And Now, a Terror that Stalks the Night-shrouded Mire!

My plan was to make this post a continuation of the last and discuss writing prompts, but since the release of my website, I’ve been asked several times for writing samples. I could just post something I already have written because this raven squawks a lot. Instead, however, I present to you an exclusive to albertmorrow.com, the first chapter of the Vampire of Craughlin House. This story is my own imitation of the penny dreadfuls of Victorian England, those lurid gems of lowbrow fiction that are such fun to read. They are also a lot of fun to write, and I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.

It begins with…

The Question of the Bars

It was a cool October night in the fifty-first year of Queen Victoria’s reign, that is to say 1888, when Catherine Gray swept into the room where two men were smoking pipes before a fire. The room was full of decorations indicative of Algernon Craughlin, the last tenant of Craughlin House, who had been an enthusiastic taker of wild game. His taxidermied trophies were arrayed about the room, the most prominent being the Beast of Dunworthy, a smallish tiger that had terrorized the local community until Craughin killed it. The hunter died months afterward, some said from the cat’s poisonous claws. The house sat empty after that, until the current residents rented it for a stay in the Devonshire countryside.

“Why are there bars on the window in my room?” Catherine asked. While not a conventional beauty - her nose was a trifle wide and her eyes were often too intense for most men - there were many who would have married her if she would be caught. One of them was in the room, quietly lost in watching the firelight glitter on her blonde hair.

“We’ve been here three days and you’re just now asking that, sister?” Warren Gray asked as he rose to clear his pipe by knocking the bowl on the fireplace mantle.

“I’ve not paid them much mind until tonight,” she replied.

“You’ve spent far too much time reading, I’m sure,” said Warren.

“What else am I to do? You know I tire quickly of needlework and you two have been too busy to take me for a walk on the moor.”

“What woman would want to walk on the Grimpen Mire?” Warren asked with incredulity in his voice.

“A great many of us would appreciate the wild beauty of the moor, I’m certain,” Catherine replied. “Especially if we were allowed to take our walks as we pleased without having to wait upon a man to escort us.”

Warren Gray’s face went red, but the other man spoke next and brought the focus to him.

“What caused you to notice the bars tonight, Catherine?” he said. A lifelong friend of the Gray siblings, Todd Langston was well acquainted with their often heated exchanges, yet loved them both. He loved Catherine differently than he loved her brother, although neither of the siblings knew it.

“I noticed them the first night,” she said, “but I’ve been too busy reading that book I found on the train to consider them.”

“The detective book?” Todd asked. “I want to read it when you’re done.”

“It’s quite good. You’ll like it.” Catherine’s eyes lit up and her brother knew she was about to put him to sleep with praises for the book, so he cut her off. “What caused you to wonder about the bars tonight, Catherine?” he asked. He ignored the perturbed look she shot him and waited for her response.

“I’ve been bothered by scratching at my window every night we’ve been here,” she said. “Some branch that needs pruned, I thought, and my book has been so engrossing, I paid them little mind. Last night, the scratchings were louder, almost frantic sounding. I was woken by them sometime after midnight. They stopped and I relaxed back into sleep. I do remember realizing that I have never heard them during the day but I was too far gone by then and I didn’t even think about that branch until a few minutes ago. I went outside to check on it, to break the branch off myself.”

“You went outside at this time of night?” Warren asked, giving the darkening sky visible through the window nearest him a pointed look.

“I went outside alone and I returned alive to tell the tale,” Catherine said.

Todd spoke before Warren could, saying, “You might not have done that had you heard what we did today.”

“What is that?” Catherine asked.

“There’s a madman running loose attacking women,” said Warren.

“Are you serious?” Catherine asked, turning quickly to Todd. “Is he serious?”

“I’m afraid he is,” Todd confirmed. “Some man is stalking about at night trying to get into houses.”

“He attacked a woman in Dunworthy last night,” put in Warren. “He nearly tore her throat out! With his teeth!”

Catherine was of hardier stock than most, yet she blanched and stuttered, “Is-is she..Did she..survive?”

“Yes,” Todd assured her.

“She’s near death and may die yet,” added Warren.

Todd stood and went to Catherine. “Shall I accompany you to your room, Catherine?” He reached for her and pleaded with his eyes, but she waved him off and walked slowly toward the door.

“I’ll cut that branch back myself in the morning,” said her brother in a softer tone than any he had used so far.

“Thank you,” she said before truly hearing what he said. She shook her head then and said, “There’s no need. There isn’t any branch or anything close enough to touch that window.”

Catherine left the men and returned to her room on the other side of the sprawling single story house. Her eyes went immediately to the window with its view of the North Devon Railway Line and the great dismal moor beyond the tracks.

“I still don’t know why there are bars on this window,” she said to herself. “And why would they be on the inside?”

She paused and stared through the window glass.

Was there someone outside her window? A dark figure with eyes that gleamed when the light from the lamp near the window touched them?

She thought of the madman mentioned by her brother. But why would a madman have such eyes? Surely, madness can’t make someone’s eyes shine like a cat’s. She moved closer to the window without meaning to do so. Those eyes, she thought, going to them. Why do they gleam so? Why do they call to me?

Catherine reached through the bars and touched the glass.