Case Closed

The Haunting of Carrick Hollow

I reached the end of the drive and pulled the buggy to a halt, looking back at the old house, the modest structure where I had been born. At another time, I might have spent these moments in fond remembrance of my childhood on Arden Farm, recalling the games and mischief I entered into with my brothers and sisters, and the wise and gentle care of my loving parents. But other, less pleasant memories had been forged since those happier days, and now my concerns for the welfare of my one surviving brother kept all other thoughts from me.

Noah stood on the porch, solemn-faced, looking forlorn as he watched me go. It troubled me to see him there; Noah had never concerned himself overmuch with formal leave-takings-only a year ago, he would have all but pushed me out the door, anxious to return to his work in the apple orchards.

Upon our father’s death six months ago, Noah had inherited Arden Farm. From childhood, we had all of us known that Noah would one day own this land, and the house upon it. The eldest sons of generation upon generation of Ardens before him had worked in these same orchards. In our childhood, I had been the one whose future seemed uncertain-no one was sure what useful purpose such a bookish boy could serve. Now Noah spoke of leaving Arden Farm, of moving far away from the village of Carrick Hollow.

At one time, this notion would have been nearly unthinkable. Noah had always seemed to me a steadfast man who did not waver under any burden, as sturdy as the apple trees he tended. But then, as children, we never could have imagined the weight that would come to rest on him-indeed, on everyone who lived in our simple New England village.

I pulled my cloak closer about me, and told myself I should not dwell on such matters. I turned my thoughts to my work. When I first returned to Carrick Hollow after medical school, I wondered if my neighbors would be inclined to think of me as little Johnny Arden, Amos Arden’s studious fourth son, rather than Dr. John Arden, their new physician-but my fears of being treated as a schoolboy were soon allayed. I attributed their readiness to seek my care to the fact that the nearest alternative, Dr. Ashford, an elderly doctor who lived some thirty miles away, was less and less inclined to make the journey to Carrick Hollow since I had set up my practice there.

Now, driving down the lane, I considered the patients I would visit tomorrow morning. Horace Smith, who had injured his hand while mending a wagon wheel, would be the first. Next I’d call on old Mrs. Compstead, to see if the medicine I had given her for her palsy had been effective.

A distant clanging and clattering interrupted these reveries. The sounds steadily grew louder as I neared a bend in the road, until my gentle and usually well-mannered horse decided he would take exception to this rumbling hubbub. He shied just as the source of this commotion came trundling into view-an unwieldy peddler’s wagon, swaying down the rough lane, pulled by a lanky, weary mule.

My horse seemed to take even greater exception to this plodding, ill-favored cousin in harness. The peddler swore and pulled up sharply. I have never claimed to be a masterful handler of the reins, and it took all my limited skill to maneuver my small rig to the side of the narrow lane, which I managed to do just in time to avoid a collision. The mule halted and heaved a sigh. And there, once my horse had regained his dignity, we found ourselves at an impasse.

This was obviously not, by the peddler’s reckoning, any sort of calamity. After profuse apologies, but making no effort to budge his wagon-which now blocked my progress completely-he chatted amiably for some minutes on matters of little consequence. He then ventured to offer to me-a gentleman he was so sorry to have inconvenienced-several of his wares at especially reduced prices. “Far lower,” he assured me, “than any you could find by mail order catalogue. If you will only consider the additional savings in shipping costs, and how readily you might obtain the goods you need! Consider, too-you may inspect any item before purchase! You will find only the finest quality workmanship in the items I offer, sir! And you must own that buying from one with whom you are acquainted must be seen to be superior to purchasing by catalogue!”

“Pardon me,” I said, a little loftily, hoping to stem any further flow of conversation, “but we are not at all acquainted. Now if you would be so good as to-”

“But we are acquainted!” he said, with a clever look in his eye. “You are Dr. John Arden.”

I was only momentarily at a loss. Sitting at my side, in plain view, was my medical bag. Any local he had visited might have told him that the village physician, Dr. John Arden, had urged them not to buy patent medicines or to be taken in by the claims of those who peddled tonics.

“Forgive me, Mr.”-I squinted to read the fading paint on the side of his wagon-“Mr. Otis Merriweather, but I cannot agree that knowing each other’s names truly acquaints us.”

He grinned and shook his head. “As near as, sir, as near as! You’ve been away to study, and were not here on the occasion of my last visit to Carrick Hollow. You are young Johnny Arden, son of Mr. Amos Arden, an apple farmer whom I am on my way to see.”

“Perhaps I can spare you some trouble, then,” I said coolly. “My father has been dead some months now.”

He was immediately crestfallen. “I’m sorry to hear it, sir. Very sorry to hear it indeed.” I was ready to believe that his remorse was over the loss of further business, but then he added, “Mr. Arden was a quiet man, never said much, and little though I knew him, he struck me as a sorrowing one. But he was proud of you, boy-and I regret to hear of your loss.”

I murmured a polite reply, but lowered my eyes in shame over my uncharitable thoughts of Mr. Merriweather.

“And Mr. Winston gone now, too,” he said.

My head came up sharply, but the peddler was thoughtfully gazing off in the direction of the Winston farm and did not see the effect this short speech had on me.

