2
Henry Duryea's tall stature, coupled with a slenderness of frame and asleekness of muscle, gave him an appearance that was unusually _gaunt_.His son couldn't help but think of that word as he sat on the rusticporch of the lodge, watching his father sunning himself at the lake'sedge.
Henry Duryea had a kindliness in his face, at times an almost sublimekindliness which great prophets often possess. But when his face waspartly in shadows, particularly about his brow, there was a frighteningtone which came into his features; for it was a tone of farness, ofmysticism and conjuration. Somehow, in the late evenings, he assumed theunapproachable mantle of a dreamer and sat silently before the fire, hismind ever off in unknown places.
In that little lodge there was no electricity, and the glow of the oillamps played curious tricks with the human expression which frequentlyresulted in something unhuman. It may have been the dusk of night, theflickering of the lamps, but Arthur Duryea had certainly noticed how hisfather's eyes had sunken further into his head, and how his cheeks weretighter, and the outline of his teeth pressed into the skin about hislips.
* * * * *
It was nearing sundown on the second day of their stay at Timber Lake.Six miles away the dirt road wound on toward Houtlon, near the Canadianborder. So it was lonely there, on a solitary little lake hemmed inclosely with dark evergreens and a sky which drooped low overdusty-summited mountains.
Within the lodge was a homy fireplace, and a glossy elk's-head whichpeered out above the mantel. There were guns and fishing-tackle on thewalls, shelves of reliable American fiction--Mark Twain, Melville,Stockton, and a well-worn edition of Bret Harte.
A fully supplied kitchen and a wood stove furnished them with heartymeals which were welcome after a whole day's tramp in the woods. On thatevening Henry Duryea prepared a select French stew out of everyavailable vegetable, and a can of soup. They ate well, then stretchedout before the fire for a smoke. They were outlining a trip to theOrient together, when the back door blew open with a terrific bang, anda wind swept into the lodge with a coldness which chilled them both.
"A storm," Henry Duryea said, rising to his feet. "Sometimes they havethem up here, and they're pretty bad. The roof might leak over yourbedroom. Perhaps you'd like to sleep down here with me." His fingersstrayed playfully over his son's head as he went out into the kitchen tobar the swinging door.
Arthur's room was upstairs, next to a spare room filled with extrafurniture. He'd chosen it because he liked the altitude, and because theonly other bedroom was occupied....
He went upstairs swiftly and silently. His roof didn't leak; it wasabsurd even to think it might. It had been his father again, suggestingthat they sleep together. He had done it before, in a jesting,whispering way--as if to challenge them both if they _dared_ to sleeptogether.
Arthur came back downstairs dressed in his bath-robe and slippers. Hestood on the fifth stair, rubbing a two-day's growth of beard. "I thinkI'll shave tonight," he said to his father. "May I use your razor?"
Henry Duryea, draped in a black raincoat and with his face haloed in thebrim of a rain-hat, looked up from the hall. A frown glided obscurelyfrom his features. "Not at all, son. Sleeping upstairs?"
Arthur nodded, and quickly said, "Are you--going out?"
"Yes, I'm going to tie the boats up tighter. I'm afraid the lake willrough it up a bit."
Duryea jerked back the door and stepped outside. The door slammed shut,and his footsteps sounded on the wood flooring of the porch.
Arthur came slowly down the remaining steps. He saw his father's figurepass across the dark rectangle of a window, saw the flash of lightningthat suddenly printed his grim silhouette against the glass.
He sighed deeply, a sigh which burned in his throat; for his throat wassore and aching. Then he went into the bedroom, found the razor lying inplain view on a birch table-top.
As he reached for it, his glance fell upon his father's open Gladstonebag which rested at the foot of the bed. There was a book resting there,half hidden by a gray flannel shirt. It was a narrow, yellow-bound book,oddly out of place.
