Showing posts with label Classic Literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Classic Literature. Show all posts

Margery of Quether by Sabine Baring-Gould

‘Margery of Quether’ is a vampire story by Sabine Baring-Gould, published in 1891.  It tells the story of a romance that blossoms between a young Dartmoor squire and a 17th-century witch cursed with eternal life.

Why we are living in 'Gothic times'?

There is a surge in goth-lit that channels our fears and anxieties. Hephzibah Anderson explores how the genre's past and new stories delve deep into disorder and darkness.

"We live in Gothic times," declared Angela Carter back in 1974. It's a theme Carlos Ruiz Zafón took up several decades later: "Ours is a time with a dark heart, ripe for the noir, the gothic and the baroque", he wrote in 2010. Both authors had good reason. The Gothic has always been about far more than heroines in Victorian nightgowns, trapped in labyrinthine ancestral homes, and along with the supernatural, its imaginings probe power dynamics and boundaries, delving deep into disorder and duality.

Monsters of Gothic Fiction

During the 1700s, as the world became better known through exploration and scientific experimentation, mythical monsters disappeared from studies of nature and medicine. But they became increasingly popular in the Gothic fiction that arose in the late 1700s and persisted as an important genre through the 1800s. Monsters of this literature personified the fears of society: fear of what happens when science is allowed to go too far; fear of the encroachment of contagious disease; and fear of the demons within ourselves.

Vampire Stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Distinguished vampire literature bibliographer Robert Eighteen-Bisang edited this collection, titled simply VAMPIRE STORIES (2009). Sherlock Holmes fans unfamiliar with Doyle's many other works of fiction may enjoy exploring the lesser-known stories in this volume, which does include a few Holmes adventures as well. Eighteen-Bisang provides a short introduction about Doyle, focusing mainly on his friendship with Bram Stoker and occasional annoyance at being famed solely as the creator of the Great Detective. Each tale is followed by a few paragraphs of background and commentary about the story.

Chinese Hopping Vampires: The Qing Dynasty roots behind the Jiangshi legend

Now a cult obsession thanks to Hong Kong horror movies of the 1980s and 1990s, the legend of the hopping vampire was first detailed in a series of supernatural reflections compiled between 1789 and 1798 by Ji Xiaolan (also known as Ji Yun) and collected posthumously in an 1800 volume entitled Yuewei Caotang Biji (閱微草堂筆記) – it’s English-language translation being the rather beautiful Random Notes at the Cottage of Close Scrutiny.

Vampire myths originated with a real blood disorder

The concept of a vampire predates Bram Stoker's tales of Count Dracula—probably by several centuries. But did vampires ever really exist?

In 1819, 80 years before the publication of Dracula, John Polidori, an Anglo-Italian physician, published a novel called The Vampire. Stoker's novel, however, became the benchmark for our descriptions of vampires. But how and where did this concept develop? It appears that the folklore surrounding the vampire phenomenon originated in that Balkan area where Stoker located his tale of Count Dracula.

The Icelandic Translation of ‘Dracula’ Is Actually a Different Book

The mysteries of this Gothic classic aren’t over yet
 
The Icelandic version of Dracula is called Powers of Darkness, and it’s actually a different—some say better—version of the classic Bram Stoker tale.

Makt Myrkranna (the book’s name in Icelandic) was "translated" from the English only a few years after Dracula was published on May 26, 1897, skyrocketing to almost-instant fame. Next Friday is still celebrated as World Dracula Day by fans of the book, which has been continuously in print since its first publication, according to Dutch author and historian Hans Corneel de Roos for Lithub. But the Icelandic text became, in the hands of translator Valdimar Ásmundsson, a different version of the story.


The Wild Evolution of Vampires, From Bram Stoker to Dracula Untold

As we’ve discussed here before, the tropes that define fantasy and horror literature are fluid, which is exactly why they persist. Vampires, werewolves, zombies, aliens, witches, ghosts—for several centuries, these archetypes have figured prominently in genre fiction, in no small part because they’ve adapted to suit the specific needs (and fears) of society at any given time.

The vampire in particular has had quite a colorful tenure. Vampiric creatures and spirits date at least as far back as Mesopotamia and Ancient Greece, but the vampire as we know it emerged in the early 1700s, when natives and foreigners alike began recording the folklore and superstitions of the Balkans, that cluster of eastern European countries that would become home to the most famous vampire of all time: Count Dracula.