“Do you know what has become of him?” Mr. Merriweather asked. “I’ll own I was not fond of him, but he gave me a good deal of custom. It seems so strange-”

“Not at all strange,” I said firmly. “These are difficult times for apple growers-for farmers of any kind. Have you not seen many abandoned orchards in Carrick Hollow? Indeed, we aren’t the only district to suffer-you travel throughout the countryside in Rhode Island, and you must see empty farms everywhere. Scores of men have left their family lands and moved to cities, to try their luck there.”

“Aye, I’ve seen them,” he said, “but-but upon my oath, something’s different here in Carrick Hollow! The people here are skittish-jumping at shadows!” He laughed a little nervously, and shook his head. “Old Winston often told me that this place was haunted by… well, he called them vampires.”

“Winston spoke to you of vampires?” I asked, raising my chin a little.

He shifted a bit on the wagon seat. “I wouldn’t expect a man of science to believe in such superstitious nonsense, of course! But old Winston used to prose on about it, you see, until my hair fairly stood up on end!”

“Mr. Winston was always a convincing storyteller.”

“Yes-but nonsense, pure nonsense!” He paused, and added, “Isn’t it?”

“I never used to believe in such things,” I said.

“And now?”

“And now, perhaps I do.”

Merriweather’s eyes widened. He laughed again, and said, “Oh, I see! You pay me back for guessing your name!”

I smiled.

“Here, now!” he said, “I’ve left you standing here in the lane, taking up your time with this idle talk-Otis Merriweather’s all balderdash, you’ll be thinking.” He cast a quick, uneasy look at the sky. “Growing dark, too. Hadn’t realized it had grown so late. I hoped to be in the next town by now, and I’m sure you’ve patients to attend to. Good day, to you, Doctor!”

With a snap of his reins, he set the mule into motion. Soon the clattering, jangling wagon was traveling down the lane at a pace that made me realize I had underestimated the homely mule.

My own vehicle’s pace was much more sedate. I wondered how much faster the peddler would have driven if he had known how much I knew of vampires. I had long made it my business to make a study of the subject. I knew that tales of vampires had been whispered here and there in New England for more than a hundred years, just as they had been told in Egypt, Greece, Polynesia and a dozen other places. The New England vampire has little in common with those which caused such panic in Turkish Serbia and Hungary in the last century-no fanged creature attacks unwitting strangers here. No, our Rhode Island vampires have always more closely resembled ghosts-spirits of the dead who leave their tombs in the night, to visit their nearest and dearest as they dream. Our vampires are believed by some to cause the disease of consumption-it is they, we are told, who drain the blood of living victims into their own hearts, and who thereby cause their victims’ rapid decline. The Ardens were never among the believers of such superstitions, never held with any talk of vampires. Indeed, how clearly I remembered a winter’s night five years ago, when I assured my youngest brother there wasn’t any such thing.

“Mr. Winston said that Mother will come for me,” Nathan said. “Will she, Johnny?”

“Pay no attention to him,” I said, smoothing his fair hair from his damp forehead. His eyes were bright, and his cheeks ruddy, but he was far too frail for a six-year-old boy. His cough was growing worse. He needed his sleep, but Winston’s talk of vampires had frightened him. I tried to keep my anger at our neighbor’s thoughtlessness from my voice. “Mother loved you, and would never harm you, you know that, Nate. And she’s up in heaven, with all the angels. You must not worry so. Just try to get well.”

“But Mr. Winston said-”

“Mr. Winston is a mean-spirited old busybody,” I said with some exasperation. “He only means to frighten you, Nate.”

Nathan said nothing, but frowned, as if making a decision. After a while he took hold of my hand. “I’m glad you’ve come home, Johnny,” he whispered. “I know you wish you were away at school-”

“No, Sprout, I could not wish to be anywhere else if you need me.”

He smiled at the nickname. “You’ll stay with me tonight, won’t you?”

“Of course I’ll stay with you,” I said, and reached into one of my pockets. “And see here-I’m armed-look what I’ve brought with me!”

“The slingshot I made for you!”

“Yes, and I’ve gathered a few stones for ammunition,” I said, winking at him. “So you’re safe now. Only get some sleep, Sprout. I’ll stay right here.”

He slept soundly. Noah came in to spell me, even though I protested I would be fine. “I know,” he whispered, “but please go downstairs to see to Father, Johnny. Try to talk him into getting some sleep.”

Downstairs, my father stood near a window, looking out into the moonlit night. I thought he looked more haggard than I had ever seen him. The previous year had taken a great toll on him, and when Nathan fell ill early in 1892, Father could barely take care of himself, let alone a small boy with consumption. So I came home from the private school for which my godfather had so generously paid my tuition; my instructors had been understanding-my family, they knew, had suffered greatly of late. Even though this was not the first occasion upon which I had been called home, my marks were high and I was well ahead of most of my classmates in my studies; the headmaster assured me that I would be allowed to return.

I found my father greatly changed-indeed, Arden Farm itself seemed changed. Winter was the time he usually pruned the trees, but now as I stood next to him at the window, I saw the sucker branches reaching sharply into the winter sky, casting strange shadows everywhere.

