I, the Vampire<\/p>\n
By HENRY KUTTNER<\/p>\n
Dark horror settled down like a fog on
\nHollywood, the world\u2019s film capital, as an evil
\nthing from overseas preyed on the celebrated
\nstars of filmdom\u2014an odd and curious story.<\/p>\n
[Transcriber’s Note: This etext was produced from
\nWeird Tales, February 1937.
\nExtensive research did not uncover any evidence that
\nthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]<\/p>\n
1. The Chevalier Futaine<\/p>\n
The party was dull. I had come too early. There was a preview that night at Grauman\u2019s Chinese, and few of the important guests would arrive until it was over. Indeed, Jack Hardy, ace director at Summit Pictures, where I worked as assistant director, hadn\u2019t arrived\u2014yet\u2014and he was the host. But Hardy had never been noted for punctuality.<\/p>\n
I went out on the porch and leaned against a pillar, sipping a cocktail and looking down at the lights of Hollywood. Hardy\u2019s place was on the summit of a hill overlooking the film capital, near Falcon Lair, Valentino\u2019s famous turreted castle. I shivered a little. Fog was sweeping in from Santa Monica, blotting out the lights to the west.<\/p>\n
Jean Hubbard, who was an ingenue at Summit, came up beside me and took the glass out of my hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cHello, Mart,\u201d she said, sipping the liquor. \u201cWhere\u2019ve you been?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDown with the Murder Desert troupe, on location in the Mojave,\u201d I said. \u201cMiss me, honey?\u201d<\/p>\n
I drew her close. She smiled up at me, her tilted eyebrows lending a touch of diablerie to the tanned, lovely face. I was going to marry Jean, but I wasn\u2019t sure just when.<\/p>\n
\u201cMissed you lots,\u201d she said, and held up her lips. I responded.<\/p>\n
After a moment I said, \u201cWhat\u2019s this about the vampire man?\u201d<\/p>\n
She chuckled. \u201cOh, the Chevalier Futaine. Didn\u2019t you read Lolly Parsons\u2019 write-up in Script? Jack Hardy picked him up last month in Europe. Silly rot. But it\u2019s good publicity.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThree cheers for publicity,\u201d I said. \u201cLook what it did for Birth of a Nation. But where does the vampire angle come in?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMystery man. Nobody can take a picture of him, scarcely anybody can see him. Weird tales are told about his former life in Paris. Going to play in Jack\u2019s Red Thirst. The kind of build-up Universal gave Karloff for Frankenstein. The Chevalier Futaine\u201d\u2014she rolled out the words with amused relish\u2014\u201cis probably a singing waiter from a Paris caf\u00e9. I haven\u2019t seen him\u2014but the deuce with him, anyway. Mart, I want you to do something for me. For Deming.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHess Deming?\u201d I raised my eyebrows in astonishment. Hess Deming, Summit\u2019s biggest box-office star, whose wife, Sandra Colter, had died two days before. She, too, had been an actress, although never the great star her husband was. Hess loved her, I knew\u2014and now I guessed what the trouble was. I said, \u201cI noticed he was a bit wobbly.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019ll kill himself,\u201d Jean said, looking worried. \u201cI\u2014I feel responsible for him somehow, Mart. After all, he gave me my start at Summit. And he\u2019s due for the D. T\u2019s any time now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, I\u2019ll do what I can,\u201d I told her. \u201cBut that isn\u2019t a great deal. After all, getting tight is probably the best thing he could do. I know if I lost you, Jean\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
I stopped. I didn\u2019t like to think of it.<\/p>\n
Jean nodded. \u201cSee what you can do for him, anyway. Losing Sandra that way was\u2014pretty terrible.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat way?\u201d I asked. \u201cI\u2019ve been away, remember. I read something about it, but\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe just died,\u201d Jean said. \u201cPernicious anemia, they said. But Hess told me the doctor really didn\u2019t know what it was. She just seemed to grow weaker and weaker until\u2014she passed away.\u201d<\/p>\n
I nodded, gave Jean a hasty kiss, and went back into the house. I had just seen Hess Deming walk past, a glass in his hand.<\/p>\n
He turned as I tapped his shoulder. \u201cOh, Mart,\u201d he said, his voice just a bit fuzzy. He could hold his liquor, but I could tell by his bloodshot eyes that he was almost at the end of his rope. He was a handsome devil, all right, well-built, strong-featured, with level gray eyes and a broad mouth that was usually smiling. It wasn\u2019t smiling now. It was slack, and his face was bedewed with perspiration.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know about Sandra?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Hess.\u201d<\/p>\n
He drank deeply from the glass, wiped his mouth with a grimace of distaste.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m drunk, Mart,\u201d he confided. \u201cI had to get drunk. It was awful\u2014those last few days. I\u2019ve got to burn her up.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n
\u201cBurn her up. Oh, my God, Mart\u2014that beautiful body of hers, crumbling to dust\u2014and I\u2019ve got to watch it! She made me promise I\u2019d watch to make sure they burned her.\u201d<\/p>\n
I said, \u201cCremation\u2019s a clean ending, Hess. And Sandra was a clean girl, and a damned good actress.\u201d<\/p>\n
He put his flushed face close to mine. \u201cYeah\u2014but I\u2019ve got to burn her up. It\u2019ll kill me, Mart. Oh, God!\u201d He put the empty glass down on a table and looked around dazedly.<\/p>\n
