spare, just tuck your arm under mine, and take a walk with me in the garden, for I want to say something to you."

"Most willingly," said Flora.

"I would not advise you to stray far from the house, Miss Bannerworth," said Marchdale.

"Nobody asked you for advice," said the admiral. "D — -e, do you want to make out that I ain't capable of taking care of her?"

"No, no; but — "

"Oh, nonsense! Come along, my dear; and if all the vampyres and odd fish that were ever created were to come across our path, we would settle them somehow or another. Come along, and don't listen to anybody's croaking."—

# Varney the Silent Film by Leila Eadie

"Of course it will, my dear," he said. "Don't you be downhearted; you

and I are of one mind in this affair, and of one mind we will keep. We

won't give up our opinions for anybody."

[Silent film - video action:] Flora removes her hand from her brow,

where she flung it in despair and stamps her foot, her attitude now

determined.

[Written speech card:] "We believe Charles is honest and honourable.

They cannot shake that!"

[Silent film - video action:] The Admiral is nodding, patting Flora on

the arm. Flora looks up at this salty old tar, her eyelashes

fluttering.

[Written speech card:] "Thank you, sir, for supporting me - we will do

him justice. He wouldn't be so selfish as so send those letters. It

cannot be true."

[Silent film - video action:] Flora shakes her head, wiping away a

tear from the corners of her large eyes. Henry, a strapping young lad,

offers her a large white handkerchief, which she accepts with a wan

smile and dabs at her eyes. Henry grabs his hat, jams it down onto his

head and strides for the door. He stops, looks back.

[Written speech card:] "I must go to town for help. Farewell, Flora."

[Silent film - video action:] He executes a short bow and leaves as

Flora waves the handkerchief in farewell. The Admiral, his

anchor-embossed buttons glinting in the sunlight, moves closer to

Flora. He smiles and takes her arm, gently tucking it around his own.

She looks unsure for a moment, then relents and pats his hand. His

smile widens and he speaks to her.

[Written speech card:] "Come walk with me in the garden, my dear. I

wish to say something to you."

[Silent film - video action:] Flora looks up at him and nods. They

walk to the doors leading out into the garden, but Marchdale steps

forward to block their way. He looks stern and gestures to the garden.

[Written speech card:] "Do not stray far, Miss Bannerworth. There are

evil things abroad this day."

[Silent film - video action:] The Admiral looks surprised, then angry.

He blusters, waving a hand toward the man. Marchdale steps back in

alarm, but peers outside, and looks back to Flora. She grips the

Admiral's arm tightly and he rebuffs Marchdale once more.

[Written speech card:] "Are you saying I can't look after the lady,

you blackguard?!"

[Silent film - video action:] Marchdale backs well away, shaking his

head, hands up in a placating gesture. The Admiral nods and smiles,

satisfied that his honour is upheld. He looks down at Flora and nods

once more. As Marchdale continues to shake his head, still doubting

the wisdom of their actions, they walk through the open doors into the

garden.

[Written speech card:] "Come along, my dear; and if all the vampyres

and odd fish that were ever created confront us, we would soon do for

them. Come along, and don't listen to anybody's croaking!"

# Monk Hall by Christina Beggs
Chapter XXIX.

Without forestalling the interest of our story, or recording a fact in its wrong place, we now call our readers' attention to a circumstance which may, at all events, afford some food for conjecture.

Several miles from the Hall, which seemed to have always belonged to the Bannerworth family, stood Monk Hall, an ancient ruin assumed to be that of an old monastery and military facility. These buildings were quite common in the middle ages in almost every county of England. During that time, the church conceitedly claimed political authority although those with any knowledge of this period completely deny it. But when the members of the church wanted to express the certainty and validity of their policies, such buildings like this one near Bannerworth Hall, were produced.

Allegedly for sacred functions but actually used for defense, this Monks' Hall, as it was called, looked as about as much like a fortress as it did a church. The remains covered an extensive amount of ground but only the long hall, which would have been used for feasts and other occasions, resisted the damaging effects of time compared to the rest of the structure. The walls of other areas of the building connected to this hall and contained doors that appeared to lead to as mysterious a location as the doors themselves looked strange. But no one knew where these doors lead and no one knew of anyone who would risk becoming tangled in the web of these ruins.

Amid these cavernous passages and arches, it was often said that there were cliffs and underwater pools filled with water. Whether it was true or not, it definitely put a considerable damper upon the curiosity of those who wished to explore the remains of this hall. Because Monk Hall was so recognizable, it was common and expected that someone from Bannerworth Hall would mention the ruins as they were familiar with them from one's childhood, much like an inhabitant of Ludgate-hill would remark about St. Paul's. But because of their youthful trips over the ruins, it was rare to think of visiting them even for those who know it so well that it barely holds any space in their memory.

But it is to these ruins that we guide the readers, although what we have said is not exactly related to our story.

* * * * * *

Poor Flora Bannerworth! In the evening of her heartbreak, the enduring rays of the sun are shimmering down the old ruins with such gilded splendor. The decaying edges of the pebbles are coated with glittering gold and as the light shines upon the tinted glass which still remains intact in a large window of the hall, a rainbow of beautiful light radiated within, making the old flag-stones which lined the interior look more like some elegant drapery laid down to honor royalty.

So picturesque and so beautiful an aspect did the ancient ruin wear, that to one with a soul to appreciate the romantic and the beautiful, it would have amply repaid the fatigue of a long journey now to see it.

* *

(Original Page 200 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

And as the sun sank to rest, the gorgeous colours that it cast upon the mouldering wall, deepened from an appearance of burnished gold to a crimson hue, and from that again the colour changed to a shifting purple, mingling with the shadows of the evening, and so gradually fading away into absolute darkness.

The place is as silent as the tomb — a silence far more solemn than could have existed, had there been no remains of a human habitation; because even these time-worn walls were suggestive of what once had been; and the wrapt stillness which now pervaded them brought with them a melancholy feeling for the past.

There was not even the low hum of insect life to break the stillness of these ancient ruins.

And now the last rays of the sun are gradually fading away. In a short time all will be darkness. A low gentle wind is getting up, and beginning slightly to stir the tall blades of grass that have shot up between some of the old stones. The silence is broken, awfully broken, by a sudden cry of despair; such a cry as might come from some imprisoned spirit, doomed to waste an age of horror in a tomb.

And yet it was scarcely to be called a scream, and not all a groan. It might have come from some one on the moment of some dreadful sacrifice, when the judgment had not sufficient time to call courage to its aid, but involuntarily had induced that sound which might not be repeated.

A few startled birds flew from odd holes and corners about the ruins, to seek some other place of rest. The owl hooted from a corner of what had once been a belfry, and a dreamy-looking bat flew out from a cranny and struck itself headlong against a projection.

Then all was still again. Silence resumed its reign, and if there had been a mortal ear to drink in that sudden sound, the mind might well have doubted if fancy had not more to do with the matter than reality.

From out a portion of the ruins that was enveloped in the deepest gloom, there now glides a figure. It is of gigantic height, and it moves along with a slow and measured tread. An ample mantle envelopes the form, which might well have been taken for the spirit of one of the monks who, centuries since, had made that place their home.

It walked the whole length of the ample hall we have alluded to, and then, at the window from which had streamed the long flood of many coloured light, it paused.

For more than ten minutes this mysterious looking figure there stood. At length there passed something on the outside of the window, that looked like the shadow of a human form.

Then the tall, mysterious, apparition-looking man turned, and sought a side entrance to the hall. Then he paused, and, in about a minute, he was joined by another who must have been he who had so recently passed the stained glass window on the outer side. There was a friendly salutation between these two beings, and they walked to the centre of the hall, where they remained for some time in animated conversation.

From the gestures they used, it was evident that the subject of their discourse was one of deep and absorbing interest to both. It was one, too, upon which, after a time, they seemed a little to differ, and more than once they each assumed attitudes of mutual defiance.

This continued until the sun had so completely sunk, that twilight was beginning sensibly to wane, and then gradually the two men appeared to have come to a better understanding, and whatever might be the subject of their discourse, there was some positive result evidently arrived at now.

They spoke in lower tones. They used less animated gestures than before; and, after a time, they both walked slowly down the hall towards the dark spot from whence the first tall figure had so mysteriously emerged. * * * *

There is a dungeon — damp and full of the most unwholesome exhalations — deep under ground it seems, and, in its excavations, it would appear as if some small land springs had been liberated, for the earthen floor was one continued extent of moisture. From the roof, too, came perpetually the dripping of water, which fell with sullen, startling splashes in the pool below. At one end, and near to the roof, — so near that to reach it, without the most efficient means from the inside, was a matter of positive impossibility — is a small iron grating, and not much larger than might be entirely obscured by any human face than might be close to it from the outside of the dungeon.

* *

(Original Page 201 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

That dreadful abode is tenanted. In one corner, on a heap of straw, which appears freshly to have been cast into the place, lies a hopeless prisoner.

It is no great stretch of fancy to suppose, that it is from his lips came the sound of terror and of woe that had disturbed the repose of that lonely spot. The prisoner is lying on his back; a rude bandage round his head, on which were numerous spots of blood, would seem to indicate that he had suffered personal injury in some recent struggle. His eyes were open. They were fixed desparingly, perhaps unconsciously, upon that small grating which looked into the upper world.

That grating slants upwards, and looks to the west, so that any one confined in that dreary dungeon might be tantalized, on a sweet summer's day, by seeing the sweet blue sky, and occasionally the white clouds flitting by in that freedom which he cannot hope for.

The carol of a bird, too, might reach him there. Alas! sad remembrance of life, and joy, and liberty.

But now all is deepening gloom. The prisoner sees nothing — hears nothing; and the sky is not quite dark. That small grating looks like a strange light-patch in the dungeon wall. Hark! some footstep sounds upon his ear. The creaking of a door follows — a gleam of light shines into the dungeon, and the tall mysterious-looking figure in the cloak stands before the occupant of that wretched place. Then comes in the other man, and he carries in his hand writing materials. He stoops to the stone couch on which the prisoner lies, and offers him a pen, as he raises him partially from the miserable damp pallet.

But there is no speculation in the eyes of that oppressed man. In vain the pen is repeatedly placed in his grip, and a document of some length, written on parchment, is spread out before him to sign. In vain is he held up now by both of the men, who have thus mysteriously sought him in his dungeon; he has not power to do as they would wish him. The pen falls from his nerveless grasp, and, with a deep sigh, when they cease to hold him up, he falls heavily back upon the stone couch.

Then the two men looked at each other for about a minute silently; after which he who was the shorter of the two raised one hand, and, in a voice of such concentrated hatred and passion as was horrible to hear, he said, — "D — n!"

The reply of the other was a laugh; and then he took the light from the floor, and motioned the one who seemed so little able to control his feelings of bitterness and disappointment to leave the place with him. With a haste and vehemence, then, which showed how much angered he was, the shorter man of the two now rolled up the parchment, and placed it in a breast-pocket of his coat. He cast a withering look of intense hatred on the form of the nearly-unconscious prisoner, and then prepared to follow the other.

But when they reached the door of the dungeon, the taller man of the two paused, and appeared for a moment or two to be in deep thought; after which he handed the lamp he carried to his companion, and approached the pallet of the prisoner.

He took from his pocket a small bottle, and, raising the head of the feeble and wounded man, he poured some portion of the contents into his mouth, and watched him swallow it. The other looked on in silence, and then they both slowly left the dreary dungeon. * * * *

The wind rose, and the night had deepened into the utmost darkness. The blackness of a night, unilluminated by the moon, which would not now rise for some hours, was upon the ancient ruins. All was calm and still, and no one would have supposed that aught human was within those ancient, dreary looking walls.

Time will show who it was who lay in that unwholesome dungeon, as well as who were they who visited him so mysteriously, and retired again with feelings of such evident disappointment with the document it seemed of such importance, at least to one of them, to get that unconscious man to sign.

—

# This Is More Than a Crush by Allison Carter

**Chapter XXX:** Admiral Bell had, of course, nothing particular to communicate to Flora in the walk he induced her to take with him in the gardens of Bannerworth Hall, but he could talk to her upon a subject which was sure to be a welcome one, namely, Charles Holland.

Most girls don't turn to crusty old military men to talk about their crushes. Though, if I'm being honest, this is more than a crush, but it's the best word I've got. I'm not most girls, and Charles isn't most men. Besides, my girlfriends would only tell me what I wanted to hear. Charles is dreamy! Charles is so romantic! Your babies are going to be adorable, with your eyes and his hair, but I hope they don't get that weird cow-licky thing in the back.

With Admiral Bell, I can skip all that. The admiral knows Charles for who he really is. He knows that Charles is so much more than a pretty (oh so pretty) face. He knows that Charles is brave and good and smart and everything else I like about him. I like _a lot_. And it's not as if the admiral is easy to please. No, he's a tenacious old badger who hates most everyone. Except Charles. My Charles. And once Admiral Bell decides someone's worth defending, then woe to anyone who thinks otherwise.

"It's all going to work out, Flora. I promise you that. But I was a damn idiot to ever doubt him. I'm getting old, my dear. Senility's creeping up on me."

"Hardly," I say. "You weren't senile, just wrong. Ever so slightly." I smile. The admiral tries to return it, but never quite makes it to full-fledged smile.

"I _was_ wrong. And I hate being wrong. Especially when it's because I was caught off guard. Someone who's led as many men as I have should never be flat footed."

"Oh really? Did you fight a lot of vampyres in the navy?" I ask.

He twists his lips into a wry grimace. "You've got me there. You really think this Varney is a vampyre?"

I turn my face to the bright afternoon sun. Is it possible there's a creature who shrinks from that sun? Who lives only on the suffering of others? After the things I've seen, it's the only logical answer I can find. "I do."

"I was afraid of that, even though I agree with you. But you know what it means, don't you?"

Of course I do. No matter how impossible it seems, or how scary, I know what we have to do. "Yes. But how? You're the soldier. How do we...eliminate the threat?"

"Everything has a weakness, though some are more surprising than others. We'll find his." We turn into the hedge maze, the close-cropped boxwood pressing in on us like the sides of a coffin. No, that's not overly dramatic at all, Flora. A coffin, _really_. I square my shoulders and march ahead. They're just shrubbery. "Maybe it has something to do with this place," the admiral says. "No strategic advantage—can't see the sea, not elevated for defense."

"If this is what he wants, he can have it. It's a house. A _thing_ ," I say with vehemence that surprises even me. "If my brother can compromise with Varney to get Charles back, he can burn this place to the ground and salt the earth."

"What makes you think Varney has anything to do with Charles' disappearance?"

He's testing me. Gotta be. Why else would he ask such a stupid question? "Occam's Razor. A vampyre shows up and Charles disappears? No way they're unrelated."

Bell takes my arm and tucks it through the crook of his elbow in a way I'm sure he thinks is soothing. "You're right. No one else could have a grudge against him, as good as Charles was. Is. Of course I mean is. Slip of the tongue. I'm almost positive you're right. If I were one hundred percent sure, I'd already have Charles back, but—"

"No. Admiral Bell, listen." I stop, there in a curve of the spiral at the heart of the maze. The admiral draws to a halt beside me. "You have to make me a promise."

"Whatever you want to ask, it's already done. I promise." Dangerous thing to say. He has no idea what I might ask. But I suppose he knows me well enough to understand I have his best interests at heart.

"You will not expose yourself to the danger of any personal conflict with that most dreadful man, whose powers of mischief we do not know, and therefore cannot well meet or appreciate."

* *

(Original Page 203 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Whew! is that what you mean?"

"Yes; you will, I am sure, promise me so much."

"Why, my dear, you see the case is this. In affairs of fighting, the less ladies interfere the better."

"Nay, why so?"

"Because — because, you see, a lady has no reputation for courage to keep up. Indeed, it's rather the other way, for we dislike a bold woman as much as we hold in contempt a cowardly man."

"But if you grant to us females that in consequence of our affections, we are not courageous, you must likewise grant how much we are doomed to suffer from the dangers of those whom we esteem."

"You would be the last person in the world to esteem a coward." "Certainly. But there is more true courage often in not fighting than in entering into a contest." "You are right enough there, my dear."

"Under ordinary circumstances, I should not oppose your carrying out the dictates of your honour, but now, let me entreat you not to meet this dreadful man, if man he can be called, when you know not how unfair the contest may be."

"Unfair?"

"Yes. May he not have some means of preventing you from injuring him, and of overcoming you, which no mortal possesses?"

"He may."

"Then the supposition of such a case ought to be sufficient ground for at once inducing you to abandon all idea of meeting with him."

"My dear, I'll consider of this matter." "Do so." "There is another thing, however, which now you will permit me to ask of you as a favour." "It is granted ere it is spoken."

"Very good. Now you must not be offended with what I am going to say, because, however it may touch that very proper pride which you, and such as you, are always sure to possess, you are fortunately at all times able to call sufficient judgment to your aid to enable you to see what is really offensive and what is not."

"You alarm me by such a preface."

"Do I? then here goes at once. Your brother Henry, poor fellow, has enough to do, has he not, to make all ends meet."

A flush of excitement came over Flora's cheek as the old admiral thus bluntly broached a subject of which she already knew the bitterness to such a spirit as her brother's.

"You are silent," continued the old man; "by that I guess I am not wrong in my supposition; indeed it is hardly a supposition at all, for Master Charles told me as much, and no doubt he had it from a correct quarter."

* *

(Original Page 204 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"I cannot deny it, sir."

"Then don't. It ain't worth denying, my dear. Poverty is no crime, but, like being born a Frenchman, it's a d — — d misfortune."

Flora could scarcely refuse a smile, as the nationality of the old admiral peeped out even in the midst of his most liberal and best feelings.

"Well," he continued, "I don't intend that he shall have so much trouble as he has had. The enemies of his king and his country shall free him from his embarrassments."

"The enemies?" "Yes; who else?" "You speak in riddles, sir."

"Do I? Then I'll soon make the riddles plain. When I went to sea I was worth nothing — as poor as a ship's cat after the crew had been paid off for a month. Well, I began fighting away as hard and fast as I could, and the more I fought, and the more hard knocks I gave and took, the more money I got."

"Indeed!" "Yes; prize after prize we hauled into port, and at last the French vessels wouldn't come out of their harbours." "What did you do then?" "What did we do then? Why what was the most natural thing in the whole world for us to do, we did." "I cannot guess." "Well, I am surprised at that. Try again." "Oh, yes; I can guess now. How could I have been so dull? You went and took them out."

"To be sure we did — to be sure we did, my dear; that's how we managed them. And, do you see, at the end of the war I found myself with lots of prize money, all wrung from old England's enemies, and I intend that some of it shall find its way to your brother's pocket; and you see that will bear out just what I said, that the enemies of his king and his country shall free him from his difficulties — don't you see?"

"I see your noble generosity, admiral."

"Noble fiddlesticks! Now I have mentioned this matter to you, my dear, and I don't so much mind talking to you about such matters as I should to your brother, I want you to do me the favour of managing it all for me."

"How, sir?"

"Why, just this way. You must find out how much money will free your brother just now from a parcel of botherations that beset him, and then I will give it to you, and you can hand it to him, you see, so I need not say anything about it; and if he speaks to me on the subject at all, I can put him down at once by saying, 'avast there, it's no business of mine.'"

"And can you, dear admiral, imagine that I could conceal the generous source from where the assistance came?"

"Of course; it will come from you. I take a fancy to make you a present of a sum of money; you do with it as you please — it's yours, and I have no right and no inclination to ask you what use you put it to."

# I don't think Charles sent those letters By Jennifer Windrow

Tears gushed from the eyes of Flora as she tried to utter some word, but could not. The admiral cursed, unsure why the woman in front of him was crying. When she finally composed herself enough to speak, she said, "I cannot accept your offer, sire - I dare not."

"Dare not?" The admiral's voice raised and echoed through the quiet night.

Flora took a step back, "I don't want to take advantage of your generosity."

"If I thought you were taking advantage I wouldn't have offered it to you." He fixed her with a hard stare. "It's my money to do with what I want, and I want you to have it."

Quickly looking to the ground, Flora quietly said, "I will speak to my brother about it."

"You don't need his permission. I am offering it to you, not him. Just take the money."

"I'll think about it this evening, and have my answer by tomorrow." Overcome by gratitude Flora reached forward and covered his hand with hers. "I don't have the words to express my thanks to you, not just for the offer, but for your friendship too."

He pulled his hand out from under hers and waved off her comment with a dismissive gesture. Changing the subject he said, "I don't think Charles sent those letters."

Flora nodded. "I just wish we knew what happened to him."

"We'll find out, even if we have to move heaven and earth to do so."

"Do you think he is still alive?"

The admiral thought for a moment before he answered. "If he was dead we would have found some evidence of it by now, blood or his body around the area where he was attacked."

Flora's glove covered hand flew to her mouth as she gasped.

Coming around the desk the Admiral rested his hand on her shoulder. "He is still alive, I'm sure of it," he reassured her.

"I pray you are right."

"Henry will be home soon. You should go home and talk to him about what we discussed today. Come back tomorrow with your answer."

"I will."

He noticed her shaking slightly. "It's time to go in. The wind is starting to blow, and I don't want you to get sick. The worst storm must blow over at last."

# The Odor of Cheese By Tom Bentley

**Chapter XXXI.** Sir Francis Varney is in what he calls his own apartment. Well, he didn't actually call it "his own apartment" in those precise words. When he was taken with a spirit of bonhomie, he would often refer to his dingy domicile as "Esmeralda," in homage to a fetching lassie from his carefree schooldays, over whose lissome shoulder he would hotly mutter the words from their vocabulary lessons, in a futile attempt to win her attentions. That she later took up with an insensate bumpkin from a grade above never deterred his later loyalty. However, when the spirit of lassitude overcame him, he referred to his cramped grotto simply as "Blurg." And so it was in Blurg that Varney fidgeted on this dank night.

The predominant issue which would immediately strike a stranger entering Varney's quarters was the redolent, nay, _oppressive_ odor of cheese. Indeed, this nostril-clenching victim might be struck directly by the source of the miasma itself, for one of Varney's most queer predilections was his vast cheese collection, musty wheels of which took up a full two-thirds of the modest room. An occasional chunk from a massy Stilton would fall from one of the groaning shelves to the floor; once Varney himself was struck on the shoulder by a six-pound Vieux Boulogne, saved only by the soft consistency of the pungent curd.

Naturally, where cheese goeth, so doth the rodent. Despite a rich panoply of guttering candelabras intended to deter any darkened corner where rattus rattus might seek cheesy comforts, the rodentia, maddened by the breath of milken production, ran rampant over the room, and indeed over Varney himself. Varney, who numbered among his multiple neurasthenias and bodily complaints a violent allergy to felines, was advised by compatriots to engage instead the services of a raven, broadly known for its predatory behavior toward rodents. However, Varney, down at pocket, could only secure the rental of a voluble parrot.

The parrot, dubbed "Borgnine" by Varney's antic landlady, took a highly critical view of his new surroundings, and instead of dispatching the rats, rather parked itself atop a literal wall of sharp cheddar, from which he rained down imprecations at Varney, mostly concerned with his poor housekeeping. This dark evening, as the clock (which was inconveniently located underneath a small shelf of cut cheeses, and which, due to Varney's habit of eating cold organ meats without a napkin, had a smeary lens which prevented its clear reading) neared the hallowed midnight hour, the parrot was in the midst of a screeching soliloquy: "... and furthermore, I've never seen the likes of such shabby table linens. You call that cobwebbed coverlet a tablecloth? Besides the fact it's covered with cheese stains from God knows what century, its color can only best be described as basic beige. And what about those old gloves near the sink? Why ..."

Varney sighed, and lifted his feet from an enormous wheel of Double Gloucester, which had served as his ottoman for the last few months. He had grown accustomed to the uncivil declarations of the ungrateful bird, but in the airless recesses of his mothballed soul, he knew a great injustice was being perpetrated. Not only had the rodents taken up bold residence in his quarters, but they had just completed a referendum on the contents of the monthly cheese order, and by virtue of popular (tailed and tailess residents) vote, declared that the bulk of the order would be goat cheese. Goat cheese! Varney shuddered. He reviled goat cheese. Cursed democracy! Cursed fate!

He lifted his head and tried in the dim light to discern the clock's face. The hour approached, and the visitor, who came but once a year, must be drawing near. It would be an hour of reckoning, indeed. The Cheese Inspector cometh.

And thus some more time passed away, and he strove to cheat it of its weariness by thinking of a variety of subjects; but as the fates would have it, there seemed not one agreeable reminiscence in the mind of that most inexplicable man, and the more he plunged into the recesses of memory the more uneasy, not to say almost terrified, he looked and became.

* *

(Original Page 207 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

A shuddering nervousness came across him, and, for a few moments, he sat as if he were upon the point of fainting. By a vigorous effort, however, be shook this off, and then placing before him the watch, which now indicated about the quarter past eleven, he strove with a calmer aspect to wait the coming of him whose presence, when he did come, would really be a great terror, since the very thought beforehand produced so much hesitation and dismay.

In order too, if possible, then to further withdraw himself from a too painful consideration of those terrors, which in due time the reader will be acquainted with the cause of, he took up a book, and plunging into its contents, he amused his mind for a time with the following brief narrative: —

The wind howled round the gable ends of Bridport House in sudden and furious gusts, while the inmates sat by the fire-side, gazing in silence upon the blazing embers of the huge fire that shed a red and bright light all over the immense apartment in which they all sat.

It was an ancient looking place, very large, and capable of containing a number of guests. Several were present.

An aged couple were seated in tall high straight-backed chairs. They were the owners of that lordly mansion, and near them sat two young maidens of surpassing beauty; they were dissimilar and yet there was a slight likeness, but of totally different complexions.

The one had tresses of raven black; eyebrows, eyelashes, and eyes were all of the same hue; she was a beautiful and proud-looking girl, her complexion clear, with the hue of health upon her cheeks, while a smile played around her lips. The glance of the eye was sufficient to thrill through the whole soul.

The other maiden was altogether different; her complexion altogether fairer — her hair of sunny chestnut, and her beautiful hazel eyes were shaded by long brown eyelashes, while a playful smile also lit up her countenance. She was the younger of the two.

The attention of the two young maidens had been directed to the words of the aged owner of the house, for he had been speaking a few moments before. There were several other persons present, and at some little distance were many of the domestics who were not denied the privilege of warmth and rest in the presence of their master.

These were not the times, when if servants sat down, they were deemed idle; but the daily task done, then the evening hour was spent by the fire-side.

"The wind howls and moans," said an aged domestic, "in an awful manner. I have never heard the like."

"It seems as though some imprisoned spirit was waiting for the repose that had been denied on earth," said the old lady, as she shifted her seat and gazed steadily on the fire.

"Ay," said her aged companion, "it is a windy night, and there will be a storm before long, or I'm mistaken."

"It was just such a night as that my son Henry left his home," said Mrs. Bradley, "just such another — only it had the addition of sleet and rain."

The old man sighed at the mention of his son's name, a tear stood in the eyes of the maidens, while one looked silently at the other, and seemed to exchange glances.

"I would that I might again see him before my body seeks its final home in the cold remorseless grave."

"Mother," said the fairest of the two maidens, "do not talk thus, let us hope that we yet may have many years of happiness together."

"Many, Emma?" "Yes, mamma, many."

* *

(Original Page 208 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Do you know that I am very old, Emma, very old indeed, considering what I have suffered, such a life of sorrow and ill health is at least equal to thirty years added to my life."

"You may have deceived yourself, aunt," said the other maiden; "at all events, you cannot count upon life as certain, for the strongest often go first, while those who seem much more likely to fall, by care, as often live in peace and happiness."

"But I lead no life of peace and happiness, while Henry Bradley is not here; besides, my life might be passed without me seeing him again."

"It is now two years since he was here last," said the old man, "This night two years was the night on which he left." "This night two years?" "Yes."

"It was this night two years," said one of the servant men, "because old Dame Poutlet had twins on that night." "A memorable circumstance." "And one died a twelvemonth old," said the man; "and she had a dream which foretold the event." "Ay, ay."

"Yes, and moreover she's had the same dream again last Wednesday was a week," said the man.

"And lost the other twin?"

"Yes sir, this morning."

"Omens multiply," said the aged man; "I would that it would seem to indicate the return of Henry to his home."

"I wonder where he can have gone to, or what he could have done all this time; probably he may not be in the land of the living."

"Poor Henry," said Emma.

"Alas, poor boy! We may never see him again — it was a mistaken act of his, and yet he knew not otherwise how to act or escape his father's displeasure."

"Say no more — say no more upon that subject; I dare not listen to it. God knows I know quite enough," said Mr. Bradley; "I knew not he would have taken my words so to heart as he did."

"Why," said the old woman, "he thought you meant what you said."

There was a long pause, during which all gazed at the blazing fire, seemingly wrapt in their own meditation.

Henry Bradley, the son of the aged couple, had apparently left that day two years, and wherefore had he left the home of his childhood? wherefore had he, the heir to large estates, done this?

He had dared to love without his father's leave, and had refused the offer his father made him of marrying a young lady whom he had chosen for him, but whom he could not love. It was as much a matter of surprise to the father that the son should refuse, as it was to the son that his father should contemplate such a match.

# What of Love? By Merri Hiatt

"Henry," said the father, "you have been thought of by me. I have made proposals for marrying you to the daughter of our neighbor, Sir Arthur Onslow."

"Without my consent? Would you have me marry a young lady without fervent ardor in my heart? What of love?"

"Love is for school boys, Henry, outgrown when a comely woman beguiles you with her curvaceous charms. Have you not succumbed to the lust that lives deep within your loins? I daresay it was not in any attempt to find love."

"Your intention is that I settle down with one woman for what purpose? To please yourself or society's idea of what a man of my stature should be? I denounce all attempts to mold me into another example in which to use to ensnare young men."

"Rebellion is how you repay my years of guidance?" Mr. Bradley asked.

"I do not mean to disregard your wisdom. My life is in your hands, father, and you would chain me to a woman I barely know."

"I have spent many hours of thought on the issue at hand and believe this pairing will be in your best interest."

"And if I spend the rest of my life wishing for death rather than remain married to the woman you have chosen for me?"

"That is not how events will unfold."

"You cannot make such assurances."

"Allow me to remind you that you have had the luxury of my protection and other favors of which I know you are aware. If you will not do this one small thing for me, what am I to believe but that you have turned your back on your family?"

"I will not surrender my future, my heirs, my heart when love is not present."

"Your heart will not provide you with food for your belly, a warm fire to heat your bones or a roof to keep the rain from chilling you clean through."

"Threats are what you resort to now? You are grasping at wisps of air to convince yourself you have good intentions at your core. I daresay this is quite unbecoming of a man such as yourself."

"I will say no more on the matter, Henry. Either you do as I command, nay, as the Holy Bible commands when it states to obey your mother and father, or you shall be dead to me."

"Now you bring not only death but the Holy Spirit into this quagmire? I am at the end of my ability to discuss this matter further."

"We are not finished."

"And it would be useless to speak upon the subject, but of this I can speak - my own resolve - that I will not marry the lady in question."

# Henry's Montage by Milda Harris

The son had all the stern resolve of the father, but he had also very good reasons for what he did. He loved, and was beloved in return; and hence he decided to change the format of the novel into screenplay format. It was all for love!

It makes you do crazy things.

FADE IN:

INT. BRADLEY HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY

Old Mr. Bradley is getting angrier and angrier at his son, Henry.

OLD MR. BRADLEY

So, you won't marry the girl I've chosen for you?

HENRY

I can't.

OLD MR. BRADLEY

Can't isn't an answer. I want a yes or a no.

HENRY

Then, no.

OLD MR. BRADLEY

Well, then I don't know you anymore. We're strangers.

Old Mr. Bradley walks out of the room and slams the door. Henry is left alone, staring after his father at the shut door. Henry sighs and leaves the room too.

INT. BRADLEY HOUSE - VARIOUS ROOMS - MONTAGE

— Henry packs hastily.

— Henry's mother and sister Emma give him money and jewels. They're sobbing as he hugs them goodbye.

— Henry goes to visit his beloved, his cousin, in her room upstairs and she embraces him, crying.

—— Henry walks past his father's study door without saying goodbye.

—— Henry shuts the door on his home, takes a deep breath, and walks away down the street with his luggage, not turning back.

END MONTAGE

INT. BRADLEY HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - LATER

Old Mr. Bradley stares out the window, waiting for his son to come back. Time passes in FAST MOTION outside the windows, first from day to night and then as seasons change.

TITLE OVER: TWO YEARS LATER

INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY

Old Mr. Bradley is still staring out the window waiting for his son, who has not returned.

FADE OUT...

Because now since it's Old Mr. Bradley's story, he wants it back in novel format. He simply has no patience for screenplay format and besides, it just reminds him of his son, who he hasn't seen in two years and who he thought would have come back by now.

"Surely, surely he will return, or let us know where he is," he said; "he cannot be in need, else he would have written to us for aid."

(Original Page 211 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"No, no," said Mrs. Bradley; "it is, I fear, because he has not written, that he is in want; he would never write if he was in poverty, lest he should cause us unhappiness at his fate. Were he doing well, we should hear of it, for he would be proud of the result of his own unaided exertions."

"Well, well," said Mr. Bradley. "I can say no more; if I was hasty, so was he; it is passed. I would forgive all the past if I could but see him once again -- once again!"

"How the wind howls," added the aged man; "and it's getting worse and worse."

"Yes, and the snow is coming down now in style," said one of the servants, who brought in some fresh logs which were piled up on the fire, and he shook the white flakes off his clothes.

"It will be a heavy fall before morning," said one of the men.

"Yes, it has been gathering for some days; it will be much warmer than it has been when it is all down."

"So it will -- so it will."

At that moment there was a knocking at the gate, and the dogs burst into a dreadful uproar from their kennels.

"Go, Robert," said Mr. Bradley "and see who it is that knocks such a night as this; it is not fit or safe that a dog should be out in lt"

The man went out, and shortly returned, saying, --

"So please you, sir, there is a traveller that has missed his way, and desires to know if he can obtain shelter here, or if any one can be found to guide him to the nearest inn."

"Bid him come in; we shall lose no warmth because there is one more before the fire."

The stranger entered, and said, --

"I have missed my way, and the snow comes down so thick and fast, and whirled in such eddies, that I fear, by myself, I should fall into some drift and perish before morning."

"Do not speak of it, sir," said Mr. Bradley; "such a night as this is a sufficient apology for the request you make and an inducement to me to grant it most willingly."

"Thanks," replied the stranger; "the welcome is most seasonable."

"Be seated, sir; take your seat by the ingle; it is warm."

The stranger seated himself, and seemed lost in reflection, as he gazed intently on the blazing logs. He was a robust man, with great whiskers and beard, and, to judge from his outward habiliments, he was a stout man.

Have you travelled far?"

"I have, sir."

"You appear to belong to the army, if I mistake not?"

"I do, sir."

There was a pause; the stranger seemed not inclined to speak of himself much; but Mr. Bradley continued, -- "Have you come from foreign service, sir? I presume you have."

# My Old Dog Sal by Jennifer Goltz

"Yes, I have not been in this country more than six days," I said. It was plenty of truth for the moment.

