In the Footsteps of Dracula Page 7

  It’s far worse than what you threw into the forest. Even then, if you hadn’t been fighting for your wife you would have been paralyzed by superstition. Now you can hardly turn your head back to look. The stain of the thing is crawling over your wife, blotting out her face and all your sense of her. But you open your eyes an agonized slit and see it couched in her throat as if it lives there. Your rage floods up, and you start forward.

  But even with your eyes closed you can’t gain on it, because a great cold inhuman power closes about you, crushing you like a moth in a fist. You mustn’t cry out, because if your wife awakens it may turn on her. But the struggle crushes a wordless roar from you, and you hear her awake.

  Your seared eyes make out her face, dimmed by the force of the thing at her neck. Perhaps her gathered tears are dislodged, or perhaps these are new, wrung out by the terror in her eyes. Your head is a shell full of fire, your eyes feel as though turning to ash, but you battle forward. Then you realize she’s shrinking back. She isn’t terrified of the thing at her throat at all, she’s terrified of you. She’s completely in its power.

  You’re still straining against the force, wondering whether it must divert some of its power from you in order to control her, when she grabs the glass from beside the bed. For a moment you can’t imagine what she wants with a glass of water. But it isn’t water. It’s vitriol, and she throws it in your face.

  Your face bursts into pain. Howling, you rush to the mirror.

  You’re still searching for yourself in the mirror when the woodcutter appears in the doorway, grim-faced. At once, like an eye in the whirlwind of your confusion and pain, you remember that you asked his wife to stay with yours, yesterday afternoon when he wasn’t home to dissuade you from what you had to do. And you know why you can’t see yourself, only the room and the doorway through which you threw the garlic, your sobbing wife clutching the cross at her throat, the glass empty now of the holy water you brought home before setting out to avenge her sister’s death at Castle Dracula.

  MANLY WADE WELLMAN (1903–1986) twice won the World Fantasy Award. He was born in the village of Kamundongo in Portuguese West Africa, and settled in the United States where he worked as a reporter before quitting his job in 1930 to write fiction full time.

  He was one of the most prolific contributors to the pulp magazines of the 1930s and ’40s, and some of his best stories are collected in Who Fears the Devil?, Worse Things Waiting, Lonely Vigils, and The Valley So Low. He wrote more than seventy-five books in all genres, including horror, fantasy, science fiction, crime and adventure, and had over 200 short stories and numerous comic books and articles to his credit.

  The Devil is Not Mocked

  Manly Wade Wellman

  As the Nazi hordes sweep across Europe, the Count’s warrior soul admires the new German spirit of patriotism and discipline. But when Hitler’s forces begin to overrun his homeland, Dracula feels the hatred rise within him . . .

  Do you not know that tonight, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world hold sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are going to?

  —Bram Stoker

  Balkan weather, even Balkan spring weather, was not pleasant to General von Grunn, leaning heavily back behind the bulletproof glass of his car. May 4th—the English would call it St. George’s Day, after their saint who was helping them so little. The date would mean something to Heinrich Himmler, too, that weak-chinned pet of the Führer would hold some sort of garbled druidic ritual with his Schutzstaffelon the Brockenburg. Von Grunn grimaced fatly at the thought of Himmler, and leaned forward to look out into the night. An armed car ahead, an armed car behind—all was well.

  “Forward!” he growled to his orderly, Kranz, who trod on the accelerator. The car moved, and the car ahead took the lead, into the Borgo Pass.

  Von Grunn glanced backward once, to the lights of Bistritz. This country had been Romanian not so long ago. Now it was Hungarian, which meant that it was German.

  What was it that the mayor of Bistritz had said, when he had demanded a semi-remote headquarters? The castle along this pass, empty—ready for him? The dolt had seemed eager to help, to please. Von Grunn produced a long cigarette. Young Captain Plesser, sitting beside him, at once kindled a lighter. Slim, quiet, the young aide had faded from von Grunn’s consciousness.

  “What’s the name of that castle again?” inquired the general, and made a grimace when Plesser replied in barbarous Slavic syllables. “What’s the meaning in a civilized tongue?”

  “Devil’s Castle, I should think,” hazarded the captain’s respectful voice.

  “Ach, so—Transylvania is supposed to be overrun with devils,” nodded von Grunn, puffing. “Let them defer to us, or we’ll devil them.” He smiled, for his was a great gift for appreciating his own epigrams. “Meanwhile, let the castle be called its German name. Teufelstoss—Devil’s Castle.”