“Half my orchard has been felled,” he remarked, and I knew he was not talking of the trees, but of the toll consumption had taken on his family. “First Rebecca, then Robert and Daniel. Last month, your mother-dearest Sarah! I’ve said prayers and made my peace with the Lord. And still he wants more. Is this my God?”

“Noah and I are healthy,” I replied, trying to keep his spirits up. “And Julia is with her husband in Peacedale. She’s well.”

From the other room, we heard the sound of Nathan’s cough. “Now my youngest!” my father said.

“Noah and I will care for Nathan. He’ll get better.”

But neither of us could easily hope that Nathan would recover. Too many times in the past year, consumption had robbed us of those we loved. Ten-year-old Rebecca’s cough started early in 1891, and her illness progressed slowly at first. She rallied in the spring, and we thought all would be well. But in August, the cough came back. She was soon coughing up blood-we knew she would not live long after the blood started. By the end of the month, she was dead.

Robert and Daniel, my older brothers, took ill the week before Rebecca’s funeral. Mother wrote to me less often, her time taken up with care of them. When she did write, her letters were filled with news of neighbors who had also taken ill, or of the advice given to her by Dr. Ashford. “He tells me to give to them fresh air, to keep them clean, to change their clothes often,” she wrote. “I confess to you, dear John, that I am quite worn down-each day, I take them outdoors, read to them, and try to keep their spirits up. This is the most difficult of all my duties. They miss Rebecca, and they know their own symptoms are identical to hers. Still, I will do all I can to keep my boys alive. God keep you safe, John!”

But despite all her efforts, by October, I came home again-for Robert’s funeral. And thus I was there, three days later, when Daniel told us he had dreamt of Rebecca and Robert.

“They were here, sitting on my bed. They weren’t sick. They said I had helped them to get better.” Two days later, he passed away during the night.

I returned to school, but Mother’s letters grew fewer still. I thought it was grief that kept her from writing, but when I came home for the Christmas holidays, I immediately realized that the cause was otherwise-the wracking cough of consumption was no longer an unfamiliar sound to any of us.

“Why did you not tell me?” I asked my father.

“She did not want us to take you from your school,” he said. “She has come to believe you will be safer there than here.”

I hurried to her bedside. She looked so thin and weak.

“John, you are home!” she whispered to me as I sat beside her. “Rebecca, Daniel, and Robert are with the Lord. I’ll be with them soon. They are good children. They’ll not bother me. I have not dreamt of them. They won’t come and take me.”

“What does she mean?” I asked my father, when she fell asleep again.

“Winston!” he said angrily. “He’s all about the village, telling everyone that the consumption is caused by vampires.”

“Vampires!”

“Yes. He tells his tales to any who will hear him. Gets the most ignorant of them to believe that the spirits of the dead consume the living, and thus the living are weakened!”

“But surely no one believes such things!”

“In the absence of any cure, do you blame them for grasping at any explanation offered to them? Grief and fear will lead men to strange ways, Johnny, and Winston can persuade like the devil himself!”

“Yes, he was ever one to seek attention,” I agreed.

“He has gained a great deal of it during this crisis,” my father said. “And the rituals he has driven some of the more superstitious ones to perform! It sickens me!” He shivered in disgust.

Mother died two nights after Christmas, as Father held her, singing hymns to her. The next day, he dressed her in her favorite dress and sent word to the undertaker. The stonecarver had already completed her headstone, and her burial place had long been chosen.

Noah wrote to me of Nathan’s illness in late January of 1892, and I hurried home again. That first night back, as I studied my father’s face, etched in grief, I saw that my mother’s death had wounded him even more deeply than I had imagined. I had never doubted their love or devotion to one another, but I had not before realized how much of his strength must have come from her. If this great man could be made so weak, what would become of us? I suddenly felt as small and frightened as a boy of Nathan’s age.

“Papa!” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He looked at me and smiled a little. “It is some time since you called me ‘Papa.’ ”

“You-you need your sleep,” I said. “Won’t you go up to bed?”

The smile faded. “So empty, that room…” he murmured.

“Please, it’s so late and you seem so tired-”

“I cannot-I will not be able to sleep there.”

Understanding dawned. “Then I’ll make a place up for you here, near the fire. But you must sleep. Please. Nathan and Noah need you. I need you.”

And so he consented, but when I left him to go back to Nathan, he was staring into the fire.

The next morning, my father gently shook me awake. I sat up stiffly in the chair next to the bed where Nathan still slept. I could hear our dogs barking. Father gestured for me to step into the hallway.

“Winston is on his way up the drive! I’ve asked Noah to delay him all he can. But I must tell you this-make sure Nathan hears nothing of his foolish talk.”

I started to tell him that Nathan’s head was already full of Winston’s foolish talk, but he had hurried off.

I stood near the window of Nathan’s room, straining to hear the conversation that was taking place below. Winston was a large man, whose new derby, well-made coat and fine boots signaled his prosperity, but could not improve his rough features. As my father approached, Winston’s pock-marked cheeks were flushed. He eyed the dogs warily, until Noah called them to heel.

“Will you not ask me in, neighbor?” Winston asked, fingering his heavy gold watch chain.

“My youngest is ill,” my father said firmly. “I would not have you disturb him.”

