Sydney Horler was born in Leytonstone, London, on the 18th July 1888. He was a prolific author of crime and mystery, he amassed a back catalogue of some 158 novels. This story, which is not to be confused with his 1935 novel The Vampire, was published in the magazine John Bull on the 20th April 1929.
At this point stories about Vampires were quite popular, actor and playwright Hamilton Deane had adapted Dracula for the stage in 1924 and was still touring the play in 1929 to rave reviews. Deane's stage version of Dracula would eventually tour America, rewritten by John L. Balderston and with Bela Lugosi as the Count, this is the version that would be made into the hollywood movie of 1931.
In John Bull it is stated;
"We contacted with Sydney Horler to write us a 'Truth is Stranger than Fiction' story. He believes that every word of Father Harrigan's eerie thriller is absolutely true. We make no comment. We leave it to our readers to decide whether they, too, believe in vampires."
"The Vampire by Sydney Horler;
Until his death, quite recently, I used to visit at least once a week a Roman Catholic priest. The fact that I am a Protestant did nothing to shake our friendship.
Father Harrigan was one of the finest characters I have ever known; he was capable of the finest sympathies, and was, in the best sense of that frequently abused term, 'a man of the world.'
The story I am about to relate occured about eighteen months ago - ten months before his fatal illness. I was then writing my novel, 'The Curse of Doone.' In this story I made the villain take advantage of a ghastly legend attached to an old manor house in Devonshire, and use it for his own ends.
Father Harrigan listened while I outlined the plot I had in mind, and then said, to my great surprise: 'Certain people may scoff because they will not allow themselves to believe that there is any credence in the vampire tradition.'
'Yes, that is so,' I parried; 'but all the same, Bram Stoker caught the public imagination with his Dracula - one of the most horrible and yet fascinating books ever written - and I am hoping that my public will extend to me the customary 'author's license.'
My friend nodded.
'Quite,' he replied; 'as a matter of fact,' he went on to say, 'I myself believe in vampires.'
'You do?' I felt the hair on the back of my neck commence to irritate. It is one thing to write about a horror, but quite another to begin to see it assume definite shape.
'Yes,' he went on. 'I am forced to believe in vampires for the very good but terrible reason that I have met one!'
I half rose from my chair. There could be no questioning Harrigan's word, and yet -
'That, no doubt, my dear fellow, may appear as an extraordinary statement to have made, and yet I assure you it is the truth. It happened many years ago and in another part of the country - exactly where I do not think I had better tell you.'
'But this is amazing - you say you actually met a vampire face to face?'
'And I talked to him. Until now I have never mentioned the matter to a living soul apart from a brother priest and the medical man who shared my horrible secret at the time.'
It was clearly an invitation to listen; I crammed tobacco into my pipe and leaned back in the chair on the opposite side of the crackling fire.
I heard that truth was said to be stranger than fiction - but here I was about to have, it seemed, the strange experience of listening to my own most sensational imagining being hopelessly outdone by FACT!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The small town which I will call Lulsgate is in the West of England (said Father Harrigan), and was inhabited by a good many people of superior means.There was a large city seventy five miles away and business men, when they retired, often came to Lulsgate to wind up their lives. I was young and very happy there in my work until - . But I am a little previous.
I was on very friendly terms with a local doctor; he often used to come in and have a chat when he could spare the time. We used to try to thresh out many problems which later experience has convinced me are insoluble - in this world at least.
One night, he looked at me rather curiously, I thought. 'What do you think of that man Farington?' he asked.
Now, it was a curious fact that he should have made that enquiry at that exact moment, for by some subconscious means I happened to be thinking of this very person myself.
The man who called himself Joseph Farington was a stranger who had recently come to settle in Lulsgate.
That circumstance alone would have caused some comment, but when I say that he had bought the largest house on the hill overlooking the town on the south side (representing the best residential quarter) and had had it furnished apparently regardless of cost by one of the famous London houses, interest in the man went much deeper.
Yet, although he sought to entertain a great deal, no one seemed anxious to go twice to 'The Gables.' There was 'something funny' about Farington, it was whispered.
I knew this, of course - the smallest fragment of gossip comes to a priest's ears - and so I hesitated before replying to the doctors direct question.
'Confess now, Father,' said my companion, 'you are like all the rest of us - you don't like the man! He has made me his medical attendant , but I wish to goodness he had chosen someone else. There's 'something funny' about him.'
'Something funny' - there it was again. As the doctor's words sounded in my ears I remembered Farington as I had last seen him walking up the main street with every other eye half turned in his direction. He was a big framed man, the essence of masculinity.
He looked so robust that the amazing thought came instinctively; This man will never die! He had a florid complexion; he walked with the elasticity of youth and his hair was jet black. Yet from remarks he had made, the impression in Lulsgate was that Farington must be at least sixty years of age.
'Well, there's one thing, Sanders,' I replied; 'if appearances are anything to go by, Farington will not be giving you much trouble. The fellow looks as strong as an ox.'
'You haven't answered my question,' persisted the doctor; 'forget your cloth, Father, and tell me exactly what you think of Joseph Farington. Don't you agree that he is a man to give you the shudders?'