Luella Miller

Written by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, taken from The Wind in the Rose-Bush
and Other Stories of the Supernatural.




CLOSE to the village street stood the one-story house in which Luella Miller, who had an evil name in the village, had dwelt. She had been dead for years, yet there were those in the village who, in spite of the clearer light which comes on a vantage-point from a long-past danger, half believed in the tale which they had heard from their childhood. In their hearts, although they scarcely would have owned it, was a survival of the wild horror and frenzied fear of their ancestors who had dwelt in the same age with Luella Miller. Young people even would stare with a shudder at the old house as they passed, and children never played around it as was their wont around an untenanted building.

The Bodysnatcher

Written by Robert Louis Stevenson, first published in the Pall Mall Christmas "Extra" 13 (Dec 1884)





Every night in the year, four of us sat in the small parlour of the George at Debenham - the undertaker, and the landlord, and Fettes, and myself. Sometimes there would be more; but blow high, blow low, come rain or snow or frost, we four would be each planted in his own particular arm-chair.

Was it a Dream?

Written by Guy de Maupassant



"I had loved her madly!

"Why does one love? Why does one love? How queer it is to see only one being in the world, to have only one thought in one's mind, only one desire in the heart, and only one name on the lips--a name which comes up continually, rising, like the water in a spring, from the depths of the soul to the lips, a name which one repeats over and over again, which one whispers ceaselessly, everywhere, like a prayer.

"I am going to tell you our story, for love only has one, which is always the same. I met her and loved her; that is all. And for a whole year I have lived on her tenderness, on her caresses, in her arms, in her dresses, on her words, so completely wrapped up, bound, and absorbed in everything which came from her, that I no longer cared whether it was day or night, or whether I was dead or alive, on this old earth of ours.

The Upper Berth

By F. Marion Crawford (1854-1909), from G.P. Putnam's Sons _Autonym Library_ no. 1 (1894)






The Transfer

The child first began to cry in the early afternoon— about three o’clock, to be exact. I remember the hour, because I had been listening with secret relief to the sound of the departing carriage. Those wheels fading into distance down the gravel drive with Mrs. Frene, and her daughter Gladys to whom I was governess, meant for me some hours’ welcome rest, and the June day was oppressively hot. Moreover, there was this excitement in the little country household that had told upon us all, but especially upon myself. This excitement, running delicately behind all the events of the morning, was due to some mystery, and the mystery was of course kept concealed from the governess. I had exhausted myself with guessing and keep­ing on the watch. For some deep and unexplained anxiety possessed me, so that I kept thinking of my sister’s dictum that I was really much too sensitive to make a good governess, and that I should have done far better as a professional clairvoyante.

Authenticated Vampire Story

On June 10, 1909, there appeared in a prominent Vienna paper (the Neues Wiener Journal) a notice (which I herewith enclose) saying that the castle of B— had been burned by the populace, because there was a great mortality among the peasant children, and it was generally believed that this was due to the invasion of a vampire, supposed to be the last Count B—, who died and acquired that reputation. The castle was situated in a wild and desolate part of the Carpathian Mountains and was formerly a fortification against the Turks. It was not inhabited owing to its being believed to be in the possession of ghosts, only a wing of it was used as a dwelling for the caretaker and his wife.


Fragment of a Novel

At the time Dr. Polidori's 'The Vampyre' was published, it was believed to have been written by Lord Byron . . . or at least taken from this fragment of Byron's novel that was never completed. Byron wrote in a letter to his publisher in May of 1819: " . . . I enclose you the beginning of mine --- by which you will see how far it resembles Mr. Colburn's publication. --- If you choose to publish it in the Edinburgh Magazine (Wilsons & Blackwoods) you may --- stating why, & with such explanatory proem as you please --- I never went on with it --- as you will perceive by the date . . . " This fragment was published with Mazeppa in June, 1819.

The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar

Edgar Allan Poe’s story, first printed in 1845, illustrating Poe’s active imagination, originality, and an eager interest in hypnotism -- referred to as mesmerism during that time period. In this essay, a study in hypnotism goes terribly wrong -- and was so believed at the time that it lead to a London publication preaching the consequences of performing “Mesmerism in Articulo Mortis.” (Poe loved a good joke!)




