Lifeforce (16 page)

Geijerstam sat down in the front pew. “I believe that what we just experienced in there is not what is usually called a ghost. It is a purely physical effect, like feeling dizzy when you smell chloroform. However, it is not chemical, but electrical.”

Fallada said with astonishment: “Electrical?”

“Oh, I don’t mean that it can be measured with a lambda meter — although I wouldn’t discount the possibility either. I mean that I believe it is a kind of recording — like a tape recording.”

“And what is the tape?”

‘Some kind of field — like a magnetic field. It is due to the water that surrounds us.” He turned to Fallada. “Even you felt it to some degree, although you are less sensitive than Commander Carlsen. It was the same in Magnus’s laboratory. But there it is fainter, because it is above the lake.”

Fallada shook his head. “Have you any proof of this?”

“Not scientific proof. But more than half the people who go into the mausoleum at the time of the full moon notice it. Some have even fainted.” He asked Carlsen: “Did you notice that it stopped quite suddenly as we crossed the threshold? These fields always have sharply defined areas. I have even pinpointed where it stops — precisely seven inches beyond the door.”

Fallada said: “There must be some way of measuring it — if it’s an electrical field.”

“I am sure there is, but I am a psychologist, not a physicist.” He stood up. “Shall we go back to the house?”

Carlsen said: “I still don’t really understand… Why should there be an unpleasant atmosphere? What happened?”

The Count switched off the lights and closed the door carefully. “I can tell you what happened in the laboratory. It is all there, in the records. Magnus practised black magic. And some of the things he did are too horrible to mention.”

They walked through the trees in silence. Fallada asked: “And the church?”

“Precisely. The mausoleum. Why should there be an atmosphere in there, when Magnus was already dead when he was laid there?” Carlsen felt the hair on his neck standing. “An unscientific question, perhaps, but worth asking.”

Fallada said: “It could have been the fear of the people who went into the mausoleum.”

“Yes, indeed — if anyone went in there. But for more than a century after Magnus’s death, it remained locked and double-bolted. This chapel ceased to be used because everyone was so afraid of disturbing his spirit.”

None of them spoke until they were back in the house. The library lights had been switched off, but the fire illuminated the room. Selma Bengtsson was sitting on the settee.

“The others have gone to bed. I waited up to find out what happened.”

Carlsen sat beside her. “Nothing happened. But I felt something.”

Geijerstam said: “I think we all deserve a little brandy. Yes?”

She asked Fallada: “Did you feel anything?”

“I… don’t know. I agree that it is an oppressive place —”

The Count interrupted him. “But you do not believe in vampires?”

“Not in that kind — the kind that come back to life after they’ve been buried.” He sniffed his brandy. “Vampires are one thing. Ghosts are another.”

Geijerstam nodded. “I see your point. As it happens, I also believe in ghosts. But I do not think we are now talking about a ghost.”

“Well, a man who rises from the dead… it’s the same thing.”

Geijerstam said: “Are you sure?” He sank into the armchair. Fallada waited. “There is an interesting phrase in the Count’s journal: ‘He who would drink the blood of his enemies and obtain faithful servants …’ What servants?”

Carlsen said: “Demons?”

“Possibly. But there is no mention of demons or devils in any of the records. All we know is that when the Count came back from his Black Pilgrimage, he was a changed man… and his handwriting had also changed. You saw it yourself. Now, I have encountered five cases of multiple personality — the Jekyll and Hyde syndrome. And in some of them, the handwriting changed as they changed personality. Yet it was always basically the same handwriting — it merely changed a few characteristics, becoming stronger or weaker. In this case, there is the handwriting of a completely different person.”

Carlsen leaned forward. “In other words, Magnus was possessed by something?”

“I.think the evidence points in that direction.” He smiled at Fallada. “If, of course, you believe that a disembodied entity could invade someone else’s body.”

Carlsen said: “And then there’s the octopus…” None of them spoke for several minutes; the only sound in the room was the burning of the logs.

Fallada said finally: “I wish I could see where this was leading us.”

The clock in the hall struck the hour. Carlsen emptied his brandy glass. Geijerstam said: “Perhaps we should all sleep on it. We have talked enough for one day. And I think Commander Carlsen is tired.”