I followed him inside the house, pretending that I didn't know every inch of it. He gestured to a seat by the fire and took another one for himself. I kept my gaze on the flames, refusing eye contact with Ellen, with my old dog Sal.

My father held his hands up, warding off the warmth of the fire as much as benefiting from it. Two long years had bled away most of the enthusiasm and strength I remembered, or perhaps it was just the winter chill. I couldn't miss how dry and fragile he had become, brittle like tinder, too easily set ablaze. But he was still kind enough, still himself enough to welcome a cold stranger into his home. "What do you think? Is a peaceful solution even possible?" he asked.

I only wanted to plumb the depths of our own war, but with the words of the soldier I presented to him. "I have to believe in it," I said, "if only so that every son can come home." As I spoke, I stole a glance at Ellen but couldn't allow myself more, not until I knew where I stood with my father. Not until I knew if this glance could be followed by another and another.

The fact that she was here was a very good sign. My father hadn't punished her for our argument and no matter how all of this turned out, I could at least be grateful to him for that.

He sighed aloud, gaze still lost in the flames but mind clearly elsewhere. Was I getting to him? That was the man I hoped to uncover, the one I could get to, the one who couldn't help but feel. I didn't relent. "Do you have someone in the war? Someone you hold dear?"

He held his voice close, tight, almost a whisper. "No, I... not in the war. A son. I don't know where he is."

And like a reflex, the blame I hadn't entirely shaken flooded back. I tried to stare it down because, more than anything, I wanted to be done with this, the only real argument my father and I had ever had. "A runaway?" I asked, hoping it would encourage him to reveal his perspective. What was his version, after all?

"Family differences," he said with a finality that crushed me. Nothing about his guilt, his sorrow, the mistakes either of us had made. I contemplated leaving again, this time forever. But now that I was back in the same room with Ellen, I knew our tether was permanent. Perhaps I could snatch her up in one grand, romantic gesture, waltz her out into the night. How many dawns had I awakened with the scent of her raven hair still lingering in my mind? It couldn't be much harder to make a life for both of us than for one, and this time I'd let Sal follow me. I was swept up in plans for another escape before I fully realized it, but then my father spoke again and it changed everything. "They mean nothing now, those differences," he said. "If he's still alive. I wish I could see him again. Just once."

A long-forgotten smile unfurled before I could stifle it. All of that blame was jettisoned like ballast. "I'm sure he forgives you and wants to come home," I ventured, hope welling at the base of my throat, straining to break free.

He was too wrapped up in the fire and his regret to hear what I meant. But Sal, who had until now lain curled in an imperfect circle next to Ellen's perfect lap, recognized the hitch in my voice. He bounded across the room to me with a yelp, his heavy body bowing back and forth with the exuberant wags of his tail.

I pulled off my fake beard and removed my hat, letting Sal lick my face. "Glad to be home, boy," I whispered, finding the familiar spots under his ears that he most loved to have rubbed.

"It's Henry!" Ellen squealed, eyes glistening with tears.

She threw herself at me, gasping with relief. I grabbed her up, the sweet silk of her hair cascading across my face. Perhaps unable to wait, my father wrapped his powerful, trembling arms around us both, repeating in my ear, over and over, "you're home."

Ellen and I were married a month later, with my father's fervent blessing, surrounded by our adoring family. It was hard to believe I had ever huddled in sludge-slicked alleys, bitter and alone, certain this life was no longer within reach.

The wedding was magical. Ellen wore pale damask silk the exact blue of her eyes. She was radiant, her midnight black curls kissed with starlight as we waltzed under the moon.

***

Sir Francis Varney glanced at his watch. It indicated but five minutes to twelve o'clock, and he sprang to his feet. Even as he did so, a loud knocking at the principal entrance to his house awakened every echo within its walls.

* *

(Original Page 213 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

**Chapter XXXII:** Varney moved not now nor did he speak, but, like a statue, he stood with his unearthly looking eyes rivetted upon the door of the apartment. In a few moments one of his servants came, and said "Sir, a person is here, who says he wants to see you. He desired me to say, that he had ridden far, and that moments were precious when the tide of life was ebbing fast."

"Yes! yes!" gasped Varney; "admit him I know him! Bring him here? It is — an — old friend — of mine."

He sank into a chair, and still he kept his eyes fixed upon that door through which his visitor must come. Surely some secret of dreadful moment must be connected with him whom Sir Francis expected — dreaded — and yet dared not refuse to see. And now a footstep approaches — a slow and a solemn footstep — it pauses a moment at the door of the apartment, and then the servant flings it open, and a tall man enters. He is enveloped in the folds of a horseman's cloak, and there is the clank of spurs upon his heels as he walks into the room.

Varney rose again, but he said not a word; and for a few moments they stood opposite each other in silence. The domestic has left the room, and the door is closed, so that there was nothing to prevent them from conversing; and, yet, silent they continued for some minutes. It seemed as if each was most anxious that the other should commence the conversation first.

And yet there was nothing so very remarkable in the appearance of that stranger, which should entirely justify Sir Francis Varney, in feeling so much alarm at his presence. He certainly was a man past the prime of life; and he looked like one who had battled much with misfortune, and as if time had not passed so lightly over his brow, but that it had left deep traces of its progress.

The only thing positively bad about his countenance, was to be found in his eyes. There there was a most ungracious and sinister expression, a kind of lurking and suspicions look, as if he were always resolving in his mind some deep laid scheme, which might be sufficient to circumvent the whole of mankind.

Finding, probably, that Varney would not speak first, he let his cloak fall more loosely about him, and in a low, deep tone, he said, "I presume I was expected?"

"You were," said Varney. "It is the day, and it is the hour."

"You are right, I like to see you so mindful. You don't improve in looks since — "

"Hush — hush! no more of that; can we not meet without a dreadful allusion to the past? There needs nothing to remind me of it; and your presence here now shows that you are not forgetful. Speak not of that fearful episode. Let no words combine to place it in a tangible shape to human understanding. I cannot, dare not, hear you speak of that."

"It is well," said the stranger; "as you please. Let our interview be brief. You know my errand?"

"I do. So fearful a drag upon limited means, is not likely to be readily forgotten."

"Oh, you are too ingenious — too full of well laid schemes, and to apt and ready in their execution, to feel, as any fearful drag, the conditions of our bargain. Why do you look at me so earnestly?"

"Because," said Varney — and he trembled as he spoke — "because each lineament of your countenance brings me back to the recollection of the only scene in life that made me shudder, and which I cannot think of, even with the indifference of contempt. I see it all before my mind's eye, coming in frightful panoramic array, those incidents, which even to dream of, are sufficient to drive the soul to madness; the dread of this annual visit, hangs upon me like a dark cloud upon my very heart; it sits like some foul incubus, destroying its vitality and dragging me, from day to day, nearer to that tomb, from whence not as before, I can emerge."

# I am Mortal by Michael Bergquist

"You have been among the dead?" said the stranger.

Varney \- Aye.

Stranger \- And yet before mine own eye, thou stand a mortal man?

Varney \- Aye. I am mortal.

Stranger \- 'Twas I that drew you back to that world, which, being shown by thine linens, has had since that eventful period, shown but few charms to thee. By mine faith thou look like —

Varney \- Like mine self. Are these words not spoken upon this hour every year? So long 'fore thine arrival, haunted am I by such frightful remembrances, that such time must expire since thine leaving 'fore I to serenity am restored. Look upon me! Am I not an altered man?

Stranger \- In faith, thou art. No wish, have I, to bring about such remembrances. Yet, 'tis strange to me that such a man as thee should find himself so terribly altered by that event upon which thou speak.

Varney \- I hath walked through death, agony mine sole companion. Again and again has torture been upon that path to mine re-union of soul and body. I speak beyond the knowledge thou possess and in such action waste mine breath.

Stranger \- It may be true, yet like the moth which flutters about the flame, doth thou not appear to pride thee and feel satisfied in speaking of such things?

Varney \- Aye, 'tis true. Such images which fill my mind art like dark waters to a pool, and just as frightful to gaze upon. Stagnant is the pool from summer to summer. When I speak of this to thee, the pool appears thus drained and no longer must I disguise such horrors and contain them in mine self. When thou art gone, and hath been for some time, sleep comes on peacefully, but so soon leaves when that cursed time arrives when we art doomed to meet.

Stranger \- I understand. Thou art well lodged here?

Varney \- I hath ever kept mine word, and sent to thee, telling to thee where I am.

Stranger \- Aye, truly thou hast. No shadows of complaint do form to come against thee. There is no man could with more faith perform his bond as thou hast. Credit to thee is given and wishes that you may live evermore to still perform thine conditions.

Varney \- Darest not I to deceive you, though in keeping such faith, compelled I may become to deceive a hundred others.

Stranger \- No more hath I to say to that. Fortune seems your maiden and being so, thou hast not yet brought disappointment to me.

Varney \- And will not now. The horrid beast that is betrayal looks upon me with ominous eye. I dare not stare into and succumb to it.

Stranger - (Produces a book of bank notes and hands several of them to Varney) A thousand pence. Such is the agreement.

"It is to the very letter. I do not return to you a thousand thanks — we understand each other better than to waste time with idle compliment. Indeed I will go quite far as to say, truthfully, that did not my necessities require this amount from you, you should have the boon, for which you pay that price at a much cheaper rate."

# Varney the Vampire Cheat Sheet by Jacqueline Bryant

"Enough! Enough," Varney said. And I'm you agree. So many fancy words to tell such a simple story. X chapters before we meet our title character? Writers were paid by the word back in the Victorian Age, so it makes sense that the stories they told would go on forever and ever. But nowadays with Twitter and Facebook readers have been conditioned to like things shorter. Below is a brief interpretation of the text appearing midway through Chapter 32.

Key lines

"It is strange that your face should have been the last I saw, when the world closed upon me, and the first that met my eyes when I was again snatched back to life! Do you pursue still your dreadful trade?"

**Translation and interpretation:** Varney is asking the necromancer (and/or vampire) who brought him back from the dead if he does still bring people back from the dead.

""Yes" said the stranger, "for another year, and then, with such a moderate competence as fortune has assigned me, I retire, to make way for younger and abler spirits.""

**Translation and interpretation:** The stranger is retiring in a year and will visit Varney once more before he does.

"I do. It does appear to me most strange, that time should not have obliterated the effects which I thought would have ceased with their cause. You are no more the man that in my recollection you once were, than I am like a sporting child."

**Translation and interpretation:** All of that to say, "You as a person have changed but your appearance has not."

""I do. You know my situation in life. It is not one which offers me inducements to remain. In some other land, I shall win the respect and attention I may not hope for here. There my wealth will win many golden opinions; and casting, as best I may, the veil of forgetfulness over my former life, my declining years may yet be happy. This money, that I have had of you from time to time, has been more pleasantly earned than all beside, wrung, as it has been, from your fears, still have I taken it with less reproach. And now, farewell!""

**Translation and interpretation:** Varney has asked if the stranger will leave England and the stranger replied that he's too poor to retire in England, so yeah.

Themes

_Alienation_ —> the man Varney meets is never given a proper name, he is only referred to as the stranger.

_Wealth_ —> Varney feels as if paying off this man will buy him his life/freedom

_Powerlessness_ —> Varney feels trapped by the stranger and dreads when the stranger comes to visit but yet Varney makes sure that the stranger knows where to find it, as if Varney enjoys feeling powerless and trapped.

_Hope/Wishful thinking_ —> Varney desperately clings to the idea that he can have Flora Bannerworth as evidenced by the final line:

Then, with his hat in his hand, he passed out of his house, and appeared to be taking his way towards Bannerworth Hall.

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**Chapter XXXIII:** It was with the most melancholy aspect that anything human could well bear, that Sir Francis Varney took his lonely walk, although perhaps in saying so much, probably we are instituting a comparison which circumstances scarcely empower us to do; for who shall say that singular man, around whom a very atmosphere of mystery seemed to be perpetually increasing, was human?

Averse as we are to believe in the supernatural, or even to invest humanity with any preternatural powers, the more singular facts and circumstances surrounding the existence and the acts of that man bring to the mind a kind of shuddering conviction, that if he be indeed really mortal he still must possess some powers beyond ordinary mortality, and be walking the earth for some unhallowed purposes, such as ordinary men with ordinary attributes of human nature can scarcely guess at.

Silently and alone he took his way through that beautiful tract of country, comprehending such picturesque charms of hill and dale which lay between his home and Bannerworth Hall. He was evidently intent upon reaching the latter place by the shortest possible route, and in the darkness of that night, for the moon had not yet risen, he showed no slight acquaintance with the intricacies of that locality, that he was at all enabled to pursue so undeviatingly a track as that which he took.

He muttered frequently to himself low, indistinct words as he went, and chiefly did they seem to have reference to that strange interview he had so recently had with one who, from some combination of circumstances scarcely to be guessed at, evidently exercised a powerful control over him, and was enabled to make a demand upon his pecuniary resources of rather startling magnitude.

And yet, from a stray word or two, which were pronounced more distinctly, he did not seem to be thinking in anger over that interview; but it would appear that it rather had recalled to his remembrance circumstances of a painful and a degrading nature, which time had not been able entirely to obliterate from his recollection.

"Yes, yes," he said, as he paused upon the margin of the wood, to the confines of which he, or what seemed to be he, had once been chased by Marchdale and the Bannerworths — "yes, the very sight of that man recalls all the frightful pageantry of a horrible tragedy, which I can never — never forget. Never can it escape my memory, as a horrible, a terrific fact; but it is the sight of this man alone that can recall all its fearful minutia to my mind, and paint to my imagination, in the most vivid colours, every, the least particular connected with that time of agony. These periodical visits much affect me. For months I dread them, and for months I am but slowly recovering from the shocks they give me. 'But once more,' he says — 'but once more,' and then we shall not meet again. Well, well; perchance before that time arrives, I may be able to possess myself of those resources which will enable me to forestall his visit, and so at least free myself from the pang of expecting him."

He paused at the margin of the wood, and glanced in the direction of Bannerworth Hall. By the dim light which yet showed from out the light sky, he could discern the ancient gable ends, and turret-like windows; he could see the well laid out gardens, and the grove of stately firs that shaded it from the northern blasts, and, as he gazed, a strong emotion seemed to come over him, such as no one could have supposed would for one moment have possessed the frame of one so apparently unconnected with all human sympathies.

"I know this spot well," he said, "and my appearance here on that eventful occasion, when the dread of my approach induced a crime only second to murder itself, was on such a night as this, when all was so still and calm around, and when he who, at the merest shadow of my presence, rather chose to rush on death than be assured it was myself. Curses on the circumstances that so foiled me! I should have been most wealthy. I should have possessed the means of commanding the adulation of those who now hold me but cheaply: but still the time may come. I have a hope yet, and that greatness which I have ever panted for, that magician-like power over my kind, which the possession of ample means alone can give, may yet be mine."

Wrapping his cloak more closely around him, he strode forward with that long, noiseless step which was peculiar to him. Mechanically he appeared to avoid those obstacles of hedge and ditch which impeded his pathway. Surely he had come that road often, or he would not so easily have pursued his way. And now he stood by the edge of a plantation which in some measure protected from trespassers the more private gardens of the Hall, and there he paused, as if a feeling of irresolution had come over him, or it might be, as indeed it seemed from his subsequent conduct, that he had come without any fixed intention, or if with a fixed intention, without any regular plan of carrying it into effect.

# Varney Noir by Kelly Robinson

Surely he had come that road often, or he would not so easily have pursued his way.

"This is it," he said. "The Bannerworth joint." He eyeballed the swanky private garden on the other side of the bushes meant to keep jerks like him out of sight. Leaning against a lamp post, he fished out a deck of Luckies and torched a stick. "This place is lousy with topiary," he said. He dragged and puffed while his gears cranked. What was he even doing here? Goddamned topiary, for Christ's sake!

The lamp decided it needed a break. It sputtered once, then clocked out. The place was as black as a two-cent cup of coffee. Varney knew he should leg it, shouldn't even be here in the first place, but something was holding him like a roach in a glue trap. It was his gut. Even while his grey cells were saying "Take a powder," his damned gut was urging him on. And there was no blaming it on chili dogs this time. He hadn't chowed down at the greasy spoon since...

Since what? Since he'd become...a goon? An undead goon on a blood-drinking goof, skulking around creep joints like a gowed-up dope fiend looking for junk? But that's who he was, and that's what he needed. A fix. And that Bannerworth broad had just the stuff. The two of them had skated around before, but it was too long ago. He wasn't dizzy for the dame, just for the juice in her veins. Hell, he was worse than one of those juke joint hop-heads.

He was thinking too much. And while he was thinking he had a thought, a big thought, a thought that gave all the other thoughts the bum's rush. The king of thoughts. And the thought was this: he should be the kingpin of Bannerworth Hall. If he had to muscle the place apart piece by mother-lovin' piece. No matter who he had to chisel or chiv. No matter how many candy-ass topiaries he had to destroy. The dump would belch out its secrets, and he'd stand on the remains, by God.

And even then, he wasn't sure if he meant it. He wanted what he wanted, and yet was frozen like a pack of beef burgers in the back of the deep freeze at Joe's. He was ready to sob like a skirt when he heard footsteps. Not just any footsteps, but light, dainty, swell-sounding steps. Footsteps that sounded blonde. The type of footsteps that made a man visualize stockings and cup sizes. A sound that resonated in his hip pocket.

But what if it was someone else? A copper?

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The footstep advanced, and lower down he shrunk until his coward-heart beat against the very earth itself. He knew that he was unarmed, a circumstance rare with him, and only to be accounted for by the disturbance of his mind consequent upon the visit of that strange man to his house, those presence had awakened so many conflicting emotions.

Nearer and nearer still came that light footstep, and his deep-seated fears would not let him perceive that it was not the step of caution or of treachery, but owed its lightness to the natural grace and freedom of movement of its owner.

The moon must have arisen, although obscured by clouds, through which it cast but a dim radiance, for the night had certainly grown lighter; so that although there were no strong shadows cast, a more diffused brightness was about all things, and their outlines looked not so dancing, and confused the one with the other.

He strained his eyes in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and then his fears for his personal safety vanished, for he saw it was a female form that was slowly advancing towards him.

His first impulse was to rise, for with the transient glimpse he got of it, he knew that it must be Flora Bannerworth; but a second thought, probably one of intense curiosity to know what could possibly have brought her to such a spot at such a time restrained him, and he was quiet. But if the surprise of Sir Francis Varney was great to see Flora Bannerworth at such a time in such a place, we have no doubt, that with the knowledge which our readers have of her, their astonishment would more than fully equal his; and when we come to consider, that since that eventful period when the sanctity of her chamber had been so violated by that fearful midnight visitant, it must appear somewhat strange that she could gather courage sufficient to wander forth alone at such an hour.

Had she no dread of meeting that unearthly being? Did the possibility that she might fall into his ruthless grasp, not come across her mind with a shuddering consciousness of its probability? Had she no reflection that each step she took, was taking her further and further from those who would aid her in all extremities? It would seem not, for she walked onward, unheeding and apparently unthinking of the presence possible or probable, of that bane of her existence.

But let us look at her again. How strange and spectral-like she moves along; there seems no speculation in her countenance but with a strange and gliding step, she walks like some dim shadow of the past in that ancient garden. She is very pale, and on her brow there is the stamp of suffering; her dress is a morning robe, she holds it lightly round her, and thus she moves forward towards that summer-house which probably to her was sanctified by having witnessed those vows of pure affection which came from the lips of Charles Holland, about whose fate there now hung so great a mystery.

Has madness really seized upon the brain of that beautiful girl? Has the strong intellect really sunk beneath the oppression to which it has been subjected? Does she now walk forth with a disordered intellect, the queen of some fantastic realm, viewing the material world with eyes that are not of earth; shunning perhaps that which she should have sought, and, perchance, in her frenzy, seeking that which in a happier frame of mind she would have shunned.

Such might have been the impression of any one who had looked upon her for a moment, and who knew the disastrous scenes through which she had so recently passed; but we can spare our readers the pangs of such a supposition. We have bespoken their love for Flora Bannerworth, and we are certain that she has it; therefore would we spare them, even for a few brief moments, from imagining that cruel destiny had done its worst, and that the fine and beautiful spirit we have so much commended had lost its power of rational reflection. No; thank Heaven, such is not the case. Flora Bannerworth is not mad, but under the strong influence of some eccentric dream, which has pictured to her mind images which have no home but in the airy realms of imagination. She has wandered forth from her chamber to that sacred spot where she had met him she loved, and heard the noblest declaration of truth and constancy that ever flowed from human lips.

Yes, she is sleeping; but, with a precision such as the somnambulist so strangely exerts, she trod the well-known paths slowly, but surely, towards that summer's bower, where her dreams had not told her lay crouching that most hideous spectre of her imagination, Sir Francis Varney. He who stood between her and her heart's best joy; he who had destroyed all hope of happiness, and who had converted her dearest affections into only so many causes of greater disquietude than the blessings they should have been to her. Oh! could she have imagined but for one moment that he was there, with what an eagerness of terror would she have flown back again to the shelter of those walls, where at least was to be found some protection from the fearful vampyre's embrace, and where she would be within hail of friendly hearts, who would stand boldly between her and every thought of harm.

# Vegan & Varney by Renate Smith

"I object!!! "

"Object on what grounds?? As I have recently become vegan, I eschew the violence you propose. My tongue is my weapon. I need no other tool. Spit your venom at me...I will not cower. "

"Vegan??!!! What a preposterous lifestyle you lead!! My bloodlust is somewhat stifled. Can you not defer just a teeny bit to my craving for blood? It is a small thing to ask, I assure you. Just a nick and it will be over. "

"Nonsense!! It is the only method I can agree to. Use your verbs, your adjectives, your pronouns. None will phase me. I am made of molten lead and twice as strong. I am impervious to any trickery of tongue or conjuring of conjugation. However, if this frightens you..."

"Words!!! Please!!! Words are merely a shroud for cowardice. Blood is where it's at, man!! Blood, muscle, fortitude and a bit of spittle. "

"I moisturize. I bet you didn't realize that. Moisturizing is highly important for a vampire...er...vegan...keeps the skin supple, you see and doubles as a sun-block. My skin belies my age. I have been using wordplay and witty repartee for centuries now. Don't believe me? Look at my drivers' license. It's holographic...see, isn't that neat how I disappear? "

"Enough pontificating!! Swords or words...which is it? Rapier wit or rapiers? "

"If it must be swords, so be it, though it is a coward's way out. Scared of your inadequacies, perhaps? "

"I beg to differ. While words can slice and decimate, a sword is quicker. "

"You do realize I am among the first vegan vampires and that this goes against all logic? For this, I am hunted. Is this any way to unlive? "

"Ahhh...then your strength is waning? "

"Not for long" Varney sneered, clenching the man's neck between his teeth. He felt the blood seep out and engorge his veins.

"Touche" the man murmured as he collapsed in limp recognition.

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**Chapter XXXIV:** Varney now paused again, and he seemed for a few moments to gloat over the helpless condition of her whom he had so determined to make his victim; there was no look of pity in his face, no one touch of human kindness could be found in the whole expression of those diabolical features; and if he delayed making the attempt to strike terror into the heart of that unhappy, but beautiful being, it could not be from any relenting feeling, but simply, that he wished for a few moments to indulge his imagination with the idea of perfecting his villany more effectually.

And they who would have flown to her rescue, — they, who for her would have chanced all accidents, ay, even life itself, were sleeping, and knew not of the loved one's danger. She was alone, and far enough from the house, to be driven to that tottering verge where sanity ends, and the dream of madness, with all its terrors, commences But still she slept — if that half-waking sleep could indeed be considered as any thing akin to ordinary slumber — still she slept, and called mournfully upon her lover's name; and in tender, beseeching accents, that should have melted even the stubbornest hearts did she express her soul's conviction that he loved her still. The very repetition of the name of Charles Holland seemed to be galling to Sir Francis Varney. He made a gesture of impatience, as she again uttered it, and then stepping forward, he stood within a pace of where she sat, and in a fearfully distinct voice he said, —

"Flora Bannerworth, awake! awake! and look upon me, although the sight blast you, and drive you to despair. Awake! awake!"

It was not the sound of the voice which aroused her from that strange slumber. It is said that those who sleep in that eccentric manner, are insensible to sounds, but that the lightest touch will arouse them in an instant; and so it was in this case, for Sir Francis Varney, laid upon the hand of Flora two of his cold, corpse-like looking fingers. A shriek burst from her lips, and although the confusion of her memory and conceptions was immense, yet she was awake, and the somnambulistic trance had left her. "Help, help!" she cried. "Gracious Heavens! Where am I?"

Varney spoke not, but he spread out his long, thin arms and seemed almost to encircle her, while he touched her not, so that escape became a matter of impossibility, and to attempt to do so, must have been to have thrown herself into his hideous embrace. She could obtain but a single view of the face and figure of him who opposed her progress, but, slight as that view was, it more than sufficed. The extremity of fear came across her, and she sat like one paralysed; the only evidence of existence she gave consisting in the words,"The vampyre — the vampyre!"

"Yes," said Varney, "the vampyre. You know me, Flora Bannerworth — Varney, the vampyre; your midnight guest at that feast of blood. I am the vampyre. Look upon me well; shrink not from my gaze. You will do well not to shun me, but to speak to me in such a shape that I may learn to love you."

Flora shook as in a convulsion, and she looked as white as any marble statue. "This is horrible!" she said. "Why does not Heaven grant me the death I pray for?"

"Hold!" said Varney. "Dress not in the false colours of the imagination that which in itself is sufficiently terrific to need none of the allurements of romance. Flora Bannerworth, you are persecuted — persecuted by me, the vampyre. It is my fate to persecute you; for there are laws to the invisible as well as the visible creation that force even such a being as I am to play my part in the great drama of existence. I am a vampyre; the sustenance that supports this frame must be drawn from the life-blood of others."

"Oh, horror — horror!"

"But most I do affect the young and beautiful. It is from the veins of such as thou art, Flora Bannerworth, that I would seek the sustenance I'm compelled to obtain for my own exhausted energies. But never yet, in all my long career — a career extending over centuries of time — never yet have I felt the soft sensation of human pity till I looked on thee, exquisite piece of excellence. Even at the moment when the reviving fluid from the gushing fountain of your veins was warming my heart, I pitied and I loved you. Oh, Flora! even I can now feel the pang of being what I am!" There was a something in the tone, a touch of sadness in the manner, and a deep sincerity in those words, that in some measure disabused Flora of her fears.

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She sobbed hysterically, and a gush of tears came to her relief, as, in almost inaudible accents, she said,"May the great God forgive even you!"

"I have need of such a prayer," exclaimed Varney — "Heaven knows I have need of such a prayer. May it ascend on the wings of the night air to the throne of Heaven. May it be softly whispered by ministering angels to the ear of Divinity. God knows I have need of such a prayer!"

"To hear you speak in such a strain," said Flora, "calms the excited fancy, and strips even your horrible presence of some of its maddening influence."

"Hush," said the vampire, "you must hear more — you must know more ere you speak of the matters that have of late exercised an influence of terror over you."

"But how came I here?" said Flora, "tell me that. By what more than earthly power have you brought me to this spot? If I am to listen to you, why should it not be at some more likely time and place?"

"I have powers," said Varney, assuming from Flora's words, that she would believe such arrogance — "I have powers which suffice to bend many purposes to my will — powers incidental to my position, and therefore is it I have brought you here to listen to that which should make you happier than you are."

"I will attend," said Flora. "I do not shudder now; there's an icy coldness through my veins, but it is the night air — speak, I will attend you."

"I will. Flora Bannerworth, I am one who has witnessed time's mutations on man and on his works, and I have pitied neither; I have seen the fall of empires, and sighed not that high-reaching ambition was toppled in the dust. I have seen the grave close over the young and the beautiful — those whom I have doomed by my insatiable thirst for human blood to death, long ere the usual span of life was past, but I never loved till now."

"Can such a being as you," said Flora, "be susceptible of such an earthly passion? "

"And wherefore not?"

"Love is either too much of heaven, or too much of earth to find a home with thee."

"No, Flora, no! it may be that the feeling is born of pity. I will save you — I will save you from a continuance of the horrors that are assailing you."

"Oh! then may heaven have mercy in your hour of need." "Amen!" "And may you even yet know peace and joy above."

"It is a faint and straggling hope — but if achieved, it will be through the interposition of such a spirit as thine, Flora, which has already exercised so benign an influence upon my tortured soul, as to produce the wish within my heart, to do at least one unselfish action."

"That wish," said Flora, "shall be father to the deed. Heaven has boundless mercy yet."

"For thy sweet sake, I will believe so much, Flora Bannerworth; it is a condition with my hateful race, that if we can find one human heart to love us, we are free. If, in the face of Heaven, you will consent to be mine, you will snatch me from a continuance of my frightful doom; and for your pure sake, and on your merits, shall I yet know heavenly happiness. Will you be mine?"

A cloud swept from off the face of the moon, and a slant ray fell upon the hideous features of the vampire. He looked as if just rescued from some charnel-house, and endowed for a space with vitality to destroy all beauty and harmony in nature, and drive some benighted soul to madness. "No, no, no!" shrieked Flora, "never!"

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"Enough," said Varney, "I am answered. It was a bad proposal. I am a vampyre still."

"Spare me! spare me!"

"Blood!"

Flora sank upon her knees, and uplifted her hands to heaven. "Mercy, mercy!" she said.

"Blood!" said Varney, and she saw his hideous, fang-like teeth. "Blood! Flora Bannerworth, the vampyre's motto. I have asked you to love me, and you will not — the penalty be yours."

"No, no!" said Flora. "Can it be possible that even you, who have already spoken with judgment and precision, can be so unjust? you must feel that, in all respects, I have been a victim, most gratuitously — a sufferer, while there existed no just cause that I should suffer; one who has been tortured, not from personal fault, selfishness, lapse of integrity, or honourable feelings, but because you have found it necessary, for the prolongation of your terrific existence, to attack me as you have done. By what plea of honour, honesty, or justice, can I be blamed for not embracing an alternative which is beyond all human control? — I cannot love you."

"Then be content to suffer. Flora Bannerworth, will you not, even for a time, to save yourself and to save me, become mine?"

"Horrible proposition!"

"Then am I doomed yet, perhaps, for many a cycle of years, to spread misery and desolation around me; and yet I love you with a feeling which has in it more of gratefulness and unselfishness than ever yet found a home within my breast. I would fain serve you, although you cannot save me; there may yet be a chance, which shall enable you to escape from the persecution of my presence."

"Oh! glorious chance!" said Flora. "Which way can it come? tell me how I may embrace it and such grateful feelings as a heart-stricken mourner can offer to him, who has rescued her from her deep affliction, shall yet be yours."

"Hear me, then, Flora Bannerworth, while I state to you some particulars of mysterious existence, of such beings as myself, which never yet have been breathed to mortal ears."

Flora looked intently at him, and listened, while, with a serious earnestness Of manner, he detailed to her something of the physiology of the singular class of beings which the concurrence of all circumstances tended to make him appear.

"Flora," he said, "it is not that I am so enamoured of an existence to be prolonged only by such frightful means, which induces me to become a terror to you or to others. Believe me, that if my victims, those whom my insatiable thirst for blood make wretched, suffer much, I, the vampyre, am not without my moments of unutterable agony. But it is a mysterious law of our nature, that as the period approaches when the exhausted energies of life require a new support from the warm, gushing fountain of another's veins, the strong desire to live grows upon us, until, in a paroxysm of wild insanity, which will recognise no obstacles, human or divine, we seek a victim."

"A fearful state!" said Flora.

"It is so; and, when the dreadful repast is over, then again the pulse beats healthfully, and the wasted energies of a strange kind of vitality are restored to us, we become calm again, but with that calmness comes all the horror, all the agony of reflection, and we suffer far more than tongue can tell."

"You have my pity," said Flora; "even you have my pity."

"I might well demand it, if such a feeling held a place within your breast. I might well demand your pity, Flora Bannerworth, for never crawled an abject wretch upon the earth's rotundity, so pitiable as I."

# Does God hear the prayers of monsters like myself? by Justus Stone

"Go on, go on."

She looks at me with such desperation. In this moment, I understand just how horrible my existence is. "Once we've drank from someone, we feel drawn back to them again and again." Her eyes hold such terror. I must make her understand. "There's still humanity left within me. And that humanity loves you Flora. I will save you."

"Then tell me. Please..." Her voice wavers on hysteria. "How can I escape."

"Leave this place. Do it as quickly as you can and never look back. Circumstances trap me here, I won't be able to come after you. Leave me behind. It's the only way to escape sharing my curse." My heart trembles with the words. Is it because of love I want her to stay, or to sate the hunger?

"But I need to know..." She won't hold my gaze. Her hands fidget and tremble. What more could she ask that would have her so frightened? "Is it true that after being bitten, a person is doomed to become a vampire after death?"

"That is the usual method." I race to say the next words. "But I assure you, you are safe."

"Safe?" Her eyes fill with doubt. "Say the word again. But only if it's true."

"Safe." I whisper it like a prayer. Maybe it is. Does God hear the prayers of monsters like myself? "You're safe. A victim must be attacked numerous times, and eventually die from an attack, before they will change." My gut twists with guilt. "I haven't... been with you enough for that to happen."

There's relief in her eyes, and anger. I want to reach out to her, stroke my fingers through the softness of her hair. But I know she would recoil. And that's a rejection I just can't face.

"I understand. Then I have no choice but to leave. But can even the distance of continents and oceans save me?"

"It's fine." No, it's not. I don't want to lose her. "For now, my thirst is satisfied. I'm calm, I can see clearly. But if you wait too long and stay too close... In just a few months I'll hunger. If you remain, no bars or doors of steel could keep me from taking you."

"You don't need to say anything more." Flora shudders, "I have all the incentive I need."

"You will leave Bannerworth Hall?"

"Yes." She looks about the room with a growing look of disdain "There's no reason to stay. Nothing left here but rooms with painful memories. I will urge my mother and my brothers, all to leave. We'll find a distant place to start again. There even we will learn to think of you with more of sorrow than of anger — more pity than reproach — more curiosity than loathing.

# Flora's Legendary Clumsiness By Shannon Wedge

"Be it so," said the vampyre; and he clasped his hands, as if with a thankfulness that he had done so much towards restoring peace at least to one, who, in consequence of his acts, had felt such exquisite despair. "Be it so; and even I will hope that the feelings which have induced so desolated and so isolated a being as myself to endeavour to bring peace to one human heart, will plead for me, trumpet-tongued, to Heaven!" Varney declared, looking for all the world like he'd just pronounced an edict that would withstand the ages.

"I'm sure it will," said Flora. As she spoke she gave Varney a speculative look. Until this very moment Flora hadn't given him serious consideration, and had felt his interest in her was quite shallow. Hadn't he only been subtly courting her for her blood? But at the moment he sounded as though he had more interest in her heart than its function as an engine to pump the life elixir though her frail body. Maybe he'd be more exciting to bed than Charles.

"Do you think so?" Varney asked. His eyes were darker than before, as if he too sensed a fission in the room.

