A Missing Excerpt from The Collected Chapters of Varney the Vampyre
OF Cieri
““Well, if nobody won’t open the coffin,” said big Dick, “I will, so here goes. I knowed the old fellow when he was alive, and many a time he’s d——d me and I’ve d——d him, so I ain’t a-going to be afraid of him now he’s dead. We was very intimate, you see, ‘cos we was the two heaviest men in the parish; there’s a reason for everything.”
”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.”
”Ah, you snivelling curs,” said Dick, “I hate you. If it warn’t for my own satisfaction, and all for to prove that my old friend, the butcher, as weighed seventeen stone, and stood six feet two and-a-half on his own sole, I’d see you all jolly well—“”
The summer nights in those days when rumors spread of a vampyre in the neighborhood were unseasonably warm. The main topic of conversation was whether windows could remain open or shut during the night. Some contended that a vampyre could not enter a house without an invitation, and thus windows could be opened. Others claimed that spreading small seeds across the floor would stop a vampyre, because they could not keep themselves from counting every grain. Still others said nothing could keep a vampyre at bay when it laid eyes on a victim, and that it could squeeze between even the thinnest crack of a sturdy door. While the word vampyre was on every tongue it seemed impossible to find reliable information about them. Where one said they could not cross running water, another claimed they could change shapes, or fly like a spirit across unfathomable distances. No two tales were the same.
Dick gave up hope of learning more. The stories traded in town all focused on warding one away, while Dick needed to draw one near.
Miles the Butcher was said to be a victim of the fiend, and Dick was witness to Miles' death. It was Dick that Miles called when he first struck ill, moaning and groaning like a great baby for Dick to moisten his brow and bring him weak tea for his churning stomach.
"Mercy, Dick, a cup of water for my parched throat!" Dick heard him cry.
"A cup of water! How many do you need, you fat hog? Look, you have five on the bedside this very instance!"
"Damn you, Dick, I says I need a full cup. No need to point to cups I drank from once before."
"Hell!" Dick shouted, collected all five and filled them from the bucket one by one, placing each on the bedside until every motion of Miles' elbow sent five different tides churning. "There! Now you can save yourself five calls for help!"
Several days later, when the illness hadn't let up, his complaints grew fewer. Strange to think of an ill man as cheerful, but Dick saw how Miles' countenance changed when his strength left him for good. There were no more calls for tea or broth, and in their absence Dick had to cajole him into eating. Chillingworth the surgeon had no suggestions for what to do, as Miles had no fever or lesions. It seemed to all that he simply wasted away before their eyes. From a strong, broad man to a white lump of clay in a week. Dick could do nothing but watch as he thinned away.
And yet Dick's helplessness offered some comfort, for at least he had no guilt. They talked when Miles was well, and as the final days drew to a close Dick helped set his affairs right. Miles' last day on earth came to a peaceful finish, and on the day of his funeral he was returned to the soil surrounded by neighbors and friends.
Dick reached a resolution with Miles' death. His absence was like a missing foot, occasionally sore and always keeping Dick off balance. For most of the day he could forget that Miles was gone until he made an idle plan to see the dead man, or looked forward to speaking to him in the pub. It was a pain akin to the loss of the old mill out near the Hall, which could have made a man wealthy if they chose to take it up. Alas, any hopes a man may have had to re-open the mill, or even to use the timber, were dashed when it caught light one hot night in the early days of summer. The true soreness of Miles’ death came at night, with the rest of Dick's doubts and regrets.
Miles was not even dead a week before the vampyre panic began, sowing fear in every mind that their cemetery crawled with undead spirits like a loaf of bread by mice. Every grave was suspect, but as Miles was the most recent addition it seemed reasonable to check his, first. Dick himself assisted in unearthing his coffin. When the lid was lifted and the coffin exposed as empty, he didn't know what to think. The grave was unspoiled until the moment they uncovered it. Not even the corpse clothes remained. There could be a rational explanation, but underneath that was the persistent question of what Dick would do if Miles were a vampyre. No way to guess, he supposed; better to find out through action.
