***
During the subsequent sessions, Countess Z. opened up a bit more before the audience. She said that she died a violent death exactly one hundred years ago. They failed to pull her full name out of her. She blurted out, however, that she liked horses and jewels.
Today was to be the last of the seven planned sessions. They sat as usual in their chairs, focused and attentive just as Mrs. Klara required, trying not to think about the issues not related to this meeting, since it could discourage the incorporeal guest, which would be an irreparable loss. Henry was satisfied that this séance was supposed to be the last one. All the time, he was dreaming about his nightly rendezvous. Those spiritual experiences had begun to get boring, childish games, resulting in nothing, but he had to wait patiently for his nocturnal adventure.
His lover always came before dawn, when it was still dark. She took different forms, but Henryk knew that it was still the same woman, or both, mixed together at night into one person that he could not separate even in his imagination. Henryk lost weight. His eyes took on an unhealthy glow, and Mrs. Stefania noticed it. Concerned, she advised him to visit the local health clinic. He assured her that he was fine, simply overworked. Maybe he was working too much recently on his book, but soon, after he finished writing it, he would take a rest and he was sure he would recover.
That was not entirely a lie. Every morning came a new chapter of the novel and Henry was burning with curiosity, waiting for the next chapter, and eventually, the end of the story. He was not alone. As usual, before going to sleep, Baska flowed into his room in her panties and shirt and opened his thick notebook without permission. She sat in her seat with her legs tucked under her, and she read avidly what was written the night before. "Maybe she is checking if she made a mistake the previous night?" thought Henry, looking at her lustfully. "And why does Joanna not check? Maybe she makes no mistakes at all."
“So it could be Joanna? No, it looks more like Baska. She seems the literary genius. Then again, who knows? Maybe one deals with the festivities in bed and the second refines this book?”
***
Today's question was: "What do you need?"
Questions asked to specters had to be brief, factual, should not be subject to interpretation, and should not require cumbersome explanations.
This time, the pen pointing particular letters worked out an answer easily: "Warn him. She will come here."
“Warn whom?” asked Mrs. Klara with emotion.
"Henryk..."
As soon as the name was said, everything grew still, and when they looked in the corner of the room, it was empty. The specter just melted away without a murmur, as it emerged a few moments before. One could see the energy resource intended for today’s meeting had already been exhausted. Consternation prevailed at the table. They looked at each other’s faces emerging from the darkness in the yellowish glow of candles. In the light of this, they all looked like ghosts, most obviously Belphegor. Finally, all turned their eyes to one face.
“Why are you looking at me?” asked Henryk defensively. “Do you really believe in ghosts? This is a collective hallucination, nothing more. And besides, was it really talking about me? After all, it did not even finish the sentence.”
Henryk said it all without conviction. He had no idea what to think about all this, but what he wanted the most was for these looks to be turned away from him so that he could be left alone.
Mrs. Klara was inexorable.
“We believe only in what we see,” said she in a serious tone “Countess Z apparently wanted to warn you. She knows you. Or have you forgotten the first meeting? Think about it yourself. Someone is looking for you. This type of warning is not to be underestimated.”
The session completed, Mrs. Stefania turned on the light and the participants rose from their chairs. Joanna, while passing by Henryk, touched him with her arm and said quietly:
“I'll be watching you, dear Mr. Henryk. Tomorrow, I’ll fly again to Budapest, but the whole night, I'll be still here. If you feel lonely...”
She did not finish. The nosy head of Baska appeared between them as out of the ground.
“What are you whispering about?” she asked mockingly. “What a story it is, eh? Maybe the Countess was warning you about her.” Here, Baska pointed at Joanna. “See what sharp teeth she has,” she added with a laugh.
“Mind your own business, little twit,” Joanna fired back and walked away with dignity to her room, throwing a farewell glance to Henryk from behind her long, black lashes.
“You know what, Freaky? You're an even bigger curiosity than I thought.” Baska sounded extremely excited. “How do you know these ghosts? You fly around the cemetery at night? Do you know, maybe some real witches, as well?”
Mrs. Klara and Mrs. Stefania whispered something to each other in the kitchen. Henryk, tired from the events of the evening, retired to his room.
Exactly at nine-thirty in the evening there was a doorbell. Mrs. Stefania, who was still in the kitchen, went to the door and opened it carefully. On the front porch stood an elegant woman with a confident expression on her face.
“Good evening,” she said. “I'd like to ask you something. Does Mr. Henryk live here?”
Mrs. Stefania confronted her coldly.
“Nobody like this lives here, and I do not know this name,” she said. “No man lives here, just us, ladies.”
Stranger woman hesitated for a moment.
“Sorry. It has to be some mistake. Goodbye madam.”
She turned around and went back to the cab waiting for her.
Mrs. Stefania, after returning to the hall, dialled Mrs. Klara.
“She was here,” she whispered in conspiracy. “I did exactly as you said. He didn’t even notice the visit.”
“You see?” she heard Mrs. Klara’s response. “Such warnings should not be taken lightly.”
***
Henryk came up with a brilliant idea.
