The Horrifying Tale of Mrs. Trollope

As if caught in a soft summer’s breeze, a cloud of dust swept in from underneath the door. It floated back and forth and to and fro as if to find its bearings, and when at last it settled to the floor, the dust therein was dust no more. And had Lucifer himself been close at hand, he’d have said ‘No thank you, perhaps some other time,’ and hurried off for home. Though enshrouded by a stillness which gave ’way no living soul, yet she knew upon arriving home that she was not alone. Relieved, as any concerned hostess would have been when realizing her invitation wasn’t sent in vain, she smiled a smile the sight of which would have brought Samson to his knees. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too terribly long, Jonathan,” she said, as her guest stepped from out the shadows. “A little surprise I’ve been planning for you took longer than expected. But it is prepared; I have returned home; and my joy in finding you here is descriptive beyond my poetic prowess.” She paused a moment, relishing the moments ahead. Then added, “Hello old friend. It’s wonderful to see you.” “Thank you Constance. And I’m sure you won’t mind it if I tell you that you’re ravishing as ever.” This was a compliment given in no idle fashion; fangs and evil aura notwithstanding, her beauty was beyond analogies. A glance, a smile, the hint of an embrace; and most mortals would have braved the hottest of infernos in order that they taste the passion promised by those lips. “Why Jonathan, a compliment? How touching. And though I dearly wish I could return it, alas, the remorseless years, as is their wont, would make me out to be a liar should I try. But leave us not despair, for I’ve come prepared to grant my usual remedy. Here are my arms, my pet. Come; feel the warmth of my embrace.” Jonathan sighed, though it was in mock aggravation that he did so. “I wonder,” he said, “as a favor—and especially since we’ve been so long parted—might I request that these tired, worn-out arguments be forgone; if only this one time?” It was with a concerned expression that she answered, “I spoke in jest, my sweet. Has your sense of humor gone the way of your good looks? What a pity if it has; and here I’ve been so hoping what a pleasant reminder I would be of cherished days gone by.” “Then allow me to apologize,” Jonathan replied. “It’s been quite some time and I’d forgotten just how dry that wit of yours can be. And since causing you concern could not be further from my mind, I hasten to add that you’re as pleasant a reminder of bygone days as ever you could wish to be.” She smiled. “It’s comforting to know that the really important things never change. Like your charm which never fails to leave me helpless and disarmed. But tell me—speaking of cherished days gone by—how is that dear brother of yours?” “Last I heard Edward was well enough. He and I speak but infrequently, so I can’t answer your question with certitude. Because, though I heartily approve of the manner in which he spends his time, I don’t wish to be reminded of how I used to be a part of it. So I’m left to my own devices, as he’s left to his as well.” “A pity,” she returned. “Even—dare I say it—a tragedy? So close knit a pair of brothers doesn’t often see the light of day. When next you speak to him, wish him well for me. Ah, what I wouldn’t give for a few precious moments of his time.” “I’ll relay your sentiments. He’ll be moved and flattered, I’m sure. But I wouldn’t hold out hopes of ever seeing him again unless you’re planning a trip to the homeland. In which case I’m sure you’ll find him ready company.” “Coincidentally, my thoughts—and only recently—have begun to run along those lines. And when my business here is concluded, most likely in a day or two, I may very well be found upon the next flight home. Shall I reserve a seat for you? My treat. Just say the word.” Jonathan laughed, though in a bitter sort of way, but made no further comment. Whatever else, and however strong his feelings were, they’d never obscured his enjoyment of her eloquence; and as she was clearly readying herself to lend her voice to a soliloquy, he’d not have interrupted for the world. “Do you remember the time—?” began reminiscences told with warmth, passion, and a uniquely branded sense of humor; for when the Countess Constance Trollope took the stage, she shone like Venus in the early dusk. But in all that followed, what struck Jonathan first, and more than anything at all, was how, when speaking of events in which Felice had been a major player, not a mention of her name was made—for mightn’t that have stung his heart? It brought a wondering to him as he’d never wondered before: compassion in one such as she was pretty much unheard of. “Like ships upon the shoals my hopes of seeing you again were dashed.”—wrapping up her stroll down memory lane. “Shall I admit to you that when you so abruptly left the homeland it was weeks, and even months, before the embers of my sadness were finally cooled enough to touch?” In reflection, she paused. And those ever cruel lips seemed softened somehow. “Sometimes,” Jonathan said, “I think that somewhere, somehow, some dregs of humankind remain, though they be buried deep within . . . well, whatever it is that passes for a soul.” “Was that called for? Have I said anything tonight for which you might take offense? I think not, but if I’m mistaken, you’ve but to tell me what it was and I’ll apologize for it forthwith.” “You’re right. Tonight you’ve been as good as gold and I beg you’ll forgive my unthinking words.” “That’s better,” she said, flashing him a toothy smile. “Incidentally, I meant to say something earlier about the lovely few days I spent with your youngest daughter. I hope she was kind to my memory when relating of our visit.” “Most kind, Constance.” “A sweet and charming creature, with a wit to match her beauty. And I might add, she did quite well in the choosing of a husband. One doesn’t find the likes of Jack Gallagher growing on trees. “Although,” she continued, after taking a moment to wipe the drool from her chin, “and I hope you’ll forgive my mentioning that I was rather put out by a certain want of propriety—demonstrated by a sudden and unexpected departure—that I’d hardly have expected from any child of yours. I went to some trouble in making her feel at home: clean linens, a tidy room, a delicious dinner spent in warm and engaging conversation. Imagine!—not even a hastily scribbled note of thanks. And if that weren’t enough, I’ve yet to hear one word about the housewarming party she promised to throw. And this, after professing such concern for me; my transition into big-city life.” The vampire softened her tone. “But perhaps I’m being too severe in my pronouncements. I only this moment recollected something I heard—I’m trying to remember just where it was—about Clara’s having come down with some illness or other. Or am I mistaken? “The poor child,” she went on, Jonathan having offered no response, “I hope it’s not too terribly serious. But I’m relieved to know it’s due other than to thoughtlessness that I haven’t heard from her. Please convey my heartfelt wishes for a speedy recovery.” “I’ll do that, and lest I wear out my welcome, I’ll be on my way. But before I go—” Whereupon he began to move in her direction, though slowly, and with no small amount of caution. Which made her wonder if he hadn’t gone stark staring mad. It was a question answered, and in the barest blink of an eye. With a quickness that would have made a young Muhammed Ali green with envy, Jonathan made a move. And the vampire found herself looking upon, her eyes mere inches from, an enormous, solid gold crucifix. Spitting venom, she recoiled. “Just before I left the homeland,” Jonathan said, as if that spat venom had been transferred to the timbre in his voice, “this crucifix was crafted for me in your memory should you be so stupid as to allow our paths to cross again. Here, etched in the middle, where the cross pieces meet. Can you see whose likeness this is?” “I see it, Jonathan. I’m not blind.” “Then heed my words, Constance; I’m giving you fair warning. After you’ve found yourself skewered by my stake, so deeply will this image be burnt into your flesh, that should you remain ten thousand years rotting in Hell, Felice’s shadow will follow you, with no remorse, to remind you of exactly why you’re there.” ______________________________________________________________________ If you’ll go to rembrandtpublishing.com, you’ll find the start of what’s been called a vampire novel like none since Dracula. You’ll also find the location of chapter eleven posted there. Brought to you by Jim Humble’s Miracle Mineral Solution . For without it I doubt I’d have stuck around long enough to tell the tale.