I was wondering why Sandra had insisted on cremation. She\u2019d given an interview once in which she stressed her dread of fire. Most write-ups of stars are applesauce, but I happened to know that Sandra did dread fire. Once, on the set, I\u2019d seen her go into hysterics when her leading man lit his pipe too near her face.<\/p>\n
\u201cExcuse me, Mart,\u201d Hess said. \u201cI\u2019ve got to get another drink.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWait a minute,\u201d I said, holding him. \u201cYou want to watch yourself, Hess. You\u2019ve had too much already.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt still hurts,\u201d he said. \u201cJust a little more and maybe it won\u2019t hurt so much.\u201d But he didn\u2019t pull away. Instead he stared at me with the dullness of intoxication in his eyes. \u201cClean,\u201d he said presently. \u201cShe said that too, Mart. She said burning was a clean death. But, God, that beautiful white body of hers\u2014I can\u2019t stand it, Mart! I\u2019m going crazy, I think. Get me a drink, like a good fellow.\u201d<\/p>\n
I said, \u201cWait here, Hess. I\u2019ll get you one.\u201d I didn\u2019t add that it would be watered\u2014considerably.<\/p>\n
He sank down in a chair, mumbling thanks. As I went off I felt sick. I\u2019d seen too many actors going on the rocks to mistake Hess\u2019s symptoms. I knew that his box-office days were over. There would be longer and longer waits between pictures, and then personal appearances, and finally Poverty Row and serials. And in the end maybe a man found dead in a cheap hall bedroom on Main Street, with the gas on.<\/p>\n
There was a crowd around the bar. Somebody said, \u201cHere\u2019s Mart. Hey, come over and meet the vampire.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then I got a shock. I saw Jack Hardy, my host, the director with whom I\u2019d worked on many a hit. He looked like a corpse. And I\u2019d seen him looking plenty bad before. A man with a hangover, or a marijuana jag, isn\u2019t a pretty sight, but I\u2019d never seen Hardy like this. He looked as though he was keeping going on his nerve alone. There was no blood in the man.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d last seen him as a stocky, ruddy blond, who looked like nothing so much as a wrestler, with his huge biceps, his ugly, good-natured face, and his bristling crop of yellow hair. Now he looked like a skeleton, with skin hanging loosely on the big frame. His face was a network of sagging wrinkles. Pouches bagged beneath his eyes, and those eyes were dull and glazed. About his neck a black silk scarf was knotted tightly.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood God, Jack!\u201d I exclaimed. \u201cWhat have you been doing to yourself?\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked away quickly. \u201cNothing,\u201d he said bruskly. \u201cI\u2019m all right. I want you to meet the Chevalier Futaine\u2014this is Mart Prescott.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPierre,\u201d a voice said. \u201cHollywood is no place for titles. Mart Prescott\u2014the pleasure is mine.\u201d<\/p>\n
I faced the Chevalier Pierre Futaine.<\/p>\n
We shook hands. My first impression was of icy cold, and a slick kind of dryness\u2014and I let go of his hand too quickly to be polite. He smiled at me.<\/p>\n
A charming man, the Chevalier. Or so he seemed. Slender, below medium height, his bland, round face seemed incongruously youthful. Blond hair was plastered close to his scalp. I saw that his cheeks were rouged\u2014very deftly, but I know something about make-up. And under the rouge I read a curious, deathly pallor that would have made him a marked man had he not disguised it. Some disease, perhaps, had blanched his skin\u2014but his lips were not artificially reddened. And they were as crimson as blood.<\/p>\n
He was clean-shaved, wore impeccable evening clothes, and his eyes were black pools of ink.<\/p>\n
\u201cGlad to know you,\u201d I said. \u201cYou\u2019re the vampire, eh?\u201d<\/p>\n
He smiled. \u201cSo they tell me. But we all serve the dark god of publicity, eh, Mr. Prescott? Or\u2014is it Mart?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s Mart,\u201d I said, still staring at him. I saw his eyes go past me, and an extraordinary expression appeared on his face\u2014an expression of amazement, disbelief. Swiftly it was gone.<\/p>\n
I turned. Jean was approaching, was at my side as I moved. She said, \u201cIs this the Chevalier?\u201d<\/p>\n
Pierre Futaine was staring at her, his lips parted a little. Almost inaudibly he murmured, \u201cSonya.\u201d And then, on a note of interrogation, \u201cSonya?\u201d<\/p>\n
I introduced the two. Jean said, \u201cYou see, my name isn\u2019t Sonya.\u201d<\/p>\n
The Chevalier shook his head, an odd look in his black eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cI once knew a girl like you,\u201d he said softly. \u201cVery much like you. It is strange.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWill you excuse me?\u201d I broke in. Jack Hardy was leaving the bar. Quickly I followed him.<\/p>\n
I touched his shoulder as he went out the French windows. He jerked out a startled oath, turned a white death-mask of a face to me.<\/p>\n
\u201cDamn you, Mart,\u201d he snarled. \u201cKeep your hands to yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n
I put my hands on his shoulders and swung him around.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat the devil has happened to you?\u201d I asked. \u201cListen, Jack, you can\u2019t bluff me or lie to me. You know that. I\u2019ve straightened you out enough times in the past, and I can do it again. Let me in on it.\u201d<\/p>\n
His ruined face softened. He reached up and took away my hands. His own were ice-cold, like the hands of the Chevalier Futaine.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d he said. \u201cNo use, Mart. There\u2019s nothing you can do. I\u2019m all right, really. Just\u2014overstrain. I had too good a time in Paris.\u201d<\/p>\n