  “Of course,” agreed Plesser.

  Silence for a while, as the cars purred powerfully up the rough slope of the pass trail. Von Grunn lost himself in his favorite meditation—his own assured future. He was to establish an unostentatious command post for—what? A move against Russia? The Black Sea? He would know soon enough. In any case, an army would be his, action and glory. There was glory enough for all. Von Grunn remembered Wilhelm II saying that, in the last war.

  “The last war,” he said aloud. “I was a simple oberlieutenant then. And the Führer—a corporal. What were you, captain?”

  “A child.”

  “You remember?”

  “Nothing.” Plesser screwed up his courage to a question. “Generalvon Grunn, does it not seem strange that the folk at Bistritz were so anxious for you to come to the castle—Teufelstoss—tonight?”

  Von Grunn nodded, like a big, fierce owl. “You smell a trap, nicht wahr? That is why I bring two carloads of men, my trusted bodyguard. For that very chance. But I doubt if any in Transylvania dare set traps for me, or any other German.”

  The cars were slowing down. General and captain leaned forward. The car ahead was passing through the great open gateway of a courtyard. Against the spattered stars rose the silhouette of a vast black building, with a broken tower.

  “We seem to be here,” ventured Captain Plesser.

  “Good. Go to the forward car. When the other arrives, form the guard.”

  It was done swiftly. Sixteen stark infantrymen were marshaled, with rifles, bombs, and submachine guns. Von Grunn emerged into the cold night, and Kranz, the orderly, began to bring out the luggage.

  “A natural fort, withdrawn and good for any defense except against aircraft,” pronounced the general, peering through his monocle at the battlements above. “We will make a thorough examination. “Unteroffizer!” he barked, and the noncom in charge of the escort came forward woodenly, stiffening to attention. “Six of the men will accompany me inside. You will bivouac the others in this courtyard, maintaining a guard all night. Heil Hitler.”

  “Heil Hitler,” responded the man briskly. Von Grunn smiled as the unteroffizer strode away to obey. For all the soldierly alacrity, that order to sleep outdoors was no welcome one. So much the better; von Grunn believed in toughening experiences for field soldiers, and his escort had lived too softly since the Battle of Flanders.

  He walked to where a sort of vestibule of massive, rough stone projected from the castle wall. Plesser already stood there, staring at the heavy nail-studded planks of the door. “It is locked, Herr General,” he reported. “No knob or latch, bell or knocker—” But as he spoke, the door swung creakingly inward, and yellow light gushed out.

  On the threshold stood a figure in black, as tall as von Grunn himself but thinner than even Plesser. A pale, sharp face and brilliant eyes turned upon them, in the light of a chimneyless oil lamp of silver.

  “Welcome, Generalvon Grunn,” said the lamp holder. “You are expected.”

  His German was good, his manner respectful. Von Grunn’s broad hand slid into
a greatcoat pocket, where he always carried a big automatic pistol.

  “Who told you to expect us?” he demanded.

  The lamplight struck blue radiance from smooth, sparse black hair as the thin man bowed. “Who could mistake General von Grunn, or doubt that he would want this spacious, withdrawn structure for his new headquarters position?”

  The mayor of Bistritz, officious ass, must have sent this fellow ahead to make fawning preparations—but even as von Grunn thought that, the man himself gave other information. “I am in charge here, have been in charge for many years. We are so honored to have company. Will the general enter?”

  He stepped back. Plesser entered, then von Grunn. The vestibule was warm. “This way, excellency,” said the man with the lamp—the steward, von Grunn decided to classify him. He led the way along a stone-paved passage, von Grunn’s escort tramping authoritatively after him. Then up a great winding stair, and into a room, a big hall of a place, with a fire of logs and a table set for supper.

  All told, very inviting; but it was not von Grunn’s way to say as much. He only nodded, and allowed Captain Plesser to help him out of his great-coat. Meanwhile, the steward was showing the luggage-laden Kranz into an octagonal bedroom beyond.

  “Take these six men,” said von Grunn to Plesser, indicating the soldiers of the escort. “Tour the castle. Make a plan of each floor. Then come back and report. Heil Hitler.”

  “Heil Hitler,” and Plesser led the party away. Von Grunn turned his broad back to the fire. Kranz was busy within the bedroom, arranging things. The steward returned.

