David Rudd, “A Vampire in Whitby”
from Blood Will Out & Other Strange Tales
excerpt
Blood Will Out & Other Strange Tales Publisher: Shakspeare Editorial Date: 2024 Length: 298 pp. ISBN: 978-1738442225
978-1611 792 096
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People have such a narrow stereotype when it comes to vampires. All they see are fanged incisors, drooling over a victim’s jugular. Wandering through Whitby on the Halloween Goth Weekend, I could see hundreds of be-fanged youngsters disporting this look. I’d intended only a brief visit to the town, to see what all the fuss was about. But I was already weary of the spectacle and had decided, after a quick lunchtime drink, to move on.
I went into a pub called The Elsinore, thinking to escape, only to discover that the place was a key venue. It was as though I’d wandered onto the set of an expressionist film. The clientele was predominantly monochrome.
After I’d ordered a glass of Barolo, one of my favourite reds (I was impressed that they stocked it), the barman started to explain that the pub was named after Hamlet’s castle, and that Bram Stoker had borrowed the name for his vampire hunter, Van Helsing.
“Why, though, does the pub sign feature a ship rather than a castle?” I asked the barman. He shrugged and turned to the next customer.
Of course, I’d visited Helsingør, the Danish island, several times, the first being on board a galleon somewhat similar to that pictured on their sign. That was long before the age of steam.
I went and found a seat. I have to admit, it was thanks to these goths that I could sit in plain sight. With such walking clichés, no one would ever consider me a threat. The credit for this stereotype must go to the writer mentioned by the barman: Bram Stoker, a distant relative of mine. He was not the first to depict my kind, admittedly. Polidori, Le Fanu and Varney the Vampire’s authors had all done their bit, but it was Stoker who really put people off the scent: the idea that we can’t bear sunlight — genius! That we have no reflection or shadow — brilliant! Let alone having those ridiculous fangs, or our supposed ability to transform into bats. Then there’s the garlic, the fear of crucifixes and the rest.
Of course, the film industry leapt on the bandwagon, turning us into tall, debonair gents — think Bella Lugosi and Christopher Lee — complete with sexy Transylvanian accents, an immaculate dress-code and slicked-back hair with that widow’s peak. It was the perfect subterfuge.
So, I am eternally grateful to my Irish ancestor for his imaginative deception. It was the best sort of camouflage possible, even if more sympathetic portrayals have occasionally put it in jeopardy (I’m thinking of Anne Rice’s Interview with a Vampire and that Twilight series). But they’re still a minority. Looking around at the young goths in The Elsinore, with their piercings, pasty faces and kohl eyes, the stereotype was secure.
The Barolo was delicious. We vampires have to be very careful about how much alcohol we imbibe (a fact we do not advertise), but I could not resist a second glass. Barolo is made from the Nebbiolo, a small, thick-skinned and fleshy grape. It looks disappointing, but when you bite into it, its juice, rich in tannins, squirts out like... well, like you know what. Barolo’s garnet-colour always brings this image to mind.
It was quite a crush returning to my seat. “Watch out, mister,” a young male haled me, “or you’ll drop your Vimto!”
“Barolo,” I replied, not familiar with the wine he mentioned, “from the Piedmont region of Italy.”
“Vimto,” the chap replied, “from t’ Pennine region o’ Lancashire.” His friends guffawed.
For an instant, my eyes flared, but I managed to restrain myself, forcing a smile as I eased myself back into my seat.
He hardly gave me a second look (this is how well I pass unnoticed) so I was able to study him and his companions more closely. Underneath all that make-up, the piercings, tattoos and flamboyant hair, Vimto man was an attractive specimen: firm-fleshed and long-limbed. Next to him sat an equally attractive female, breasts pushed high, eyes bright green in kohl surrounds. I would, I confess, willingly invite both to support my favourite cause: to become blood donors, giving blood generously (it’s an old joke, I know).
Although I thought I was being circumspect, I must have been staring, for Vimto man addressed me again: “You want a closer look, Mr Barolo?”
I was embarrassed. I shook my head, my hands making apologetic gestures. People today are so forward; the young especially.
Others at the table had now taken up his suggestion that I join them. It was becoming awkward, so I decided to comply. And, I must admit, these youngsters intrigued me. In fact, to be brutally honest, I had been feeling lonely of late.
“You are most generous,” I said, shifting my chair.
“I wouldn’t say that,” replied Vimto man. “It’s your round.”
They laughed, but I didn’t mind. I was happy to indulge them.
“If one of you will do the honours, I’ll willingly purchase more drinks.” I extracted a couple of twenties from my wallet and passed them over.