My father’s lack of hospitality did not delay Winston from his mission. He took a deep breath, and said in a loud voice, “I fear for my community, for my neighbors and their families! I know you’re scared for what remains of yours, too. I can see it in your eyes, Arden. Rebecca took the boys, then they took Sarah. Now, Sarah’s taking Nathan. John and Noah will follow, and you’ll be last. Julia may be far away enough to be safe, but there is no certainty of that.”

“My family’s safety is my own concern, Winston.”

“Your obligation is greater than you perceive, Arden!” Winston shot back. “The vampires look beyond your family! Lavinia Gardner has the consumption.”

“Isaac’s wife is ill?” my father asked, dismayed.

“Yes. And she’s dreamt of your wife! There’s only one way to stop this-the ritual must be performed! It has worked for Robinson, and others as well. This is a warning, Arden! If you’re afraid to do what is necessary, I’ll do it myself!”

“You’ll go nowhere near the graves of my beloved!” Father shouted. “I know of your ritual, Winston. I’ve spoken with Robinson. He’s not the same man-he’s alive, but he looks for all the world as if he believes himself damned.”

“Nonsense!” Winston blustered. “What’s more important, Arden? Maintaining your own selfish prejudices, or the survival of Carrick Hollow? Our eldest sons and daughters are fleeing-they’ve taken factory jobs in Providence and Fall River.”

“There are many reasons they leave. You have no wife or children, Winston. Allow me to take care of my own.”

“A fine job you’re doing of it! Half of them dead!”

Noah stepped forward, his fists clenched. I could not make out what he said to Winston.

“Noah,” my father said, “it’s all right. Try though he may, Mr. Winston can not harm me with his words.”

“Think of your neighbors, Arden!” Winston said. “Think of Isaac if you won’t think of your own sons!” He turned on his heel and strode quickly down the lane, dried leaves swirling in his wake.

“Johnny?” I heard a small voice say.

I turned from the window to see Nathan watching me. “So you’re awake, Mr. Sleepyhead!”

“I heard Mr. Winston yelling at Papa.”

“Yes, and had I known you were awake, I would have opened the window and used this fine slingshot to knock old Thunderpuss’s fancy derby right off his silly head.”

Nathan smiled and said, “I should have liked to have seen you do it,” and went back to sleep.

The thaw broke the day Lavinia Gardner died. Isaac Gardner came to visit us two weeks later. Noah stayed with Nathan as I sat with Father, watching Isaac wring his hands.

“You know what I think of Winston,” he began. “And I would not come to trouble you, Amos, except-except that, before she died, Lavinia called Sarah’s name several times.”

“Our wives were good friends,” my father said.

Isaac shook his head. “That’s not what I mean, Amos. I mean, called her name as if she were within speaking distance. I’d tell her, ‘Sarah’s dead,’ and she’d say, ‘No, Sarah Arden is rattling me again. She comes at night and shakes me and the cough starts up.’ ”

My father sat in stunned silence.

“Your wife was very ill-” I began gently.

“Yes, John,” Isaac said, “and I told myself that she was right out of her head, although of course Neighbor Winston had a good deal to say otherwise, and he’s caught my daughter’s ear. Even before Jane took ill, she was asking me if maybe we should pay attention to what Winston had to say.”

“The news of Jane’s illness only reached us yesterday,” my father said. “I was sorry to hear of it, Isaac. I had always hoped that she and Noah-well, I can only offer my prayers for her recovery.”

“She’s all I have left in the world, Amos,” Isaac said. “As hard on you as it has been, losing so many-well, I don’t know what I’ll do if Jane suffers like her mother did.” He paused, then said, “But I’m here, Amos, because I want you to know what things have come to-and God forgive me, but I need your help. Jane no longer doubts that Winston’s right.”

“What?”

“Yes. Just last night, she told me, ‘Mother will take me just like Sarah Arden took her.’ And she pleaded with me, Amos-‘Mr. Winston knows the way to stop this. You can’t let me die!’ ”

My father was silent.

“I told her,” Isaac said, his voice breaking, “I told her, ‘Jane, think of it! Think what you ask me to do! Your mother-let her rest in peace!’ And she said, ‘But Father, she’s not resting in peace now. She can only rest forever with your help.’ ”

“Good God, Isaac!”

“I don’t believe in it, not for a minute, Amos. But she does. And what’s worse, now more than half the village does, too! Winston’s got them all stirred up. What they say of you, I’ll not repeat.”

“I’d as soon you didn’t!” Father said, casting a glance at me.

“I’ve gone to Pastor Williams. He doesn’t promote the ritual, but he doesn’t oppose it, either. He’s only human, and Winston holds some sway with him, too.”

“With his coffers, you mean. I hear Winston’s most recent donation makes up what is needed for the new roof on the church.”

“Amos!”

“Yes, yes, I’m ashamed of making such a remark. Forgive me, Isaac.” He sighed and said, “What do you need from me?”

“Help me to do it.”

“The ritual?” my father asked, horrified.

“Amos, you’re my best friend in all the world, else I wouldn’t ask it. But I need someone there-someone who hasn’t lost his mind in all this vampire madness. Otherwise, God knows what is to become of me! I need your strength!”

His strength is failing! I wanted to protest, but my father was already agreeing to help his old friend.

