“The Priest and His Cook” by Prof. P. Jones

In the village of Steino there lived an old priest who was exceedingly wealthy, but who was, withal, as miserly as he was rich. Although he had fields which stretched farther than the eyes could reach, fat pastures, herds and flocks; although his cellars were filled with mellow wine, his barns were bursting with the grace of God; although abundance reigned in his house, still he was never known to have given a crust of bread to a beggar or a glass of wine to a weary old man. 

He lived all alone with a skinflint of an old cook, as stingy as himself, who would rather by far have seen an apple rot than give it to a hungry child whose mouth watered for it. 

Those two grim old fogeys, birds of one feather, cared for no one else in this world except for each other, and, in fact, the people in Steino said—, but people in villages have bad tongues, so it’s useless to repeat what was said about them.

The priest had a nephew, a smith, a good-hearted, bright-eyed, burly kind of a fellow, beloved by all the village, except by his uncle, whom he had greatly displeased because he had married a bonny lass of the neighbouring village of Smarje, instead of take as a wife the—,well, the cook’s niece, though, between us and the wall, the cook was never known to have had a sister or a brother either, and the people—, but, as I said before, the people were apt to say nasty things about their priest. 

The smith, who was quite a pauper, had several children, for the poorer a man is the more babies his wife presents him with—women everywhere are such unreasonable creatures—and whenever he applied to his uncle for a trifle, the uncle would spout the Scriptures in Latin, saying something about the unfitness of casting pearls before pigs, and that he would rather see him hanged than help him. 

Once—it was in the middle of winter—the poor smith had been without any work for days and days. He had spent his last penny; then the baker would not give him any more bread on credit, and at last, on a cold, frosty night, the poor children had been obliged to go to bed supperless. 

The smith, who had sworn a few days before never again to put his foot in the priest’s house, was, in his despair, obliged to humble himself, and go and beg for a load of bread, with which to satisfy his children on the morrow. 

Before he knocked at the door, he went and peeped in through the half closed shutters, and he saw his uncle and the cook seated by a roaring fire, with their feet on the fender, munching roasted chestnuts and drinking mulled wine. Their shining lips still seemed greasy from the fat sausages they had eaten for supper, and, as he sniffed the window, he fancied the air was redolent with the spices of black-pudding. The smell made his mouth water and his hungry stomach rumble. 

The poor man knocked at the door with a trembling hand; his legs began to quake, he had not eaten the whole of that long day; but then he thought of his hungry children, and knocked with a steadier hand. 

The priest, hearing the knock, thought it must be some pious parishioner bringing him a fat pullet or perhaps a sleek sucking-pig, the price of a mass to be said on the morrow; but when, instead, he saw his nephew, looking as mean and as sheepish as people usually do when they go a-begging, he was greatly disappointed. 

“What do you want, bothering here at this time of the night?” asked the old priest, gruffly. 

“Uncle,” said the poor man, dejectedly. 

“I suppose you’ve been drinking, as usual; you stink of spirits.” “Spirits, in sooth! When I haven’t a penny to bless me.” 

“Oh, if it’s only a blessing you want, here, take one and go!” 

And the priest lifted up his thumb and the two fingers, and uttered something like “Dominus vobiscum,” and then waved him off; whilst the old shrew skulking near him uttered a croaking kind of laugh, and said that a priest’s blessing was a priceless boon. 

“Yes,” replied the smith, “upon a full stomach; but my children have gone to bed supperless, and I haven’t had a crust of bread the whole of the day.” 

“‘Man shall not live by bread alone,’ the scriptures say, and you ought to know that if you are a Christian, sir.” 

“Eh? I daresay the Scriptures are right, for priests surely do not live on bread alone; they fatten on plump pullets and crisp pork-pies.” 

“Do you mean you bully me, you unbelieving beggar?” 

“Bully you, uncle!” said the burly man in a piteous tone. “Only, think of my starving children.” 

“He begrudges his uncle the grub he eats,” shrieked the old cat of a cook. 

“I’d have given you something, but the proud man should be punished,” said the wrathful priest, growing purple in the face. 

“Oh, uncle, my children!” sobbed the poor man. 