  “May I serve the Herr General?” he asked silkily.

  Von Grunn looked at the table, and with difficulty forbore to lick his fat lips. There were great slices of roast beef, a fowl, cheese, salad, and two bottles of wine—Kranz himself could not have guessed better what would be good. Von Grunn almost started forward to the table, then paused. This was Transylvania. The natives, for all their supple courtesy, disliked and feared soldiers of the Reich. Might these good things not be poisoned?

  “Remove these things,” he said bleakly. “I have brought my own provisions. You may eat that supper yourself.”

  Another bow. “The Herr General is too good, but I will sup at midnight—it is not long. Now, I will clear the things away. Your man will fetch what you want.”

  He began to gather up dishes. Watching him stoop over the table, von Grunn thought that he had seldom seen anyone so narrow in the shoulders—they were humped high, like the shoulders of a hyena, suggesting a power that crouched and lurked. Von Grunn was obliged to tell himself that he was not repelled or nervous. The steward was a stranger, a Slav of some kind. It was von Grunn’s business to be scornful of all such.

  “Now,” he said, when all was cleared, “go to the bedroom and tell my orderly—” He broke off. “What was that?”

  The other listened. Von Grunn could have sworn that the man’s ears—pale and pointed—lifted voluntarily, like the ears of a cat or a fox. The sound came again, a prolonged howling the distance. “The wolves,” came the quiet reply. “They speak to the full moon.”

  “Wolves?” The general was intrigued at once. He was a sportsman—that is, he liked to corner and kill beasts almost as much as he liked to corner and kill men. As a guest of Hermann Göering he had shot two very expensive wild bulls, and he yearned for the day when the Führer would graciously invite him to the Black Forest for pigsticking. “Are there many?” he asked. “It sounds like many. If they were not so far—”

  “They come nearer,” his companion said, and indeed the howl was repeated more strongly and clearly.

  “But you gave an order, general?”

  “Oh, yes.” Von Grunn remembered his hunger. “My man will bring me supper from among the things we have with us.”

  A bow, and the slender black figure moved noiselessly into the bedroom. Von Grunn crossed the floor and seated himself in an armchair before the table. The steward returned, and stood at his elbow.

  “Pardon. Your orderly helped me carry the other food to the castle kitchen. He has not returned, and so I took the liberty of serving you.”

  He had a tray. Upon it were delicacies from von Grunn’s mess chest—slices of smoked turkey, buttered bread, preserved fruits, bottled beer. The fellow had arranged them himself, had had every opportunity to . . . to—

  Von Grunn scowled and took the monocle from his eye. The danger of poison again stirred in his mind, and he had difficulty scorning it. He must eat and drink, in defiance of fear.

  Poison or no poison, the food was splendid, and the steward an excellent waiter. The general drank beer, and deigned to say, “You are an experienced servant?”

  The pale, sharp face twitched sideways in negation. “I serve very few guests. The last was years ago—Jonathan Harker, an Englishman—”

  Von Grunn snorted away mention of that unwelcome people, and finished his repast. Then he rose, and stared around. The wolves howled again, in several directions and close to the castle.

  “I seem to be deserted,” he said grimly. “The captain is late, my orderly late. My men make no report.” He stepped to the door, opened it. “Plesser!” he called. “Captain Plesser!” No reply.

  “Shall I bring you to him?” asked the steward gently. Once again, he had come up close. Von Grunn started violently, and wheeled. The eyes of the steward were on a level with his, and very close. For the first time von Grunn saw that they were filled with green light. The steward was smiling, too, and von Grunn saw his teeth—white, spaced widely, pointed—

  As if signaled by the thought, the howling of the beasts outside broke out afresh. It was deafeningly close. To von Grunn it sounded like hundreds. Then, in reply, came a shout, the voice of the unteroffizer uttering a quick, startled command.

  At once a shot. Several shots.

  The men he had encamped in the courtyard were shooting at something.

  With ponderous haste, von Grunn hurried from the room, down the stairs. As he reached the passageway below, he heard more shots, and a wild air-rending chorus of howls, growls, and spitting scuffles. Von Grunn gained the door by which he had entered. Something moved in the gloom at his very feet.

  A chalky face turned up, the face of Captain Plesser. A hand lifted shakily to clutch at the general’s boot top.

