Night fell, and the relentless north wind eased, leaving behind a sinister silence. illuminated in silvery moonlight, the stately Whittle Mansion stood dusty and prophetic, a place of mystery and intrigue that featured in so many local myths. Its Elizabethan facade stood sturdy but uninviting while the surrounding woods, silhouetted against the full moon, shed the last of their autumnal foliage.
Somewhere along the darkened narrow path squeezed between over-hanging trees waited Cirio. Seven minutes to go, he thought, looking at his pocket watch. He hunkered down amongst the trees to wait. Every evening, over the last seven days, a carriage clattered by, carrying a single passenger. A woman, eyes forward, stiff back and dignified.
Rumours suggested she sought a missing boy lost in the woodlands. A misplaced and deluded search, he thought as he followed her through the narrow streets to the office of the local magistrate. As she stepped inside, she dropped a handkerchief. He picked it up, conscious of a familiar flowery bouquet. Stitched in one corner appeared the name Maria. He touched and murmured the name ‘Maria’, generating deep emotions.
He visualised a playground and a young girl chasing him around a spacious garden while calling his name. Another woman called them in for tea. Every time he whispered the name Maria, fleeting memories forced their way into his subconscious.
“Leave this now?” he said. “I have work tonight with no time for false memories.”
His Master awaited his delivery of a new living being. Despite Maria setting off latent memories, he had singled her out as his Master’s next victim for. Once delivered, she would remain on the perimeters of society. The dispossessed, the needy, and the unfortunate would become her meat.
“Do I own guilt for such actions?” he said. “No, I cannot as I too must live and avoid becoming a slave. I know the Master grows tired of my age and seeks to destroy me once he has new slaves to control.” He exhaled and watched his breath linger in the frigid night air. “Life is life, and without knowing it, she is my next victim.”
The vibration of clattering hooves reached his receptive ears. Ready for the ambush, he waited for the carriage. With one bound he landed on the rear of the carriage, and hauled himself to the roof. He clutched the driver by the collar and threw him into the woods. Cirio took the reins and guided the horse towards the Mansion, finally stopping by the edge of the dark woods.
“Driver,” called the passenger, “have we arrived at our destination?”
Cirio opened the carriage door and gazed into Maria’s eyes. “You were not the driver.”
“Last-minute change of plans. When you alighted we had to change over, unseen by you.”
“Where are we? This is not my temporary residence?”
“Ma’am, inside this mansion there lives Lod Whittle, a gentleman who has information, the type you seek regarding a young boy.”
Her eyes lit up. “Indeed, what can he tell me?”
He extended his hand to help her step down. “Come inside to meet him. He is not in good health and struggles to walk.”
Their feet crunched the frosted grass as she followed in silence.
“These are the gardens of the mansion,” he said, observing her.
‘Why did we not stop closer tot he main doors?”
“My employer, Lord Whittle, dislikes loud noises. He prefers near silence.”
“Will I be able to speak with him?” she asked, “it is most important.”
“Of course.”
He looked back at the dark woods surrounding the estate where the Vichy wolves lurked, reputed to be under the restraint of the Master. Cirio did not trust their instinct, knowing one slaughtered a child and an adult who wandered into the woods.
The heavy curtains of Whittle Mansion remained open, and he switched direction to peek inside. A fire burned in the fireplace; candles flickered around the walls of the great hall; a fragile cloak of civilisation shrouding the vampire’s true nature to keep nosey townsfolk away.
“That is where we are going,” said Cirio. “once inside, I shall inform him of your presence. Lord Whittle will come to greet you.”
They entered the great hall, where he led Maria to the fire, and paused, “I shall let him know you are here.”
“And when we finish our conversation, what then?”
“I shall take you to your temporary accommodation.” He gestured to a chair, “Please sit.” He eyed the drinking glass and decanter, “Would madam care for a tincture to take the chilly edge from her bones?”
“Indeed.”
“Help yourself.”
Minutes later, she lay unconscious before the fire. as the familiar pad of Vichy’s feet reached his ears. When Maria awoke in a few days, Vichy would introduce her to the new nocturnal world.
