“Though some claim dracula is actually draco, a Greek noun meaning dragon, I prefer my version. Now, Andrew, let us get our shovels back into the hearse and head for home.”
“Yes, Mr. Nickolas, but the name is not what I meant. It’s all those different dates.”
“Why? Is there something wrong with them?”
“Well, Mr. Nickolas, but how many times...”
“Oh, you mean how many times can one person die? Well, Andrew, since it’s a long ride back to town, I might as well tell you.”
Simon Nickolas, almost well-liked mortician of Bear Valley, California, unobtrusively sampled his flask, settled back in the upholstered seat of his ornate C-spring hearse, and clucked at the horses.
“It all started when I, ever on the lookout for a bargain, noticed an advertisement for European coffins at reduced prices. They were part of a consignment to Stockton, England, but were misdirected to Stockton, California. Since the shipping company was unable to locate the consignee, I bought them at a bargain price.
“Much to my astonishment, I later discovered that one of the containers was already occupied.”
“Gee whiz, Mr. Nickolas, all that time aboard ship, it must have been...”
“Actually not, Andrew. The cadaver, for lack of a better name, appeared in remarkably good condition — well dressed, cutaway, tails, and wrapped in a rather expensive cloak. I was in the act of removing said overgarment when I was suddenly seized by the wrist.”
“You mean...” Andrew gulped.
“Yes, the occupant of the coffin...” Nickolas mused, half aloud. “A rather well-constructed coffin, I must admit, satin lined, solid silver handles, mortised...”
“No, Mr. Nickolas,” Andrew stammered, “I... I mean, uh, who, uh, what, grabbed you?”
“Andrew, in our profession we never, I repeat never, show undue excitement. Proper deportment is essential.”
Young Andrew blushed at the gentle reproof yet reveled in the words “our profession.” He was almost an equal.
The hearse swayed gently while negotiating a curve in the dirt road. The horses kept perfect cadence.
“Count Dracula, as he introduced himself, was not dead, at least in the usual sense, and had chosen this novel method of transportation from his native land to new diggings, so to speak.”
“Yes, but...”
“Andrew, if you persist in interrupting...”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Keen observer that I am, I immediately sensed something strange about this... ahhh... person. He looked rather anemic. He had, in the words of the Bard of Avon, ‘a lean and hungry look.’
“Upon noticing the other coffins spread about the room, he gave me an evil smile and immediately proposed a business partnership. ‘It seems,’ he said, ‘we have similar pursuits.’
“In the meantime, he said, he would like to take a look about town and fluttered off, like a bat, you know. I retired for the night. He must have returned before dawn, since I found him fast asleep in his strange bed when I arose.
“I, of course, wasn’t interested in a partnership, but before I could refuse the offer, Mr. Sideburn from the Shortbranch Hotel knocked and informed me that one of his patrons had expired during the night... a traveling salesman, I think he said, or a Republican. I forget which.
“At any rate, while preparing the body for burial, I noticed two strange puncture wounds on the neck. I got to thinking about Mr. Dracula.
“I opened his polished walnut abode and, sure enough, there he lay, sound asleep, rosy as a peach with a satisfied smirk on his face. I did the only honorable thing.”
“Gee whiz, Mr. Nickolas, what was that?”
“Why, I buried that bloodsucker along with the Republican.”
“But, Mr. Nickolas, how come the other dates...”
“Things were quiet for some time after the event. Then I was summoned to Banker Hardbristle’s home. It seems he had expired during the night while counting money extracted from Widow Brown. The sheriff said Hardbristle died of natural causes. There was no evidence of foul play, the money still lay in plain sight, and the room appeared undisturbed.
“Nothing appeared suspicious to me, either, until I found the two small punctures on his neck. Almost two years had psssed, yet here was evidence that Dracula was again at work.”
“Gee, Mr. Nickolas,” Andrew shivered, “I hope we make it home before dark.”
“The following day, after the ceremony, I delayed until the mourners left, which didn’t take too long. He was a banker, you know.”
Andrew nodded, determined not to interrupt yet all the while thinking about those puncture wounds. The shadows on the road grew longer.
“I found, much to my surprise, that Count Dracula had been happily tunneling from one new grave to another. For the last two months, however, there had been a dearth of deaths — we traced it back to a patent medicine man who came through town — and the batman’s appetite got the better of him.
“I was quite fearful of what havoc he could create about the countryside, so I took his coffin back to the shop, knowing that he had to retire to it before dawn.”
“How did you know that, Mr. Nickolas?”
“His servant, a mousy little chap named Renfrew who had a disgusting habit of eating insects, had arrived in town looking for the lost shipment. He had been waiting in vain at dockside in England.
“Fearful of facing his master’s wrath, he was only too happy to tell me of the fiend’s weaknesses. Together we rode back to the cemetery, where we sealed each tunnel by erecting crosses at the entrances, two to each, sort of a... heh, heh... double cross, you might say. We lowered the coffin with its undead occupant and quickly planted garlic over the entire grave.”
“Gee whiz, Mr. Nickolas, what was the garlic for?”
“According to Mr. Renfrew, vampires have an aversion to garlic. I can’t say as I blame them. It worked, too. I felt comfortable with the count safely tucked beneath a blanket of that pungent herb. That was the second burial.”
Andrew noticed the shadows of night, not falling as many people say but rising, rising from the ominous depressions in the fields and sinister ruts in the road. The fingers of darkness were growing longer, reaching... reaching...
He shivered again, almost fearful but he had to ask. “And the other date? The 1876?”
“Well, Andrew, you know Mr. and Mrs. Paparazzo, who own the clothing store in town. You also know she makes the finest spaghetti, along with other Italian dishes, in the entire county. Inadvertently, one of her more popular dishes sabotaged my entire plan.”
“Yes, sir, but do you mean...” Andrew hesitated, listening for strange flutterings from the shadowy copse along the road.
“Exactly. As the saying goes, ‘A nose by any other name will smell the same.’ While attending the funeral of their worthless son-in-law Smedly the inventor, who was killed in an explosion while demonstrating Smedly the Inventor’s Non-explosive Lamp Oil, the Paparazzos discovered the aromatic growth of garlic covering the resting place of Count Dracula. Its removal, done only to appease the palates of Mrs. Paparazzo’s spaghetti loving family, freed the evildoer from his pungent compound, and once again mysterious deaths prevailed in our beautiful valley.”
The undertaker reined the horses to a stop and directed Andrew to light the carriage lamps front and back.
“But it’s dark and I’ll have to get down on the ground.”
“Very astute, Andrew.”
Before the mortician finished two swallows from his flask, the four lamps shone brightly and Andrew sat breathlessly back in his seat.
“Now to resume my story. Though my business increased dramatically, it necessitated my taking the bull by the tail and looking it right in the eye. Dracula pestered me nightly to join forces with him, but that snake-in-the-grass was barking up the wrong tree. I still had another foot up my sleeve.