He moved the electric cable for the night light, which passed under the bed, under the pillow, and even further up along the bed, so that the switch was located now on the sheet, within the reach. Who knew? Maybe at night, he would be able to regain some consciousness, exert some of his strength and press the button. Then all would be revealed. He drank his herbal tea that Mrs. Stefania had recommended him and went to bed, clutching the switch of the bedside lamp in his hand.
***
For the first time, it was not a boat. He lay on the padded seat of some vehicle, a coach maybe. He heard horses' hooves striking dully on the hard ground of the road. The windows must be covered, or the night was deep, as the interior of the vehicle was very dark. There was little to be seen. He saw only her face above him - a pale stain in the dark, visible yet unrecognizable, and felt her cool, mellow touch on his skin. They sailed together as one, moving with the rhythm of the steps of the horses pulling their carriage. Henry recalled suddenly the switch he kept in his hand. He felt it clearly under his fingers, but would he be able to press the button?
But not now, for the world. Certainly not at the moment. Maybe a little later. As they approached the culminating moment of pleasure, he heard the words whispered in his ear: “Now, we are together forever, my Henryk...”
Along with the cry he issued, he suddenly realized something:
She did not call him Freaky or dear Mr. Henryk. It was my Henryk!!! Neither of those two called him this way, which meant it had to be someone else... “I know who you are!” he exclaimed triumphantly. And he pressed the button with all his strength...
Suddenly, he felt a pain in his neck. He was not sure where it came from. Moreover, it was no longer important. The pale face in front of him swirled together with the coach, and the tapping hooves suddenly started to recede into the impenetrable nothingness.
***
When Henry did not show up in the kitchen in the morning to drink his daily coffee with cream before walking to the milk bar, Mrs. Stefania th
ought, "He overslept. Poor fellow, he hasn’t been feeling his best lately." But when he did not show up at ten o’clock, the worried landlady knocked on his door. No replies. She pressed the handle gently.
Henryk lay naked on the bed, his pajamas hurled carelessly on the floor. The paleness of his body almost matched the color of the sheet. He was not breathing. Terrified, Mrs. Stefania called an ambulance immediately. Minutes later, the doctor came and said, “He is gone.”
Cause unknown. Special symptom - unusual paleness of the body of the deceased. Police officer, Lieutenant Balski, who had just been promoted and moved from Otwock to Warszawa, received this case to work on.
When an official record of the autopsy was delivered, it showed death from loss of blood. However, no trace of blood was found in spite of an accurate search in the room of the deceased, or the whole house. The two black marks on the neck of Henryk, similar to a snake bite, in the Middle Ages would have been regarded as the work of a vampire and the poor fellow if caught, after a brief court, would be sent to the stake. They didn’t play with vampires these days. But as you know, in the People's Republic of Poland, officially, there are no vampires. The young corporal who was moved with Balski from Otwock, long looked at the form in his hand, not knowing where to put the X mark.
“No, there is no such box,” he complained loudly. “There is ‘ran over by a car’. There is even ‘kicked by a horse’, but no ‘sucked off by a vampire’.”
“And remember that man who disappeared in Otwock?” Balski prompted. “There also was not a box for him. Here in Warsaw, one does not disappear. The law does not allow this. It is not Otwock here. Write the cause of death - unknown.”
***
When Baśka returned home after classes, the room of Henryk was free again. The body was taken to the morgue, and all his stuff (not much of it) went to the Department of Investigation for examination. They were still looking for the slightest trace of the blood of the deceased. “He was so pale when I found him,” said Mrs. Stefania, telling Baska the whole story. “And how he was smiling. It was clear that he was really happy.”
Baska ran to her room. She threw herself on the bed and burst into tears.
***
Teresa, notified of the death of her husband, appeared in the morgue in order to identify the corpse. For a long time, she stared at the face of Henryk, trying to understand what had actually happened.
From the Faculty of Investigation, she received later his suitcase. She put it on a chair and opened it. At the very top of it, on a set of pajamas, lay a thick notebook with a fountain pen hooked to the cover. She sat in the other chair near the window and opened it.
At the beginning, she saw the words written no doubt by her husband's hand:
"The beginning of the book."
Her mouth twisted. “Who at the beginning of the book writes ‘Beginning of the book’? This complete lack of logic. This is surely my Henryk.”
Further sentences were written in a different handwriting. Maybe he was dictating to someone? Teresa shifted in the chair so she sat more comfortably, raised the book closer to her face and plunged into reading.
Back to ToC
Vampire Lady from Warsaw
Sometimes, life may seem mysterious. For instance, there may be something in your past or maybe even in your previous life that you don’t remember, something murky like the water in a country pond. Beware. Maybe, you are being watched by a person who knows about your past more than yourself and who watches your earthly life, not without a reason. Yes, it could be troublesome, especially if you don’t know who this person is. Is he (she) your friend or an enemy? And what if, by chance, this being is a real vampire?
