Wuthering Bites

by Sarah Gray

Genres: Mashups; Gothic; Paranormal; Punny book titles

Synopsis

What if the enigmatic hero of one of our most timeless love stories was part vampire? The answer lies in this haunting retelling of the classic tale of Catherine and Heathcliff, kindred spirits bound by a turbulent--and now forbidden--passion. . . When a young orphan named Heathcliff is brought to Wuthering Heights by the manor's owner, Mr. Earnshaw, rumors abound. Yet the truth is more complicated than anyone could guess. Heathcliff's mother was a member of a gypsy band that roamed the English countryside, slaying vampires to keep citizens safe. But his father was a vampire. Now, even as Heathcliff gallantly fights the monsters who roam the moors in order to protect beautiful, spirited Catherine Earnshaw, he is torn by compassion for his victims--and by his own dark thirst. Though Catherine loves Heathcliff, she fears the vampire in him, and is tempted by the privileged lifestyle their neighbors, the Lintons, enjoy. Forced to choose between wealthy, refined Edgar Linton and the brooding, increasingly dangerous Heathcliff, she makes a fateful decision. And soon Heathcliff, too, must choose--between his hunger, and the woman he will love for all eternity. . .

Release date: September 1, 2010

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 369

Sample

1801

I’ve just returned from a visit with my landlord—the solitary neighbor, rumor has it, is a vampire. It is truly a pity, really, this infestation of unholy bloodsuckers, because this is certainly a beautiful country, the moors of England. I do not think I could have picked a place more solitary or removed from the stir of society. It is a perfect misanthrope’s heaven…at least it will be so long as I do not have the misfortune of being bitten by said neighbor—or any of the other unnatural beasties that roam the countryside.

I think Mr. Heathcliff and I are a suitable pair to share this desolation. A capital fellow! I do not think he realized how my heart warmed to him when I beheld his suspicious black eyes as I rode up. Who knows? Maybe we are both the subject of unfounded rumor and he has been warned that I am vampire!

As he stared at me, I asked, “Mr. Heathcliff?”

He nodded.

“Mr. Lockwood, your tenant, sir.” And most unquestionably not a vampire, I thought, but did not say. “I do myself the honor of calling as soon as possible after my arrival. I hope I did not inconvenience you when I persevered to solicit occupation of Thrushcross Grange. I—”

“I do not allow anyone to inconvenience me if I can prevent it,” he interrupted. “Walk in!”

His last words seemed expressed with the sentiment May your flesh be sucked dry and the hair rose on the back of my neck. But despite the inkling of fear for wonder if the rumors about him could possibly be true, I was curious enough of his reserved nature to follow his bidding.

“Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood’s horse,” he ordered as we entered the court.

Joseph was an old man, though hale and sinewy. His skin was paler than the palest moon and his eyes red, rimmed in dark shadows. Around his neck, he wore a long scarf that he tied high beneath his ear, a peculiar accessory, indeed, for a manservant.

“The Lord help us!” he whined, taking my horse. Why we needed the Lord’s help I was unsure, but I dared not speculate.

Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling, though I have heard that all in the countryside refer to it as Wuthering Bites. A poor, unimaginative jest, I know. “Wuthering” is an adjective referring to the atmospheric tumult to which the house is exposed in stormy weather. By the look of the excessive slant of a few stunted firs and tangled briars at the end of the house, I can only guess at the power of the north wind that must blow over the edge. Happily, the architect had the foresight to build the structure strong; the narrow windows are set deep in the wall and the corner is defended by large, jutting stones.

Before I passed the threshold into the house, I paused to admire the grotesque carving lavished over the front of the principal door. Among crumbling griffins and what appeared to be cloaked figures, their faces obscured, I detected the date “1500” and the name “Hareton Earnshaw.” Curiosity tempted me to ask about the history of the place from my surly, pale-skinned, black-haired owner, but his curt attitude at the door suggested he wished a speedy entrance or complete departure, so I hurried after him.

Without a lobby or passage, one step took us into the family sitting room. They called it “the house.” It included the parlor and the kitchen in the back, from where I could distinguish a chatter of tongues and a clatter of culinary utensils. At one end of the parlor stood the massive fireplace, flanked by ranks of pewter dishes that reflected both light and heat, interspersed with jugs and tankards. On a vast oak dresser was a frame of wood laden with oat cakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham.

