The Snow Vampire (3 page)

Yet as quickly as I left Pilsden I returned, taking Hendrik back through the town square and toward the edge of the village. Our tour ended where it began, somewhere near the base of the mountain, two youths aimlessly milling around the woods of a small Hungarian mountain town.

“What’s that, up there?” Hendrik suddenly asked. He was shading his eyes from the sun and pointing up, high up, seemingly halfway up the mountain itself. “I can see something, but… I’m not sure what it is.”

I knew without looking. “Those are the old ruins,” I said. “Hundreds of years ago, there used to be a monastery up there. It was here before the town itself. The monks tended to travelers going through the pass. It was never anything more than a small, cloistered community.”

“Can we go see?” Hendrik eagerly asked. I loved hearing that tone of fervor in his voice; he sounded almost happy, and the sound made my own heart beat faster.

“There isn’t much to see, I’m afraid,” I said, the smile never leaving my face. “There was never much there to begin with. Just the frames of one or two old stone outbuildings, the chapel, and the main compound exist anymore. The rest was taken by avalanche, or snowstorm, or fire, many decades ago, perhaps longer.”

Something in the sound of my voice suggested I was leaving some important details of the story out. “What happened up there?” Hendrik asked, clearly interested.

I shrugged and gave him half a smile. I was delighted that he was so keen on knowing, that I had been able to give him yet another small gift. But while there was a story to be told about the ruins of the old monastery, I was not the one to tell it.

“You should ask Grandmamma,” I told him. “Tonight after supper. She knows the history of the ruins better than anyone in town. She can tell you.” I gave Hendrik another playful smile and gently clapped him on the shoulder. As I did so, I became aware that this was the first time I had actually touched him, and a small thrill ran through me; despite the heat of the sun beating down on me, I shivered just a little. “Come,” I said, determined to hold on to his shoulder as long as decorum would allow. “It is nearly suppertime now. Soon you will know all you need to know of the ruins. And then some.” As we turned and walked toward home, I watched as Hendrik turned back, his eyes desperate to catch further glimpses of the broken rock parapets that he now knew were hidden somewhere above us.

“
S
O
,”
Grandmamma intoned, “you wish to know of the
snagov vrolok
.”

“The
snagov
—what?” Hendrik said, half-laughing his reply. “I thought I was asking about the old monastery in the hills.”

“And indeed you were,” Grandmamma said, her face as grave as mine was giddy. “And I happen to know that the
vrolok
is the only reason young boys ever ask an old woman like me about those ruins,” she added, casting an unfavorable eye toward her only grandson.

We were sitting at the small butcher block table in the kitchen that the women in my family had been preparing meals on and swapping stories over for generations. Dinner had been concluded, and Grandmamma was sitting down to a hot kettle and some tea. She shook the kettle at each of us, offering a cup, but we both declined. Hendrik, I could tell, was too intrigued.

“A
snagov vrolok
?” he repeated. The old Czech term did not roll easily off his tongue. “The first word is snow, that I know. But I am afraid I don’t know the second….” He trailed off, looking at Grandmamma expectantly.

She did not disappoint. With all the severity an old woman could muster, she leaned across the table and whispered the other word into his ear. “Vampire,” she said.

Hendrik laughed, loud and hearty. Grandmamma disapproved of his less-than-serious response, rolling her eyes and sipping her tea. As for me, I was delighting in this moment, reveling in Hendrik’s curiosity and joy. I was still quite happy that I had given him this, and that there was more to come.

“A snow
vampire
?” he asked, hitting the last word hard for emphasis. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

Grandmamma wagged a finger at each of us, a signal that, for the moment, quieted our chuckles. “Laugh all you want,” she said. “But I tell you, that place is cursed. Always has been.”

“We’re sorry, Grandmamma. We mean no disrespect,” I said, suppressing an urge to continue giggling. I could not help it; Hendrik’s delight, the first time I had ever seen such emotion in him, was positively contagious. Still, I coughed and swallowed, taking a deep breath to still the last giggles that threatened to continue disrupting the solemn tenor of Grandmamma’s voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hendrik added. “I would very much like to hear the tale, if you would tell me.”

“Mm,” Grandmamma said, a noncommittal noise indicating that she would, for the moment, reserve judgment. “Very well. It all started centuries ago. Before there was even this town here, there was the monastery. Hundreds of years old, it is. At first it was like any other holy order. The brothers there cared for travelers, rescuing them from storms and snow when they could. In time a large vein of tin was discovered in the mountain, and so the miners came, and the little village grew up around them. Because of the village, travelers now had a place to bed down at night and eat a hot meal. More came through the pass on the way north, and because of this and the mine, both the town and monastery prospered.

