Brood of the Witch-Queen Sax Rohmer (read 50 shades of grey TXT) 📖

strength. God knows I had! Then, his stern face very pale, he locked the library door, and from a closet concealed beside the ancient fireplace⁠—a closet which, hitherto, I had not known to exist⁠—he took out a bulky key of antique workmanship. Together we set to work to remove all the volumes from one of the bookshelves.

“Even when the shelves were empty, it called for our united efforts to move the heavy piece of furniture; but we accomplished the task ultimately, making visible a considerable expanse of panelling. Nearly forty years had elapsed since that case had been removed, and the carvings which it concealed were coated with all the dust which had accumulated there since the night of my father’s coming of age.

“A device upon the top of the centre panel represented the arms of the family; the helm which formed part of the device projected like a knob. My father grasped it, turned it, and threw his weight against the seemingly solid wall. It yielded, swinging inward upon concealed hinges, and a damp, earthy smell came out into the library. Taking up a lamp, which he had in readiness, my father entered the cavity, beckoning me to follow.

“I found myself descending a flight of rough steps, and the roof above me was so low that I was compelled to stoop. A corner was come to, passed, and a further flight of steps appeared beneath. At that time the old moat was still flooded, and even had I not divined as much from the direction of the steps, I should have known, at this point, that we were beneath it. Between the stone blocks roofing us in oozed drops of moisture, and the air was at once damp and icily cold.

“A short passage, commencing at the foot of the steps, terminated before a massive, iron-studded door. My father placed the key in the lock, and holding the lamp above his head, turned and looked at me. He was deathly pale.

“ ‘Summon all your fortitude,’ he said.

“He strove to turn the key, but for a long time without success for the lock was rusty. Finally, however⁠—he was a strong man⁠—his efforts were successful. The door opened, and an indescribable smell came out into the passage. Never before had I met with anything like it; I have never met with it since.”

Lord Lashmore wiped his brow with his handkerchief.

“The first thing,” he resumed, “upon which the lamplight shone, was what appeared to be a bloodstain spreading almost entirely over one wall of the cell which I perceived before me. I have learnt since that this was a species of fungus, not altogether uncommon, but at the time, and in that situation, it shocked me inexpressibly.

“But let me hasten to that which we were come to see⁠—let me finish my story as quickly as may be. My father halted at the entrance to this frightful cell; his hand, with which he held the lamp above his head, was not steady; and over his shoulder I looked into the place and saw⁠ ⁠… him.

“Dr. Cairn, for three years, night and day, that spectacle haunted me; for three years, night and day, I seemed to have before my eyes the dreadful face⁠—the bearded, grinning face of Paul Dhoon. He lay there upon the floor of the dungeon, his fists clenched and his knees drawn up as if in agony. He had lain there for generations; yet, as God is my witness, there was flesh on his bones.

“Yellow and seared it was, and his joints protruded through it, but his features were yet recognisable⁠—horribly, dreadfully, recognisable. His black hair was like a mane, long and matted, his eyebrows were incredibly heavy and his lashes overhung his cheekbones. The nails of his fingers⁠ ⁠… no! I will spare you! But his teeth, his ivory gleaming teeth⁠—with the two wolf-fangs fully revealed by that death-grin!⁠ ⁠…

“An aspen stake was driven through his breast, pinning him to the earthern floor, and there he lay in the agonised attitude of one who had died by such awful means. Yet⁠—that stake was not driven through his unhallowed body until a whole year after his death!

“How I regained the library I do not remember. I was unable to rejoin the guests, unable to face my fellow-men for days afterwards. Dr. Cairn, for three years I feared⁠—feared the world⁠—feared sleep⁠—feared myself above all; for I knew that I had in my veins the blood of a vampire!”

IX The Polish Jewess

There was a silence of some minutes’ duration. Lord Lashmore sat staring straight before him, his fists clenched upon his knees. Then:

“It was after death that the third baron developed⁠—certain qualities?” inquired Dr. Cairn.

“There were six cases of death in the district within twelve months,” replied Lashmore. “The gruesome cry of ‘vampire’ ran through the community. The fourth baron⁠—son of Paul Dhoon⁠—turned a deaf ear to these reports, until the mother of a child⁠—a child who had died⁠—traced a man, or the semblance of a man, to the gate of the Dhoon family vault. By night, secretly, the son of Paul Dhoon visited the vault, and found.⁠ ⁠…

“The body, which despite twelve months in the tomb, looked as it had looked in life, was carried to the dungeon⁠—in the Middle Ages a torture-room; no cry uttered there can reach the outer world⁠—and was submitted to the ancient process for slaying a vampire. From that hour no supernatural visitant has troubled the district; but⁠—”

“But,” said Dr. Cairn quietly, “the strain came from Mirza, the sorceress. What of her?”

Lord Lashmore’s eyes shone feverishly.

“How do you know that she was a sorceress?” he asked, hoarsely. “These are family secrets.”

“They will remain so,” Dr. Cairn answered. “But my studies have gone far, and I know that Mirza, wife of the third Baron Lashmore, practised the Black Art in life, and became after death a ghoul. Her husband surprised her in certain detestable magical operations and struck her head off. He had suspected her for some considerable time, and had not only