Of course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for wonder, that the extraordinary case of M. Valdemar has excited discussion. It would have been a miracle had it not—especially under the circumstances. Through the desire of all parties concerned, to keep the affair from the public, at least for the present, or until we had further opportunities for investigation—through our endeavors to effect this—a garbled or exaggerated account made its way into society, and became the source of many unpleasant misrepresentations; and, very naturally, of a great deal of disbelief.


The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire

A short story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle involving the famous detective Sherlock Holmes.

[Rumor has it that this story was apparently written by Sir Doyle as a tribute for his friend Bram Stoker.]




Holmes had read carefully a note which the last post had brought him. Then, with the dry chuckle which was his nearest approach to a laugh, he tossed it over to me.

"For a mixture of the modern and the mediaeval, of the practical and of the wildly fanciful, I think this is surely the limit," said he. "What do you make of it, Watson?"


A Journey into the Levant

A manuscript written by Joseph Pitton de Tournefort in the early 1700s. While traveling in Eastern Europe around 1700, he visited an island called Mycone where he encountered the destruction of a vampire.

(Excerpted from: *A Voyage Into the Levant...(etc)* by Joseph Pitton de Tournefort. 1718. English edition, London: printed for D. Midwinter, etc. 1741. Volume I, pp. 142-148.)




We were present at a very different Scene, and one very barbarous, in the same Island, which happened upon occasion of one of those Corpses, which they fancy come to life again after their interment. The Man whose Story we are going to relate, was a Peasant of *Mycone*, naturally ill-natur'd and quarrelsom; this is a Circumstance to be taken notice of in such cases: he was murder'd in the fields, no body knew how, or by whom. Two days after his being bury'd in a Chapel in the Town it was nois'd about that he was seen to walk in the night with great haste, that he tumbled about Peoples Goods, put out their Lamps, griped them behind and a thousand other monky Tricks. At first the Story was receiv'd with Laughter; but the thing was look'd upon to be Serious, when the better sort of People began to complain of it; the Papas [Orthodox priests] themselves gave credit to the Fact, and no doubt had their reasons for so doing; Masses must be said, to be sure: but for all this, the Peasant drove his old trade, and heeded nothing they could do. After diverse meetings of the chief People of the City, or Priests and Monks, it was gravely concluded, that 'twas necessary, in consequence of some musty Ceremonial, to wait till nine days after the Interment should be expired.

Dracula's Guest

This was originally part of Stoker's initial draft of Dracula, but it was omitted by the publisher due to the length of the novel. It was first published in 1914.




When we started for our drive the sun was shining brightly on Munich and the air was full of the joyousness of early summer.

Just as we were about to depart, Herr Delbruck (the maitre d'hotel of the Quatre Saisons, where I was staying) came down, bareheaded, to the carriage and, after wishing me a pleasant drive, said to the coachman, still holding his hand on the handle of the carriage door: "Remember you are back by nightfall. The sky looks bright but there is a shiver in the north wind that says there may be a sudden storm. But I am sure you will not be late." Here he smiled and added, "for you know what night it is."


The Mortal Immortal

In this Shelley classic, our hero finds that immortality has its price.




July 16, 1833. -- This is a memorable anniversary for me; on it I complete my three hundred and twenty-third year!

The Wandering Jew? -- certainly not. More than eighteen centuries have passed over his head. In comparison with him, I am a very young Immortal.


The Vampyre

As the story goes, Byron (english poet, 1788-1824) has written some sort of vampyre story which he never completed. But he would reveal the plot to Polidori who was, at that time, his secretary and doctor. Eventually Polidori, who never liked his employer that much, left Byron. Polidori "inspired" himself from Byron's story and changed the names. The story was first published in the New Monthly Magazine in April 1819. Polidori's Vampyre created the vampyre fashion in Europe.




It happened that in the midst of the dissipations attendant upon London winter, there appeared at the various parties of the leaders of the ton a nobleman more remarkable for his singularities, than his rank. He gazed upon the mirth around him, as if he could not participate therein.