Father would not let us go with him on the day the ritual was performed. When he came home, his pallor frightened me. I gave him soup and warm bread, but he did not eat. He would not speak of what happened, but late that night, I heard him weeping.

Jane Gardner died two days later.

If we had thought this would put an end to Winston’s cause, we were mistaken. A town meeting was held the next week. I sat next to Father, near the front of the room, when Winston presented his case. Father had told Noah that Winston could not hurt him with his words, but how wrong he had been!

“The future of our community is at risk!” Winston declared, fingering his gold watch chain. “Many of our dearest friends and family members have died from consumption. We’ve taken action against the vampires, with one notable exception.” He stared hard at my father. “Those in the Arden family!”

There was a low murmur, a mixture of protest and agreement.

Winston held his hands out flat, making a calming motion. “Now,” he said silkily, “I have great sympathy for my neighbor, Amos Arden. The death of his wife and three children is a terrible loss for him. But in consumption, the living are food for the dead, and we must think of the living! The graves must be opened, and the bodies examined! If none of their hearts is found to hold blood, we may all be at peace, knowing that none are vampires. But if there is a vampire coming to us from the Arden graves, the ritual must be performed! This is our only recourse.” The room fell silent. No one rose to speak, but many heads nodded in agreement.

Father stood slowly, grasping the chair beside me. “The thought of disturbing the peace of my wife and children sickens me. I do not believe in this superstition, but I see no other way.” He glanced toward Winston, then said, “If I refuse, I have no doubt that some other will take the task upon himself. He takes a great deal upon himself, but the thought of his hands on my wife’s remains-” He broke off, and I saw that he was trembling, not in fear, but in anger. He looked around the room, but many of our neighbors would not meet his gaze. “I will agree to the ritual,” he said at last, “but no one else will touch my wife.”

The exhumation was set for two days hence, and under other circumstances, would have occupied all my thoughts. Instead, all my energies were taken up with the care of Nathan, whose condition suddenly worsened. He bore it bravely, worrying more about his father than himself. “Papa is troubled,” he said, and pleaded again and again with me to tell him what had so disturbed our parent.

On the night before the exhumation, I told my father that Nathan’s condition terrified me. “He needs a doctor! He has night sweats now, and the coughing is ceaseless. He has so little strength and-”

“I know, John. I know.”

I was silent.

“With all that has befallen us,” my father said, “I’m sorry, John, I cannot afford to bring Ashford here again, even if he would come.”

“What do you mean, ‘if he would come’? Of course he would!”

My father shook his head. “I have not wanted to tell you this, son, but-the last time Dr. Ashford saw him, three weeks ago, he told me Nathan’s case is hopeless. Your brother is dying.”

I had known it, of course, without being told, but still it was a blow. Childishly, I struck back. “So you resort to Winston’s witchcraft!”

He looked into my eyes and said, “Do you think I would hesitate for a moment to save any of your lives by any means I could? By God, I’d offer my own life if it would save his!”

“Papa-I’m sorry! I just can’t understand why you’ve agreed to this ritual. It didn’t work for Jane Gardner. I’ve heard of other unsuccessful cases-”

“I don’t do this because I believe it will cure consumption. But it is a cure for mistrust. A bitter remedy, but a necessary one.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will go back to school soon, and perhaps you will never return to Carrick Hollow. No, don’t protest-whether you do or not, Noah and I will continue to live here. We who live in the countryside depend upon our friends and neighbors. My neighbors are depending on me now, to do something which they have come to believe will keep them safe and well. No matter how repulsive I find it, John, I must do this to keep their trust.”

That night, my sleep was fitful. Nathan’s cough was horrible, and nothing I did could bring him any relief. My brief dreams were filled with images of decaying flesh and bones, of coffins unearthed, of Winston’s thick hands reaching into my mother’s grave.

The morning broke bright and warm, unusual for an early spring day in New England. We had agreed that Noah would stay with Nathan; a suggestion that he met with both relief and some guilt. But my father knew that Noah’s anger toward Winston had already nearly led to blows, and asked him to stay home.

A group of ten men, including poor Isaac Gardner, gathered in the village. Winston tried to lead the way to the cemetery, but Isaac shouldered him aside, and let my father go ahead of them. I saw my father hesitate. I took his hand, and together we walked to the familiar section of the churchyard, the one I knew so well from that winter of funerals. As we stood at the foot of the four newest Arden graves, Winston’s voice interrupted my silent prayers.

“Dig up all four coffins,” he directed.

“All four!” my father protested.

“We must be certain!” Winston said. “We’ll place them under that tree. Once they are all exhumed, we’ll open them one at a time. Start with the children.”

Father, Isaac, and I stood away from the group. At a nod from Winston, their picks and shovels struck the earth. They began to dig, never looking up at us. My father swayed a little on his feet, and Isaac moved nearer, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Together we stood listening to the rhythm of the digging, the downward scrape and lift, the thudding fall of the soil as they attacked my sister’s grave. Soon, the top of Rebecca’s coffin was struck. How small that coffin looked! The earth was moved from around its sides, and ropes were placed under the ends. The coffin was lifted from the grave and placed under a nearby tree. In two more hours, two other coffins were taken from the earth-the larger coffins of my brothers, Robert, who had been but eighteen, and Daniel, a year younger-the age I was now. As each coffin was brought up, my prayers became more urgent and the fact of the exhumations more real.