Carlsen had suppressed a yawn, and the effort made his eyes water. Geijerstam said: “Selma, would you show the Commander to his room? I shall stay here for a few more minutes, and perhaps have another small brandy. Will you join me, Doctor?”

Fallada said: “Well, perhaps just a small one…” Carlsen said good night and followed Selma Bengtsson upstairs. The heavy carpet was yielding under his feet. The heat of the fire had induced a pleasant drowsiness. She led him to a room on the second floor. The door stood open, and his pyjamas had been laid out on the bed. It was a warm and comfortable room; the panelling on the walls was a lighter colour than downstairs. As Carlsen sat on the bed, he felt the tiredness flowing through his body. From his bag, he took a framed photograph of his wife and children, and placed it on the bedside table; this had become a habit when he was travelling. Then he went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He was cleaning his teeth when there was a knock on the door. He called: “Come in.” He came out of the bathroom drying his hands. It was Selma Bengtsson. He said: “I thought it was Fallada.”

“Could I just say a few words to you before you go to sleep?”

“Of course.” He pulled on his dressing gown. “You don’t mind if I get into bed?”

She stood by the bed, looking down at him. “I want to ask you something.” Her manner was matter-of-fact, with no touch of sexuality. She leaned forward and looked into his eyes. “Did you know you are a vampire?”

“What?” He stared at her, trying to gauge her seriousness.

“Do you think I am joking?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think you’re joking. But I think you’re probably mistaken,”

She said, with a touch of impatience: “Look, I have been in this house for nearly a year. I know what it means to give a little energy every day. And I can tell you one thing — you have been taking energy from me.”

“I don’t disbelieve you. At the same time, I find it hard to accept.”

She sat down on the chair beside the bed. “The others felt it too. We talked about it when you went out. They were feeling so tired that they went to bed. I decided I had to talk to you.”

“Yes, but… you gave me energy earlier this evening.”

“Quite. And that should have been enough to last you the rest of the night. Yet within an hour — when you were sitting next to me at dinner — I felt you were taking energy.”

“I don’t feel as if I’ve been taking energy. I feel worn out. Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”

She shrugged. “There is an easy way to find out. Lie down and close your eyes.”

“Very well.” He sank back on to the pillow, still aware of the powerful desire to sink into sleep. He felt her undoing the top button of his pyjama coat, and a moment later, felt both her hands laid flat against the upper part of his chest. He stiffened, there was a momentary sensation as if walking under a spray of cold water. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to a rumbling that came from his stomach. The tension vanished, and he again felt himself floating down gently into sleep. This lasted for perhaps thirty seconds. Then he became aware that he was feeling less tired. A pleasant glow was flowing through his body. He said drowsily: “You’re giving energy to me.”

“Yes, I am giving it to you.”

So far he had been totally passive, as if he were a child being breast-fed. Now he observed another sensation, the transition, he was totally awake, aware of a curious and violent hunger. He heard her say: ” Nowyou are taking it.” Her voice was oddly strained. He opened his eyes and looked up at her. Her face looked pale.

He said: “Then take your hands away.”

As he said it, he knew she would not respond. He was aware of something inside him reaching out, holding her. He was also aware that her resistance was low. She had no desire to withdraw now. There was an element of fear in her response, and he could feel, this flowing through her fingertips, a sensation he found himself comparing to the smell of petrol. He was also aware of a duality inside himself; part of him observed what was taking place without being involved; he even felt that he could have interfered and broken the spell. The other part was pure desire, moving on smoothly like a surfer on the waves.

