The Minions of Huanapur
By Charles R. Tanner
I
WHEN old Lionel Harwood sent a letter imploring
me to come to that isolated, old-fashioned home which he
had built on the outskirts of Dalesboro, and suggesting
that if I answered his summons, he might make me his
heir, I reluctantly decided to obey him. This uncle had
become estranged from my father before my birth (some
silly belief that my father had married beneath his
station caused the estrangement, I understand), and I
had never so much as seen this uncle before. For the
first twenty years of my life, I heard of him only
vaguely as one who spent his time in traveling about the
odd corners of the world, and, indeed, he was more of a
myth to me than a real flesh and blood being. Some ten
years ago, however, he had returned to Dalesboro, and
had built a huge, old-fashioned dwelling, living there
since attended only by an old housekeeper and a couple
of Japanese servants. But at that time, I had already
left Dalesboro and was living in Cincinnati.
He must have been well over seventy years old
when I received this letter, and that he had decided
that he had not long to live was obvious. But why had
he picked my from among the various relatives he had to
choose, I could not say.
Frankly, if the letter had come a few years
before, I would have sent an answer back, telling my
uncle, in a few words, just where he could go, but we
are living in a period when beggars can’t be choosers
and, for the past two or three years, since I lost my
last job, I had been one of that class of unemployed
which almost ranks with beggars. So, as I have already
said, I reluctantly decided to go to Dalesboro at my
uncle’s bidding.
I arrived at the little town late in the
afternoon and dusk found me knocking at the door of my
uncle’s home. The knock was answered by a gaunt,
stoop-shouldered woman who at once led me upstairs, and
in a moment I stood before my uncle. He was sitting in
a wheel chair, a tall, bony, old man with a big white
moustache and hard eyes; and when he saw me approach he
motioned for me to sit down on the bed by the window.
He looked me over appraisingly, but said nothing, and so
I broke the silence, myself.
“I’m Burton Harwood,” I began, uselessly enough,
for the housekeeper had, of course, announced me. “I
got your letter, you know. Came as soon as I could.”
Uncle Lionel grunted, adjusted his spectacles
and went on with his inspection. I was just beginning
to fidget under his scrutiny when he spoke.
“Eh! You’re a lot like Ben! You’re a Harwood,
through and through, fur as looks goes. Wonder if
you’re Harwood inside?”
I laughed. “Why not ask some of the people down
in the village? They’ll tell you soon enough how much
of a Harwood I am, those that remember me.”
“Asked ‘em already,” came back Uncle Lionel,
“Think I’m buyin’ a pig in a poke? I know jist about
all there is to know about you. Now you listen here,
Burton. I’m goin’ to die ‘fore long. Ain’t no doubt
about it at all. I’ve had the best of doctors---
better’n you dream—but they all said this old body of
mine can’t go on forever.” He stopped to chuckle weakly
at some obscure joke, and then went on: “So that’s why I
called for you. I want some one to take charge of my
things after I’m gone that kin mind their own business
and do as they’re told. I got a lot of orders I want
carried out and I want to be sure they’re tended to.
“That’s why I picked you, Burton. If you’re
Harwood at all, you kin mind your own business and you
kin carry out orders. Well, you carry out mine and
you’ll profit by it. Yeh, you’ll profit by it.”
He hesitated as though spent with talking, and
coughed weakly. Presently he spoke again.
“Queer orders I’ll give you. Queer orders.
Things to do that’ll make you think I’m crazy. But you
carry out them orders!”
I assured him that if he left any orders with
me, they would be carried out to the letter. He spent
the next ten minutes talking of inconsequential, as
though he were still uncertain of whether to tell me
what these important orders were. At last he made up
his mind, apparently, for he leaned over toward me
confidentially.
“Now, looky here, Burton. I’m goin’ to tell you
what I want you to do after I’m gone. You listen to
me! First off, I want you to get here, quick as ever
you kin. Mrs. Layton, the housekeeper, will be here and
I expect she’ll sorta take charge of things. But you
gotta be here to make it legal and all. Well, here’s
what I want you do. Y’see, I been converted to another
religion. Wonderful truths in it, Burton, wonderful
hope. Y’see, it teaches eternal life such as your
religion never dreamed of. Eternal life, Burton, think
of that!
“But our rites are queer. Yeh, damned queer to
you! And damned queer they’d be to those folks down
Dalesboro way. So I want you here to see to it that I’m
buried in the way I should be. First off, I don’t want
no undertaker foolin’ with me. No emba’min’. No layin’
out, see? Jist let me lie on that couch in the livin’
room, until Dr. Polzek comes.
“He’ll come sometime in a day or so after I
die. Him and another one. Mighty fine people they are,
and I hope you like ‘em. But you listen to me!” His
voice grew suddenly harsh. “Whether you like ‘em or
whether you don’t, you treat ‘em like r’yalty! Give ‘em
the run of the estate, let ‘em do anything they want to,
and after they seen to it that the proper rites is said
over me, they’ll go away again. Then you bury me. I
got a vault down in the corner of the estate, I’ll have
it shown to you, and that’s where you bury me. None of
our Christian burying’ grounds for me. And jist because
the vault hasn’t any lock on the door is no reason for
your havin’ one put on. You leave that vault jist as it
is! Remember my beliefs about eternal life.
“Now that’s what you gotta do, Burton. You
carry out them orders and the whole business is yours.
Can you do that, Burton?” His voice dropped suddenly to
a whine. “Will you do that for your old uncle?”
Queer instructions, truly. I wondered what
strange religion my uncle had acquired, that he should
make suck elaborate preparations for dying. None that I
had ever heard of, certainly, and I had once made a
hobby of reading up on various religions. Well, it was
nothing to me, my question was whether I would want to
carry out Lionel Harwood’s wishes or not. I did not
answer my uncle at once, but when I did, it was to
assure him that I would do as he wished.
My assent to his wishes seemed to cheer the old
man wonderfully. He chuckled and rubbed his hands
together, insisted on shaking hands with me several
times, and at last invited me to have supper with him in
his room. During the meal he presented me with an
envelope, which, he said, contained in detail all the
instructions he had already given me.
“Carry ‘em out to the last detail, Burton,” he
instructed me. “You be mighty careful o’ that, now.
Fer if you don’t, so help me Hannah, I’ll come back and
haunt you. I mean it.”
With a smile at this threat, I promised the old
man solemnly that his instructions would be carried out
to the last letter. I assured him again, several times
during the evening, and when at last I was ready to
return to the cit, I found it necessary to assure him
again.
Once back in Cincinnati, I continued the
occupation that had taken up my time before journeying
to see my uncle—that is, looking for work. There was a
certain friend of mine named Harry Brandon, a queer,
imaginative sot of a fellow, and to him, as well as to
several others, I told the tale of my good fortune. I
think anyone would have done the same, and of course, I
fully expected Harry to shower me with effusive
congratulations. Instead, he betrayed an intense
interest in the details of my uncles’ strange orders.
“No undertaker,” he muttered, as I repeated the
instructions I had been given. “Eternal life! Open
vault!” He looked at me with a strange horror in his
eyes and I knew that he had found something that
appealed to that queer, mystic mind of his.
“Harwood,” he ejaculated, “don’t it seem
horribly queer to you that your uncle should make these
strange requests?”