"I do," Flora said carefully. She was afraid that if she gave it too much attention the spark between them might die a premature death. "And I'll pray that these thoughts will give way to support of our cause."

The vampire seemed moved by her words, and she wondered if there was blood enough in him after his last feed to give him the same pleasant stirring of the nether regions as she currently felt. Looking away, as if the tension between them had made him suddenly overwrought, he added, "Flora, you know that this spot has been the scene of a catastrophe fearful to look back upon, in the annals of your family?"

"I know," Flora declared, not enjoying the sudden turn in conversation. She'd at any moment expected him to make a heartfelt declaration about why he was interested in her, as pedestrian and clumsy as she was, but now he was bringing up a past best not dwelled upon. "My grandmother told me all about it, and it makes me quite sad. I'd rather not speak of it."

"Nor would I oppress you with it," he said, and for a moment she hoped that he would finally get around to kissing her. But instead he turned away with a flamboyant flounce. "Your father, here, on this very spot, committed that desperate act which brought him uncalled for to the judgment seat of God. I have a strange, wild curiosity upon such subjects. Will you, in return for the good that I have tried to do you, gratify it?"

"I don't know what you mean," Flora said, growing annoyed. Maybe she'd read him wrong. Perhaps the passionate look in his eyes spoke of his commitment to his cause rather than interest in her person. That was quite disappointing.

"To be more explicit, then, do you remember the day on which your father breathed his last?" Varney asked solemnly.

Her eyes widened in surprise. Was he really asking her that? "All too well."

"Did you see him or converse with him shortly before that desperate act was committed?"

"No. He locked himself away in his room."

"Ha!" Varney cried, and she nearly punched him. "What chamber?"

"The one I slept in last night." She looked at him through narrowed eyes. Did his skin...sparkle? Maybe just a little? Perhaps he'd gotten into the makeup she'd used for clubbing the month before. If he wasn't secretly in an emo band...Without being aware of it, Flora nodded to herself, thinking she'd figured him out.

"Yes, yes; the one with the portrait that speaking portrait the eyes of which seem to challenge an intruder as he enters the apartment."

"That's the one," she said, growing bored. She was a fool to have convinced herself that she'd grown tired of Charles. Charles had quite a hairy back, he might yet have something of the otherworldly-ness that had briefly drawn her to the vampyre...

"For hours shut up there!" Varney said. "And from thence he wandered to the garden, where, in this summer-house, he breathed his last?"

"Hmm?" she asked, distracted by a daydream of being ravished by Charles after he grew fur by moonlight. "Sure."

"Then, Flora, ere I bid you adieu!"

She hadn't even figured out what his problem was when a heavy-footed Henry appeared in the doorway.

"Now," her brother cried, "for revenge! I'm going to wipe your unnatural existence from the face of the earth!"

Flora thought this was quite over the top and decided to let them work it out. She pushed past her brother, who then brandished a sword at the vampire. "Where the heck did you get that?" she demanded to know, but he ignored her.

He may have regretted it when Flora's legendary clumsiness made her trip, and he had to twist away to keep from impaling his own sister. "Damn it, Flora!" Henry swore, and pushed her away only to have her feet tangle in his and trip him as well.

Varney seemed to sense that the moment they were distracted by trying to rise from the floor was his best chance of escape, and instantly made ready to leave. To spring, however, up the seat which Flora had vacated, and to dash out some of the flimsy and rotten wood-work at the back of the summer-house by the propulsive power of his whole frame, was the work of a moment; and before Henry could free himself from the clinging embrace of Flora, Varney, the vampyre was gone, and there was no greater chance of his capture than on a former occasion, when he was pursued in vain from the Hall to the wood, in the intricacies of which he was so entirely lost.

# Does Anybody Even Read the Middle of a 500 Page Victorian Vampire Novel Remix? By Jason Boog

It has been seen during the progress of our tale, that its action has been tolerably confined to Bannerworth Hall, its adjacent meadows...

And THAT is the exact moment when Thomas Preskett Prest got bored with his novel back in the mid 19th Century, losing track of his meandering plot and indecisive characters. "Tolerably confined," he wrote, but what he really meant was "Things have gotten pretty boring back at Bannerworth Hall, I have to write about something else before I burn my house down and jump in the lake."

Thomas Preskett Prest was a penny dreadful novelist, writing pulp fiction for Victorian audiences for a pitiful writing wage. He got paid to keep stories going as long as possible, to generate as much content as possible. In _The Vampire in 19th Century Literature_ , literary scholar Carol A. Senf described the book: "Varney was written at breakneck speed for an audience apparently more interested in fast pace and galloping suspense than in coherence or subtle character development. It was, despite its flaws, one of the most popular works of the age, going on for 868 pages until the publisher finally insisted that its author put Varney permanently to rest."

While obsessing over word count, Thomas Preskett Prest lost track of everything else. Chapters 41, 42 and 43 simply don't exist, like the author or publisher or somebody just forgot. But I don't think anybody forgot. I think the novelist got wrapped up in the insane momentum of his penny dreadful job and kept on writing. You could find one hundred similar intentional mistakes in this book. I chopped the original manuscript to pieces for the remix contest—mercifully ending the struggling duel subplot in Varney the Vampire so we could get to the part where the villagers try to burn his house down.

I am writing this during National Novel Writing Month, an annual writing marathon where millions try to write 50,000 words in a single month. That is some serious sickness that drives us to write and write and write for no good reason.

Thomas Preskett Prest had the same sickness, scribbling his pages even when he loses track of roman numerals and gets bored with his own plot. I think he would have appreciated our remix, amazed by how a movie script or haiku or TV show or other magical device could speed up his tortured prose.

And here I am, scribbling with a stylus on a magic tablet computer screen that translates my handwriting into text, living the science fiction life, but the underlying sickness is exactly the same as a 19th Century penny dreadful writer. From Thomas Preskett Prest to pulp fiction writers to bloggers to the remixers on this project, we write because we have no other choice except write.

Could he have ever imagined that somebody would lovingly rewrite his story 160 years after he wrote it? Will anybody read our digital work 160 years from now, and, if they do, what mind-boggling device will they use to read it?

Staring at this story way way way past my bedtime, I felt Thomas Preskett Prest's ghost fingers touch my shoulder. Will anybody read what I wrote? Most scribblers worry about some variation of that question, but there is something comforting about nearly 200 writers deciding to revive an abandoned vampire novel. We have not ransacked his grave of Thomas Preskett Prest; we have honored him.

"Will anybody read what I wrote?" Thomas Preskett Prest worried 160 years ago, trying to imagine future readers. Tonight I realized: we are the future.

# A Little Sort of Something By Michelle

Oh, that artful Mrs. Chillingworth! To well she knew what was the matter, yet she pretended to be so oblivious upon the subject.

"Good God!" cried Mr. Chillingworth as he started up in bed,

"What's all that?"

"All what?"

"All what! Do you mean to say heard nothing?"

"Well, I think I did hear a little sort of something."

"A little sort of something?" It shook the house"

"Well, well, never mind it's no business of ours."

"Yes, but it may be, though it's all very well to say 'go to sleep'."

That happens to be a thing I can't do. There's something not quite right about it.

"Well, what's that to you?"

"Perhaps nothing, but, perhaps, everything."

Mr. Chillingworth sprang from his bed and starts to get dressed, a process which he executed with considerable rapidity which was much accelerated by two or three supplementary shouts from the people below.

Then in a temporary lull, a loud voice shouted "Down with the vampire...down with the vampire!" The truth in an instant burst over the mind of Mr. Chillingworth and turning to his wife, he exclaimed "I understand it now, You've been gossiping about Sir Francis Varney and have caused all this chaos." "I gossip! Well, I never! Lay it on me it is sure to be my fault I might have known that beforehand I always am."

"But you must have spoken of it/"

"Who have I got to speak to about it?"

"Did you or did you not?"

"Who should I tell?"

Mr. Chillingworth was dressed and he hastened down and entered the street with great desperation. He had a hope that he might be enabled to disperse the crowd and yet be in time to keep his appointment at the duel.

His appearance was healed with another shout, for it was considered of course, that he had come to join in the attack on Sir Francis Varney. He found assembled a much more considerable mob than he had imagined and to his alarm he found many armed with all sorts of weapons.

"Hurrah!" cried a great lumpy-looking fellow, who seemed half mad with the prospect of a disturbance. "Hurrah, here's the doctor, he'll tell us about it while we go along" "For heaven's sake," said Mr. Chillingworth "stop! What are you to do all of you?

* *

(Original Page 228 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Hold — hold! this is folly. Let me implore you all to return to your homes, or you will get into serious trouble on this subject."

This was a piece of advice not at all likely to be adopted; and when the mob found that Mr. Chillingworth was not disposed to encourage and countenance it in its violence, it gave another loud shout of defiance, and moved off through the long straggling streets of the town in a direction towards Sir Francis Varney's house.

It is true that what were called authorities of the town had become alarmed, and were stirring, but they found themselves in such a frightful minority, that it became out of the question for them to interfere with any effect to stop the lawless proceedings of the rioters, so that the infuriated populace had it all their own way, and in a straggling, disorderly looking kind of procession they moved off, vowing vengeance as they went against Varney the vampyre.

Hopeless as Mr. Chillingworth thought it was to interfere with any degree of effect to stop the lawless proceedings of the mob, he still could not reconcile it to himself to be absent from a scene which he now felt certain had been produced by his own imprudence, so he went with the crowd, endeavouring, as he did, by every argument that could be suggested to him to induce them to abstain from the acts of violence they contemplated. He had a hope, too, that when they reached Sir Francis Varney's, finding him not within, as probably would be the case, as by the time he would have started to meet Henry Bannerworth on the ground, to fight the duel, he might induce the mob to return and forgo their meditated violence.

And thus was it that, urged on by the multitude of persons, the unhappy surgeon was expiating, in both mind and person, the serious mistakes he had committed in trusting a secret to his wife.

Let it not be supposed that we for one moment wish to lay down a general principle as regards the confiding secrets to ladies, because from the beginning of the world it has become notorious how well they keep them, and with what admirable discretion, tact, and forethought this fairest portion of humanity conduct themselves.

We know how few Mrs. Chillingworths there are in the world, and have but to regret that our friend the doctor should, in his matrimonial adventure, have met with such a specimen.

—

# The Popular Riot by Blue Christian Winterhawk

**Chapter XL:** For too long, these people's lives had been colored by some strange and difficult darkness. Some shadow that hovered at the peripheral of their days and nights, and now matter how quickly one might look, there the shadow remained, always on the edges and without definition.

But now, the darkness could be named.

We will not blame Mr. Chillingworth for confiding in his wife a truth too large to be contained by one man or one woman, or even by sixteen.

All things have a breaking point, and the village was as close as he had ever seen to reaching it. He could see the cracks widening in the forms of fear and stress and anger, engulfing them in a certain kind of madness. It was in the way they moved. The way they shouted. He threaded his way through the mob hoping to impart some logic, some calmness - anything to stem this tide. Yet, they would not listen. It was then that he discovered a different sort of fear beginning to grow inside himself.

Human nature truly delights in the marvelous, and when this delight is wedded to ignorance and unbridled imagination; conjecture quickly becomes conviction. That dim and uncertain lore concerning vampyres, most likely originating from the night-fire tales of old Germany, had spread itself slowly and insidiously across all lands. A black honey poured into the ear of the civilized world.

The crowd swallowed him up as they pulsed forward and on to the Varney estate. It occurred to the doctor that no other person in any other land could so easily and rightfully fit the role of vampyre like that of Sir Francis Varney.

The _ghoul_ of the Far East is but the same being, tailored to suit habits and localities; and the _sema_ of the Scandinavians is again the vampyre, but of a more primitive race. A manifestation of morbid beliefs, which gives rise to the notion that the dead have always walked among the living, with all the frightful insignia and corruption of the grave about them.

In England these ideas are less commonplace, still there have been stories told of such midnight visitants; so that Mrs. Chillingworth, when she shared her husband's tale, did so as a woman knowledgeable and well versed in the histories and solutions regarding such creatures.

When she said that the vampyre must be treated to a humane death, the women made the sign of the cross and agreed. When she told them with the air of authority that a sharpened stake must be driven into the torso of Sir Francis Varney, lest the countryside be given over to the works of a devil, they understood her completely. And when she concluded tea and thanked them for coming, all sixteen ladies had rose at once and made their way out the door to find their homes and husbands.

Mr. Chillingworth pushed his way through to the head of the mob and turned to address them. Suddenly, a verse from his youth sprung to mind - _Imperio igitur tibi, ne in terram meam ascendas, nec vestes nec membra dominatoris tui madefacere praesumas!_

'Therefore, I order you not to rise onto my land, nor to wet the clothes or body of your Lord!'

King Cnut of the Danes. He had said it as he tried to command the sea, which listened not and left him soaked and disconsolate on the rocky coastline. The doctor gazed for a moment at the procession and prepared himself for deluge.

To the angry townsfolk, his very presence was a sort of confirmation to the whole affair. In vain he begged. In vain he argued and prayed that they might go back. And in vain he declared that this was a matter of law and if there should be any truth to the claims leveled against Sir Francis Varney, justice should be sought there.

Those who could hear him paid no mind to his pleas or else they yelled for him to remove himself, while those who were more distant heard him not at all, and instead thought him to be leading the crowd forward to the righteous destruction of the vampyre.

The doctor kept his place at the forefront, beseeching them still. He knew each and every one of them. He had delivered more than a few of them at birth. Set their limbs. Cured their ills. Eased them with powders and syrups into life after death.

None of it mattered. Or perhaps it was for those reasons that he was not being dragged through the streets at this very moment. Perhaps he still would be.

This is what occupied his thoughts as they converged on the door to the great Hall that belonged to the house of Sir Francis. Someone seized upon the iron knocker set into the door and pounded until his arm grew tired, then made way for the next person to take a turn. This went on for some time until the door was swung open to reveal a knot of terrified servants.

"Varney the vampyre — Death to the vampyre!" cried a hundred voices.

The bewildered servants looked to the doctor, the only person who seemed to have not gone completely mad; and though he knew Varney was not in, he said at last, "Ah, yes - might we have a word with your master?"

* *

(Original Page 230 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

The servants were too terrified to speak for some moments, as they saw such a tumultuous assemblage seeking their master, while so singular a name was applied to him.

At length, one more bold than the rest contrived to stammer out, —?"My good people, Sir Francis Varney is not at home. He took an early breakfast, and has been out nearly an hour." The mob paused a moment in indecision, and then one of the foremost cried, —?"Who'd suppose they'd own he was at home! He's hiding somewhere of course; let's pull him out."

"Ah, pull him out! — pull him out!" cried many voices. A rush was made into the house, and in a very few minutes its chambers were ransacked, and all its hidden places carefully searched, with the hope of discovering the hidden form of Sir Francis Varney.

The servants felt that, with their inefficient strength, to oppose the proceedings of an assemblage which seemed to be unchecked by all sort of law or reason would be madness; they therefore only looked on, with wonder and dismay, satisfied certainly in their own minds that Sir Francis would not be found, and indulging in much conjecture as to what would be the result of such violent and unexpected proceedings.

Mr. Chillingworth hoped that time was gained, and that some sort of indication of what was going on would reach the unhappy object of popular detestation sufficiently early to enable him to provide for his own safety.

He knew he was breaking his own engagement to be present at the duel between Henry Bannerworth and Sir Francis Varney, and, as that thought recurred to him, he dreaded that his professional services might be required on one side or the other; for he knew, or fancied he knew, that mutual hatred dictated the contest; and he thought that if ever a duel had taken place which was likely to be attended with some disastrous result, that was surely the one.

But how could he leave, watched and surrounded as he was by an infuriated multitude — how could he hope but that his footsteps would be dogged, or that the slightest attempt of his to convey a warning to Sir Francis Varney, would not be the means of bringing down upon his head the very danger he sought to shield him from.

In this state of uncertainty, then, did our medical man remain, a prey to the bitterest reflections, and full of the direst apprehensions, without having the slightest power of himself to alter so disastrous a train of circumstances.

Dissatisfied with their non-success, the crowd twice searched the house of Sir Francis Varney, from the attics to the basement; and then, and not till then, did they begin reluctantly to believe that the servants must have spoken the truth.

"He's in the town somewhere," cried one. "Let's go back to the town."

It is strange how suddenly any mob will obey any impulse, and this perfectly groundless supposition was sufficient to turn their steps back again in the direction whence they came, and they had actually, in a straggling sort of column, reached half way towards the town, when they encountered a boy, whose professional pursuit consisted in tending sheep very early of a morning, and who at once informed them that he had seen Sir Francis Varney in the wood, half way between Bannerworth Hall and his own home.

This event at once turned the whole tide again, and with renewed clamours, carrying Mr. Chillingworth along with them, they now rapidly neared the real spot, where, probably, had they turned a little earlier, they would have viewed the object of their suspicion and hatred.

But, as we have already recorded, the advancing throng was seen by the parties on the ground where the duel could scarcely have been said to have been fought; and then had Sir Francis Varney dashed into the wood, which was so opportunely at hand to afford him a shelter from his enemies, and from the intricacies of which — well acquainted with them as he doubtless was, — he had every chance of eluding their pursuit.

* *

(Original Page 231 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

The whole affair was a great surprise to Henry end his friends, when they saw such a string of people advancing, with such shouts and imprecations; they could not, for the life of them, imagine what could have excited such a turn out among the ordinarily industrious and quiet inhabitants of a town, remarkable rather for the quietude and steadiness of its population than for any violent outbreaks of popular feeling.

"What can Mr. Chillingworth be about," said Henry, "to bring such a mob here? has he taken leave of his senses?"

"Nay," said Marchdale; "look again; he seems to be trying to keep them back, although ineffectually, for they will not be stayed."

"D — -e," said the admiral, "here's a gang of pirates; we shall be boarded and carried before we know where we are, Jack."

"Ay ay, sir," said Jack.

"And is that all you've got to say, you lubber, when you see your admiral in danger? You'd better go and make terms with the enemy at once."

"Really, this is serious," said Henry; "they shout for Varney. Can Mr. Chillingworth have been so mad as to adopt this means of stopping the duel?"

"Impossible," said Marchdale; "if that had been his intention, he could have done so quietly, through the medium of the civil authorities."

"Hang me!" exclaimed the admiral, "if there are any civil authorities; they talk of smashing somebody. What do they say, Jack? I don't hear quite so well as I used."

"You always was a little deaf," said Jack.?"What?" "A little deaf, I say." "Why, you lubberly lying swab, how dare you say so?" "Because you was."

"You slave-going scoundrel!"

"For Heaven's sake, do not quarrel at such a time as this!" said Henry; "we shall be surrounded in a moment. Come, Mr. Marchdale, let you and I visit these people and ascertain what it is that has so much excited their indignation."

"Agreed," said Marchdale; and they both stepped forward at a rapid pace, to meet the advancing throng.

The crowd which had now approached to within a short distance of the expectant little party, was of a most motley description, and its appearance, under many circumstances, would cause considerable risibility. Men and women were mixed indiscriminately together, and in the shouting, the latter, if such a thing were possible, exceeded the former, both in discordance and energy.

Every individual composing that mob carried some weapon calculated for defence, such as flails, scythes, sickles, bludgeons, &., and this mode of arming caused them to wear a most formidable appearance; while the passion that superstition had called up was strongly depicted in their inflamed features. Their fury, too, had been excited by their disappointment, and it was with concentrated rage that they now pressed onward.

# Varney the Vampyre in Verse by Corrine Bielejeski

The calm and steady advance of Henry and Mr. Marchdale to meet the advancing throng, seemed to have the effect of retarding their progress a little, and they came to a parley at a hedge, which separated them from the meadow in which the duel had been fought.

"You seem to be seeking us out,"

said Henry to the crowd.

"Whom do you seek, why do you come

and what has brought you round?

Why Chillingworth! Is that you there?"

said Henry to the man.

"For Heaven's sake, explain the cause

of all of this bedlam!

You seem to be the one in charge."

"And yet, good sir, I'm not.

Though, you're in luck: they don't seek you,

Sir Francis Varney's sought."

"Sir Varney?" Bannerworth replied.

"Why, he has wronged me too,

but private wrongs I have no need

be righted by this zoo.

Again, I ask, why come you round

to seek Sir Varney here?"

"Alas, it's through my own loose lips

that's brought about their fear.

In short, the crowd suspects the man

of being a vampyre."

"Hurrah" they shouted. "Where is he?"

A woman's voice rang clear,

said "Drive a stake into his heart!

So as to be humane,

you take a stake and sharpen it

and char it in the flame.

No splinters will catch on the flesh

when piercing him right through."

The mob agreed the woman's thought

was quite a humane view

and with a word they carried on

and drowned poor Henry out,

'til finally that gentleman

was forced to give a shout.

"Hear me - you all! I do not care

who told you what you know,

but if you think I'm glad you're here,

then I must answer 'No!'

Please leave this well enough alone.

You are not helping me.

This clamoring does not relieve

my family's misery."

"Hear him, hear him," Marchdale agreed.

"His words are wise and true."

"If anything could make it worse

it's causing this to do."

"You hear him?" Mr. Marchdale asked.

"We does" replied a man,

"But we comes out to catch Varney

and slay him if we can."

"Oh to be sure" the woman said,

in quite a humane tone,

"Your feelings is nothing to us.

Are we to wake alone

or with a vampyre sucking blood

when we could stake him dead?"

"Hurrah" the mob proclaimed. "Where's he?

We'll take the vampyre's head!"

Said Chillingworth imploringly,

"You're wrong - and to be clear

Varney's not one - but even so

there is no vampyre here.

Sir Francis Varney has, not only escaped, but he will take the law of all of you."

This was an argument which appeared to stagger a few, but the bolder spirits pushed them on, and a suggestion to search the wood having been made by some one who was more cunning than his neighbors, that measure was at This was an argument which appeared to stagger a few, but the bolder spirits pushed them on, and a suggestion to search the wood having been made by some one who was more cunning than his neighbours, that measure was at once proceeded with, and executed in a systematic manner, which made those who knew it to be the hiding place of Sir Francis Varney tremble for his safety.

* *

(Original Page 233 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

It was with a strange mixture of feeling that Henry Bannerworth waited the result of the search for the man who, but a few minutes before had been opposed to him in a contest of life or death.

The destruction of Sir Francis Varney would certainly have been an effectual means of preventing him from continuing to be the incubus he then was upon the Bannerworth family; and yet the generous nature of Henry shrank with horror from seeing even such a creature as Varney sacrificed at the shrine of popular resentment, and murdered by an infuriated populace.

He felt as great an interest in the escape of the vampyre as if some great advantage to himself had been contingent upon such an event; and, although he spoke not a word, while the echoes of the little wood were all awakened by the clamorous manner in which the mob searched for their victim, his feelings could be well read upon his countenance.

The admiral, too, without possessing probably the fine feelings of Henry Bannerworth, took an unusually sympathetic interest in the fate of the vampyre; and, after placing himself in various attitudes of intense excitement, he exclaimed, —

"D — n it, Jack, I do hope, after all, the vampyre will get the better of them. It's like a whole flotilla attacking one vessel — a lubberly proceeding at the best, and I'll be hanged if I like it. I should like to pour in a broadside into those fellows, just to let them see it wasn't a proper English mode of fighting. Shouldn't you, Jack?"

"Ay, ay, sir, I should."

"Shiver me, if I see an opportunity, if I don't let some of those rascals know what's what."

Scarcely had these words escaped the lips of the old admiral than there arose a loud shout from the interior of the wood. It was a shout of success, and seemed at the very least to herald the capture of the unfortunate Varney.

"By heaven!" exclaimed Henry, "they have him."

"God forbid!" said Mr. Marchdale; "this grows too serious."

"Bear a hand, Jack," said the admiral; "we'll have a fight for it yet; they sha'n't murder even a vampyre in cold blood. Load the pistols; and send a flying shot or two among the rascals, the moment they appear."

"No, no," said Henry; "no more violence, there has been enough — there has been enough."

Even as he spoke there came rushing from among the trees, at the corner of the wood, the figure of a man. They needed but one glance to assure them who it was. Sir Francis Varney had been seen and was flying before those implacable foes who had sought his life.

He had divested himself of his huge cloak, as well as of his low slouched hat, and, with a speed which nothing but the most absolute desperation could have enabled him to exert, he rushed onward, beating down before him every obstacle, and bounding over the meadows at a rate that, if he could have continued it for any length of time, would have set pursuit at defiance.

"Bravo!" shouted the admiral, "a stern chase is a long chase, and I wish them joy of it — d — -e, Jack, did you ever see anybody get along like that?"

"Ay, ay, sir." "You never did, you scoundrel." "Yes, I did."

# Wolf News Gazette By Peggy Townsend

"When and where?" asked the admiral as a dark-haired woman, breathless but perfectly coiffed, burst from the wood, a pear-shaped man in tow.

Jack immediately recognized the woman as Della B. Rohl of the Wolf News Gazette and her patient but set-upon assistant, Barnaby the scribe.

"Look at that bitch scamper. Have you ever seen anything like that?" cried Miss Rohl.

"Actually, I was just telling the admiral here that I have," said Jack. He puffed his chest in anticipation of a mention in the famous broadsheet.

Miss Rohl gave her lips a moistening lick and nodded at the scribe who poised pen over paper and stared at the beaming Jack.

"And when and where would that be, sir?" asked Miss Rohl with sudden gravitas.

"Oh, when the admiral here ran away off the sound."

Jack turned toward the scribe's pen, willing it to move and capture his visage, but the artist had already swiveled to sketch an image of the admiral who was turning nearly blue with anger.

"He ran away after the French frigates that wouldn't stay to fight him," Jack added, nestling his face on the admiral's shoulder in order to stay within the artist's frame, and inadvertently creating the illusion of co-joined twins.

"Ah! That indeed," said the admiral, lifting his chin and shoving Jack aside. "There he goes, putting on every stitch of canvas. I'll be bound."

"And there they come," cried Jack, now pointing toward a corner of the wood in what he hoped was pose worthy of a front-page sketch in the Gazette.

Seeing her scribe busily recording a series of militaristic postures being performed by the admiral, Miss Rohl tapped a long and barbarous index finger against Barnaby's skull. "Not him, you moron," she said. "Look at me."

The scribe winced and obediently turned in the direction of Miss Rohl, who fixed her lips into a smile. "Take this down. Quickly, B."

"I am here on scene with the mob that is after the vampyre, Varney," she announced in a tone that managed to sound both thrilling and condescending at the same time. "He has just run out of the wood with our finest citizens close on his heels. From where I stand, I can see the vampyre's more active pursuers emerging from the foliage. It would appear the vampyre has been startled from his hiding place."

Miss Rohl's eyes sparked with the fervor that had earned her the lustful thoughts of young men and the hatred of their female counterparts.

"We can only assume this heinous individual believed it best to make his way across an open field to a more secure location where obstacles might deter these true defenders of our freedoms."

Miss Rohl paused to let the scribe Barnaby make a quick drawing of her heroic stance.

"But will these brave patriots give up? I do not think so. Even as the coward Varney hid among the brushwood and trees, they pursued him for they knew his terrified flight proved one thing. That he is a blood-sucking immortal just as they suspected."

"Jack," the admiral interrupted as Varney's pursuers plunged out into the open like greyhounds on a rabbit's track.

"This won't do. Look at that great lubberly fellow with the queer smock-frock."

Jack peered at the man's attire, which was, indeed, a hot mess. "A mirror ball in search of a party, sir," he said.

"Sir Lancelot meets Marie Antoinette by way of Poughkeepsie."

"Stop him," the admiral cried, halting the fashion commentary.

"Ay, ay, sir," Jack said, saluting

"And what's this?" asked Miss Rohl, yanking the scribe so he could now record her description of Jack setting off after the unfortunately attired vampyre hunter. "This man seems to be attempting to stop one of our courageous trackers. He is making himself into a small bundle and throwing his shoulder into our advancing countryman. Sweet merciful god! Our lion-hearted warrior is flying through the air." Miss Rohl's voice rose to a high-pitched trill. "He is hitting the ground and rolling. That's one roll. Two. Three rolls. Yes, put down three rolls, B. And the man has gone into a ditch. He has disappeared from view!"

Jack, realizing his obedience to the admiral had possibly made him seem like a left-wing traitor to the Gazette's readers, cried after the man. "Don't say I hit you. Curse you, why did you smash into me? Lubbers who don't know how to steer always run into things."

"Bravo," cried the admiral, ignoring Jack's flip-flop, "there's another of them."

"Over there," Miss Rohl shouted now, turning the scribe again so he could mark the sight of Varney running through the meadow and springing over road and ditch with the rabble after him. "Look at that blood-thirsty heathen run. Why it's almost inhuman," Miss Rohl cried, forgetting for a moment her newspaper's rules on intemperate spoutings. She and her scribe set off after the determined throng.

By this time, the vampyre hunter had managed to climb out of the ditch, his smock-frock a mix of mud and mire.

"Any luck, old chap?" asked Jack sauntering toward him, determined to regain his neutrality in the drama.

"What do you mean?" cried the man. "Who are you?"

"Have you caught anything?" asked Jack.

"Caught anything?"

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(Original Page 235 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Yes; you've been in for eels, haven't you?"

"D — n!"

"Well, it is odd to me, as some people can't go a fishing without getting out of temper. Have it your own way; I won't interfere with you;" and away Jack walked.

The man cleared the mud out of his eyes, as well as he could, and looked after him with a powerful suspicion that in Jack he saw the very cause of his mortal mishap; but, somehow or other, his immersion in the not over limpid stream had wonderfully cooled his courage, and casting one despairing look upon his begrimed apparel, and another at the last of the stragglers who were pursuing Sir Francis Varney across the fields, he thought it prudent to get home as fast he could, and get rid of the disagreeable results of an adventure which had turned out for him anything but auspicious, or pleasant.

Mr. Chillingworth, as though by a sort of impulse to be present in case Sir Francis Varney should really be run down, and with a hope of saving him from personal violence, had followed the foremost of the rioters in the wood, found it now quite impossible for him to carry on such a chase as that which was being undertaken across the fields after Sir Francis Varney.

His person was unfortunately but ill qualified for the continuance of such a pursuit, and, although with the greatest reluctance, he at last felt himself compelled to give it up.

In making his way through the intricacies of the wood, he had been seriously incommoded by the thick undergrowth, and he had accidentally encountered several miry pools, with which he had involuntarily made a closer acquaintance than was at all conducive either to his personal appearance or comfort. The doctor's temper, though, generally speaking, one of the most even, was at last affected by his mishaps, and he could not refrain from an execration upon his want of prudence in letting his wife have a knowledge of a secret that was not his own and the producing an unlooked-for circumstance, the termination of which might be of a most disastrous nature.

Tired, therefore, and nearly exhausted by the exertions he had already taken, he emerged now along from the wood, and near the spot where stood Henry Bannerworth and his friends in consultation.

The jaded look of the surgeon was quite sufficient indication of the trouble and turmoil he had gone through, and some expressions of sympathy for his condition were dropped by Henry, to whom he replied, —

"My young friend, I deserve it all. I have nothing but my own indiscretion to thank for all the turmoil and tumult that has arisen this morning."

"But to what possible cause can we attribute such an outrage?"

"Reproach me as much as you will. I deserve it. A man may prate of his own secrets if he like, but he should be careful of those of other people. I trusted yours to another, and am properly punished."

"Enough," said Henry; "we'll say no more of that, Mr. Chillingworth. What is done cannot be undone, and we had better spend our time in reflection of how to make the best of what is, than in useless lamentation over its causes. What is to be done?"

"Nay, I know not. Have you fought the duel?" "Yes; and, as you perceive, harmlessly." "Thank Heaven for that."

"Nay, I had my fire, which Sir Francis Varney refused to return; so the affair had just ended, when the sound of approaching tumult came upon our ears."

* *

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"What a strange mixture," exclaimed Marchdale, "of feelings and passions this Varney appears to be. At one moment acting with the apparent greatest malignity; and another, seeming to have awakened in his mind a romantic generosity which knows no bounds. I cannot understand him."

"Nor I, indeed," said Henry; "but somehow tremble for his fate, and I seem to feel that something ought to be done to save him from the fearful consequences of popular feeling. Let us hasten to the town, and procure what assistance we may: but a few persons, well organised and properly armed, will achieve wonders against a desultory and ill- appointed multitude. There may be a chance of saving him yet, from the imminent danger which surrounds him."

"That's proper," cried the admiral. "I don't like to see anybody run down. A fair fight's another thing. Yard arm and yard arm — stink pots and pipkins — broadside to broadside — and throw in your bodies, if you like, on the lee quarter; but don't do anything shabby. What do you think of it, Jack?"

"Why, I means to say as how if Varney only keeps on sail as he's been doing, that the devil himself wouldn't catch him in a gale."

"And yet," said Henry, "it is our duty to do the best we can. Let us at once to the town, and summons all the assistance in our power. Come on — come on!"

His friends needed no further urging, but, at a brisk pace, they all proceeded by the nearest footpaths towards the town.

It puzzled his pursuers to think in what possible direction Sir Francis Varney expected to find sustenance or succour, when they saw how curiously he took his flight across the meadows. Instead of endeavouring, by any circuitous path, to seek the shelter of his own house, or to throw himself upon the care of the authorities of the town, who must, to the extent of their power, have protected him, he struck across the welds, apparently without aim or purpose, seemingly intent upon nothing but to distance his pursuers in a long chase, which might possibly tire them, or it might not, according to their or his powers of endurance.

We say this seemed to be the case, but it was not so in reality. Sir Francis Varney had a deeper purpose, and it was scarcely to be supposed that a man of his subtle genius, and, apparently, far-seeing and reflecting intellect, could have so far overlooked the many dangers of his position not to be fully prepared for some such contingency as that which had just now occurred.

Holding, as he did, so strange a place in society — living among men, and yet possessing so few attributes in common with humanity — he must all along have felt the possibility of drawing upon himself popular violence.

He could not wholly rely upon the secrecy of the Bannerworth family, much as they might well be supposed to shrink from giving publicity to circumstance of so fearfully strange and perilous a nature as those which had occurred amongst them. The merest accident might, at any moment, make him the town's talk. The overhearing of a few chance words by some gossiping domestic — some ebullition of anger or annoyance by some member of the family — or a communication from some friend who had been treated with confidence — might, at any time, awaken around him such a storm as that which now raged at his heels.

Varney the vampyre must have calculated this. He must have felt the possibility of such a state of things; and, as a matter of course, politicly provided himself with some place of refuge.

After about twenty minutes of hard chasing across the fields, there could be no doubt of his intentions. He had such a place of refuge; and, strange a one as it might appear, he sped towards it in as direct a line as ever a well-sped arrow flew towards its mark.

That place of refuge, to the surprise of every one, appeared to be the ancient ruin, of which we have before spoken, and which was so well known to every inhabitant of the county.

Truly, it seemed like some act of mere desperation for Sir Francis Varney to hope there to hide himself. There remained within, of what had once been a stately pile, but a few grey crumbling walls, which the hunted hare would have passed unheeded, knowing that not for one instant could he have baffled his pursuers by seeking so inefficient a refuge.

