The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

VICTORIA



As the hour approached midnight on a singularly lonely eve, during which a storm of prodigious might cast its cold fury upon my roof, I found myself unable to return to sleep, having awakened from nightmares more tenebrous than the night sky itself. These nightmares were not of monsters, or evil lands, or anything nameless and alien, as most nightmares are; but for this reason they were all the more disturbing. They concerned humanity, and humanity alone, that cursed race of which wicked fate had sentenced me to be a part. In the visions of my hellish half-slumber I witnessed the human mind at its lowest and vilest, a show of cruelty exceeded by nothing in this world. The phantasms of disturbed sleep were all the more abysmal and haunting because of the suffering I once endured at the hands of the hateful species--sufferings which I have ever after refused to recall, remembering only the knowledge that full recollection would destroy me. All I know now is that humanity could not accommodate me, and so my soul was driven into exile in the dimly remembered days of an anguished past.

It was thoughts of this nature that I had sought to suppress by abandoning humanity, leaving the cities of men and seeking refuge in the mansion which I now occupied, alone in the remote countryside. The house lies in quiet repose atop a rocky hill scattered with decayed tree trunks, a grim sentinel that overlooks only dreary meadowlands and dead forests. In this tomb-like dwelling I had willingly interred myself with the sole purpose of escaping that swarm of animals that walked in my shape, that thrice-accursed horde of creatures which mere physical resemblance compelled me to call my brethren, though in spirit they were hardly my kin. The nearest village was more than fifteen miles away, and to this settlement I ventured but seldom, when I periodically found myself in need of the minimal essentials of life that I required. Even on these occasions I travelled only when the air was chill and heavy with the depression born of long periods of rain, for at these times did I encounter the fewest of the loathsome creatues who occupied the settlement. It was well to avoid them, for they would at every opportunity mock me from the shadows, and whisper their insidious and unsympathetic thoughts to one another, always perceiving with some deep and bestial sense that my soul was essentially different than theirs.

There were people residing nearer to me than those of the village; but a layer of cold soil silenced their perniciousness, and prevented them from mocking me as other men do. These wretches dwell in a churchyard not more than a few miles from my house, and have in common with me more than the living men of the village, for they too have been abandoned by their fellows, who wish only to forget that they ever existed.

Such were the wanderings of my weary mind on that tempestuous night, the last of October, when the rain that whipped against my house seemed to be the clawing and scratching of a thousand squalid demons. Finding myself, as I have said, unable to slip back into slumber, I bethought myself to pass these bleak hours by reading from an old volume of German poetry, the melancholy mood of which suited the night and all of the dream-phantasmagoria therein. I had but few oil-lamps lit, and these turned very low; for to waste oil would mean a trip into the village that much sooner in order to fetch more. The fire in my bedroom was low, too, because I was partial to slightly chilly temperatures. I was having a difficult time reading in bed; for I was relaxed just enough so that my mind, unable to concentrate, frequently wandered over the page, while I was not relaxed quite enough to fall asleep. I lay for some time in this frustrating limbo between sleep and waking, until at length I sprang up suddenly, donned a smoking jacket and pair of slippers, and left the oppressive atmosphere of my bedchamber to make for the study.

While in the hallway outside of my bedroom, I heard the muffled thumping of a tree branch against some lower portion of my house. While my imagination immediately conjured up a host of all the possible creatures that could be responsible for such a noise, still I did not fear. For I knew that the demon who stalks a man in the night will not pause for any wall or barrier, but will seize his victim straightaway. Thus I contented myself with the knowledge that it was no hunter of the night that lurked outside in the dark storm, but only the wind-blown limb of one of the twisted black arbors that adorned my lawn.

Arriving in the study, I lit a small fire and a few oil lamps; pausing as I did so to admire the gloomy piece of art which hung above the fireplace, a rare print of an etching entitled “The Triumph of Death,” by an anonymous Dutch artist. It depicted a mass of humans attempting to gain the summit of a bleak mountain, but being dragged down into the earth by spectral, decayed hands. Although somber and disquieting, still it was a masterpiece of elaborate craftsmanship, which was the main reason that I had purchased it at an auction, in the days when I dwelt among humanity.

Having set several lamps alight, I seated myself in one of the large arm-chairs of burgundy velvet with which the study was furnished. Then, lighting my pipe, I opened anew the book of verse, determined not to arise from my seat until I had read it to completion. But in this I was foiled; for from the outside of the first floor of the house there came again that dreadfully loud pounding noise. Irritated, I declared aloud that I would fell that damned tree as soon as it was light. Then my anger began to fade as I was struck by the peculiar quality of the pounding. It began to sound less and less like the random thumping of a branch, and more like the measured knocking of a human being That I, in my severe seclusion, had a visitor, was highly improbable; and given the awfulness of the storm, and the fact that the nearest living human dwelt fifteen miles across a shelterless expanse of desolation, the possibility of a visitor was unthinkable. Yet the knocker continued with some note of urgency. I certainly could not read the book now that such curiosity was excited, and so I put it down on a table, took up a lamp, and started down the stairs to the door of my house.