Of course, another glass of Barolo arrived for me. Vimto man had remembered my tipple. I was impressed. But I really had to be careful with my consumption. Our blood chemistry is particularly complex and sensitive.
The company was convivial, I’ll say that. Behind the monochrome façade, they were a lively bunch. I’ve always had a soft spot for the young, their energy and passion, let alone their firm young flesh.
Though the conversation was generally light and frivolous, they did ask me some personal questions. I spun them one of my standard biographies — one generally popular with the young — about my involvement in the film business, working for Hammer Horror. It was a background that somehow justified my fascination with their look.
After another drink (“No more for me,” I’d insisted), I was invited back to where they were staying. As I learned on the way, Belle Addison, the young lady with green eyes, lived with her Uncle Murdo, who, on Goth Weekends, held open house.
His house turned out to be more of a mansion, one of the few Victorian properties still standing in an isolated crescent of modern houses. For a band of goths, it was an apposite niche, more atmospheric than many of the official festival venues.
As I crossed the threshold, I gave a chuckle, to acknowledge that I’d been officially invited in. (I should perhaps add that, contrary to the stereotype, this is another myth. We vampires can go where we like, invited or not; but, being a refined, courteous race, we wouldn’t dream of intruding where we were not welcome.)
As her friends dispersed to the various rooms, Belle gave me a personal tour. Inside, the place was quite modern but, with various drapes and candles, she and her friends had created a gothic feel more in keeping with the property’s exterior. Old paintings and curios added to the atmosphere. It was perfect for Halloween. In fact, it would have been perfect for a Hammer film, too.
Though I felt somewhat out of place, the partygoers seemed to accept me as a harmless eccentric. Of course, they knew little of my ulterior motives. (I had already identified one or two potential donors.)
In the library, I was introduced to Uncle Murdo, sitting at an ornate desk and reading a newspaper. We exchanged pleasantries but that was all. He didn’t question my presence. From the library we returned to the kitchen, where others were enjoying some soup and crusty bread that a housekeeper was distributing. I took a bowl myself.
People then gravitated to the lounge where some loud music was playing. It was not really my “thing”, especially given my sensitive ears, but I put up with it, surreptitiously inserting some protectors, and continued observing them all: talking, smoking, reading, even dancing. They were saving their energies for a night on the town, I learned, though a few, the worse for wear after the lunchtime at The Elsinore, had retired.
It’s difficult to know what attracts one to a particular individual, but Belle fascinated me. With that raven-black hair and those piercing green eyes — curtesy of tinted contact lenses, I realised — she was undoubtedly attractive. Beyond that, there was a vulnerability about her, which I’ll always associate with her scent. A vampire’s sense of smell is as acute as his hearing and, if I was not mistaken, Belle was AB negative, that rarest of blood groups, possessed by just one percent of humans.
I could sense those corpuscles calling to me. So, when she went upstairs, I followed her, maintaining a discreet distance. It wasn’t just for selfish reasons, either. I was concerned at the way she was swaying.
When she turned into a bedroom, I remained on the landing, admiring the collection of prints that adorned Murdo’s walls. After a few minutes, I heard a small gasp. I moved to her doorway. Through her mirror, I could see her sitting at a dressing table, a short, ivory-handled blade in her right hand, tracing arabesques on her left arm. I could almost feel the systole-diastole shunt as a rivulet of blood snaked to her wrist.
I ran in and grabbed her arm, staunching the flow above her elbow. I could now see that, from elbow to wrist, her flesh was ridged with scar tissue. I knelt and applied my tongue to this latest cut, fastening my lips round it. Like nectar, the rare substance slipped down my throat.
All too soon, the coagulant in my saliva inhibited the flow. My joke about being a blood donor was not fanciful. We are biologically limited to something close to the NHS quota. None of that ridiculous nonsense about sucking our hosts dry; as if any parasite would destroy its provider.
Moreover, I hope none of you are taken in by that drivel about vampires creating more of their kind by biting humans. I mean, would you expect a human to turn into a horse after being bitten by one? As some mathematician once worked out, if it took a mere bite, vampires would dominate the world by now.
Even though it’s ludicrous to think of our bites as reproductive devices, they do have one other feature of note. Namely, our salivary glands contain an anaesthetic, such that our hosts recall nothing of their donation; apart, that is, from what I’ve been reliably informed is an extremely pleasurable high.
However, with Belle, something clearly went awry, for while she emitted a contented moan, I felt most peculiar: disoriented and woozy. The alcohol might have been a factor, but I was convinced there was more to it. Were there, I wondered, other substances in her system: marijuana, cocaine... ecstasy?
That was my last conscious thought before I crashed onto her bed: how could she have polluted such a fine vintage? It was like adding fizzy pop to a classic malt!