  “Back in there, the dark rooms—” It was half a choke, half a sigh. “They’re devils—hungry—they got the others, got me—I could come no farther than this—”

  Plesser collapsed. Light came from behind von Grunn, and he could see the captain’s head sagging backward on the stone. The side of the slender neck had been torn open, but blood did not come. For there was no blood left in Captain Plesser’s body.

  Outside, there was sudden silence. Stepping across Plesser’s body, the general seized the latch and pushed the door open.

  The courtyard was full of wolves, feeding. One glance was enough to show what they fed on. As von Grunn stared, the wolves lifted their heads and stared back. He saw many green-glowing eyes, level, hard, hungry, many grinning mouths with pointed teeth—the eyes and the teeth of the steward.

  He got the door shut again, and sagged upon it, breathing hard. “I am sorry, general,” came a soft, teasing apology. “Sorry—my servants were too eager within and without. Wolves and vampires are hard to restrain. After all, it is midnight—our moment of all moments.”

  “What are you raving about?” gasped von Grunn, feeling his jaw sag.

  “I do not rave. I tell simple truth. My castle has vampires within, wolves without, all my followers and friends—”

  Von Grunn felt for a weapon. His great-coat was upstairs, the pistol in its pocket.

  “Who are you?” he screamed.

  “I am Count Dracula of Transylvania,” replied the gaunt man in black.

  He set down the lamp carefully before moving forward.

  NANCY KILPATRICK has been described by Fangoria magazine as “Canada’s answer to Anne Rice.”<
br />
  Best known for her vampire-themed fiction, she is the award-winning author of more than 220 short stories, nineteen novels, six collections, and a non-fiction book (The Goth Bible). She has also edited fifteen anthologies, including Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper, Expiration Date, Evolve and Evolve Two, and nEvermore! Tales of Murder, Mystery and the Macabre (with Caro Soles).

  Her most recent novel is Revenge of the Vampir King, the first in the six-volume “Thrones of Blood” cycle, while under her “Amarantha Knight” pseudonym she wrote the erotic novels Dracula and Carmilla in The Darker Passions series.

  Teaserama

  Nancy Kilpatrick

  Dracula’s financial fortunes have multiplied over the decades, and he finally forsakes his homeland for the New World. But he is about to be smitten by the charms of an aspiring showgirl who poses provocatively to pay the rent . . .

  The leggy beauty wearing impossibly high stilettos pranced across the silver screen. Tall, raven-haired with bangs, midnight undergarments gracing her slim yet curvaceous pale figure, she seemed to be the only star of these unusual movies able to do anything more than hobble in the patent-leather shoes. She undulated with a frolicsome grace that ignited him, and his ashes had been long cold.

  Much to his amazement, humanity was changing. Five centuries he had walked the earth, nightly supping from the veins of these crass mortals. What he had imbibed contained not just vital nourishment for him, but the sum total of his cretinous victims’ values. He had come to see humans as less than insectoid, with nothing to offer him but the blood. But now, oddly, he felt an infusion of life where he had expected none.

  Vlad rewound the film around the reel and replayed the short black and white story for the tenth time. Varietease was one of his favorites, featuring Lili St. Cyr, and, more to his taste, Miss Bettie Page! This Bettie was a marvel, the woman of his dreams, were he still able to dream. Fetching, attractive, and most of all playful in her sensuality. Females in his youth had expressed either violence toward him, or had proven passive enough to retain his interest. Early on, when natural life had bubbled hot in his veins, when he had been full of passion, a warlord, fighting the Turks to retain his territory, and his own countrymen for power, he demanded his women be subdued. Life had been brutal enough back then—his mortal death verified that fact. Why fight with a woman in the boudoir? Oddly, immortality proved far easier, not particularly violent, yet he found himself less than enthralled with the ‘humanizing’ global changes. He was alone. Always. Stalking vapid prey through the streets of European and North American urban forests, destined to find none in sympathy, no empathy from the living, none in the progressingly dispassionate centuries to inspire his appetites . . . This turn of the tide had left him depleted. Existence in a bland world produced ennui in one such as himself, one of immense substance. And he knew the cause: humanity. They were worse than peasants. Worse than the insects that crawled from the earth’s graves. They viewed his state of ungrace far too simplistically, as they viewed their own pathetic lives. And that was the problem. They were neither terrified of him—hell-bent on destroying him as those in the past had been—nor utterly enamoured. He lost interest in his sniveling soul-pale victims before he had drained the last drops of their vitae.