I do not remember when we first became the property of Bartholomew.
Even at the age of 16, when held in the depths of his captivity, I struggled to recollect my parents or our previous life in Amsterdam. I was, even then, incapable of dredging up much more than a skerrick of information to give to my younger siblings so that they may have some inkling from whence we came.
Neither could I have, at such a naïve age, explained to you the true reasons why our keeper constantly paraded us through the many wealthy cities of Europe. We were always on the go, never in one place for too long. All I clearly understood was we were his living baubles of delight, dolls to be dressed up and exhibited in front of others.
One place, in particular, was Venice, a beautiful and longed-for destination. Upon our arrival, I would always find that after a day or two, my melancholy would return and strengthen its stranglehold. We were often kept in homes situated on one of the many islands. We could roam the atoll at will, but to leave it without drowning was impossible. It was a stark reminder that glorious freedom was within our reach… and completely out of our grasp.
Whilst he slumbered during the day, Bartholomew, I am sure, would delight in letting us, his cowering dogs, smell the scent of liberty, knowing full well this was all we could do. Viciousness and vanity ran hand in hand through his cold veins—that and stolen blood. He once said, ‘A happy performing dog was far more amusing than one that cowered in a corner.’
I knew exactly to whom he referred.
As the evenings would relentlessly cast their dark embrace, Bartholomew would rise and take us to the main islands by rowboat. And on one such sojourn during the heat of a summer’s evening, my brother, sister, and I stood outside a master Vancian Potter’s ‘la bodega’ somewhere off the main plaza. Surrounded by this artisan’s delicate wares, standing in a silent row, my sister, brother and I reminded myself that just like the potter's wares, we, too, were on constant display.
A passer-by would never have known of our captivity from just observation. We were well-fed, clean, highly educated and dressed immaculately. Please don’t be fooled; there was never any kindness in our tormentor’s acts. It was Bartholomew’s wealth, his ability to control and captivate us with little to no effort at all, which was on exhibition.
Bartholomew’s relaxed and drawn-out lilting voice drew me back to reality. “Elaina, do you like what you see? Is his work not exquisite? The way the ‘Maestro Potter’ has forced the raw dirt and mud into a vessel so elegant that he would surely be the envy of all others in his trade?” Bartholomew smiled at me, waiting for my reply.
“Yes, Bartholomew, most exquisite.”
Smiling like the darkest night’s shadow, the beast continued. “You would agree, Elaina, would you not, that I am most like this master craftsman? Do I not create elegant vessels from filth and dirt?” A cold, smirking glint grew in his eyes.
“Yes, Bartholomew, you are most like this ‘Maestro Artigiano’.”
What I really wanted to say… was nothing. I wanted to have the power to embrace my silence and not have to placate his pathetic and malicious ego. But to do so and ignore him with the contempt he deserved would mean a painful retribution. And recently, Bartholomew had changed his tactics to direct his violence towards my little sister. This way, he knew he would maintain his control over me as I grew into adulthood.
In replacement of my desire to grit my teeth, grab the sharp little clay-trimming knife from the potter’s hand and drive it deeply into Bartholomew’s neck, slicing his throat from ear to ear, I smiled sweetly. Truthfully, a smile powered with the gleeful thought of standing back and watching my master in all his silken finery bleed out onto the ground.
This beaming platitude pleased Bartholomew even though he didn’t understand the source from which my happiness grew.
“You may all choose a little trinket from this master’s shop. And put it by your beds to remind you how fortunate you are to have me. ‘Vi do il dono della vita, mie bamboline.’”
“Thank you, Bartholomew.” Was chorus diligently from all our little doll mouths.
As my little sister looked at painted ceramic cats and my brother a vase with a happy family scene painted on its side, I chose a petite round, white-lidded bowl. And, when no one looked, I snatched the potter’s cutting wire with its wooden toggled ends from his service desk and slid it into the container, which was then innocently wrapped and purchased. All the while, Bartholomew wandered about the potter's ‘la bodega’, smiling at himself and marvelling at his talents, intelligence, and mastery.
Victory, no matter how small, is a victory nonetheless! The lidded bowl would certainly stay next to my bed with the wires hidden below a collection of French lace.