I was up against a blank wall. Suddenly, without volition, a thought popped into my mind and out of my mouth before I knew it.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter with your neck?\u201d I asked abruptly.<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t answer. He just frowned and shook his head.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve a throat infection,\u201d he told me. \u201cCaught it on the steamer.\u201d<\/p>\n
His hand went up and touched the black scarf.<\/p>\n
There was a croaking, harsh sound from behind us\u2014a sound that didn\u2019t seem quite human. I turned. It was Hess Deming. He was swaying in the portal, his eyes glaring and bloodshot, a little trickle of saliva running down his chin.<\/p>\n
He said in a dead, expressionless voice that was somehow dreadful, \u201cSandra died of a throat infection, Hardy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jack didn\u2019t answer. He stumbled back a step. Hess went on dully.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe got all white and died. And the doctor didn\u2019t know what it was, although the death certificate said anemia. Did you bring back some filthy disease with you, Hardy? Because if you did I\u2019m going to kill you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWait a minute,\u201d I said. \u201cA throat infection? I didn\u2019t know\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere was a wound in her throat\u2014two little marks, close together. That couldn\u2019t have killed her, unless some loathsome disease\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re crazy, Hess,\u201d I said. \u201cYou know you\u2019re drunk. Listen to me: Jack couldn\u2019t have had anything to do with\u2014that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hess didn\u2019t look at me. He watched Jack Hardy out of his bloodshot eyes. He went on in that low, deadly monotone:<\/p>\n
\u201cWill you swear Mart\u2019s right, Hardy? Will you?\u201d<\/p>\n
Jack\u2019s lips were twisted by some inner agony. I said, \u201cGo on, Jack. Tell him he\u2019s wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hardy burst out, \u201cI haven\u2019t been near your wife! I haven\u2019t seen her since I got back. There\u2019s\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not the answer I want,\u201d Hess whispered. And he sprang for the other man\u2014reeled forward, rather.<\/p>\n
Hess was too drunk, and Jack too weak, for them to do each other any harm, but there was a nasty scuffle for a moment before I separated them. As I pulled them apart, Hess\u2019s hand clutched the scarf about Jack\u2019s neck, ripped it away.<\/p>\n
And I saw the marks on Jack Hardy\u2019s throat. Two red, angry little pits, white-rimmed, just over the left jugular.<\/p>\n
2. The Cremation of Sandra<\/p>\n
It was the next day that Jean telephoned me.<\/p>\n
\u201cMart,\u201d she said, \u201cwe\u2019re going to run over a scene for Red Thirst tonight at the studio\u2014Stage 6. You\u2019ve been assigned as assistant director on the pic, so you should be there. And\u2014I had an idea Jack might not tell you. He\u2019s been\u2014so odd lately.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks, honey,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019ll be there. But I didn\u2019t know you were in the flicker.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNeither did I, but there\u2019s been some wire-pulling. Somebody wanted me in it\u2014the Chevalier, I think\u2014and the big boss phoned me this morning and let me in on the secret. I don\u2019t feel up to it, though. Had a bad night.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSorry,\u201d I sympathized. \u201cYou were okay when I left you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI had a\u2014nightmare,\u201d she said slowly. \u201cIt was rather frightful, Mart. It\u2019s funny, though, I can\u2019t remember what it was about. Well\u2014you\u2019ll be there tonight?\u201d<\/p>\n
I said I would, but as it happened I was unable to keep my promise. Hess Deming telephoned me, asking if I\u2019d come out to his Malibu place and drive him into town. He was too shaky to handle a car himself, he said, and Sandra\u2019s cremation was to take place that afternoon. I got out my roadster and sent it spinning west on Sunset. In twenty minutes I was at Deming\u2019s beach house.<\/p>\n
The house-boy let me in, shaking his head gravely as he recognized me.<\/p>\n
\u201cMist\u2019 Deming pretty bad,\u201d he told me. \u201cAll morning drinking gin straight\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
From upstairs Hess shouted, \u201cThat you, Mart? Okay\u2014I\u2019ll be down right away. Come up here, Jim!\u201d<\/p>\n
The Japanese, with a meaning glance at me, pattered upstairs.<\/p>\n
I wandered over to a table, examining the magazines upon it. A little breath of wind came through the half-open window, fluttering a scrap of paper. A word on it caught my eye, and I picked up the note. For that\u2019s what it was. It was addressed to Hess, and after one glance I had no compunction about scanning it.<\/p>\n
\u201cHess dear,\u201d the message read. \u201cI feel I\u2019m going to die very soon. And I want you to do something for me. I\u2019ve been out of my head, I know, saying things I didn\u2019t mean. Don\u2019t cremate me, Hess. Even though I were dead I\u2019d feel the fire\u2014I know it. Bury me in a vault in Forest Lawn\u2014and don\u2019t embalm me. I shall be dead when you find this, but I know you\u2019ll do as I wish, dear. And, alive or dead, I\u2019ll always love you.\u201d<\/p>\n
The note was signed by Sandra Colter, Hess\u2019s wife. This was odd. I wondered whether Hess had seen it yet.<\/p>\n
There was a little hiss of indrawn breath from behind me. It was Jim, the house-boy. He said, \u201cMist\u2019 Prescott\u2014I find that note last night. Mist\u2019 Hess not seen it. It Mis\u2019 Colter\u2019s writing.\u201d<\/p>\n