“What business has a man to have a brood of brats when he can’t earn enough to buy bread for them?” said the cook, aloud, to herself. 

“Will you hold your tongue, you cantankerous old cat?” said the smith to the cook.

The old vixen began to howl, and the priest, in his anger, cursed his nephew, telling him that he and his children could starve for all he cared. 

The smith thereupon went home, looking at piteous as a tailless turkey cock; and while his children slept and, perhaps, dreamt of kolaci, he told his wife the failure he had met with. 

“Your uncle is a brute,” said she. 

“He’s a priest, and all priests are brutes, you know.” 

“Well, I don’t know about all of them, for I heard my great-grandmother say that once upon a time there lived—” 

“Oh, there are casual exceptions to every rule!” said her husband. “But, now, what’s to be done?” 

“Listen,” said the wife, who was a shrewd kind of woman, “we can’t let the children starve, can we?” 

“No, indeed!” 

“Then follow my advice. I know of a grass that, given to a horse, or an ox, or a sheep, or goat, makes the animal fall down, looking as if it were dead.” 

“Well, but you don’t mean to feed the children with this grass, do you?” said the smith, not seeing the drift of what she meant. 

“No; but you could secretly go and give some to your uncle’s fattest ox.” “So,” said the husband, scratching his head. 

“Once the animal falls down head, he’ll surely give it you, as no butcher’ll buy it; we’ll kill it and thus be provided with meat for a long time. Besides, you can sell the bones, the horns, the hide, and get a little money besides.” 

“And for tomorrow?” 

“I’ll manage to borrow a few potatoes and a cup of milk.” 

On the next day the wife went and got the grass, and the smith, unseen, managed to go and give it to his uncle’s fattest ox. A few hours afterwards the animal was found dead.

On hearing that his finest ox was found in the stable lying stiff and stark the priest nearly had a fit; and his grief was still greater when he found out that not a man in the village would offer him a penny for it, so when his nephew came he was glad enough to give it to him to get rid of it. 

The cook, who had prompted the priest to make a present of the ox to his nephew, hoped that the smith and all his family would be poisoned by feeding on carrion flesh. 

“But,” said the uncle, “bring me back the bones, the horns, and the hide.” 

To everyone’s surprise, and to the old cook’s rage, the smith and his children fed on the flesh of the dead ox, and throve on it. After the ox had all been eaten up, the priest lost a goat, and then a goose, in the same way, and the smith and his family ate them up with evident gusto. 

After that, the old cook began to suspect foul play on the part of the smith, and she spoke of her suspicions to her master. 

The priest got into a great rage, and wanted to go at once to the police and accuse his nephew of sorcery. 

“No,” said the cook, “we must catch them on the hip, and then we can act.” 

“But how are we to find them out?” 

After brooding over the matter for some days, the cook bethought herself that the best plan would be to shut herself up in a cupboard, and have it taken to the nephew’s house. 

The priest, having approved of her plan, put it at once into execution. 

“I have,” said the uncle to the nephew, “an old cupboard which needs repairing; will you take it into your house and keep it for a few days?” 

“Willingly,” said the nephew, who had not the slightest suspicion of the trap laid to catch him. 

The cupboard was brought, and put in the only room the smith possessed; the children look at it with wonder, for they have never seen such a big piece of furniture before. The wife had some suspicion. Still, she kept her own counsel.

Soon afterwards the remains of the goose was brought on the table, and, as the children licked the bones, the husband and wife discussed what meat they were to have for the forthcoming days—was it to be pork, veal, or turkey? 

As they were engrossed with this interesting topic, a slight, shrill sound came out of the cupboard. 

“What’s that?” said the wife, whose ears were on the alert. “I didn’t hear anything,” said the smith. 

“Apshee,” was the sound that came again from the cupboard. “There, did you hear?” asked the wife. 

“Yes; but from where did that unearthly sound come?” 

The wife, without speaking, winked at her husband and pointed to the cupboard. 

“Papshee,” was now heard louder than ever. 

The children stopped gnawing the goose’s bones; they opened their greasy mouths and their eyes to the utmost and looked scared. 

“There’s someone shut in the cupboard,” said the smith, jumping up, and snatching up his tools. 