When we would return from our nightly parades, Bartholomew, forever a creature of habit, would hunt—returning before dawn through the same high window in the attic with a living meal he had procured with false beauty, lies and deceit.
Unfortunately, the memory of his favourite game does not fade from my mind. Upon waking, my master would often walk me up to the attic, where I would be made to look at every single corpse and repeat their names, ages, and occupations. As I did so, he would run his fingers over their dried skin, enjoying the show of once-living, breathing humanity now trapped forever in their degrading, macabre mumified poses.
On one particular night, Bartholomew, whilst caressing a young woman's corpse, began to talk to me about the balance of life, how there must be the death of one for the life of another to continue. All creatures had needs that were necessary to be sated. “Feeding,” he whispered behind a hungry gaze, “Elaina is not the only need I desired to be met. One day soon, you will understand how important it is to me to keep you.”
Cold fingers travelled from the discarded woman's dead flesh to my own. Caressing my neck, he delighted with low moans over the way I quivered under his stony fingers, terrified this would be the night I would take my place amongst the deceased. My malicious master inhaled the scent of my hair and then laughed quietly to himself, driving a knife into my heart with his simple words, “ Child of Van Helsing, you’re not so frightening now.”
I agreed with a smile; truth be known, the only thing frightening in our home was him!
Then, one morning, as we sat around the kitchen’s old wooden breakfast table, consuming our food in silence, something more terrifying slithered into my world, forcing me to risk all our lives.
“Look, sister, look!” Abraham laughed, delighted with the magic happening right in front of him. The horror which inflicted my eyes tore at my heart. “Look, sister, I can fly!” His eyes widened with glee as his body left the chair and floated towards the ceiling.
Dishes were kicked and broken as I clambered up onto the staff’s wooden table, grabbing my brother's arms and pulling him back down to the floor. Forcing him onto my lap, ensconced in a tight embrace, fear igniting every hard syllable whispered harshly into his ear. “Never, Abraham. Never, ever are you ever to do that again!” I watched the staff as they backed away from us.
“Why Elaina, why? Abby is magic!” My five-year-old sister cried out in disappointment and shock.
“Abe, what has Bartholomew done to you?” His neck was searched in desperation for bite wounds.
“Nothing, he’s done nothing, Elaina. Stop it; you’re hurting me.”
I shook Abe’s shoulders and then stared into his blue, wide eyes. “Think Abraham, think. What has he done?”
A frightening confession tumbled from his quivering lips as tears rolled down his red-cheeked face. “He makes me drink a small glass of port wine before I go to sleep. I’ve only done it twice!”
With a broken heart, I pulled him closer to cuddle snugly. Looking up from the cold stone floor, I watched the sunlight stream down from the high-up windows, hitting the flagstons in a blinding beam of light.
The kitchen staff took a further step backward; maybe they could see what my intentions were.
Slowly, holding my brother to me, I stood and walked us both towards the light, murmuring comfortingly as I did. “It’s alright, Ab, don’t worry, it’s okay.” With my eyes closed, I embraced an internal strength I hadn't known existed to step us both into the light.
“Are you sure you’re not mad, Elaina?”
Relief burst through a deep, soul-wracking sob; everything was still as it should be. “No, Ab, I’m not cross. I’m not cross.” Was whispered gently into his ears as we spun in the morning light.
Looking into my brother’s face, my plan arrived in a cold, hard, and unemotional wave. It made sense to me, even though it made me shiver with fear. No longer could we pretend Bartholomew would be satisfied with moulding us; he now wanted to re-create us into the monsters of his dreams.
That day, I made sure the children had the best day I could possibly provide for them; I worried privately that if I did what I had planned to do, this might be their last. We paddled in the water, rolled on the grass, and waved to every large steamboat that passed our shores. The gloriously sunny day was finished with a picnic, for which the staff went out of their way to provide little cakes for us all—a rare and delicious treat.
When Bartholomew woke, we followed his true and tried routine. Going out to the rowboat at eight, we dined in one of the finest restaurants that our owner frequented. The meal was consumed in silence with our best manners displayed whilst the crowd sat and watched us—his performing dogs.
Back to the house and then to bed as our master flew away back to the city to find himself a dining companion.