I shook my head and asked him why he thought it
should. He made no answer at the time, but later he met
me on the street and handed me two books, begging me to
read them. One of them was “Dracula” that famous horror
tale by Bram Stoker, the other was a volume entitled
“Vampirism, Old and New”, by a Dr. Elliott Pope. I took
the volumes, more to ease Brandon’s mind than anything
else, but that night, having nothing else to do, I sat
up and read them both. Brandon’s inference was at once
clear. He believed that my uncle expected to become a
vampire after death, one of those strange undead
creatures that are believed to leave their tombs during
the night and prey upon the living.
Now I am no ignorant believer in every sort of
superstition, but then, neither am I a crass materialist
who believes only in what he sees. So I was not exactly
prepared to laugh off the idea that Brandon had
suggested to me. Nevertheless, I could not see just why
I should attempt to bury this uncle of mine with a stake
in his heart. I didn’t take the belief in vampires that
seriously.
I did decide, however, to have an interview with
that Dr. Pope who had written the second of Brandon’s
books. He was a resident of Cincinnati, and lived not
so very far from me, and I certainly would have sought
him out, had not a telegram arrived, informing me of my
uncle’s death and requesting my immediate presence in
the house at Dalesboro.
II
HARRY Brandon actually trembled when he heard
that I was going to Dalesboro. He insisted that I come
to his house, and spent the best part of an evening
trying to persuade me to give up the idea. When he
found that I was determined to carry out my uncle’s
wishes, he left the room and soon returned with a small
package.
“You take this with you, Burton,” he begged.
“There’s no telling what you’ll run up against. There’s
a cross in here, and some rosemary and garlic. Take it,
Burton! It can’t do you any harm, and it may save your
very should.”
Well, I promised at last to take it, more to
ease Brandon’s mind than anything else, and, afterward,
when I packed my bag, I really did put it in, for after
all, as he had said, it couldn’t do any harm.
The only persons that met me at my uncle
Lionel’s were the grim old housekeeper and a strange old
man that introduced himself as my uncle’s lawyer. This
worth was much relieved at my arrival, and it took but
little discernment to see that he was quite glad to be
able to turn matters over tome. This he proceeded to do
with great dispatch, and an hour after my arrival saw
him rattling down the road in his old car, leaving me
alone with Mrs. Layton and the body of my uncle.
And, truth to tell, I cannot say which was the
better company. Whether it was due to sorrow at the old
man’s death, to a strange bashfulness or to a dislike
for me, I cannot say, but immediately after serving
supper, the old housekeeper disappeared upstairs and I
saw no more of her. This gave me little cause for
worry, however; if she could get along without my
company, I was sure I could get along without hers. I
filled a pipe, sauntered into the living room, and,
undeterred by the presence of my uncle’s corpse,
composed myself to read.
I had been reading for some two hours, I
imagine; night had come on and I had hardly noticed it,
when suddenly I was aroused by a loud rapping on the old
knocker at the front door. I started, for the last
thing in the world that I was expecting tonight was
visitors, but suddenly there flashed into my mind the
strange party foretold by my uncle. I laid aside my
book and hurried to the door, just as Mrs. Layton
appeared on the stairs, herself bustling down to answer
the knock. We reached the door at the same time and I
stepped back to allow her to open the door, wondering,
as I did so, just what strange people would appear when
the door was opened. You see, the seeds that Harry
Brandon had sown had not fallen on entirely sterile
ground, and my mind was still full of “Dracula” and the
tales of Dr. Pope.
If I had been expecting something ghastly, I
would have been doomed to disappointment. However, my
mind, filled with the stories I had read, was picturing
a cultured, suave, cold-eyed creature, probably in
evening clothes and with a deep look of mystery in his
eyes.
Neither of the men who stood before me answered
very well to this description. The foremost was tall,
it is true, and cultured-looking, too, but he was clad
in a dark business suit, not too well pressed, his dark
eyes glistened with good humor and already he was
extending a gloved hand toward me. His companion,
shorter and heavier than he, might have answered the
description of a creature of the night better, for there
was a sort of sadistic humor in his grin that I at once
disliked. But that was all that I could find to dislike
about him.
“Mr. Burton Harwood isn’t it?” the foremost man
was asking. “Your uncle informed me, before his
regrettable death, that I should meet you here. You
have been expecting us, eh?”
I acknowledged that I had been expecting them
and, throng, led the way into the library. As we came
into the lighted room I noticed that the smaller of the
two men was engaged in a low-toned conversation wit Mrs.
Layton. The other man noticed it, too, and I saw a
slight frown pass over his countenance.
“Well, Mrs. Layton,” he said, and the frown
disappeared at once. “I expect you’ll be looking for a
new place now, won’t you? Perhaps I’ll be able to find
something for you.” He turned to me and went on,
apologetically: “Mrs. Layton is an old friend of ours,
you know. I was instrumental in getting her this place
with Mr. Harwood.”
He had removed his hat and gloves by this time
and now suddenly remarked: “But, I say! I haven’t even
introduced myself yet. Allow me. I am the Dr. Andrey
Polzek, and my friend here is Mr. Nicolas Marius.”
I bowed and pointed to a chair. Dr. Polzek
seated himself, and after Marius and I were also seated,
he at once began to explain the reason for his being
here.
“Though I may not look it,” he announced with a
deprecating smile, “I am the high-priest of a very old
but little know religion. Your uncle came to that part
of the world in which we live, some twenty five years
ago, and was, after a time, converted to our beliefs.
The sincerity with which he accepted our religion is
evidenced by the fact that he made these arrangements to
be buried according to our rites. I suppose he left you
instructions to allow us to hold the proper
ceremonies?”
I nodded affirmatively.
“Yes, indeed. He gave me instructions to allow
you to come and go as you please until the ceremonies of
the burial are completed. The entire place is yours.”
Dr. Polzek gave a pleased smile.
“I am sure we will bother you very little,” he
remarked. “Indeed, you would find us very grateful if
you would interrupt us as little as possible. And if
you should hear any strange sounds during the night,
please do not investigate. Some of our most sacred and
secret rites are performed after midnight.”
“Well, that was one way of telling me that I was
not wanted at whatever queer ceremonies they intended to
perform. I assured the doctor and his silent companion
that I would not interfere in their ceremonies. Indeed,
there was till enough distrust lingering in my mind to
cause me to have little desire to attend their
ceremonies; in fact, I felt that the less I had to do
with them, the better.
We sat talking for some time after this, and I
found these two excellent conversationalists, at least.
The doctor revealed himself as one who had traveled
widely, and I found him a mine of information on
subjects which I had long wanted to know about. Even
Marius opened up after a while and regaled us with
several funny stories which, in spite of the fact that
they were decidedly out of place in this house and too,
betrayed a certain viciousness, nevertheless, made me
roar with laughter. I offered to get them some supper,
but they both assured me they had eaten. Some strange
idea in my head made me insist that they at least
partake of tea and sandwiches, but as I had rather
expected, they refused even this. At last the doctor
hesitantly informed me that the ceremonies over my uncle
must soon begin, so I took the hint and suggested that I
retire. I first showed the others the rooms that were
reserved for guests, and leaving them with Mrs. Layton,
retired to the room next to the one which had formerly
been occupied by my uncle. This room was on the second
floor, and my uncle’s body lay on the first floor, so I
felt that there would be little chance of me disturbing
these strange men in their ceremonies.