The group moved to Mother’s grave. Again, shovels broke into the soil. The digging slowed now-the first frenzy long past, the men grew tired. At last, they pulled her coffin from the earth and set it with the others, beneath the tree. I moved toward it, and placed my hand on the lid of her box. I felt the cool, damp wood, and the small indentations made by each nail. I broke out in a cold sweat, and my hand shook. I turned when I heard the creak of the nails being pried from the other coffins.

Father’s hand gently touched my arm. I moved away.

When they had finished loosening all the nails on the top of each of the coffins, Winston directed the men to remove the lid of Rebecca’s. With horror, I gazed at the unrecognizable form that-had it not been for her dress and the color of her hair-I would not have known as my sister. This child’s face, impish and smiling not so very long ago, was now nothing more than a skull, covered with sunken, leathery skin; her small, white hands now nothing more than thin bones covered with dark, dried sinew. My throat constricted-I could not swallow, could not breathe. Rebecca! Little Rebecca! My memories of her could not be reconciled with what I saw. I had taught her how to write her name, I thought wildly-I had heard her laughter. This could not be my sister…

Winston was studying her. I wanted to claw his filthy eyes out.

“No,” he said, and the lid was quickly replaced.

He said the same thing when he gazed upon the remains of my brothers, who also appeared mummified, their dry skin stretched tight over their bony frames.

I tried hard to control my emotions, but this was increasingly difficult. By the time we reached my mother’s coffin, only my desire to deny Winston any glimpse of weakness kept me on my feet.

They slid the coffin lid off the edge of the box. Father and I looked down at Mother’s face. She looked peaceful, remarkably like the day we buried her, despite the three cold months that had passed. Her nails and hair appeared longer, and in places, her skin had turned reddish.

“Ahh,” Winston said, moving closer. “As I suspected. But we must examine the heart to be certain.”

“You’ll not touch her!” my father cried.

Winston smiled, and turned to the others. “Light the fire.”

“By God, Winston-”

“Oh, indeed, I’ll not touch your vampire wife. You must be the one.” He handed my father a long knife.

My father stared at it.

“Get on with it, man!” Winston ordered.

“John,” my father said, anguished, “leave us. Go home. It was wrong of me to bring you here-”

“I’ll not leave you, Father.”

He shook his head, but turned back to the open coffin. He set the knife aside, and with trembling fingers, tenderly moved her burial gown down from her neck. I heard him sob, then saw him lift the knife. He cut a gash in her chest.

“The heart, the heart!” Winston said eagerly.

Father’s face seemed to turn to stone-cold and gray. He pried the wound open, then took the knife and cut away her heart. Bloody fluid ran from the wound onto her dress.

“You see! She’s the one, she’s the vampire!”

As from a distance, I heard the other men gasp, and saw their quick gestures-signs against evil.

“Put it in the fire, Arden!” Winston directed.

“No!” I said weakly, but Father walked toward the blaze. He let the heart drop from his fingers; the fire hissed and sparked as it fell into the center of the flames.

Father walked back to Mother’s coffin, placed the lid on it, and began to hammer it shut. I picked up one of the other hammers-tears blinding me, I worked at his side. Without speaking, several men did the same for the other coffins. Each coffin was slowly lowered back into its grave, and in silence we began to cover them again-but Father buried Mother’s coffin alone, refusing the others’ help with a steely look in his eyes.

I saw Winston warming his hands over the fire. He caught me looking at him and smiled. “You should thank me. I’ve saved your life this day, John.”

Before the others could stop me, I slammed my fist into his jaw.

My father led me away from them, and with Isaac we made our way back home. All the way down the lane, I could not help but be troubled over what I had seen, and wondered at it. That my mother could be a vampire, I did not for a moment believe. I knew there must be a rational, scientific explanation for the blood that had been in my mother’s heart. I swore to myself that I would study anatomy and medicine-yes, and vampires, too-and learn all I could about consumption and its causes.

When we returned to the house, Noah held Nathan’s body in his arms.

My medical schooling was the best in New England. The Boston area had many fine schools, and Springhaven University was among them. Springhaven was the choice of my godfather, as it was his alma mater, and he was a respected alumnus and benefactor.

Medical school was not easy for me. The work itself was not difficult, though much harder than my earlier schooling, to be sure. I took to the reading, lectures, and discussions with great interest, but it was the hustle and bustle of Boston that caused me discomfort. The size of the city, its noises and smells, always left me ill at ease. Although I loved the work, I was homesick.

Early on, I learned that there had been nothing unusual about the appearance of my mother’s body, given the conditions of her burial-the coldness of the ground, the brief length of time she had been buried. The heart is a pump, my anatomy instructor said, and at death, blood and other fluids often settle there and in the chest cavity after the heart ceases beating.

My professors called consumption by another name-tuberculosis, or TB. Tuberculosis was not an enigma to these men of science. Over forty years before my brother’s death, sanitariums were being established in Europe, and TB patients were living longer lives. But of all the discoveries that had been made about the disease, perhaps the most exciting had come in 1882, when Robert Koch identified its true cause-Mycobacterium tuberculosis. Koch’s discovery proved that TB was transmitted from a consumptive to a healthy person through bacteria contained in the consumptive’s cough-not by vampires.