* * *
When I woke, I was shocked to discover that I was not alone. A group of goths had gathered round me, Belle amongst them, her arms now shielded from view. All were looking down at me, beaming inanely. Vimto man then produced a mirror, which he angled towards my face. Were they testing me, I wondered, to see if I cast a reflection? What had Belle told them?
I glanced in the mirror, vaguely anxious lest my image not be there (it’s so easy to be seduced by the media stereotype). With hindsight, I think I’d have been less surprised by this absence than by what confronted me. My face was a nightmare. Caked in make-up, it resembled a clown’s: predominantly white with stark black eyes, above which false eyebrows, rising like miniature gothic arches, had been etched. And above them, my hairline now featured a widow’s peak. As for my lips, they were purple, with a pair of those iconic fangs protruding. Traces of blood marbled them, with a trail of red trickling down to my neck. Had Belle said something? I glanced at her, but she gave nothing away. Like the rest, she just smiled.
The indignity! Did they not know with whom they were dealing? Were they not aware that I could strike them down in an instant? I was about to cast the mirror aside and berate them when I spotted something else. I reached up a hand to confirm it. Yes. On my right eardrum there was a silver stud. Not that the type of metal was a problem (another myth, of course), but the idea that they’d taken such liberties with my person while I was unconscious was highly disturbing. I felt molested, defiled! For the first time in my long life, I was the one who’d been, well... penetrated!
“What do you think of our makeover?” enquired Vimto man.
“You’ve certainly been busy,” was all I could manage. “How long have I been...out?”
“Hours,” they said.
“Now you won’t feel such an outsider,” said someone else.
I could do nothing but smile at the irony, innocents that they were. The spectacle over, they wandered off, chuckling to each other; even Belle seemed coy.
My first thought was that I should leave immediately. After all, I’d intended only a brief visit to the town. However, when I went downstairs, my “fellow” goths were so keen to have me with them that I felt I could not let them down, especially given the trouble they’d taken in preparing me.
They were the first humans, I realised, with whom I’d had any interaction in decades (apart from the obvious). The prospect of resuming my ceaseless globetrotting suddenly held no attraction. I therefore agreed to accompany them, especially as I had this goth mask to hide behind.
* * *
The evening was not particularly eventful — pubs, festival venues, some promenading around the sites — but their companionship was a boon. They reminded me of the young Romantics I’d encountered back in the 1790s. They too had rejected the conventions of the day, seeking isolated spots like the Abbey ruins. And they, also, were forever exploring altered states of consciousness, using alcohol and other recreational substances. But what really brought the Romantics to mind was the way these goths rejected violence, albeit it seemed to breed aggression in others. For this reason, I was pleased to be able to offer them some protection. Another irony!
There were a few occasions when I’d had to take aside some rowdy locals, politely advising them to stand down. Despite their initial oaths and braggadocio, they soon found my grip and penetrating stare persuasive; perhaps my facial makeover also helped. “Barolo the Minder,” my new friends started calling me.
That evening certainly did me a lot of good, making me realise what a hermit I’d become. It was unnerving to be so visible amongst such crowds, but it was therapeutic. Strangers even stopped me for selfies. Invisible behind my mask, I was happy to comply.
* * *
It is now over a year since that madcap weekend and I find myself in Whitby still, the guest of Belle and her uncle. We make an odd threesome, but then this town is a place where eccentrics of all stripes have found sanctuary.
After that first memorable night, I had intended to move on, but my heart wasn’t in it, particularly as Belle and her goth friends had made me so welcome. Despite our age differences (to put it mildly), they were very tolerant and, I must say, I have come to develop a sympathy for their attitude to life. I’ve even started to adopt their style of dress and appearance — and the silver stud is still in place.
Murdo and I have also found we have much in common. Ever since I’d heard about him holding an open house for the young, I’d had my suspicions. Not that we ever talk openly about such things. It’s an unspoken code amongst our kind.
Belle, it turns out, was the first runaway for whom Murdo provided sanctuary (they are not related at all, of course). I’m pleased to say that she is now far more stable, studying for a university place. She certainly has no new scars — a few puncture marks, admittedly, but these, I assure you, are therapeutic only. You must think of my treatment regime in medical terms, like administering methadone shots to a drug addict — except that my treatment provides a more rewarding high.
Please don’t get the wrong idea. My own habit, as we might call it, is gratified elsewhere. I now have a job. It arose out of that memorable goth night. Some of the officials asked whether I might help with security on a regular basis. I was delighted to offer my services. Anything to support the local community — and I have been doing so ever since.
So do, please, come along. You’ll be made most welcome, I can assure you. It’ll be an experience you’ll never forget!
Copyright © January 27, 2025 by David Rudd