It was not easy for me to go to sleep. It would
not have been easy for you, under similar
circumstances. Long after I had turned out the light, I
lay staring at the ceiling and wondering at the strange
wishes of my uncle. A thousand questions flocked into
my mind and departed, unanswered and it must have been
nearly two o’clock before I finally began to doze. And
then a droning sing-song voice began to arise from the
floor below. I was awake again in a moment, and in
spite of myself I listened, but I was unable to hear
anything that I could understand.
Now I believe that I have already stated that I
once made a hobby of studying strange religions. So the
reader will probably understand if I say that I
gradually grew more and more curious as to the
nationality of the language that was being droned on so
interminably downstairs. At last, I decided that,
inasmuch as the strangers had no consideration for me, I
would at least make an attempt to learn a little more of
them. I arose, determined to step out in the hallway
and listen to a part of the ceremony. I did open the
door, but I had no sooner stepped through than I was
almost frightened out of my wits by a sudden voice at my
elbow.
“Please, Mr. Harwood,” it said, and to my
surprise I recognized it as the voice of Mrs. Layton.
“Please remember your promise. Surely you would not
disturb the gentlemen now, during this most sacred of
moments, would you? Please return to your room. I’m
sure your uncle would wish it.”
Rather sheepishly I turned, and, muttering an
apology, re-entered my room. Once within it, though, I
had time to wax indignant and, indeed, a little
frightened. Evidently Mrs. Layton was one of these
people. And also, it seemed that they intended to make
sure that I did not interfere with whatever strange
rites were carried on. Mrs. Layton had, quite
obviously, been placed outside of my room to see that I
remained in it.
Of course, after that, sleep was impossible.
And, of course, my curiosity was, if anything, greater
than ever. I could still hear the interminable chanting
voice from below, and now it began to take on a
triumphant note, and I began to be able to detect one
word, an oft-repeated one, that occurred again and again
during the ceremony and that seemed, from the intonation
used, to be a proper name, perhaps the name of the god
invoked. This was the word, “Pseton”. Of course this
told me nothing, unless it was some queer form of
“Satan”. Was it possible that my uncle had become a
devil-worshipper? Finally I made up my mind that I
simply must hear this ritual from a more favorable
location.
To leave the room and again go out in the
hallway was, of course, out the question, but it
suddenly came to me that a balcony ran along the front
of the house and that it would be possible for me to
reach the room formerly occupied by my uncle, by using
this balcony. The door to this room of my uncle’s was
right at the head of the stairs, and by listening at
this door, I could probably hear a good deal without
going out into the hall and risking another reproof from
the grim, gaunt, old housekeeper.
So taking up a flashlight, I cautiously opened
the French window and stepped out on the balcony and
over to my uncle’s room. The window here was opened, and
so, without lighting my flashlight, I stole quietly in,
and was suddenly aware that the chanting had ceased.
Oh, well, I thought, it would soon begin again. I
stepped toward the door, and then was suddenly aware of
a dark form that bent over an old trunk of my uncle’s.
My heart flew into my mouth, and, stricken with sudden
panic, without once thinking, I turned the flashlight
upon it. It rose and turned toward me—and then a wave
of horripilation swept over me, and I shrieked with
terror, flung my hands before my face to shut out the
sight before me, and sped back to my room in all the
agonies of a waking nightmare. I swung the window shut,
and spying Harry Brandon’s package lying on the table
where it had lain since my arrival, I tore it open and
wit fingers that trembled so that I could hardly hold
it, I seized the cross and crammed it through the latch
to lock the window.
Then, like a little child frightened at the
dark, I dived into the bed, covered myself, head and
all, with the covers and lay trembling—trembling—in the
darkness. For the thing that had turned and faced me
had been the corpse-white figure of my Uncle Lionel!
III
THE remainder of the night was the longest
period of time I ever lived through. As I lay, trying
to convince myself that it had only been a horrent
nightmare that I had experienced, the droning voice of
the creature that called himself Dr. Polzek again began
to ascend from below. After a while, I began to hear
responses chanted by Marius, and the—it still chills me
to tell of it—by another voice, too; the cracked old
voice of Lionel Harwood. At last the voices ceased, and
the litany was succeeded by a silence that was more
terrible than the ritual that preceded it. I lay in
terror, momentarily expecting to hear footsteps without
my door and to see again the form of my uncle or, what
would have been just as terrible, the dread creature
that was his master. For long hours I lay, and at last
the first faint streaks of dawn appeared in the sky, and
light began to filter in at the window. Yet it was long
after daylight when I dared to leave my bed and venture
out into the hallway. And when I did, I wore a sprig of
dried rosemary in my buttonhole, and in my hand I
carried the cross that had barred the window during the
night.
The hallway was deserted, downstairs there were
no signs of my dread guests, and it was with a peculiar
feeling of disgust and horror that I approached the room
where Lionel Harwood had lain. Sure enough, the bier
was empty—the body was gone! I turned and fled out into
the garden behind the house, with a vague hope that the
sunlight and fresh air would restore me somehow to the
sanity of that materialistic world in which I had
hitherto lived in such security. I had no doubt left in
my mind at all, now, that my uncle and those other
creatures were other than normal. The fact that they
had disappeared with the coming of day was alone enough
to convince me of that.
And then—as though to challenge my
thoughts—there was my Uncle Lionel, in broad daylight,
with the sun shining full upon that abnormally pale face
of his, pottering among his flowers as he had often
done, doubtless, before he died!
For a moment I stared at him as though I
expected him to vanish like a figment of the
imagination, then I raised the cross against him and
began backing away toward the house. His voice suddenly
stopped me.
“Put that thing down, you droned fool. Don’t be
afeard o’ me. Think I’m a haunt or somethin’? Control
yourself. Ain’t no use getting’ all het up over this
thing. Wait a minute and let me explain. Shucks, lad,
I’m almost as alive as you are. Don’t run away,
Burton.”
His voice was so normal, so like the Lionel
Harwood that I had met before, that my fears began to
die. I turned and faced him, but I do not doubt that
some fear still showed in my face. He chuckled.
“Don’t be afeared, lad,” he repeated. “What’s
the matter? I don’t look like a ghost, do I?’ Pretty
solid lookin’ ghost,” and he looked down at his gangling
form.
“You were dead, Uncle Lionel,” I answered, still
a trifle fearfully. “And the dead aren’t supposed to
return. And—well, I’ve been reading a lot about
vampires lately.”
“Vampires!” The old man literally spat the word
out. Then he went on, a trifle more calmly: “Vampires
be durned! Who ever heard of a vampire walkin’ around
in broad day light? Looky here, Burton. Here’s what’s
doin’ fer me.”
With a deft movement, he flung off his coat and
turned his back to me. I had thought that m uncle
seemed more stoop-shouldered than ever, and now I saw
the reason for it. Fastened to his back was a queer
flat object that, covered by his coat had given him that
stooped appearance. And out of that bundle came several
wires and two thick tubes that entered his neck, just
below the hair!