He hesitated, and I read fear in his eyes\u2014sheer, unashamed fear. He put a brown forefinger on the note.<\/p>\n
\u201cSee that, Mist\u2019 Prescott?\u201d<\/p>\n
He was pointing to a smudge of ink that half obscured the signature. I said, \u201cWell?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI do that, Mist\u2019 Prescott. When I pick up the note. The ink\u2014not dry.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at him. He turned hastily at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Hess Deming was coming down, rather shakily.<\/p>\n
I think it was then that I first realized the horrible truth. I didn\u2019t believe it, though\u2014not then. It was too fantastic, too incredible; yet something of the truth must have crept into my mind, for there was no other explanation for what I did then.<\/p>\n
Hess said, \u201cWhat have you got there, Mart?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNothing,\u201d I said quietly. I crumpled the note and thrust it into my pocket. \u201cNothing important, anyway. Ready to go?\u201d<\/p>\n
He nodded, and we went to the door. I caught a glimpse of Jim staring after us, an expression of\u2014was it relief?\u2014in his dark, wizened face.<\/p>\n
The crematory was in Pasadena, and I left Hess there. I would have stayed with him, but he wouldn\u2019t have it. I knew he didn\u2019t want anyone to be watching him when Sandra\u2019s body was being incinerated. And I knew it would be easier for him that way. I took a short cut through the Hollywood hills, and that\u2019s where the trouble started.<\/p>\n
I broke an axle. Recent rains had gullied the road, and I barely saved the car from turning over. After that I had to hike miles to the nearest telephone, and then I wasted more time waiting for a taxi to pick me up. It was nearly eight o\u2019clock when I arrived at the studio.<\/p>\n
The gateman let me in, and I hurried to Stage 6. It was dark. Cursing under my breath, I turned away, and almost collided with a small figure. It was Forrest, one of the cameramen. He let out a curious squeal, and clutched my arm.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat you, Mart? Listen, will you do me a favor? I want you to watch a print\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHaven\u2019t time,\u201d I said. \u201cSeen Jean around here? I was to\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s about that,\u201d Forrest said. He was a shriveled, monkey-faced little chap, but a mighty good cameraman. \u201cThey\u2019ve gone\u2014Jean and Hardy and the Chevalier. There\u2019s something funny about that guy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThink so? Well, I\u2019ll phone Jean. I\u2019ll look at your rushes tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe won\u2019t be home,\u201d he told me. \u201cThe Chevalier took her over to the Grove. Listen, Mart, you\u2019ve got to watch this. Either I don\u2019t know how to handle a grinder any more, or that Frenchman is the damnedest thing I\u2019ve ever shot. Come over to the theater, Mart\u2014I\u2019ve got the reel ready to run. Just developed the rough print myself.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, all right,\u201d I assented, and followed Forrest to the theater.<\/p>\n
I found a seat in the dark little auditorium, and listened to Forrest moving about in the projection booth. He clicked on the amplifier and said, \u201cHardy didn\u2019t want any pictures taken\u2014insisted on it, you know. But the boss told me to leave one of the automatic cameras going\u2014not to bother with the sound\u2014just to get an idea how the French guy would screen. Lucky it wasn\u2019t one of the old rattler cameras, or Hardy would have caught on. Here it comes, Mart!\u201d<\/p>\n
I heard a click as the amplifier was switched off. White light flared on the screen. It faded, gave place to a picture\u2014the interior of Stage 6. The set was incongruous\u2014a mid-Victorian parlor, with overstuffed plush chairs, gilt-edged paintings, even a particularly hideous what-not. Jack Hardy moved into the range of the camera. On the screen his face seemed to leap out at me like a death\u2019s-head, covered with sagging, wrinkled skin. Following him came Jean, wearing a tailored suit\u2014no one dresses for rehearsals\u2014and behind her\u2014\u2014<\/p>\n
I blinked, thinking that my eyes were tricking me. Something like a glowing fog\u2014oval, tall as a man\u2014was moving across the screen. You\u2019ve seen the nimbus of light on the screen when a flashlight is turned directly on the camera? Well\u2014it was like that, except that its source was not traceable. And, horribly, it moved forward at about the pace a man would walk.<\/p>\n
The amplifier clicked again. Forrest said, \u201cWhen I saw it on the negative I thought I was screwy, Mart. I saw the take\u2014there wasn\u2019t any funny light there. Look\u2014\u2014\u201d The oval, glowing haze was motionless beside Jean, and she was looking directly at it, a smile on her lips. \u201cMart, when that was taken, Jean was looking right at the French guy!\u201d<\/p>\n
I said, somewhat hoarsely, \u201cHold it, Forrest. Right there.\u201d<\/p>\n
The images slowed down, became motionless. Jean\u2019s left profile was toward the camera. I leaned forward, staring at something I had glimpsed on the girl\u2019s neck. It was scarcely visible save as a tiny, discolored mark on Jean\u2019s throat, above the jugular\u2014but unmistakably the same wound I had seen on the throat of Jack Hardy the night before!<\/p>\n
I heard the amplifier click off. Suddenly the screen showed blindingly white, and then went black.<\/p>\n
I waited a moment, but there was no sound from the booth.<\/p>\n
\u201cForrest,\u201d I called. \u201cYou okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