Wake Not the Dead

"Wilt thou for ever sleep? Wilt thou never more awake, my beloved, but henceforth repose for ever from thy short pilgrimage on earth? O yet once again return! and bring back with thee the vivifying dawn of hope to one whose existence hath, since thy departure, been obscured by the dunnest shades. What! dumb? for ever dumb? Thy friend lamenteth, and thou heedest him not? He sheds bitter, scalding tears, and thou reposest unregarding his affliction? He is in despair, and thou no longer openest thy arms to him as an asylum from his grief? Say then, doth the paly shroud become thee better than the bridal veil? Is the chamber of the grave a warmer bed than the couch of love? Is the spectre death more welcome to thy arms than thy enamoured consort? Oh! return, my beloved, return once again to this anxious disconsolate bosom."


The Vampire, or The Bride of the Isles

This play was written in 1820, adapted from John Polidori's "The Vampyre." This is probably the only version in which Lord Ruthven wears full Highland regalia, kilt and all. The producers of this play are also credited with inventing the trick trap door on the stage floor for their anti-hero to "vanish" into, still known in theatre terminology as a "vampire trap."






INTRODUCTORY VISION

The Curtain rises to slow Music, and discovers the Interior of the Basaltic Caverns of Staffa, at the extremity of which is a chasm opening to the air. The moonlight streams through it, and partially reveals a number of rude sepulchres. On one of these LADY MARGARET is seen, stretched in a heavy slumber. The Spirit of the Flood rises to the symphony of the following...



Der Vampir

Published in 1748, this is credited as the first modern vampire poem.



My dear young maiden clingeth
Unbending fast and firm
To all the long-held teaching
Of a mother ever true;
As in vampires unmortal
Folk on the Theyse's portal
Heyduck-like do believe.
But my Christine thou dost dally,
And wilt my loving parry
Till I myself avenging
To a vampire's health a-drinking
Him toast in pale tockay.


The Giaour (Vampiric Extract)

A turban carved in coarsest stone,
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown,
Whereon can now be scarcely read
The Koran verse that mourns the dead,
Point out the spot where Hassan fell
A victim in that lonely dell.
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee;
As ever scorn'd forbidden wine,
Or pray'd with face towards the shrine,
In orisons resumed anew
At solemn sound of "Alla Hu!"
Yet died he by a stranger's hand,
And stranger in his native land;
Yet died he as in arms he stood,
And unavenged, at least in blood.
But him the maids of Paradise
Impatient to their halls invite,
And the dark Heaven of Houris' eyes
On him shall glance for ever bright;
They come---their kerchiefs green they wave,
And welcome with a kiss the brave!
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour
Is worthiest an immortal bower.


Cristabel

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock ;
Tu--whit !-- -- Tu--whoo !
And hark, again ! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.


The Vampyre

Why looks my lord so deadly pale?
Why fades the crimson from his cheek?
What can my dearest husband ail?
Thy heartfelt cares, O Herman, speak!

Why, at the silent hour of rest,
Dost thou in sleep so sadly mourn?
Has tho' with heaviest grief oppress'd,
Griefs too distressful to be borne.

Why heaves thy breast?--why throbs thy heart?
O speak! and if there be relief,
Thy Gertrude solace shall impart,
If not, at least shall share thy grief.


La Belle Dame Sans Merci

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.


Lamia

In ancient demonology, a 'lamia' -- pronounced la' mi a -- was a monster in woman's form who preyed on human beings. The term has also meant a witch who was supposed to suck children's blood, a sorceress, also, a kind of flatfish, a species of owl, a fabulous monster, also, a fish of prey. According to the first -- and most widely used -- definition a lamia is a fabulous monster supposed to have the body of a woman, and to prey upon human beings and suck the blood of children. Also, a witch, she-demon.




Part I

Upon a time, before the faery broods
Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,
Before King Oberon’s bright diadem,
Sceptre, and mantle, clasp’d with dewy gem,
Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns
From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslip’d lawns,
The ever-smitten Hermes empty left
His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft:
From high Olympus had he stolen light,
On this side of Jove’s clouds, to escape the sight
Of his great summoner, and made retreat
Into a forest on the shores of Crete.



The Vampyre

Thair is a knichte rydis through the wood,
And a doughty knichte is tree,
And sure hee is on a message sent,
He rydis see hastilie.
Hee passit the aik, and hee passit the birk,
And nee passit monie a tre,
Bot plesant to him was the saugh sae slim,
For beneath it hee did see
The boniest ladye that ever he saw,
Scho was see schyn and fair.
And there scho sat, beneath the saugh,
Kaiming hir gowden hair.
And then the knichte—"Oh ladye brichte,
What chance hes brought you here,



The Vampire

A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you or I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair--
(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,
And the work of our head and hand
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand!

