Текст книги "Salem's Lot"
Автор книги: Stephen Edwin King
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“Turn around,” Straker said. “I am going to tie you up. While I tie you up, you will not move. If you move, I take this”—he cocked his thumb before Mark like a hitchhiker—“and pop your right eye out. Do you understand?”
Mark nodded. He took a deep breath, held it, and bunched all his muscles.
Straker threw his coil of rope over one of the beams.
“Lie down,” he said.
Mark did.
He crossed Mark’s hands behind his back and bound them tightly with the rope. He made a loop, slipped it around Mark’s neck, and tied it in a hangman’s knot. “You’re made fast to the very beam my Master’s friend and sponsor in this country hung himself from, young master. Are you flattered?”
Mark grunted, and Straker laughed. He passed the rope through Mark’s crotch, and he groaned as Straker took up the slack with a brutal jerk.
He chuckled with monstrous good nature. “So your jewels hurt? They will not for long. You are going to lead an ascetic’s life, my boy—a long, long life.”
He banded the rope over Mark’s taut thighs, made the knot tight, banded it again over his knees, and again over his ankles. Mark needed to breathe very badly now, but he held on stubbornly.
“You’re trembling, young master,” Straker said mockingly. “Your body is all in hard little knots. Your flesh is white—but it will be whiter! Yet you need not be so afraid. My Master has the capacity for kindness. He is much loved, right here in your own town. There is only a little sting, like the doctor’s needle, and then sweetness. And later on you will be let free. You will go see your mother and father, yes? You will see them after they sleep.”
He stood up and looked down at Mark benignly. “I will say good-by for a bit now, young master. Your lovely consort is to be made comfortable. When we meet again, you will like me better.”
He left, slamming the door behind him. A key rattled in the lock. And as his feet descended the stairs, Mark let out his breath and relaxed his muscles with a great, whooping sigh.
The ropes holding him loosened—a little.
He lay moveless, collecting himself. His mind was still flying with that same unnatural, exhilarating speed. From his position, he looked across the swelled, uneven floor to the iron cot frame. He could see the wall beyond it. The wallpaper was peeled away from that section and lay beneath the cot frame like a discarded snakeskin. He focused on a small section of the wall and examined it closely. He flushed everything else from his mind. The book on Houdini said that concentration was all-important. No fear or taint of panic must be allowed in the mind. The body must be completely relaxed. And the escape must take place in the mind before a single finger did so much as twitch. Every step must exist concretely in the mind.
He looked at the wall, and minutes passed.
The wall was white and bumpy, like an old drive-in movie screen. Eventually, as his body relaxed to its greatest degree, he began to see himself projected there, a small boy wearing a blue T-shirt and Levi’s jeans. The boy was on his side, arms pulled behind him, wrists nestling the small of the back above the buttocks. A noose looped around his neck, and any hard struggling would tighten that running slipknot inexorably until enough air was cut off to black out the brain.
He looked at the wall.
The figure there had begun to move cautiously, although he himself lay perfectly still. He watched all the movements of the simulacrum raptly. He had achieved a level of concentration necessary to the Indian fakirs and yogis, who are able to contemplate their toes or the tips of their noses for days, the state of certain mediums who levitate tables in a state of unconsciousness or extrude long tendrils of teleplasm from the nose, the mouth, the fingertips. His state was close to sublime. He did not think of Straker or the fading daylight. He no longer saw the gritty floor, the cot frame, or even the wall. He only saw the boy, a perfect figure which went through a tiny dance of carefully controlled muscles.
He looked at the wall.
And at last he began to move his wrists in half circles, toward each other. At the limit of each half circle, the thumb sides of his palms touched. No muscles moved but those in his lower forearms. He did not hurry. He looked at the wall.
As sweat rose through his pores, his wrists began to turn more freely. The half circles became three-quarters. At the limit of each, the backs of his hands pressed together. The loops holding them had loosened a tiny bit more.
He stopped.
After a moment had passed, he began to flex his thumbs against his palms and press his fingers together in a wriggling motion. His face was utterly expressionless, the plaster face of a department store dummy.
Five minutes passed. His hands were sweating freely now. The extreme level of his concentration had put him in partial control of his own sympathetic nervous system, another device of yogis and fakirs, and he had, unknowingly, gained some control over his body’s involuntary functions. More sweat trickled from his pores than his careful movements could account for. His hands had become oily. Droplets fell from his forehead, darkening the white dust on the floor.
