The Mammoth Book of Dracula (32 page)

“Maybe, I dunno. If I did, I must’ve forgot.”

“They’re dead people who come out at night lookin’ for blood. They have to have blood to keep goin’. And when they kill people that way, those people turn into vampires too. Some do, anyway.”

Talking about it again now, they looked at and tried to read the book by Jerome Howell, whom certain frightened townspeople had sent for to come and investigate. Many of the words were beyond their understanding, but after flipping through the pages Dan said at last, “The guy is really sold on this junk, y’ know. He thinks vampires are for real.”

“He’s crazy,” Monk said.

“Or smart. I bet he gets big money when people hire him.”

That settled, Dan tossed the book aside and the two continued their investigation of the suitcase. But there was nothing in it they could sell or use. Disgusted, Dan slammed it shut and threw it on the back seat. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

“That’s it?” Monk groaned as he tooled the clunker down the road again, putting distance between them and the Buick they had wrecked. “Five hundred bucks is all we get tonight?”

“Well, more’n five hundred, like I told you. And the credit cards. Don’t forget the credit cards.” Dan shrugged. “Hey, it may not be the best night we ever had, but it’s okay. We done all right.”

“Well, yeah, I guess so.”

“And this.” Dan held up the cross ripped from Jerome Howell’s neck. “Don’t forget this.”

“He wore that to protect himself, huh?”

“I guess. But it could be worth somethin’ for the gold in it. If it’s gold.”

~ * ~

A little more than an hour after the departure of the two predators, Jerome Howell opened his eyes and asked himself what had happened.

He did not remember.

His head throbbed. He put his left hand to his forehead and discovered there a lump the size of a hen’s egg. Just touching it caused a stab of pain as bright as a bolt of lightning. He looked at his fingers. There was no blood on them. He touched his neck, where he felt an odd prickling sensation. His fingertips discovered a pair of punctures in the skin and came away red.

He felt the punctures again, and for some reason the word “vampire” came to mind. Vampire fangs had not actually made the marks, though; he somehow was sure of that without knowing how he could be so positive. Had he been attacked by someone who wanted others to think he was the victim of a night creature?

Why was he here? What car was this, and why was it resting on its side in the dark with its headlights on and dashboard glowing? The headlight beams revealed a number of pine trees grouped around the machine like giant spiders about to pounce on a crippled insect.

He looked up at the car door above him. Could he boost himself up to it and open it? He must try. Failing in that, he would have to get the window open. Perhaps that would be best anyway. The car had automatic window controls, he noted. He reached for the ignition key.

There was no key in the ignition.

What now?

He was finding it hard to think straight, even to think at all. When he struggled to concentrate, the throbbing in his forehead became all but unendurable. But the struggle finally paid off. Go back to opening the door, his mind instructed. You can pull yourself up to it.

Squirming out from under the wheel, he reached up for the door and found he could not work the release. There was a weakness in his fingers. But with beads of moisture forming on his face and salting his lips, he persisted. The door finally opened an inch.

Now he had to boost or pull himself higher to push it farther open, which meant forcing it up. This took time and increased the pounding in his head, causing him to fight for breath. Then a tree beside the car, apparently the one the machine had sideswiped, was so close that the door would open only partway. He had to stretch his aching body to the limit and crawl out like a damaged caterpillar.

At last, though, he stood outside the machine on ground covered with pine needles and was able to explore his body with his hands.

There seemed to be no major injuries except the lump on his forehead. None that caused any sharp pain when touched, at any rate. Nor could he discover any rips in his clothing. But again, why was he here in this strange place? Whose car was this? Most important, who was he?

He was wearing a tan jacket and had a feeling there should be a billfold in its inside pocket. But the pocket was empty, as were all others in both the jacket and his slacks. Perhaps the plates on the car would tell him something.

He went to look, but learned nothing except that the car was from Massachusetts. Was he in Massachusetts now? Did he live near here, close enough to walk home if he could remember where home was?

The trunk lid was open—perhaps had sprung open when the car hit the tree—but the trunk itself was empty except for a jack and spare tire. Well, maybe something in the glove compartment would help him. Climbing back up on the car with the greatest of care, he leaned in through the partly open door and reached down to the dash.

But, like the trunk, the glove compartment yielded nothing.

Who was he? Where was he? How long would the pounding in his head, apparently caused by the egg-sized bruise on his forehead, keep him from remembering?

Whatever the answers, he had to walk out of here. There was no way he could use the car. So where was the road?

The car ought to tell him that, at least. It must have run off a road into this grove of trees. Assuming it had done so in a reasonably straight line, the road should be over there behind the red glow of its taillights. Not too far away, either. With so many trees around, a machine out of control could not have travelled any great distance.

Had he simply blacked out while driving? Or had some other car forced him off the road and gone on without stopping? And what time was it? He had a feeling there ought to be a watch on his left wrist, but there wasn’t. Had he been robbed?

Start walking, he told himself. Just hope to God there’s a house not too far away where you can phone for a doctor and a wrecker.

With both arms outthrust like the antennae of a night-prowling insect, he struggled on through the dark and came to a two-lane blacktop road. A pale moon feebly shone through cloud-gaps above it, providing light enough for him to see by. After flipping a mental coin to reach a decision, he turned blindly to his right. Behind him the lights of the car were still visible among the trees.

He must have walked a long two miles before seeing lamplit windows in a house on his left. No car had passed him in either direction. Wherever this road was, it appeared to be little used.