The Vampyre (Strigoiul)

Near the cliff's sharp edge, on high
Standing out against the sky.
Dost thou see a ruined crass
Weatherstained, o'ergrown by moss.
Not a blade of grass grows nigh it,
Not a peasant lingers by it
Shuns it in her darksome flight,
Startled by the piteous groan
All around, on starless nights,
Flicker fretfully, revealing
At its foot a phantom, kneeling
Whilst it jabbers dismal plaints
Cursing God and all the saints.


The Vampires Won't Vampire for Me

Percy and Sal
Often I have seen on the screen,
Pictures living and snappy,
Girls quite a fistful, ingenues wistful,
Loving I look at that makes me unhappy;
Tell me why are girls that I meet,
Always simple and slow?
I want a brunette like those I met,
Back in the seven-reel show.

Liking striking blondes as I do,
Hair that's golden and rippling,
Why don't I meet a few that aren't sweet but
Act very much like the ladies in Kipling?
Dolls are very numerous now,
Many wonders I've seen;
But I'd like a wife early in life,
Someone who learned on the screen.


The Book of Were-Wolves

Synopsis: Sabine Baring-Gould was a parson in the Church of England, an archaeologist, historian and a prolific author. He is best known for writing the hymn 'Onward Christian Soldiers'. This book is also one of the most cited references about werewolves. Published in 1865, this book starts off with a straightforward academic review of the literature of shape-shifting; however, starting with Chapter XI, the narrative takes a strange turn into sensationalistic 'true crime' case-studies of cannibals, grave desecrators, and blood fetishists, which have a tenuous connection with lycanthropy.


Thalaba the Destroyer

Excerpt




A night of darkness and of storms!
Into the Chamber of the Tomb
Thalaba led the Old Man,
To roof him from the rain.
A night of storms! the wind
Swept through the moonless sky,
And moan'd among the pillar'd sepulcheres;
And in the pauses of its sweep
They heard the heavy rain
Beat on the monument above.
In silence on Oneiza's grave
Her father and her husband sate.
The Cryer from the Minaret
Proclaim'd the midnight hour.
"Now, now!" cried Thalaba;
And o'er the cahmber of the tomb
There spread a lurid gleam,


Oil and Blood

In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli
Bodies of holy men and women exude
Miraculous oil, odour of violet.

But under heavy loads of trampled clay
Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood;
Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet.





Author: William Butler Yeats
Source: PoetryX

The Vampirine Fair

Gilbert had sailed to India's shore,
And I was all alone:
My lord came in at my open door
And said, "O fairest one!"

He leant upon the slant bureau,
And sighed, "I am sick for thee!"
"My lord," said I, "pray speak not so,
Since wedded wife I be."

Leaning upon the slant bureau,
Bitter his next words came:
"So much I know; and likewise know
My love burns on the same!

"But since you thrust my love away,
And since it knows no cure,
I must live out as best I may
The ache that I endure."


The Succubus

Synopsis: A short story is about a 1271 trial of a she-devil succubus in the guise of a woman, who amongst other things could use her hair to entangle victims.




Prologue

A number of persons of the noble country of Touraine, considerably edified by the warm search which the author is making into the antiquities, adventures, good jokes, and pretty tales of that blessed land, and believing for certain that he should know everything, have asked him (after drinking with him of course understood), if he had discovered the etymological reason, concerning which all the ladies of the town are so curious, and from which a certain street in Tours is called the Rue Chaude.


The Judge's House

When the time for his examination drew near Malcolm Malcolmson made up his mind to go somewhere to read by himself. He feared the attractions of the seaside, and also he feared completely rural isolation, for of old he knew its charms, and so he determined to find some unpretentious little town where there would be nothing to distract him. He refrained from asking suggestions from any of his friends, for he argued that each would recommend some place of which he had knowledge, and where he had already acquaintances. As Malcolmson wished to avoid friends he had no wish to encumber himself with the attention of friends' friends and so he determined to look out for a place for himself. He packed a portmanteau with some clothes and all the books he required, and then took ticket for the first name on the local time-table which he did not know.