* *

(Original Page 237 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

And those who followed hard and fast upon the track of Sir Francis Varney felt so sure of their game when they saw whither he was speeding that they relaxed in their haste considerably, calling loudly to each other that the vampyre was caught at last, for he could be easily surrounded among the old ruins, and dragged from amongst its moss grown walls.

In another moment, with a wild dash and cry of exultation, he sprang out of sight, behind an angle, formed by what had been, at one time, one of the principal supports of the ancient structure.

Then, as if there was still something so dangerous about him, that only by a great number of hands could he be hoped to be secured, the infuriated peasantry gathered in a dense circle around what they considered his temporary place of refuge, and as the sun, which had now climbed above the tree tops, and dispersed, in a great measure, many of the heavy clouds of morning, shone down upon the excited group, they might have been supposed there assembled to perform some superstitious rite, which time had hallowed as an association of the crumbling ruin around which they stood.

By the time the whole of the stragglers, who had persisted in the chase, had come up, there might have been about fifty or sixty resolute men, each intent upon securing the person of one whom they felt, while in existence, would continue to be a terror to all the weaker and dearer portions of their domestic circles.

There was a pause of several minutes. Those who had come the fleetest were gathering breath, and those who had come up last were looking to their more forward companions for some information as to what had occurred before their arrival.

All was profoundly still within the ruin, and then suddenly, as if by common consent, there arose from every throat a loud shout of "Down with the vampyre! down with the vampyre! "

The echoes of that shout died away, and then all was still as before, while a superstitious feeling crept over even the boldest. It would almost seem as if they had expected some kind of response from Sir Francis Varney to the shout of defiance with which they had just greeted him; but the very calmness, repose, and absolute quiet of the ruin, and all about it, alarmed them, and they looked the one at the other as if the adventure after all were not one of the pleasantest description, and might not fall out so happily as they had expected.

Yet what danger could there be? there were they, more than half the hundred stout, strong men, to cope with one; they felt convinced that he was completely in their power; they knew the ruins could not hide him, and that five minutes time given to the task, would suffice to explore every nook and corner of them.

And yet they hesitated, while an unknown terror shook their nerves, and seemingly from the very fact that they had run down their game successfully, they dreaded to secure the trophy of the chase.

One bold spirit was wanting; and, if it was not a bold one that spoke at length, he might be complimented as being comparatively such. It was one who had not been foremost in the chase, perchance from want of physical power, who now stood forward, and exclaimed, —

"What are you waiting for, now? You can have him when you like. If you want your wives and children to sleep quietly in their beds, you will secure the vampyre. Come on — we all know he's here — why do you hesitate! Do you expect me to go alone and draw him out by the ears?"

Any voice would have sufficed to break the spell which bound them. This did so; and, with one accord, and yells of imprecations, they rushed forward and plunged among the old walls of the ruin.

Less time than we have before remarked would have enabled any one to explore the tottering fabric sufficient to bring a conviction to their minds that, after all, there might have been some mistake about the matter, and Sir Francis Varney was not quite caught yet.

* *

(Original Page 238 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

It was astonishing how the fact of not finding him in a moment, again roused all their angry feelings against him, and dispelled every feeling of superstitious awe with which he had been surrounded; rage gave place to the sort of shuddering horror with which they had before contemplated his immediate destruction, when they had believed him to be virtually within their very grasp.

Over and over again the ruins were searched — hastily and impatiently by some, carefully and deliberately by others, until there could be no doubt upon the mind of every one individual, that somehow or somewhere within the shadow of those walls, Sir Francis Varney had disappeared most mysteriously.

Then it would have been a strange sight for any indifferent spectator to have seen how they shrunk, one by one, out of the shadow of those ruins; each seeming to be afraid that the vampyre, in some mysterious manner, would catch him if he happened to be the last within their sombre influence; and, when they had all collected in the bright, open space, some little distance beyond, they looked at each other and at the ruin, with dubious expressions of countenance, each, no doubt, wishing that each would suggest something of a consolatory or practicable character.

"What's to be done, now?" said one.

"Ah! that's it," said another, sententiously. "I'll be hanged if I know."

"He's given as the slip," remarked a third.

"But he can't have given us the slip," said one man, who was particularly famous for a dogmatical spirit of argumentation; "how is it possible? he must be here, and I say he is here."

"Find him, then," cried several at once.

"Oh! that's nothing to do with the argument; he's here, whether we find him or not."

One very cunning fellow laid his finger on his nose, and beckoned to a comrade to retire some paces, where he delivered himself of the following very oracular sentiment: —

"My good friend, you must know Sir Francis Varney is here or he isn't."

"Agreed, agreed."

"Well, if he isn't here it's no use troubling our heads any more about him; but, otherwise, it's quite another thing, and, upon the whole, I must say, that I rather think he is."

All looked at him, for it was evident he was big with some suggestion. After a pause, he resumed, —

"Now, my good friends, I propose that we all appear to give it up, and to go away; but that some one of us shall remain and hide among the ruins for some time, to watch, in case the vampyre makes his appearance from some hole or corner that we haven't found out."

"Oh, capital!" said everybody.

"Then you all agree to that?"

"Yes, yes."

"Very good; that's the only way to nick him. Now, we'll pretend to give it up; let's all of us talk loud about going home."

They did all talk loud about going home; they swore that it was not worth the trouble of catching him, that they gave it up as a bad job; that he might go to the deuce in any way he liked, for all they cared; and then they all walked off in a body, when, the man who had made the suggestion, suddenly cried, —

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(Original Page 239 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Hilloa! hilloa! — stop! stop! you know one of us is to wait?"

"Oh, ay; yes, yes, yes!" said everybody, and still they moved on.

"But really you know, what's the use of this? who's to wait?"

That was, indeed, a knotty question which induced a serious consultation, and ending in their all, with one accord, pitching upon the author of the suggestion, as by far the best person to hide in the ruins and catch the vampyre.

They then all set off at full speed; but the cunning fellow, who certainly had not the slightest idea of so practically carrying out his own suggestion, scampered off after them with a speed that soon brought him in the midst of the throng again, and so with fear in their looks, and all the evidences of fatigue about them, they reached the town to spread fresh and more exaggerated accounts of the mysterious conduct of Varney the vampyre.

—

[There is no chapter 41 to Varney, the Vampyre; or, The Feast of Blood, thought to have been written by James Malcolm Rymer and published by E. Lloyd, Salisbury Square. The last actual chapter was Chapter 40: The Popular Riot. — Sir Francis Varney's Danger. — The Suggestion and Its Results. The next will be Chapter 44: Varney's Danger, and His Rescue. — The Prisoner Again, and the Subterranean Vault.]

[There is no chapter 42 to Varney, the Vampyre; or, The Feast of Blood, thought to have been written by James Malcolm Rymer and published by E. Lloyd, Salisbury Square. The last actual chapter was Chapter 40: The Popular Riot. — Sir Francis Varney's Danger. — The Suggestion and Its Results. The next will be Chapter 44: Varney's Danger, and His Rescue. — The Prisoner Again, and the Subterranean Vault.]

—

[There is no chapter 43 to Varney, the Vampyre; or, The Feast of Blood, thought to have been written by James Malcolm Rymer and published by E. Lloyd, Salisbury Square. The last actual chapter was Chapter 40: The Popular Riot. — Sir Francis Varney's Danger. — The Suggestion and Its Results. The next will be Chapter 44: Varney's Danger, and His Rescue. — The Prisoner Again, and the Subterranean Vault.]

—

# Hope Has Left Him By Jennifer Harbaugh

Voices dancing in the shadows,

Incoherently bouncing in echoes.

Blazing thoughts of justice,

Keep him mind from vengeance.

The brain clutches at memories,

That time has sadly dismembered.

Originating from the bowels of his heart,

Dark rumblings escape his encrusted lips

That matches the dry flaking blood

The wrap on his head conceals.

Hope has left him for freedom,

Found in the rays from the sun.

It sneaks through the chamber undetected

As constant reminder of his untimely fate.

A soft noise appears in the distance,

Singing a rhythmic tune.

Another noise interrupting the melody,

Growing louder, the footsteps increase.

A stunning silence coats the hall,

The prisoner looks in his cell doorway.

Where the figure greedily pants for air,

Knowing what it was fully capable of.

Intoxicated from the chase,

The escapee collapses to the floor.

Metal links appear around the neck

As the prisoner pulls with his minuscule strength.

Both wanting the other to lose;

One is fighting of life,

One is living for death.

# The Decency To Blush By Keri Peardon

Flora stood anxiously at a window in one of the spare rooms on the second floor of Bannerworth Hall. It provided a view of much of the property, plus the village, and she hoped to catch a glimpse of her brothers returning, unharmed.

The window was open to the cool morning breeze and voices floated in on the air, although Flora couldn't make out what anyone was saying. The common people had abandoned their fields and hurried away, as if to watch a fight or gawk at some accident.

It was enough to drive Flora mad. But, as much as she wanted to run out and find her brothers, she stayed put. She had promised Henry that she wouldn't leave the relative safety of the house. For all she—or any of them—knew, the duel had been set up to draw her protectors away so that Varney could have her for himself once and for all.

Flora doubted that, however. When she and Varney had spoken in the garden, he had seemed sincerely apologetic for the distress he had put her through. She didn't think he would do anything to actually harm her. But she didn't know what lay in store for her brothers and the others....

It was noon before the duelists, their seconds, and their associated members came within sight of Bannerworth.

Mr. Marchdale and the Admiral were still at loggerheads and could not be reconciled by any means that the rest of the party could find. Apparently Mr. Marchdale's gracious act of stepping forward to second Henry was of no consequence to the Admiral.

"I will bid you gentlemen a good day here," Mr. Marchdale said coolly when they came to the borders of the Bannerworth property. His wounded pride would not allow him to put one foot onto the property while the Admiral remained there and unrepentant.

"Go and be damned," the Admiral said with undisguised loathing. It was a wonder he didn't spit on Mr. Marchdale's shoes.

Mr. Marchdale squared his shoulders, his eyes flashing angrily.

"Thank you, Mr. Marchdale," Henry said quietly. But not quietly enough.

"Jack, have you ever seen such a sanctimonious prig in all your life?" the Admiral continued loudly, glancing sideways at Mr. Marchdale.

"Yes, sir, I have," Jack said, looking rather pointedly at the Admiral.

Mr. Marchdale suddenly had a coughing fit.

The Admiral cuffed Jack on the back of the head. "Damn your impudence, man!"

"Damn yourself."

Jack and the Admiral proceeded to argue and curse each other all the way to the house. The Bannerworth brothers and Dr. Chillingworth followed meekly behind, looking for an opportunity to get a word in edgewise. The only benefit to the fight was that Mr. Marchdale left their company looking marginally less affronted.

Jack and the Admiral's fight echoed through the front foyer, and Henry and Dr. Chillingworth finally had to interrupt them because they each had a full head of steam and seemed to be no nearer to stopping on their own.

"Admiral, please," Henry said, holding up his hands. "Please, your language. My mother and sister may hear you."

"Yes, sir," Dr. Chillingworth added, "we don't want to upset Miss Flora by appearing to argue."

A moment later, the young lady appeared at the top of the stairs. "I thought I heard your voices," she said, relief evident in her voice. The Admiral had the decency to blush.

Flora took no notice, but rushed down the stairs and embraced each of her brothers in turn. "Are you well? Is everyone well?"

"Yes, Flora, dear, we're fine," Henry said, returning her embrace.

"Where did you go? For what purpose?"

It was Henry's turn to look embarrassed. "Ah, um... well...."

Jack answered for him. "They went to duel that wamphigher, missus."

Flora was aghast. "You never!"

None of the men made eye contact with her.

"Henry!"

"It was necessary, Flora," he said, still not looking at her.

"And yet... all of you are uninjured?"

"The vampire did not seem inclined to fight anyone," Dr. Chillingworth said.

"Yes, he twisted and turned in the breeze like a signal flag," the Admiral added. "He contorted himself so many ways to get out of that fight, it's a wonder we didn't leave him on the ground tied up like a great big knot."

Flora just nodded. "Then it's true," she said quietly, more to herself.

"What's true?" Henry asked.

"He really doesn't want to harm me or bring me grief." She turned to Henry, a desperate light in her eyes. "Please, _please_ can't we leave? If we leave, then none of us shall come to any harm. I believe Sir Varney to be true to his word in that regard."

Henry looked uncomfortable. "Well, we have decided that we shall defer to the Admiral on this matter, as he's much more knowledgeable about... the world." Henry had almost said "military matters." Henry had much less faith in Varney's word than Flora did; he wanted sound advice from a competent military leader on when to flee and when to turn and fight.

Flora turned to Admiral Bell. "Admiral, please, can we not just leave now? I want to leave now."

He touched her gently on the shoulders. "My dear, I have already come to my decision, and—"

"Wait, sir," Dr. Chillingworth interrupted, "you said you would not firmly decide until you heard what I have to say. I have some details as to the nature of Sir Varney that may sway your decision."

"That's right!" the Admiral said, clearly having forgotten.

He patted Flora gently. "Give me a moment, my dear. The doctor here thinks he has the sow by the ear, so I mean to hear him out before I render my decision."

Flora watched uneasily as Admiral Bell and the doctor went to speak privately in the study.

Henry put his arm comfortingly around her waist. "Flora," he said quietly, "I know that you truly wish to leave."

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"I do, brother; but not to go far — I wish rather to hide from Varney than to make myself inaccessible by distance." "You still cling to this neighbourhood?" "I do, I do; and you know with what hope I cling to it." "Perfectly; you still think it possible that Charles Holland may be united to you."

"I do, I do." "You believe his faith." "Oh, yes; as I believe in Heaven's mercy."

"And I, Flora; I would not doubt him now for worlds; something even now seems to whisper to me that a brighter sun of happiness will yet dawn upon us, and that, when the mists which at present enshroud ourselves and our fortunes pass away, they will disclose a landscape full of beauty, the future of which shall know no pangs."

"Yes, brother," exclaimed Flora, enthusiastically; "this, after all may be but some trial, grievous while it lasts, but yet tending eventually only to make the future look more bright and beautiful. Heaven may yet have in store for us all some great happiness, which shall spring clearly and decidedly from out these misfortunes."

"Be it so, and may we ever thus banish despair by such hopeful propositions. Lean on my arm, Flora; you are safe with me. Come, dearest, and taste the sweetness of the morning air."

There was, indeed now, a hopefulness about the manner in which Henry Bannerworth spoke, such as Flora had not for some weary months had the pleasure of listening to, and she eagerly rose to accompany him into the garden, which was glowing with all the beauty of sunshine, for the day had turned out to be much finer than the early morning had at all promised it would be.

"Flora," he said, when they had taken some turns to and fro in the garden, "not withstanding all that has happened, there is no convincing Mr. Chillingworth that Sir Francis Varney is really what to us he appears."

"Indeed!"

"It is so. In the face of all evidence, he neither will believe in vampyres at all, nor that Varney is anything but some mortal man, like ourselves, in his thoughts, talents, feelings, and modes of life; and with no more power to do any one an injury than we have."

"Oh, would that I could think so!" "And I; but, unhappily, we have by far too many and too conclusive evidences to the contrary." "We have, indeed, brother."

"And though, while we respect the strength of mind in our friend which not allow him, even almost at the last extremity, to yield to what appear to be stern facts, we may not ourselves be so obdurate but may feel that we know enough to be convinced."

"You have no doubt, brother?" "Most reluctantly, I must confess, that I feel compelled to consider Varney as something more than mortal." "He must be so."

"And now, sister, before we leave the place which has been a home to us from earliest life, let us for a few moments consider if there be any possible excuse for the notion of Mr. Chillingworth, to the effect that Sir Francis Varney wants possession of the house for some purpose more inimical to our peace and prosperity than any he has yet attempted."

# Lonely Vampire by Michael Cain

Varney wants possession of the house for some purpose more inimical to our peace and prosperity than any he has yet attempted."

Henry handed me the letter. I unfolded it and read it all the way through, feeling myself stiffen and my blood boil.

That blood sucking fiend!

"He wants us out of the house," I said as I crumpled the letter in my fist.

"That's the gist of it." Henry flopped on the faded green velvet couch and sighed. My brother, the slacker even at a moment like this, when we were on the brink of eviction from the only home we'd ever known.

"And all because Varney wants to live here...it's...it's—"

"He bought the bank loan, Flora." He kicked his feet up on the coffee table, making himself look all the more a slacker. "He can do anything he wants. Tear it down, move in, or turn it into an all night vampire Karaoke bar."

"I don't know." I took a deep breath and thought about the last time I'd seen Varney. He'd come to the house, and was sitting right were Henry was now. And just the sorry, lonely way he looked at me. That every word I spoke to him was a treat. I'd really thought he'd understood how much this house meant to me and my brother. "Freaking vampires...can't trust them as far as you can throw them."

Henry ran a hand through his rumpled hair. "If it makes you feel any better, we might have already caught vampirism from him, just by being around him."

I gave him a nasty look. "Like koodies?"

Henry shrugged.

"If that was true, you dumbass, half the town would be fangy by now."

"So guess we're safe then. That's a big load off my mind." His smile was crooked and completely infectious. "Makes getting evicted sound a lot more like the bright side of the equation, doesn't it?"

I thought about how lonely the vampire had seemed.

"That is true."

# Jane Austin nightmare by Mercy Walker

"There may have been a time — who shall say there was not — when he, like me, would have shrunk with a dread as great as any one could have experienced, from the contamination of the touch even of a vampyre."

Good grief the old vampire novel was written like a Jane Austin nightmare. But it told me what I needed to know.

Sitting in a booth at the all night diner the screen of my android flared to life. I read the text.

<If the vamp wants us out, we have no choice>

<I know> I thumbed into my phone's keyboard. <I just hate that he's pulled this on us. And after we talked>

<Don't U dare feel sorry 4 him. He's rich enough, and he's got all those vampire powers. Save ur pity 4 us>

My brother was right. The stinking vampire wasn't going to be homeless in the next week. We were.

<So what are we going to do?>

I waited over a minute and a half for <Move>

<Duh!>

<Where?>

Now it took me a while to thumb in my response. I hadn't the slightest idea. And as soon as I started to think about it, the more troubled I became.

<Not far. But somewhere we can hide and have some privacy>

<In this town? That's a laugh. Maybe in a big city, or in a cave somewhere, but in a small town? Not likely>

<And everyone is going to see us move...and know>

The waitress came and put my burger and fries down in front of me. And then she set the Rueben with a side of slaw and extra pickles down before my brother Henry.

"Thanks," we said in unison.

"Can I get you two anything else right now?" the waitress asked, smiling with dimples.

"No thanks," I said and watched her turn and stride off to take care of another customer.

I looked down at the screen of my android and thumbed in, <I'll be mortified. Gotta move far away>

Henry set his iPhone on the table and popped a pickle in his mouth. "Not a chance. We were born in this town; we're going to stay, even if that bloodsucker steals our house."

I felt relief in his conviction.

"And anyways, Charles might come back. We both want to be around if he does."

I felt my eyes tighten. Charles was mine, and Henry knew it...but that didn't mean he wasn't above taking the chance. "We'll see."

I read the next line of the Victorian vampire nightmare:

"Nay, I will consider for you, Flora; and although, as a general principle, what I have said I know to be true, yet some more special circumstance may arise that may point a course that, while it enables us, for Charles Holland's sake, to remain in this immediate neighbourhood, yet will procure to us all the secrecy we may desire."

* *

(Original Page 245 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Dear — dear brother," said Flora, as she flung herself upon Henry's neck, "you speak cheeringly to me, and, what is more, you believe in Charles's faithfulness and truth."

"As Heaven is my judge, I do."

"A thousand, thousand thanks for such an assurance. I know him too well to doubt, for one moment, his faith. Oh, brother! could he — could Charles Holland, the soul of honour, the abode of every noble impulse that can adorn humanity — could he have written those letters? No, no! perish the thought!"

"It has perished."

"Thank God!"

"I only, upon reflection, wonder how, misled for the moment by the concurrence of a number of circumstances, I could ever have suspected him."

"It is like your generous nature, brother, to say so; but you know as well as I, that there has been one here who has, far from feeling any sort of anxiety to think as well as possible of poor Charles Holland, has done all that in him lay to take the worst view of his mysterious disappearance, and induce us to do the like."

"You allude to Mr. Marchdale?"

"I do."

"Well, Flora, at the same time that I must admit you have cause for speaking of Mr. Marchdale as you do, yet when we come to consider all things, there may be found for him excuses."

"May there?"

"Yes, Flora; he is a man, as he himself says, past the meridian of life, and the world is a sad as well as a bad teacher, for it soon — too soon, alas! deprives us of our trusting confidence in human nature."

"It may be so; but yet, he, knowing as he did very little of Charles Holland, judged him hastily and harshly." "You rather ought to say, Flora, that he did not judge him generously." "Well, be it so." "And you must recollect, when you say so, that Marchdale did not love Charles Holland."

"Why, now," said Flora, while there flashed across her cheek, for a moment, a heightened colour, "you are commencing to jest with me, and, therefore, we will say no more. You know, dear Henry, all my hopes, my wishes, and my feelings, and I shall therefore leave my future destiny in your hands, to dispose of as you please. Look yonder!"

"Where?" "There. Do you see the admiral and Mr. Chillingworth walking among the trees?" "Yes, yes; I do now."

"How very serious and intent they are upon the subject of their discourse. They seem quite lost to all surrounding objects. I could not have imagined any subject than would so completely have absorbed the attention of Admiral Bell."

"Mr. Chillingworth had something to relate to him or to propose, of a nature which, perchance, has had the effect of enchaining all his attention — he called him from the room."

# She gasped, incredulously by Leah Triplett

"Yes; I saw that he did. But see, they come towards us, and now we shall, probably, hear what is the subject-matter of their discourse and consultation."

Inquisitively, sternly, he nodded.

They were calm, but jitterly self-aware that they'd been spotted, and the Admiral and his companion ceased their talk when they saw the siblings, Flora and Henry Bannerworth, but affected an ease as if the pause were natural.

The Admiral jested interrogation towards the sister, ostensibly concerned after her health.

She chirped her reply and gratitude for his inquiry.

He said, reassuringly, that her condition could only improve, and that he and his companion, the doctor, had just then been discussing her situation, and her fate.

She gasped, incredulously.

The Admiral's companion, the doctor, grittily confirmed that they had been doing just that; the siblings waited, anxiously, for him to reveal the prognosis.

You should leave, as fast as possible, for a place faraway, and as fast as possible.

The doctor agreed, and fervently, adding that new faces would be instrumental in recovery.

The Admiral voiced his satisfied approval of this idea.

Henry grinned, asking if they were being kicked out.

The Admiral, feigning insult and shock, assured Henry otherwise.

But Henry voiced that the Admiral had overtaken the house thus far, and if the Bannerworths were to leave, the conquest would be successful.

The Admiral took offense, touting his many patriotic and brave endeavors in defeating the enemies of England as his pure and gallant way to wealth.

Henry nodded, not denying honor in soldiering.

The Admiral reiterated the courageousness of it, and started a proclamation, but faltered.

Henry prodded him, nudging the Admiral towards his meaning.

"That's just what I want to know. Oh I have it now. I am going to what the investors call invest it."

# With apologies to Quentin Tarantino by Tamara L. Siuda

"A prudent step, admiral, and one which it is to be hoped, before now, has occurred to you."

EXT: BANNERWORTH HALL GARDENS, NEAR THE TREES - DAY

The extremely attractive but unfortunately modestly-dressed FLORA BANNERWORTH stands to the side with her not terribly attractive brother, HENRY BANNERWORTH. The ancient ADMIRAL BELL, dressed like he just stepped off the HMS Bounty, and the cunning and curious medical student known only as MR. CHILLINGWORTH stand across from them.

ADMIRAL BELL

Maybe it did and maybe it didn't. None of your business, really, but I'm gonna put my green into real estate. You know, flip some houses, make some profit, hit some Caribbean resort with a Bahama Mama in one hand and a drink in the other -

HENRY and MR. CHILLINGWORTH chuckle. FLORA looks at them in a disapprovingly Victorian manner and they stop. ADMIRAL BELL clears his throat.

ADMIRAL BELL

I don't give a flying fuck in a rolling donut where the house is. Just find one you like and I'll buy it. Live where you like. Who cares?

HENRY

Admiral, we can't take your money —

ADMIRAL BELL

Sure you can.

HENRY

(looking over at FLORA, who is shaking her head)

No, no, we can't.

ADMIRAL BELL

The hell you can't. Far as I'm concerned the deal's already done. Flora sure wants to get the fuck out of this old spookhouse. Don't you, babe?

FLORA

(blushing) Well, yes. But we shouldn't take your money —

ADMIRAL BELL

Did I ask you if you wanted to take it? Did I?

CLOSE UP: ADMIRAL BELL'S EXPRESSION

FLORA and HENRY look helplessly at each other, then at MR. CHILLINGWORTH, who is slowly backing away from ADMIRAL BELL.

FLORA

But —

ADMIRAL BELL

(removes a revolver from his waistband and waves it at FLORA)

If I want to pay you to be happy, bitch, that's my God given right as a goddamned Englishman. Think we don't like women on top? Her Imperial Majesty Queen Victoria and all, up there pushing our ships to everywhere the sun never sets? Maybe I like giving money to women. Maybe it's the best an old sailor like me is going to get, with a sagging mast and a —

CLOSE UP: HENRY AND MR. CHILLINGWORTH STARING AT ADMIRAL BELL.

CLOSE UP: FLORA FAINTING AND HENRY CATCHING HER.

ADMIRAL BELL

(lowers the gun)

Whatever. I'm buying you a goddamned house and you can stay in it as long as you goddamned like. For England. Now get that bitch back inside. It's lunchtime.

CUT TO:

EXT: THE COUNTRY TOWN - DAY

CLOSE UP: CLOSED SIGN #1

A MAN in a dirty shirt and a baseball cap hangs a CLOSED sign in the window of the gas station and steps out the door. A car pulls up to the gas pump in front of the doorway, honking as he locks the door. He stops and flips his middle finger at the car. The car honks once more and speeds off, burning rubber, with someone shouting curses inside.

CLOSE UP: CLOSED SIGN #2

A MAN IN A SUIT locking the door of the bank, with a CLOSED sign behind him.

CLOSE UP: CLOSED SIGN #3 - NEON "OPEN" SIGN BEING TURNED OFF

A WOMAN locks up the restaurant counter and then heads toward the door, turning off the lights.

CLOSE UP: CLOSED SIGN #4 - BACK AT 9:00 SIGN

A NURSE hangs a sign with moveable clock hands stating "back at 9:00" over the doorknob of a medical clinic. Several NURSES and DOCTORS exit the doorway right after she finishes hanging the sign and walks away.

CLOSE UP: CLOSED SIGN #5 - DOORS BEING LOCKED

A PRIEST locks the doors of a church, crosses himself, and then steps into the street.

EXT: THE COUNTRY TOWN - MAIN STREET - DAY

A continuous line of businesses on the main street being closed in a hurry, one after another, like dominoes. CAMERA DOLLIES through groups of PEOPLE gathering in the middle of the street to talk.

PRIEST

We can't just go up to the Hall and —

NURSE

Of course we can, Father! Didn't you hear what happened? The vampire tried to —

PRIEST

There's no such thing as vampires —

MAN FROM GAS STATION

You sure about that, Father? Seems to me ol' Varney disappeared last time we tried to burn his ass out. Up in a puff of magical smoke. Like vampires. Gentlemen don't puff, Father. And they sure as shit don't puff and run to some old ruined house to hide.

MANY VOICES in agreement. The PRIEST waves his hands.

PRIEST

There has to be some misunderstanding. I refuse to believe that Sir Francis Varney is a...vampire. It's ridiculous.

WOMAN FROM RESTAURANT

No it's not. My kids heard it.

Loud shouting and calls for the woman to continue, then silence.

CLOSE UP: WOMAN FROM RESTAURANT'S FACE

WOMAN FROM RESTAURANT

They did. He came in the house and banged on the doors then he left. They were screaming all night. All night.

MAN FROM GAS STATION

You heard the lady. Vampire. It's a goddamn vampire. We need to catch that sumbitch and stake him.

The group of people slowly becomes a MOB. MOB starts walking down the street toward Bannerworth Hall, shouting random comments about finding Sir Varney and killing him, and sharing more accounts of things that scared them in the night that must be the vampire's doing.

VOICEOVER NARRATION:

How children had shrieked from no apparent cause — doors opened and shut without human agency; and windows rattled that never had been known to rattle before.

# One Who Was Great Among Men By Laura Meyer

Some, too, went so far as to declare that they had been awakened out of their sleep by noises incidental to an effort made to enter their chambers; and others had seen dusky forms of gigantic proportions outside their windows, tampering with their fastenings, and only disappearing when the light of day mocked all attempts at concealment. So it was that these tales traveled among Men, and though all heard them, doubt was kindled in the hearts of a few at their inconsistencies, but no single one was brave enough to speak his or her thoughts, for none had mentioned them before.

One, however, who was great among Men, and wise in his ways, offered a thought on the matter which only served to deepen the shadows around it. He had wandered far and had heard legends in other lands of a creature known as vampyre. Before a great crowd, he said, "Thou may findest that this has continued for some time. Surely there have been deaths beyond reckoning, and people have met their Doom mysteriously."

"Yay," cried the crowd.

"Pray, look at the butcher, and how full he was, and how lean he became.

The one who was wise waited for their assent, and then continued, "Their Doom has been the vampyre, and now it is laid upon them each as well, and so it shall be laid upon all of you!"

"What then shall we do?" cried a terrified voice.

"You must find Sir Francis Varney and remove this dark shadow from the World completely so that his spirit may never again walk up it, and those who have fallen into his dark power shall be brought forth from where they lie at rest! If they be like him, they will be fair and uncorrupt!"

A furor rose among the people at this. The destruction of Sir Francis Varney at the altar of fury was a simple task; the desecration of those known to them in life was less so. Courage spread among them, however, and the idea took root in their minds until it was such that it seemed their duty to bring forth the butcher and examine him. There was, too, among Men, a curiosity about those who had passed from this life, and many would travel vast distances to exhume and study what is left of mortal Man when his spirit has fled. The rude materials of which the highest and noblest feelings of educated minds are formed, will be found amongst the most groveling and base; and so this vulgar curiosity, which, combined with other feeling, prompted an ignorant and illiterate mob to exhume Miles, the once fat butcher, in a different form tempted the philosophic Hamlet to moralise upon the skull of Yorick.

# Occupy Cemetery, A Public Event By Alexandra Lozano

I think it's time we do the virtuous and necessary thing about the vampyre. Let's all meet at the the village church-yard Wednesday and take back our town! Who's with me? Haters stay at home. If you're not going to help us, then stay out of our way or beware the consequences. This mob is going to be cray-cray!

Wednesday, October 31, 2012 12:00 a.m. until 3:00 a.m.

The iron gates of the churchyard. The ones that are never closed, like not even the oldest person in town has ever seen them closed. If the gates are closed that means something is seriously wrong.

**Alexandra Lozano** created the event.

Francis Dixon

OMW to the church-yard now. Just swiped some booze from a pub or two. Some

dude broke the windows of the tax-gatherers' shops.

Lord Burgerton

Damn hooligans! I won't see my town become an unruly mob over some unusually pale stranger.

Francis Dixon

Mind yer tongue, Boogerton! Or I may take a detour over to your place and break your windows. Wilde-lover!

Alexandra Lozano

Ok, seriously, you guys. This is getting out of control. We need to stay focused on the vampyre, this isn't an excuse to act like jerks instead of a civlised and well-educated population. Those of you who are already drunk, go home. You're not helping the cause!

Candor the Burninator

Anyone headed down to the graveyard beware!!!! The iron gates are closed and the mass is backed up. Looks like this might be shut down for several hours. Try to find an alternative route to the cemetery.

Lord Burgerton

The gates are closed?! What unholy sign is this?

Candor the Burninator

I know, right? How is it even possible to move the gates? Weren't they rusted open permanently?

Alexandra Lozano

This is a conspiracy! The church is plotting against us. They are trying to prevent us from destroying the graves!

Francis Dixon

Shaking the gates didn't open them. Time for Plan B: Watch out gates because I'm climbing over you! I bet these gates can be opened from the inside. _Si se puede!_

Lord Burgerton

What madness! Climbing upon the shoulders of several men to break into a graveyard.

Francis Dixon

OMG, something just whacked me between the eyes. It came from inside the wall.

Alexandra Lozano

Isn't this proof that the Church is trying to keep us down? They're even forcing us down!

Candor the Burninator

There's the long staff of the beadle!

"It's Waggles! it's Waggles!" cried everybody; "it's Waggles, the beadle!"

* *

(Original Page 250 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Yes," said a voice from within, "it's Waggles, the beadle; and he thinks as he had yer there rather; try it again. The church isn't in danger; oh, no. What do you think of this?"

The staff was flourished more vigorously than ever, and in the secure position that Waggles occupied it seemed not only impossible to attack him, but that he possessed wonderful powers of resistance, for the staff was long and the knob was heavy.

It was a boy who hit upon the ingenious expedient of throwing up a great stone, so that it just fell inside the wall, and hit Waggles a great blow on the head.

The staff was flourished more vigorously than ever, and the mob, in the ecstasy at the fun which was going on, almost forgot the errand which had brought them. Perhaps after all the affair might have passed off jestingly, had not there been some really mischievous persons among the throng who were determined that such should not be the case, and they incited the multitude to commence an attack upon the gates, which in a few moments must have produced their entire demolition.

Suddenly, however, the boldest drew back, and there was a pause, as the well-known form of the clergyman appeared advancing from the church door, attired in full canonicals.

"There's Mr. Leigh," said several; "how unlucky he should be here."

"What is this?" said the clergyman, approaching the gates. "Can I believe my eyes when I see before me those who compose the worshippers at this church armed, and attempting to enter for the purpose of violence to this sacred place! Oh! let me beseech you, lose not a moment, but return to your homes, and repent of that which you have already done. It is not yet too late; listen, I pray you, to the voice of one with whom you have so often joined in prayer to the throne of the Almighty, who is now looking upon your actions."

This appeal was heard respectfully, but it was evidently very far from suiting the feelings and the wishes of those to whom it was addressed; the presence of the clergyman was evidently an unexpected circumstance, and the more especially too as he appeared in that costume which they had been accustomed to regard with a reverence almost amounting to veneration. He saw the favourable effect he had produced, and anxious to follow it up, he added, —

"Let this little ebullition of feeling pass away, my friends; and, believe me, when I assure you upon my sacred word, that whatever ground there may be for complaint or subject for inquiry, shall be fully and fairly met; and that the greatest exertions shall be made to restore peace and tranquillity to all of you."

"It's all about the vampyre!" cried one fellow. "Mr. Leigh, how should you like a vampyre in the pulpit?"

"Hush, hush! can it be possible that you know so little of the works of that great Being whom you all pretend to adore, as to believe that he would create any class of beings of a nature such as those you ascribe to that terrific word? Oh, let me pray of you to get rid of these superstitions — alike disgraceful to yourselves and afflicting to me."