As he cast around for gossip, he discovered that he was the only one trying to catch a vampyre. All the other townsfolk lived in mortal dread of spying one, nevermind bringing one into their homes. The only way to prove for sure whether Miles had risen was to stay out all night to catch him, or one of his ilk. Dick would collar Sir Francis himself if he found the man soaked through with human blood.
It was a good summer for staying out late, when gossip could turn to accusations over a glass of gin. He found it far safer to stay within earshot of the most malignant gabbers and box their ears when their tongues wagged in his direction. He stayed late in the pub after having his dinner, playing draughts or darts or gossiping with any fool who was about. Rumours regarding him and Miles were an old topic of conversation, which meant any suspicious thing regarding one automatically involved the other.
Big Dick's presence in the pub acted as a sentinel over his own reputation. He and the townsfolk seemed to know that they would not speak of him while he was present, not out of fear, but because his gin drinking and draughts playing put him above suspicion. No one was sure if a vampyre could eat anything but blood, but if Dick was as late to bed as any of them, then they were just as guilty.
The longer he stayed in the pub, the more opportunities to commit mischief found him. One tragedy followed another that summer. The inn was sieged and the army was called in to quell the riot. Through it all Dick refused to be moved by the crowd. He moved with them, but he hated all of them. The town moved as one at night with their tilling tools and torches to see by, visiting each home, even plots of land where the houses were long destroyed. On principal alone he disagreed with them. As the violence escalated he felt only more assured in his decision. The townsfolk were as excited for fire and blood as they were for a carnival. Their nights of wrath surrounded Dick on all sides, and the parish burned around him.
In the evenings Dick went home far too with no sense of accomplishment. On calm nights he went when he simply could not stay awake, but on firey nights he waited until the violence peaked. The energetic rush he felt in the wake of the flames proved he was not immune to the intoxicating effects of violence, but when that wave crested he found himself more exhausted than he was before.
One night, closer to dawn than he would have liked, he lit a candle to lead him through his dark house to his bed. He was happily swaddled in his sheets when a furious hammering rattled his door. He leapt out of bed and struggled into a pair of trousers, but found his doorway empty. He closed the door and crouched low, waiting to see if he could hear footsteps creeping past, or if the culprit would come again. All was silent. Eventually he decided that it must have been a half-awake dream, or perhaps a strange gust of wind, and returned to bed. Once again, he was barely out of his trousers when his door shook with furious banging. He forwent trousers to reach the door faster, but the night air was empty before him. He fetched his gun and circled the house, and returned to find his door not only shut, but bolted. No matter how much he wrestled with it, he could not pry it open. At last he was forced to wake his neighbors to fetch their son to crawl into his still-open window and unlatch the door.
He stayed out late the next night as well. He played cards with Fletcher the ranter, who could talk of nothing besides vampyrism being the fulfillment for the promise of eternal life. When at last Dick trudged home he took a moment to circle his house from a distance. He could see no one in the copse of trees nearby, nor lurking behind the houses on either side. It appeared to be a normal, empty house. The prior night left no mark on it. Yet as he went to bed he brought his gun with him, just in case.
The hammering on the door began as soon as his eyes were shut. He went straight to the door with his gun and threw it open with the barrel before him.
“State your business, whoever you are! I won’t stand for any more disturbances! I’ll have an explanation or satisfaction, but not less sleep!” he shouted out into the night, but there was no answer. The outdoors were only a little brighter than the closed up darkness of his home, with thin rays of moon shining down between the clouds. He couldn’t see more than a foot in front of him, but his ears were pricked. The wind stirred the grass, and a lone cricket chirped somewhere in his fence. He stood and waited.
Finally, he heard the sounds of weight shifting on wooden beams, and the distinct clatter of steps on his roof. Remembering the night before, he took only a few steps past his door and craned his neck to look up. As he did there was a knocking on his chimney as if someone were trying to kick it off. Throwing his door open wide and securing it with a loose brick, Dick ran to his gate and fired into the open sky above his roof. The sound ceased.