The Dead and the Countess

It was an old cemetery, and they had been long dead. Those who died nowadays were put in the new burying-place on the hill, close to the Bois d'Amour and within sound of the bells that called the living to mass. But the little church where the mass was celebrated stood faithfully beside the older dead; a new church, indeed, had not been built in that forgotten corner of Finisterre for centuries, not since the calvary on its pile of stones had been raised in the tiny square, surrounded then, as now, perhaps, by gray naked cottages; not since the castle with its round tower, down on the river, had been erected for the Counts of Croisac. But the stone walls enclosing that ancient cemetery had been kept in good repair, and there were no weeds within, nor toppling headstones. It looked cold and gray and desolate, like all the cemeteries of Brittany, but it was made hideous neither by tawdry gew-gaws nor the license of time.

The Vampire Maid

It was the exact kind of abode that I had been looking after for weeks, for I was in that condition of mind when absolute renunciation of society was a necessity. I had become diffident of myself, and wearied of my kind. A strange unrest was in my blood; a barren dearth in my brains. Familiar objects and faces had grown distasteful to me. I wanted to be alone.


The Vampire Murders

CHAPTER I. HOUSE OF HORROR

LIKE an image from a dream, the old house loomed against the moonlit sky—a bulky pile of ancient stone and ornate woodwork that blended into a massive monster ready to gorge on the hapless visitor who dared to venture into its clutch.


Aylmer Vance and the Vampire

Aylmer Vance had rooms in Dover Street, Piccadilly, and now that I had decided to follow in his footsteps and to accept him as my instructor in matters psychic, I found it convenient to lodge in the same house. Aylmer and I quickly became close friends, and he showed me how to develop that faculty of clairvoyance which I had possessed without being aware of it. And I may say at once that this particular faculty of mine proved of service on several important occasions.


The House of the Vampire

I

The freakish little leader of the orchestra, newly imported from Sicily to New York, tossed his conductor's wand excitedly through the air, drowning with musical thunders the hum of conversation and the clatter of plates.


Blood For the Vampire Dead

Was this then the horrible price Tim Croft must pay for his disbelief in devil-magic philtres?— forfeiture of his own lovely fiancee's life-blood to the undead corpse of Haunted Hollow!

OVER the wind's midnight howling and the demoniac swirl of the mountain rainstorm came the frantic cry of a man harassed by some hideous mental torment. “Doc Croft! For God's sake open up afore hit's too late!”


The Vampire Cat of Nabeshima

There is a tradition in the Nabeshima75 family that, many years ago, the Prince of Hizen was bewitched and cursed by a cat that had been kept by one of his retainers. This prince had in his house a lady of rare beauty, called O Toyo: amongst all his ladies she was the favourite, and there was none who could rival her charms and accomplishments. One day the Prince went out into the garden with O Toyo, and remained enjoying the fragrance of the flowers until sunset, when they returned to the palace, never noticing that they were being followed by a large cat. Having parted with her lord, O Toyo retired to her own room and went to bed. At midnight she awoke with a start, and became aware of a huge cat that crouched watching her; and when she cried out, the beast sprang on her, and, fixing its cruel teeth in her delicate throat, throttled her to death. What a piteous end for so fair a dame, the darling of her prince's heart, to die suddenly, bitten to death by a cat! Then the cat, having scratched out a grave under the verandah, buried the corpse of O Toyo, and assuming her form, began to bewitch the Prince.

[Footnote 75: The family of the Prince of Hizen, one of the eighteen chief Daimios of Japan.]

Ken's Mystery

One cool October evening--it was the last day of the month, and unusually cool for the time of year--I made up my mind to go and spend an hour or two with my friend Keningale. Keningale was an artist (as well as a musical amateur and poet), and had a very delightful studio built onto his house, in which he was wont to sit of an evening. The studio had a cavernous fire-place, designed in imitation of the old- fashioned fire-places of Elizabethan manor-houses, and in it, when the temperature out-doors warranted, he would build up a cheerful fire of dry logs. It would suit me particularly well, I thought, to go and have a quiet pipe and chat in front of that fire with my friend.


Let Loose

The dead abide with us! Though stark and cold
Earth seems to grip them, they are with us still.

SOME years ago I took up architecture, and made a tour through Holland, studying the buildings of that interesting country. I was not then aware that it is not enough to take up art. Art must take you up, too. I never doubted but that my passing enthusiasm for her would be returned. When I discovered that she was a stern mistress, who did not immediately respond to my attentions, I naturally transferred them to another shrine. There are other things in the world besides art. I am now a landscape gardener.