There was no sound. The faint whirring of the projector had died. I got up quickly and went to the back of the theater. There were two entrances to the booth, a door which opened on stairs leading down to the alley outside, and a hole in the floor reached by means of a metal ladder. I went up this swiftly, an ominous apprehension mounting within me.<\/p>\n
Forrest was still there. But he was no longer alive. He lay sprawled on his back, his wizened face staring up blindly, his head twisted at an impossible angle. It was quite apparent that his neck had been broken almost instantly.<\/p>\n
I sent a hasty glance at the projector. The can of film was gone! And the door opening on the stairway was ajar a few inches.<\/p>\n
I stepped out on the stairs, although I knew I would see no one. The white-lit, broad alley between Stages 6 and 4 was silent and empty.<\/p>\n
The sound of running feet came to me, steadily growing louder. A man came racing into view. I recognized him as one of the publicity gang. I hailed him.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan\u2019t wait,\u201d he gasped, but slowed down nevertheless.<\/p>\n
I said, \u201cHave you seen anyone around here just now? The\u2014Chevalier Futaine?\u201d<\/p>\n
He shook his head. \u201cNo, but\u2014\u2014\u201d His face was white as he looked up at me. \u201cHess Deming\u2019s gone crazy. I\u2019ve got to contact the papers.\u201d<\/p>\n
Ice gripped me. I raced down the stairs, clutched his arm.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d I snapped. \u201cHess was all right when I left him. A bit tight, that\u2019s all.\u201d<\/p>\n
His face was glistening with sweat. \u201cIt\u2019s awful\u2014I\u2019m not sure yet what happened. His wife\u2014Sandra Colter\u2014came to life while they were cremating her. They saw her through the window, you know\u2014screaming and pounding at the glass while she was being burned alive. Hess got her out too late. He went stark, raving mad. Suspended animation, they say\u2014I\u2019ve got to get to a phone, Mr. Prescott!\u201d<\/p>\n
He tore himself away, sprinted in the direction of the administration buildings.<\/p>\n
I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. It was the note I had found in Hess Deming\u2019s house. The words danced and wavered before my eyes. Over and over I was telling myself, \u201cIt can\u2019t be true! Such things can\u2019t happen!\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t mean Sandra Colter\u2019s terrible resurrection during the cremation. That, alone, might be plausibly explained\u2014catalepsy, perhaps. But taken in conjunction with certain other occurrences, it led to one definite conclusion\u2014and it was a conclusion I dared not face.<\/p>\n
What had poor Forrest said? That the Chevalier was taking Jean to the Cocoanut Grove? Well\u2014\u2014<\/p>\n
The taxi was still waiting. I got in.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Ambassador,\u201d I told the driver grimly. \u201cTwenty bucks if you hit the green lights all the way.\u201d<\/p>\n
3. The Black Coffin<\/p>\n
All night I had been combing Hollywood\u2014without success. Neither the Chevalier Futaine nor Jean had been to the Grove, I discovered. And no one knew the Chevalier\u2019s address. A telephone call to the studio, now ablaze with excitement over the Hess Deming disaster and the Forrest killing, netted me exactly nothing. I went the rounds of Hollywood night life vainly. The Trocadero, Sardi\u2019s, all three of the Brown Derbies, the smart, notorious clubs of the Sunset eighties\u2014nowhere could I find my quarry. I telephoned Jack Hardy a dozen times, but got no answer. Finally, in a \u201cprivate club\u201d in Culver City, I met with my first stroke of good luck.<\/p>\n
\u201cMr. Hardy\u2019s upstairs,\u201d the proprietor told me, looking anxious. \u201cNothing wrong, I hope, Mr. Prescott? I heard about Deming.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNothing,\u201d I said. \u201cTake me up to him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s sleeping it off,\u201d the man admitted. \u201cTried to drink the place dry, and I put him upstairs where he\u2019d be safe.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot the first time, eh?\u201d I said, with an assumption of lightness. \u201cWell, bring up some coffee, will you? Black. I\u2019ve got to\u2014talk to him.\u201d<\/p>\n
But it was half an hour before Hardy was in any shape to understand what I was saying. At last he sat up on the couch, blinking, and a gleam of realization came into his sunken eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cPrescott,\u201d he said, \u201ccan\u2019t you leave me alone?\u201d<\/p>\n
I leaned close to him, articulating carefully so he would be sure to understand me. \u201cI know what the Chevalier Futaine is,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
And I waited for the dreadful, impossible confirmation, or for the words which would convince me that I was an insane fool.<\/p>\n
Hardy looked at me dully. \u201cHow did you find out?\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n
An icy shock went through me. Up to that moment I had not really believed, in spite of all the evidence. But now Hardy was confirming the suspicions which I had not let myself believe.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t answer his question. Instead, I said, \u201cDo you know about Hess?\u201d<\/p>\n
He nodded, and at sight of the agony in his face I almost pitied him. Then the thought of Jean steadied me.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you know where he is now?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. What are you talking about?\u201d he flared suddenly. \u201cAre you mad, Mart? Do you\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not mad. But Hess Deming is.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked at me like a cowering, whipped dog.<\/p>\n
