“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.