He began to move his arms in an up-and-down piston motion, using his biceps and back muscles now. The noose tightened a little, but he could feel one of the loops holding his hands beginning to drag lower on his right palm. It was sticking against the pad of the thumb now, and that was all. Excitement shot through him and he stopped at once until the emotion had passed away completely. When it had, he began again. Up-down. Up-down. Up-down. He gained an eighth of an inch at a time. And suddenly, shockingly, his right hand was free.
He left it where it was, flexing it. When he was sure it was limber, he eased the fingers under the loop holding the left wrist and tented them. The left hand slid free.
He brought both hands around and put them on the floor. He closed his eyes for a moment. The trick now was to not think he had it made. The trick was to move with great deliberation.
Supporting himself with his left hand, he let his right roam over the bumps and valleys of the knot which secured the noose at his neck. He saw immediately that he would have to nearly choke himself to free it—and he was going to tighten the pressure on his testicles, which already throbbed dully.
He took a deep breath and began to work on the knot. The rope tightened by steady degrees, pressing into his neck and crotch. Prickles of coarse hemp dug into his throat like miniature tattoo needles. The knot defied him for what seemed an endless time. His vision began to fade under the onslaught of large black flowers that burst into soundless bloom before his eyes. He refused to hurry. He wiggled the knot steadily, and at last felt new slack in it. For a moment the pressure on his groin tightened unbearably, and then with a convulsive jerk, he threw the noose over his head and the pain lessened.
He sat up and hung his head over, breathing raggedly, cradling his wounded testicles in both hands. The sharp pain became a dull, pervading ache that made him feel nauseated.
When it began to abate a little, he looked over at the shuttered window. The light coming through the broken slats had faded to a dull ocher—it was almost sundown. And the door was locked.
He pulled the loose loop of rope over the beam, and set to work on the knots that held his legs. They were maddeningly tight, and his concentration had begun to slip away from him as reaction set in.
He freed his thighs, the knees, and after a seemingly endless struggle, his ankles. He stood up weakly among the harmless loops of rope and staggered. He began to rub his thighs.
There was a noise from below: footsteps.
He looked up, panicky, nostrils dilating. He hobbled over to the window and tried to lift it. Nailed shut, with rusted tenpennies bent over the cheap wood of the half sill like staples.
The feet were coming up the stairs.
He wiped his mouth with his hand and stared wildly around the room. Two bundles of magazines. A small tin plate with a picture of an 1890s summer picnic on the back. The iron cot frame.
He went to it despairingly and pulled up one end. And some distant gods, perhaps seeing how much luck he had manufactured by himself, doled out a little of their own.
The steps had begun down the hall toward the door when he unscrewed the steel cot leg to its final thread and pulled it free.
FOUR
When the door opened, Mark was standing behind it with the bed leg upraised, like a wooden Indian with a tomahawk.
“Young master, I’ve come to—”
He saw the empty coils of rope and froze for perhaps one full second in utter surprise. He was halfway through the door.
To Mark, things seemed to have slowed to the speed of a football maneuver seen in instant replay. He seemed to have minutes rather than bare seconds to aim at the one-quarter skull circumference visible beyond the edge of the door.
He brought the leg down with both hands, not as hard as he could—he sacrificed some force for better aim. It struck Straker just above the temple, as he started to turn to look behind the door. His eyes, open wide, squeezed shut in pain. Blood flew from the scalp wound in an amazing spray.
Straker’s body recoiled and he stumbled backward into the room. His face was twisted into a terrifying grimace. He reached out and Mark hit him again. This time the pipe struck his bald skull just above the bulge of the forehead, and there was another gout of blood.
He went down bonelessly, his eyes rolling up in his head.
Mark skirted the body, looking at it with eyes that were bulging and wide. The end of the bed leg was painted with blood. It was darker than Technicolor movie blood. Looking at it made him feel sick, but looking at Straker made him feel nothing.
I killed him, he thought. And on the heels of that: Good. Good.
Straker’s hand closed around his ankle.
Mark gasped and tried to pull his foot away. The hand held fast like a steel trap and now Straker was looking up at him, his eyes cold and bright through a dripping mask of blood. His lips were moving, but no sound came out. Mark pulled harder, to no avail. With a half groan, he began to hammer at Straker’s clutching hand with the bed leg. Once, twice, three times, four. There was the awful pencil sound of snapping fingers. The hand loosened, and he pulled free with a yank that sent him stumbling out through the doorway and into the hall.