The clergyman had the satisfaction of seeing the crowd rapidly thinning from before the gates, and he believed his exhortations were having all the effect he wished. It was not until he heard a loud shout behind him and, upon hastily turning, saw that the churchyard had been scaled at another place by some fifty or sixty persons, that his heart sunk within him, and he began to feel that what he had dreaded would surely come to pass.

Even then he might have done something in the way of pacific exertion, but for the interference of Waggles, the beadle, who spoilt everything.

* *

(Original Page 251 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

**Chapter XLV:** We have said Waggles spoilt everything, and so he did, for before Mr. Leigh could utter a word more, or advance a few steps towards the rioters, Waggles charged them staff in hand, and there soon ensued a riot of a most formidable description.

A kind of desperation seemed to have seized the beadle, and certainly, by his sudden and unexpected attack, he achieved wonders. When, however, a dozen hands got hold of the staff, and it was wrenched from him, and he was knocked down, and half-a-dozen people rolled over him, Waggles was not near the man he had been, and he would have been very well content to have lain quiet where he was; this however, he was not permitted to do for two or three, who had felt what a weighty instrument of warfare a parochial staff was, lifted him bodily from the ground, and canted him over the wall, without much regard to whether he fell on a hard or a soft place on the other side.

This feat accomplished, no further attention was paid to Mr. Leigh, who, finding that his exhortations were quite unheeded, retired into the church with an appearance of deep affliction about him, and locked himself in the vestry.

The crowd now had entire possession — without even the sort of control that an exhortation assumed over them — of the burying-ground, and soon in a dense mass were these desperate and excited people collected round the well- known spot where lay the mortal remains of Miles, the butcher.

"Silence!" cried a loud voice, and every one obeyed the mandate, looking towards the speaker, who was a tall, gaunt-looking man, attired in a suit of faded black, and who now pressed forward to the front of the throng.

"Oh!" cried one, "it's Fletcher, the ranter. What does he do here?"

"Hear him! hear him!" cried others; "he won't stop us."

"Yes, hear him," cried the tall man, waving his arms about like the sails of a windmill. "Yes, hear him. Sons of darkness; you're all vampyres, and are continually sucking the life-blood from each other. No wonder that the evil one has power over you all. You're as men who walk in the darkness when the sunlight invites you, and you listen often to the words of humanity when those of a diviner origin are offered to your acceptance. But there shall be miracles in the land, and even in this place, set apart with a pretended piety that is in itself most damnable, you shall find an evidence of the true light; and the proof that those who will follow me the true path to glory shall be found here within this grave. Dig up Miles, the butcher!"

"Hear, hear, hear, hurra!" said everybody. "Mr. Fletcher's not such a fool, after all. He means well."

"Yes, you sinners," said the ranter, "and if you find Miles, the butcher, decaying — even as men are expected to decay whose mortal tabernacles are placed within the bowels of the earth — you shall gather from that a great omen, and a sign that if you follow me you seek the Lord; but if you find him looking fresh and healthy, as if the warm blood was still within his veins, you shall take that likewise as a signification that what I say to you shall be as the Gospel, and that by coming to the chapel of the Little Boozlehum, ye shall achieve great salvation."

"Very good," said a brawny fellow, advancing with a spade in his hand; "you get out of the way, and I'll soon have him up. Here goes like blue blazes!"

The first shovelful of earth he took up, he cast over his head into the air, so that it fell in a shower among the mob, which of course raised a shout of indignation; and, as he continued so to dispose of the superfluous earth, a general row seemed likely to ensue. Mr. Fletcher opened his mouth to make a remark, and, as that feature of his face was rather a capacious one, a descending lump of mould, of a clayey consistency, fell into it, and got so wedged among his teeth, that in the process of extracting it he nearly brought some of those essential portions of his anatomy with it.

* *

(Original Page 252 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

This was a state of things that could not last long, and he who had been so liberal with his spadesful of mould was speedily disarmed, and yet he was a popular favourite, and had done the thing so good-humouredly, that nobody touched him. Six or eight others, who had brought spades and pickaxes, now pushed forward to the work, and in an incredibly short space of time the grave of Miles, the butcher, seemed to be very nearly excavated.

Work of any kind or nature whatever, is speedily executed when done with a wish to get through it; and never, perhaps, within the memory of man, was a grave opened in that churchyard with such a wonderful celerity. The excitement of the crowd grew intense — every available spot from which a view of the grave could he got, was occupied; for the last few minutes scarcely a remark had been uttered, and when, at last, the spade of one of whose who were digging, struck upon something that sounded like wood, you might have heard a pin drop, and each one there present drew his breath more shortly than before.

"There he is," said the man, whose spade struck upon the coffin.

Those few words broke the spell, and there was a general murmur, while every individual present seemed to shift his position in his anxiety to obtain a better view of what was about to ensue.

The coffin now having been once found, there seemed to be an increased impetus given to the work; the earth was thrown out with a rapidity that seemed almost the quick result of the working of some machine; and those closest to the grave's brink crouched down, and, intent as they were upon the progress of events, heeded not the damp earth that fell upon them, nor the frail brittle and humid remains of humanity that occasionally rolled to their feet It was, indeed, a scene of intense excitement — a scene which only wanted a few prominent features in its foreground of a more intellectual and higher cast than composed the mob, to make it a fit theme for a painter of the highest talent.

And now the last few shovelfuls of earth that hid the top of the coffin were cast from the grave, and that narrow house which contained the mortal remains of him who was so well known, while in life, to almost every one then present, was brought to the gaze of eyes which never had seemed likely to have looked upon him again.

The cry was now for ropes, with which to raise the cumbrous mass; but these were not to be had, no one thought of providing himself with such appliances, so that by main strength, only, could the coffin be raised to the brink.

The difficulty of doing this was immense, for there was nothing tangible to stand upon; and even when the mould from the sides was sufficiently cleared away, that the handles of the coffin could be laid hold of, they came away immediately in the grasp of those who did so.

But the more trouble that presented itself to the accomplishment of the designs of the mob, the more intent that body seemed upon carrying out to the full extent their original designs.

Finding it quite impossible by bodily strength to raise the coffin of the butcher from the position in which it had got embedded by excessive rains, a boy was hastily despatched to the village for ropes, and never did boy run with such speed before, for all his own curiosity was excited in the issue of an adventure, that to his young imagination was appallingly interesting.

As impatient as mobs usually are, they had not time, in this case, for the exercise of that quality of mind before the boy came back with the necessary means of exerting quite a different species of power against the butcher's coffin.

Strong ropes were slid under the inert mass, and twenty hands at once plied the task of raising that receptacle of the dead from what had been presumed to be its last resting-place. The ropes strained and creaked, and many thought that they would burst asunder sooner than raise the coffin of the defunct butcher.

It is singular what reasons people find for backing their opinion.

"You may depend he's a vampyre," said one, "or it wouldn't be so difficult to get him out of the grave."

"Oh, there can be no mistake about that," said one; "when did a natural Christian's coffin stick in the mud in that way?"

* *

(Original Page 253 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Ah, to be sure," said another; "I knew no good would come of his goings on; he never was a decent sort of man like his neighbours, and many queer things have been said of him that I have no doubt are true enough, if we did but know the rights of them."

"Ah, but," said a young lad, thrusting his head between the two who were talking, "if he is a vampyre, how does he get out of his coffin of a night with all that weight of mould a top of him?"

One of the men considered for a moment, and then finding no rational answer occur to him, he gave the boy a box on the ear, saying, —

"I should like to know what business that is of yours? Boys, now-a-days, ain't like the boys in my time; they think nothing now of putting their spoke in grown-up people's wheels, just as if their opinions were of any consequence."

Now by a vigorous effort, those who were tugging at the ropes succeeded in moving the coffin a little, and that first step was all the difficulty, for it was loosened from that adhesive soil in which it lay, and now came up with considerable facility.

There was a half shout of satisfaction at this result, while some of the congregation turned pale, and trembled at the prospect of the sight which was about to present itself; the coffin was dragged from the grave's brink fairly among the long rank grass that flourished in the churchyard, and then they all looked at it for a time, and the men who had been most earnest in raising it wiped the perspiration from their brows, and seemed to shrink from the task of opening that receptacle of the dead now that it was fairly in their power so to do.

Each man looked anxiously in his neighbours' face, and several audibly wondered why somebody else didn't open the coffin.

"There's no harm in it," said one; "if he's a vampyre, we ought to know it; and, if he ain't, we can't do any hurt to a dead man."

"Oughten't we to have the service for the dead?" said one.

"Yes," said the impertinent boy who had before received the knock on the head, "I think we ought to have that read, back-wards."

This ingenious idea was recompensed by a great many kicks and cuffs, which ought to have been sufficient to have warned him of the great danger of being a little before his age in wit.

"Where's the use of shirking the job?" cried he who had been so active in shoveling the mud upon the multitude; "why, you cowardly sneaking set of humbugs, you're half afraid, now."

"Afraid — afraid!" cried everybody; "who's afraid?"

"Ah, who's afraid?" said a little man, advancing, and assuming an heroic attitude; "I always notice, if anybody's afraid, it's some big fellow, with more bones than brains."

At this moment, the man to whom this reproach was more particularly leveled, raised a horrible shout of terror, and cried out, in frantic accents, —

"He's a-coming — he's a-coming!"

The little man fell at once into the grave, while the mob, with one accord, turned tail, and fled in all directions, leaving him alone with the coffin. Such a fighting, and kicking, and scrambling ensued to get over the wall of the grave-yard, that this great fellow, who had caused all the mischief, burst into such peals of laughter that the majority of the people became aware that it was a joke, and came creeping back, looking as sheepish as possible.

Some got up very faint sorts of laugh, and said "very good," and swore they saw what big Dick meant from the first, and only ran to make the others run.

# Varney, re-written in the style of music reviewer/fake celebrity, Big Ghostfase AKA the Hands of Zeus AKA Phantom Raviolis, of Big Ghost Chronicles by Wythe Marschall

"Very good," said Dick, "I'm glad you enjoyed it, that's all. But ayo on a serious tip, y'all too damn hype to even hear a motherfucker right now, knamsayin. Y'all too hype to hear some damn common sense. Now where's my lil par who was spittin that one punchline about big-boned motherfuckers not havin much goin on upstairs? He's probably scared, like Drake car broke down by DMX house and he's gotta go on in and borrow a cup of water to cool off the radiator, knamsayin, like Drake poured his lil Sprite or whatever on that shit, and the engine still smokin like it's bout to explode. So he's all shaky, goin up to DMX like, 'Ey, we ain't really seein eye to eye lyrically and everything, but can I just hold like one cup of agua?' And DMX don't give one volcano shrug bout this lil dude, but he's puttin on his Dogs Will Bite / I'm a Eat Your Grandmama's Face type face juuust to fux wit your boy Drake AKA the Koala Commander AKA Young Cuddles, knamsayin. That's how scared little man be, standin before myself, the Big Dick AKA Mars Glaciers AKA the Hundred Hand Punch AKA $cratch Casino Marbles AKA the Valley of Death Barbershop Operator AKA Smokes Miracles.

"But y'all in the peanut gallery probably like, 'Ayo, when you gonna stop frontin for the ladies and open the damn coffin and show us the vampire and Frankenstein's monster and whatnot?' Calm down my lil glaciers. I got y'all like Lil Wayne got Drake. I got y'all like Jay got the check for sandwiches when half a Yeezy's crew show up uninvited to some Def Jam investor meeting wearin some questionable matchin Longchamp hoodies, talkin bout, 'Let's do a collabo joint wit e'ery single motherfucker at GOOD on it, and Yeezy's got the perfect beat, sampling the Rolling Motherfuckin Stones, so the samples'll only cost like five mill apeice'—I got y'all like Jay when he's like, 'We'll talk bout that shit later. Ayo, Pusha T, sit yo narrow ass down n eat a hummus wrap, we got shit to do—'"

"Ah, Dick"s the fellow to do it," cried a number of persons; "there's nobody like Dick for opening a coffin; he's the man as don't care for nothing."

"Aiight, so if nobody gonna stoop to help the god, let him just shovel this joint open. But lemme just get my preamble on right quick, knamsayin, cuz I've seen this dude live and I've seen this same dude dead, so I'm tellin y'all—ain't gonna be not Ridley Scott type shit jumpin out tryin to hug your face, just my boy's rotted-up body, knamsayin, and that shit creeps this motherfucker the FUCK OUT, knamsayin. Scraight up. I'm bout to open the gates of fuckin decayed motherfuckin horrorcore shit for y'all dumbasses, just and ONLY just to be like, 'See, Butch AKA Fat Thunder AKA Cutz Carne got his wig split and he's gone nighty-night for the long fuckin haul,' so let's deduce he ain't gettin out much no more to kill motherfuckers round town, aiight, Sherlocks?

"And ey, I know half a y'all Judases out there postin comments like this right now, like 'How cum u always go on n on like Lupe Fiasco AKA Young Bin Laden after five blunts talkin to Bill O'Reilly bout some conspiracy theory that Obama be leadin an invasion of Brooklyn by the Sunni Space Zombies n shit, n how come u dont just get to the point right away?' but with more misspellings. Yeah, I'm hip to that steez, brethren, I know y'all wanna cop it both ways when it come to the Smoke Glaciers n his unlimited volcanic verbal sorcery prophecies. It's all good tho, cuz I'm bout to open this shit now, like blah-dow!, preamble OUT—"

He introduced the corner of a shovel between the lid and the coffin, and giving it a sudden wrench, he loosened it all down one side.

A shudder pervaded the multitude, and, popularly speaking, you might have heard a pin drop in that crowded churchyard at that eventful moment.

Dick then proceeded to the other side, and executed the same manoeuvre.

"Now e'erbody get ready to clink your purp cups n cheers the god for showin you a dead-ass body n shit," he said; "get ready to be as disappointed as the last time you copped a Lil Wayne joint, like the last dumbass motherfucker tambout, 'Naaaw, I don't think Lance Armstrong took all them drugs,' like, 'Naaaaaw, R Kell wasn't REALLY makin it rain gold all over some fifteen-year-old.' Might as well get your iPhones out to take some disgustin fuckin pictures, too, knamsayin. My boy Butch Butcher is DEAD, yo. Like MLK, RFK, JFK, and all them other airports—shot up, fucked up, butchered up—DEAD."

"What a lark!" said the boy.

"Ayo, hold the comment thread, par. Who axed you for a remark? You just squattin there. I'm rackin so much AdSense dollars from dumbasses readin this shit bored at work, I could probably buy some a that Rick Ross-level, Palace at Versailles gear all them rappers be rappin bout nowdays stead a tellin us anything positive like motherfuckin Rakim n shit. Buy me some Bentleys n Damien Hirst skulls to give out as party favors at my Super Bowl party. Fuckouttahere. Get out the damn way of your boy Big Dick Glacierz revealin the dead-ass god Butch, knamsayin. Gives some space, n lemme just show y'all un-glacierly motherfuckers..."

"A what, do you say, Dick?"

"Motherfucker. The shoveling ain't for fun, motherfucker. Ask my elbow what it say. Email my motherfucking elbow at bigdickghostglacierzmotherfuckinelbow@bigdickghostglacierzchronicles.com n shit."

Dick threw down the spade, and laying hold of the coffin-lid with both hands, he lifted it off, and flung it on one side.

* *

(Original Page 255 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

There was a visible movement and an exclamation among the multitude. Some were pushed down, in the eager desire of those behind to obtain a sight of the ghastly remains of the butcher; those at a distance were frantic, and the excitement was momentarily increasing.

They might all have spared themselves the trouble, for the coffin was empty — there was no dead butcher, nor any evidence of one ever having been there, not even the grave-clothes; the only thing in all in the receptacle of the dead was a brick. Dick's astonishment was so intense that his eyes and mouth kept opening together to such an extent, that it seemed doubtful when they would reach their extreme point of elongation. He then took up the brick and looked at it curiously, and turned it over and over, examined the ends and the sides with a critical eye, and at length he said, —

"Well, I'm blowed, here's a transmogrification; he's consolidified himself into a blessed brick — my eye, here's a curiosity."

"But you don't mean to say that's the butcher, Dick ?" said the boy.

Dick reached over, and gave him a tap on the head with the brick.

"There!" he said, "that's what I calls occular demonstration. Do you believe it now, you blessed infidel? What's more natural? He was an out-and-out brick while he was alive; and he's turned to a brick now he's dead."

"Give it to me, Dick," said the boy; "I should like to have that brick, just for the fun of the thing."

"I'll see you turned into a pantile first. I sha'n't part with this here, it looks too blessed sensible; it's gaining on me every minute as a most remarkable likeness, d — — d if it ain't."

By this time the bewilderment of the mob had subsided; now that there was no dead butcher to look upon, they fancied themselves most grievously injured; and; somehow or other, Dick, notwithstanding all his exertions in their service, was looked upon in the light of a showman, who had promised some startling exhibition and then had disappointed his auditors.

The first intimations he had of popular vengeance was a stone thrown at him, but Dick's eye happened to be upon the fellow who threw it, and collaring him in a moment, he dealt him a cuff on the side of the head, which confused his faculties for a week.

"Hark ye," he then cried, with a loud voice, "don't interfere with me; it won't go down. There's something wrong here; and, as one of yourselves, I'm as much interested in finding out what it is as any of you can possibly be. There seems to be some truth in this business; our old friend, the butcher, you see, is not in his grave; where is he then?"

The mob, looked at each other and none attempted to answer the question.

"Why, of course, he's the vampyre," said Dick, "and you may all of you expect to see him, in turn, come into your bed-room windows with a burst, and lay hold of you like a million and a half of leeches rolled into one."

There was a general expression of horror, and then Dick continued, —

"You'd better all of you go home; I shall have no hand in pulling up any more of the coffins — this is a dose for me. Of course you can do what you like."

"Pull them all up!" cried a voice; "pull them all up! Let's see how many vampyres there are in the churchyard." "Well, it's no business of mine," said Dick; "but I wouldn't, if I was you."

"You may depend," said one, "that Dick knows something about it, or he wouldn't take it so easy." "Ah! down with him," said the man who had received the box on the ears; "he's perhaps a vampyre himself." The mob made a demonstration towards him, but Dick stood his ground, and they paused again.

* *

(Original Page 256 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Now, you're a cowardly set," he said; "because you're disappointed, you want to come upon me. Now, I'll just show what a little thing will frighten you all again and I warn beforehand it will, so you sha'n't say you didn't know it, and were taken by surprise."

The mob looked at him, wondering what he was going to do. "Once! twice! thrice!" he said, and then he flung the brick up into the air an immense height, and shouted "heads," in a loud tone. A general dispersion of the crowd ensued, and the brick fell in the centre of a very large circle indeed.

"There you are again," said Dick; "why, what a nice set you are!"

"What fun!" said the boy. "It's a famous coffin, this, Dick," and he laid himself down in the butcher's last resting place. "I never was in a coffin before — it's snug enough."

"Ah, you are a rum 'un," said Dick; "you're such a inquiring genius, you is; you'll get your head in a some hole one day, and not be able to get it out again and then I shall see you a kicking. Hush! lay still — don't say anything."

"Good again," said the boy; "what shall I do?"

"Give a sort of a howl and a squeak, when they all come back again."

"Won't I!" said the boy; "a pop on the lid."

"There you we," said Dick; "d — — d if I don't adopt you, and bring you up to the science of nothing."

"Now, listen to me, good people all," added Dick; "I have really got something to say to you."

At this intimation the people slowly gathered again round the grave. "Listen," said Dick, solemnly; "it strikes me there's some tremendous do going on."

"Yes, there is," said several who were foremost.

"It won't be long before you'll all of you be most d — nably astonished; but let me beg of all you not to accuse me of having anything to do with it, provided I tell you all I know."

"No, Dick; we won't — we won't — we won't."

"Good; then, listen. I don't know anything, but I'll tell you what I think, and that's as good. I don't think that this brick is the butcher; but I think, that when you least expect it — hush! come it little closer."

"Yes, yes; we are closer."

"Well, then, I say, when you least expect it, and when you ain't dreaming of such a thing, you'll hear something of my old friend as is dead and gone, that will astonish you all."

Dick paused, and he gave the coffin a slight kick, as intimation to the boy that he might as well be doing his part in the drama, upon which that ingenious young gentleman set up such a howl, that even Dick jumped, so unearthly did if sound within the confines of that receptacle of the dead. But if the effect upon him was great, what must it have been upon those whom it took completely unaware? For a moment or two they seemed completely paralysed, and then they frightened the boy, for the shout of terror that rose from so many throats at once was positively alarming.

This jest of Dick's was final, for, before three minutes had elapsed, the churchyard was clear of all human occupants save himself and the boy, who had played his part so well in the coffin.

"Get out," said Dick; "it's all right — we've done 'em at last; and now you may depend upon it they won't be in a hurry to come here again. You keep you own counsel, or else somebody will serve you out for this. I don't think you're altogether averse to a bit of fun, and if you keep yourself quiet you'll have the satisfaction of hearing what's said about this affair in every pothouse in the village, and no mistake."

* *

(Original Page 257 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

**Chapter XLVI:** It seemed now, that, by the concurrence of all parties, Bannerworth Hall was to be abandoned; and, notwithstanding Henry was loth — as he had, indeed, from the first shown himself — to leave the ancient abode of his race, yet, as not only Flora, but the admiral and his friend Mr. Chillingworth seemed to be of opinion that it would be a prudent course to adopt, he felt that it would not become him to oppose the measure.

He, however, now made his consent to depend wholly upon the full and free acquiescence of every member of the family.

"If," he said, "there be any among us who will say to me 'Continue to keep open the house in which we have passed so many happy hours, and let the ancient home of our race still afford a shelter to us' I shall feel myself bound to do so; but if both my mother and my brother agree to a departure from it, and that its hearth shall be left cold and desolate, be it so. I will not stand in the way of any unanimous wish or arrangement."

"We may consider that, then, as settled," said the admiral, "for I have spoken to your brother, and he is of our opinion. Therefore, my boy, we may all be off as soon as we can conveniently get under weigh."

"But my mother?" "Oh, there, I don't know. You must speak to her yourself. I never, if I can help it, interfere with the women folks." "If she consent, then I am willing." "Will you ask her?"

"I will not ask her to leave, because I know, then, what answer she would at once give; but she shall hear the proposition, and I will leave her to decide upon it, unbiassed in her judgment by any stated opinion of mine upon the matter."

"Good. That'll do; and the proper way to put it, too. There's no mistake about that, I can tell you."

Henry, although he went through the ceremony of consulting his mother, had no sort of doubt before he did so that she was sufficiently aware of the feelings and wishes of Flora to be prepared to yield a ready assent to the proposition of leaving the Hall.

Moreover, Mr. Marchdale had, from the first, been an advocate of such a course of proceeding, and Henry well knew how strong an influence he had over Mrs. Bannerworth's mind, in consequence of the respect in which she held him as an old and valued friend.

He was, therefore, prepared for what his mother said, which was, —

"My dear Henry, you know that the wishes of my children, since they have been grown up and capable of coming to a judgment for themselves, have ever been laws to me. If you, among you all, agree to leave this place, do so."

"But will you leave it freely, mother?"

"Most freely I go with you all; what is it that has made this house and all its appurtenances pleasant in my eyes, but the presence in it of those who are so dear to me? If you all leave it, you take with you the only charms it ever possessed; so it becomes in itself as nothing. I am quite ready to accompany you all anywhere, so that we do but keep together."

"Then, mother, we may consider that as settled." "As you please."

* *

(Original Page 258 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"It is scarcely as I please. I must confess that I would fain have clung with a kind of superstitious reverence to this ancient abiding-place of my race, but it may not be so. Those, perchance, who are more practically able to come to correct conclusions, in consequence of their feelings not being sufficiently interested to lead them astray, have decided otherwise; and, therefore, I am content to leave."

"Do not grieve at it, Henry. There has hung a cloud of misfortune over us all since the garden of this house became the scene of an event which we can none of us remember but with terror and shuddering."

"Two generations of our family must live and die before the remembrance of that circumstance can be obliterated. But we will think of it no more."

There can no doubt but that the dreadful circumstance to which both Mrs. Bannerworth and Henry alluded, was the suicide of the father of the family in the gardens which before has been hinted at in the course of this narration, as being a circumstance which had created a great sensation at the time, and cast a great gloom for many months over the family.

The reader will, doubtless, too, recollect that, at his last moments, this unhappy individual was said to have uttered some incoherent words about some hidden money, and that the rapid hand of death alone seemed to prevent him from being explicit upon that subject, and left it merely a matter of conjecture.

As years had rolled on, this affair, even as a subject of speculation, had ceased to occupy the minds of any of the Bannerworth family, and several of their friends, among whom was Mr. Marchdale, were decidedly of the opinion that the apparently pointed and mysterious words uttered, were but the disordered wanderings of an intellect already hovering on the confines of eternity.

Indeed, far from any money, of any amount, being a disturbance to the last moments of the dissolute man, whose vices and extravagances had brought his family to such ruin, it was pretty generally believed that he had committed suicide simply from a conviction of the impossibility of raising any more supplies of cash, to enable him to carry on the career which he had pursued for so long.

But to resume.

Henry at once communicated to the admiral what his mother had said, and then the whole question regarding the removal being settled in the affirmative, nothing remained to be done but to set about it as quickly as possible.

The Bannerworths lived sufficiently distant from the town to be out of earshot of the disturbances which were then taking place; and so completely isolated were they from all sort of society, that they had no notion of the popular disturbance which Varney the vampyre had given rise to.

It was not until the following morning that Mr. Chillingworth, who had been home in the meantime, brought word of what had taken place, and that great commotion was still in the town, and that the civil authorities, finding themselves by far too weak to contend against the popular will, had sent for assistance to a garrison town, some twenty miles distant.

It was a great grief to the Bannerworth family to hear these tidings, not that they were in any way, except as victims, accessory to creating the disturbance about the vampyre, but it seemed to promise a kind of notoriety which they might well shrink from, and which they were just the people to view with dislike.

View the matter how we like, however, it is not to be considered as at all probably that the Bannerworth family would remain long in ignorance of what a great sensation they had created unwittingly in the neighbourhood.

The very reasons which had induced their servants to leave their establishment, and prefer throwing themselves completely out of place, rather than remain in so ill-omened a house, were sure to be bruited abroad far and wide.

And that, perhaps, when they came to consider of it, would suffice to form another good and substantial reason for leaving the Hall, and seeking a refuge in obscurity from the extremely troublesome sort of popularity incidental to their peculiar situation.

# Bannerworth Facebook Conversations by Janine Marshman

Mr. Chillingworth felt uncommonly chary of telling them all that had taken place; although he was well aware that the proceedings of the riotous mob had not terminated with the little disappointment at the old ruin, to which they had so effectually chased Varney the vampyre, but to lose him so singularly when he got there.

**Admiral Bell > Henry Bannerworth  
**Hilloa! It strikes me if you or your ship's crew continue in these latitudes, you'll get as notorious as the Flying Dutchman in the southern ocean.  
Like - Comment - 20 mins ago  
_Worth Chilling and Varney V like this_

**Henry Bannerworth** I have no idea what you're talking about  
19 mins ago - Like

**Admiral Bell** Come on Bannerworth - a nod's as good as a wink. I'm talking about that Vampyre you and you're family have taken up with.  
18 mins ago - Like

**Flora B. Fauna** *your*  
8 mins ago - Varney V. likes this

**Henry Bannerworth** Seriously? And why the hell are you talking like that? International Talk Like a Pirate Day was months ago.  
15 mins ago - Worth Chilling likes this

**Admiral Bell** Look it's all over @Worth Chilling's facebook so you might as well stop trying to hide it. You do realise you're all going to have to clear out of here?  
15 mins ago - Like

**Admiral Bell** @Henry?  
10 mins ago - Like

**Henry Bannerworth** Yes I'm here. I know. I just don't know how we'll manage not being here anymore. Could you at least not tell Flora? It's already hard enough without her feeling like everybody knows what's going on  
9 mins ago - Varney V likes this

**Flora B. Fauna** You do realise I can see this whole conversation don't you?  
8 mins ago - Mamma Bannerworth likes this

**Admiral Bell** Of course I won't - do you think I'm an ass?  
7 mins ago - Jack Pringle likes this

**Flora Fauna** ?????? Obviously I am invisible...  
7 mins ago - Like

**Admiral Bell** Who asked you, you ugly horse-marine @Jack Pringle  
6 mins ago - Like

**Jack Pringle** Ask a plain question...  
6 mins ago - Flora Fauna likes this

**Admiral Bell** Why, you son of a bad looking gun, what do you mean by that? I tell you what it is, @Jack; I've let you come sneaking too often on the quarter-deck, and now you come poking your fun at your officers, you rascal!  
5 mins ago - Worth Chilling likes this

**Jack Pringle** Me? Poking fun? As if I would do that ;)  
5 mins ago - Like

**Admiral Bell** That's it. If you don't stop it, you're fired!  
4 mins ago - Like

**Jack Pringle** As if you would. You'd be lost without me :p  
4 mins ago - Like

**Admiral Bell** Damn you @Jack Pringle  
5 mins ago - Like

**Jack Pringle** Damn you too!  
4 mins ago - Like

**Admiral Bell** Shiver my timbers!  
3 mins ago - Like

**Jack Pringle** You can do whatever you like with your own timbers  
2 mins ago - Flora Fauna, Henry Bannerworth, Varney V, Worth Chilling and 1 other like this

**Admiral Bell** And you won't leave me?  
2 mins ago - Jack Pringle likes this

**Jack Pringle** Sartingly not.

# Varney the Vampire Remix: A Pantomime by Marianne Edwards

"Come here, then?" ordered Admiral Bell and Jack, his cabin boy, began to cross the stage towards him.

"Boo!" cried the audience at the wicked Admiral, causing Jack to hesitate.

The noise floated out of the tent that was their theatre and Henry slowed from a jog to a walk: He wasn't going to miss his cue after all. There'd been a slight panic about his day ever since he'd heard about the mob in town.

"What's the matter?" Admiral Bell's voice was squeaky with indignation. "I just want to give him something for getting the place ship shape."

"Oh no you're not!" They shouted, and anyone who didn't got a nudge in the ribs from their neighbour.

"Oh yes I am!"

"Oh no you're -"

"Alright. Alright!" interrupted Jack, "not that again!" He headed towards the Admiral but stamped two steps back in a comic startle: "He gone! Did he sink?" Jack looked under a cushion and a behind a vase of plastic flowers. "Will you help me fish for him children?" They nodded enthusiastically. The Admiral, still puffing from having run round the back, staggered into view on the other side of the stage.

"He's behind you!" the children cried. Jack turned but the admiral turned with him and raised his stick.

"Where?" Jack asked them.

"Behind you!"

"But I've looked and" - THWACK! Down it came in a great whack over Jack's shoulders. "What was that for?" He demanded, rubbing his neck.

"A month's pay, Jack Pringle, in full! Don't spend it all at once. Ho Ho!" The admiral hopped from foot to foot triumphantly.

"Why didn't you tell me he was there?" Jack asked, rounding on the audience and shaking his fist. Then he strode towards his boss: "I say, Admiral!" He pointed at the man's chest, "You've got gravy or something on your shirt." The old man looked down, whereupon Jack poked him on the nose.

"Consider that an advance!"

"An advance on what?"

"Nothing!" Jack clarified, and with a triumphant "Ha!" he stalked out of the scene.

Henry fiddled with a loose thread on his costume as he watched the crowd. They always lapped up the comic interlude, but he could see they were ready for the next act. He took a deep breath and made a conscious effort to separate himself from the events of the day. He moved a box of wigs aside and approached the corner of the stage.

His breathing changed. He became _Peter Pan_.

After the show Henry's urgency returned. Everyone agreed that they should go. He hurried through the trucks and caravans to tell Flora. She was sitting on a stool outside her trailer, trying to get a better look at her bite-mark tattoo in a mirror balanced on a crate under the street light.

"Flor, I think we should leave in the morning."

"What about the evening show? Why?" She was irritated that he'd taken the decision without her.

"A priest was rabble-rousing in town." It was explanation enough.

"Stinking, pagan Carnies," she mimicked, "with their diseased women and giving succour and refuge to the d— — d vampires." She shook her head. "Fucking religious nuts! They'll hurt someone. Can we even get packed by then?" "'s not like we've still got the ponies or the goat." Every time they'd left the camp for more than a day or two, they'd come back to find that their dad had gambled something else away. "We'd better tell mum soon".

"I'll do it." Making light of things for a moment, she kicked a can across the cracked tarmac and spread her arms wide, embracing the bus shelter and the disused gas station and going full thespian. "As vengeful circumstances have induced us to remove from this home, which was once so full of pleasant recollections, it is certainly better, as you say, that the act should be at once consummated, than left hanging in terror over our minds." Henry grinned at his sister and became _the young laird._

"Then I'll consider that as settled," said Henry.

# Pseudo-couplets featuring purple prose By: Jess C Scott
CHAPTER XLVII

Mrs. Bannerworth's consent having been already given to the removal, she said at once, when appealed to, that she was quite ready to go at any time her children thought expedient.

After all, the children were obedient.

Henry sought the dashing admiral and said:

"My sister feared the removal—she feared moving the cumbersome items would have us dead."

"Why would I want an empty house?" the admiral exclaimed in a booming baritone voice, stomping his foot upon the ground. "I wouldn't want to gaze upon empty chairs at empty tables!"

"What about the cables?"

"Yes, those too. I told you, you've nothing to move but yourselves and your personal items. There's no need to make this perplexing."

"I wasn't aware, admiral, that that was your plan." It did seem a whole lot less dazzling and confusing.

"Boy, you listen to me. I'm the mastermind."

"One of a kind."

"Tomorrow evening, in the dead of night, during twilight hours at the stroke of midnight when the packs of wild wolves are howling at the full moon's apex, you and your brother, and Miss Flora and your mother—"

"My brother from another father?"

"That's right. The whole big happy family will trot out of the house, and follow Jack and I, in order to steal away into the night later with plenty of free furniture."

"I can't think of anything better for the near future."

"So, what is the unanimous, unequivocal, unambiguous opinion of all of you?"

"That beyond any shadow of a doubt, admiral, everything should be left to you."

"Your words sing and make my heart all aflutter."

"Would you like to announce it to the whole world on Twitter?"

"Not just yet, not just yet."

"You'll feel compelled to before the night is over. Wanna bet?"

"I've no need to—I've proven myself to be too good a friend to you. Hence it is impossible for anyone to resist obeying the ruthless, powerful, all-encompassing command of my Masculine License."

Henry could feel the butterflies in his stomach. "My knees go weak whenever I am graced by your presence."

"Can I trust there will be no petty objections on your part?"

Henry threw himself in a prostrate position upon the ground, genuflecting before the admiral. "Arrange everything, I beseech you, according to the unrestricted wishes and feelings of the bottomless depths of your ever-so-generous, always in bloom, bright sunshiny heart."

"That's right. There's nothing like having total control over some one person that I can summon at any time to do my bidding."

"It'd be a sin to think that you were kidding."

"I want it all—I'll have it all. Everything is to be ready at seven tomorrow evening. That's when you prepare to leave the hall."