“State yourself, whoever you are!” he shouted, but there was no reply. Not even the footsteps continued. He strained to see past the gloom of night, but the darkness only cast twisting shadows over his vision. The white walls of his own house seemed to dim and flicker like a candle flame, and while he wasn’t sure if it was a true vision, he swore he saw a dark shape bend down from the roof, take hold of his door frame, and crawl in head-first. He ran back in and slammed the door, fumbling with his matches to light a candle before any creature could have time to slink away. He lit one-- and it died. He lit another-- this died too. He felt all his courage bleed out like his breath after taking a bad punch to the gut. He did not know whether he ought to try again, call for help, flee, or simply clutch his gun and wait, and as his mind whirled with options he realized he was frozen like a deer.
A warm glow burst forth in the darkness from another match on the opposite side of the room, and in the tiny halo of light offered by its brightness he saw the familiar, smiling face of Miles. He cupped his hand around the flame and bent down to light the candle Dick had left by his bed. Once it was lit, he sat down on the mattress as casually as if it was a social call. Dick saw how the candle flame reflected in his eyes like a cat's. He was sure no fire ever lit Miles' eyes like that before.
After a moment’s silence, Miles laughed at him. “Well? Are you going to shoot me?”
Dick had the gun tucked under his elbow while his hands still cradled the matchbox. Slowly he lifted the gun up, took aim, and fired directly into the dark shadow of Miles the butcher. The muzzle flashed, and Miles was thrown against the bed. The crumpled body on Dick's bed began to laugh, then got up and took a step toward Dick. Miles halted when Dick fumbled with the door.
“Where are you off to?” Miles asked, still laughing. Dick had no answer, because his only thought was to flee. Once gone he’d think of shelter somewhere else. He remembered some of the townsfolk saying the cross repelled vampyres, along with garlic and St. John’s Wort, but the stone walls of the church might have more safety than his own kitchen.
“What’s the matter with you?” Miles demanded. “You’re shaking like a leaf! My god! Did I give you such a turn? We’ve known each other since we were lads, Dick, you ought to know my tricks by now,”
In the distant recesses of his mind, the remnants of a quick retort floated past. He struggled to fit them together, but in the end he only managed a weak question. “Are you a vampyre?”
“I don’t know what I am,” Miles said. “I have crossed the county thrice before dawn. I destroyed a deer with my bare hands like a wild beast. My teeth are long and sharp enough to pierce the deepest veins beneath the skin, and once a week I am driven mad by an insatiable thirst for blood. On every other night I am the man I know myself to be.”
Faint hope filled Dick’s chest. “It is you, then? You’re not some specter come to haunt me? You’re not some demon which has taken this shape to torment me for my sins?”
“I don’t know what to say to that-- after all, you called me so before my illness,”
In the stillness that followed, Dick laughed in way of answer, but his mind was elsewhere. Fletcher the ranter once said the vampyre was the promise of eternal life fulfilled. Dick once thought he wasn’t fit for paradise. He’d never been a good Christian, nor cared much for the consequences of heresy, but he could think of no other explanation for the opportunity before him.
Miles stepped forward to embrace him, and Dick laid his head against his chest. His head rested in the hollow of Miles' throat the way it always did, but Miles' chest was cold, and with a stillness in his breast that made Dick remember nights when he could feel Miles' breath heaving against him. They kissed as he'd craved for so many nights. Miles' cock, though rigid as ever, was cold enough to shock him, but soon warmed up as they pressed their hips together and rutted. No seed sprung from Miles when he came, only a deep, satisfied groan. He kept hold of Dick once spent and whispered into his ear.
"Let me bite you and sup on your blood. I've craved it every night since I returned. I've missed you so. Once bitten you have the power to return to life, like me."
"When?"
"Whenever you'd like. I shall lay you in the moon so you can absorb its rays and heal from any wound."