The kitchen, still warm from the day's cooking, was occupied by the staff, who were busy preparing their nightly meal. The quiet and pensive group watched as I entered the room, dressed only in my nightgown, their knives and forks placed quietly on the table. I didn’t quite know what to think of them as they turned their heads to their laps. Their submissive actions didn’t really concern me as my eyes were caught by the golden platter on the bureau, ready to be taken to our master’s room when he returned. Upon it was a crystal decanter filled with a deep red ruby liquid.
Taking it in both hands, the weight was surprising. All eyes were on me now as I pulled the stopper out and smelled the alcohol and iron. Watching them, I had dared with my gaze any of them to stop me. Gazes were shared among the table occupants, and then, slowly, one by one, their knives and forks were picked up as they continued to eat in silence.
Even now, I remember how cold and dark the attic was. Thankfully, Bartholomew’s escapades had desensitised me to its gruesome aesthetic. I found a chaise lounge and sat recumbent amongst his victims. The pain of waiting bore down heavily upon me.
An hour before dawn, I drank half the decanter and felt its terrifying essence burn. Colours dulled to grey, as did my emotions. The surrounding corpses were no longer reminders of suffering and loss; they were just dried-out husks.
This is what it was to be vampiric!
It was clear why they found mutated joy based on another’s agony. Why, they were obsessed with the intricacies of violence! Draining the life from another whilst terror embraced their quarry was the only way they felt... alive!
Half an hour before dawn, Bartholomew flew through the open aperture with his struggling victim held captive in his arms. Down his feet touched the floorboards lightly as he lifted the poor girl's neck to his mouth, piercing her soft flesh with his extended fangs; he began sucking her very essence, planning to take it until she could give no more.
“Why does she look like me?”
Bartholomew looked up in surprise, her blood still coating his lips.
“I noticed that a number of your victims in this room look like me. Why is that, Bartholomew?”
He smiled and let the girl slide from his grip. Then, taking a silken handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, he dabbed away the plasma and commented in his strong European accent, “There is always a reason for my actions, Elaina.”
“And what would that be, Bartholomew?” I placed the decanter from the lounge behind me on the floor in plain sight.
The monster’s eyes glinted as a smile crept into the corner of his mouth. “I see you’ve found my decanter.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you drink it?”
“There is always a reason for my actions, Bartholomew!”
He walked over slowly to me and stood well within my comfort zone, reaching out, a wayward lock of hair was brushed off my face. “How does my essence make you feel, Elaina?”
I stood, never breaking eye contact, for a moment watching his reactions to my attire and behaviour, then sidestepped him to walk to the open window. “Did you try it out on Abraham to see what would happen?”
“Yes.” He paused, keeping his back to me. “How do you feel about that?”
Looking at his still form, I answered truthfully, “To be honest, I don’t feel anything.”
“I see.”
He remained still as I walked back and stood behind him. I had never noticed, but Bartholomew's back did not move; no indication that he breathed. I raised my hand and placed it on his back, caressing the still, cold muscles below his shirt. Moving my hand up to his shoulder and then to his neck, no pulse was felt. As I wrapped my hand down over his shoulder and onto his chest, I pushed my body into his, eliciting a whispered moan from my owner. The back of my other hand ran up the back of his arm to his shoulder.
Shivering, Bartholomew whispered huskily, “I have held on for this moment, Elaina, so that you would grow to my moulding.”
“I’m sure you have Bartholomew.”
He laughed lightly, distracted by my presence and his apparent accomplishment. “I am your master, and you my clay.”
One wooden toggle from the potter's cutting wire was carefully slipped from one hand to the other. As I leaned in and slowly drew my hands back, I whispered, “Clay always needs to be cut!” And with that, I pulled with all my might against the wire, now digging into Bartholomew’s neck, intersecting my hands to cross the sharp metal thread into a full slicing loop.
Gagging and scratching at the wire, Bartholomew staggered and fell to his knees, allowing me to quickly manoeuvre myself to place a knee on his back where my screams of effort matched his bellows of terror.
Combined with surprise and my beguiled strength from his essence, the vampire was no match. The wire sliced easily through his flesh.
I only needed to jiggle the wire a little to cut through his spinal column, and then, his head finally separated with a joint’s pop. I watched as it rolled away, stopped only by the chaise lounge's wooden leg.