Although saddened that my knowledge had come too late to save my family, I had no difficulty accepting these new discoveries. But educating the public, whether the poor of Boston or the farmers of Carrick Hollow, was a challenge. I determined to practice medicine in Carrick Hollow upon graduation, to do my best to counter the superstitious remedies that offered no real hope to its inhabitants.

I visited one of my chief correspondents and supporters soon after my return-old Dr. Ashford received me gladly, and we talked at length about the medical histories of families in the area and exchanged information on the latest medical supplies and pharmaceuticals. We also discussed my schooling and how much medical education had changed since he had taken the title “doctor.”

“The War of the Rebellion was where I learned medicine,” he said. “We learned on our feet, not from the books. I haven’t had much of a head for the science of it-just tried to do what worked.” He paused, then added, “Remember, John, that folks here are quite independent, even when it comes to medicine. They take care of their own problems, using the same remedies their grandparents used. It’s hard to fight their traditions.”

“I suspect that will be the hardest part of my job,” I replied. “I have confidence that I can do some good here, if my neighbors will only accept me.”

“You’ve always had both the mind and the manner for medicine,” he said. “You’ll do well in Carrick Hollow. It’s time they had a doctor as fine as yourself.”

As it happened, the residents of the village took me in with open arms, proud of my accomplishments, and glad to have a physician so nearby. Several of them helped me to convert a building formerly used by a lawyer into a small clinic, which had the advantage of living quarters on the upper story.

I had the good fortune to be of some help to my first patients, and soon others were ready to follow my medical advice and help me to establish my practice. I fell easily into life in Carrick Hollow, surrounded by the sense of community I so missed in Boston.

Only one problem continued to trouble me-my father’s state of mind.

Father had never fully recovered from the deaths in our family, especially not from the loss of my mother. Noah had been greatly relieved when I told him that I meant to set up my practice in the village. “Perhaps you will be able to cheer him,” he said. “He has not been the same since-since the day Nathan died.”

But although he was always kind to me in those months, my father never smiled, and seldom spoke. His sleep was often disturbed by nightmares, and if not for our constant coaxing, he would not have eaten enough to keep his strength up. He worked hard, but the joy he had once taken in his labors was gone. There was a lost look in his eyes, and the smallest happiness seemed beyond his reach. It was as if, on that long ago day at the cemetery, his own heart had fallen on those flames, and turned to ashes with my mother’s.

His lifelessness was a condition found in others in Carrick Hollow-in Isaac Gardner, in Mr. Robinson, and in others who had performed Winston’s brutal ritual. Bitterly I reflected that nothing in my medical training would cure these men. I vowed that no one in Carrick Hollow would ever be forced to endure that ritual again.

Soon after I had opened my office, I was given an opportunity to make good on that vow. I was visited by Jacob Wilcox, a middle-aged man just returned to Carrick Hollow from factory work in Fall River. His rumbling cough was a tell-tale sign of tuberculosis, but my examination revealed that the disease was in its early stages.

I recommended the best hope for his recovery-the strict regimens of a sanitarium. I suggested one in the Adirondack Mountains, which had the advantages of being close to Rhode Island and less costly than those in the western United States. He thanked me, took the information, and went on his way.

A few days later, at my father’s request, I visited the farm. Coming down the drive, hearing the welcoming bark of our old dogs, I felt what had become a customary mixture of sadness and deep comfort in returning to my childhood home. Noah and my father came out to help me stable the horse, and my brother and I spoke of inconsequential things. I could not help but notice that Father seemed agitated, and Noah wary.

My father did not broach the subject that concerned him until we had finished eating our simple meal-a meal he had barely touched. He put a log on the fire, then turned to me and said, “I’m told that you saw a patient with consumption today.”

“Yes,” I answered hesitantly. I had not previously told him of my devotion to the study of consumption, and I was concerned that he would be touched on the raw by any mention of it.

He frowned. “I talked to young Wilcox after you saw him. What is this treatment you prescribed? Why do you send him to the mountains?”

“In hope of curing his consumption,” I said.

“Curing! Is it possible?”

“Sometimes, yes.” I began to tell him of the benefits the TB patient might find in life in a sanitarium-exposure to a healthful climate, enforced rest, fresh air, proper care and good nutrition. “And of course, the sanitarium separates those who have this contagion from any who might be vulnerable to it, so the disease is less likely to be spread to others.”

“You have especially concerned yourself with the study of-you call it ‘TB?’ ”

“Yes.”

His questions became more persistent, and soon I was talking to him of Brehmer, Villemin, Koch and all the others whose discoveries had brought us to our present understanding of the disease. My father listened with rapt attention, but I saw that he became more and more uneasy as I spoke. Soon, however, I recognized that he was dismayed not by what I had learned about TB, but by his own previous ignorance.

“Dr. Ashford did not know of this!” he said. “Your mother, the children-their consumption was a death sentence! I should have sought another physician, a younger man, such as yourself. If we had known of these sanitariums-”

“It still might not have helped-sanitariums only give consumptives a chance to recover. Some people survive, others arrive only to die a few weeks later.”