I went on grimly: \u201cAre you going to tell me the truth? How you got those marks on your throat? How you met this\u2014creature? And where he\u2019s taken Jean?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJean!\u201d He looked genuinely startled. \u201cHas he got\u2014I didn\u2019t know that, Mart\u2014I swear I didn\u2019t. You\u2014you\u2019ve been a good friend to me, and\u2014and I\u2019ll tell you the truth\u2014for your sake and Jean\u2019s\u2014although now it may be too late\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
My involuntary movement made him glance at me quickly. Then he went on.<\/p>\n
\u201cI met him in Paris. I was out after new sensations\u2014but I didn\u2019t expect anything like that. A Satanist club\u2014devil-worshippers, they were. The ordinary stuff\u2014cheap, furtive blasphemy. But it was there that I met\u2014him.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe can be a fascinating chap when he tries. He drew me out, made me tell him about Hollywood\u2014about the women we have here. I bragged a little. He asked me about the stars, whether they were really as beautiful as they seemed. His eyes were hungry as he listened to me, Mart.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen one night I had a fearful nightmare. A monstrous, black horror crept in through my window and attacked me\u2014bit me in the throat, I dreamed, or thought I did. After that\u2014\u2014<\/p>\n
\u201cI was in his power. He told me the truth. He made me his slave, and I could do nothing. His powers\u2014are not human.\u201d<\/p>\n
I licked dry lips. Hardy continued:<\/p>\n
\u201cHe made me bring him here, introducing him as a new discovery to be starred in Red Thirst\u2014I\u2019d mentioned the picture to him, before I\u2014knew. How he must have laughed at me! He made me serve him, keeping away photographers, making sure that there were no cameras, no mirrors near him. And for a reward\u2014he let me live.\u201d<\/p>\n
I knew I should feel contempt for Hardy, panderer to such a loathsome evil. But somehow I couldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
I said quietly, \u201cWhat about Jean? Where does the Chevalier live?\u201d<\/p>\n
He told me. \u201cBut you can\u2019t do anything, Mart. There\u2019s a vault under the house, where he stays during the day. It can\u2019t be opened, except with a key he always keeps with him\u2014a silver key. He had a door specially made, and then did something to it so that nothing can open it but that key. Even dynamite wouldn\u2019t do it, he told me.\u201d<\/p>\n
I said, \u201cSuch things\u2014can be killed.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot easily. Sandra Colter was a victim of his. After death she, too, became a vampire, sleeping by day and living only at night. The fire destroyed her, but there\u2019s no way to get into the vault under Futaine\u2019s house.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI wasn\u2019t thinking of fire,\u201d I said. \u201cA knife\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThrough the heart,\u201d Hardy interrupted almost eagerly. \u201cYes\u2014and decapitation. I\u2019ve thought of it myself, but I can do nothing. I\u2014am his slave, Mart.\u201d<\/p>\n
I said nothing, but pressed the bell. Presently the proprietor appeared.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan you get me a butcher-knife?\u201d I measured with my hands. \u201cAbout so long? A sharp one?\u201d<\/p>\n
Accustomed to strange requests, he nodded. \u201cRight away, Mr. Prescott.\u201d<\/p>\n
As I followed him out, Hardy said weakly, \u201cMart.\u201d<\/p>\n
I turned.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood luck,\u201d he said. The look on his wrecked face robbed the words of their pathos.<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks,\u201d I forced myself to say. \u201cI don\u2019t blame you, Jack, for what\u2019s happened. I\u2014I\u2019d have done the same.\u201d<\/p>\n
I left him there, slumped on the couch, staring after me with eyes that had looked into hell.<\/p>\n
It was past daylight when I drove out of Culver City, a long, razor-edged knife hidden securely inside my coat. And the day went past all too quickly. A telephone call told me that Jean had not yet returned home. It took me more than an hour to locate a certain man I wanted\u2014a man who had worked for the studio before on certain delicate jobs. There was little about locks he did not know, as the police had sometimes ruefully admitted.<\/p>\n
His name was Axel Ferguson, a bulky, good-natured Swede, whose thick fingers seemed more adapted to handling a shovel than the mechanisms of locks. Yet he was as expert as Houdini\u2014indeed, he had at one time been a professional magician.<\/p>\n
The front door of Futaine\u2019s isolated canyon home proved no bar to Ferguson\u2019s fingers and the tiny sliver of steel he used. The house, a modern two-story place, seemed deserted. But Hardy had said below the house.<\/p>\n
We went down the cellar stairs and found ourselves in a concrete-lined passage that ran down at a slight angle for perhaps thirty feet. There the corridor ended in what seemed to be a blank wall of bluish steel. The glossy surface of the door was unbroken, save for a single keyhole.<\/p>\n
Ferguson set to work. At first he hummed under his breath, but after a time he worked in silence. Sweat began to glisten on his face. Trepidation assailed me as I watched.<\/p>\n
The flashlight he had placed beside him grew dim. He inserted another battery, got out unfamiliar-looking apparatus. He buckled on dark goggles, and handed me a pair. A blue, intensely brilliant flame began to play on the door.<\/p>\n
It was useless. The torch was discarded after a time, and Ferguson returned to his tools. He was using a stethoscope, taking infinite pains in the delicate movements of his hands.<\/p>\n
It was fascinating to watch him. But all the time I realized that the night was coming, that presently the sun would go down, and that the life of the vampire lasts from sunset to sunrise.<\/p>\n