Straker’s head had dropped to the floor again, but his mangled hand opened and closed on the air with tenebrous vitality, like the jerking of a dog’s paws in dreams of cat-chasing.
The bed leg fell from his nerveless fingers and he backed away, trembling. Then panic took him and he turned and fled down the stairs, leaping two or three at a time on his numb legs, his hand skimming the splintered banister.
The front hall was shadow-struck, horribly dark.
He went into the kitchen, casting lunatic, shying glances at the open cellar door. The sun was going down in a blazing mullion of reds and yellows and purples. In a funeral parlor sixteen miles distant, Ben Mears was watching the clock as the hands hesitated between 7:01 and 7:02.
Mark knew nothing of that, but he knew the vampire’s time was imminent. To stay longer meant confrontation on top of confrontation; to go back down into that cellar and try to save Susan meant induction into the ranks of the Undead.
Yet he went to the cellar door and actually walked down the first three steps before his fear wrapped him in almost physical bonds and would allow him to go no further. He was weeping, and his body was trembling wildly, as if with ague.
“Susan!” he screamed. “Run!”
“M-Mark?” Her voice, sounding weak and dazed. “I can’t see. It’s dark—”
There was a sudden booming noise, like a hollow gunshot, followed by a profound and soulless chuckle.
Susan screamed…a sound that trailed away to a moan and then to silence.
Still he paused, on feather-feet that trembled to blow him away.
And from below came a friendly voice, amazingly like his father’s: “Come down, my boy. I admire you.”
The power in the voice alone was so great that he felt the fear ebbing from him, the feathers in his feet turning to lead. He actually began to grope down another step before he caught hold of himself—and the catching hold took all the ragged discipline he had left.
“Come down,” the voice said, closer now. It held, beneath the friendly fatherliness, the smooth steel of command.
Mark shouted down: “I know your name! It’s Barlow!”
And fled.
By the time he reached the front hall the fear had come on him full again, and if the door had not been unlocked he might have burst straight through the center of it, leaving a cartoon cutout of himself behind.
He fled down the driveway (much like that long-ago boy Benjaman Mears) and then straight down the center of the Brooks Road toward town and dubious safety. Yet might not the king vampire come after him, even now?
He swerved off the road and made his way blunderingly through the woods, splashing through Taggart Stream and falling in a tangle of burdocks on the other side, and finally out into his own backyard.
He walked through the kitchen door and looked through the arch into the living room to where his mother, with worry written across her face in large letters, was talking into the telephone with the directory open on her lap.
She looked up and saw him, and relief spread across her face in a physical wave.
“—here he is—”
She set the phone into its cradle without waiting for a response and walked toward him. He saw with greater sorrow than she would have believed that she had been crying.
“Oh, Mark…where have you been?”
“He’s home?” His father called from the den. His face, unseen, was filling with thunder.
“ Where have you been?” She caught his shoulders and shook them.
“Out,” he said wanly. “I fell down running home.”
There was nothing else to say. The essential and defining characteristic of childhood is not the effortless merging of dream and reality, but only alienation. There are no words for childhood’s dark turns and exhalations. A wise child recognizes it and submits to the necessary consequences. A child who counts the cost is a child no longer.
He added: “The time got away from me. It—”
Then his father, descending upon him.
FIVE
Some time in the darkness before Monday’s dawn.
Scratching at the window.
He came up from sleep with no pause, no intervening period of drowsiness or orientation. The insanities of sleep and waking had become remarkably similar.
The white face in the darkness outside the glass was Susan’s.
“Mark…let me in.”
He got out of bed. The floor was cold under his bare feet. He was shivering.
“Go away,” he said tonelessly. He could see that she was still wearing the same blouse, the same slacks. I wonder if herfolks are worried, he thought. If they’ve called the police.
“It’s not so bad, Mark,” she said, and her eyes were flat and obsidian. She smiled, showing her teeth, which shone in sharp relief below her pale gums. “It’s ever so nice. Let me in, I’ll show you. I’ll kiss you, Mark. I’ll kiss you all over like your mother never did.”
“Go away,” he repeated.
“One of us will get you sooner or later,” she said. “There are lots more of us now. Let it be me, Mark. I’m…I’m hungry.” She tried to smile, but it turned into a nightshade grimace that made his bones cold.
He held up his cross and pressed it against the window.
