a small and obviously long-forgotten and clearly neglected cemetery on his left, its outer boundary delineated by a length of spiked iron railing, he soon drew up outside number one hundred and nineteen. From the car window he peered up at the rambling house. Straining his eyes, he could make out what appeared to be flickering candlelight in one of the upstairs rooms.
He opened the door of his car and stepped out. He shivered, plucking at the lapels of his raincoat, feeling the rain soaking through the thin cloth. Completely isolated, standing in a part of the city that was completely foreign to him, he felt very insecure and frightened, mentally debating with himself whether or not he had made a wise judgment in venturing out here alone. Would it not have been better had he come accompanied by either Hargreaves or Jones, or perhaps even Malcolm Reid, the auctioneer, for that matter?
Desperately, he tried to pull himself together. What was the damn matter with him anyway? He had a valid reason to be there—to return some of the buyer’s property, and perhaps he could find an explanation for the unease he had felt since he had first set eyes on the doll. Instinctively, the fingers of his right hand clenched around the small silver crucifix in his pocket.
He reached the tall iron gates of the house. For a long moment he stood hesitant, swaying against the growing wind, peering at the gloomy structure with its turreted towers, probing at the darkening sky. It would be easy, he thought, for a house such as this to earn a reputation for being haunted. All it would take would be for a person to see this place as he now saw it, with the witch’s moon now climbing up behind the rearing outer walls, and that strange, eerie light coming from the upper window.
He began to hope that the owner would not be in; that being the case, he would rapidly get back into his car and drive home, along sanely-lit streets inhabited by normal, living people. Yet, an unsettling notion in his brain told him there was someone in, and that that someone was even now spying on him from a darkened window, watching his every move, deliberating on the purpose of his visit.
Mustering up his courage, Briggs pushed open the gates and walked up the short drive to the front door. He reached out a hand to knock, then drew it back sharply as it swung open on noiseless hinges, revealing the yawning blackness of the entrance. His heart contracted rapidly for a moment, and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. Then he sucked in a deep breath, fingered the little crucifix in his pocket for assurance, and stepped through into the interior of the house. Now that he was inside, he saw that there was, indeed, a faint glow coming from the top of the stairs directly in front of him. The house smelled of age-old dust, rising damp, and neglect, smells which, due to his profession, he was quite acquainted with.
On the landing above, a shadowy figure appeared, silhouetted against the candlelight, the eldritch glow at his back like an unholy halo about him.
“Good evening.”
Briggs felt his heart leap. For a moment it felt as though his throat had dried up completely and that he had lost the power of speech. He swayed on his feet, and the feeling that the man’s voice held a slightly hypnotic quality dulled his mind for a moment, blanking out any other thoughts. It had sounded cold yet mellow.
The tall figure began to descend the stairs, his cast shadow unnaturally long and menacing.
With a strong conscious effort, Briggs shook his head free of the strange spell the other had on him. “Mr. Thorko, I—I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Peter Briggs, and I’ve—”
“You’ve come to return something of mine? I knew you would.” Thorko was nearly at the bottom of the stairs now, and in the shadowy light from above, his features looked even more cadaverous than they had when Briggs had first seen him. He was dressed in a relatively well-tailored dark suit that, combined with his macabre demeanor and appearance, did little to calm Briggs’ nerves. The man could have just stepped from a coffin or a funeral parlor.
I knew you would, Briggs didn’t like the sound of that. Nervously, he gently chewed his lower lip. He was trembling slightly. Somehow, he found the strength of will to reply: “Yes, that’s right.” His fingers tightened around the crucifix in his pocket. Although he had never been a believer in the existence of vampires, he was half-expecting the man before him with the central European accent to suddenly sprout fangs and leap at him or else turn into a bat. But that’s preposterous, he told himself fiercely, trying to shake away the frightening thoughts. He removed the crucifix on its little chain from his pocket and held it out on his upturned palm.
Although he had expected the other to suddenly recoil from the sight of it, he was pleasantly surprised to note just a flicker of indifference in the other’s eyes.
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Briggs, I did not forget it. I merely chose not to take it.” Something diabolical and malignant glinted in the other’s dark eyes. “You see, I have no need of it. Now that I have her, such trinkets are no longer necessary. You may dispose of it as you see fit.”
Her? Was he referring to the doll? Briggs stared at him uncertainly. He was about to say something when suddenly the door behind him swung shut.
A cruel smile creased itself into being on Thorko’s face. It was not a pleasant sight.
“What the devil’s going on here?” shouted Briggs. He turned towards the door and tried the handle. It was locked!
“Now there’s a question,” demurred Thorko, “and one which I think should be answered. After all, you’re going to play a significant part in tonight’s activities. But first—”
“Not likely.” Briggs flung his weight at the door. It pained his shoulder but did not budge. He turned. “Now, I’m telling you—”
“You’re telling me?” Thorko’s eyes flared a deep crimson.
The strength seemed to sap from Briggs’ limbs, and he had to steady himself against a wall to prevent himself from collapsing as his left knee buckled under him. Dark thoughts pervaded his mind, and he felt as though he was falling through a swirling red mist, filled with unseen, yet horrible creatures. There were the faint sounds of people screaming, of people being sadistically tortured and killed. Gritting his teeth, he somehow managed to hold on to some vestige of sanity, and he was vaguely aware that the other was guiding him, effortlessly, slowly upstairs towards that dimly-lit room from which the candlelight emanated.
The other was talking, the words barely heard: “Had you taken the time to study my notebook, and had you been able to read Old Hungarian, you might have saved yourself a lot of trouble, Mr. Briggs. You see, I wrote that a long time ago. In the late summer of 1614, to be exact.”
They were near the landing now, and Briggs felt as though he had been drugged or something. He was struggling to keep his eyes open.
“I remember well my dungeon study in Csejthe Castle, where I would instruct my countess and her dark sisters in Black Magic. Elizabeth had been such an apt and willing student, eager to embrace all that I could teach.”
They were now at the door to the candlelit room.
Briggs felt bile rise to his throat. Somehow, he had to fight against this draining, compelling authority, which the other seemed to have over him. His will was fading fast. Through eyes that could hardly comprehend what they were seeing, he stared forward as Thorko steered him into the room. It was almost as though he was seeing with his mind’s eye, as opposed to his natural vision. The scene before him distorted and wavered.
A ghastly, hellish glow had suffused the entire room from some source near the ceiling. A crazy pattern had been painted on the smooth wooden floorboards, and a great carved