“There you are, Burton. That’s the ting that’s
keepin’ me alive, the thing that enabled Dr. Polzek to
restore me. Vitalizer, it’s called, and it’s the
greatest invention ever conceived by man. “Course,
‘tain’t perfected yet, and I ‘spect you’ll find a lot o’
queer things about your old uncle. But shucks! ‘tain’t
superstition and old wives’ tales that’s keepin’ me
alive. It’s science, pure and simple!”
Well, I felt a little foolish. Here I had been
closely connected with the development of one of the
greatest scientific wonders of an age of wonders, and,
frightened by the raving of a superstitious friend, I
had chosen to look upon the work of a scientist as
something supernatural and horrible. But I was
interest, now, and when Uncle Lionel returned to the
room where, only yesterday, he had lain, a corpse, I
went with him. And there, obviously having just arisen,
were Dr. Polzek and Marius. They seemed surprised to
see me with my uncle, but quickly concealing it, they
asked me what I thought of my uncle’s recovery.
I congratulated the doctor on his wonderful work
and asked him if he and his friend would join me at
breakfast. They demurred, saying that they had all eaten
just before I arose, and so I was forced to eat alone.
Mrs. Layton served me in the kitchen, excusing herself
by pointing out that nothing was as usual in the house,
and as if to illustrate, mentioned the depleted state of
the larder. This gave me a chance to suggest that I go
to the village for food, for I was anxious to get away
for a while to think over the many things that had
happened in the last twenty hours. The housekeeper
agreed gladly, and so, later in the morning, I excused
myself to Uncle Lionel and his friends and, taking one
of the cars from the garage, I drove off.
Arriving at the village, I was about to enter
the grocery store when a shrill, cheery voice suddenly
halted me.
“Hello, there, Burty Harwood! Guess you don’t
know your old friends anymore since you inherited your
uncle’s property, eh?”
The owner of the voice had come up behind me,
and as she fell in beside me and entered the grocery, I
saw that it was a Mrs. Hawks, an old dweller in the
village and long known as a gossip. And it did not take
a minute in her presence to show me that she was still
laboring to preserve her reputation.
“Has your uncle been buried yet?” she started
off, and then, not waiting for a reply, rambled on:
“Too bad, him bein’ taken off the way he was. But the,
we all got to die, sooner or later, and he’d ‘bout lived
out his three score and ten, hadn’t he? How you been
feelin’ lately, Burty? And how’s all the folks down to
Cincinnati?” She hesitated long enough for me to assure
her that such of my relatives as lived in the city were
quite well, and then she began again:
“Well, I wish I could say as much for myself. I
been feelin’ pretty poor, here lately. Just come from
the doctor, I did, and I must say it seems he ought to
know his business a little better than he does. Y’see,
I been feelin’ so weak and washed out, last few days, it
just seemed I couldn’t drag around, and when I had him
examine me, he says he’s sure I’ve lost a lot of blood
lately. Why, shucks, I ain’t lost a mite o’ blood for a
coon’s age. “Cept for a little scratch I got on my
neck, day before yesterday. Funny thing about that
there—I don’t know how I got that scratch. I woke up,
day before yesterday morning and there it was on my
neck, with a little trickle o’ blood where it had bled
durin’ the night. Somethin’ bit me, I guess, but land
o’ livin’, I couldn’ta lost enough blood to make me feel
run down like this.”
A sort of chill ran through me as I listened to
her rambling talk. For the first time, it came to me
that all the fine talk of Uncle Lionel’s might have been
a blind to lull my suspicions. Was it possible that
after all-- My thoughts were interrupted by the grocer,
who had, along with me been listening to Mrs. Hawks’s
conversation and who now interrupted her.
“Well now, that’s funny, Mrs. Hawks. Same think
has happened to me. I been feelin’ all run down, too,
last day or two, and I couldn’t account for it,
neither. And look at here!” He raised his head and
pointed to his neck, and there, just over his jugular
vein, were two tiny scabs where apparently, some small
animal had bitten him.
“Just exactly like mine,” ejaculated Mrs.
Hawks. “Looks like somethin’s been bitin’ us. Wonder
what it is.”
I made no answer. Mumbling some kind of excuse
I turned and left the store in a daze. I had seen marks
much like that once before—on my own arm, once, when I
had allowed a pint of blood to be taken from me in a
vain effort to save a certain friend’s life. My last
lingering doubt was gone—in spite of the suave
explanation offered me by my uncle, I was convinced that
the entire party at my uncle’s house was vampires. Yet,
what could I do about it? I could not attempt to cope
with them all, especially as they seemed to have, for
some strange reason, the power of living by day as well
as by night. I determined that I must have some help,
and I racked my brain to think of someone who would help
me. None of the villagers, certainly—my mind flew to
Harry Brandon, but the memory of his fear made me
realize that in attempting to cope with these creatures,
he would be worse than useless.
And then, suddenly I remembered that there was
living in Cincinnati that Dr. Pope whose book had
entertained me before I had come here to Dalesboro. I
determined to return at once to the city, to seek him
out and to lay the entire case before him. I entered the
machine and at once started on a wild drive to
Cincinnati.
After about two hours of driving, I reached the
city and, looking up Dr. Pope’s residence in the
directory, I was soon ringing the doorbell at his home.
A round little man with a florid face and pale
muttonchop whiskers answered the ring and at once bade
me welcome. He listened intently as I told my story,
and I must confess that I was surprised that he showed
no signs of surprise or disbelief at all. Instead, he
grew more and more excited as my story progressed, and
when I mentioned the name of “Pseton”, that word I had
heard invoked during the ceremony over my uncle’s body,
his excitement burst all bounds. He did not wait for me
to finish my story; he rushed from the room and returned
at once with his hat and a large suitcase.
“Can you take me there? Will you take me there,
at once?”
I assured him that that was the sole reason I
had come to Cincinnati, and his delight knew no bounds.
“A lucky break at last,” he mumbled, as we
rushed out to the car. “Oh, if only we’re in time. If
only we’re in time.”
Puzzled, I asked him to explain himself, but it
was not until we were comfortably seated in the car and
once more on the way to Dalesboro that he attempted to
speak again. Then he cleared his throat as though
making ready for an extended lecture.
“In the first place,” he stated, “there really
are a class of creatures that have long been known as
vampires. I take it that you already believe this,
don’t you?”
I hesitatingly acknowledged that I did,
although, I told him, I rather disliked to admit a
belief in the supernatural.
“Nothing supernatural about it al all,” he
exclaimed, surprisingly. “Wait until you hear the
entire story and you’ll agree with me. Your uncle told
you the truth, as much as he told you. But wait until
you have heard the entire thing.”
And then, as we traveled along on the road to
that old village, Dr. Pope told me the story of the
minions of Huanapur.
