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The oaken parlor of Bennett Hall was draped in shadows, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shapes on the walls adorned with intricate carvings of twisted vines and grotesque faces. The air was thick with tension, a palpable sense of dread hanging over the group gathered there. This was the most serious and somber meeting held on the subject of the much-dreaded vampire, a creature that haunted their nights and shattered their peace.
Henry’s promise to Flora that her earnest wish to leave the house would not be forgotten echoed in the room. He was beginning to feel that Bennett Hall, with all its endearing memories, was no longer a home for him. The thought of departing was becoming more appealing, yet the reality of their financial situation loomed over him like a dark cloud. The family’s income, though ample in theory, was devoured by debts incurred by his father, leaving little for their livelihood.
Henry’s mind raced as he considered the implications of leaving the Hall. The creditors had been lenient, allowing the family to stay despite the debts, but there was no guarantee they would continue to do so if the family abandoned the estate. This was a troubling and urgent dilemma that needed to be addressed with honesty and clarity.
With a determined resolve, Henry decided to share these concerns with Charles Holland and his uncle, Mr. O’Hara. As they settled into the small, dimly lit parlor, Henry made an explicit statement about the family’s precarious finances.
“But,” O’Hara interjected after Henry finished, “I cannot see what right your creditors have to complain about where you live, as long as you honor your contract with them.”
“True,” Henry replied, “but they expected me to stay at the Hall. If they chose, they could sell the entire property and pay themselves with the proceeds, leaving nothing for us.”
“I cannot imagine any men could be so unreasonable,” O’Hara said, shaking his head.
“It is maddening,” Charles Holland exclaimed, his usual calm demeanor giving way to frustration. “To be driven from your home because of this wretched vampire—it makes my blood boil!”
“And yet it’s our reality,” Henry said, his voice heavy with resignation. “What can we do?”
“There must be some remedy,” Charles insisted.
“There is only one, and it’s one we all abhor,” Henry replied, his voice lowering. “We might kill him.”
“That is out of the question,” Charles responded firmly.
“My belief is that he shares my name and is the ancestor depicted in the portrait on the panel,” Henry continued, his eyes reflecting a mix of fear and determination.
“Have things truly gotten so dire that you now believe this man is the monstrous creature we suspect?” Charles asked, his voice trembling.
“Dare we doubt it any longer?” Henry cried out, a mixture of fear and conviction in his tone. “He is the vampire.”
“I’ll be hanged if I believe it,” Admiral Bell retorted, his booming voice cutting through the tension. “Vampire, indeed! Nonsense and bother!”
“Sir,” Henry said, turning to the admiral, “you haven’t experienced the horrors we have. At first, we too were incredulous. But the evidence has been overwhelming.”
The oaken parlor of Bennett Hall exuded an oppressive gloom, the flickering candlelight casting sinister shadows on the walls adorned with elaborate carvings of twisted vines and grotesque faces. The air was thick with tension, a palpable sense of dread hanging over the group gathered there. This was the most serious and somber meeting held on the subject of the much-dreaded vampire, a creature that haunted their nights and shattered their peace.
O’Hara’s voice broke the uneasy silence. “That is the case,” he said. “Step by step, we have been driven from utter disbelief in this phenomenon to a trembling conviction that it must be true.”
“Unless we admit that, simultaneously, the senses of a number of persons have been deceived,” Henry added, his voice heavy with resignation.
“That is scarcely possible,” O’Hara replied, shaking his head.
The admiral, his rugged face etched with skepticism, leaned forward. “Then do you really mean to say there are such creatures?” he demanded.
“We think so,” O’Hara answered solemnly.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” the admiral exclaimed. “I’ve heard all sorts of tales about what sailors have seen in one ocean or another, but this beats them all to nothing.”
“It is monstrous,” Charles said, his voice filled with incredulity and frustration.
A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire. Then O’Hara spoke again, his voice low and measured. “Perhaps I ought not to propose any course of action until you, Henry, have done so. But even at the risk of being presumptuous, I will say that I am firmly of the opinion that you ought to leave the Hall.”
“I am inclined to think so, too,” Henry replied, his eyes betraying his inner turmoil.
“But the creditors?” Charles interjected.
“I think they might be consulted on the matter beforehand,” O’Hara suggested. “No doubt they would acquiesce in an arrangement which could do them no harm.”
“Certainly, no harm,” Henry agreed. “I cannot take the estate with me, as they well know.”
“Precisely. If you do not wish to sell it, you can let it,” O’Hara continued.
“To whom?” Henry asked, a note of desperation creeping into his voice.
“Under the existing circumstances, it is unlikely you would get any tenant other than the one who has offered himself,” O’Hara explained.
“Sir Ferdinand Lazarus?” Henry’s voice dropped to a whisper, the name hanging in the air like a curse.
“Yes. It seems to be a great object with him to live here, and it appears to me that, notwithstanding all that has occurred, it is most decidedly the best policy to let him.”
Though the advice was sound, it felt repugnant to all of them. A heavy silence descended, and then Henry spoke, his voice tinged with disbelief. “It does indeed seem singular, to surrender one’s house to such a being.”