“But Nathan-your mother, Robert and Daniel-all of them, even Rebecca-they might have lived had we sent Rebecca away?”

“I don’t know. There were so many others in Carrick Hollow who were ill that winter. Perhaps they would have caught TB from Mrs. Gardner, or Jane, or another. We cannot always cure this disease, Papa. I can’t say for certain who would live and who would die. For all that men in my profession have learned, life and death are still in God’s hands.”

He was silent.

“We cannot change the past, Papa. I only hope to save others from the horror our family experienced. In truth, my most difficult battle is not against the disease, but rather the ignorance-the sort of ignorance which allows men like Winston to convince others that the afflicted are beset by vampires. As long as he spouts his nonsense, others will die, because he will have his neighbors believing that spiritual mumbo jumbo-and not infection-are at the root of the disease.”

“You are too kind, John,” he said slowly. “You fail to mention the truly damned. Men like your father, who will be persuaded that barbaric rituals must be performed on the bodies of their dead-”

“Papa, you never believed him. You had other reasons. Do not torture yourself so!”

“There is no escape from it.”

“Then try to find some peace where I have-in helping the living. That is how my mother’s memory is best served-the sooner we educate our neighbors in the truth of this matter, the less influence men of Winston’s stripe will have over them.”

I was gratified, the next day, to see that he seemed to have dedicated himself to this cause, and that he was to some degree transformed by his devotion to it. Whenever I happened to glance out my office window, I saw my father talking in an animated fashion to any who would hear him. He was a respected member of the community, and had no shortage of listeners. Isaac Gardner was with him, and he, too, seemed to have taken up the banner. By the early afternoon, Mr. Robinson had stopped into my office to ask if what my father said was true-that vampires had nothing to do with consumption, that some people were being cured of it in sanitariums. I verified that it was so, and watched his eyes cloud with tears. “Then what Winston told me to do to Louisa’s body-the ritual-that was all for naught?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said gently.

He swore rather violently regarding Mr. Winston, then begged my pardon, and left. I watched him walk across the street to join the growing crowd that had gathered around my parent. I smiled. My father, Isaac Gardner and Mr. Robinson would all do a better job of convincing the others than I ever could.

I was vaguely aware that the crowd was moving off down the street, but I was soon caught up in the care of a young patient who had fallen from a tree, and forgot all about vampires and consumption. I set his broken arm, and sent him and his grateful mother on their way. I had just finished straightening my examination room when the door to my office burst open, and my father, Noah, Isaac Gardner, Robinson and a great many others came crowding into the room. They carried between them a man whose face was so battered and clothing so bloodied that I would not have recognized him were it not for a memorable piece of ostentation he was never without-a heavy gold watch chain.

“Winston!”

The others looked at me, their eyes full of fear.

“Lay him on the table!” I ordered.

It took only the briefest examination to realize that he was beyond any help I could offer. He was already growing cold. “He’s dead.”

I thought I heard sighs of relief, and I turned to face them. They all stood silently, hats in hand.

“Who did this?” I asked.

No one answered, and all lowered their eyes.

“Who did this?” I asked again.

“Vampires,” I heard someone whisper, but I was never to know who spoke the word. No matter what I asked, no matter how I pleaded to be told the truth, they remained resolutely silent. Winston’s blood was on all of them; there was no way to distinguish a single killer from among the group. I went to my basin, to wash his blood from my own hands. The thought arrested me. These were neighbors, friends-my father, my brother. I knew what had driven them to this-I knew. Had I not lived in Carrick Hollow almost all my life?

“What shall we do with him?” one of them asked. I dried my hands and said, in a voice of complete calm, “I believe it is said that for the good of the community, one who is made into a vampire must be cremated.”

I could show you the place in the woods where it was done, where the earth has not yet healed over the burning. Nature works to reclaim it, though, as nature ever works to reclaim us all.

I would like to tell you that the last vampire of Carrick Hollow had been laid to rest there, and that we now live in peace. But it is not so.

Not long after Winston’s death, people who had lived in our village all their lives began to leave it. Farms were abandoned. We would tell strangers that it was the economy-and in truth, some left because it was easier to make a living in the cities. But that would not explain the mistrust the inhabitants sometimes seem to feel toward one another, or the guilty look one might surprise in the faces of those who hastily travel past Winston’s farm.

I thought the peddler was unlikely to return. He had seen something that frightened him, though he might not know enough to put a name to the emptiness in a young doctor’s eyes. I knew it for what it was, for I had seen it in my father and Isaac and Mr. Robinson and so many others-Carrick Hollow is a haunted place, haunted by the living as well as the dead.

Oh yes, I believe in vampires-though not the sort of bogeyman imagined by fanatics like the late and unlamented Winston.

But if vampires are the animated dead, dead who walk upon the earth-restless, hungry, and longing to be alive again-then I could never deny their existence. You see, I know so very many of them.

Indeed, I am one.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

While Carrick Hollow and its inhabitants are entirely fictional, some New Englanders were ascribing the cause of consumption (tuberculosis) to vampires late into the 19th century; newspaper accounts and other evidence indicate rituals such as the one described here occurred at least as late as the 1890’s in rural Rhode Island.