***
Along a bumpy road through the dark forest dashed a black carriage drawn by two black horses. The sky was littered with low-hanging clouds and drops of rain splattered sideways on the curtained window of the carriage. Suddenly, the curtain of the window rose and in the flashes of lighting, amid intersecting clouds appeared a pale face of Countess Z.
From under her furrowed eyebrows, she looked at the leaden clouds rubbing almost against the tops of the trees. The view lasted only a moment, though. As the flash gave way to the overwhelming roar of thunder, up above the clouds, the forest road was once again plunged into darkness. The lanterns hanging on both sides of the carriage could only bring the nearest trees out of the darkness.
The Countess pulled down the curtain and leaned back against the padded red velvet seat of her coach. The interior of the vehicle was dim, as well, brightened only by a small, oil lamp mounted next to the window.
In the faint light, her beautiful, aristocratic face shone, her lustrous, black hair flowing in graceful curves to her shoulders from beneath the trendy French hat she wore. In her eyes gleamed a flash of anxiety.
“What's with this weather?” she thought. “Only Hell could have conjured such a storm. Oh, but I have to reach the palace in time. I have to make it before the dawn.”
Under normal circumstances, it would not be a problem. She would often leave her palace after sunset and arrive the same evening in Warsaw to take part in one of the meetings of the capital’s aristocracy or simply to enjoy a romantic evening. Beautiful and still young, she was in demand, accompanied, admired and adored especially by well-born young men, while the ladies looked at her with poorly disguised envy and concern, worried of course about the young bachelors who so easily turned their heads in her direction. Then, late at night, she would sneak out in English style and return to her palace before the first rays of the sun appeared over the horizon.
Under normal circumstances, yes. But tonight was hardly normal.
“How is the coachman able to find his way in such darkness?” she wondered, upset. “I can only hope nothing goes wrong with the carriage. The road is so bumpy. In this weather, it would be difficult to count on a speedy help.”
Suddenly, the carriage slowed to a stop. Annoyed, she opened the window and stuck her head out with no regard for the rain drenching her fashionable hat.
In the middle of the highway stood three men in capes with lanterns raised up high. One of them came to the door of the carriage, opened it, and pronounced in a serious voice.
“Please come outside. It's the end of the journey.”
The Countess paled, fear grabbing her by the throat. In a choked voice, she called out:
“By what right? How dare you? Do you know to whom this carriage belongs?”
The man parted his cloak. Under it, the Countess saw the black Jesuit’s habit.
She froze, icy chills sliding down her spine. Now, she recognized him. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she went out into the rain, knowing that any resistance here was useless. The horses were held by their bridles, by the beefy farmhand with a lantern while her terrified coachman sat trembling on his box. She knew she could not count on him. The third form stood waiting on the sidelines. From behind his raised collar and the hat pulled low on his forehead, she could not see his face.
“Let's go,” the Jesuit commanded. She followed him as if hypnotized, walking several steps astray into the sparse shrubbery. Paralyzed with fear, she could not utter a single word.
“We are already here, we are on the spot. You kneel down and beg Him for mercy, which you will certainly not get from us, although I doubt He will help you.”
The Countess saw a deep grave prepared beforehand in the soft ground. “This is for you,” said the Jesuit. “You have caused too much evil on this earth that we cannot let you live any longer. On behalf of the Holy Inquisition, you are sentenced to death.”
Now, she was sure that this was the end.
The third man approached. He reached into his cloak and pulled out his flintlock pistol, the handle of which gleamed with a mother-of-pearl inlay. Just then, the wind parted wider the collar of his cape and she saw his face.
“Henryk!” she exclaimed, amazed. “So
you're in this collusion? Do you not love me anymore?”
“I love you, and it is the curse of my life,” the man said through the tears. “But we discovered everything. We know the truth. You killed her. You killed my wife, Jadwiga, as you killed many other innocent people before her. That’s why you must die.”
“You know I did it out of love for you. I wanted us to stay together forever.”
“Nothing can justify thy crimes,” severely cut the Jesuit. “Henryk, shoot her now!”
For a moment, Henry was still, then suddenly he dropped his pistol.
“I cannot do it. I really can’t!” he howled in pain.
The monk frowned at his distraught friend. Then he took the pistol from the ground and pulling his hood tighter over his head to shield himself against the rain, handed the weapon to the third man.
“You shoot her, Yuzva. I cannot do it,” he said “I am a clergyman”.
There was a shot and Countess Z fell on the wet ground while her trendy French hat rolled into the forest, driven by the wind of the night.
Henryk stood erect, motionless, his cheeks wet from salty tears mixed with drops of rain. He stared in pain at this beautiful face, which was not marred by the round black spot in the middle of the forehead. The Jesuit said a short prayer over the body, then gave the henchman a sharply pointed aspen he had prepared in advance, saying: “Remember, right in the heart. This is the most important.”
Yuzva bent over the body and holding the stake with both hands, drove it deep with all his strength. There, where just a moment before a living heart shook in terror, it now lay still, frozen in death.
Then, he picked up a large piece of rock and ignoring the blood gushing into his wet cloak, he struck the wooden dowel firmly to be sure that the job for which he was to receive two gold ducats was done properly.