IV
I don’t want you to get the idea (said Dr. Pope)
that this is just a theory. It is fact, fact that has
taken many years of investigation to prove, and the
constant labor of many men. I belong to a society that
originated in Germany some twenty-five years ago. It
was founded by a man who had had an experience that
seemed to transcend science, an experience that seemed
to be proof that some of the tales of folk-lore and
superstition had a basis in fact. The man of whom I
speak was a scientist of the highest grade, and the idea
of supernatural phenomenon was utterly incredible. Yet,
after a while, this scientist came to believe that there
really were a class of beings that came close to being
the vampires of legend—immortal, undead things that
lived by bleeding the living! He organized a few of his
colleagues, and with their help, he set about to
discover all that he could of these creatures, and if
necessary, to drive them from the earth. That
organization has grown in the ensuing years, and you
would be surprised if I told you of the men that belong
to it. Some of them are world-famous. I, fortunately,
am one of the prominent members. We have found out
much, but as our founder realized long ago, if we wish
to fight these creatures, we much keep our organization
a secret. That is why you have never heard of us. But
now that you have learned so much of these creatures, I
do not hesitate to tell you the truth. Years of
geological and anthropological research have gone into
proving these facts.
Thousands of years before the dawn of written
history, the great valley where the Mediterranean Sea
now lies was largely land. The great glacier which had
covered the northern lands for so long was gradually
retreating, but it still held so much of the water of
the oceans in its frozen grip that the level of the sea
was much lower than it is today; so much lower, in fact,
that the straits of Gibraltar were an isthmus, and it
was not possible for the waters of the Atlantic Ocean to
flow in and inundate that great valley. So, instead of
a great sea, there were only two small lakes, one to the
east of what is now Italy, and one to the west. And
about the eastern of these lakes arose the first
civilization that the world had known.
Tlan-Ti, these people called their land, and I
leave to your own imagination whether it could be
considered the original Atlantis or not. At any rate,
there was the land and there was the people, and there,
too, was Pseton, the god whom they worshipped.
(I started. This was the first intimation of a
connection between Dr. Pope’s story and my own
adventures.)
The government of this land was a hierocracy,
the priests were all-powerful, and, among these priests,
the high priest was an absolute autocrat. The priests
were also the doctors, and as human sacrifices were
offered up continually, they soon managed to attain a
considerable knowledge of the human anatomy. They early
discovered the circulation of the blood, and later
learned much of its composition. Indeed, after some
thousands of years of study, they had reached a point
where they knew far more concerning it than we do
today. Would you believe me if I told you that that
experiment of keeping a dog’s head alive after it had
been cut off (which our scientists considered such a
wonder, a few years ago), was performed in Tlan-Ti ten
thousand years ago? Yet so it was, and even here those
old priests did not stop!
There came a time when the country was ruled
over by a hierophant who surpassed all the others in his
wisdom. Huanapur, his name was, and it was he who,
ascending to the highest rank while still a young man,
managed to keep the head of his predecessor alive for a
period of many months. This experiment gave him a
wonderful idea; he spent the remainder of his life
seeking for a method whereby he might keep the whole
body alive indefinitely.
He was an old man when he gave up this idea.
For some reason or other, it was impossible to keep the
ordinary parts of the body alive over periods much
longer than a century or two. But the brain, a healthy
brain, that is, really seemed to possess the ability to
live indefinitely. Huanapur was forced at last, as he
grew older, to seek about for some way to preserve his
body after death, in order that his brain might continue
to live. In this he was successful, he discovered
marvelous preservatives, he discovered electric means of
vitalizing his nerves and when at last his body died,
his brain lived on, and by the mechanical means that he
had discovered, still controlled his dead body. Of
course the brain, being a living thing required food and
the food of the brain is blood, but this was something
over which Huanapur worried very little. The daily
human sacrifices supplied him with plenty of that
necessity and as long as he remained priest of Pseton,
there was no danger of his brain lacking plenty of
blood. Weekly, he allowed the old blood to pass out of
the tank which he carried on his back, while fresh
blood, drained from the veins of the latest victim of
the sacrifices was drawn into the tube that passed into
his neck. Then the tank would be sealed again, and the
high priest would be safely alive for another week. At
first the motor that pumped the blood through his veins
must have been crude in the extreme, but as time went
on, he improved it again and again, until at last it was
hardly noticeable, a mere flat bundle on his back.
Years passed, hundreds of years, and the time
came when Huanapur was looked upon by the people of Tlan-Ti
as almost the equal of Pseton. He was obviously
immortal, and just as obviously, he had all the
attributes of a relentless deity. The world was slowly
progressing spiritually, already the majority of the
people objected secretly to the daily human sacrifices,
but Huanapur, if anything was more bloodthirsty than
ever.
And good reason he had, too, for he now had
companions as immortal as he. It was evident that he
could not live through dozens of generations without
forming friendships for some of his priests, and
occasionally he chose some one of them to share his
immortality. And so his company grew, and as it grew,
it became necessary to have more and more blood to feed
them. And then came the day when, to the people of Tlan-Ti,
it seemed as if Nature itself turned to punish Huanapur
and the people that had tolerated him.
The northern ice-pack had been melting for
centuries, the water in the outer sea had risen slowly,
and at last it rose above the level of the isthmus that
held it from the great valley. Slowly at first, and
then faster and faster, the waters of first the western
and then the eastern lakes began to rise. First the
cities by the sea shore were inundated and then the
villages farther up in the hills. The orderly retreat
that, at first, was little more than an emigration
became at last a rout, a wild, disordered flight that
ended for many by the water’s catching up with them and
drowning them. But many escaped into Greece and Egypt
and Asia Minor, there to leave legends of a great flood
that persist to this day. Perhaps you remember the
Greek god of the sea, Poseidon? Of course, he was a
memory of Pseton. But this was not the only land where
Pseton was to reappear in a new guise. For among the
thousands that managed to escape the flood were Huanapur
and his blood-hungry minions. They had fled the country
early, leaving their countrymen to get out as best they
could, and had settled in the highlands of Asia Minor.
There they found a race living, a crude uncivilized
race, of Mongoloid descent, and these people welcomed
them and worshipped them as gods. Some little
civilization they brought to these fold, and soon they
were once more the priesthood of a thriving religion.
These people were the Kheta of the Egyptians, the
Hittites of the Bible and to their thick tongues the
name of Pseton was unpronounceable, and so to them, the
name became Shai-Tong. The sacrificing of humans was
begun again on a large scale (who can say how Huanapur
and his creatures had been living since the debacle at
Tlan-Ti?), and once more the high-priest took up his
ancient form of living.
By the dawn of history, we find the Hittites
already a mighty nation, yet, strangely enough to one
who does not know these facts, all the people around
them execrate them and are constantly at war with them.
And their foul god, Pseton that still reveled in human
sacrifice had become the god of evil of many people.
Shaitan, the Arabs of the desert called him, Satan he
was to the Hebrews, and even the Egyptians execrated him
as Set. And his three pointed spear, which persisted in
Greece as the trident—even today we picture Satan as
armed with a pitchfork, do we not?
All during the period of Egyptian and Assyrian
greatness, we find those early nations at war with the
Hittites, but it was the influx of Aryans from the north
that at last drove Huanapur and his crew out of Asia
Minor. They were forced farther east, and at last found
themselves in what is now Khorossan. The lived here for
centuries, no longer the lords of a great nation but
still able to persuade the people with whom they lived
to yield to them their terrible sacrifices. I rather
suspect, although I have no proof, that it was Huanapur
who, under the name of Mokanna, became known to history
as the “Veiled Prophet of Khorossan”. Undoubtedly, too,
it was he or some one of his creatures that was the
basis for the legends of the “Wandering Jew” and such
tales. Be that as it may, when the Turks at last
invaded Europe, Huanapur and his minions, probably a
hundred strong by this time, invaded Europe with them.