'You - a doctor - talking about getting the shudders!' I gently scoffed because I did not want to give my real opinion of Joseph Farington.
'I can't help it - I have an instinctive horror of the fellow. This afternoon I was called up to The Gables. Farington, like so many of his ox like kind, is really a bit of a hypochondriac. He thought there was something wrong with his heart,'
'And was there?'
'The man ought to live to a hundred! But, I tell you, Father, I hated having to be so near to the fellow; there's something uncanny about him. I felt frightened - yes, frightened - all the time I was in the house. I had to talk to someone about it, and as you are the safest person in Lulsgate I dropped in......You haven't said anything yourself, I notice.'
'I prefer to wait,' I replied. It seemed the safest answer.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Two months after that conversation with Sanders, not only Lulsgate, but the whole of the country, was startled and horrified by a terrible crime.
A girl of eighteen, the belle of the district, was found dead in a field. Her face, in life so beautiful, was revolting in death because of the expression of dreadful horror it held. The poor girl had been murdered - but in a manner which sent shudders of fear racing up and down people's spines......There was a great hole in the throat, as though a beast of the jungle had attacked her.....
It is not difficult to say how suspicion for this fiendish crime first started to fasten itself on Joseph Farington, preposterous as the statement may seem. Although he had gone out of his way to become sociable, the man had made no real friends.
Sanders, although a clever doctor, was not the most tactful of men, and there is no doubt that his refusal to visit Farington professionally - he had hinted as much on the night of his visit to me, you will remember - got noised about.
In any case, public opinion was strongly roused; without a shred of direct evidence to go upon, people began to talk of Farington as being the actual murderer. There was some talk among the wild young spirits of setting fire to The Gables one night, and burning Farington in his bed.
It was while this feeling was at its height that, very unwillingly, as you may imagine. I was brought into the affair. I received a note from Farington asking me to dine with him one night.
'I have something on my mind which I wish to talk over with you, so please do not fail me.'
These were the concluding words of the letter. Such an appeal could not be ignored by a man of religion, and so I replied, accepting.
Farington was a good host; the food was excellent; on the surface there was nothing wrong. But - and here is the curious part - from the moment I faced the man I knew there was something wrong.
I had the same feeling as Sanders, the doctor; I felt afraid. The man had an aura of evil; he was possessed of some devilish force or quality which chilled me to the marrow.
I did my best to hide my discomfiture, but when, after dinner, Farington began to speak about the murder of that poor, innocent girl this feeling increased. And at once the terrible truth leaped into my mind; I knew it was Farington who had done this crime; the man was a monster!
'You wished to see me tonight for the purpose of easing your soul of a terrible burden,' I said; 'you cannot deny that it was you who killed that unfortunate girl.'
'Yes,' he replied slowly, 'that is the truth. I killed the girl. The demon which possesses me forced me to do it. But you, as a priest, must hold this confession sacred - you must preserve it as a secret. Give me a few hours; then I will decide myself what to do.'
I left shortly afterwards. The man would not admit anything more.
'Give me a few hours,' he repeated.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That night I had a horrible dream. I felt I was suffocating. Scarcely able to breathe, I rushed to the window, pulled it open - and then fell senseless to the floor. The next thing I remember was Dr Sanders - who had been summoned by my faithful housekeeper - bending over me.
'What happened?' he asked, 'you had a look on your face as though you had been staring into hell.'
'So I had,' I replied.
'Had it anything to do with Farington?' he asked bluntly.
'Sanders,' and I clutched him by the arm in the intensity of my feeling, 'does such a monstrosity as a vampire exist nowadays? Tell me, I implore you!'
He forced me to take another nip of brandy before he would reply. Then he put a question himself.
'Why do you think that?' he said.
'It sounds incredible - and I hope I really dreamed it - but I fainted tonight because I saw - or imagined I saw - the man Farington flying past the window that I had just opened.'
'I am not surprised,' he nodded; 'ever since I examined the mutilated body of that poor girl I came to the conclusion that she had come to her death through some terrible abnormality.
Although we hear practically nothing about vampirism nowadays,' he continued, 'that is not to say that ghoulish spirits do not still take up their abode in a living man or woman, thus conferring upon them supernatural powers. What form was the shape you thought you saw?'
'It was like a huge bat,' I replied shuddering.
'Tomorrow,' said Sanders determinedly, 'I'm going to London to see Scotland Yard. They may laugh at me at first, but ---.'
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Scotland Yard did not laugh. But criminals with supernatural powers were rather out of their loine, and, besides, as they told Sanders, they had to have proof before they could convict Farington.
Even my testimony - had I dared to break my priestly pledge, which, of course, I couldn't in any circumstances do - would not have been sufficient.
Farington solved the terrible problem by committing suicide. He was found in bed with a bullet wound in his head. But, according to Sanders, only the body is dead - the vile spirit is roaming free, looking for another human habitation.
God help its luckless victim!"
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| Sydney Horler |
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| The Vampire was included in this 2010 anthology. |
