Whitby's Less Famous Vampire

... has always had a conscience

Eighty feet above sea level, I survey the red rooves of the town of Whitby. The wind buffets my lean body and runs chilly fingers through my unkempt hair. The North Sea is peaceful tonight: A primrose yellow moon reflects fragmentedly on its surface, but the presence of this lighthouse on which I perch is testament to how cruelly that dark body of water can treat ships.

The lonely structure on which I stand, once a beacon for sailors and a warning of the sharp rocks along the coast, has been my home for more than a century. Modern lighthouses need so little human intervention, that my refuge here remains undiscovered and largely undisturbed. The light tower makes the ideal launch pad when I want to fly.

I leap from the ledge and silently spread my arms, feeling air currents flap my shirt and buoy me up while my body transforms to a bat’s. I wheel and hover over the beach and pier, lazily observing the changes a century has applied to this fishing port.

I’ve been anchored to this coast since my time as a sailor on the Demeter ended, and my immortal life began.

We were all wary of the strange cargo we’d been carrying since we left Varna. Twenty unnaturally heavy crates were brought aboard, making the gangplank bow alarmingly before the crew manhandled them below deck. None of us could have guessed what was in those crates, but we speculated frequently in the gloom of the night watch.

Not long into our voyage, our numbers began to dwindle. One sailor went missing, then a second; fallen overboard perhaps, but with such an experienced crew it was strange.

The night I should have died, I was manning the bridge, but heard strange sounds that drew me to investigate. I’d lashed the wheel with rope, then carried a hurricane lamp to search. But I was unprepared for the monster with burning eyes and sharp fangs who assaulted me, ten times my strength, it wrestled me to the ground. His plan was surely to drain me, then fling my useless corpse overboard, as he must have done with others in my crew, but before he could extinguish my life force, dawn began to break.

With an unholy howl of pain, the venal, blood sucking creature scuttled away, scorched by the tendrils of golden light which suddenly broke through the clouds.

I was left half dead and feverish, but his filthy vampiric virus already thrummed in my veins.

A few days passed, during which time my body made the painful transition while I was struggling to exist below decks. Land came into view but, as if the town of Whitby intended to repel our dreadful cargo, our ship was suddenly caught up in a mighty thunderstorm. The sky darkened like night, the sea roiled and tossed. Our vessel was flung in all directions, like matchsticks in a waterfall. Towering, powerful waves heaved the ship up only to slam it down, before they hastened to hurl themselves at the unforgiving cliff face. Barricades of brine reared like horses, with mighty spumes of froth, then raced ashore to crash against the wall of rocks.

By this stage, most of the crew were gone, the monster who’d infected me had treated them all as nourishment. The reclusive Count had paid handsomely for his berth, but in truth his inhuman form had spent most of his journey in the dark hold, hidden in a coffin that was surrounded by crates of dirt from his native land. The count remained dormant, save for his nocturnal hunts to kill my fellow shipmates in the name of sustenance.

What remained of the crew had eventually discovered his body hidden below decks, during daylight, when he was unresponsive. They had manhandled him and lashed his body to the helm like some gruesome figurehead. Yet, even while the ship floundered in the storm, the monster was able, by some feat of evil determination, to steer it into land.

Image of lighthouse against a night sky by EvgeniT on Pixabay

The Demeter ran aground beneath East Cliff, and was soon broken up by the pounding waves.

I should have drowned that night, as those other sailors did, but I was no longer human. No, my body had been re-made by the virus. So I struck out in the thrashing waves and pulled myself up the rocks, under cover of the cloying sea fog. I made my shelter in the ruins of the Abbey.

After that, I saw and heard nothing more of the Count, the monster who bit me, but my body experienced something like an earth tremor when he was exterminated.

I lived on, if you can call this existence living. At first, my hunger was terrible, yet I could not bring myself to kill humans: Instead I fed off sheep and goats and other livestock.

I remained on the coast, because the sea was my livelihood. Sleeping in a cave by day, I hunted at night, but soon enough a storm caused another ship to wreck on those jagged rocks. My keen hearing picked up the pitiful cries of the sailors, their plight assaulted my ears, and tore at my conscience. When I flew down to that ship, I bore witness to the broken bodies of sailors who could have been my crew.

Observing men who were moaning and bleeding, calling out for release, my purpose became clear. I could bring them a swift death and ease their pain.