They had affiliated themselves with that group that
eventually became known as the Magyars, and so it is
from that people that we learn of the thousand and one
superstitions that have sprung up about them in the many
centuries of their existence. Of course, you will
readily see that all that business about the crosses,
the hold water, rosemary and garlic are just so much
nonsense, as well as the belief that they must retire to
the grave at dawn. But there is one odd thing that I
must tell here, and that is how they got their present
name. You see, the name Huanapur long ago came to be
applied to all his band, and though it was been
corrupted by the many languages it has passed through,
it has not been changed beyond all recognition. “Wampur”,
the early Magyars called them, -- “wampyr”, they call
them today, and this word, coming to us through the
French, has given us our word “vampire”!
It has been a thousand years, at least, since
Pseton-worship at last disappeared from the earth.
Since then the vampires have had to scatter, they have
lived by murder, by haunting the battlefields of wars
and by actually sucking the blood from sleeping people
in the manner of the true vampire bat. Many of them
have not succeeded in getting the blood that they
needed—these, of course, died—died of starvation just as
any other mortal would. But Huanapur has continued to
live and to add to the number of his servants, until
today there are, perhaps, over two hundred vampires
scattered over the face of the earth. But of all these,
Huanapur is the only one who possesses the secret of how
to perform the delicate operation that keeps the brain
alive. He has persisted through all the many centuries
and still today his accursed work goes on. Who can say
how many thousand innocents have perished to satisfy his
terrible lust for life? Who can say how many more may
yet perish, if we are not prompt in our duty today? For
the fact that your uncle was revived in the way you say
proves that your Dr. Polzek is Huanapur, without a
doubt.
(Dr. Pope was silent for a moment. Then he went
on.)
When the founder of our association organized us
to fight these creatures, he knew little of the facts
that I have told you. They have all been discovered in
the intervening years. And in that time, more than one
vampire has been cornered and slain. But of Huanapur,
we have never had a trace. It almost seemed as if the
demon was cognizant of our plans, and was avoiding us.
But now you come, telling me of the presence of one who
could be non other than he.
It only remains to see if I am a match for him.
. .
V
Dr. Pope’s history had taken some time to
relate and by the time that he finished, we were on the
outskirts of Dalesboro. Her I stopped the car and asked
him if he had devised any plan of action to be taken in
our movements against these creatures. He answered
hesitantly.
“I don’t know just what Huanapur is capable of,”
he said. “Other vampires have been captured, as I told
you, and some of them seemed to possess a remarkable
control over the forces of nature. Huanapur, no doubt,
has means of protection of which we are entirely
ignorant. If I could get him to betray some of his
methods, I might better tell whether I could cope with
him or not.”
“Why not go up to the house as my guest?” I
suggested. “Meet the doctor and see if you can draw him
out?”
“Perhaps that’s the best idea,” Pope admitted,
doubtfully. “At least, it’s the only plan I can think
of, on such short notice.”
So, a few minutes later we swung into the drive
that led to my uncle’s house and drew up at the door.
My uncle opened it, and frowned as he saw that I had
brought another with me.
“Great Scott, Burton, this here’s no time to be
havin’ visitors. What do you mean by trottin’ some
stranger in here to interrupt Dr. Polzek’s experiments?
Who in time is this feller, anyhow?”
He was interrupted by the suave Dr. Polzek, who
stepped up behind him and laid a restraining hand on his
shoulder.
“Please!” he said softly. “Don’t get excited,
Mr. Harwood. Never get excited—it’s not good for you in
your present delicate state. I know the gentleman
Burton has brought. How do you do, Dr. Pope?”
Pope frowned. “You know me, eh? Well, I’ve
never had the good fortune to meet you before; Dr.
Polzek, but I know you by reputation. Yes, I know you
by reputation.”
Dr. Polzek smiled genially. “I trust, then,
that my reputation among your friends is a good one,” he
said, and turning, led the way into the house. That he
knew Pope, and knew that hew was here to do battle with
him was obvious from the intonation, if not the words,
and the only explanation that I could think of for his
continued good nature was the fact that he apparently
believed Dr. Pope to be a foeman unworthy of his
notice.
I began an explanation of Dr. Pope’s presence (I
had trumped up some story about his being a medical
friend of mine who was worried about the state of my
health), but Polzek waved me to silence.
“We need no explanation of Dr. Pope’s presence
here, my dear Harwood,” he said, and for the first time
I noted a contemptuous note in his voice. “He is
welcome to us all, I am sure.” He turned to the others,
who by now had joined us, and they all agreed with him,
even Uncle Lionel grudgingly bidding him make himself at
home. We seated ourselves in the living room and in a
few minutes the others had fallen into the liveliest
kind of a conversation. In spite o the tension under
which I labored, there was noting in the conversation
that I could see that was more than any other talk that
a group of friendly well-educated men might hold.
It began with the usually inconsequential
nothings, turned to a discussion of the practice of
medicine in Cincinnati, and drifted to an argument
between Dr. Pope and Polzek on those strange borderland
cases which might be either pathological or
psychological in their development. From here on my
tension, if possible, increased for I could see that
there was a definite trend in the talk an that both men
were endeavoring to bring it to a head.
Dr. Pope, rather to my surprise, took a
decidedly materialistic stand in his argument, and at
first I was at a loss to understand why. At last it
dawned on me that he was using this method to attempt to
draw out the vampire, to get him to divulge those
secrets that he suspected him of possessing. But his
method, it seemed to me, was a rather crude one, and
that Dr. Polzek realized his motive, too, was plain, for
his smile grew supercilious and his talk grew more
arrogant than ever.
“Your narrow stand, my dear Pope,” he almost
sneered, “can only be attributed to ignorance. Had you
seen, as I have seen, the mysteries in the temples of
Llasa, the Forbidden City, you would hardly speak as you
have. Could you even realize the advances in science
that have been achieved by those of my own little known
religion, it would astonish you. I could tell you of—”
Dr. Pope interrupted him.
“I have never seen any of these remarkable
phenomenons, doctor. And until I do, frankly, I will
not believe in them.”
Polzek arose from the arm-chair he had been
occupying and: “It is quite evident, Dr. Pope,” he said,
“that you are one of those gentlemen that must be
shown. I have seen those wonders that I spoke
of, I have learned much of them, and—well, here is a
little demonstration that even you must admit is not in
the usual vein.”
He stood, raising his arms above his head, with
that look of supercilious superiority still upon his
face. From somewhere about him a dull humming began to
be manifest, a humming that, never rising in volume,
nevertheless rose in pitch until it was as shrill as
that sound heard sometimes from an old-fashioned peanut
roaster. Then—suddenly—he rose straight above us,
straight into the air, hung over our heads for a moment,
and sank to the floor behind us. I heard Marius give
vent to a huge sigh, as though his breath ha been held
until it could be held no longer; and then Polzek
returned to his place at the arm-chair and, without
remark, motioned us to silence.