At last Ferguson gave up. \u201cI can\u2019t do it,\u201d he told me, panting as though from a hard race. \u201cAnd if I can\u2019t, nobody can. Even Houdini couldn\u2019t have broken this lock. The only thing that\u2019ll open it is the key.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAll right, Axel,\u201d I said dully. \u201cHere\u2019s your money.\u201d<\/p>\n
He hesitated, watching me. \u201cYou going to stay here, Mr. Prescott?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d I said. \u201cYou can find your way out. I\u2019ll\u2014wait awhile.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, I\u2019ll leave the light with you,\u201d he said. \u201cYou can let me have it sometime, eh?\u201d<\/p>\n
He waited, and, as I made no answer, he departed, shaking his head.<\/p>\n
Then utter silence closed around me. I took the knife out of my coat, tested its edge against my thumb, and settled back to wait.<\/p>\n
Less than half an hour later the steel door began to swing open. I stood up. Through the widening crack I saw a bare, steel-lined chamber, empty save for a long, black object that rested on the floor. It was a coffin.<\/p>\n
The door was wide. Into view moved a white, slender figure\u2014Jean, clad in a diaphanous, silken robe. Her eyes were wide, fixed and staring. She looked like a sleep-walker.<\/p>\n
A man followed her\u2014a man wearing impeccable evening clothes. Not a hair was out of place on his sleek blond head, and he was touching his lips delicately with a handkerchief as he came out of the vault.<\/p>\n
There was a little crimson stain on the white linen where his lips had brushed.<\/p>\n
4. I, the Vampire<\/p>\n
Jean walked past me as though I didn\u2019t exist. But the Chevalier Futaine paused, his eyebrows lifted. His black eyes pierced through me.<\/p>\n
The handle of the knife was hot in my hand. I moved aside to block Futaine\u2019s way. Behind me came a rustle of silk, and from the corner of my eye I saw Jean pause hesitatingly.<\/p>\n
The Chevalier eyed me, toying negligently with his handkerchief. \u201cMart,\u201d he said slowly. \u201cMart Prescott.\u201d His eyes flickered toward the knife, and a little smile touched his lips.<\/p>\n
I said, \u201cYou know why I\u2019m here, don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2014heard you. I was not disturbed. Only one thing can open this door.\u201d<\/p>\n
From his pocket he drew a key, shining with a dull silver sheen.<\/p>\n
\u201cOnly this,\u201d he finished, replacing it. \u201cYour knife is useless, Mart Prescott.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe,\u201d I said, edging forward very slightly. \u201cWhat have you done to Jean?\u201d<\/p>\n
A curious expression, almost of pain, flashed into his eyes. \u201cShe is mine,\u201d he shot out half angrily. \u201cYou can do nothing, for\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
I sprang then, or, at least, I tried to. The blade of the knife sheared down, straight for Futaine\u2019s white shirtfront. It was arrested in midair. Yet he had not moved. His eyes had bored into mine, suddenly, terribly, and it seemed as though a wave of fearful energy had blasted out at me\u2014paralyzing me, rendering me helpless. I stood rigid. Veins throbbed in my temples as I tried to move\u2014to bring down the knife. It was useless. I stood as immovable as a statue.<\/p>\n
The Chevalier brushed past me.<\/p>\n
\u201cFollow,\u201d he said almost casually, and like an automaton I swung about, began to move along the passage. What hellish hypnotic power was this that held me helpless?<\/p>\n
Futaine led the way upstairs. It was not yet dark, although the sun had gone down. I followed him into a room, and at his gesture dropped into a chair. At my side was a small table. The Chevalier touched my arm gently, and something like a mild electric shock went through me. The knife dropped from my fingers, clattering to the table.<\/p>\n
Jean was standing rigidly near by, her eyes dull and expressionless. Futaine moved to her side, put an arm about her waist. My mouth felt as though it were filled with mud, but somehow I managed to croak out articulate words.<\/p>\n
\u201cDamn you, Futaine! Leave her alone!\u201d<\/p>\n
He released her, and came toward me, his face dark with anger.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou fool, I could kill you now, very easily. I could make you go down to the busiest corner of Hollywood and slit your throat with that knife. I have the power. You have found out much, apparently. Then you know\u2014my power.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I muttered thickly. \u201cI know that. You devil\u2014Jean is mine!\u201d<\/p>\n
The face of a beast looked into mine. He snarled, \u201cShe is not yours. Nor is she\u2014Jean. She is Sonya!\u201d<\/p>\n
I remembered what Futaine had murmured when he had first seen Jean. He read the question in my eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cI knew a girl like that once, very long ago. That was Sonya. They killed her\u2014put a stake through her heart, long ago in Thurn. Now that I\u2019ve found this girl, who might be a reincarnation of Sonya\u2014they are so alike\u2014I shall not give her up. Nor can anyone force me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ve made her a devil like yourself,\u201d I said through half-paralyzed lips. \u201cI\u2019d rather kill her\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
Futaine turned to watch Jean. \u201cNot yet,\u201d he said softly. \u201cShe is mine\u2014yes. She bears the stigmata. But she is still\u2014alive. She will not become\u2014wampyr\u2014until she has died, or until she has tasted the red milk. She shall do that tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n
I cursed him bitterly, foully. He touched my lips, and I could utter no sound. Then they left me\u2014Jean and her master. I heard a door close quietly.<\/p>\n