A moment afterwards the door flew open, and to everyone’s surprise, except the wife’s, the old cook was found standing bolt upright in the empty space and listening to what they were saying. 

The old woman, finding herself discovered was about to scream, but the smith caught her by the throat and gave her such a powerful squeeze, that before knowing what he was doing, he had choked the cook to death. 

The poor man was in despair, for he had never meant to commit a murder —he only wanted to prevent the old shrew from screaming. 

“Bog me ovary! What is to become of me now?” 

“Pooh!” said the wife, shrugging her shoulders; “she deserves her fate; as we make our bed, so we must lie.”

“Yes,” quoth the smith, “but if they find out that I’ve strangled her, they’ll hang me.” 

“And who’ll find you out?” said she. “Let’s put a potato in her mouth and lock up the cupboard again; they’ll think that she choked herself eating potatoes.” 

The smith followed his wife’s advice, and early on the morrow the priest came again and asked for his press. 

“Talking the matter over with the cook,” said he,“I’ve decided not to have my cupboard repaired, so I’ve come to take it back.” 

“Your cook is right,” said the smith’s wife. “She’s a wise old woman, your cook is.” 

“Very,” said the priest, uncomfortably. 

“There’s more in her head than you suppose,” said the wife, thinking of the potato. 

“There is,” said the priest. 

“Give my kind respects to your cook,” said the wife as the men were taking the cupboard away. 

“Thank you,” said the priest, “I’ll certainly do so.” 

About an hour afterwards the priest came back, ghastly pale, to his nephew, and taking him aside, said: 

“My dear nephew—my only kith-and-kin—a great misfortune has befallen me.” 

“What is it, uncle?” asked the smith. 

“My cook,” said the priest, lowering his voice, “has—eating potatoes— somehow or other—I don’t know how—choked herself.” 

“Oh!” quoth the smith, turning pale, “it is a great misfortune; but you’ll say masses for her and have her properly buried.” 

“But the fact is,” interrupted the priest, “she looks so dreadful, with her eyes starting out of their sockets, and her mouth wide open, that I’m quite frightened of her, and besides, if the people see her they’ll say that I murdered her.”

“Well, and how am I to help you?” 

“Come and take her away, in a sack if you like; then bury her in some hole, or throw her down a well. Do whatever you like, as long as I’m ride of her.” 

The smith scratched his head. 

“You must help me; you are my only relation.You know that whatever I have’ll go to you some day, so—” 

“And when people ask what has become of her?” 

“I’ll say she’s gone to her—her niece.” 

“Well, I don’t mind helping you, as long as I don’t get into a scrape myself.” 

“No, no! How can you get into trouble?” 

The priest went off, and soon afterwards the smith went to his uncle’s house, and taking a big sack, shoved the cook into it and tied the sack up, put it on his shoulders and trudged off. 

“Here,” said the uncle, “take this florin to get a glass of wine on the way, and I hope I’ll never see her any more—nor,” he added to himself—“you either.” 

It was a warm day, and the cook was heavy. The poor man was in great perspiration; his throat was parched; the road was dusty and hilly. After an hour’s march he stopped at a roadside inn to drink a glass of wine. He quaffed it down at a gulp and then he had another, and again another, so that when he came out everything was rather hazy and blurred. Seeing some carts of hay at the door which were going to the next town, he asked permission to get on top of one of the wagons. The permission was not only granted, but the carter even helped him to hoist his sack on top. The smith, in return, got down and offered the man a glass of wine for his kindness. Then he again got on the cart and went off to sleep. An hour or two afterwards, when he awoke, the sack was gone. Had it slipped down? Had it been stolen from him?—he could not tell. 

He did not ask for it, but he only congratulated himself at having so dexterously got rid of the cook, and at once went back home.

That evening his children had hardly been put to bed when the door was opened, and his uncle, looking pale and scared, came in panting. 

“She’s back, she’s back!” he gasped. 

“Who is back?” asked the astonished smith. 

“Why, she, the cook.” 

“Alive?” gasped the smith. 

“No, dead in the sack.” 

“Then how the deuce did she get back?” 

“How? I ask you how?” 