They say vampires take no nourishment but blood, so the sight of the feast encouraged me. Surely the sign of abundant foodstuffs was proof enough that the master was no such creature!…Unless the spread was meant to disarm and persuade me that all here was as it should be in a decent household.

Above the chimney were sundry villainous old guns, a couple of horse pistols, and three gaudily painted canisters on the ledge. The floor was smooth, white stone unsoiled, I noted, by bloodstains; the chairs, high-back, primitive structures painted green. In the arch under the dresser was a huge liver-colored bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies, and more dogs haunted other recesses.

The parlor and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary for a simple northern farmer among these hills and moors, but Mr. Heathcliff formed a contrast to his abode. Despite his dark-haired, dark-eyed gypsy looks, in dress and manners he seems a gentleman country squire. By his appearance, some might suspect a degree of under-bred pride; gypsies are known for such arrogance, and I wonder if he could be one of them. Since the infestation of the vampires, the gypsy vampire slayers have become bold in their haughtiness. With some right, as it is their skill and courage that keep the beasties from devouring all of us and taking over our fair country. But I am running too fast, bestowing attributes on Mr. Heathcliff that might be unfounded.

I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite my landlord and filled up the interval of silence by attempting to caress the pointer bitch that had left her pups and was sneaking wolfishly to the back of my legs.

My caress provoked a long, guttural snarl. At closer glance, I saw that this creature was half again as large as one of her kind, with great ivory fangs and a fierce eye. Her throat, I noted, was protected by a thick leather collar studded with spikes, no doubt to keep her from being drained of blood by a vampire.

“You better let the dog alone,” growled Mr. Heathcliff, punctuating his words with a punch of his foot. “She’s not a pet!”

He strode to a side door and shouted again. “Joseph!”

The old man mumbled indistinctly from the depths of the cellar but gave no suggestion of ascending, so his master went down, leaving me with the monstrous bitch and a pair of sheepdogs.

Not anxious to come in contact with their fangs—or anyone’s, for that matter—I sat still. Unfortunately, I indulged myself by making a face at the dog, and she broke into a fury and leapt for my throat. I hastened to put the dining table between us, this action rousing the whole pack. Half a dozen four-footed fiends of various sizes and ages issued from their hidden dens and I felt my heels and coat-laps subjects of assault. I parried off the larger dogs as effectually as I could with a fireplace poker, but was forced to call for assistance from the household when a yipping terrier slipped beneath my guard and latched onto my knee. He was hedgehog small but keen of tooth, and I felt each tiny dagger dig into my flesh until warm drops of blood ran down my boot.

Mr. Heathcliff and his henchman climbed the steps, slow as molasses running off a block of ice. Fortunately, an inhabitant of the kitchen came running; a lusty dame with tucked-up gown, bare arms, and flushed cheeks rushed into the midst of us, flourishing a frying pan, and used the weapon to such purpose that the storm magically subsided, leaving her heaving like a sea after a high wind when her master entered the scene.

“What the devil is the matter?” he asked, eyeing me in a manner I could barely endure after such inhospitable treatment.

“What the devil, indeed,” I muttered, collapsing into a chair, trying to pry the still-clinging terrier from my wounded knee. “A herd of possessed swine has better manners than those animals of yours, sir. You might as well leave a stranger in a hive of vampires!”

He put a bottle of spirits down in front of me. “The hounds do right to be vigilant. We all do, considering what roams the moors. A glass of wine?”

“No, thank you.” The terrier released my knee long enough to bite my thumb and went back to the knee with undisguised glee.

“Not bitten, are you?”

“By the son of Lucifer!” I replied, trying to shake the little dog off. “If blood loss be any measure—”

“Vampire bitten,” Heathcliff corrected.

I could not suppress a shudder, as I knew the meaning of the phrase was far broader these days than it had once been. “If I had been, I would have set my silver dagger on the biter,” I responded, laying my hand on its sheath at my waist, my meaning equally broader than it might once have been.

In these times of roaming vampires, both gentlemen and gentlewomen had taken to carrying weapons to fend the beasties off. Pure silver made up for the small size of the dagger and my lack of vampire fighting skills, I was assured by the salesman when I made the purchase in London. Well worth the extraordinary cost, I was promised.

