----------------------------------------
They stood in silence, their gazes drawn to the crypt’s eerie interior. For two of them, this was a first encounter with the solemnity of death below ground, while even the Bennett brothers, who had visited during their father’s internment a year prior, felt a renewed sense of awe.
The atmosphere in such a place evoked profound introspection. To stand amidst the resting places of their ancestors, to feel the weight of familial ties and legacies shaping their own lives, was a haunting experience. Henry and George, both introspective and educated, wore expressions that mirrored the gravity of their thoughts under the flickering candlelight.
Mr. Churchill and O’Hara remained respectfully quiet, understanding the depth of contemplation consuming the brothers. They recognized the significance of the moment and chose not to intrude upon their reflections.
Breaking the silence, Henry’s voice cut through the somber air. “Now is the time for action, George, not for idle musings. Let’s proceed.”
“Yes, of course,” George agreed, taking a step forward.
Mr. Churchill interjected with a practical question. “Can you identify the coffin we seek among these many?”
“I believe we can,” Henry replied. “Our family’s earlier coffins were often made of sturdy materials like marble or metal, capable of enduring the passage of time.”
“Let’s start examining,” George suggested.
The crypt’s design, with coffins neatly arranged on shelves along the walls, made the search methodical. Yet, as they inspected each one, they encountered the relentless decay that had consumed many of the older coffins, reducing them to mere dust at their touch.
Amidst the decay and mystery of the crypt, the group faced a daunting task. Inscriptions had faded into illegibility, and fallen plates obscured any clear connection to their rightful coffins.
“We’re getting nowhere,” George lamented. “Everything here has crumbled to dust where we’d hope to find Marmaduke Bennett’s resting place.”
O’Hara, however, spotted a glimmer of hope in the darkness. “Look here,” he exclaimed, holding up a plate salvaged from the vault’s floor.
Mr. Churchill examined it closely. “This must be from Marmaduke Bennett’s coffin,” he declared, reading the inscription aloud. “Ye mortal remains of Marmaduke Bennett, Yeoman. God rest his soul. A.D. 1640.”
Henry’s expression sank. “But how do we know which coffin it belongs to now? There are no labels left to guide us.”
O’Hara’s scholarly past offered a ray of insight. “In my studies of ancient crypts, I’ve often found inner metal coffins preserved while the outer wood ones decay. The inner lids usually bear the name and rank of the deceased.”
“That could be our clue,” Mr. Churchill chimed in. “If Marmaduke was interred in a leaden coffin, we’ll find his name etched upon it.”
In the dimly lit vault, Henry took charge of the flickering light, its glow casting eerie shadows on the ancient coffins. With a determined air, he approached one coffin that seemed on the verge of collapse. With a forceful tug, he cleared away the decaying woodwork and made a startling discovery.
“Look here,” Henry announced, excitement tingling in his voice. “This coffin, though tarnished, is solid lead inside. Let’s see if it holds what we seek.”
“What’s the inscription?” George inquired eagerly.
Struggling with the worn lettering, they deciphered the name but found it wasn’t the one they were after.
O’Hara, ever pragmatic, proposed a method to expedite their search. “Let’s focus on the lead coffins without their outer plates. It’ll narrow down our hunt.”
Armed with renewed determination and additional light, courtesy of Henry’s candle, they scoured the crypt in silence for what felt like an eternity.
Then, a burst of excitement from O’Hara shattered the silence. “Here it is! Look!”
Gathering around O’Hara, they beheld the clear inscription on a coffin lid, revealed by his meticulous cleaning. “Marmaduke Bennett, Yeoman. 1640.”
Henry’s eyes sparkled with certainty. “This is it. Let’s open it.”
“I have just the tool,” O’Hara declared, brandishing an iron crowbar. “Shall we?”
“Proceed,” Henry nodded eagerly.
With bated breath, they watched as O’Hara skillfully pried open the thick lead coffin, its aging metal proving less resistant than expected. The lid came off almost too easily, hinting at the passage of time and the dank atmosphere of the vault.