She hissed, as if scalded, and let go of the window frame. For a moment she hung suspended in air, her body becoming misty and indistinct. Then, gone. But not before he saw (or thought he saw) a look of desperate unhappiness on her face.
The night was still and silent again.
There are lots more of us now.
His thoughts turned to his parents, sleeping in thoughtless peril below him, and dread gripped his bowels.
Some men knew, she had said, or suspected.
Who?
The writer, of course. The one she dated. Mears, his name was. He lived at Eva’s boardinghouse. Writers knew a lot. It would be him. And he would have to get to Mears before she did—
He stopped on his way back to bed.
If she hadn’t already.
Chapter Thirteen
Father Callahan
On that same Sunday evening, Father Callahan stepped hesitantly into Matt Burke’s hospital room at quarter to seven by Matt’s watch. The bedside table and the counterpane itself were littered with books, some of them dusty with age. Matt had called Loretta Starcher at her spinster’s apartment and had not only gotten her to open the library on Sunday, but had gotten her to deliver the books in person. She had come in at the head of a procession made up of three hospital orderlies, each loaded down. She had left in something of a huff because he refused to answer questions about the strange conglomeration.
Father Callahan regarded the schoolteacher curiously. He looked worn, but not so worn or wearily shocked as most of the parishioners he visited in similar circumstances. Callahan found that the common first reaction to news of cancer, strokes, heart attacks, or the failure of some major organ was one of betrayal. The patient was astounded to find that such a close (and, up to now at least, fully understood) friend as one’s own body could be so sluggard as to lie down on the job. The reaction which followed close on the heels of the first was the thought that a friend who would let one down so cruelly was not worth having. The conclusion that followed these reactions was that it didn’t matter if thisfriend was worth having or not. One could not refuse to speak to one’s traitorous body, or get up a petition against it, or pretend that one was not at home when it called. The final thought in this hospital-bed train of reasoning was the hideous possibility that one’s body might not be a friend at all, but an enemy implacably dedicated to destroying the superior force that had used it and abused it ever since the disease of reason set in.
Once, while in a fine drunken frenzy, Callahan had sat down to write a monograph on the subject for The Catholic Journal. He had even illustrated it with a fiendish editorial-page cartoon, which showed a brain poised on the highest ledge of a skyscraper. The building (labeled “The Human Body”) was in flames (which were labeled “Cancer”—although they might have been a dozen others). The cartoon was titled “Too Far to Jump.” During the next day’s enforced bout with sobriety, he had torn the prospective monograph to shreds and burned the cartoon—there was no place in Catholic doctrine for either, unless you wanted to add a helicopter labeled “Christ” that was dangling a rope ladder. Nonetheless, he felt that his insights had been true ones, and the result of such sickbed logic on the part of the patient was usually acute depression. The symptoms included dulled eyes, slow responses, sighs fetched from deep within the chest cavity, and sometimes tears at the sight of the priest, that black crow whose function was ultimately predicated on the problem the fact of mortality presented to the thinking being.
Matt Burke showed none of this depression. He held out his hand, and when Callahan shook it, he found the grip surprisingly strong.
“Father Callahan. Good of you to come.”
“Pleased to. Good teachers, like a wife’s wisdom, are pearls beyond price.”
“Even agnostic old bears like myself?”
“Especially those,” Callahan said, riposting with pleasure. “I may have caught you at a weak moment. There are no atheists in the foxholes, I’ve been told, and precious few agnostics in the Intensive Care ward.”
“I’m being moved soon, alas.”
“Pish-posh,” Callahan said. “We’ll have you Hail Marying and Our Fathering yet.”
“That,” Matt said “is not as far-fetched as you might think.”
Father Callahan sat down, and his knee bumped the bedstand as he drew his chair up. A carelessly piled stack of books cascaded into his lap. He read the titles aloud as he put them back.
“ Dracula. Dracula’s Guest. The Search for Dracula. The Golden Bough. The Natural History of the Vampire—natural? Hungarian Folk Tales. Monsters of the Darkness. Monsters in Real Life. Peter Kurtin, Monster of Düsseldorf. And…” He brushed a thick patina of dust from the last cover and revealed a spectral figure poised menacingly above a sleeping damsel. “ Varney the Vampyre, or, The Feast of Blood. Goodness—required reading for convalescent heart attack patients?”
Matt smiled. “Poor old Varney. I read it a long time ago for a class report in Eh-279 at the university…Romantic Lit. The professor, whose idea of fantasy began with Beowulfand ended with The Screwtape Letters, was quite shocked. I got a D plus on the report and a written command to elevate my sights.”