The vicious terrier continued to rend my poor knee until the kitchen wench with her flushed cheeks and noble frying pan put her fingers to her lips and emitted a sharp whistle. The canine fury’s pointed ears perked up and his gaze fixed on the skinned rabbit the dame dangled from one hand. With one final nip, the dog unclenched its jaw and dove for the rabbit. She sliced off the head and tossed it, bringing all the hounds to full cry and chase. The small devil that had so harried me reached the meat a paw’s length ahead of the pointer bitch and carried his prize to the top of a sideboard and hence to a lofty shelf to devour the bunny head, to the sorrow of those companions left supperless.

Heathcliff’s countenance relaxed into a grin, surprising me. “A noble beast. A first-rate terrier. I’ve lost count of his bloodsucker kills. Of course, his mother was a badger, his father a noble hunter of vermin. Still, I doubt you’ve seen the like in your travels.”

“No, I can’t say I have.” I unwound my second-best stock from my neck and used it to stanch the worst of the bleeding.

“Come, come, you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. You look pale.”

The massive pointer bitch had crept closer to lap up the droplets on the floor around my boots. “I have lost blood,” I pointed out.

“Naught but a spoon or two. Nothing to grouse about. Take a little wine. Welcome guests are so rare in this house that I and my dogs hardly know how to receive them. To your health, sir!”

I bowed, beginning to realize it would be foolish to sit and sulk over the misbehavior of a few curs and unwilling to yield my host further amusement at my expense.

He—probably persuaded by the realization he should not offend a good tenant—relaxed a little and introduced a subject of interest to me, my present state of retirement. I found him very intelligent, and before I went home, I volunteered another visit tomorrow. He evidently, however, wished no further intrusion and expressed such.

It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself compared to him.

The next afternoon set in so misty and cold that I had half a mind to spend it by my study fire instead of wading through mud, risking my life in tempting the demons that course the moors—to Wuthering Heights.

Walking down the hall with this lazy intention, I spotted a serving girl on her knees and stepped into the room thinking I might greet her. Settled in front of the fireplace, she was surrounded by brushes and coal scuttles and raising an infernal dust as she extinguished flames with heaps of cinders. When she looked up, startled by my intrusion on her work, I noticed two distinguishing puncture marks on her pale neck. The spectacle drove me back through the doorway, and she watched with the oddest little smile on her face.

I resolved to place a chair in front of my bedchamber door at night and keep a vigilant eye on this saucy jade. It was well-known that maidens of the lower sort often traded virtue for the thrill of sexual congress with the fanged ones. Male vampires were said to possess extraordinary physical attributes such as to render foolish females incapable of moral judgment. Who knew if she was an innocent seized on her way home from church or a lusty wench who sought her own downfall among the beasts? In any case, she would bear watching, and if I sensed anything amiss, she would find herself dismissed without a letter of recommendation. She might be happier dancing half naked and exposing her slender throat in some vampire-friendly tavern than emptying chamber pots in an honest man’s house.

Without lingering, I took my hat and made the four-mile walk to Wuthering Heights. Fortunately, on my journey, I encountered no sign of cloaked and bloodthirsty predators. In fact, I had not seen one since my arrival. Just as I made my way to the garden gate, however, I thought I spied what seemed to be shadows of the enemy through the first feathery flakes of a snow-shower.

On that bleak hill-top, the earth was hard with black frost and the air made me shiver through every limb as I blinked, unsure if the shadows were real or mirage. Vampire or swaying grass? Unwilling to wait out the answer, I ran up the causeway and knocked for admittance, keeping a look over my shoulder.

When there came no immediate answer from within save for the howl of dogs, I grasped the latch and shook it vehemently. Vinegar-faced Joseph projected his head from a round window of the barn.

“What ye want?” he shouted, adjusting the scarf around his neck. “Go round if ye want the master.”

“Is there no one to open the door?” I responded, looking again over my shoulder. Yes, something was definitely there…and there! I recalled the poor maid’s wound and went on faster. “Open to me, Joseph, for pity’s sake! ’Tis not safe for man untrained in vampire repelling to stand out in this weather.”

“There’s nobody but the missus, and she’ll not open the door. Not for King Georgie himself.”

“Why?” I peered up at him, shivering inside my coat. “Can’t you tell her who I am?”

The head vanished and I was left in the snow, which had begun to drive thickly. I had the sense that I was being watched, a feeling so strong that I feared to turn and look over my shoulder. I had just seized the door handle to give another try when a young man shouldering a pitchfork appeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow him, and I, glad for flesh and bone of any human kind, trailed after him through a washhouse and a paved area containing a coal shed, pump, and pigeon cote. I gave a sigh of relief as we arrived in the warm, cheery apartment and I was formally received.