The night dragged on. Futile struggles had convinced me that it was useless to attempt escape\u2014I could not even force a whisper through my lips. More than once I felt myself on the verge of madness\u2014thinking of Jean, and remembering Futaine\u2019s ominous words. Eventually agony brought its own surcease, and I fell into a kind of coma, lasting for how long I could not guess. Many hours had passed, I knew, before I heard footsteps coming toward my prison.<\/p>\n
Jean moved into my range of vision. I searched her face with my eyes, seeking for some mark of a dreadful metamorphosis. I could find none. Her beauty was unmarred, save for the terrible little wounds on her throat. She went to a couch and quietly lay down. Her eyes closed.<\/p>\n
The Chevalier came past me and went to Jean\u2019s side. He stood looking down at her. I have mentioned before the incongruous youthfulness of his face. That was gone now. He looked old\u2014old beyond imagination.<\/p>\n
At last he shrugged and turned to me. His fingers brushed my lips again, and I found that I could speak. Life flooded back into my veins, bringing lancing twinges of pain. I moved an arm experimentally. The paralysis was leaving me.<\/p>\n
The Chevalier said, \u201cShe is still\u2014clean. I could not do it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Amazement flooded me. My eyes widened in disbelief.<\/p>\n
Futaine smiled wryly. \u201cIt is quite true. I could have made her as myself\u2014undead. But at the last moment I forbade her.\u201d He looked toward the windows. \u201cIt will be dawn soon.\u201d<\/p>\n
I glanced at the knife on the table beside me. The Chevalier put out a hand and drew it away.<\/p>\n
\u201cWait,\u201d he said. \u201cThere is something I must tell you, Mart Prescott. You say that you know who and what I am.\u201d<\/p>\n
I nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cYet you cannot know,\u201d he went on. \u201cSomething you have learned, and something you have guessed, but you can never know me. You are human, and I am\u2014the undead.<\/p>\n
\u201cThrough the ages I have come, since first I fell victim to another vampire\u2014for thus is the evil spread. Deathless and not alive, bringing fear and sorrow always, knowing the bitter agony of Tantalus, I have gone down through the weary centuries. I have known Richard and Henry and Elizabeth of England, and ever have I brought terror and destruction in the night, for I am an alien thing. I am the undead.\u201d<\/p>\n
The quiet voice went on, holding me motionless in its weird spell.<\/p>\n
\u201cI, the vampire. I, the accursed, the shining evil, negotium perambulans in tenebris . . . but I was not always thus. Long ago in Thurn, before the shadow fell upon me, I loved a girl\u2014Sonya. But the vampire visited me, and I sickened and died\u2014and awoke. Then I arose.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is the curse of the undead to prey upon those they love. I visited Sonya. I made her my own. She, too, died, and for a brief while we walked the earth together, neither alive nor dead. But that was not Sonya. It was her body, yes, but I had not loved her body alone. I realized too late that I had destroyed her utterly.<\/p>\n
“For a brief while we walked the earth together, neither alive nor dead.”<\/p>\n
\u201cOne day they opened her grave, and the priest drove a stake through her heart, and gave her rest. Me they could not find, for my coffin was hidden too well. I put love behind me then, knowing that there was none for such as I.<\/p>\n
\u201cHope came to me when I found\u2014Jean. Hundreds of years have passed since Sonya crumbled to dust, but I thought I had found her again. And\u2014I took her. Nothing human could prevent me.\u201d<\/p>\n
The Chevalier\u2019s eyelids sagged. He looked infinitely old.<\/p>\n
\u201cNothing human. Yet in the end I found that I could not condemn her to the hell that is mine. I thought I had forgotten love. But, long and long ago, I loved Sonya. And, because of her, and because I know that I would only destroy, as I did once before, I shall not work my will on this girl.\u201d<\/p>\n
I turned to watch the still figure on the couch. The Chevalier followed my gaze and nodded slowly.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, she bears the stigmata. She will die, unless\u201d\u2014he met my gaze unflinchingly\u2014\u201cunless I die. If you had broken into the vault yesterday, if you had sunk that knife into my heart, she would be free now.\u201d He glanced at the windows again. \u201cThe sun will rise soon.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then he went quickly to Jean\u2019s side. He looked down at her for a moment.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe is very beautiful,\u201d he murmured. \u201cToo beautiful for hell.\u201d<\/p>\n
The Chevalier swung about, went toward the door. As he passed me he threw something carelessly on the table, something that tinkled as it fell. In the portal he paused, and a little smile twisted the scarlet lips. I remembered him thus, framed against the black background of the doorway, his sleek blond head erect and unafraid. He lifted his arm in a gesture that should have been theatrical, but, somehow, wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd so farewell. I who am about to die\u2014\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
He did not finish. In the faint grayness of dawn I saw him striding away, heard his footsteps on the stairs, receding and faint\u2014heard a muffled clang as of a great door closing. The paralysis had left me. I was trembling a little, for I realized what I must do soon. But I knew I would not fail.<\/p>\n
I glanced down at the table. Even before I saw what lay beside the knife, I knew what would be there. A silver key . . .<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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