Deep, ragged breaths delivered comfort; I still, with all of Bartholomew’s blood beating through my veins, needed oxygen.
It took a moment to realise his head was still screaming, enraged by my actions. “Elaina, you dare do this to ME! “
With insurmountable horror, I watched as his body pushed itself up from the floor.
“Oh, good god!” fear raged through my soul as I slipped and slid in the black ooze that had carried Bartholomew’s life essence. Grabbing his shrieking head by the curled and quaffed hair, I ran for the stairs.
Bartholomew’s body banged, scrapped and slammed its way behind me as the vampire continued to scream, “Van Helsing whore, I’ll gouge your eyes out and put them on a plate for your supper!”
My brother and sister, standing in their bedroom doorways, watched wide-eyed, terrified and screaming as I ran past them, yelling, “Hide!”
Down I continued down to the back stairwell, down to the kitchen, where all but one of the staff cowered in the furthest corner, screaming and crying as I, the wild banshee covered in black blood, my hands dipped in nightmare tar, screaming head in hand, looked for my exit. A boy about my age stood at the back door, held open wide, shouting, “Da questa parte, esci nella luce del mattino!” as he pointed to the promise of a rising sun.
I have never run faster in my entire life than I did that morning. I ran through the lush and well-tended gardens and from the monster's pursuing body; I ran over the empty grass from captivity; I ran along the grey-planked dock and from my life of pain, torture and horror; I ran to where I could run no more but only turn and face the monster satiated by the knowledge I had tried to save us all.
Horrified, I raised Bartholomew’s head to see a tangle of writhing black worms from his neck lashing about towards me, ready to reattach itself to his animated corpse.
His wide blue eyes narrowed as he burbled, “Elaina, death is upon, you bitch. I’ll watch as you rip your family apart and eat them, you vicious little cow. I’ll laugh at every swallow as you beg me for more, whore. Then, dear Elaina, my kind will eradicate every single Van Helsing on the face of this world. And you, as my night mistress, will be the reason we slaughter and sup on the blood of millions. My sweet darling Elaina, I will bathe your naked body in the blood of every Van Helsing babe, and you shall desire it all!”
His lips drew back, showing his true nature through two spiked and monstrous rows of sharp, daggered teeth. “I will convert your filthy nature into my willing maiden, where you will learn of agony so inordinate you’ll beseech me for eternal death!”
The warmth of a single beam of sunlight broke over the vista of Venice, caressing the back of my head whilst I screamed my response, “Are you scared of the Van Helsing children now, BAR-THOLO-MEW?”
Lifting his macabre face higher into the dawn’s light, Bartholomew’s rage lulled as the Sun’s light embraced his white features so long withheld from the day’s caress. Looking into the rising sun, he whispered, “Amore mio, il sole!” And with that, his screaming recommenced as I threw his burning head to the dock, watching it as, in the distance, his body lit up like a candle wick. Through his boiling and hissing fluids, my once owner begged his last with “Elaina… my love!”
I had saved us. We were safe.
It was then that I started to feel the burn.
Too much blood had been consumed.
Falling to the dock, I embraced my ending, knowing my brother and sister were safe. Hot, salted tears streamed down my blistering cheeks.
Darkness enveloped me.
.
.
.
.
.
“Elaina?... Elaina? Are you awake?” Abraham spoke, “Antonio wet a blanket and threw it over you, then carried you inside.”
I nodded, the pain was reducing quickly, “Is it dark?”
Abraham looked up, then back under the blanket, “Yes, there’s no daylight coming in.”
“Take the blanket off me, Ab.” A cold weight was lifted. “Am I one of them?” I asked, with tears rolling down my cheeks.
“No, signorina!” The boy’s face came into view, “You drink little, si? You still umano!”
Sobs in body-wracking waves engulfed me as my sister and brother held on tightly.
“We’re safe, Elania, we’re safe!” cried Ab.
I looked at my rescuer's sad face and warm, kind eyes.
“For now, yes, Ab, we are.” Patting my brother’s face, I continued on with the truth, “Until nightfall, yes, we’re safe!”
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Very nice! Major Anne Rice vibes. Although you don't pull horror punches so I might actually prefer your take!
Magnificent! An original take on the vampire mythos.