“The case of Peter Kurtin is interesting enough, though,” Callahan said. “In a repulsive sort of way.”
“You know his history?”
“Most of it, yes. I took an interest in such things as a divinity student. My excuse to the highly skeptical elders was that, in order to be a successful priest, one had to plumb the depths of human nature as well as aspire to its heights. All eyewash, actually. I just liked a shudder as well as the next one. Kurtin, I believe, murdered two of his playmates as a young boy by drowning them—he simply gained possession of a small float anchored in the middle of a wide river and kept pushing them away until they tired and went under.”
“Yes,” Matt said. “As a teenager, he twice tried to kill the parents of a girl who refused to go walking with him. He later burned down their house. But that is not the part of his, uh, career that I’m interested in.”
“I guessed not, from the trend of your reading matter.” He picked a magazine off the coverlet which showed an incredibly endowed young woman in a skintight costume who was sucking the blood of a young man. The young man’s expression seemed to be an uneasy combination of extreme terror and extreme lust. The name of the magazine—and of the young woman, apparently—was Vampirella. Callahan put it down, more intrigued than ever.
“Kurtin attacked and killed over a dozen women,” Callahan said. “Mutilated many more with a hammer. If it was their time of the month, he drank their discharge.”
Matt Burke nodded again. “What’s not so generally known,” he said, “is that he also mutilated animals. At the height of his obsession, he ripped the heads from the bodies of two swans in Düsseldorf ’s central park and drank the blood which gushed from their necks.”
“Has all this to do with why you wanted to see me?” Callahan asked. “Mrs Curless told me you said it was a matter of some importance.”
“Yes, it does and it is.”
“What might it be, then? If you’ve meant to intrigue me, you’ve certainly succeeded.”
Matt looked at him calmly. “A good friend of mine, Ben Mears, was to have gotten in touch with you today. Your housekeeper said he had not.”
“That’s so. I’ve seen no one since two o’clock this afternoon.”
“I have been unable to reach him. He left the hospital in the company of my doctor, James Cody. I have also been unable to reach him. I have likewise been unable to reach Susan Norton, Ben’s lady friend. She went out early this afternoon, promising her parents she would be in by five. They are worried.”
Callahan sat forward at this. He had a passing acquaintance with Bill Norton, who had once come to see him about a problem that had to do with some Catholic coworkers.
“You suspect something?”
“Let me ask you a question,” Matt said. “Take it very seriously and think it over before you answer. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary in town just lately?”
Callahan’s original impression, now almost a certainty, was that this man was proceeding very carefully indeed, not wanting to frighten him off by whatever was on his mind. Something sufficiently outrageous was suggested by the litter of books.
“Vampires in ’salem’s Lot?” he asked.
He was thinking that the deep depression which followed grave illness could sometimes be avoided if the person afflicted had a deep enough investment in life: artists, musicians, a carpenter whose thoughts centered on some half-completed building. The interest could just as well be linked to some harmless (or not so harmless) psychosis, perhaps incipient before the illness.
He had spoken at some length with an elderly man named Horris from Schoolyard Hill who had been in the Maine Medical Center with advanced cancer of the lower intestine. In spite of pain which must have been excruciating, he had discoursed with Callahan in great and lucid detail concerning the creatures from Uranus who were infiltrating every walk of American life. “One day the fella who fills your gas tank down at Sonny’s Amoco is just Joe Blow from Falmouth,” this bright-eyed, talking skeleton told him, “and the next day it’s a Uranian who just lookslike Joe Blow. He even has Joe Blow’s memories and speech patterns, you see. Because Uranians eat alpha waves…smack, smack, smack!” According to Horris, he did not have cancer at all, but an advanced case of laser poisoning. The Uranians, alarmed at his knowledge of their machinations, had decided to put him out of the way. Horris accepted this, and was prepared to go down fighting. Callahan made no effort to disabuse him. Leave that to well-meaning but thickheaded relatives. Callahan’s experience was that psychosis, like a good knock of Cutty Sark, could be extremely beneficial.
So now he simply folded his hands and waited for Matt to continue.
Matt said, “It’s difficult to proceed as it is. It’s going to be more difficult still if you think I’m suffering from sickbed dementia.”