The room glowed delightfully with the radiance of an immense fire built from coal, peat, and wood. Near the table, laid for a plentiful meal, I was pleased to observe the “missus,” whose existence I had not previously suspected.

I bowed and waited for her to offer me a seat, quite relieved to have arrived unscathed. Leaned back in her chair, she looked at me, remaining motionless and mute.

“Rough weather and beasties lurking!” I remarked. “I’m afraid, Mrs. Heathcliff, I had to work hard to make myself heard at the door. It was a near thing.”

She never opened her mouth and I glanced at her neck, wondering if, like the maid at Thrushcross, she had fallen victim to one of the vampires I thought I had seen in the snowing mist. She kept her eyes on me in a cool, regardless manner. I saw no bite marks, but that was no guarantee; women in particular were good at hiding them when they wished to.

“Sit down,” said the young man gruffly. “He’ll be in soon.”

I obeyed, keeping one eye on Mrs. Heathcliff while calling the villain canine, Juno, the pointer bitch, who moved the extreme tip of her tail in token of owning my acquaintance. To my relief, the tiny terror was nowhere in sight.

“A beautiful animal,” I commenced. “Do you intend parting with the pups, madam?”

“They are not mine,” said the hostess, more unkindly than Heathcliff himself could have replied. “You should not have come. It is not safe.” She rose, reaching for the mantel for two of the painted canisters. “Vampires are thick on these moors on such sunless days.”

As if one needed reminding….

Her position before was sheltered from the light; now, I had a distinct view of her figure and countenance. She was slender and barely past girlhood, an admirable form and the most exquisite little face I have ever had the pleasure of beholding. With flaxen ringlets hanging loose on her delicate neck, she had small features that, had they been in agreeable expression, would have been irresistible. Fortunately for my susceptible heart, the only sentiment they evoked hovered somewhere between scorn and a kind of desperation.

The canisters were almost out of reach, and I made a motion to aid her.

“I can get them myself,” she snapped.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Were you asked to tea?” she demanded, tying an apron over her neat black frock and standing with a spoonful of leaf poised over the pot.

I detected the sharp scent of garlic, a common ingredient in English teas, as of late. It is said to ward off vampires; they detest it. Some, like my housekeeper, have even taken to wearing garlic on their persons—a foolish notion, I think. “I’ll be glad to have a cup,” I said. Perhaps two, if it will get me home with the eight imperial pints of blood I possessed when I left Thrushcross Grange today, I thought.

“Were you invited?” she repeated.

“No.” I half smiled. “You’re proper to ask, though. No telling what sort of strangers will try to make their way into your home these days. A cousin of mine told me that only last week a vampire pretending to be an old acquaintance tried to invite himself into my cousin’s household for tea.”

She flung the tea back, spoon and all, and returned to her chair in a pout, her under-lip pushed out, like a child’s ready to cry.

Meanwhile, the young man had slung on a decidedly shabby upper garment, stained with blood. I wondered if, like many young men in the country, he was training to fight the dark devils. I nearly asked him myself, but then he looked at me from the corner of his eyes as if there were some mortal feud unavenged between us, and I swallowed my question. His thick brown curls were rough and uncultivated, his whiskers encroaching bearishly over his cheeks, and his hands were embrowned like those of a common laborer. Yet I began to wonder if he was a servant or not. His dress and speech were entirely devoid of the superiority one could observe in Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff, but his bearing was free, almost haughty, and he showed no respect to the lady of the house.

In absence of clear proof of his place in the household, I deemed it best to abstain from noticing his curious behavior; five minutes later, the entrance of Heathcliff relieved me from my uncomfortable state.

“You see, sir, I’ve returned as promised,” I exclaimed. “But I fear I shall be weather-bound. I trust you can afford me shelter.” Then I cleared my throat, feeling it my duty to warn him. “Are you aware of the creatures that presently linger on your property?”

“Afford you shelter? For the night?” he said, seeming to ignore my reference to a possible vampire infestation, the more pressing issue of the conversation, I thought.

“I wonder you should select a snow-storm to ramble about in. Do you know that you run the risk of being murdered in the marshes? People far more familiar than you with these moors often miss the road on such a day and are never seen again.”

So he was aware…. “If staying here would be an imposition, perhaps I can get a guard from among your lads to escort me home, and he might stay at the Grange until morning. With weapons, perhaps? I fear I’m not so good with a sword.” I laid my hand on the tiny silver dagger I wore on my belt. Little protection should a swarm descend upon me. Perhaps I should reconsider the benefits of a garlic necklace. Who was I to question wiser heads who had known and feared vampires for generations?