Dick's common sense was destroyed. He lived in a land where the dead could talk and the moon could heal. In the real world he walked through a town that turned on itself night after night, burning houses and killing their neighbors. Any day now they "Go on, then,"
Miles bit down on the skin of his neck until it broke, tearing the flesh off his raw veins. The muscles in his shoulders twitched as Miles' teeth pierced them, and then grew numb around the invasion. He could feel Miles' tongue lap at his neck as he drank, but that sensation was overwhelmed by the pain of an open and ragged wound. Still, he bore it as well as he could, until his hands grew numb and his arms leadened. His head grew light and foggy, but at last Miles licked the last streaks of blood from his shoulder and lay next to him.
Miles' arms held him tight as his head swam. Feebly, he asked: "Is this how it was for you?"
"Not quite. The bastard didn't stay for a cuddle after," Miles said.
Dick didn’t feel much like laughing. His stomach felt like it was contracting in his abdomen, and his head swam. He’d never felt quite like it before. "I don't feel very good. I think I will be sick."
Miles rubbed his back sympathetically. “Would you like a bucket, old friend? I doubt you’ll bring much up, but sometimes it’s a relief to have on hand.”
Dick nodded. Miles fetched him a clean bowl and rested it on his lap. It was indeed a relief to hold on to, and when Dick felt his stomach tense as if in preparation for a purge, there was a temporary wash of relief over his brow. A thin slime escaped his throat, but no more.
“Don’t force it, Dick. I told you, you shan’t be sick.”
“Is this what happens when you’re drained by a great, fat leech like yourself?” Dick asked.
Miles laughed. “Aye, and if I’d known you would complain so mightily I would have stayed on the other side of the county.”
“You couldn’t leave, even in death,” Dick said, but was interrupted by another wave of nausea. Miles took the pail from his lap and helped him lay back. As Dick struggled to pull the covers over his chest, he realized his hands were weak and shaking. He was cold, but sweat broke out over his forehead.
“Your strength is failing you,” Miles noted, wiping Dick’s brow. “T’was the same for me, as you’ll remember. It causes terrible pain, and I’m afraid I cannot stay with you during the day, but I will return at night to care for you,”
“Don’t I need fresh blood to replace what you drank?” Dick asked.
Miles shook his head as he lifted the blanket to tuck close to Dick’s chin. “I don’t think so-- not yet. Not while you still have your mortal strength, but once that’s gone, you’ll need to steal it from others.”
"What a bloody trial," Dick rasped. "You should’ve told me all the costs before going through with it."
"You should’ve asked," Miles replied.
Dick had more choice words, but not enough strength to say them. His mind ran back to those last nights at the butcher's side when he was too weak to say when he needed a bucket to relieve himself. It was terrifying then, but now Dick could barely hold the thought in his mind. He was more tired and sick than he'd ever been, but now he understood why some let death take them. The rest of the grave was so much sweeter than fighting to stay on earth. As he drifted off he felt grateful that Miles didn’t force him to stay alive for long.
Dick passed through a long period of oblivion, punctuated only by brief and painful moments of clarity that were unconnected to day and night. When he was awake he felt the decay of his body setting in. His bowels boiled in his chest; his head throbbed. He felt agonizing cold and heat tear through his flesh. When he was awake he wished for sleep, and when pain disturbed his sleep he wished he were dead. Briefly he was consumed with a terrified fear that it was all a trick. The shape of Miles was stolen by a demon to nourish itself, and once it was finished with Dick it cast him aside. The promise of eternal life was a ploy to make him pliant. Despite his doubts he swore there were moments when his sweat was wiped away by Miles' broad hand, but he could never be sure. Sometimes Miles was there, and sometimes he was not. Dick's waking moments were no more vivid nor rational than a dream. The world winked before Dick like a magic lantern, until at last there was brief peace, a moment without pain or even the nagging constant of his own thoughts. His breath suspended. There was the most temporary respite of pure contentment, which Dick thought must be Heaven, but when he next awoke he found himself in a field under the moon, with a pleasant breeze on his skin. When he sat up he found Miles waiting by a stump, smoking his pipe.