Startled by hearing his thoughts expressed just as he had finished thinking them, Callahan kept his poker face only with difficulty—although the emotion that would have come through would not have been disquiet but admiration.
“On the contrary, you seem extremely lucid,” he said.
Matt sighed. “Lucidity doesn’t presuppose sanity—as you well know.” He shifted in bed, redistributing the books that lay around him. “If there is a God, He must be making me do penance for a life of careful academicism—of refusing to plant an intellectual foot on any ground until it had been footnoted in triplicate. Now for the second time in one day, I’m compelled to make the wildest declarations without a shred of proof to back them up. All I can say in defense of my own sanity is that my statements can be either proved or disproved without too much difficulty, and hope that you will take me seriously enough to make the test before it’s too late.” He chuckled. “ Before it’s too late. Sounds straight out of the thirties’ pulp magazines, doesn’t it?”
“Life is full of melodrama,” Callahan remarked, reflecting that if it were so, he had seen precious little of it lately.
“Let me ask you again if you have noticed anything– anything—out of the way or peculiar this weekend.”
“To do with vampires, or—”
“To do with anything.”
Callahan thought it over. “The dump’s closed,” he said finally. “But the gate was broken off, so I drove in anyway.” He smiled. “I rather enjoy taking my own garbage to the dump. It’s so practical and humble that I can indulge my elitist fantasies of a poor but happy proletariat to the fullest. Dud Rogers wasn’t around, either.”
“Anything else?”
“Well…the Crocketts weren’t at mass this morning, and Mrs Crockett hardly ever misses.”
“More?”
“Poor Mrs Glick, of course—”
Matt got up on one elbow. “Mrs Glick? What about her?”
“She’s dead.”
“Of what?”
“Pauline Dickens seemed to think it was a heart attack,” Callahan said, but hesitatingly.
“Has anyone else died in the Lot today?” Ordinarily, it would have been a foolish question. Deaths in a small town like ’salem’s Lot were generally spread apart, in spite of the higher proportion of elderly in the population.
“No,” Callahan said slowly. “But the mortality rate has certainly been high lately, hasn’t it? Mike Ryerson…Floyd Tibbits…the McDougall baby…”
Matt nodded, looking tired. “Passing strange,” he said. “Yes. But things are reaching the point where they’ll be able to cover up for each other. A few more nights and I’m afraid…afraid…”
“Let’s stop beating around the bush,” Callahan said.
“All right. There’s been rather too much of that already, hasn’t there?”
He began to tell his story from beginning to end, weaving in Ben’s and Susan’s and Jimmy’s additions as he went along, holding back nothing. By the time he had finished, the evening’s horror had ended for Ben and Jimmy. Susan Norton’s was just beginning.
TWO
When he finished, Matt allowed a moment of silence and then said, “So. Am I crazy?”
“You’re determined that people will think you so, anyway,” Callahan said, “in spite of the fact that you seem to have convinced Mr Mears and your own doctor. No, I don’t think you’re crazy. After all, I am in the business of dealing with the supernatural. If I may be allowed a small pun, it is my bread and wine.”
“But—”
“Let me tell you a story. I won’t vouch for its truth, but I will vouch for my own belief that it istrue. It concerns a good friend of mine, Father Raymond Bissonette, who has been ministering to a parish in Cornwall for some years now—along the so-called Tin Coast. Do you know of it?”
“Through reading, yes.”
“Some five years ago he wrote me that he had been called to an out-of-the-way corner of his parish to conduct a funeral service for a girl who had just ‘pined away.’ The girl’s coffin was filled with wild roses, which struck Ray as unusual. What he found downright grotesque was the fact that her mouth had been propped open with a stick and then filled with garlic and wild thyme.”
“But those are—”
“Traditional protections against the rising of the Undead, yes. Folk remedies. When Ray inquired, he was told quite matter-of-factly by the girl’s father that she had been killed by an incubus. You know the meaning?”
“A sexual vampire.”
“The girl had been betrothed to a young man named Bannock, who had a large strawberry-colored birthmark on the side of his neck. He was struck and killed by a car on his way home from work two weeks before the wedding. Two years later, the girl became engaged to another man. She broke it off quite suddenly during the week before the banns were to be cried for the second time. She told her parents and friends that John Bannock had been coming to her in the night and she had been unfaithful with him. Her present lover, according to Ray, was more distressed by the thought that she might have become mentally unbalanced than by the possibility of demon visitation. Nonetheless, she wasted away, died, and was buried in the old ways of the church.