“I really don’t know how. I dug a hole ten feet deep, half filled the hole with lime, then the other half with stones and earth, and I planted a tree within the hole, and covered the earth all around with sods. It gave me two days’ work. I’ll take and show you the place if you like.” 

The priest looked at his nephew, bewildered. 

“But, tell me,” continued the smith, “how did she come back?” 

“Well they bought me a wagon of hay, and on the wagon there was a sack, which I thought must contain potatoes or turnips which some parishioner sent me, so I had the sack put in the kitchen. When the men had gone I undid the sack, and to my horror pops the cook’s ugly head, staring at me with her jutting goggle-eyes and her gaping mouth, looking like a horrid jack-in-the-box. Do come and take her away, or she’ll drive me out of my senses; but come at once.” 

The smith went back to the priest’s house, tied the cook in the sack, and then putting the sack on his shoulders, he carried his load away. He had made up his mind to go and chuck her own one of those bottomless shafts which abound in the stony plans of the Karst. 

He walked all night; at daybreak he saw a man sleeping on the grass by the high way, having near him a sack exactly like the one he was carrying. 

“What a good joke it’ll be,” thought he, “to take that sack and put in its stead.”

He at once stepped lightly on the grass, put down the cook, took up the other sack, which was much lighter than his own, and scampered back home as fast as his weary legs could carry him. 

An hour afterwards the sleeping man, took up his sack, which he was surprised to find much heavier than it had been when he had gone off to sleep, and then went on his way. 

That evening the priest came back to his nephew’s house, looking uglier and more ghastly, if possible, than the evening before. Panting and gasping, with a weak and broken voice: 

“She’s back again,” he said in a hoarse whisper. 

The smith burst out laughing. 

“It’s no laughing matter,” quoth the priest, with a long face. 

“No indeed, it isn’t,” replied the nephew. “Only, tell me how she came back.” 

“A pedlar, an honest man whom I sometimes help by lending him a trifle on his goods—merely out of charity—brought me a sack of shoes, begging me to keep it for him till he found a stall for tomorrow’s fair. I told him to put the sack in the kitchen, and he did so. When he had gone, I thought I’d just see what kind of shoes he had for sale, and I almost fainted when I saw the frightful face of the cook staring at me.” 

“And now,” asked the smith, “am I to carry her away again, for you know uncle, she is rather heavy; and besides—” 

“No,” replied the priest; “I’ll go away myself for a few days; during that time drown her, burn or bury her; in fact, do what you like with her, as long as you get rid of her. Perhaps, knowing I’m not at home, she’ll not come back. In the meanwhile, as you are my only relation, come and live in my house and take care of my things as if they were your own; and they’ll be yours soon enough, for this affair has made an old man of me.” 

The priest went home, followed by his nephew. Arriving there, he went to the stable, saddled the mare, got on her, gave his nephew his blessing, bade him take care of his house, and trotted off. No sooner had he gone than the smith saddled the stallion, then went and took the cook out of the sack, tied her on the stallion’s saddle, then let the horse loose to follow the mare.

The poor priest had not gone a mile before he heard a horse galloping behind him, and fearing that it was police coming to bring him back, he spurred the mare and galloped on; but the faster he rode, the quicker the stallion galloped after him. 

Looking round, the priest, to his horror and dismay, saw his cook, with her eyes starting wildly out of their sockets, and her horrid mouth gaping as black as the hole of hell, chasing him, nay, she was only a few yards behind. 

The terrified priest spurred on the mare, which began to gallop along the highway; but withal she flew like an arrow, the stallion was gaining ground at every step. The priest, fainting with fear, lost all his presence of mind; he then spurred the mare across country. The poor animal reared at first, and then began to gallop over the stony plain; no obstacles could stop her, she jumped over bushes and briars, stumbling almost at every step. 

The priest, palsied with terror, as ghastly pale as a ghost, could not help turning around; alas! The cook was always at his heels. His fear was such that he almost dropped from his horse. He lashed the poor mare, forgetful of all the dangers the plains of the Karst presented, for the ground yawned everywhere—here in huge, deep clefts, there in bottomless shafts; or it stank in cuplike hollows, all bordered with sharp, jagged rocks, or concealed in the bushes that surround them. His only thought was to escape from the grim spectre that pursued him. The lame and bleeding mare had stopped on the brink of one of these precipes, trembling and convulsed with terror. The priest, who had just turned around, dug his spurs into the animal sides; she tried to clear the cleft, but missed her footing, and rolled down in the abyss. The stallion, seeing the mare disappear, stopped short, and uttered a loud neigh, shivering with fear. The shock the poor beast had got burst the bonds which held the corpse on his back, and the cook was thus chucked over his head on the prone edge of the pit. 