Frowning, he bent down and lifted it from the bag. It was surprizinglyheavy in his hands, and he noticed a faintly sickening odor of decaywhich drifted from it like a perfume. The title of the volume had beenthumbed away into an indecipherable blur of gold letters. But pastedacross the front cover was a white strip of paper, on which wastypewritten the word--INFANTIPHAGI.
He flipped back the cover and ran his eyes over the title-page. The bookwas printed in French--an early French--yet to him whollycomprehensible. The publication date was 1580, in Caen.
Breathlessly he turned back a second page, saw a chapter headed,_Vampires_.
He slumped to one elbow across the bed. His eyes were four inches fromthose mildewed pages, his nostrils reeked with the stench of them.
He skipped long paragraphs of pedantic jargon on theology, he scannedbrief accounts of strange, blood-eating monsters, _vrykolakes_, andleprechauns. He read of Jeanne d'Arc, of Ludvig Prinn, and mutteredaloud the Latin snatches from _Episcopi_.
He passed pages in quick succession, his fingers shaking with the fearof it and his eyes hanging heavily in their sockets. He saw vaguereference to "Enoch," and saw the terrible drawings by an ancientDominican of Rome....
Paragraph after paragraph he read: the horror-striking testimony ofNider's _Ant-Hill_, the testimony of people who died shrieking at thestake; the recitals of grave-tenders, of jurists and hang-men. Thenunexpectedly, among all of this monumental vestige, there appearedbefore his eyes the name of--_Autiel Duryea_; and he stopped reading asthough invisibly struck.
* * * * *
Thunder clapped near the lodge and rattled the window-panes. The deeprolling of bursting clouds echoed over the valley. But he heard none ofit. His eyes were on those two short sentences which hisfather--someone--had underlined with dark red crayon.
... The execution, four years ago, of Autiel Duryea does not end the Duryea controversy. Time alone can decide whether the Demon has claimed that family from its beginning to its end....
Arthur read on about the trial of Autiel Duryea before Veniti, theCarcassonnean Inquisitor-General; read, with mounting horror, theevidence which had sent that far-gone Duryea to the pillar--the evidenceof a bloodless corpse who had been Autiel Duryea's young brother.
Unmindful now of the tremendous storm which had centered over TimberLake, unheeding the clatter of windows and the swish of pines on theroof--even of his father who worked down at the lake's edge in adrenching rain--Arthur fastened his glance to the blurred print of thosepages, sinking deeper and deeper into the garbled legends of a darkage....
On the last page of the chapter he again saw the name of his ancestor,Autiel Duryea. He traced a shaking finger over the narrow lines ofwords, and when he finished reading them he rolled sideways on the bed,and from his lips came a sobbing, mumbling prayer.
"God, oh God in Heaven protect me...."
For he had read:
As in the case of Autiel Duryea we observe that this specimen of _vrykolakas_ preys only upon the blood in its own family. It possesses none of the characteristics of the undead vampire, being usually a living male person of otherwise normal appearances, unsuspecting its inherent demonism.
But this _vrykolakas_ cannot act according to its demoniacal possession unless it is in the presence of a second member of the same family, who acts as a medium between the man and its demon. This medium has none of the traits of the vampire, but it senses the being of this creature (when the metamorphosis is about to occur) by reason of intense pains in the head and throat. Both the vampire and the medium undergo similar reactions, involving nausea, nocturnal visions, and physical disquietude.
When these two outcasts are within a certain distance of each other, the coalescence of inherent demonism is completed, and the
vampire is subject to its attacks, demanding blood for its sustenance. No member of the family is safe at these times, for the _vrykolakas_, acting in its true agency on earth, will unerringly seek out the blood. In rare cases, where other victims are unavailable, _the vampire will even take the blood from the very medium which made it possible_.
This vampire is born into certain aged families, and naught but death can destroy it. It is not conscious of its blood-madness, and acts only in a psychic state. The medium, also, is unaware of its terrible role; and when these two are together, despite any lapse of years, the fusion of inheritance is so violent that no power known on earth can turn it back.