“No, I could not.”

“Indeed?” I drew back, surprised by his reply. “You would turn me out to certain death?”

“Are you going to make the tea?” demanded he of the shabby coat.

“Is he going to have any?” she asked, appealing to Heathcliff. “I see no need to waste good tea if he’s to walk out into the moors and be drained of every drop of—”

“Get it ready!” Heathcliff uttered so savagely that I felt no longer inclined to call him a capital fellow. I wondered if I needed to consider the rumors again. Had I stepped from fang to fang?

When the tea preparations were finished, he invited me to join the others around the table. There was an austere silence while I watched Mrs. Heathcliff make a separate pot of tea from a second container for Mr. Heathcliff. I wanted to sniff it for garlic, fearing it contained naught, but I dared not. Instead, we all digested our meal: a dry wedge of cheese that bore teeth marks of mice, a crock of jellied eels, hardtack at least as old as Joseph, and a splendid length of blood sausage.

Afraid I had caused the cloud of grim silence, I thought I should make an effort to dispel it, and after a false start, I began. “It is strange,” I said between swallowing the last of one cup of tea and receiving another. Heathcliff, I noted, took food on his plate and added sugar to his tea, but he neither drank nor ate. “Odd,” I continued, “how custom can mold our tastes and ideas. Many could not imagine the existence of so isolated a society, surrounded by hostile hives of vampires, Mr. Heathcliff. Yet I venture to say, that surrounded by your family and your amiable lady—”

“My amiable lady!” he interrupted with an almost diabolical sneer.

For a moment, I feared he would bare fangs.

“Where is she, my amiable lady?”

“Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.”

“So you suggest her spirit has taken the post of ministering angel and guardian of Wuthering Heights, even when her body is drained of blood and gone? Is that it? She watches us from the grave?”

Perceiving my blunder, I attempted to correct it. I should have seen that there was too great a disparity of years between them. He was forty. She looked no more than seventeen. Then it flashed upon me. The clown in the bloody coat was her husband. Heathcliff, junior, of course.

“Mrs. Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law,” said Heathcliff, corroborating my surmise. He turned as he spoke, a look of hatred in his eyes as he gazed at her.

“Ah, certainly,” I stumbled on, turning to my neighbor. “I see now; you are the favored possessor of the beauteous lady.”

This was worse than before; the youth grew crimson and clenched his fist and I began to have second thoughts as to whose blood it was upon his coat. Rather than a vampire’s, did it belong to the last neighbor who came for tea?

“Poor conjecture, again, sir!” observed my host. “Neither of us have the privilege of owning your fair lady. Her husband is deceased.”

“And this young man is…”

“Not my son, assuredly!”

“My name is Hareton Earnshaw,” growled the young man.

“I meant no disrespect,” I said, noting the dignity with which he announced himself. Perhaps he was a vampire slayer, a good one, and thus the conceit.

Earnshaw fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare for fear I might be tempted to box his ear, and then he would be tempted to run me through with a sword meant to impale blacker hearts than mine.

The business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering another word of sociable conversation, I glanced out a window to examine the weather and take in the sights, worldly or otherwise.

I saw before me the dark night coming in prematurely, sky and hills mingled in bitter wind and suffocating snow. It was a perfect haven for vampires in search of heat and nourishment of human blood!

“I don’t think it possible for me to get home now, with or without a guard,” I exclaimed. “The roads are buried already, and I could scarcely distinguish a foot in front of me. I could walk right into the arms of one of those beasts and not know it until their hellish fangs pierced my throat.”

“Hareton, drive the sheep into the barn porch. They’ll be fed upon if left in the fold all night,” Heathcliff said. “I don’t care to go out again tonight and we’ve lost two this week, already.”

“And what must I do?” I rose with irritation. How was it that my host was so protective of the blood of sheep and not a paying tenant? “How am I to get home safely?”

There was no reply to my question as Mrs. Heathcliff leaned over the fireplace, restoring the tea canisters to their place, and Joseph entered with a pail of porridge of sheep bones and hooves to feed the dogs.

“I wonder how ye can stand there in idleness, when all of them gone out!” Joseph cried. “But you’ll never mend yer ill ways, but go right to the devil, like yer mother before ye!”

For a moment, I thought this piece of eloquence was addressed to me, and enraged, I stepped toward the aged rascal, my hand upon my tiny dagger with the intention of piercing him.