So the pattern of my existence was set. I sustained my strength with livestock until there was a shipwreck, then I drained the life force of humans who were already dying. I’d never been a religious man, we sailors have our own superstitions and talismans, but now I occupied the body of a predator, I worked constantly to appease my conscience.

Over the many decades that I have existed as a vampire, seafaring has become safer, thanks, in part, to better navigation devices, and lighthouses. Change has necessitated a shift in how I carry out my purpose, what I think of as my calling. The irony in choosing a lighthouse for my home is not lost on me: A structure built to prevent shipwrecks and save lives.

I prefer to select victims who are near death. No human can cheat the grim reaper, but I help speed the inevitable, hurry them into the reaper’s waiting arms. I pick my prey carefully, of necessity I am a frequent visitor to Gull House Nursing Home. It was built on the cliffs and boasts a view of the Abbey ruins. The residents there are infirm and no longer able to care for themselves. The nurses are efficient and kind, but those in their care are terminally ill.

Tonight I’m standing on a ledge outside a dying woman’s window. My body is clawing and spasming with hunger but I will bide my time. My chosen prey doesn’t have long. My preternatural hearing has detected her irregular heartbeat, like weak taps interspersed with wet squelches, and her breathing is ragged.

As a vampire, I no longer breathe or have a pulse. Nothing has awoken strong emotions in me since the day my body died, but my compassion is stirred by the sobs from my victim’s room. Her adult daughter has remained at her bedside for hours, softly sharing memories and gratitude for this woman’s love and protection. This had been a good mother, so her daughter cries bleakly as she strives to accept her mother’s time is almost over.

Machines bleep faintly, monitoring but not sustaining my prey’s life. Medical equipment that had been assisting, is now disconnected, but strong painkilling drugs drip intravenously. When the daughter’s voice falls silent, I surmise that she’s fallen asleep. This is confirmed when I listen to her breathing.

My moment arrives: I must act quickly and decisively. I enter the nursing home through the wide double glass doors, the mat reads ‘Welcome to Gull House,” I am invited in.

A glamour renders me unremarkable; doctors and nurses fail to see me, and most visitors have gone. One orderly startles when I pass, her face a mask of fright, and she kisses her crucifix. She must have the sight, but she ducks fearfully into a cupboard, and I continue unimpeded to my victim’s room.

As expected, the daughter’s torso is slumped forward on the bed, her head resting on her hands, her rear on the visitor’s chair.

My victim looks sunken and frail, her body hardly makes any impression against the shroud of bedcovers. She does not see me, her eyes heavy lidded with the weight of her final hours.

I move silently to the head of the bed, lifting her wasted wrist to my mouth. I’ve learned I can disguise my bite by choosing the site of a patient’s intravenous drip, which I remove and apply one fang to suck out her life force.

I feed, swallowing down blood thinned by medication and laced with morphine, the old woman’s energy fades. The spark of her life tugs free of her body, no brighter or more remarkable than when a shiny object deflects light onto a wall.

As I swallow a final mouthful of her essence, I watch that faint spark lift away from her corpse and move towards the open window, where it rises in the night sky. I am satisfied, but woozy, the taint of medication transfers to me from my victim’s blood.

That’s when the daughter stirs, awoken by the unwelcome quiet from the patient’s heart monitor. A beat of silence before it begins to flatline and shrill.

“Your mother has passed,” I speak calmly, adjusting my grip on the dead patient’s wrist as if I’d been taking her pulse.

She looks at me blankly. Even though it’s been expected, she’s shocked by the finality of my statement. I want to placate her.

“Take your time. Your mother was a very special person. There is no typical timeline for what you are going to experience.”

Her expression is a mixture of trust and sadness, until two brisk nurses join us, followed by a doctor. The daughter is distracted by their barrage of questions, while they check and monitor the deceased patient for vital signs. Before they verify that there are none, I’ve slipped from the room.

I leave the nursing home as quickly and quietly as I entered. The white coat I wore flaps behind me, then falls away as I complete my transformation into a bat. Soaring towards the rocky spit on which my lighthouse stands, I use the up-drafts to conserve my energy. Beneath me the lights from houses, businesses and streetlights spread out like a jeweled Turkish rug.

Thanks are owed to Bram Stoker for the inspiration, also

Alexander Martin

for the loophole of the welcome mat. I fact-checked Dracula’s relationship with the town of Whitby here. Comments and feedback are welcomed to help my writing improve.