Count Magnus

By what means the papers out of which I have made a connected story came into my hands is the last point which the reader will learn from these pages.But it is necessary to prefix my extracts from them a statement of the form in which I possess them.


Visum et Repertum

Foreword:

"Visum et Repertum - (Seen and Discovered) Written by Johann Flückinger (1732). This writing was based on perhaps, one of the most famous vampires in history, Arnold Paole(Paul). The case of Arnold Paole took place in the Serbian village of Meduegna in 1727-1728, following a second epidemic near Belgrade in 1732. When reports of this epidemic reached Vienna, the Austrian Emperor ordered a inquiry to be conducted by Regimental Field Surgeon Johannes Flückinger. Flückinger wrote a full report on his investigation and presented it to the Emperor. Shortly thereafeter, Flückinger's report was published and became a best seller. By March of 1732, the accounts of the vampire activities reached the periodicals of England and France. Due to it's in depth documentation, this writing became the future center of studies and molded many views on vampire beliefs. It also had much influence with two catholic scholars, Dom Augustin Calmet and Giuseppe Davanzati, who prepared books on vampirism in the middle of the century..



The She-Wolf

There was an enchanted mill, so that no one could stay there, because a she-wolf always haunted it. A soldier went once into the mill to sleep. He made a fire in the parlor, went up into the garret above, bored a hole with an auger in the floor, and peeped down into the parlor.


The Werewolf of Bettembourg

A long time ago, an old and crippled soldier came from the direction of Luxembourg City. He lay down to rest at a cross standing on a hill just outside the town of Bettembourg.


Metamorphoses of the Vampire (Les Métamorphoses du vampire)

Meanwhile from her red mouth the woman, in husky tones,
Twisting her body like a serpent upon hot stones
And straining her white breasts from their imprisonment,
Let fall these words, as potent as a heavy scent:
"My lips are moist and yielding, and I know the way
To keep the antique demon of remorse at bay.


The Vampire (Le Vampire)

Thou who abruptly as a knife
Didst come into my heart; thou who,
A demon horde into my life,
Didst enter, wildly dancing, through


The Mindworm

The handsome j.g. and the pretty nurse held out against it as long as they reasonably could, but blue Pacific water, languid tropical nights, the low atoll dreaming on the horizon—and the complete absence of any other nice young people for company on the small, uncomfortable parts boat—did their work. On June 30th they watched through dark glasses as the dazzling thing burst over the fleet and the atoll. Her manicured hand gripped his arm in excitement and terror. Unfelt radiation sleeted through their loins.

Montague Summers’ Guide to Vampires

INTRODUCTION

Anyone curious about the legendary background of vampires is soon bound to stumble across Montague Summers, whose writings in the 1920s established him as the foremost authority of the time and, as it happens, ever since. The Vampire: His Kith and Kin (1928) and The Vampire in Europe (1929) investigated the subject and all its ramifications in fantastic detail, presenting a record of folk beliefs about death and vampires that is unlikely to be equalled for sheer scope and depth.


The Bride of Corinth

First published in Schiller's Horen, in connection with a friendly contest in the art of ballad-writing between the two great poets, to which many of their finest works are owing.





Once a stranger youth to Corinth came,

Who in Athens lived, but hoped that he
From a certain townsman there might claim,

As his father's friend, kind courtesy.


The Vampire

The excursion steamer brought us from Constantinople to the shore of the island of Prinkipo and we disembarked. The number of passengers was not large. There was one Polish family, a father, a mother, a daughter and her bridegroom, and then we two. Oh, yes, I must not forget that when we were already on the wooden bridge which crosses the Golden Horn to Constantinople, a Greek, a rather youthful man, joined us. He was probably an artist, judging by the portfolio he carried under his arm. Long black locks floated to his shoulders, his face was pale, and his black eyes were deeply set in their sockets. From the first moment he interested me, especially for his obligingness and for his knowledge of local conditions. But he talked too much, and I then turned away from him.