As the lid slid away, revealing the contents, a collective sigh of relief filled the chamber. “Thank God!” Henry exclaimed, peering into the interior.
“It’s here!” George confirmed, relief evident in his voice.
“Let’s ensure,” Mr. Churchill urged, holding the candles steady to illuminate the truth they had sought for so long.
In the chilling silence of the vault, George took hold of the lights, casting flickering shadows that danced across the ancient walls. Without hesitation, Mr. Churchill reached into the coffin, grasping at fragments of decayed rags that crumbled like ash in his hands.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
A heavy stillness hung in the air, broken only by Mr. Churchill’s hushed words. “There’s nothing here. No trace of a body.”
Henry’s response was a deep, mournful groan. “Can you be certain, Mr. Churchill? Can you swear no corpse has decayed within this coffin?”
“I can’t claim absolute certainty,” Mr. Churchill replied calmly, “but there are no remains here. It’s impossible for a body to vanish so completely over time.”
“I see,” Henry acknowledged with a heavy heart.
“Is this another ghastly confirmation,” George interjected, his voice quivering with disbelief, “of the horrors we’ve unearthed tonight?”
“It appears so,” O’Hara murmured sadly.
George’s despair escalated. “I wish for death! How can such dark thoughts plague us? Oh, to be spared this torment!”
“Consider again,” O’Hara urged desperately.
“No amount of consideration will change the truth,” Mr. Churchill declared firmly. “There’s no doubt. It’s not an opinion; it’s a fact.”
Turning to Henry, he added, “I’m certain Marmaduke Bennett’s body never rested here. Look for yourselves. The lead remains pristine, untouched by decay. No bones, no dust.”
Each of them inspected the coffin, confirming Mr. Churchill’s words with their own eyes.
“It’s done,” Henry concluded with resignation. “Let’s leave this place. Promise me, my friends, that this dreadful secret stays buried within us.”
“You have my word,” O’Hara vowed.
“And mine,” the doctor affirmed. “I hoped tonight would dispel your dark thoughts, not deepen them.”
“How can you dismiss these as mere fancies?” George protested.
“Because that’s what they are,” Mr. Churchill replied stoically. “Do you still doubt?”
“My young friend,” Mr. Churchill declared firmly, “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I won’t believe in your vampire. Even if one were to grab me by the throat, I’d defy him until my last breath, calling him a damned impostor.”
“You’re taking skepticism to the brink of stubbornness,” O’Hara remarked.
“Far beyond, if you ask me,” Churchill retorted.
“You won’t be swayed?” O’Hara pressed.
“Not a chance, especially not on this matter,” Churchill affirmed.
“So, you’re someone who’d question a miracle, even if it unfolded right before your eyes,” O’Hara challenged.
“Absolutely. I don’t buy into miracles. I’d seek rational and scientific explanations for any phenomenon. That’s why we don’t have miracles, prophets, or saints nowadays, between you and me,” Churchill explained.
“Let’s steer clear of such debates in this setting,” O’Hara suggested.
“Don’t be a moral coward,” Churchill urged. “Your beliefs shouldn’t be dictated by location.”
“I’m utterly bewildered,” Henry admitted. “Let’s leave now.”
With the lid back on the coffin, the group headed for the staircase. Before ascending, Henry cast a final glance back into the vault.
“If only there was a glimmer of doubt, a shred of hope in this,” he murmured.
“I deeply regret pushing for this expedition,” O’Hara confessed. “I hoped for a positive outcome.”
“You have reason to hope,” Churchill reassured. “This outcome surprises me too, although I won’t rush to accept all its implications.”
“I trust your judgment,” Henry replied. “I know you both had our best interests at heart. It feels like a dark omen has befallen my family.”
“Nonsense!” Churchill scoffed. “Why would you think that?”
“I wish I knew,” Henry sighed.
“Heaven wouldn’t act so capriciously. It doesn’t curse anyone, and it’s fairer than to inflict pain where it’s undeserved,” Churchill reasoned.