Mrs. Heathcliff, however, checked me by her answer.

“You scandalous old hypocrite!” she replied. “Are you not afraid of being tossed among the bloodsuckers? I warn you not to provoke me, or I’ll turn you out of this house myself and then we will see how far you get.”

“Wicked! Wicked!” Joseph declared. “May the Lord deliver me from evil.”

“Too late for that.” She pointed to the window. “Be off, or I’ll hang you by your thumbs from the outer wall and let them feed on you until you are fully drained. They will do it if he lets them, and let them he might. You know I speak the truth!”

The woman put a malignity into her beautiful eyes, and Joseph drew back in sincere horror and hurried out.

I didn’t know quite what she meant by all of that, but wanting to be on my way, I pleaded, “Mrs. Heathcliff, could you point out some landmarks to guide me home?”

“Take the road you came,” she answered, dropping into her chair. “It is as sound advice as I can give.”

“Then if you hear of me being discovered dead in a bog or pit of snow, sucked dry of my fluids, your conscience won’t whisper that it is partly your fault?”

“Certainly not. Do you expect me to provide you safe passage, wielding my sword?” she mocked.

As if women carried swords!

“Surely there are men here in training who can fend off if not kill, should the necessity arise,” I questioned.

“Who are these men in training? There is himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph, and I, and I guarantee you the master of this abode would not step across the lane to save your neck.”

“Are there no trained boys at the farm? Living in such an isolated place, surely—”

“No trained boys. Just us.”

“What of Joseph? He knows the way.”

“Not Joseph!” Her head snapped up. “Not after dark. Nay, you do not want Joseph after dark. Trust me, good sir.”

Her remark was odd, but I was entirely too vexed to consider her meaning. “Then, welcome or not, I am compelled to stay.”

“That you must settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it.”

“I hope it will be a lesson to you, to make no more rash journeys on these hills, without first finding your own guard,” cried Heathcliff’s stern voice from the kitchen entrance. “As to staying here, I don’t keep accommodations for visitors; you must share a bed with Hareton.”

“I can sleep on a chair in this room,” I replied.

“No, no. A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor. It will not suit me to permit anyone to roam my home in the middle of the night!”

My patience was at end. In disgust, I pushed past him into the yard, running against Earnshaw in my haste. It was so dark I could not see the means of exit, but I smelled the blood upon his coat, thick and cloying.

At first, the young man appeared about to befriend me.

“I’ll go with him as far as the park,” Hareton said. “Past the worst of them.”

“And you’ll go with him to hell!” Heathcliff flung back. “You are not up to the fight of such numbers. You never will be! And who is to look after the horses, then, eh?”

I drew myself up indignantly. “A man’s life is of more consequence than those of horses.”

Heathcliff did not seem to hear me, for he was still upon the boy. “They will not kill you, you know; they will make you one of them!”

“Well, somebody must go,” murmured Mrs. Heathcliff, more kindly than I expected. “For this is poor hospitality to a neighbor and tenant.”

“Not at your command!” retorted Hareton.

“Then I hope his pale ghost will haunt you; and I hope Mr. Heathcliff will never get another human tenant, till the Grange is a ruin and swarming with the devils!” she answered sharply.

Joseph, toward whom I had been steering, muttered something under his breath. He sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern, which I seized unceremoniously. Calling out that I would send it back on the morrow, I rushed to the nearest door.

“Master, he’s thieving the lantern!” shouted the ancient.

On opening the little door, two cloaked vampires flew at my throat, bearing me down and extinguishing the light. As I flailed on the ground, trying to protect my neck, I heard a mingled guffaw from Heathcliff and Hareton.

Fortunately, the creatures seemed more bent on taunting me and tearing at my clothing than devouring me alive. Well-fed vampires at Wuthering Heights?

But, oh, the stench of the creatures! When recounting a tale of attack and escape, victims fail to mention the foul scent of rotting flesh, putrid blood, and black, wet humus that wafts from them. “Help me!” I managed. Tucking in a ball to further protect my jugular, I was forced to lie till the malignant master of the abode pleased to deliver me. One bark of Heathcliff’s voice and the beasts leapt off me and disappeared into the snow-driven swirl of darkness, curls of smoke, gone as fast as they had come. Then, hatless and trembling with a mixture of fear and wrath, I ordered the miscreants to let me out—on their peril to keep me one minute longer. . . .