The ensuing evening, under receding storm clouds, Cirio walked along the harbour to view the sea. The fishing grounds were rich but precarious. Storms rode in on the back of black clouds and wreaked havoc along the coastline of Whitt. Darkness would overwhelm daylight, pursued by torrential rainfall, and gale-force winds threatened to submerge the town. The townsfolk remained inside, deserting the pavements. Fishing fleets returned inland for safety to safeguard lives and minimise losses at sea. Each time Vichy took a new ‘bride’, he released unnatural forces against the natural order.
Despite his appearance, he neither hid nor avoided speaking to the townspeople. In his favourite tavern he conversed with drunken locals, but rarely did they remember asking. Consistently well dressed and groomed, many regarded him prosperously. Of the townspeople, he attracted no more attention than anyone else.
Yet his purpose never abandoned him; a Vampire slave—not Vampire, but no longer fully human. As a child of 5 years, Vichy drew blood, pointing out his youthful mind would never think of his past. The Master’s fangs contained an endorphin to check him from struggling and injected Vampire DNA into his body. enough to create a slave able to walk in daylight and complete tasks. To transform a human into the living dead required more Vampire DNA and endorphin. To complete the process, the Master fed his blood to a new victim.
Cirio paced along the dock before entering the tavern to pursue human company. As he reached for the door handle, Cirio’s left hand burrowed deep into the pocket of his slightly oversized greatcoat. He felt the cold steel of the Smith & Wesson Model 3 revolver, a weapon he took from an American tourist he killed.
They met down an alley, and, thinking Cirio might strike, he drew the gun. Cirio eyed the gun and met the eyes of the terrified tourist. In a manner of seconds, he seized the gun and snapped the tourist’s neck. The next day police inspected the body, unable to work out what exactly happened. Never had he been forced to use the gun against a human, relying on his strength to silence an agitator.
Cirio bought his ale and headed for a corner seat to observe the comings and goings. Most of the tavern’s usual customers were reluctant to leave their homes, fearful that the day’s storms may return. Still, a few hardened trawlermen would probably assuage Cirio’s craving for mortal company. As he relaxed, Cirio noticed the melancholy accompanying his latest delivery to Vichy.
Cirio wondered when Vichy would dispose of him once the new recruits emerged. Those that didn’t fit the role were fed to the wolves to satisfy their hunger. That fate awaited him if he failed to bring in fresh souls.
The landlady sauntered by. “Would you like a refill, sir?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “More ale for my thirst.”
The landlady took his tankard. “I have never heard you say so many words, sir?”
Cirio nodded, “Aye, may more ale loosen my tongue.”
“Indeed, sir”, she curtsied, looking back at her customer.
He never said much, but many a barmaid referred to him as a beast who fulfilled the most wanton of maids.
The landlady placed the fresh tankard on the table. As he threw the correct coins onto her tray, she asked, “Why don’t you hang around longer this evening?”
His eyes met hers. ‘Why do you ask for my company?”
“Sir, you are a man of manners and courtesy.” She leaned in, “I hear you can deliver a powerful experience in the bed, sire.”
“Who speaks of such an experience?”
“My serving staff, sire.”
He nodded and winked. “This shall be your night.”
The landlady kicked a heel, visualising what was to come; pure pleasure she purred.
The alcohol hyped his senses as visions of his victims slowly paraded before his eyes, displaying their torment at the hands of Vichy. Their pale, dull skin drained every of blood as they replayed their agony, undergoing death and rebirth into the night. The last face belonged to Maria. Behind her stood Vichy, ready to make the lethal bite.
With pleading eyes, she called to Cirio. “Help me.”
A torrent of guilt and self-preservation engulfed him. He whispered, “I can’t. To save you, I risk my death and excommunication to the world of the dead whose souls are lost in purgatory.”
He finished his ale and stood to leave but resumed his seat as two men accompanied by women entered the tavern. He recognised one man as a local magistrate but not the other. However, his dress and manner spoke of the city. Cirio watched as the four occupied the table next to him. He glanced in the landlady’s direction, who brought him another ale with a knowing wink.