“Especially,” Charles added, “after what has occurred.”
“True,” Henry conceded.
“Well,” O’Hara said, “if any better plan of proceeding, taking the whole case into consideration, can be devised, I shall be most happy to hear it.”
“Will you consent to put off all proceedings for three days?” Charles Holland asked suddenly, his voice urgent.
“Have you any plan, my dear sir?” O’Hara inquired, his curiosity piqued.
“I have, but it is one which I would rather say nothing about for the present,” Charles replied.
“I have no objection,” Henry said thoughtfully. “I do not know that three days can make any difference in the state of affairs. Let it be so, if you wish, Charles.”
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“Then I am satisfied,” Charles said, his voice firm. “I cannot but feel that, situated as I am regarding Flora, this is almost more my affair than even yours, Henry.”
“I cannot see that,” Henry retorted. “Why should you take upon yourself more of the responsibility of these affairs than I, Charles? You induce in my mind a suspicion that you have some desperate project in your imagination, which by such a proposition you would seek to reconcile us to.”
Charles remained silent, and Henry pressed on. “Now, Charles, I am quite convinced that what I have hinted at is the fact. You have conceived some scheme which you fancy would be much opposed by us?”
“I will not deny that I have,” Charles admitted. “It is one, however, which you must allow me for the present to keep locked in my own breast.”
“Why will you not trust us?” Henry asked, frustration coloring his voice.
“For two reasons,” Charles replied, his tone unwavering.
“Indeed!”
“The one is, that I have not yet thoroughly determined upon the course I project; and the other is, that it is one in which I am not justified in involving anyone else.”
“Charles, Charles,” Henry said despondently, “only consider for a moment into what new misery you may plunge poor Flora, who is, Heaven knows, already sufficiently afflicted, by attempting an enterprise which even we, who are your friends, may unwittingly cross you in the performance of.”
“This is one in which I fear no such result,” Charles replied. “It cannot so happen. Do not urge me.”
“Can’t you say at once what you think of doing?” the old admiral barked, his patience wearing thin. “What do you mean by turning your sails in all sorts of directions so oddly? You sneak, why don’t you be—what do you call it—explicit?”
The oppressive gloom of the parlor seemed to deepen, shadows flickering ominously across the walls as the candles struggled to keep the darkness at bay. The tension in the room was palpable, each breath laden with the weight of their unspoken fears.
“I cannot, uncle,” Charles said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“What, are you tongue-tied?” the admiral barked, his frustration mounting.
Charles looked around the room, his eyes settling on each face in turn. “All here know well,” he began, “that if I do not unfold my mind fully, it is not that I fear to trust any one present, but from some other most special reason.”
Henry sighed deeply. “Charles, I forbear to urge you further,” he said, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and concern. “Only implore you to be careful.”
At that moment, the door creaked open, and George Bennett entered, accompanied by Mr. Churchill, the local surgeon. The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward the newcomers.
“Do not let me intrude,” Mr. Churchill said, his tone polite yet firm. “I fear, as I see you seated, gentlemen, that my presence must be a rudeness and a disturbance to some family consultation among yourselves?”
“Not at all, Mr. Churchill,” Henry replied, rising to greet him. “Pray be seated; we are very glad indeed to see you. Admiral Bell, this is a friend on whom we can rely -- Mr. Churchill.”
The admiral extended his hand, his gruff exterior softening slightly. “And one of the right sort, I can see,” he said, shaking Mr. Churchill’s hand firmly.
“Sir, you do me much honor,” Mr. Churchill replied with a respectful nod.
“None at all, none at all; I suppose you know all about this infernal odd vampire business?” the admiral asked, his voice carrying a hint of disbelief.
“I believe I do, sir,” Mr. Churchill replied, his expression serious.
“And what do you think of it?” the admiral pressed.
“I think time will develop the circumstances sufficiently to convince us all that such things cannot be,” Mr. Churchill answered calmly.
“Damn me, you are the most sensible fellow, then, that I have yet met with since I have been in this neighborhood; for everybody else is so convinced about the vampire, that they are ready to swear by him.”
“It would take much more to convince me,” Mr. Churchill said with a faint smile. “I was coming over here when I met Mr. George Bennett on his way to my house.”
“Yes,” George interjected, “and Mr. Churchill has something to tell us of a nature confirmatory of our own suspicions.”
“It is strange,” Henry mused, “but any piece of news, come it from what quarter it may, seems to be confirmatory, in some degree or another, of that dreadful belief in vampires.”
“Why,” Mr. Churchill said, “when Mr. George says that my news is of such a character, I think he goes a little too far. What I have to tell you, I do not conceive has anything whatever to do with the fact, or one fact, of there being vampires.”
“Let us hear it,” Henry urged, his curiosity piqued.
“It is simply this,” Mr. Churchill began, “that I was sent for by Sir Ferdinand Lazarus himself.”
“You sent for?” Henry echoed, surprise coloring his voice.
“Yes; he sent for me by a special messenger to come to him, and when I went, which, under the circumstances, you may well guess, I did with all the celerity possible, I found it was to consult me about a flesh wound in his arm, which was showing some angry symptoms.”