A few days afterwards some peasants who happened to pass by found the cook sitting, stiff and stark, astride on a rock, seemingly staring, with eyes starting from their sockets and her black mouth gaping widely, at the mangled remains of her master’s corpse. 

As the priest had told the clerk that he was going away for a few days, everybody came to their conclusion that his cook, having followed him against his will, had frightened the mare and thus caused her own and her master’s death. 

The smith having been left in possession of his uncle’s house, as well as all of his money and estates, and being, moreover the only legal heir, thus found himself all at once the richest man in the village. As he was beloved by everybody, all rejoiced at his good luck, especially all those who owed money to the priest and whose debts he cancelled. 

“You liked this story?” said the old man to Vranic, as soon as he had finished. 

“Yes,” replied the tailor, thinking of the ghastly, livid corpse, with grinning, gaping mouth, and glassy, goggle eyes, galloping after the priest, and wondering whether she was like the vampire. “Yes, it’s an interesting story, but rather gruesome.” 

“Well, but it’s only a story, and, whether ghastly or lively, it’s only words —which—as the proverb says—are evanescent as soap-bubbles. Now,” continued he, “if you want to go off to sleep, look at this,” and he gave him a bit of cardboard, on which were traced several circles; “look at it till you see all these rings wheeling round. When they disappear, you’ll be asleep.” 

The old man put the bit of cardboard before Vranic, who leaned his elbows on the table and his head between the palms of his hands, and stared at the drawing. Five minutes afterwards he was fast asleep. 

When he awoke the next morning, his head was not only aching, but his weakness had so much increased that he had hardly strength enough to stand on his feet. He, therefore, made up his mind to go to the parish priest, and lay the whole matter before him. 

Priests are everywhere but fetich men; therefore, if they have burnt witches for using charms and philters, it is simply because these women trespassed on their own domains, and were more successful than they themselves. Of what use would a priest be if he could not pray for rain, give little sacré cœur bits of flannel as talismans against pestilence, or brass medals to scare away the devil? A priest who can do nothing for us here below, must and will soon fall into discredit. The hereafter is so vague and indefinite that it cannot inspire us with half the interest the present does.

The priest whom Branic consulted was of the same opinion as the tailor. He, too, believed that probably his brother had become a vampire, who nightly left the tomb to go and suck his blood. For his own sake, as well as for that of the whole town, it would be well to exorcise the ghost. The matter, however, had to be kept a profound secret, as the Government had put its veto on vampire-killing, and looked upon all such practices as illegal. 

It was, therefore, agreed that Vranic, together with his relations and some friends, should go to the curate’s about ten o’clock at night; there the curate would be waiting for them with another priest; from there the little party would stealthily proceed to the cemetery where the ceremony was to be held. 

The Friday fixed upon arrived. The night was dark, the weather sultry; a storm had been brooding in the heavy clouds overhead and was not ready to burst every moment. 

As soon as the muffled people got to the gate of the burying ground the mortuary chapel was opened to them by the sexton. The priests put on their officiating robes, recited several orisons appropriate to the occasion; then, with the Cross carried before them, bearing a holy-water sprinkler in their hands, followed by Vranic and his friends—all with blessed tapers—they went up to the murdered man’s tomb. The priest then bade the sexton dig up the earth and bring out the coffin. 

The smell, as the pit was being dug lower down, became always more offensive; but when, at last, the rotting deal coffin was drawn out and opened, it became overpoweringly loathsome. The corpse, however, being found in a good state of preservation, there could be no doubt that the dead man was a vampire. It is true that the tapers which everyone held gave but a dim and flickering light; moreover, that the stench was so sickening that all turned at once their heads away in disgust; still, they had all seen enough of the corpse to declare it to be but seemingly dead. The priest, standing as far from it as he possible could, began at once to exorcise it in the name of the Trinity, the Virgin and all the Saints; to sprinkle it with holy water, commanding it not to move, not to jump out of its box and run away—for these ghouls are cunning devils, and if one is not on the alert they skedaddle the moment the coffin is opened. Our priest, however, was a match even for the dead man, and his holy-water sprinkler was uplifted even before the lid of the loathsome chest was loosened. 