Good Lady Ducayne

I

Bella Rolleston had made up her mind that her only chance of earning her bread and helping her mother to an occasional crust was by going out into the great unknown world as companion to a lady. She was willing to go to any lady rich enough to pay her a salary and so eccentric as to wish for a hired companion. Five shillings told off reluctantly from one of those sovereigns which were so rare with the mother and daughter, and which melted away so quickly, five solid shillings, had been handed to a smartly-dressed lady in an office in Harbeck Street, W., in the hope that this very Superior Person would find a situation and a salary for Miss Rolleston.


Mrs. Amworth

The village of Maxley, where, last summer and autumn, these strange events took place, lies on a heathery and pine-clad upland of Sussex. In all England you could not find a sweeter and saner situation. Should the wind blow from the south, it comes laden with the spices of the sea; to the east high downs protect it from the inclemencies of March; and from the west and north the breezes which reach it travel over miles of aromatic forest and heather. The village itself is insignificant enough in point of population, but rich in amenities and beauty.


The Tomb of Sarah

My father was the head of a celebrated firm of church restorers and decorators about sixty years ago. He took a keen interest in his work, and made an especial study of any old legends or family histories that came under his observation. He was necessarily very well read and thoroughly well posted in all questions of folklore and medieval legend. As he kept a careful record of every case he investigated the manuscripts he left at his death have a special interest. From amongst them I have selected the following, as being a particularly weird and extraordinary experience. In presenting it to the public I feel it is superfluous to apologize for its supernatural character.


Lenora (Lenore)

Up rose Lenora as the red morn wore,
From weary visions starting:
"Art faithless, William, or, William, art dead?
'Tis long since thy departing."
For he, with Frederick's men of might,
In fair Prague waged the uncertain fight;
Nor once had he writ in the hurry of war,
And sad was the true heart that sickened afar.


For the Blood is the Life

We had dined at sunset on the broad roof of the old tower, because it was cooler there during the great heat of summer. Besides, the little kitchen was built at one corner of the great square platform, which made it more convenient than if the dishes had to be carried down the steep stone steps, broken in places and everywhere worn with age. The tower was one of those built all down the west coast of Calabria by the Emperor Charles V early in the sixteenth century, to keep off the Barbary pirates, when the unbelievers were allied with Francis I against the Emperor and the Church. They have gone to ruin, a few still stand intact, and mine is one of the largest. How it came into my possession ten years ago, and why I spend a part of each year in it, are matters which do not concern this tale.


The Last Lords of Gardonal

Part I.

One of the most picturesque objects of the valley of the Engadin is the ruined castle of Gardonal, near the village of Madaline. In the feudal times it was the seat of a family of barons, who possessed as their patrimony the whole of the valley, which with the castle had descended from father to son for many generations. The two last of the race were brothers; handsome, well-made, fine-looking young men, but in nature they more resembled fiends than human beings--so cruel, rapacious, and tyrannical were they.


The Room in the Tower

It is probable that everybody who is at all a constant dreamer has had at least one experience of an event or a sequence of circumstances which have come to his mind in sleep being subsequently realized in the material world. But, in my opinion, so far from this being a strange thing, it would be far odder if this fulfilment did not occasionally happen, since our dreams are, as a rule, concerned with people whom we know and places with which we are familiar, such as might very naturally occur in the awake and daylit world.


The Sad Story of a Vampire

Also known as 'The True Story of a Vampire'




Vampire stories are generally located in Styria; mine is also. Styria is by no means the romantic kind of place described by those who have certainly never been there. It is a flat, uninteresting country, only celebrated for its turkeys, its capons, and the stupidity of its inhabitants. Vampires generally arrive at night, in carriages drawn by two black horses.


Four Wooden Stakes

There it lay on the desk in front of me, that missive so simple in wording, yet so perplexing, so urgent in tone.

Jack, Come at once for old time's sake. Am all alone. Will explain upon arrival.

Remson.


Vikram and the Vampire

PREFACE

The Baital-Pachisi, or Twenty-five Tales of a Baital is the history of a huge Bat, Vampire, or Evil Spirit which inhabited and animated dead bodies. It is an old, and thoroughly Hindu, Legend composed in Sanskrit, and is the germ which culminated in the Arabian Nights, and which inspired the "Golden Ass" of Apuleius, Boccacio's "Decamerone," the "Pentamerone," and all that class of facetious fictitious literature.


The Werewolf of Paris

INTRODUCTION

Where shall I begin my tale?

This one has neither beginning nor end, but only a perpetual unfolding, a multi-petaled blossom of strange botany.