"It shall be so—after all, I'm at your beck and call."

"Hark! Now who's that knocking so loudly at the gate?"

"I've no idea. It's not like I'm expecting a date."

Henry walked to the gate, and having opened it, a too-beautiful too-handsome dashing servant materialized and waltzed his way into the garden.

"Well, well, well," said Henry, feeling like he'd died and had gone to a paradise called Eden.

The servant dazzled Henry with his knockout smile. "Is Mr. Henry Bannerworth within, or Admiral Bell?"

"Both," cried the enamored admiral. "He is I, and I am him. He is mine, and I am his. What do you want with us, you handsome devil?"

"Sir, my master desires you—with his very best intention—and he wants to know how you are after your assignation."

"What?"

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"After your — a — a — flurry and excitement."

"Who is your master?" said Henry.

"Sir Francis Varney."

"The devil!" said the admiral; "if that don't beat all the impudence I ever came near. Our flurry! Ah! I like that fellow. Just go and tell him — "

"No, no," said Henry, interposing, "send back no message. Say to your master, fellow, that Mr. Henry Bannerworth feels that not only has he no claim to Sir Francis Varney's courtesy, but that he should rather be without it."

"Oh, ha!" said the footman, adjusting his collar; "very good. This seems a d — — d, old-fashioned, outlandish place of yours. Any ale?"

"Now, shiver my hulks!" said the admiral.

"Hush! hush!" said Henry; "who knows but there may be a design in this? We have no ale."

"Oh, ah! dem! — dry as dust, by God! What does the old commodore say? Any message, my ancient Greek?"

"No, thank you," said the admiral; "bless you, nothing. What did you give for that waistcoat, d — n you? Ha! ha! you're a clever fellow."

"Ah! the old gentleman's ill. However, I'll take back his compliments, and that he's much obliged at Sir Francis's condescension. At the same time, I suppose I may place in my eye what I may get out of either of you, without hindering me seeing my way back. Ha! ha! Adieu — adieu."

"Bravo!" said the admiral; "that's it; go it — now for it. D — n it, it is a _do_!"

The admiral's calmness during the latter part of the dialogue arose from the fact that, over the flunkey's shoulder, and at some little distance off, he saw Jack Pringle taking off his jacket, and rolling up his sleeves in that deliberate sort of way that seemed to imply a determination of setting about some species of work that combined the pleasant with the useful.

Jack executed many nods to and winks at the livery-servant, and jerked his thumb likewise in the direction of a pump near at hand, in a manner that spoke as plainly as possible, that John was to be pumped upon.

And now the conference was ended, and Sir Francis's messenger turned to go; but Jack Pringle bothered him completely, for he danced round him in such a singular manner, that, turn which way he would, there stood Jack Pringle, in some grotesque attitude, intercepting him; and so he edged him on, till he got him to the pump.

"Jack," said the admiral.?"Ay, ay, sir." "Don't pump on that fellow now." "Ay, ay, sir; give us a hand."

Jack laid hold of him by the two ears, and holding him under the pump, kicked his shins until he completely gathered himself beneath the spout. It was in vain that he shouted, "Murder! help! fire! thieves!" Jack was inexorable and the admiral pumped.

Jack turned the fellow's head about in a very scientific manner, so as to give him a fair dose of hydropathic treatment, and in a few minutes, never was human being more thoroughly saturated with moisture than was Sir Francis Varney's servant.

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He had left off hallooing for aid, for he found that whenever he did so, Jack held his mouth under the spout, which was decidedly unpleasant; so, with a patience that looked like heroic fortitude, he was compelled to wait until the admiral was tired of pumping.

"Very good," at length he said. "Now, Jack, for fear this fellow catches cold, be so good as to get a horsewhip, and see him off the premises with it."

"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack. "And I say, old fellow, you can take back all our blessed compliments now, and say you've been flurried a little yourself; and if so be as you came here as dry as dust, d — -e, you go back as wet as a mop. Won't it do to kick him out, sir?"

"Very well — as you please, Jack."

"Then here goes;" and Jack proceeded to kick the shivering animal from the garden with a vehemence that soon convinced him of the necessity of getting out of it as quickly as possible.

How it was that Sir Francis Varney, after that fearful race he had had, got home again across the fields, free from all danger, and back to his own house, from whence he sent so cool and insolent a message, they could not conceive.

But such must certainly be the fact; somehow or another, he had escaped all danger, and, with a calm insolence peculiar to the man, he had no doubt adopted the present mode of signifying as much to the Bannerworths.

The insolence of his servant was, no doubt, a matter of pre-arrangement with that individual, however he might have set about it _con amore_. As for the termination of the adventure, that, of course, had not been at all calculated upon; but, like most tools of other people's insolence or ambition, the insolence of the underling had received both his own punishment and his master's.

We know quite enough of Sir Francis Varney to feel assured that he would rather consider it as a good jest than otherwise of his footman, so that with the suffering he endured at the Bannerworths', and the want of sympathy he was likely to find a home, that individual had certainly nothing to congratulate himself upon but the melancholy reminiscence of his own cleverness.

But were the mob satisfied with what had occurred in the churchyard? They were not, and that night was to witness the perpetration of a melancholy outrage, such as the history of the time presents no parallel to.

The finding of a brick in the coffin of the butcher, instead of the body of that individual, soon spread as a piece of startling intelligence all over the place; and the obvious deduction that was drawn from the circumstance, seemed to be that the deceased butcher was unquestionably a vampyre, and out upon some expedition at the very time when his coffin was searched.

How he had originally got out of that receptacle for the dead was certainly a mystery; but the story was none the worse for that. Indeed, an ingenious individual found a solution for that part of the business, for, as he said, nothing was more natural, when anybody died who was capable of becoming a vampyre, than for other vampyres who knew it to dig him up, and lay him out in the cold beams of the moonlight, until he acquired the same sort of vitality they themselves possessed, and joined their horrible fraternity.

In lieu of a better explanation — and, after all, it was no bad one — this theory was generally received, and, with a shuddering horror, people asked themselves, if the whole of the churchyard were excavated, how many coffins would be found tenantless by the dead which had been supposed, by simpleminded people, to inhabit them.

The presence, however, of a body of dragoons, towards evening, effectually prevented any renewed attack upon the sacred precincts of the churchyard, and it was a strange and startling thing to see that country town under military surveillance, and sentinels posted at its principal buildings.

This measure smothered the vengeance of the crowd, and insured, for a time, the safety of Sir Francis Varney; for no considerable body of persons could assemble for the purpose of attacking his house again, without being followed; so such a step was not attempted.

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It had so happened, however, than on that very day, the funeral of a young man was to have taken place, who had put up for a time at that same inn where Admiral Bell was first introduced to the reader. He had become seriously ill, and, after a few days of indisposition, which had puzzled the country practitioners, breathed his last.

He was to have been buried in the village churchyard on the very day of the riot and confusion incidental to the exhumation of the coffin of the butcher, probably from that circumstance we may deduce the presence of the clergyman in canonicals at the period of the riot.

When it was found that so disorderly a mob possessed the churchyard, the idea of burying the stranger that day was abandoned; but still all would have gone on quietly as regarded him, had it not been for the folly of one of the chamber-maids at the tavern.

This woman, with all the love of gossip incidental to her class, had, from the first, entered so fully into all the particulars concerning vampyres, that she fairly might be considered to be a little deranged on that head. Her imagination had been so worked upon, that she was in an unfit state to think of anything else, and if ever upon anybody a stern and revolting superstition was calculated to produce dreadful effects, it was upon this woman.

The town was tolerably quiet; the presence of the soldiery had frightened some and amused others, and no doubt the night would have passed off serenely, had she not suddenly rushed into the streets, and, with bewildered accents and frantic gestures, shouted, —

"A vampyre — a vampyre — a vampyre!"

These words soon collected a crowd around her, and then, with screaming accents, which would have been quite enough to convince any reflecting person that she had actually gone distracted upon that point, she cried, —

"Come into the house — come into the house — come into the house! Look upon the dead body, that should have been in its grave; it's fresher now than on the day on which it died, and there's a colour in its cheeks. A vampyre — a vampyre — a vampyre! Heaven save us from a vampyre!"

The strange, infuriated, maniacal manner in which these words were uttered, produced an astonishingly exciting effect among the mob. Several women screamed, and some few fainted. The torch was laid again to the altar of popular feeling, and the fierce flame of superstition burnt brightly and fiercely.

Some twenty or thirty persons, with shouts and exclamations, rushed into the inn, while the woman who had created the disturbance still continued to rave, tearing her hair, and shrieking at intervals, until she fell exhausted upon the pavement.

Soon, from a hundred throats, rose that dreadful cry of "A vampyre — a vampyre!" The alarm was given throughout the whole town; the bugles of the military sounded; there was a clash of arms — the shrieks of women; although, the premonitory symptoms of such a riot as was not likely to be quelled without bloodshed and considerable disaster.

It is truly astonishing the effect which one weak or vicious-minded person can produce upon a multitude.

Here was a woman whose opinion would have been accounted valueless upon the most common-place subject, and whose word would not have passed for twopence, setting a whole town by the ears by force of nothing but her sheer brutal ignorance.

It is a notorious physiological fact that, after four or five days, or even a week, the bodies of many persons assume an appearance of freshness, such as might have been looked for in vain immediately after death.

It is one of the most insidious processes of that decay which appears to regret its " — — — — offensive fingers To mar the lines where beauty lingers." But what did the chamber-maid know of physiology? Probably, she would have asked if it was anything good to eat; and so, of course, having her head full of vampyres, she must needs produce so lamentable a scene of confusion, the results of which we almost sicken at detailing.

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Chapter LVIII: [sic] [This chapter is misnumbered; it is really Chapter XLVIII]

The mob seemed from the first to have an impression that, as regarded the military force, no very serious results would arise from that quarter, for it was not to be supposed that, on an occasion which could not possibly arouse any ill blood on the part of the soldiery, or on which they could have the least personal feeling, they would like to get a bad name, which would stick to them for years to come.

It was no political riot, on which men might be supposed, in consequence of differing in opinion, to have their passions inflamed; so that, although the call of the civil authorities for military aid had been acceded to, yet it was hoped, and, indeed, almost understood by the officers, that their operations would be confined more to a demonstration of power, than anything else.

Besides, some of the men had got talking to the townspeople, and had heard all about the vampyre story, and not being of the most refined or educated class themselves, they felt rather interested than otherwise in the affair.

Under these circumstances, then, we are inclined to think, that the disorderly mob of that inn had not so wholesome a fear as it was most certainly intended they should have of the red coats. Then, again, they were not attacking the churchyard, which in the first case, was the main point in dispute, and about which the authorities had felt so very sore, inasmuch as they felt that, if once the common people found out that the sanctity of such places could be outraged which impunity, they would lose their reverence for the church; that is to say, for the host of persons who live well and get fat in this country by the trade of religion.

Consequently, this churchyard was the main point of defence, and it was zealously looked to when it need not have been done so, while the public-house where there really reigned mischeief was half unguarded.

There are always in all communities, whether large or small, a number of persons who really have, or fancy they have, something ot gain by disturbance. These people, of course, care not for what pretext the public peace is violated; so long as there is a row, and something like an excuse for running into other peoples's houses, they are satisfied.

To get into a public-house under such circumstances is an unexpected treat; and thus, when the mob rushed into the inn with such symptoms of fury and excitement, there went with the leaders of the disturbance a number of persons who never thought of getting further than the bar, where they attacked the spirit-taps with an alacrity which showed how great was their love for ardent compounds.

Leaving these persons behind, however, we will follow those who, with a real superstition, and a furious interest in the affair of the vampyre, made their way towards the upper chamber, determining to satisfy themselves if there were truth in the statement so alarmingly made by the woman who had created such an emotion.

It is astonishing what people will do in crowds, in comparison with the acts that they would be able to commit individually. There is usually a calmness, a sanctity, a sublimity about death, which irresistibly induces a respect for its presence, alike from the educated or from the illiterate; and let the object of the fell-destroyer's presence be whom it may, the very consciousness that death has claimed it for its own, invests it with a halo of respect, that, in life, the individual could never aspire to probably.

Let us precede these furious rioters for a few moments, and look upon the chamber of the dead — that chamber, which for a whole week, had been looked upon with a kind of shuddering terror — that chamber which had been darkened by having its sources of light closed, as if it were a kind of disrespect to the dead to allow the pleasant sunshine to fall upon the faded form.

And every inhabitant of that house, upon ascending and descending its intricate and ancient staircases, had walked with a quiet and subdued step past that one particular door.

Even the tones of voice in which they spoke to each other, while they knew that that sad remnant of mortality was in the house, was quiet and subdued, as if the repose of death was but a mortal sleep, and could be broken by rude sounds.

# Varney the Vampire Flash Short Story by Heather Michon

The body, said the innkeeper, was in the second-floor bedchamber; and this constituted the first problem, for the house was shuttered and dark. One look at the pitch-black staircase and the resolve of half our party withered. Without discussion, someone rummaged among the chaos of the kitchen. The combined light of the tallow candles barely penetrated the gloom, but at least allowed us to make our way around.

At the doorway of the bedchamber, we stood in silence for what seemed minutes, and when one our our number finally spoke, I'm ashamed to admit I jumped back.

"My friends," he said. "We'll do everything properly, and I think we'd better three or four of us go in at once, arm-in-arm."

"Pshaw," scoffed the man nearest the door. "It's your cowardice that speaks. I'll go in first. Let those follow me who like, and those who are afraid may remain where they are." He pushed the door open and dashed inside. Unwilling to let him have the glory, we piled in behind him.

The coffin, covered by a sheet, lay on two trestles beside the bed. In its presence, I found myself distracted by the small details of the room: the bed neatly made, the coffin lid propped against the wall, the glum little print hanging over the wash-stand. I didn't want to look beneath the sheet. My fear turned to pity: for this poor fellow to die, unknown and alone, at a worn little village inn was bad enough, but to become in death an object of fear and hostility seemed to me unalterably sad.

Silence had resettled over our group. We drifted towards the edges of the coffin. Someone - it was not me - pulled back the sheet, and together we looked into the face of the dead.

# Varney the Vampire, The Thornton Heath (South London) version by Claire Leavey

There was nothing repulsive in that countenance. He was actually looking pretty bloody good, man. He'd rotted down lovely so all his meat had gone soft and flobbery; he looked all lovely and chilled, you get me? Not like when he first turned up his toes. Then he'd looked really uptight. A proper stiff.

Weird, man, he still looked chunky in the features, though. Looked like he'd died really sudden, like, so he'd not gone all thin and scrawny and and see-through like a starvation or a smackhead or a cancer man or nuffin.

He looked like he could jus open his eyes and spark up a biggie, fer true. Blew my mind, innit. Like a fakebake boy band boy with a nose full of coke.

No-one said nuffink for a minute, the room dead silent, silent as the grave, and then one guy says:

"Geezer's a bleedin vampire, innit. He's come in here to pop it, cos he knows ole Lordship Varney's gonna come for him to join his darkside crew if he pegs it in here."

"Yea man, ta raas! Bombaclaat!" then it's a chorus of pasty Croydon yardies all chantin it like a freaked-out football thing: "Im a vampaya! Vampaya!"

"Oi! Old ard!" shouts one, "he looks _too_ weird. Let's fin' someone in the block who's seen him a while back, get them fe check im, see if they think im looking weird. Cos he is, looking weird, tho, innit."

The whole crew said yeah, cos they was all well weirded out fer true. A couple of the big bways ran off down the stairs and came back in a bit with this little pizza boy, shitting it. They'd grabbed him on the landing and dragged him along up here by the neck.

Little squit thought we wuz gonna hurt him dead or summink, cos when dem bways drag him inna di crib, im a shakin like a pussy, and im look more of a pasty-white dead geezer than the dead geezer.

"I aint done nuffink! I aint done nuffink!" he squealed, the little tart. "I aint one of them bloodsuckers mate! Don't go stickin no pool cues through me mate! No word of a lie, on me old ma's grave, I'm just a pizza guy. I bin a pizza guy since they kicked me out of school, and I swear I ain't never done nuffing but deliver pizzas me whole life mate."

"Calm yerself, lickle bredren" said one of the big geezers who had hold of him. " Jus answer a one question fer true and we cool."

"One question? I can do that! What is it? Ask me anything! You place your order mate and I'll deliver! And even, if I take longer than twenty minutes, I'll give you a free garlic bread an all, innit!"

"Look pon this corpse. Look pon the face of im."

The pizza boy, cringing, chucked his head about, nodding. He peered right close up at it, squinting like a rat-face freak. Cos he was one, innit.

"You seen dat face ever?"

"Seen it? Seen it? Yes! Loads of times! I seen him when he was still breathing, and I seen him when he'd jus stopped. An then, when the meat truck come for him, I followed them up and seen em put him in his box. I was watching em special, mate, cos I seen em about and I seen the crappy tricks they get up to. I had a cousin got into that game for a bit but he got out, mate, and the tales he told me would make you chuck, mate, make you chuck. One of them, he told me, carries a bloody great pair of pliers in his pocket so's he can rip out the gold from their teeth before they go in the box."

" Shatap ya jabberin nah, bombaclat" said the big guy, and kissed his teeth just like a real Jamaican gangster. You'd never know he'd grown up Bromley, eh? "We aint got time for yo ramblin shit, innit. Look pon de man. Im look diffrent now to you than im look then? When you sin im when im livin?"

"Well, I don't know." Garlic Bredren squinted right up against its cheek again, then looked up at me, as though he was doubting his eyes. "I dunno", he said again. "somehow, it don't look too bad."

"Fresher? Fresher than when you seen im livin? Im been dead a few days now, ya kna."

"Well, it's bloody strange, mate, but I think you're right." the pizza boy actually stuck out a finger and gave the fleshy cheek a gentle poke. "Now you're saying it, mate, I reckon it does. Somehow or other, now you mention it, it's very odd, but it does."

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"Enough," cried the man who had questioned him, with considerable excitement of manner. Neighbours, are we to have our wives and our children scared to death by vampyres?"

"No — no!" cried everybody.?"Is not this, then, one of that dreadful order of beings?" "Yes — yes; what's to be done?" "Drive a stake through the body, and so prevent the possibility of anything in the shape of a restoration."

This was a terrific proposition; and even those who felt most strongly upon the subject, and had their fears most awakened, shrank form carrying it into effect. Others, again, applauded it, although they determined, in their own minds, to keep far enough off from the execution of the job, which they hoped would devolve upon others, so that they might have all the security of feeling that such a process had been gone through with the supposed vampyre, without being in any way committed by the dreadful act.

Nothing was easier than to procure a stake from the garden in the rear of the premises; but it was one thing to have the means at hand of carrying into effect so dreadful a proposition, and another actually to do it.

For the credit of human nature, we regret that even then, when civilisation and popular education had by no means made such rapid strides as in our times they have, such a proposition should be entertained for a moment; but so it was; and just as an alarm was given that a party of the soldiery had reached the inn, and had taken possession of the doorway with a determination to arrest the rioters, a strong hedgestake had been procured, and everything was in readiness for the perpetration of the horrible deed.

Even then those in the room, for they were tolerably sober, would have revolted, probably, from the execution of so fearful an act; but the entrance of a party of military into the lower portion of the tavern, induced those who had been making free with the strong liquors below, to make a rush up-stairs to their companions with the hope of escaping detection of the petty larceny, if they got into trouble on account of the riot.

These persons, infuriated by drink, were capable of anything, and to them, accordingly, the more sober parties gladly surrendered the disagreeable job of rendering the supposed vampyre perfectly innoxious, by driving a hedge- stake through his body — a proceeding which, it was currently believed, inflicted so much physical injury to the frame, as to render his resuscitation out of the question.

The cries of alarm from below, joined now to the shouts of those mad rioters, produced a scene of dreadful confusion.

We cannot, for we revolt at the office, describe particularly the dreadful outrage which was committed upon the corpse; suffice it that two or three, maddened by drink, and incited by others, plunged the hedge-stake through the body, and there left it, a sickening and a horrible spectacle to any one who might cast his eyes upon it.

With such violence had the frightful and inhuman deed been committed, that the bottom of the coffin was perforated by the stake, so that the corpse was actually nailed to its last earthly tenement.

Some asserted, that at that moment an audible groan came from the dead man, and that this arose from the extinguishment of that remnant of life which remained in him, on account of his being a vampyre, and which would have been brought into full existence, if the body had been placed in the rays of the moon, when at its full, according to the popular superstition upon that subject.

Others, again, were quite ready to swear, that at the moment the stake was used, there was a visible convulsion of all the limbs, and that the countenance, before so placid and so clam, became immediately distorted, as if with agony.

But we have done with these horrible surmises; the dreadful deed has been committed, and wild, ungovernable superstition has had, for a time, its sway over the ignorant and debased.

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**Chapter XLIX:** The soldiery had been sent for from their principal station near the churchyard, and had advanced with some degree of reluctance to quell what they considered as nothing better nor worse than a drunken brawl at a public-house, which they really considered they ought not to be called to interfere with. When, however, the party reached the spot, and heard what a confusion there was, and saw in what numbers the rioters were assembling, it became evident to them that the case was of a more serious complexion than they had at first imagined, and consequently they felt that their professional dignity was not so much compromised with their interference with the lawless proceedings.

Some of the constabulary of the town were there, and to them the soldiers promised they would hand what prisoners they took, at the same time that they made a distinct condition that they were not be be troubled with their custody, nor in any way further annoyed in the business beyond taking care that they did not absolutely escape, after being once secured.

This was all that the civil authorities of the town required, and, in fact, they hoped that, after making prisoners of a few of the ringleaders of the riotous proceedings, the rest would disperse, and prevent the necessity of capturing them. Be it known, however, that both military and civil authorities were completely ignorant of the dreadful outrage against all common decency, which had been committed within the public-house.

The door was well guarded, and the question now was how the rioters were to be made to come down stairs, and be captured; and this was likely to remain a question, so long as no means were adopted to make them descend. So that, after a time, it was agreed that a couple of troopers would march up stairs with a constable, to enable him to secure any one who seemed a principal in the riot.

But this only had the effect of driving those who were in the second-floor, and saw the approach of the two soldiers, whom they thought were backed by the whole of their comrades, up a narrow staircase, to a third-floor, rather consisting of lofts than of actual rooms; but still, for the time, it was a refuge; and owning to the extreme narrowness of the approach to it, which consisted of nearly a perpendicular staircase, with any degree of tact or method, it might have been admirably defended.

In the hurry and scramble, all the lights were left behind; and when the two soldiers and constables entered the room where the corpse had lain, they became, for the first time, aware of what a horrible purpose had been carried out by the infuriated mob.

The sight was one of perfect horror, and hardened to scenes which might strike other people as being somewhat of the terrific as these soldiers might be supposed to be by their very profession, they actually sickened at the sight which the mutilated corpse presented, and turned aside with horror.

These feelings soon gave way to anger and animosity against the crowd who could be guilty of such an atrocious outrage; and, for the first time, a strong and interested vengeance against the mob pervaded the breasts of those who were brought to act against it.

One of the soldiers ran down stairs to the door, and reported the scene which was to be seen above. A determination was instantly come to, to capture as many as possible of those who had been concerned in so diabolical an outrage, and leaving a guard of five men at the door, and remainder of the party ascended the staircase, determined upon storming the last refuge of the rioters, and dragging them to justice.

The report, however, of these proceedings that were taking place at the inn, spread quickly over the whole town; and soon as large a mob of the disorderly and the idle as the place could at all afford was assembled outside the inn.

This mob appeared appeared, for a time, inertly to watch the proceedings. It seemed rather a hazardous thing to interfere with the soldiers, whose carbines look formidable and troublesome weapons.

With true mob courage, therefore, they left the minority of their comrades, who were within the house, to their fate; and after a whispered conference from one to the other, they suddenly turned in a body, and began to make for the outskirts of the town.

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They then separated, as if by common consent, and straggled out into the open country by twos and threes, consolidating again into a mass when they had got some distance off, and clear of any exertions that could be made by the soldiery to stay them.

The cry then rose of "Down with Sir Francis Varney — slay him — burn his house — death to all vampyres!" and, at a rapid pace, they proceeded in the direction of his mansion.

We will leave this mob, however, for the present, and turn our attention to those who are at the inn, and are certainly in a position of some jeopardy. Their numbers were not great, and they were unarmed; certainly, their best chance would have been to have surrendered at discretion; but that was a measure which, if the sober ones had felt inclined to, those who were infuriated and half maddened with drink would not have acceded to on any account.

A furious resistance was, therefore, fairly to be expected; and what means the soldiery were likely to use for the purpose of storming this last retreat was a matter of rather anxious conjecture.

In the case of a regular enemy, there would not, perhaps, have been much difficulty; but here the capture of certain persons, and not their destruction, was the object; and how that was to be accomplished by fair means, certainly was a question which nobody felt very competent to solve.

Determination, however, will do wonders; and although the rioters numbered over forty, notwithstanding all their desertions, and not above seventeen or eighteen soldiers marched into the inn, we shall perceive that they succeeded in accomplishing their object without any manoeuvering at all.

The space in which the rioters were confined was low, narrow, and inconvenient, as well as dark, for the lights on the staircase cast up that height but very insufficient rays.

Weapons of defence they found but very few, and yet there were some which, to do them but common credit, they used as effectually as possible.

These attics, or lofts, were used as lumber-rooms, and had been so for years, so that there was a collection of old boxes, broken pieces of furniture, and other matters, which will, in defiance of everything and everybody, collect in a house.

These were formidable means of defence, if not of offence, down a very narrow staircase, had they been used with judgment.

Some of the rioters, who were only just drunk enough to be fool-hardy, collected a few of these articles at the top of the staircase, and swore they would smash anybody who should attempt to come up to them, a threat easier uttered than executed.

And besides, after all, if their position had ever been so impregnable, they must come down eventually, or be starved out.

But the soldiers were not at liberty to adopt so slow a process of overcoming their enemy, and up the second-floor staircase they went, with a determination of making short work of the business.

They paused a moment, by word of command, on the landing, and then, after this slight pause, the word was given to advance.

Now when men will advance, in spite of anything and everything, it is no easy matter to stop them, and he who was foremost among the military would as soon thought of hesitation to ascend the narrow staircase before him, when ordered so to do, as paying the national debt. On he went, and down came a great chest, which, falling against his feet, knocked him down as he attempted to scramble over it.

"Fire," said the officer; and it appeared that he had made some arrangements as to how the order was to be obeyed, for the second man fired his carbine, and then scrambled over his prostrate comrade; after which he stooped, and the third fired his carbine likewise, and then hurried forward in the same manner.

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At the first sound of the fire arms the rioters were taken completely by surprise; they had not had the least notion of affairs getting to such a length. The smell of the powder, the loud report, and the sensation of positive danger that accompanied these phenomena, alarmed them most terrifically; so that, in point of fact, with the exception of the empty chest that was thrown down in the way of the first soldier, no further idea of defence seemed in any way to find a place in the hearts of the besieged.

They scrambled one over the other in their eagerness to get as far as possible from immediate danger, which, of course, they conceived existed in the most imminent degree the nearest to the door.

Such was the state of terror into which they were thrown, that each one at the moment believed himself shot, and the soldiers had overcome all the real difficulties in getting possession of what might thus be called the citadel of the inn, before those men who had been so valorous a short time since recovered from the tremendous fright into which they had been thrown.

We need hardly say that the carbines were loaded, but with blank cartridges, for there was neither a disposition nor a necessity for taking the lives of these misguided people.

It was the suddenness and the steadiness of the attack that had done all the mischief to their cause; but now, ere they recovered from the surprise of having their position so completely taken by storm, they were handed down stairs, one by one, from soldier to soldier, and into the custody of the civil authorities.

In order to secure the safe keeping of so large a body of prisoners, the constables, who were in a great minority, placed handcuffs upon some of the most capable of the resistance; so what with those who were thus secured, and those who were terrified into submission, there was not a man of all the lot who had taken refuge in the attics of the public-house but was a prisoner.

At the sound of fire-arms, the women who were outside the inn had, of course, raised a prodigious clamour.

They believed directly that every bullet must have done some serious mischief to the townspeople, and it was only upon one of the soldiers, a non-commissioned officer, who was below, assuring them of the innoxious nature of the proceeding which restored anything like equanimity.

"Silence!" he cried; "what are you howling about? Do you fancy that we've nothing better to do than to shoot a parcel of fellows that are not worth the bullets that would be lodged in their confounded carcases?"

"But we heard the gun," said a woman.

"Of course you did; it's the powder that makes the noise, not the bullet. You'll see them all brought out safe wind and limb."

This assurance satisfied the women to a certain extent, and such had been their fear that they should have had to look upon the spectacle of death, or of grevious wounds, that they were comparatively quite satisfied when they saw husbands, fathers, and brothers, only in the custody of the town officers.

And very sheepish some of the fellows looked, when they were handed down and handcuffed, and the more especially when they had been routed only by a few blank cartridges — that sixpennyworth of powder had defeated them.

They were marched off to the town gaol, guarded by the military, who now probably fancied that their night's work was over, and that the most turbulent and troublesome spirits in the town had been secured.

Such, however, was not the case, for no sooner had comparative order been restored, than common observation pointed to a dull red glare in the southern sky.

In a few more minutes there came in stragglers from the open country, shouting "Fire! fire!" with all their might.

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Chapter L: THE MOB'S ARRIVAL AT VARNEY'S. — THE ATTEMPT TO GAIN ADMISSION.

All eyes were directed towards that southern sky which each moment was becoming more and more illuminated by the lurid appearance bespeaking a conflagration, which, if it was not extensive, at all events was raging fiercely. There came, too upon the wind, which set from that direction, strange sounds, resembling shouts of triumph, combined occasionally with sharper cries, indicative of alarm.

With so much system and so quietly had this attack been made upon the house of Sir Francis Varney — for the consequences of it now exhibited themselves more unequivocally — that no one who had not actually accompanied the expedition was in the least aware that it had been at all undertaken, or that anything of the kind was on the tapis. Now, however, it could be no longer kept a secret, and as the infuriated mob, who had sought this flagrant means of giving vent to their anger, saw the flames from the blazing house rising high in the heavens, they felt convinced that further secresy was out of the question.

Accordingly, in such cries and shouts as — but for caution's sake — they would have indulged in from the very first, they now gave utterance to their feelings as regarded the man whose destruction was aimed at. "Death to the vampyre! — death to the vampyre!" was the principal shout, and it was uttered in tones which sounded like those of rage and disappointment.

But it is necessary, now that we have disposed of the smaller number of rioters who committed so serious an outrage at the inn, that we should, with some degree of method, follow the proceedings of the larger number, who went from the town towards Sir Francis Varney's.

These persons either had information of a very positive nature, or a very strong suspicion that, notwithstanding the mysterious and most unaccountable disappearance of the vampyre in the old ruin, he would now be found, as usual, at his own residence. Perhaps one of his own servants may have thus played the traitor to him; but, however it was, there certainly was an air of confidence about some of the leaders of the tumultous assemblage that induced a general belief that this time, at least, the vampyre would not escape popular vengeance for being what he was.

We have before noticed that these people went out of the town at different points, and did not assemble into one mass until they were at a sufficient distance off to be free from all fear of observation. Then some of the less observant and cautious of them began to indulge in shouts of rage and defiance; but those who placed themselves foremost succeeded in procuring a halt, and one said, "Good friends all, if we make any noise, it can only have one effect, and that is, to warn Sir Francis Varney, and enable him to escape. If, therefore, we cannot go on quietly, I propose that we return to our homes, for we shall accomplish nothing."

This advice was sufficiently and evidently reasonable to meet with no dissension; a death-like stillness ensued, only broken by some two or three voices saying, in subdued tones, "That's right — that's right. Nobody speak."

"Come on, then," said he who had given such judicious counsel; and the dark mass of men moved towards Sir Francis Varney's house, as quietly as it was possible for such an assemblage to proceed.

Indeed, saving the sound of the footsteps, nothing could be heard of them at all; and that regular tramp, tramp, tramp, would have puzzled any one listening to it from any distance to know in which direction it was proceeding. In this way they went on until Sir Francis Varney's house was reached, and even then a whispered word to halt was given, and all eyes were bent upon the building. From but one window out of the numerous ones with which the front of the mansion was studded did there shine the least light, and from that there came rather an uncommonly bright reflection, probably arising from a reading lamp placed close to the window.

A general impression, they knew not why exactly, seemed to pervade everybody, that in the room from whence streamed that bright light was Varney. "The vampyre's room!" said several. "The vampyre's room! That is it!"

"Yes," said he who had a kind of moral control over his comrades; "I have no doubt but he is there." "What's to be done?" asked several.?"Make no noise whatever, but stand aside, so as not to be seen from the door when it is opened."

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"Yes, yes."

"I will knock for admittance, and, the moment it is answered, I will place this stick in such a manner within, that the door cannot be closed again. Upon my saying 'Advance,' you will make a rush forward, and we shall have possession immediately of the house."

All this was agreed to. The mob shrunk close to the walls of the house, and out of immediate observation from the hall door, or from any of the windows, and then the leader advanced, and knocked loudly for admission.

The silence was now of the most complete character that could be imagined. Those who came there so bent upon vengeance were thoroughly convinced of the necessity of extreme caution, to save themselves even yet from being completely foiled. They had abundant faith, from experience, of the resources in the way of escape of Sir Francis Varney, and not one among them was there who considered that there was any chance of capturing him, except by surprise; and when once they got hold of him, they determined he should not easily slip through their fingers.

The knock for admission produced no effect; and, after waiting three or four minutes, it was very provoking to find such a wonderful amount of caution and cunning completely thrown away. "Try again," whispered one.

"Well, have patience; I am going to try again." The man had the ponderous old-fashioned knocker in his hand, and was about to make another appeal to Sir Francis Varney's door, when a strange voice said, —"Perhaps you may as well say at once what you want, instead of knocking there to no purpose."

He gave a start, for the voice seemed to come from the very door itself. Yet it sounded decidedly human; and, upon a closer inspection, it was seen that a little wicket-gate, not larger than a man's face, had been opened from within.

This was terribly provoking. Here was an extent of caution on the part of the garrison quite unexpected. What was to be done?

"Well?" said the man who appeared at the little opening. "Oh," said he who had knocked; "I — " "Well?" "I — that is to say — ahem! Is Sir Francis Varney within?" "Well?"

"I say, is Sir Francis Varney within?" "Well; you have said it!" "Ah, but you have not answered it." "No."

"Well, is he at home?"

"I decline saying; so you had better, all of you, go back to the town again, for we are well provided with all material to resist any attack you may be fools enough to make."

As he spoke, the servant shut the little square door with a bang that made his questioner jump again. Here was a dilemma!

# We're in a Bit of a Fix By Wendy Gregory

Chapter L1: AND THE STRUGGLE: A council of war was now called among the belligerents, who were somewhat taken aback by the steady refusal of the servants to admit them and their apparent determination to resist all endeavours on the part of the mob to get into and obtain possession of the house. It was clear that getting into the vampyre's house would be resisted, and may cost lives, a fact that didn't escape the men's attention as they moved beyond the angle of the wall to where the council would be held.