He reached up and grasped her wrists, pulling them away. She sank forward onto him; he could feel the warmth of her body through the thin, silky material of the dress. He kicked back the bedclothes and pulled her down beside him. She lay there with closed eyes, her lips slightly parted. It was an intolerable temptation to lean forward and press his mouth against hers; at the same time, he was aware that the door was unlocked, and that Fallada might stop by to say good night. He slipped out of bed and locked the door, then turned off the light. There was enough moonlight in the room to show him her outline on the bed. Even with his back to her, he was aware of her, and of his will holding her down in the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her dress up above her waist. She turned on her side, allowing him access to the buttons down the back of the dress. Carlsen was usually clumsy with buttons; now he found himself undoing them with quiet economy of movement. He undipped the brassiere with a single movement, then peeled it off, over her head, with the dress. She was wearing only black briefs; he drew them down over her feet. As he moved onto her, he caught a glimpse of Jelka’s face looking out of the photograph; she seemed a stranger. He let the pyjama top fall to the floor, then bent his head to find the partly opened mouth. As his lips touched her, the sweetness made him dizzy. Energy flowed from her in a smooth surge, sending eddies of delight through his bloodstream like tiny whirlpools. As he moved between her thighs, she moaned. The glowing warmth that flowed from her was like a drink; it produced an effect not unlike alcohol, but more exquisite than any drink he had ever tasted. At the same time, he was aware that they were not alone in their lovemaking. There was a third: the woman from the derelict. She was across the sea, but also in the bed, giving herself to him. Her lips were also slightly parted, and she was drinking the energy that flowed through him. Selma Bengtsson was not aware of her; she was only aware of her total surrender. Carlsen thought suddenly: So that’s what it’s about?

The first violent craving subsided. He kept his mouth pressed tight against hers, afraid that her moans might be heard. The esctasy rose in her, and he was aware that it was all she could bear, close to pain. At the same time, he was aware of the desire of the other woman. She wanted him to go on. Her urgent need had also slackened, but she still wanted more. She was lying underneath him, her body convulsing; she was angry that Selma Bengtsson was satisfied. For a moment, there was sharp conflict; but he refused to obey. She was urging him to take a little more. The girl was lying beside him, sinking into a sleep of exhaustion; it would have been easy to take more energy from her. At the same time, Carlsen was aware of how much he had already taken, and was appalled. He had drained off most of her vital reserves. Under normal circumstances, she could soon replace it; but in the meantime, it left her terribly vulnerable. Any sudden stress or catastrophe could thrust her into a limbo of fear and depression.

Inside his brain, he was aware of the urge, like a persuasive whisper: I don’t want you to kill her. Just take a little more… As he refused, he was aware of the rage she was holding back; it was like trying to take the bottle from an alcoholic. He was also aware of a new element in his relation with this woman. In the Space Research laboratory, she had deliberately exercised all her seductiveness, alluring him with an irresistible essence of femininity. Now he was aware of the hardness and selfishness below the surface. To emphasise his refusal, he turned his back on the girl beside him. The moonlight fell on the picture of his wife and children, bringing a wave of tenderness. He felt the same protective tenderness towards Selma Bengtsson. The vampire would have liked him to kill her, draining all her life force, even down to the subliminal molecular levels, and Carlsen was aware that a weaker man would have given way. It would have made no difference to her that he would be charged with murder, or that he would be of no further use. It was not that she wanted to lose Carlsen, only that her craving for life overmastered all other considerations. Carlsen felt a surge of irritable contempt, and knew instantly that she had also felt it. Immediately she became conciliatory. Of course he was right — she was just being greedy. The disappointment burned into dull rage, then was suppressed beyond the range of his awareness. For a moment, he had a frightening glimpse of a bottomless gulf of frustration, unsatisfied craving that had dragged on for thousands of centuries. At the same time, he also understood why she had to be a vampire. The ordinary criminal can repent, and retrace his steps towards love and human sympathy. These creatures had too much to repent; it would have taken an eternity.

He was aware suddenly that Selma Bengtsson’s hand was resting against the back of his thigh, and that energy was flowing from it. The vampire was alert again, drinking it as a cat laps cream. Now, suddenly, he was aware that she was dangerous, and that if she became hostile, she could destroy him. While her attention was distracted, he closed his mind from her. He even turned back towards Selma, running his hand gently over her naked body, allowing a trickle of energy to seep through him. She stirred in her sleep and sighed; her open lips were a temptation, but he rejected it. He allowed himself to become heavy and sleepy. He reached down and carefully pulled up the bedclothes. Then he took the girl into his arms and concentrated on giving her some of his own energy. The vampire lost interest; it was incomprehensible to her that anyone should give away his life force.