For all of the bizarre things which I imagined might wait outside as I turned the knob and opened the ancient panel to the night and the storm, I was in no wise prepared for that which I found. Before me stood the slender form of a woman, drenched by the cold rains and stained with the dirt of lengthy, difficult travel. Despite her disshevelled state, she was possessed of much beauty, and I was surprised by the compassionate and almost pleasant feelings that arose at the sight of an unexpected person, which ordinarily should have excited but dread and anguish in me. The torn, soaked remnants of a lacy white dress clung to her skin, outlining against a backdrop of nearly constant lightning a form of unsurpassed comeliness and grace. So startled was I to behold this elegant shape, in light of my previous thoughts of despair and misery, that I found myself unable to speak. She, however, had less trouble in finding words.

“May I enter? I have lost my way, and I am weary of wandering in this storm.” Her voice was soft, yet somehow audible above the elements. I quickly motioned her inside, and hastened to shut and bolt the door behind her. Then, conducting her to my study, I sat her down by the fire, on which I heaped a goodly amount of fuel. I removed my smoking jacket and handed it to her, suggesting that she doff her wet garments and put it on, while I went in search of woolen blankets.

As I exited the study and went to my bedroom for blankets, I was struck anew by the strangeness of the situation. What was a young woman--a cultured young woman, by her manner and dress--doing out in a storm at this hour of the night, alone? But no matter; I had to give her shelter, no matter what suspicions I might nurture. I would not deny anyone a night’s comfort. In sooth, I was starngely pleased to have another human make a simple request of me, and treat me in an unreviling and even pleasant manner.

I returned to the study and found her gazing into the fire, wrapped in the smoking jacket, which seemed to offer little warmth, for she yet shivered. I threw the blankets upon her; and, taking into my arms the heap of discarded wet clothing, left the chamber once more. I returned shortly thereafter with tea, which I set upon the table beside her chair. I took a seat and was about to say, “Take care not to touch your tea-cup yet, for it is still quite hot,” when I saw that she was already drinking it, scalding as it was. She must, I thought, be partially numb from the cold; for my cup burned my hand when I tried to touch it.

Presently my comely guest, who appeared to be in her early twenties, offered a strange explanation of her situation. She claimed to have lost her memory, recalling only that her name was Victoria and that she lived in a secluded home similar to mine that was not far away. Although I had not noticed it before, there was a look of bewilderment in her eyes, slightly tinged with fear. She remembered nothing of how she came to be walking about in the midst of a storm-battered night, nor did she remember anything about her life. I told her all I knew of the immediate area and its inhabitants, which was very little; it did nothing to help her recollection. I certainly was not aware of any houses nearer to mine than the ones in the village. She did, however, say that her home was secluded.

Victoria gave a sudden shudder, so I poured her some more tea. This she drank readily, though my first cup was not yet cool enough for me to consume. She must be extremely sick, I thought, to still be cold. As she put her cup back down, her gaze caught mine; her dark, liquid eyes seemed twin mirrors of infinite sorrow. I was suddenly quite sad for her. I felt that she had been a needless sufferer in her past, though I could not imagine what wrong could have been done to her, and I had a sudden desire to protect her from any further pain. I could not pinpoint the source of these emotions. Perhaps it was the torn dress she had been wearing; perhaps it was the way wisps of her ebon hair fell across her pallid face; perhaps it was her immediate distress, her state of ignorance and helplessness which did not seem to grieve her at all. Her face wore a constant expression of calm acceptance which I could not help but pity. Whatever it was, I knew that she needed rest, and so presently I led her to one of the spare bedrooms.

Having seen her off to sleep, I decided that it might be prudent to attempt sleep once again myself. But, lying in my bed in the faint light of a single lamp, I could not help but turn my thoughts to the mysterious maiden who slept in the neighboring chamber. Her image teased my mind with its ethereality, and I sensed that I had found another similar to myself, an outcast, an observer of humanity rather than a part of it. Now I knew that her past pain had been caused by the callous societies of man, which are insensitive and care nothing for true beauty. I knew not what had happened to her in the past, but I was certain that those heinous beasts of the village were at the root of her sorrow.

In the midst of these thoughts she entered my room, clad in several blankets, and said, “I’m so cold... so very cold. Will you warm me?”

I was not certain how to respond, but she eliminated any need for a response. She merely shed the blankets, revealing an ivory body of Olympian beauty to which her wet garments had previously only alluded. She then crawled into my bed, embracing me with arms that had to be colder than the windy meadows outside, and I shivered at that icy touch. “So cold... so cold...,” she kept muttering, as her embrace grew tighter in her desperate need for warmth. Despite my recent feelings of sympathy, I was beginning to feel quite uneasy in her grasp. Then unease turned quickly to fear, for though I began to try to free myself, and I called out to her to relax her hold, she held me fast, now shouting: “SO COLD... SO COLD!” In a panic, I raked her back with my fingernails, which seemed to startle her, for she let go of me--only for a moment, but long enough for me to lurch forward off the bed and dash from the room aghast. And as I ran down the stairs and threw a coat on, I could hear her shrieking for help, for relief from the cold.

I know now the real reason for her sorrowful stare, her lack of memory, and her intense cold. She was indeed the victim of unfeeling tragedy, although the people of the village were not responsible. I also know where her home is, and I am heading there now, only to prove my sanity. For I already know what I will find: an empty grave beside a stone marked “VICTORIA.”