He could not help but overhear the agitated exchange of the outsider on the following table.
“I must find her, Mr Stockland.”
The magistrate sought to soothe his companion. “Now, calm please yourself, Mr Munroe. Let us hear the story first.”
“But you don’t understand,” said Mr Munroe, his agitation aflame. “My good lady friend has misused her fortune on this foolish quest, and thus now she disappears and with it, her life. It is more than I can bear.” Munroe swigged back his ale.
Mr Stockland continued to calm the distraught Munroe. “You say your lady friend left a note.”
“Yes,” mumbled Munroe. Raising his head, he added, “she said she had fresh evidence and was travelling to Whitt to ask questions.
Cirio froze. They were searching for HIS Maria.
Mr Stockland continued, unaware of the man sitting but feet away, “And it’s a week since her disappearance.”
Cirio’s guttural roar struck terror into the customers. Unearthly, deadly and not human. From the remnants of his soul, he vocalised in one unworldly sound. He threw his table across the room. Howling like a wounded wolf, he fell to his knees in the centre of the room. Terrified onlookers huddled back. Some ran while others drew knives and pistols for protection.
“What do you see?” asked Cirio of his audience, drawing the revolver from his pocket. “After you end my life, take yourselves to Whitt Mansion and rid the town of the evil that has stalked your town. Once I am gone, no more mysterious deaths will follow.”
He aimed the pistol at the cowering magistrate, and as expected, shots were fired in his direction, killing him instantly.
As he lay, people gathered over his body.
“Did anyone know this fellow?” asked the magistrate. “It would appear he had melancholy nobody understood.”
No one afforded an answer. The magistrate checked the people standing over the body. “Arrange a militia to speak to the owner of the Mansions. We shall hear what this soul means by evil. If correct, we must act.”
“Tis a shame,” uttered the landlady, “a decent, handsome fellow with noticeable eyes, who imagined he was a beast and kept himself to himself for fear of rejection. Good husband material I heard from women of my acquaintance.”
One of her serving girls nodded with a verbal agreement.
Epilogue
Excerpt from The Times Monday 24th November 1902: Miss Maria Newman, daughter of the late Sir Alexander Newman, has disappeared. Her last known whereabouts are reported to have been the small fishing town of Whitt, North Yorkshire. Miss Newman is understood to have spent the last 20 years, and a considerable proportion of the family fortune, engaged in searching for her younger brother Cirio, who disappeared on Christmas Eve 1882. In a bizarre twist of fate, three customers shot and killed a man believed to be Cirio Newman in a small Whitt ale house in full view of at least 15 witnesses precisely one week after his sister went missing.
A stiff body lay on a cold mortuary slab with three new bullet holes. A mortuary attendant glanced over the body, curious as to the man’s identity. He snuffed out the lanterns and closed the door.
The following day, he returned. The body was gone, and the door to the mortuary ripped from its hinges. He alerted the local magistrate and local police chief to search for the man. Had he faked his death and walked away? But what of the door. Who owned such strength? Surely this be the work of body snatchers suggested one police officer. After a few days of looking and visiting doctors, the search ended.
Six months later, the deserted Whittle Mansion hailed a new tenant. A handsome young man with wealth and breeding who quickly became the talk of the town. He paid a visit to the local tavern, still abuzz with recent events. No more unexplained deaths or disappearances in the local woods. Locals and police invaded Whittle and faced the evil inside, including the self-appointed Lord himself, who died and became ash when thrown into the daylight.
The landlady eyed him, thinking his eyes had a familiar gaze. “Ale sire?” she asked.
“Indeed.”
“Are you married, sire?”
“I currently seek a woman of marriage material.”
She winked, “I might not be marriage material, but I can keep your bed warm until such material comes along.” She beckoned him closer. “I know who you are.”
“And who am I?”
“You died on that floor, with three bullet holes in you.”
He faced the floor, noting a few remaining bloodstains.
“What gives me away?” he asked.
“Your eyes.”
“Please visit my Mansion at your convenience. We can discuss what it is you seek, and I shall endeavour to help find your satisfaction.” visua