Again he raised his arms, and this time the
humming sound rose until it passed entirely beyond the
range of human perception. Nothing happened immediately
after that, one could imagine that vibration rising
higher and higher—and the creature that called himself
Dr. Polzek was gone! There was not the slightest sign
that he had ever existed. For a moment, I stared,
open-mouthed, at the place where he had been, and then I
heard a stumbling sound and a soft laugh behind me.
“Perhaps you can explain these phenomena, eh,
Dr. Pope?”
I looked at Pope and he was pale as a sheet.
Yet he answered, bravely and so convincingly that even I
believed him: “Hypnotism,” he exclaimed, lightly.
“It’s a common thing in the Orient. I’ve run a cross it
a dozen times in my investigations. I’m afraid, doctor,
that you’ll have to put on a more convincing show than
that, if you wish me to believe in extra-normal
phenomena.”
Dr. Polzek bowed.
“Perhaps I shall, before you leave, Dr. Pope,”
he said casually. “Perhaps I shall.”
The conversation seemed to lag after that,
apparently each of the doctors had accomplished his
intent and so, shortly afterward, I suggested that Dr.
Pope come with me to my room, which I had offered to
share with him during the night. He took his bag, and
together we went upstairs. Once in the privacy of our
room, Dr. Pope hesitated no longer in showing his
anxiety.
“There was no hypnotism to that business,” he
informed me, tensely. “Every bit of that was real!
Remember, Huanapur has lived for nearly ten thousand
years; remember, he was a scientist of no mean ability
before even the dawn of history—who knows what natural
wonders he has discovered in that time? Levitation has
been known to the Orient for centuries, and the trick of
invisibility can hardly be denied as impossible by the
most conservative of scientist. Lord only knows what
other tricks he has up his sleeve. I tried to draw him
out all I could, and—well, I’ve learned something of his
methods. We’ll have to watch ourselves tonight,
Harwood. He knows who I am, and what I represent,
that’s certain. And the fact that he has shown no fear
that, in fact, he is so confident, convinces me that he
intends to account for me if he can. He’s out to get
us, I’m afraid, Harwood.”
He was. We found it out sooner than we
expected, for when we tried to leave our room, some time
later, we were greeted in the hall by the creature who
called himself Mr. Marius.
“Your pardon, gentlemen,” he said, with that
evil, sadistic grin of his. “Dr. Polzek requests that
you do not leave your room for a while. He is engaged
in an important experiment and is afraid that you might
interrupt it. Would you return to your room please? I
assure you that you will have ample evidence of Dr.
Polzek’s powers later on.”
This last was said in such an offensive tone
that I was about to answer hotly when I noticed that he
was holding his hand in his coat pocket, and the bulge
showed plainly that he was holding a revolver. He
glanced down to where I was looking and grinned again.
“Please,” he said again, and, unable to think of
a fitting answer to that threat in his pocket, I turned
and followed Dr. Pope, who had already started back into
the room
“It seems we’re prisoners,” I said bitterly,
“What do they expect to do with us, do you suppose?”
Dr. Pope was opening his bag as he answered.
“Give them their way and we’ll be food for them,
just as thousands of others have been,” he answered
grimly. “Any other way out of this room?”
I nodded silently and pointed to the window.
Pope finished opening his bag, drew out two pistols and
a long knife, and, handing one of the pistols to me,
hurried over to the window and peered out.
“Nobody out there yet,” he muttered, “Can we get
downstairs any way, out there.”
“I’m afraid not. The balcony just leads to my
uncle’s room and the door to that room leads to this
same hallway. That’s why they haven’t bothered to guard
the balcony.”
Dr. Pope opened the window and stepped out upon
the balcony. After a second: “We may be able to do it
after all,” he said, “Don’t worry, Harwood. If Dr.
Polzek’s experiment is what I think it is, we may have a
better advantage than I had hoped for.”
We stepped to the end of the balcony. Here a
huge Virginia creeper crawled up the side of the wall
and, climbing out on this, Dr. Pope began a hazardous
descent to the ground. I followed, and in a few minutes
we were once more on the ground. A few minutes later
and Dr. Pope had stolen around to the back of the house
and was entering the kitchen door, with me stepping
softly at his heels.
We moved softly through the house, and
approached the living room on tip-toe.
“Don’t hesitate to use your gun,” the doctor
breathed in my ear. “Remember the creatures you’re
dealing with, and don’t hesitate to use it, even on your
uncle.”
The next moment we were at the door to the room
in which the vampires were. Fortunately, the door was
covered with heavy portieres and we were able to peer
into the room without being seen.
“Thought so,” I heard Pope’s low whisper, and
looking past him, I beheld a queer and horrifying
sight. On the bier where my uncle had lain, but a short
day before, was the unconscious form of a stranger.
That he was some unfortunate wanderer who had, probably,
come to the house during the day was evident from the
clothes that he wore. He had probably been concealed
during all the time that we had been conversing, and the
use to which he was being put was quite clear. For
Huanapur (or Dr. Polzek, as I have been calling him) was
lying beside him, in what appeared to be a
semi-conscious state, while from a machine on the
vampire’s back, which was identical with that which I
had seen on Uncle Lionel’s, ran a long thin hose to the
neck of the stranger. It was held there by Mrs. Layton,
who stooped eagerly over the form of her master, and
gently, even tenderly, watched as the blood was being
transferred. And leaning over her shoulder was Uncle
Lionel, carefully studying the manner of the transfer.
Just what Pope’s plans were, and how he intended
to bring matters to a climax, I cannot tell, for my
Uncle Lionel suddenly looked up, and his sharp old eyes
spied us. The next instant he gave a terrible cry of
rage and, rushing to the door, flung the draperies aside
and revealed us standing there. Even as his gnarled old
hands flung aside the curtains, Dr. Pope leaped upon
him.
“Get the woman!” I heard him cry. “Get her,
Harwood. Remember what she is!”
I rushed over to the bier, and seizing the
creature that stood over Huanapur and his unfortunate
victim, tore her away from her work. She turned on me
like a fury, and in a moment, I felt her hands on my
face—cold hands! The hands of a creature long, long
dead! I reached up and tore them away from my face,
seized her in a grip of iron and slowly bent her back.
As I did I looked into her eyes, and a thrill of horror
swept over me at what I read there. They were
expressive eyes, I realized suddenly—Oh, such expressive
eyes!—the eyes of one who has lived for ages, who has
seen everything that could be seen and known all there
was to know. My head swam as I looked, time seemed to
stop, to speed forward, to stop again-- Dimly I heard a
shot ring out, I heard Pope’s voice at a great distance,
but still I looked into the eyes of Mrs. Layton. I have
since talked with many men who are authorities on
hypnotism, and one and all, they tell me that if a
person does not wish it, he cannot be hypnotized. There
is no way, they say, -- eh, well! Mrs. Layton knew a
way, as I can testify.
I think I had almost lapsed into unconsciousness
when I was jolted to my senses by a terrific blow on the
back. I tumbled to the floor and felt someone step over
me—it was Dr. Pope, who, having dispatched my uncle, had
hurried to assist me.