"By God, you're a precious creature," Miles said jovially. "You slept more like a drunkard at the inn than a proper beast of the night. I had half a mind to bury you again and be done with it. Come on, don't reward my patience with naught but a gormless stare. I managed to pinch your pipe and tobacco from your kin. If you have need of anything more we'll have to take it soon. The whole town's struck with a fever over vampyres. There ain't no safe place for us here, but perhaps farther south they'll have need for our talents. I'll take you on as my tradesman. We'll see if pig and cow can't slake our thirst for human blood. Come on, now, Dick, ye've worser choices to make for this life than pitching in with a butcher,"
"Do you do nothing but talk, you old fat and thunder?" Dick snapped peevishly. "Hand me my blasted pipe, will yer?"
"Pass him the pipe, he says. Never a word of thanks for the risks I took to bring him back to this world. It took four days for you to die, and in the final two your blasted busybody neighbor wouldn't leave your bedside, not even with Chillingworth, the Vicar and her own husband warning her that she might catch her own death. I had half a mind to make a feast of her for sheer spite-- serves her right to hover over you when we had business. But I was a sentimental fool. I let her watch you die, and of course the first thing the blasted woman did was gossip all over town about you catching the same disease as I. Then off they goes and buries you. Your sister came to collect your belongings. Such a waste, made worse by my final reward of watching you lay flat on your back like a great worm for the whole night. We could have been caught three times, you know-- but each time it was Sir Varney, off on his own infernal business." Miles explained as he bent down to untie Dick from his shroud. His old bedsheet was tied tightly to keep his legs and arms in for the pallbearers, and Dick felt the strangest mix of pleasant and foul emotions as Miles extracted him. His old sheets, stripped away from his body, which looked the same as ever but served a different purpose. Both body and sheet had undergone a mythic transformation, and yet they looked as commonplace and ordinary as ever. He'd emerged more or less the same, but now his visage would be hideous to all who knew him. Miles was right; their only chance was to flee. Dick, who had never been more than a few miles away since the day he was born, must now find a place to be a stranger in.
A detail from Miles' story struck him. As he lit his pipe, grass tickling his bare nethers, he asked; "The stories are true, then? Sir Francis is a vampyre?"
"The vampyre, as far as I can tell. Father of all of us in this part of the world, at any rate," Miles said. He blew the old ashes out of his pipe to re-fill the bowl. "Not that I'd know the truth if it were different; I've never spoken to Sir Francis, outside of a good morrow sir, or a good eve. He knows me as his own kin now, I suppose. We've passed each other a handful of times on our nightly errands, and I've ventured a good eve. Given me nothing but a gentlemanly nod. I suppose he's our emissary to Parliament,"
"I'll not speak of politics until I've been alive for a fortnight," Dick said. "Now what am I to wear, nought but the sheet?"
"And why not, you spectre-- you shade-- you nightmare visitation from the unearthly realm?"
"I'll have a shirt or I'll have your head!" Dick cried.
"A shirt and breakfast, to be sure. I had plans to go into town before we left for good. One last trick to play on all the would-be witchfinder generals who have burnt more homes than vampyres. Come with me for one last night of mischief before we slip away, then let them blame the whole bloody evening on our Parliamentary representative."
Dick laughed as Miles opened a satchel stuffed with a rumpled set of clothes. "You’re still a bastard, Miles."
O F Cieri is a self-taught writer based out of NYC. She has been published in Ligeia Magazine and Hobart Pulp, with an upcoming book available on Castaigne press. In 2013 she won first place in BMCC's Poetry Competition. In 2016 she won an Honourable Mention in LaborArts Make Work Visible Competition. Her non fiction has been carried by Hyperallergic and the Invisible Oranges. In 2021 one of her scripts was produced by the Lurking Transmission podcast for their Halloween anthology episode. Early in 2022 she was published in a digital anthology of work about rural California called Los Suelos.
Find more of her work on ofcieri.com