Ascending the gloomy staircase of the vault felt like a descent into despair for George and Henry. Their faces bore the weight of profound sadness, and their minds were too tangled in thoughts to engage in conversation. It was as though they were deaf to the world around them, their intellects stunned by the shocking revelation of their ancestor’s missing body.
Deep down, they harbored a silent hope that they would discover remnants of Marmaduke Bennett, crushing any notion, even in the most superstitious minds, that he could be a vampire. But reality took a twisted turn. The absence of the body threw them into a labyrinth of bewildering questions. Where had it gone? What had happened to it? Had it awakened from death to haunt the world, weaving a hundred-year existence of horrors akin to those at the hall where it once lived?
These questions tormented Henry and George, plunging them into an abyss of dread. And yet, present the evidence to any rational, educated person, subject them to the same horrors, and ask if they could deny the overwhelming proof. Mr. Churchill’s stance was clear—he refused to entertain the idea, yielding to no evidence.
Dismissing such a terrifying notion was the only way forward. But few could adopt such a resolute mindset, especially not the Bennett brothers, deeply entwined in the mystery. The boards were carefully replaced, the screws restored, and the vault returned to its original state by O’Hara’s meticulous hands. They extinguished the light, heavy-hearted, and made their way to the window, leaving the sacred place through the same clandestine path they had entered.
“Shall we replace the pane of glass?” O’Hara inquired, his voice cutting through the heavy silence that hung in the air like a shroud.
“Oh, it matters not -- it matters not,” Henry replied, his tone devoid of life. “Nothing matters now. I care not what becomes of me -- I am growing weary of a life cloaked in misery and dread.”
“You mustn’t allow yourself to sink into such despair,” the doctor urged, his voice carrying a stern edge. “Or else, you’ll soon find yourself in my care as a patient.”
“I cannot help it,” Henry murmured, his words heavy with resignation.
“Be a man,” the doctor insisted. “If there are formidable challenges ahead, face them head-on with defiance.”
“I cannot,” Henry repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Listen to me,” the doctor said, taking Henry’s arm and leading him forward. “The best way to confront adversity, no matter how daunting, is to cultivate a spirit of defiance. When faced with discomfort, I convince myself that I am a deeply wronged individual, and that anger fuels my resilience against mental anguish.”
“Indeed?” Henry’s curiosity piqued.
“Yes,” the doctor continued. “I channel my anger into a stubborn resolve, refusing to succumb to despair like those who pretend to be resigned but only whine over their troubles.”
“But my family’s affliction surpasses any other hardship,” Henry lamented.
“It’s a perspective that should fuel your defiance,” the doctor countered. “In the face of supernatural threats or imagined horrors, defy them with every fiber of your being. Let fear paint its darkest images, and still, defy them all.”
“Is that not akin to defying Heaven?” Henry questioned, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Churchill countered. “We act based on the intellect and mind bestowed upon us by Heaven. If Heaven grants us reasoning abilities, it expects us to use them to navigate the challenges we face.”
“I’ve heard your views on this before,” Henry acknowledged.
“They are not just my views; they are the rational beliefs held by many,” Mr. Churchill asserted. “Even if faced with a vampyre, do not succumb to fear. Defy it, fight it. Self-preservation is ingrained in us all; tap into that instinct.”
“I will try to adopt your perspective. I’ve also considered turning to religion for solace,” Henry admitted.
“That is indeed a form of religion,” Mr. Churchill agreed. “The essence of religion lies in embracing what is sacred and sublime, even if our reason struggles to comprehend it fully.”
Henry’s defense of religious truths momentarily silenced Mr. Churchill, a man known for his controversial opinions that often challenged religious beliefs.
As they neared the church, Mr. Churchill bid farewell to Mr. O’Hara and the brothers, expressing his intention to visit Flora the next day. Henry and George, deeply affected by their experience in the vault, continued their journey home, their conversation weighed down by the haunting impressions of the night’s events.