I sat up and dazedly looked around. By the door
lay Uncle Lionel in a perfect welter of blood; his back
was toward me and I could see that the tubes that
entered his head had been severed. I sickened at the
sight, yet there was a certain comfort in knowing that
one of these cursed creatures was out of the way. I
turned my attention to Dr. Pope and saw for the first
time that he was engaged in a battle with the woman. He
had tossed his revolver away, why, I do not know,-- it
must have been almost useless in fighting these
creatures who had but a single vital spot—but he now had
that wicked-looking knife of his in his hand, and with
it he was attempting to engage the housekeeper. But she
had adroitly placed herself beyond the bier, and for the
moment at least, was safe.
I was about to rise to my feet when the drapes
at the door were suddenly swept aside and Marius rushed
into the room. In his left hand he was brandishing a
pistol, the one, probably, with which he had threatened
us, while in his right he was swinging a huge sword,
some relic of my uncle’s, no doubt, but withal a might
dangerous weapon.
Almost like a flash of genius was the sudden
plan that smote me—I remained lying motionless on the
floor, and as he rushed past my apparently unconscious
form, I snatched at his leg and dragged him down. The
sword flew from his grasp, but I managed to get hold of
his other arm as he fell and force the revolver from his
grip. He fought like a madman to regain possession of
it, but, it need hardly be said, I fought equally hard
to prevent him. Slowly I got the better of him, nearer
and nearer my hand came to the weapon, and then,
suddenly, it was mine! I jerked away from the foul
creature’s cold grip, and—I was never more deliberate in
my life—I sent a bullet crashing into his head. He
crumpled and fell to the floor as naturally as would a
living man.
Then I turned to see how my companion was making
out. Somehow or other, Mrs. Layton had managed to reach
that sword which Marius had dropped, and she and Dr.
Pope were engaged in a duel to the death. Pope was
probably the better swordsman of the two, but the
housekeeper was armed with the longer and heavier
weapon, and so they seemed about equally matched. For a
moment I watched the battle and then it occurred to me
that there was another of these creatures to be
accounted for. I turned to the bier—and there was
Huanapur, slowly raising himself from the floor and
looking around in amazement.
Had the battle between Dr. Pope and the woman
lasted for another minute, I cannot say what would have
been the outcome of our adventure. Fortunately, the
doctor had managed to drive her closer and closer to the
door, and just at the moment when I called out in terror
to Pope, she stumbled over the body of Lionel Harwood
and swayed uncertainly for a second. That second was
enough for Pope—he let loose a terrific swing that
literally severed her head from her shoulders.
And then Huanapur had leaped from the couch
where he had lain and was rushing toward Pope. I dashed
at him, intent only on stopping his rush, and in that at
least I was successful. I seized him and flung him
around—and then it seeped as though a bettering ram had
struck me in the chest. Impelled by some unknown force,
I was flung across the room, to lie huddled in a corner,
unable for a moment to so much as breathe. I saw Pope
snatch at the sword that Mrs. Layton had wielded, swing
it aloft and bring it down at the approaching vampire.
Huanapur stopped his head-long flight suddenly, rose
up—up into the air—and then fell, his full weight
restored, straight upon the doctor!
I saw his heels strike Pope’s shoulders—but the
little man was not there when he landed. Never have I
seen a stout man move more quickly. He was half-way
across the room, it seemed, when Huanapur crashed to the
floor, and he was back again before the demon missed
him. The doctor swung his great sword, I saw Huanapur
duck wildly, but the blow caught him full on the arm.
It would have been a fearful blow to a living man, but
this creature did not seem even to mind it. Again he
rose into the air, again he swung over the doctor and
his heels dug viciously at Pope’s face as he descended.
The result was much the same as the first attempt had
been; Dr. Pope was still on his feet and still swinging
his sword when he alighted.
And now it seemed that I had gained sufficient
control of my shocked nerves to again attempt to take
part in the fight. I rushed toward the strange
duelists, but Dr. Pope saw me coming and motioned me
away.
“Don’t attempt to touch him,” he cried. “He’ll
just shock you again. Get something to insulate your
hands.”
I looked around and, seizing a tablecloth, tore
it in two and was wrapping it about my hands when
Huanapur decided to devote his attention to me again. I
saw him rise into the air, saw his heavily shod feet
above my head, and ducked wildly. I was fortunate,
again Huanapur missed, and evidently the continued
failure of these tactics made him decide to abandon
them, for when he came down, he rushed toward the window
and the, suddenly, vanished! Vanished again into thin
air, even as he had the night before.
I looked at Pope in dismay. It seemed to me
that there was nothing that we could do now. How could
we hope to fight this creature if we couldn’t even see
him? Pope, apparently, had not decided to give up, but
his actions for the next two minutes were mysterious in
the extreme. Finger to his lips, he was tip-toeing
rapidly to the window, and once there, he threw himself
across the opening as though to bar the egress of
Huanapur if he tried to leave. Still silently, he
motioned me to the door, and anxious to obey him, I
tiptoed to the door and flung my arms across it. Hardly
had I done so when I felt the invisible one collide with
me. I cried out, and instantly Dr. Pope was tramping
across the room toward me. “I’ll help you, Harwood,” he
cried out, uselessly, I thought, as I remembered his
elaborate silence of a moment before. And then suddenly
he was tiptoeing back to the window again. His sword
raised and came down viciously, -- and suddenly there
was Huanapur, lying on the floor and bleeding profusely
from the neck! . . .
Sometime later, the doctor and I were making
preparations to leave the house in which we had seen so
much terror.
“What I can’t understand, doctor,” I was saying,
“is just how you managed to find out where Huanapur was
while he was invisible. And why you were so emphatic
about preserving silence in your actions. I still can’t
see how you managed to accomplish what you did.”
Pope smiled. “Once I managed to force Huanapur
to resort to his invisibility tactics,” he answered, “I
was pretty sure I had him. You see, a man that is
invisible must also be blind. I think I can make you
see that in a moment. Suppose he uses a system whereby
the light rays are bent around him so that none of them
strike him and therefore the one looking at him sees
only the objects behind him. Well and good, he’s
invisible, all right, but in that case, no light rays
ever reach his eyes and he is unable to see.
“Now take the other method by which invisibility
might be accomplished—by making the body transparent and
of the same refractive index as the surrounding air. In
that case, the visual sense would be destroyed by
allowing the light to pas undistorted through the
cornea. You see, whichever way Huanapur used, I knew
that as long as he remained invisible, he must remain
blind. But he did not credit me with being able to
realize this; he counted on me believing that he could
still see. Well, I worked on that theory. I took my
stand at the window, Huanapur figured I would do that,
and so he attempted to leave by the door. There he met
you and struggled with you for a second, hoping that you
would cry to me for help. You did and as I called out
that I would help you, he turned to escape by the
window. But this was where I had anticipated him, so
making a noise to make him think I was running to your
help, I returned instead to the window, in time to meet
him. And that was the end of as foul a creature as ever
the earth was forced to harbor.”
I looked around the room, and my stomach almost
turned, at what I saw there.
“But what do we do now?” I asked. “How are we
going to explain this shambles to the authorities?”
“Need we?” asked Dr. Pope, and went on to tell
me what he thought we ought to do.
So it was that when we left the house of Lionel
Harwood, it was a mass of flames, and though I was
quizzed rather seriously afterward, about the fire, the
idea that there had been anything other than a fire
never came out in the investigation.
Trust Dr. Pope for that.
THE END