The windows were three in number and well back from the blacktop. One hundred fifty feet, at least. There was an old wooden mailbox on a post at the end of an unpaved drive. He had to lean close to make out the weathered black letters on it.

CARLETON HODE.

He stood there for a moment gratefully resting, because he had not stopped walking since leaving the car. Had he heard the name Carleton Hode before? He didn’t think so. But then, he didn’t know his own name, did he? Or where he was from. Or whose car he had been driving. He might even
be
Carleton Hode. Or a neighbour. Perhaps on coming face to face with the people who lived here, he would remember.

Straightening from his slouch against the mailbox, he went plodding down the driveway to the house.

One of its lamplit windows looked out on a long veranda, and the pale shaft of yellow light from it showed him the steps. He climbed them. Approaching the door, he wondered whether he should be honest about not knowing who he was. What would
his
reaction be if some hurt stranger appeared out of the dark and said, “Please help me, I’ve been in an accident, I don’t know who I am or where I’m from or where I was going when it happened”? Would he let such a person in or slam and lock the door and phone the police?

I could give myself a name, he thought, but shrugged the thought aside and looked for a bell button. Failing to find one, he knocked. Knocked again. Presently he heard slow footsteps approaching over a bare wooden floor.

How should he respond if the person coming to the door asked, “What do you want?”

The door opened with a slight jerk and he found himself face to face with a small, grey-haired woman in a black dress. She stood there peering up at him, waiting for him to speak. “Good evening,” he said. Recalling the name on the mailbox, he added, “Mrs Hode?”

Her expression became a frown. “Who are you?”

Better be honest, he thought. “To be truthful, I don’t know who I am at the moment.” Feeling weak again, as he had at the mailbox, he put a hand against the doorframe to steady himself. “I’ve had an accident with my car. Please—may I use your telephone to call for help?”

She leaned forward to peer at him more closely, and he half remembered something. Had he picked up a hitchhiker sometime before his accident? An old, grey-haired woman in a black dress? This very woman, perhaps?

No, no. If anything like that had happened, the person he picked up would never have walked away and left him unconscious, perhaps dying, in a wrecked car. His mind was playing tricks on him.

“Accident?” the woman echoed. “You’ve had an accident?”

“About two miles down the road. I don’t know what happened. When I came to, the car was on its side in a grove of trees and I had this lump on my head.”

He pointed to the bruise and she leaned closer to examine it. “M’m. It does look nasty,” she said in a thin voice. “Come with me, please.”

Closing the door behind him, he trailed her down a lamplit hall to an archway on the right, and through that into a lamplit living room. Or perhaps, in this part of New England in a house as old as this, it was referred to as a parlour. To his surprise, two of its three ancient, overstuffed chairs were occupied by a man and a woman. The man, wearing a dark suit complete with jacket, was tall, swarthy, even handsome in a foreign sort of way. The woman, definitely of old New England stock, was at least as old as his guide and as old-fashioned in her dress. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were two small tables on which stood kerosene lamps with ornate, cut-glass bases and tall glass chimneys.

Mrs Hode—if his guide was Mrs Hode—said to the other two, “This man has been hurt in a car accident and doesn’t know who he is.”

The pair gazed at him with such intensity that Howell was tempted to turn and run.

“Haven’t you a driver’s licence?” asked the man, speaking with an accent.

“No, I don’t. Or anything else with a name on it. Someone must have emptied my pockets while I was unconscious.”

“It would seem you have a problem, then.”

“If I might use your phone-—”

“To call whom?”

“Nine-one-one, I suppose.”

“There is no Nine-one-one here.”

“A doctor, then? One who lives within reach?”

“None would be willing to come here at this hour.” The swarthy man extended a long, bony finger to point at a brass clock on the wall. “It is past midnight.”

Howell was startled. Past midnight? How long had he been unconscious there in the car?

“You had better forget about a doctor tonight.” The man’s gaze flicked darkly to the woman who had opened the door, then to the other one. “Ladies, I believe what this man needs most is a good night’s rest. Don’t you agree? I don’t know why we can’t let him have the spare room for tonight. Then if he is no better in the morning we can call Doctor—ah—Jones.” He waited while the two women exchanged questioning looks, then added impatiently, “Well?”

“All right,” said the one who had opened the door.

“Yes, I think so,” the other echoed.

With bits and pieces of memory struggling to sort themselves out in his mind, Jerome Howell sat silently staring. The two women were sisters, he decided. The man could be the husband of one of them, or just someone living here. Was this the entire household? And were they the Hodes whose name was on the mailbox?

Why did he have such a strong feeling that the Hodes had died long ago, the house had long since been abandoned as old and worthless, and these three had simply moved in recently and taken it over?

The man with the foreign accent was gazing at him. “Well, sir? Do you agree that what you most need is a good night’s sleep?”

“With all due respect, sir, I’d prefer to see a doctor,” Howell said experimentally. “Is there a cab I could call to take me to one?”

“There are no taxicabs in this small town.”

“What town
is
this?”

“Ellenton.”

Another jog to his memory. He knew the name Ellenton. But Ellenton what? New Hampshire? He thought so but was afraid to ask. Whoever they were, these people must already suspect him of being unstable. “Well ... if I can’t get to a doctor, perhaps you’re right in saying a night’s sleep ...”

“Good.” The swarthy man pushed himself out of his chair and took up one of the lamps. He was even taller than he had appeared to be when seated, Howell noted. Even more handsome. Were his clothes a bit newer, less seedy, he might well have attracted attention even in a place like New York City.