They looked about them for signs of others' intentions, but there wasn't any indication that any man wished to give up the pursuit.

"We can't just look out for ourselves now," a well-built fellow began, "because he'll just suck us dry one by one unless we kill him first!"

"That's right."

"Jack Hodge is right: we must kill him. He has already taken the life of some other poor devil to prolong his own, so it's justifiable."

"Yes, that's how he goes about things. Let's get him out of there and then we'll decide what to do with him."

"Let's get him out, then we can get rid of him. First though, we have to catch him."

"Isn't that what we've all come here for?"

"Yes, so let's get on with it," urged another.

"Well, we are."

"You will be when we've got inside the house."

"Well, what can we do?" one man asked, "we're in a bit of a fix, I think, and I don't see how we can get out of it."

"I wish we could get in the house."

"But I don't see how we can," another well-built specimen said.

"Let's scout around the house and see if we can find an easier way to get in than through the front door."

"Good idea, but let's split into two parties so that we can divide their defence. That'll make it easier for us. There's enough of us to beat them if we can spread them out a bit more."

"Yes, if we attack from all around they might give up and then we'll have the place."

"I don't agree," said the big farmer, "it would be better to make a concerted push and drive them away in front of us. Then everyone knows what they have to do, you know?"

"If you can."

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"Ay, to be sure, if we can, as you say; but can't we? that's what I want to know." "To be sure we can." "Then we'll do it, mate — that's my mind; we'll do it. Come one, and let's have another look at the street-door."

The big countryman left the main body, and resolutely walked up to the main avenue, and approached the door, accompanied by about a dozen or less of the mob. When they came to the door, they commenced knocking and kicking most violently, and assailing it with all kinds of things they could lay their hands upon.

They continued at this violent exercise for some time — perhaps for five minutes, when the little square hole in the door was again opened, and a voice was heard to say, —

"You had better cease that kind of annoyance."

"We want to get in."

"It will cost you more lives to do so than you can afford to spare. We are well armed, and are prepared to resist any effort you can make."

"Oh! it's all very well; but, an you won't open, why we'll make you; that's all about it."

This was said as the big countryman and his companions were leaving the avenue towards the rest of the body.

"Then, takes this, as an earnest of what is to follow," said the man, and he discharged the contents of a blunderbuss through the small opening, and its report sounded to the rest of the mob like the report of a field-piece.

Fortunately for the party retiring the man couldn't take any aim, else it is questionable how many of the party would have got off unwounded. As it was, several of them found stray slugs were lodged in various parts of their persons, and accelerated their retreat from the house of the vampyre.

"What luck?" inquired one of the mob to the others, as they came back; "I'm afraid you had all the honour."

"Ay, ay, we have, and all the lead too," replied a man, as he placed his hand upon a sore part of his person, which bled in consequence of a wound.

"Well, what's to be done?" "Danged if I know," said one. "Give it up," said another.

"No, no; have him out. I'll never give in while I can use a stick. They are in earnest and so are we. Don't let us be frightened because they have a gun or two — they can't have many; and besides, if they have, we are too many for them. Besides, we shall all die in our beds."

"Hurrah! down with the vampyre!"

"So say I, lads. I don't want to be sucked to death when I'm a-bed. Better die like a man than such a dog's death as that, and you have no revenge then."

"No, no; he has the better of us then. We'll have him out — we'll burn him — that's the way we'll do it." "Ay, so we will; only let us get in."At that moment a chosen party returned who had been round the house to make a reconnoissance.

# The Caine Brothers by Kyle Leacock

"Well, well," inquired the mob, "what can be done now - where can we get in?"

Standing a few feet behind me was a mob of over half the town, waiting for orders on how to attack the vampyre's manor house. My brother and I had just returned from doing some recon of the home and the townspeople were eagerly awaiting our council. They wanted to know what the Caine brothers, the only two men in the area who have hunted vampyres and lived to tell the tale, planned to do to save their town. As far as these people were concerned, my brother's words and mine were gospel.

"This ain't exactly my idea of a good plan," said my brother, his voice lowered so the group behind us couldn't hear his skepticism.

"Trust me this will work," I said. "When have my plans ever failed us?"

"Well there was that time in London."

"It was our first hunt, that was an honest mistake."

"Then there was Paris."

"Oh come on, you said you'd let that one go. Besides your hair grew back. Mostly."

"Thailand."

"Ok, yeah, I messed up on that one. But we still lived to fight another day. And we will again tonight."

"What about these folks? They ain't exactly trained for this type of thing. A bad attitude and a pitchfork can only get you so far."

I turned to look at the mob. They had armed themselves with an array of makeshift weapons. Wood axes, bats, and torches were among the more popular choices. Large rocks and dull kitchen knives rounded out the rest of the arsenal. There was even one man holding a stereotypical pitchfork, just like my brother said. Several of the larger men held improvised battering rams; made from small trees they had recently chopped down. What the mob lacked in experience, they made up for in enthusiasm. Whether that was enough to keep them alive was an entirely different matter. I honestly wasn't convinced it was.

"They'll be fine," I said. "Strength in numbers and all that."

*****

The outside of the vampyre's manor wasn't heavily guarded, but our recon told us the inside was a different story. Dozens of servants, thralls of the vampyre lord, roamed the halls. All of them ready to protect their master. My brother and I could kill with the best of them, but we were only two people. We couldn't take an entire house by ourselves. But for once we had help.

Our plan was a simultaneous attack on both of the house's entrances. Give the servants more targets and problems than they knew what to do with. Use the sheer numbers of the townspeople to our advantage, and take the house as quickly as possible. It was a good plan, in theory.

My brother led the charge against the back door, while I led the charge against the front. We synchronized our watches to ensure the battering rams would strike in unison, and took our respective positions. Time felt like it slowed down as I watched the seconds tick away on my pocket watch. I held up my free hand, high enough for the mob to see, and counted down the final seconds with my fingers. With a clenched fist, I gave the signal to attack.

The villagers poured all their fury and fear into the assault, breaking the doors off the hinges, and we quickly flooded the halls. Once inside, I could see that servant's attention was scattered due to our two-pronged attack, left unsure of which threat to deal with first. The mob attacked the servants with a ferocity that would be impressive to the most hardened hunter. But I couldn't let the mob have all the fun. I raised my gun at a servant charging towards me. My bullet pierced his skull and he fell dead midstride, momentum sliding him across the floor and stopping at my feet. I fired more bullets at the servants that were too fast for the mob's melee weapons, killing as many as I could, all while trying my best to count my ammo. I had no intention of letting the lord vampyre live out the night. The faster I could kill the servants, the faster I could kill their master, and the better the chance of more people making it out alive.

When I paused to reload, I felt a sudden impact against my back, loosening my grip on my gun and knocking me to the floor. I quickly rolled over to see two servants standing over me. They pounced on me; one holding my arms down, while the other wrapped his hand on my throat and prepared to plunge a knife into my eye. I yelled out for my brother, and he, like the kind older sibling he is, immediately answered the call. With a hard swing of his favorite sword, he took the head off the servant holding my arms. Blood splashed my face but I ignored it. I put my liberated hands on the sides of the other servant's head, and with a quick rotation snapped his neck. When I got up, my brother handed me my gun.

"Mom would be ashamed to see you reload that slow," he said.

"Bite me," I said, pushing a fresh clip into the handle. "No, wait. Forget I said that." A member of the mob ran past me. His bludgeon of choice was dripping with blood and his shirt had matching red splatter.

"We are winning everyone," he shouted. "Keep fighting! Soon we will take this house and kill their master!"

About two-dozen more servants poured into the room, obviously not happy with the premature declaration of victory. The new servants were all armed with guns and quickly out flanked us.

"Not yet," shouted the servants.

# The Mob Pushed On by Brittni A. Bennett

"We'll try," said the mob; and they rushed forward to drive the servants back, and they met with a stout resistance, and as some of them had choppers and swords, there were a few wounds given, and presently bang went the blunderbuss.

If chaos has not broken loose before, it certainly had now. The mob was not made up of trained soldiers. These were worked up townsfolk—rioters—and they panicked when one or two of their own became victim to the loud 'bang'. Though the servants themselves were far from warriors, they had weapons. Most held poles or sticks, about six feet long, and they mercilessly beat those of the mob who dared come too close.

But the mob pushed on and endured. Heavy blows from the poles rained down on their heads and shoulders. Some were trying to push back the servants only to be struck with the butt of a stick to their face, gut, or whatever other area the defenders could strike at.

A cry rang out from another quarter of the household. Servants came scrambling into the fray, joining the others on the stairs. It was a sad attempt to regroup. More rioters came in behind them. They had gained entry from another quarter of the building. The servants scrambled and joined the others fighting on the stairs to hold off the mob. Cries of "get the vampire", "down with them all", and "burn the whole place" were repeated through the mob, along with a great deal of "hurrah".

The servants did not surrender, though they were weary and outnumbered. Every rioter they beat down was replaced by another. They were fighting against a tightly packed mass of constantly moving bodies and it appeared there was no end to their fighting. The determined mob continued to push forward and withstand all but the heaviest strikes upon their bodies.

"Fire again!" someone in the mass of servants yelled. While the mob was determined the servants were desperate. But neither group would surrender. Neither were cowards and the servants held their ground while the rioters continued to press on. Another 'bang' rang out through the room. Ears rang and smoke wafted over their heads. Some of the mob fell while the injured groaned, but it did not stop the mob as a whole. They still fought their way to the servants, to pass them and get to the vampire. They rallied each other, more cries yelled out; "down with the vampire!" "Take them all down!" "Kill the vampire!"

A rush succeeded, and a few more discharges took place, when a shout above attracted the attention of both parties engaged in their fierce struggle. They paused by mutual consent, to look and see what was the cause of the shout.

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**Chapter LII.** The shout that had so discomposed the parties who were thus engaged in a terrific struggle came from a party above.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" they shouted a number of times, in a wild strain of delight. "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!"

The fact was, a party of the mob had clambered up a verandah, and entered some of the rooms upstairs, whence they emerged just above the landing near the spot where the servants were resisting in a mass the efforts of the mob.

"Hurrah!" shouted the mob below.

"Hurrah!" shouted the mob above.

There was a momentary pause, and the servants divided themselves into two bodies, and one turned to face those above, and the other those who were below.

A simultaneous shout was given by both parties of the mob, and a sudden rush was made by both bodies, and the servants of Sir Francis Varney were broken in an instant. They were instantly separated, and knocked about a good bit, but they were left to shift for themselves, the mob had a more important object in view.

"Down with the vampyre!" they shouted.

"Down with the vampyre!" shouted they, and they rushed helter skelter through the rooms, until they came to one where the door was partially open, and they could see some person very leisurely seated.

"Here he is," they cried.

"Who? who?"

"The vampire."

"Down with him! kill him! burn him!"

"Hurrah! down with the vampire!"

These sounds were shouted out by a score of voices, and they rushed headlong into the room.

But here their violence and headlong precipitancy were suddenly restrained by the imposing and quiet appearance of the individual who was there seated.

The mob entered the room, and there was a sight, that if it did not astonish them, at least, it caused them to pause before the individual who was seated there.

The room was filled with furniture, and there was a curtain drawn across the room, and about the middle of it there was a table, behind which sat Sir Francis Varney himself, looking all smiles and courtesy.

"Well, dang my smock-frock!" said one, "who'd ha' thought of this? He don't seem to care much about it."

"Well, I'm d — — d!" said another; "he seems pretty easy, at all events. What is he going to do?"

"Gentlemen," said Sir Francis Varney, rising, with the blandest of smiles, "pray, gentlemen, permit me to inquire the cause of this condescension on your part. The visit is kind."

# Vampire Haiku by Paula Grunseit

"Down with the vampyre!"

shouted the mob in raw fear.

He towers - gleaming.

He glowers and smiles -

offering them assistance,

his long teeth shiny.

Then the vampyre is

vanish-ed. Gone but extant?!

Where is he hiding?

"C'est impossible!"

He can't be invisible.

Can he? Surely not!

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(Original Page 280 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"My eyes! what precious long teeth he had!"

"Yes; and had he fixed one on 'em in to your arm, he would have drawn every drop of blood out of your body; you may depend upon that," said an old man.

"He was very tall."

"Yes; too tall to be any good."

"I shouldn't like him to have laid hold of me, though, tall as he is; and then he would have lifted me up high enough to break my neck, when he let me fall."

The mob routed about the room, tore everything out of its place, and as the object of their search seemed to be far enough beyond their reach, their courage rose in proportion, and they shouted and screamed with a proportiouate increase of noise and bustle; and at length they ran about mad with rage and vexation, doing all the mischief that was in their power to inflict.

Then they became mischievous, and tore the furniture from its place, and broke it into pieces, and then amused themselves with breaking it up, throwing pieces at the pierglasses, in which they made dreadful holes; and when that was gone, they broke up the frames.

Every hole and corner of the house was searched; but there was no Sir Francis Varney to be found.

"The cellars, the cellars!" shouted a voice.

"The cellars, the cellars!" re-echoed nearly every pair of lips in the whole place; in another moment, there was crushing and crowding to get down into the cellars.

"Hurray!" said one, as he knocked off the neck of the bottle that first came to hand. "Here's luck to vampyre- hunting! Success to our chase!"

"So say I, neighbour; but is that your manners to drink before your betters?"

So saying, the speaker knocked the other's elbow, while he was in the act of lifting the wine to his mouth; and thus he upset it over his face and eyes.

"D — n it!" cried the man; "how it makes my eyes smart! Dang thee! if I could see, I'd ring thy neck!"

"Success to vampyre-hunting!" said one.

"May we be lucky yet!" said another.

"I wouldn't be luckier than this," said another, as he, too, emptied a bottle. "We couldn't desire better entertainment, where the reckoning is all paid."

"Excellent!" "Very good!" "Capital wine this!" "I say, Huggins!" "Well," said Huggins. "What are you drinking?"

# What Wine? By Randell Carr

"Wine"

"What wine?"

"Damned if I know" Huggins replied. "It's not beer nor spirits, so it must be wine."

"It's blood!"

"Eh?"

"Bottled blood man! Vampyres drink blood!" The terror cracked his voice as it cracked his overwrought mind. "He must feast upon it in the night. If we drink it, we'll become vampyres too."

Huggins barked a laugh. "Your brains are rattled, neighbour. Look at me; I've been drinking the stuff and I'm fine"

"Monster!" Spittle flew from his jaws as he screamed the word. He spun around, bending and unbending, and reappeared with a broken barrel stave in his hand. "Abomination!" he screamed again, and drove the splintered wood into his neighbour's throat. Huggins collapsed slowly. His blood made a gurgling sound as it leaked onto the cellar floor.

His burgeoning madness fueled by Huggins' death, the killer leapt onto a full barrel and waved his bloody hands at those unsuspecting rioters still sharing opened bottles. "Stop them," he roared. "Destroy the unclean!" One might think the discovery of a winecellar would distract from violent measures but no crowd assembled for evil purpose had ever remained peaceful for long. The lizard brain of the mob had been triggered and, as a single organism, they obeyed.

The first victims were already drunk and fell quickly to the now-murderous throng, skewered like their neighbour Huggins, with improvised stakes, or trampled by the remainder of the crowd who, in a bitter irony, were still pushing into the cellars to get their share of the wine. Other drinkers, less impaired, fled and tried to conceal themselves deeper in the cellar.

But the mob was unleashed; no room, closet or cupboard big enough to hold a cat escaped their search. They dragged their neighbours, screaming and sputtering innocence, back to the circle of light where Huggins' killer was orchestrating executions from his makeshift rostrum. Whether by some obscene collective reflex or rage at the recent escape of their true intended victim, the crowd was merciless. One-by-one, they dispatched their unlucky fellows, dropping the bodies to the floor where they joined the litter of broken bottles.

As the number of victims dwindled, the rioters turned their fury on the remaining barrels of wine. Someone produced an axe and, amid echos of shattering wood, the red liquid splashed to the floor and matched its colour with the blood of the dead to form a single stream that seeped into the darkness of the cellars.

The destruction was loudly disclaimed against by a large portion of the rioters, who were drinking, but before they could make any efforts to save the liquor, the work of destruction had not only been begun, but was ended, and the consequence was, the cellars were very soon evacuated by the mob.

# Burn 'im out! By Leilani Lum

CHAPTER LIII: Thus many moments had not elapsed ere the feelings of the rioters became directed into a different channel from that in which it had so lately flowed. The mob grew restive as they milled about the estate in search of the vampyre. Many believed the monster to be yet in the house; the rest believed the vampyre to have escaped by way of powers unique to his kind.

"Torch the house! Burn the vampyre out!" shouted one of the rioters.

"Fire the house!"

"Burn the den!" The shouts grew numerous throughout the crowd as they became even more desperate for action.

"Burn 'im out! Burn 'im out!" became the single rallying cry that rose above the mob. Throughout the house the rioters shouted the same three words, unifying themselves in mind if not in action.

At once their efforts coalesced and organized, their hands uniting with words. The mob began to work together to collect combustible materials from all over the house.

Wood furniture was heaped, onto which bundles of sticks and some wood shavings were mounded.

Drunken with the excitement of the moment, a man shouted, "All right!"

"Yes! All right! All right! Set light to the bonfire! Smoke 'im out if he will not be burned out!" shouted another man.

A bystander pleaded, "Wait! Be sure that all are out of the house!"

"Aye!" shouted others within the crowd. "Give the others a chance! Let them search the house first!"

"Aye! Warn 'em first!"

"Give me the light, and then when I've done searching, I'll set light to the fire. We'll all know the house is empty!"

The mob agreed with loud acclamations; a torch was handed to the man who had volunteered to search the house.

He ascended the stairs, crying loudly, "Come out! Come out! The house is on fire!"

"Fire! Fire! Fire!" the mob shouted as one, in periodic fits.

After ten minutes, there arose a cry, "All right! The house is empty!" The man bearing the torch descended the stairs and ran down the hall.

"Make haste, lads, and fire away! The red coats are leaving town!"

"Hurrah!" the angry mob ranted. "Fire! Fire! Fire the house! Burn 'im, burn 'im, burn 'im out!"

"Burn the vampyre! Burn 'im out!"

A whooshing sound accompanied a sudden blaze of light—the combustible pile burst into flames upon being torched.

"Hurrah!" shouted the rioters, cheering and dancing like mad men around the flames leaping high into the air. They looked demonic, like Satan's minions waiting for their victims to finish roasting in hell's fires.

Twenty different places erupted in flames where the torch had lit; the flames rose and united into one massive fire, roaring as the heat consumed both wood and air. The fearsome sound caused some of the rioters to pause and then retreat from the hall.

Fear among a few spread throughout the mob. The flames fanned, the rioters chose to protect themselves by quitting the place before the fire spread further.

"Get the poles and firewood! get faggots," shouted some of the mob. Like magic more bundled sticks and wood appeared, grabbed from piles up set aside for the winter; the kindling was laid them near all the doors, and especially the main entrance. Nay, every gate or door belonging to the outhouses was brought forward and placed upon the fire, which now began to reach the upper stories.

# Varney the Vampire via James Ellroy by Kat Clay

"Hurra - fire! Hurra - fire!" Varney Castle's toast. Cheering mobsters. Showgirls swooning. Twelve gage shotguns firing in all directions. Sirens booming. Where's Varney? Burning red around the Atlantis pool. High flames in the Byzantium room, stripping two-story medieval doors.

*

The cops! The cops! Sirens. Mobsters scatter. Showgirls scatter. Running down the LA hills. Bob grabs Jimmy Cohen from behind. Dent in the patrol car. Throws a punch and collars him.

*

"Where's the vampire now?" Bob shouts.

Cohen plays mute. Bleeding lip. Black eye.

"Where is he?" Punches. Nose leaks red.

Says Cohen, "If he's in there, he's halfway to hell already."

Deans steps in and grabs Cohen's neck. "That Bob Mason, he's a funny guy. He'd joke if his wife were dying."

"I'll kill your fucking wife," spits Cohen.

"There's the rub. I don't think Bob would care if you killed his wife."

"I've been fighting with my wife for 35 long years. Hell if that ain't enough to make a man sick of being married..." Deans laughs. Cohen squirms. A ferret in water.

"Biggest mistake of my life marrying that woman."

"You'd get re-married tomorrow if your wife died."

"Babs and Varney woulda made a good couple. She's a vampire. Sucked me dry."

A loud shout. Cohen breaks free. Sprints toward Mulholland Drive. Cohen runs. Deans runs. Blocked by the enormous fire truck pulling into the driveway.

"Leave him, we'll get him later," shouts Bob.

"You think Cohen started that fire?"

"We'll go back and say he burned the vamp's house down."

*

Red coats galore. The night watch arrives. Firemen unload casually like a vacation in Tampa. March towards the palace. Flashbulbs pop. The hose chugs and splutters. Crowd jabbers.

"Where have you been?" Lieutenant screams at the chief fire officer. "You shoulda been here before this. It's no use now, you're too late."

"Yes, they are too late."

* *

(Original Page 284 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"I wonder if the vampyre can breathe through the smoke, and live in fire," said one.

"I should think he must be able to do so, if he can stand shooting, as we know he can — you can't kill a vampyre; but yet he must be consumed, if the fre actually touches him, but not unless he can bear almost anything."

"So he can."

"Hurra!" shouted the mob, as a tall flame shot through the top windows of the house.

The fire had got the ascendant now, and no hopes could be entertained, however extravagant, of saving the smallest article that had been left in the mansion."Hurra!" shouted the mob with the military, who came up with them. "Hurra!" shouted the others in reply.

"Quick march!" said the officer; and then, in a loud, commanding tone, he shouted, "Clear the way, there! clear the way." "Ay, there's room enough for you," said the old Mason; "what are you making so much noise about?"

There was a general laugh at the officer, who took no notice of the words, but ordered his men up before the burning pile, which was now an immense mass of flame. The mob who had accompanied the military now mingled with the mob that had set the house of Sir Francis Varney on fire ere the military had come up ith them. "Halt!" cried out the officer; and the men, obedient to the word of command, halted, and drew up in a double line before the house.

There were then some words of command issued, and some more given to some of the subalterns, and a party of men, under the command of a sergeant, was sent off from the main body, to make a circuit of the house and grounds. The officer gazed for some moments upon the burning pile without speaking; and then, turning to the next in command, he said in low tones, as h looked upon the mob, "We have come too late."

"Yes, much."

"The house is now nearly gutted."

"It is."

"And those who came crowding along with us are inextricably mingled with the others who have been the cause of all this mischief; there's no distinguishing them one from another."

"And if you did, you could not say who had done it, and who had not; you could prove nothing." "Exactly." "I shall not attempt to take prisoners, unless any act is perpetrated beyond what has been done." "It is a singular affair."

"Very."

"This Sir Francis Varney is represented to be a courteous, gentlemanly man," said the officer.

"No doubt about it, but he's beset by a parcel of people who do not mind cutting a throat if they can get an opportunity of doing so." "And I expect they will."

"Yes, when there is a popular excitement against any man, he had better leave this part at once and altogether. It is dangerous to tamper with popular prejudices; no man who has any value for his life ought to do so. It is a sheer act of suicide."

# Fire Results in Burning by Christopher Howe

The officer ceased to speak, and then the party whom he had sent round the house and grounds returned, and gained the main body orderly enough, and the sergeant went forward to make his report to his superior officer.

The sergeant hesitated. He could hear murmuring behind him, from the half platoon of privates reluctantly dragged out to assist him. Dissatisfaction, now, at the time wasted, when they could have been sleeping. He stepped forward, and gave the salute. He offered no explanation; waited for a question as if it might be something he could answer, after all.

'Sergeant,' said the officer. 'Your report, unless you've lost your tongue.'

The sergeant cleared his throat.

'Sir. We, ah, didn't see a soul sir,' he said. 'Searched as best we could.'

The officer raised his eyebrows.

'You searched as best you could? I don't want your best effort, sergeant, I want to catch the nasty piece of work that started this fire. You're sure you didn't see anyone, anyone at all?'

'No sir, none at all.'

'And any other evidence? Did your men find nothing that might be a clue of some kind?'

'No sir,' the sergeant said, turning back to glance at his men, who were shuffling and looking bored, 'but to be fair sir, they ain't detectives so to speak.'

'Understood, sergeant, but we're not exactly in a position where we can call in Scotland Yard now, are we?'

'I suppose not, sir.'

'And that lot? What about them? Are you sure there's no stranger there? That they're not hiding someone?'

'We worked our way through them sir, although some were in a fair state of shock. There's that to deal with to, where to take them.'

'I have a unit on its way for that, sergeant. Just tell me anything else you know and then you and your men can start a wider sweep.' He waved his hand toward the parkland, the trees just visible in the half moon.

'There's nothing else?'

'Sir.' The sergeant hesitated again. 'I couldn't get anyone to come forward sir, but one of my men overheard them saying.' The sergeant's words stuck in his mouth.

'Come on man, let's have it.'

'I can't be sure sir,' the sergeant said, 'but someone said that Sir Francis Varney himself was in the house, and hasn't been seen.'

'Are you serious, sergeant. This is not a time to speculate.'

'Like I said sir, no-one would confirm it. We pushed them hard sir, but it was one of my men that overheard it, that's all. Nothing more.'

'Look sergeant, I appreciate your honesty. Maybe your man did hear it, and maybe he didn't. But I have to say \- and no offence to you or your men - but it is impossible. It cannot be.

'I couldn't agree more sir. But my man swears that's what he heard.'

'Take your strongest man, sergeant, get back into that crowd and find the person who said it. Somone must know something. Even if the outcome is to discount it.'

The sergeant turned back to his men. He called them in, a few not bothering to disguise their disappointment, although when he explained that if we could find out more about Varney and the fire from the crowd, there'd be no need to spend the night searching the woods and fields, their motivation improved. He selected not his strongest man, but one less intimidating, and together they walked over to the crowd.

Housemen and maids, butlers and cooks, they were anxious and ready to find an alternative bed for what remained of the night. The sergeant and his man could mean only more delays. And, as they worked their way through, asking again and again, and always getting the same answer, the night dragged on.

Eventually a younger man, who'd been standing apart, faced them.

'And your job here?' asked the sergeant.

'Ostler,' said the man.

'Ostler, sir, to you,' said the sergeant and the man simply stared at him, sullenly.

'And the fire?' said the sergeant. 'You know anything about it?'

'Generally, sir,' said the man, emphasising his words, 'fire results in burning, and can be quite dangerously hot, in my experience.'

'You do realise who I represent,' said the sergeant. 'You should be careful.'

'And you should be careful what questions you ask, in case you don't like the answer you get in the end,' said the man. 'A soldier may often be involved in work he doesn't like the end of, isn't that right?'

'He may, but it is easy to say so.'

* *

(Original Page 286 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"I do say so, then, now."

"Then I'll not trouble you any more."

The sergeant moved on a pace or two more, and then, turning to the mob, he said, —

"Is there any one among you who can tell me anything concerning the fate of Sir Francis Varney?"

"Burnt!"

"Did you see him burnt?"

"No; but I saw him."

"In the flames?"

"No; before the house was on fire."

"In the house?"

"Yes; and he has not been seen to leave it since, and we conclude he must have been burned."

"Will you come and say as much to my commanding officer? It is all I want."

"Shall I be detained?"

"No."

"Then I will go," said the man, and he hobbled out of the crowd towards the sergeant. "I will go and see the officer, and tell him what I know, and that is very little, and can prejudice no one."

"Hurrah!" said the crowd, when they heard this latter assertion; for, at first, they began to be in some alarm lest there should be something wrong about this, and some of them get identified as being active in the fray.

The sergeant let the man back to the spot, where the officer stood a little way in advance of his men. "Well, Scott," he said, "what have we here?" "A man who has volunteered a statement, sir." "Oh! Well, my man, can you say anything concerning all this disturbance that we have here?"

"No, sir." "Then what did you come here for?" "I understood the sergeant to want some one who could speak of Sir Francis Varney." "Well?" "I saw him." "Where?" "In the house.

# Varney the Vampire in Five Lines by Marnye Hall

Sir Francis Varney disappeared!

Where did he go?

No one knows!

Stories of fire, vampires and a civilized community gone wrong.

What will happen next?

# There Once Was a House on Fire Michael Yarsky

There once was a house on fire

A veritable real-estate pyre

There was no water near

So the men sat to peer

As the flames got higher and higher

Since the fire reminds one of hell

And the men of the devil's clientele

The author's one goal

(To talk of the soul)

Is a metaphor that makes critics yell

The persons there hoping to sup

Or be at home petting the pup

Didn't feel like talking

Didn't feel like walking

So they watched and they shut the fuck up

They weren't happy 'bout staying to see

A spectacle so fiery

But none of them spoke

Or passed on a joke

'Bout morbid curiosity

The flames had quieted down

As the men, complacent, stood roun'

What the men weren't doin'

Turned the house into ruin

In a story without much renown

But a flame unexpected and pure

Shot upward as if it assure

"I'm not through with it yet

I don't want to abet

So pray that this house is insured."

The roof which was mighty and strong

Didn't hold out for so long

After burning all day

It had to give way

Like an act that was given the gong

The fire had promptly subdued

And the people who stood there and viewed

The smoke as it rose

Thought "Indeed I suppose

That the owner of this mansion is screwed."

And as the fire had withered away

And the smoke had blackened the day

The people shrugged shoulders

While the mansion still smolders

And figured there's no good reason to stay

So of course they packed up and left

In a movement so graceful and deft

And of the people about

There is clearly no doubt:

Of their morals they were clearly bereft.

# Bet You I Can Jump This Ditch By Joe Plotbunny

Chapter LV: On the termination of the conflagration, or, rather, the fall of the roof, with the loss of grandeur in the spectacle, men's minds began to be free from the excitement that claimed them to the spot, watching the progress of that element which has been truly described as a very good servant, but a very bad master, and the truth of this every one must be well satisfied.

Mere walls were all that remained of the fire, with scattered bursts of embers here or there flickering weakly into the night sky. Once the heat of the fire died down so seemed the ire of the mob. They began to feel weary and chilled. Not that it was very surprising given the amount of time they had been rioting and the lateness of the hour.

An officer of the local garrison, seeing that the mob was disbanding voluntarily and sleepily, sighed deeply and assigned his troops to watching the crowd and making sure that everyone arrived home safely. Though he couldn't do anything to save Varney's house, this part of keeping the peace he could stiil manage tonight. Tomorrow he would see and try his best, after all that was all anyone can do he told himself. There was no arguing with the order as none of the other officers wanted to see anymore mischief done that night, and they soon set forth towards the village.

Though the hour was late no one had any trouble finding a path in the dark as the fields were so trampled down by the earlier actions of the mob. Now, some amongst the mob were not as tired as the others regardless of the hour and these jokesters soon began a series of dares and practical jokes. Usually for no apparent reason something would catch the eye of one and be picked and then whatever the most outlandish thing they could think of would become the current dare. One such example of their merriment was when one of the jokesters spied a particularly deep and muddy ditch by a hedge.

With a bit of a smirk the first youngster exclaimed " Bet I can jump this ditch"

" Like I can't." said another. " I've jumped ditches like this all the time, man. Though I can see why it might intimidate YOU."

" Bet I can jump it farther than you, " taunted a third youth.

" You wish, " snorted the first youth.

" I can jump further than both of you idiots. I am THAT good," he strutted about.

Before long over a dozen people were clamoring to jump in a contest to show off who was the better jumper to all who were present in the crowd.

A voice yelled out " Try it while you can, there are a lot of people who want to jump, and if you want to have a decent chance of succeeding, better jump NOW."

After hearing that latest remark everyone seemed to march forward. Some were jumping while others stumbled blindly forward, intent on their goal. Those who rushed forward soon found themselves quite unhappily chest deep in muddy, ice cold water. While those who jumped faired only slightly better, most falling short of their goal and/or stumbling backwards from the treacherous edge of the ditch into the brackish water. The truly slimy and muddy water as was being discovered by all as they were hauled out of the ditch one by one in a totally bedraggled state.

" Oh great," exclaimed one. " I'm wet and cold, and eewww it is slimy," as he grabbed a piece of waterweed from his chest and chucked it over his shoulder. " This is just how you get sick, you know that's something we can all look forward to...NOT!"

" Oh be quiet, and help me get this mud out of my eyes, I can't see a blasted thing !"

" Never mind about your eyes, considering both how your jump was and how you look right now, I don't think you want to see much of anything at all."

( Sigh ) " So this is what comes of hunting vampyres, eh ? Cold, tired, and feeling mighty foolish? "

" Oh, it's all a judgment, who knows but he mayh be in the air, it is nothing to laugh at as I shouldn't be surprised if he were, only think how precious pleasant."

* *

(Original Page 290 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"However pleasant it may be to you," remarked one, "it's profitable to a good many."

"How so?"

"Why, see the numbers of things that will be spoiled, coats torn, hats crushed, heads broken, and shoes burst. Oh, it's an ill-wind that blows nobody any good."

"So it is, but you may benefit anybody you like, so you don't do it at my expence."

In one part of a field where there were some stiles and gates, a big countryman caught a fat shopkeeper with the arms of the stile a terrible poke in the stomach; while the breath was knocked out of the poor man's stomach, and he was gasping with agony, the fellow set to laughing, and said to his companions, who were of the same class —

"I say, Jim, look at the grocer, he hasn't got any wind to spare, I'd run him for a wager, see how he gapes like a fish out of water."

The poor shopkeeper felt indeed like a fish out of water, and as he afterwards declared he felt just as if he had had a red hot clock weight thrust into the midst of his stomach and there left to cool.

However, the grocer would be revenged upon his tormentor, who had now lost sight of him, but the fat man, after a time, recovering his wind, and the pain in his stomach becoming less intense, he gathered himself up.

"My name ain't Jones," he muttered, "if I don't be one to his one for that; I'll do something that shall make him remember what it is to insult a respectable tradesman. I'll never forgive such an insult. It is dark, and that's why it is he has dared to do this."

Filled with dire thoughts and a spirit of revenge, he looked from side to side to see with what he could effect his object, but could espy nothing. "It's shameful," he muttered; "what would I give for a little retort. I'd plaster his ugly countenance." As he spoke, he placed his hands on some pales to rest himself, when he found that they stuck to them, the pales had that day been newly pitched. A bright idea now struck him.

"If I could only get a handful of this stuff," he thought, "I should be able to serve him out for serving me out. I will, cost what it may; I'm resolved upon that. I'll not have my wind knocked out, and my inside set on fire for nothing. No, no; I'll be revenged on him."

With this view he felt over the pales, and found that he could scrape off a little only, but not with his hands; indeed, it only plastered them; he, therefore, marched about for something to scrape it off with.

"Ah, I have a knife, a large pocket knife, that will do, that is the sort of thing I want."

He immediately commenced feeling for it, but had scarcely got his hand into his pocket when he found there would be a great difficulty in either pushing it in further or withdrawing it altogether, for the pitch made it difficult to do either, and his pocket stuck to his hands like a glove.

"D — n it," said the grocer, "who would have thought of that! here's a pretty go, curse that fellow, he is the cause of all this; I'll be revenged upon him, if it's a year hence."