The storm which had been threatening the whole of that day broke out at last. No sooner had the sexton begun to dig the grave than the wind, which had been moaning and wailing round the stones and wooden crosses, began to howl with a sinister sound. Then, just as the priest uttered the formula of the exorcism—when the coffin was uncovered and the uncanny corpse was seen—a flash of lurid lightning gleamed over its livid features, and the rumbling thunder ended in a tremendous crash; the earth shook as if with the throes of childbirth; hell seemed to yawn and yield forth its fulsome dead. As the priest sprinkled the corpse with holy water, the rain came down in torrents as if to drown the world. 

Although the noise was deafening, still some of the men affirm that they heard the corpse lament and entreat not to be killed; but the priest, a tall, stalwart man of great strength and courage, went on perfectly undaunted, paying no heed to the vampire, mumbling his prayers as if the man prostrate before him was some ordinary corpse and this was a commonplace, every day funeral. 

The priest, having reached in his orisons the moment when he uttered the name of Isukrst, of God the son, Josko Vranic, who stood by, shivering from head to foot, and looking like a cat extracted from a tub of soap-suds, drew out a dagger from under his coat, where it had been carefully concealed from the ghost’s sight, and stabbed the corpse. It was, of course, a black steel stiletto, for only such a weapon can kill a vampire. He should have stabbed the dead man in his neck and through the throat, but he was so sick that he could hardly stand; besides, his candle that instant went out, and, moreover, he was terribly frightened, for although he was stabbing but a corpse, still that corpse was his own brother. 

A flash of lightning which followed that instant of perfect darkness showed him that the dagger, instead of being stuck in the dead man’s neck, was thrust in the right cheek. 

The ceremony being now over, the priests and their attendants hastened back to the chapel to take shelter from the rage of the storm, as well as to escape from the pestilential stench.

The sexton alone remained outside to heap up the earth again on the uncanny corpse, and shut up the grave. 

“Are you sure you stabbed the corpse in the neck, severing the throat, and thus preventing it from ever sucking blood again?” asked the priest. 

“Yes, I believed I have,” answeredVranic, with a whining voice. 

“I don’t ask you what you believe; have you done it—yes, or no?” asked the ecclesiastic, sternly. 

“Well, just as I lifted my knife to stab, the candle went out. I couldn’t see at all; the night was so dark; you all were far from me. Besides, as I bent down, the smell made me so sick that—” 

“You don’t know where you stabbed?” added the priest, angrily. “He stabbed him in the cheek!” said the sexton, coming in. “Fool!” burst out the priest, in a stentorian voice. 

“I was sure this would be the case,” cried out one of the party. “Vranic has always been a bungler of a tailor.” 

“You have done a fine piece of work, you have, indeed, you wretch!” hissed the priest, looking at Vranic scornfully. 

“You have endowed that cursed brother of yours with everlasting life,” said the other priest, “and now the whole town will be infested with another vampire for ever!” 

“Do you really think so?” asked Vranic, ready to burst out crying. 

“Think so!” said all the other men, scornfully. “To bring us here in the middle of the night with this storm, to stifle us with this poisonous stench, and this is the result!” 

“But really—” stammered Vranic. 

“Anyhow, he’ll not leave you till he has sucked the last drop of blood from your body.” 

The storm having somewhat abated, all the company wended their way homewards, taking no notice of the tailor, who followed them like a mangy cur which everyone avoids.

That night, Vranic had not a wink of sleep. No one would have him in his house; nobody would sleep with him, for fear of falling afterwards a prey to the vampire. As soon as he lay down and tried to shut his eyes, the terrifying sight appeared before him. The festering ghost with the horrible gash in the cheek, just over the jaw-bone, was ever present to his eyes; nor could he get rid of the loathsome, sickening stench with which his clothes, nay, his very body, seemed saturated. If a mouse stirred he fancies he could see the ghost standing by him. He hid his head under the bed-cover not to see, not to hear, until he was almost smothered, and every now and then he felt a human laid on his head, on his shoulder, on his legs, and his teeth chattered with fear. 