“Indeed,” Henry said, his interest deepening.
“Yes, it was so. When I was introduced to him, I found him lying on a couch, looking pale and unwell. In the most respectful manner, he asked me to be seated, and when I had taken a chair, he added, ‘Mr. Churchill, I have sent for you in consequence of a slight accident which has happened to my arm. I was incautiously loading some firearms and discharged a pistol so close to me that the bullet inflicted a wound on my arm.’”
“If you will allow me,” Mr. Churchill continued, “I said to him, ‘to see the wound, I will give you my opinion.’”
“He then showed me a jagged wound, which had evidently been caused by the passage of a bullet. Had it gone a little deeper, it must have inflicted a serious injury. As it was, the wound was trifling. He had evidently been attempting to dress it himself, but finding some considerable inflammation, he very likely got a little alarmed.”
“You dressed the wound?” Henry asked.
“I did,” Mr. Churchill confirmed.
“And what do you think of Sir Ferdinand Lazarus, now that you have had such a close observation of him?” Henry pressed.
“There is certainly something odd about him which I cannot well define,” Mr. Churchill admitted. “But, taken altogether, he can be a very gentlemanly man indeed.”
“So he can,” Henry agreed.
“His manners are easy and polished; he has evidently mixed in good society, and I never, in all my life, heard such a sweet, soft, winning voice,” Mr. Churchill continued.
“That is strictly him. You noticed, I presume, his great likeness to the portrait on the panel?” Henry asked.
“I did. At some moments, and viewing his face in some particular lights, it showed much more strongly than at others. My impression was that he could, when he liked, look much more like the portrait on the panel than when he allowed his face to assume its ordinary appearance,” Mr. Churchill replied.
The parlor’s oppressive gloom thickened, shadows dancing like phantoms on the ancient, crumbling walls. The air was heavy with the scent of aged wood and the faint trace of decay, as if the house itself exhaled its secrets. The flickering candles cast eerie, wavering light, heightening the tension among the occupants.
“Probably such an impression would be produced upon your mind,” Charles said, his voice low and contemplative, “by some accidental expression of the countenance which even he was not aware of, and which often occurs in families.”
“It may be so,” Mr. Churchill conceded, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
“Of course you did not hint, sir, at what has passed here with regard to him?” Henry inquired, his tone edged with concern.
“I did not,” Mr. Churchill replied firmly. “Being called in professionally, I had no right to take advantage of that circumstance to make any remarks to him about his private affairs.”
“Certainly not,” Henry agreed, nodding solemnly.
“It was all one to me whether he was a vampire or not, professionally speaking,” Mr. Churchill continued. “However deeply I might feel, personally, interested in the matter, I said nothing to him about it. If I had, he could have easily dismissed me with a sharp ‘Pray, sir, what is that to you?’ and I would have been at a loss for a reply.”
“Can we doubt,” Henry mused, “that this very wound has been inflicted upon Sir Ferdinand Lazarus by the pistol-bullet discharged at him by Flora?”
“Everything leads to such an assumption,” Charles agreed, his brow furrowing with thought.
“And yet,” Henry continued, “you cannot deduce from that the absolute fact of Sir Ferdinand Lazarus being a vampire?”
“I do not think, Mr. Churchill,” said O’Hara, his voice tinged with irony, “anything would convince you but a visit from him and an actual attempt to fasten upon some of your own veins.”
“That would not convince me,” Churchill replied resolutely.
“Then you will not be convinced?” O’Hara pressed.
“I certainly will not,” Churchill declared. “I mean to hold out to the last. I said at the first, and I say so still, that I never will give way to this most outrageous superstition.”
“I wish I could think with you,” O’Hara murmured, shuddering. “But there may be something in the very atmosphere of this house, rendered hideous by the awful visits that have been made to it, which forbids me to disbelieve in those things which others, more happily situated, can hold at arm’s length and utterly repudiate.”
“There may be,” Henry agreed, his voice somber. “But after Flora’s very strongly expressed wish, I will decide upon leaving the house.”
“Will you sell it or let it?” O’Hara asked.
“The latter I should much prefer,” Henry replied, glancing around the room as if seeking its approval.
“But who will take it now, except Sir Ferdinand Lazarus?” O’Hara questioned. “Why not at once let him have it? I am well aware that this does sound like odd advice, but remember, we are all the creatures of circumstance, and sometimes, where we least like it, we must swim with the stream.”
“That you will not decide upon, however, at present,” Charles interjected, rising from his chair.
“Certainly not,” Henry agreed. “A few days can make no difference.”
“None for the worse, certainly, and possibly much for the better,” Charles concluded.
“Be it so; we will wait,” Henry agreed, the room falling into a contemplative silence.
“Uncle,” Charles said, turning to the admiral, “Will you spare me half an hour of your company?”
“An hour, my boy, if you want it,” the admiral replied, rising with a creak from his old chair.
“Then this consultation is over,” Henry said, standing as well. “We quite understand that leaving the Hall is a matter determined on, and that in a few days a decision shall come as to whether Lazarus the Vampire shall be its tenant or not.”