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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.”