The storm ceased; still, the sky remained overcast, and a thin, drizzling rain had succeeded the interrupted showers. The dreadful night came to an end; he was happy to see the grey light of dawn succeed the appalling darkness. Daylight brought with it happier thoughts. 

“Perhaps,” said he to himself, “my brother was no vampire, after all! Perhaps the blade of the dagger, driven in the cheek, had penetrated slantingly into the neck, severed the throat, and thus killed the vampire; for something must have happened to keep the ghost away.” 

On the next day, Vranic remained shut up at home. He felt sure that his own relations would henceforth hate him, and his acquaintances would stone him if they possibly could. Nothing makes a man not only unjust, but even cruel, like fear, and no fear is greater than the vague dread of the unknown. That whole day he tried to work, but his thoughts were always fixed either on the festering corpse he had stabbed or on the coming night. 

Would the ghoul, reeking of hell, come and suck up his blood? 

As the light wanted his very strength began to flow away, his legs grew weak, his flesh shivered, the beating of his heart grew ever more irregular. 

He lighted his little oil-lamp before it was quite dark, looked about stealthily trembling lest he should see the dreaded apparition before its time, started and shuddered at the slightest noise. 

He was weary and worn out by the emotions of the former sleepless night; still, he could not make up his mind to go to bed. He placed his elbows on the board, buried his head within his hands, and remained there brooding over his woes. Without daring to lift up his eyes or look around, he at times stretched out his hand, clutched a gourd full of spirits and took a sip. Time passed, the twilight had faded away into soft, mellow darkness without; but in the tailor’s room the little flickering light only rendered the shadows grim and gruesome. 

Drink and lassitude at last overpowered the poor man; his head began to get drowsy, his ideas more confused; the heaviness of sleep weighed him down. 

All at once he was aroused from his lethargy by a sound of rushing winds. He hardly noticed it when it blew from afar, like the slight breeze that ruffles the surface of the sea; but, now that it came nearer, he remembered having heard it some evenings before. He grew pale, panted, and then his breath stopped, convulsed as he was by fear. 

As upon the previous night, the wind was lost in the distance, and then in the stillness of the night he heard the low, hushed sound of footsteps coming from afar; but they drew nearer and ever nearer, with a heavy, slow, metrical step. The nightwalker was near his house, at his door, on his threshold. The loathsome, sickening smell of corruption grew stronger and stronger. Now it was as overpoweringly nauseous as when he had bent down to stab his dead brother. The sound of footsteps was now within his room; the spectre must surely be by his side. He kept his eyes tightly shut and his head bent down. A cold perspiration was trickling from his forehead and through his fingers onto the table. 

All at once, something heavy and metallic was thrown in front of him. Although his eyes were tightly shut, he knew that it was the black dagger that his brother had come to bring him back, and he was not mistaken. 

Was there a chuckle just then? 

Almost against his will he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and looked at his guest. The vampire was standing by his side, grinning at him hideously, notwithstanding the gash in his right cheek. 

“Thank you brother,” said he, in a hollow, mocking voice, “for what you did yesterday; you have, in fact, given me everlasting life; and, as one good turn deserved another, you soon will be a vampire along with me. Come, don’t look so scared, man; it’s a pleasant life, after all. We sleep soundly during the day, and, believe me, no bed is so comfortable as the coffin, no house so quiet as the grave; but at night, when all the world sleeps and only witches are awake, then we not only live, but we enjoy life. No cankering care, no worry about the morrow. We have only fun and frolic, for we suck, we suck, we suck.” 

Vranic heard the sound of smacking lips just by his neck, the vampire had already laid his hands upon him. 

He tried to rise, to struggle, but his strength and senses forsook him; he uttered a choked, raucous sound, then his breath again stopped spasmodically, his face grew livid, he gasped for breath, his face and lips got to be of a violet hue, his eyes shut themselves, as he dropped fainting in his chair.