The enraged grocer drew his hand out, but was unable to effect his object in withdrawing the knife also; but he saw something shining, he stooped to pick it up, exclaiming as he did so, in a gratified tone of voice,

"Ah, here's something that will do better."As he made a grasp at it, he found he had inserted his hand into something soft.?"God bless me! what now?" He pulled his hand hastily away, and found that it stuck slightly, and then he saw what it was.

* *

(Original Page 291 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"Ay, ay, the very thing. Surely it must have been placed here on purpose by the people."

The fact was, he had placed his hand into a pot of pitch that had been left by the people who had been at work at pitching the pales, but had been attracted by the fire at Sir Francis Varney's, and to see which they had left their work, and the pitch was left on a smouldering peat fire, so that when Mr. Jones, the grocer, accidentally put his hand into it he found it just warm.

When he made this discovery he dabbed his hand again into the pitch-pot, exclaiming, —

"In for a penny, in for a pound."

And he endeavoured to secure as large a handful of the slippery and stickey stuff as he could, and this done he set off to come up with the big countryman who had done him so much indignity and made his stomach uncomfortable.

He soon came up with him, for the man had stopped rather behind, and was larking, as it is called, with some men, to whom he was a companion. He had slipped down a bank, and was partially sitting down on the soft mud. In his bustle, the little grocer came down with a slide, close to the big countryman.

"Ah — ah! my little grocer," said the countryman, holding out his hand to catch him, and drawing him towards himself, "You will come and sit down by the side of your old friend."

As he spoke, he endeavoured to pull Mr. Jones down, too; but that individual only replied by fetching the countryman a swinging smack across the face with the handful of pitch.

"There, take that; and now we are quits; we shall be old friends after this, eh? Are you satisfied? You'll remember me, I'll warrant."

As the grocer spoke, he rubbed his hands over the face of the fallen man, and then rushed from the spot with all the haste he could make.

The countryman sat a moment or two confounded, cursing, and swearing, and spluttering, vowing vengeance, believing that it was mud only that had been plastered over his face; but when he put his hands up, and found out what it was, he roared and bellowed like a town-bull. He cried out to his companions that his eyes were pitched; but they only laughed at him, thinking he was having some foolish lark with them. It was next day before he got home, for he wandered about all night; and it took him a week to wash the pitch off by means of grease; and ever afterwards he recollected the pitching of his face; nor did he ever forget the grocer.

Thus it was the whole party returned a long while after dark across the fields, with all the various accidents that were likely to befall such an assemblage of people.

The vampyre hunting cost many of them dear, for clothes were injured on all sides, hats lost, and shoes missing in a manner that put some of the rioters to much inconvenience. Soon afterwards, the military retired to their quarters; and the townspeople at length became tranquil, and nothing more was heard or done that night.

—

* *

(Original Page 292 by Thomas Preskett Prest)
Chapter LVI.

THE DEPARTURE OF THE BANNERWORTHS FROM THE HALL. — THE NEW ABODE. — JACK PRINGLE, PILOT.

During that very evening, on which the house of Sir Francis Varney was fired by the mob, another scene, and one of a different character, was enacted at Bannerworth Hall, where the owners of that ancient place were departing from it.

It was towards the latter part of the day, that Flora Bannerworth, Mrs. Bannerworth, and Henry Bannerworth, were preparing themselves to depart from the house of their ancestors. The intended proprietor was, as we have already been made acquainted with, the old admiral, who had taken the place somewhat mysteriously, considering the way in which he usually did business.

The admiral was walking up and down the lawn before the house, and looking up at the windows every now and then; and turning to Jack Pringle, he said, —

"Jack, you dog."

"Ay — ay sir."

"Mind you convoy these women into the right port; do you hear? and no mistaking the bearings; do you hear?"

"Ay, ay sir."

"These crafts want care; and you are pilot, commander, and all; so mind and keep your weather eye open."

"Ay, ay, sir. I knows the craft well enough, and I knows the roads, too; there'll be no end of foundering against the breakers to find where they lie."

"No, no, Jack; you needn't do that; but mind your bearings. Jack, mind your bearings." "Never fear; I know 'em, well enough; my eyes ain't laid up in ordinary yet." "Eh? What do you mean by that, you dog, eh?" "Nothing; only I can see without helps to read, or glasses either; so I know one place from another."

There was now some one moving within; and the admiral, followed by Jack Pringle, entered the Hall. Henry Bannerworth was there. They were all ready to go when the coach came for them, which the admiral had ordered for them.

"Jack, you lubber; where are you?"

"Ay, ay, sir, here am I."

"Go, and station yourself up in some place where you can keep a good look-out for the coach, and come and report when you see it."

"Ay — ay, sir," said Jack, and away he went from the room, and stationed himself up in one of the trees, that commanded a good view of the main road for some distance.

"Admiral Bell," said Henry, "here we are, trusting implicitly to you; and in doing so, I am sure I am doing right." "You will see that," said the admiral. "All's fair and honest as yet; and what is to come, will speak for itself."

* *

(Original Page 293 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

"I hope you won't suffer from any of these nocturnal visits," said Henry.

"I don't much care about them; but old Admiral Bell don't strike his colours to an enemy, however ugly he may look. No, no; it must be a better craft than his own that'll take him; and one who won't run away, but that will grapple yard-arm and yard-arm, you know."

"Why, admiral, you must have seen many dangers in your time, and be used to all kinds of disturbances and conflicts. You have had a life of experience."

"Yes; and experience has come pretty thick sometimes, I can tell you, when it comes in the shape of Frenchmen's broadsides."

"I dare say, then, it must be rather awkward."

"Death by the law," said the admiral, "to stop one of them with your head, I assure you. I dare not make the attempt myself, though I have often seen it done."

"I dare say; but here are Flora and my mother."

As he spoke, Flora and her mother entered the apartment.

"Well, admiral, we are all ready; and, though I may feel somewhat sorry at leaving the old Hall, yet it arises from attachment to the place, and not any disinclination to be beyond the reach of these dreadful alarms."

"And I, too, shall be by no means sorry," said Flora; "I am sure it is some gratification to know we leave a friend here, rather than some others, who would have had the place, if they could have got it, by any means."

"Ah, that's true enough, Miss Flora," said the admiral; "but we'll run the enemy down yet, depend upon it. But once away, you will be free from these terrors; and now, as you have promised, do not let yourselves be seen any where at all."

"You have our promises, admiral; and they shall be religiously kept, I can assure you."

"Boat, ahoy — ahoy!" shouted Jack.

"What boat?" said the admiral, surprised; and then he muttered, "Confound you for a lubber! Didn't I tell you to mind your bearings, you dog-fish you?"

"Ay, ay, sir — and so I did."

"You did."

"Yes, here they are. Squint over the larboard bulk-heads, as they call walls, and then atween the two trees on the starboard side of the course, then straight ahead for a few hundred fathoms, when you come to a funnel as is smoking like the crater of Mount Vesuvius, and then in a line with that on the top of the hill, comes our boat."

"Well," said the admiral, "that'll do. Now go open the gates, and keep a bright look out, and if you see anybody near your watch, why douse their glim."

"Ay — ay, sir," said Jack, and he disappeared.

"Rather a lucid description," said Henry, as he thought of Jack's report to the admiral.

"Oh, it's a seaman's report. I know what he means; it's quicker and plainer than the land lingo, to my ears, and Jack can't talk any other, you see."

# Fictional Space By Sarah Goodman

By this time the coach came into the yard and the whole party descended into the court-yard, where they came to take leave of the old place.

"Farewell, admiral."

"Who said that?" said the admiral, waving his sword around. Beady eyes combing the description-less courtyard.

"What do you mean?" repeated the voice.

"Show yourself," repeated admiral. "And your defining speech declarative!"

"But, I'm right here?"

"Just because I can't see you, you bastard, doesn't mean I can't find you— you gigantic textual void. What have you done with the ladies?"

There was a silence as the party looked around them. Flora and her mother were nowhere to be found. They had vanished.

"I haven't seen them since the previous page now that you mention it," said Henry.

"I beg your pardon Admir-"

There was a gurgling sound and a thump as the sword made contact at last. The admiral looked at his bloodied blade with satisfaction.

Flora appeared on the ground in front of him. Being mostly dead, she was entitled to description at last. Her dress was ruined, a large gash over the stomach. Blood seeped out of her wound. Flora tried to speak, but could not manage a sound. Her head lulled back, her eyes open and staring.

"Oh, excellent," exclaimed Henry. "You've found her. Good job man." He clapped Bell on the shoulder.

The admiral saluted him with his rust tinted sword.

Flora's mother floated into fictional space for a moment, looking confused. She got in the coach and disappeared again.

Mr. Chillingworth said his farewells and turned to leave, nearly tripping over Flora's body. "Oh, pardon me Miss Flora. Let me help you into the carriage."

Opening the door, he gently flung her body into the back seat. Her heeled legs hung out the door, rocking as the carriage took off.

"Well, at least we know the family's gone to a better place now," he said smiling before taking his leave.

There was a far off crackling noise and the coach went up in flames.

Bell peered around the yard, ignoring the nervous whinnying of the horses.

"Jack—Jack Pringle, where are you, you dog?"

"Ruff!" Jack leaped out from the bushes and ran in circles around the admiral.

"Didn't I tell you to mind your bearings? Sit! Stay! Oh, blast it, do something you mongrel!"

The black beast continued to ignore him, ears seated high on his skull flopping around wildly as he raced over to investigate the dead girl.

"How do you expect to get along with sailors with that kind of attitude, mutt?"

Jack had begun sniffing the dirt where Flora had lain. A growl resonated deep within his throat, as the hound started shifting the dirt revealing a barely covered package. Tugging at something with his teeth, he managed to pull it out, and trotted over to the admiral looking most pleased with himself.

"Good lord. Are those narcotics?!"

"Ruff." The dog nodded, the plastic bag filled with unmentionables flopping up and down as he did so.

There was no one left in the courtyard, for Henry Bennersworth was in the house, locking up the rooms, and Mr. Chillingsworth was still four paragraphs away. Bending down on one knee, the admiral regarded Jack.

"Good boy." He patted Jack's head.

Tucking the bag into his coat pocket, the admiral went back to the house.

Jack hailed a carriage with a paw and was whisked away into the night.

Mr. Chillingsworth came into the Hall, joining the admiral who was attempting to smoke, snort and eat the pigtail at once.

"Well, they are gone and we are alone once more Admiral Bell."

Bell grinned salaciously. "Two of all things that I most desire. Make ready to board Mr. Chillingsworth. I endeavor to make these pirates flee should we come upon them. Make all feel the weight of my steel. True metal this." He waggled his eyebrows. "I'll do everything and anything that need be done."

"Everything that can be done," said Mr. Chillingsworth, nodding solemnly.

"Ay—ay."

* *

(Original Page 295 by Thomas Preskett Prest)

The coach in which the family of the Bannerworths were carried away continued its course without any let or hindrance, and they met no one on their road during the whole drive. The fact was, nearly everybody was at the conflagration at Sir Francis Varney's house.

Flora knew not which way they were going, and, after a time, all trace of the road was lost. Darkness set in, and they all sat in silence in the coach.

At length, after some time had been spent thus, Flora Bannerworth turned to Jack Pringle, and said, —

"Are we near, or have we much further to go?"

"Not very much, ma'am," said Jack. "All's right, however — ship in the direct course, and no breakers ahead — no lookout necessary; however there's a landlubber aloft to keep a look out."

As this was not very intelligible, and Jack seemed to have his own reasons for silence, they asked him no further questions; but in about three-quarters of an hour, during which time the coach had been driving through the trees, they came to a standstill by a sudden pull of the checkstring from Jack, who said, —

"Hilloa! — take in sails, and drop anchor."

"Is this the place.?"

"Yes, here we are," said Jack; "we're in port now, at all events;" and he began to sing, — "The trials and the dangers of the voyage is past," when the coach door opened, and they all got out and looked about them where they were.

"Up the garden if you please, ma'am — as quick as you can; the night air is very cold."

Flora and her mother and brother took the hint, which was meant by Jack to mean that they were not to be seen outside. They at once entered a pretty garden, and then they came to a very neat and picturesque cottage. They had no time to look up at it, as the door was immediately opened by an elderly female, who was intended to wait upon them.

Soon after, Jack Pringle and the coachman entered the passage with the small amount of luggage which they had brought with them. This was deposited in the passage, and then Jack went out again, and, after a few minutes, there was the sound of wheels, which intimated that the coach had driven off.

Jack, however, returned in a few minutes afterwards, having secured the wicket-gate at the end of the graden [sic] , and then entered the house, shutting the door carefully after him.

Flora and her mother looked over the apartments in which they were shown with some surprise. It was, in everything, such as they could wish; indeed, though it could not be termed handsomely or extravagantly furnished, or that the things were new, yet there was all that convenience and comfort could require, and some little of the luxuries.

"Well," said Flora, "this is very thoughtful of the admiral. The place will really be charming, and the garden, too, delightful."

"Mustn't be made use of just now," said Jack, "if you please, ma'am; them's the orders at present." "Very well," said Flora, smiling. "I suppose, Mr. Pringle, we must obey them." "Jack Pringle, if you please," said Jack. "My command's only temporary. I ain't got a commission."

—

# Chapter LVII: Or, Varney the Vampire In Space by Dean Edwards

It is now quite night, and so peculiar and solemn a stillness reigns in and about Bannerworth Hall and its surrounding grounds, that one might have supposed it a place of the dead, deserted completely after sunset by all who would still hold kindred with the living.

No warmth. No light. The nearest star is now far away, one of thousands of pin-pricks in a black sheet. If it were not for those distant stars, one might think themselves blind. The silence is oppressive in the extreme, so that it would take courage to break it lest the sound draw the attention of those nameless horrors that are reputed to linger in the depths of space, waiting for a word to signal the flickering presence of life.

The station has been moving alongside a massive meteor storm that would later be known as the Meteors of Bannerworth on account of a significant number of pieces becoming lodged in the walls of Bannerworth Hall, the station's hub and primary residence. The complex has passed perilously close to mountain-sized arcs of dead planet, but was struck only by relatively small shards. One of these has punctured the hull and allowed much of the craft's life blood to spill out into the void. Nobody cares. Nobody sees.

The darkness is profound, inside and outside the hollow vessel, which is turning like a flipped coin, spinning mindlessly towards the last co-ordinates programmed into its main computer. Its destination: The Admiral, one of two ships moored near an unknown moon of a distant planet.

Having escaped the worst of the MOB, the pockmarked body of the Leviathan 2 drifts on, aware neither of the deathly fate it has avoided nor indeed of any that may lie ahead.

The LVII is the largest travelling space station of its time. A modular structure, it is comprised of a multitude of component craft, individual ships that hold fast, one to the other, to form one great beast. And it is now as deserted as the Earth has been for 150 years. After a century and a half of occupation, Bannerworth Hall, the heart of the station, stands empty.

Of the full complement of 296 ships, 295 remain. The emergency craft, nicknamed the Zephyr, is missing from its port. Nobody remains to ask where ship 260 has gone, there is no-one to track its course or communicate messages of hope to its handful of passengers.

In the most aged of the private quarters of the Hall, three antiquated space suits are missing. Before fleeing the station, did any of the crew look out into the infinite black and think that they were seeing heaven?

In their final weeks on Earth, men prayed to their invisible gods for salvation, but if they had known the state of heaven - the emptiness, a silence so profound that it could convince one that nothing had ever lived nor would ever live again \- might they have hauled themselves up from their knees, even as red fire fell around them?

There is no fire for the Leviathan 2. Only a red bulb, the silent alarm, alerting an empty room to the entry of an unknown entity which may or may not remain on board.

This light goes out inexplicably, leaving no sign, neither internal nor external, that the ship was ever wholly doomed. There is neither explanation nor warning to future explorers. No, nothing but the absence of those forms which had been accustomed quietly to move from room to room, and to be met here upon a staircase, there upon a corridor, and even in some of the ancient panelled apartments, which gave it an air of dreary repose and listlessness.

### THE END

###

# About the Authors

**Terry Aldershof** : A guy who loves to write...

http://www.anatomy-of-a-haunting.com

**Cindy Amrhein** : Historian/Abstractor/Writer from western New York State.

@HistorySleuth1

**Peter Anderson** : A financial professional by trade, Peter Anderson writes fiction to ease the crushing monotony of corporate life.

http://www.petelit.com

**Lorraine Anderson** : Lorraine is a self-published writer trying to improve her writing as much as she can!

http://www.lorrainejanderson.com

**Pallavi Babu** : A literary giant in the making

**Barbara Barnett** : Barbara is an entertainment journalist and authors, specializing in all things pop cultural.

http://barbarabarnett.com

**Michelle Barry** : Michelle is a marketing professional with a background in journalism and copywriting who just recently decided to return to her fiction writing roots.

eHow.com

**Christina Beggs** : I'm a chick lit writing, Janeite from Pennsylvania.

http://girlinthepurpleglasses.wordpress.com

**Brittni Bennett** : Spends her time making up unreal things for people to read and is a fantasy enthusiast, keeper of desk dragons, and a lover of zombies.

<http://www.facebook.com/BrittniAnneBennett>

**Tom Bentley** : Looks at punctuation with both loathing and longing, and hopes to soon release his unified field theory of the semicolon.

http://www.tombentley.com

**MichaelBergquist** : a 20-year-old writer from New York.

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MikeBergquist>

**Adam Bertocci** : an award-winning filmmaker, screenwriter and author best-known to the literary remix crowd for bringing the Dude and the Bard together in "Two Gentlemen of Lebowski" (Simon & Schuster, 2010).

http://www.adambertocci.com

**Carl Bettis** : a web developer and writer in the American Midwest.

http://www.carlbettis.com

**CorrineBielejeski** : A poet who dabbles in short stories.

**Ana Blaze** : writes contemporary and paranormal romance and lives with her husband near Washington DC.

<http://anablaze.blogspot.com/>

**Jason Boog** : Writer and GalleyCat editor. OR Books will publish his first book next year.

http://Jasonboog.com

**HeatherBrady** : Vamping it up MG style!

themysteryofwriting.wordpress.com

**Tasha Brandstatter** : An art historian and bibliophile who loves vampires.

<http://heidenkind.blogspot.com/>

**Glen Brereton Jr.:** I hike, read, write, and take pics.

http://www.hikerauthor.com

**Trace Broyles** : Author, baker, traveler, costume-maker and Mom

http://creatingestelan.com

**Jacqueline Bryant** : An unrepentant adventurer whose appetite for stories and love all things fun may keep her from achieving literary greatest; but I hope not.

http://www.stairwellspirit.com

**DanielleBullen** : a writer, editor and voracious reader from PA.

twitter.com/daniellewriter

**Alecia Burke:** reads and writes in Philadelphia.

@aleciaburke

**Cynthea Burns** : Believing it's never too late, I'm beginning now.

@cindyburns

**MichaelCain** : 40 year old writer, dreamer, and next great wizard!

<https://twitter.com/Jonas_Ring>

**Anne Carley:** Be well here.

<http://www.twitter.com/chenillebooks>

**Randell Carr:** Deconstructing a dystopian future one dictator at a time

@northernsooner

**Allison Carter** : enjoys writing almost anything except her own bio.

allisonlcarter.wordpress.com

**Joe Cetta** : was born in Scranton, lives in Chicago, and hates wearing socks.

knowinglyundersold.wordpress.com

**Adam Chesin:** 34 year old writer from Philadelphia, working in background investigations, trying to make it as a professional writer

Adamchesin.com, facebook

**Chris Ciolli:** A writer and translator by trade, Chris Ciolli spends her spare minutes reading, traveling and playing with art supplies.

http://www.midwesternerabroad.com

**Kat Clay:** A writer and photographer from Sydney, Australia.

http://www.katclay.com

**Margie Conklin** :I love to write and have started several stories but none are finished because I am a perfectionist.

**Lana Cooper:** A delightfully dysfunctional dame and freelance writer, Lana Cooper has been a critic and feature writer for PopMatters.com and GhoulsOnFilm.net.

http://www.delightfullydysfunctional.com

**Steph Dagg** : Adventurous expat combining writing, editing and llama farming in rural France.

http://www.edit-my-book.com

**Helen Davis** : I write of the sand and the stars, of magic and not yet born civilizations, with a dash of horror.

<http://www.sff.net/people/dragonwriter>

**GenieveDawkins** : Blessed of God and highly favoured

http://genievedawkins.wordpress.com

**Nicole DeGennaro** : likes to have fun, both in her life and in her writing.

**Laura Di Giovine:** An experienced PR professional, Di Giovine works in the publishing industry and is also a freelance writer and editor.

http://www.lauradigiovine.com

**Dorothy Distefano** : I am the Writer on the Verge, word mercenary.

http://www.wotverge.com

**Michaeldu Plessis** : LA-based writer and teacher

michaelduplessis@gmail.com

**Kira Dunn** : Got her start writing anime fanfiction, and has continued on to write young adult novels full of too much drama.

 http://www.amazon.com/Kira-Dunn/e/B0077TU5UC/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1349199016&sr=8-1

**Leila Eadie** : loves writing scary stuff \- visit her website for details and links...

http://www.makingstuffup.co.uk

**Sara Jo Easton** : writes stories with dragon-like creatures.

<http://www.amazon.com/author/sarajoeaston>

**Lara Eckener** : fondles books for a living and has a soft spot for cravats and the vampires who wear them.

twitter.com/laraeckener

**Marianne Edwards** : My husband and I are both writers living in the middle of nowhere.

**Kristen Evey** : Writer and reader on a rampage of words, and fueled by tea, k-pop, and socks.

http://kristenevey.com

**Lisa Fantino** : Dreamer turned attorney, writer, career journalist and would-be astronaut who fell in love with Italy...and a man!

http://www.amalfibluebook.com

**Melissa-Jane Fogarty** : I love books, writing and antiques and I seriously hope to own my own castle one day.

<https://twitter.com/melissajf>

**Dayle Fogarty Roger** : resides on the Central Coast of NSW, Aus, where she works part time whilst studying for a Bachelor of Social Science, majoring in Anthropology and Sociology.

**Stan Friedman** : Widely published. Narrowly rejected.

<http://about.me/stanfriedman>

**James Garrison:** Just some guy with a blog who writes weird stuff and draws funny pictures.

http://hereticwerks.blogspot.com

**Jennifer Goltz** : writes and plays music in Michigan.

earhornorchestra.com

**Sarah Goodman** : lives in a cardboard box of her own imagination in a Boston suburb, writing fiction and screenplays, and her cupcakes bring all the boys to the yard.

**Evan Graham** : is still writing, despite the best efforts of the United Nation's Human Rights Council.

<http://failbles.blogspot.com/>

**TiffanieGreen** : Supernatural thriller enthusiast who enjoys monsters story with pathos and horror.

<http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/8455366-tiffanie>

@reinasnark

**Wendy Gregory** :late starter

**Alissa Grosso** : Author of the YA novels Popular (2011) and Ferocity Summer (2012).

http://alissagrosso.com

**Paula Grunseit** : http://www.paulagrunseit.com

**Caren Gussoff** : Based in Seattle, science and literary fiction writer Caren Gussoff holds court at http://www.spitkitten.com.

**Red Haircrow** : An American Indian with a wide range of interests and possibilities.

http://www.redhaircrow.com

**Renee Hall** : medical transcriptionist by day and writer all the time, lives in West Virginia with her husband and the obligatory cat.

http://www.reneecarterhall.com

**Leland Hall** : Free to have fun with the risky stuff

diphra.com

**MarnyeHall** : I am a girl with curly hair.

Twitter: @MarnyeB

**JenniferHarbaugh** : Always express yourself, otherwise you will be like everyone else.

**Milda Harris** : I'm a Chicago Girl Gone All Holllywood who writes YA books!

http://www.mildaharris.com

**Robert Hart** : author of Pulp classics 'My Last Bullet' and 'City of Pigs' brings you the bloodiest page in the Victorian Vampire vein.

<http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/robhart>

**CandiceHazlett** :Candice is a kooky character living in Long Beach, Ca with her pups Schnap and Paris, & her bf Jeff

Www.lulu.com/candicehazlett

**Joshua Heights** : lived in the United States until the age of 13 . A tramatic experience caused him to go blind , see into the future and write creatively.

<http://joshuaheights.weebly.com/>

**Merri Hiatt** : Romance and Fantasy fill my days as characters whisper in my ear and spin around my head.

http://merrihiatt.com

**Gaele Hince** : Stream of consciousness meets actual deadline and defined idea for this amateur author with ambition.

http://iamindeed.wordpress.com

**Josh Hlibichuk** : YA/Steampunk/Fantasy writer, father, and self-professed geek.

http://www.caffeinatedpages.com

**Alexander Hollins** : I've been writing as long as I've been reading, only now I share my madness with others.

www.dreamfantastic.com www.antiheroescomic.com

**Christopher Howe** : has a Masters in Creative Writing and is working on a screenplay, a novel, a collection of short stories, and also reviews books.

cphowe.wordpress.com

**John Jay** : I have been writing erotica for over twenty years and have published twenty ebooks at Smashwords.

http://johnejay.com

**BethanyKesler** : From the urban jungle of Brasil, Bethany is a science-fiction writer and historian who is fascinated by all kinds of creatures and other beings.

<http://bethany-lauren.dreamwidth.org/>

**Timothy King** : a writer, vocalist, musician, and avid reader who loves all forms of storytelling.

Facebook: Tikingmanofwords

**Beth Kopley** : an imaginary rock star with a wild imagination and equally badass command of the English language.

<http://biffles.blogspot.com/>

**Sara Kuhns** : Originally from Chicago, now in Los Angeles, I've published one novel and am completing a sequel.

http://www.sarakuhns.com

**Larissa Kyzer** : moved from Brooklyn, NY to Reykjavík, Iceland to learn Icelandic in 2012.

<http://ethandthorn.wordpress.com/>

**Clotilde LaMarre** : is a journalist and author living in Manhattan with her two Yorkies, Johnnie and Fig. In addition to remixing literature, she remixes music.They can't.

**FrankieLassut** : I'm not on drugs, my work just reads like I am (it's cheap!)

http://www.frankie-lassut.com

**Kyle Leacock** : An aspiring writer who hopes to share his hyperactive imagination with the world. <http://www.facebook.com/kyle.leacock>

**Claire Leavey** : Slave to the rhythm and the meter and the grammatical exactitude an that, innit.

http://www.claireleavey.com

**Lisa Lee** : has always loved Carl Sagan and Jacques Cousteau, and watching PBS.

<https://www.facebook.com/lisag.lee>

**Alexandra Lozano** : I can haz cats, plz?

**Kate Lu** : currently a student at The George Washington University in Washington, DC, and her work has previously appeared in The Battered Suitcase, The Missing Slate, and Ellipsis...Literature and Art.

<http://thewreditor.wordpress.com/>

**Leilani Lum** : Dreamer-Schemer-Writer located globally, virtually

<http://twitter.com/leilanilum>

**Reno MacLeod** : Author of m/m erotica of the slightly dark persuasion.

http://macleodvalentine.com

**Alex Mahon** : I was born in Gasgow, Scotland but now live in Spain with my wife and cat.

<http://www.authorsden.com/alexmahon>

**Amanda Makepeace** : Artist, Writer, Book Nerd, Wine Lover, Blogger, and Ponderer of all things post-apocalyptic.

<http://amandamakepeace.com/blog>

**Wythe Marschall** : I write fiction and nonfiction inspired by Bataille, hollow earths, biotechnology, and biopunk.

hollowearthsociety.com

**Janine Marshman** : Marketer mainly writing about music and business - not necessarily at the same time.

<https://twitter.com/janinemarshman>

**Jerry McGrath** : writer of short stories and verse

<http://www.amazon.com/Vigil-ebook/dp/B004YDM1ZQ>

**Donald McGrath** : I am a Montreal-based poet and translator.Cormorant Books

**Judyth Mermelstein** : writer, editor, translator & general factotum

http://www,judythlapomme.wordpress.com

**Laura Meyer** : I am a sometimes writer, a musician, and a cat lady.

sdrana.livejournal.com

**Michelle Michelle** : WAS... AM... Trilogy

Twitter handle: @Michelle8194

**HeatherMichon** : Loves chocolate. Hates spiders.

<http://about.me/heathermichon>

**Catherine Mintz** : writes science fiction.

<http://catherine-mintz.com/>

**Jamie Mollart** : Dedicated writer and reader pretending to be an advertising director while waiting for the big deal.

http://www.jamiemollart.co.uk

**Sarah Morgan** : Sarah is a freelance writer and editor who is working on building her collection of rejection letters from fiction editors, among other projects.

mssarahmorgan.tumblr.com

**Michelle Morris** : Thirty-something librarian who spends too much time on the Internet.

<https://twitter.com/blkMYmorris>

**Mel Neet** : a writer and playwright who lives in Kansas City, where all the vampires have BBQ sauce running down their chins.

<http://brunetteanxiety.wordpress.com/>

**Kate Nikic** : Housewife with a fountain pen hidden behind the cooking sherry.

thereclusivehousewife.wordpress.com

**Tara O'Donnell** : I'm a pop culture diva who hopes to be a real writer when I grow up.

livingreadgirl.blogspot.com

**Mayra París** : Student, writer, emotional vagrant.

twitter.com/mparis

**Joan Paylo** : You can take Joanie out of Whiting, Indiana, but you can never take Whiting out of Joanie.

Twitter handle: @westsidejoanie

**Keri Peardon** : Purveyor of Jewish vampires and vampire lawyer satire.

http://www.keripeardon.wordpress.com

**Kristina Perez** : A New Yorker journalist and medievalist living in Hong Kong.

http://www.kristinaperez.com

**Nathaniel Phillips** : I am a Scientist/Engineer who loves to write.

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/NathanielPhillips>

**Joe Plotbunny** : A sassy and funny girl with a unique sense of the absurd.

**Gillian Polack** : a writer, historian and critic with a sad addiction to reading vampire stories and a penchant for creating very odd novels.

http://gillpolack.livejournal.com

**Brenda Priddy** : a professional writer and aspiring author who writes about her writing adventures and other book-related content at dailymayo.com.

**KRR Ramsdell** : I am a writer, reviewer, teacher, librarian who's been fascinated by romance and science fiction and fantasy since junior high.

**Rod Redpath** : A father of four, a husband of one, but a writer for all.

http://www.erickiangael.com

**Alison Richards** : From Nashville, TN, Alison is a fantasy writer with an attraction to the morally ambiguous male lead character type.

http://alisonskyrichards.com

**Kelly Robinson** : a freelance magazine writer from Knoxville, Tennessee with a penchant for silent film, noir fiction, and Bourbon and Tab.

http://www.bookdirtblog.blogspot.com

**Robin Samuels** : TV junkie, wannabe-writer, and local-food fanatic.

<http://www.twitter.com/robinjsam>

**Jess Scott** : an author/artist/non-conformist who's passionate about original stories that are both entertaining and meaningful.

http://www.jessINK.com

**TamaraSiuda** : A curious individual.

tamarasiuda.com

Renate Smith: a torch singing/bellydancing/artist/poet and live in a dark comedy.

http://thefiligreedwombat.blogspot.com

**Donovan Sotam** :Humor and satire writer.

<https://twitter.com/DSotam>

**Mika Star** : I am aspiring author of love's life changing events - sweet, sexy and everthing inbetween. <http://mikastarweavingfiction.blogspot.com/>

**Mark Stewart** : I am 52. I love to write fiction. It's so rewarding.

http://www.smashwords.com

**Justus R. Stone** : Indie author giving up sleep to make up stories

http://justusrstone.com

**Kaite Stover** : Can type very quickly and it usually makes sense.

http://www.kaitesbookshelf.blogspot.com

**Mikel Strom** : the type of person who thinks his way is better, let's see if he's right?

http://www.untitledunited.wordpress.com

**LindseySutton** : A USC Film School Graduate in Production, Lindsey Sutton is Director of Production at a Digital Agency in Boston, and wants to be a screenwriter when she grows up.

unemployedunknownscreenwriter.com

**Sheri L.Swift** : the author of Legend of the Mer.

http://sherilswift.blogspot.com

**Peter Tarnofsky** : I write because stories occur to me and I want to find out if I can write them - they can't be all bad - people seem to like them.

<http://www.petertarnofsky.co.uk/>

**BridgetThoreson** : spends her days working for an NYC publishing house, her nights lost in fiction, and her weekends searching for the perfect dessert.

@BookWrmBigApple

**Kae Tienstra** : A book publicist aka a book agent. In my spare time, I write!

http://www.ktpublicrelations.com

Gavin Tonks: creative consultant and author

**Jessica Topper** : an ex-librarian turned rock n' roll number-cruncher and a writer of fearless fiction.

http://www.jessicatopper.com

**Peggy Townsend** : an award-winning California journalist who made very little money as a newspaper reporter and aspires to make even less as a novelist.

<http://www.amazon.com/author/peggytownsend>

**Leah Triplett** : An art writer, Leah Triplett believes that seeing art is a way to hope.

http://www.leahtriplett.com

**Brian Truitt** : A consummate geek by trade and by nature, Brian Truitt enjoys finding ways to entertain and inspire.

<http://brian.truitt.info/>

Jaye Valentine: (a.k.a. Acer Adamson), whose primary hobby is thinking up valid reasons not to kill the summer tourists, lives in a quaint, lakeside cottage on Cape Cod.

http://macleodvalentine.com

**MonicaValentinelli** : Author, editor, and game designer who lurks in the dark.

http://www.mlvwrites.com

**VictoriaWainwright** : Best you've never read

<http://testifytoday.blogspot.com/>

**Sara Walker** : I'm an urban fantasy writer with a special love for car chase scenes and explosive action.http://www.sarawalker.net

**Mercy Walker** : Reader, Writer of Paranormal Romance and Erotica...Queen of Air and Darkness...Deicidal Maniac!

<https://twitter.com/mercywalkerbook>

**Allan R. Wallace** : the amalgamated confluence of a life spent awakening self reliance in drones assembled lie by lie through compulsory education.http://cyberhug.me

**ShannonWedge** : I find the hardest part of writing to be getting the ideas out of my head and onto paper

<https://twitter.com/theevilwriter>

**Alicia Wheeler** : A lady unseemly interested in creatures of the night and all other unsavory characters.

Twitter handle: Novel Strumpet

**Emily S Whitten** : an attorney, author, columnist, & co-founder of The North American Discworld Con.

http://askdeadpool.com

**JenniferWilliams** : Author, editor and crazy cat lady.

<http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/548674.Jennifer_Williams>

**Jennifer M Windrow** : has been writing Viciously Romantic Supernatural Stories for the past five years.

<http://jennifermwindrow.wordpress.com/>

**Blue Christian Winterhawk** : This gentleman is a story welder.

 http://www.facebook.com/pages/Blue-Christian-Winterhawk/146309582133575

**MM Wittle** : Chick with Cheez-it addiction

<http://www.facebook.com/MMWittle>

**MichaelYarsky** : Improvisational neophyte and multi-instrumentalist.

twitter.com/mikeyarsky

**Cora Zane** : Vampire assistant, prepared for the zombie apocalypse, and purveyor of monster smut.

http://www.corazane.com