“For many years the town and the monastery co-existed peacefully; the brothers tended to the spiritual needs of the community while the villagers would send up extra stores of food and supplies when the winter was especially harsh and the brothers’ meager rations ran low. There was peace and harmony in the pass for many years. But something happened to change all that. A wandering priest came into town, a friar who was said to be as wild as any beast in the wood. The good brothers took him in, of course, as they would any wayward traveler. But this man had an evil influence on them. He convinced the brothers to turn their backs on God and their sacred duties. Instead of helping lost travelers, they robbed them. And worse—they performed black rites late at night, outside in the courtyard of their monastery, even deep into the wintertime.”

“It must be difficult to do evil when you’re up to your arse in snow,” I whispered under my breath to Hendrik, who stifled a laughing reply.

If Grandmamma noticed our insubordination, however, she kindly ignored it and proceeded with her story. “It was in that courtyard where the greatest evil occurred. It was said that the monks had built a great black altar where they would sacrifice unwary travelers who wandered near their doors. Soon the place began to have the foulest of reputations, and no traveler would dare take the dreaded road through the Mesnek pass. Since no one came through Pilsden anymore, the town suffered. Then, late at night, the brothers began to sneak into town, stealing livestock for their tables and their black sacrifices.”

At this, Hendrik kicked me hard in the shins under the table. I could tell he was bursting fit to laugh again at the image of monks tucking chickens or goats under their arms and trudging back up the mountain with them, but silently I willed him to hold his peace, and he did.

“Then one night, they took a small child for their evil purposes. It was the eve of St. Stephen’s Day. The wind breathed loud, and snow pelted the mountains, but the townspeople all heard the child’s final, agonizing screams, even above the howl of the wind itself. At last, they decided, enough was enough. Grabbing torches and knives they stormed the monastery. They slaughtered every last monk they saw and set fire to the whole place. Finally, they cornered the mad friar who had led these men down their evil path. It was said that he had eyes as red as blood and cloven hooves for feet. He snarled at the men who trapped them, biting and kicking them, but they were many and he was one, and soon they overpowered him. The villagers took the mad monk to the monastery courtyard to try him for his wicked crimes. It was just approaching dawn, and as the sun rose, the villagers were horrified to see that the snow of the courtyard was stained red everywhere, red with the blood of hundreds of murdered innocents. They quickly added more red to the snow as they disemboweled the mad monk and sent him on to his evil master.”

Here Grandmamma paused to take a sip of tea, and Hendrik used the interval to finally speak up. “And now he haunts the place, does he?” he asked. “That seems rather more a ghost story than a vampire tale.”

“Wait,” I told him impatiently. “There’s more to be told. Go on, Grandmamma.”

Grandmamma paused again, taking another sip. It was clear to her by now that she had an eager, engrossed audience, and it was also clear she was going to enjoy every minute of our rapt attention while it lasted. “The next day,” she finally resumed, “a few men from the village went up to the monastery to scavenge what they could. Oh, most thought that the place was evil, but the winter had been hard, and with no travelers coming through the pass, goods were not easy to come by. They left at daybreak, but they never returned. The day after, a larger party of men went looking for them. They went up to the old monastery. At first, nothing seemed out of order. Everything appeared calm and tranquil. But soon the men realized—the monks were all gone.”

“All gone?” Hendrik interrupted. “How do dead men get up and walk away? Or were they not dead to begin with?”

“She means their bodies were gone, you jackanapes,” I said, playfully punching Hendrik’s arm. Hendrik rubbed the spot where I hit him, as if sore, but he gave me a small, dazzling smile, and I felt my body grow weak at the sight of it.

“Yes, Ferenc,” Grandmamma said, ignoring our roughhousing. “Every single one of them, gone. Where there should have been carnage and gore, there was none. The group pushed ahead into the courtyard. Two days ago it had been a blood-stained field. Now—now, it was pure and white as a bride’s veil. As if nothing evil had happened there at all.”

“Well obviously it had snowed, and the new snow covered everything up,” Hendrik said. I could detect a subtle shift in his way of speaking; the story had started to affect him.

“No,” Grandmamma spoke, her voice barely a whisper. “The night had been as still as death. No snow had fallen. But then suddenly the men saw in the courtyard small dots of red,
drip
,
drip
, as if drops of liquid were being slowly trickled onto the snow itself. But quickly the men realized the drips were not falling from anywhere above, but, rather, coming up from below, emanating from somewhere under the calm, white snow. At first there were just a few, and then a few more, and soon the men saw four distinct patches of red spreading across the surface of the snow. Four patches—one for each of the village men who had gone up the mountain the day before. And then, just as suddenly, the blood—for the men had realized with much horror that, indeed, the red was blood, the blood of their fallen townsfolk—the blood began first to gurgle, and then to gush out of the snow, as if from a geyser. Well, the poor townsmen were amazed and horrified at what they saw, but they began to dig and paw at these gushes, to get to the men underneath. But as they pulled away the red, churning snow, what do you suppose they found?”

Hendrik could not even muster the temerity to respond verbally; instead, he just shook his head.

“
They found
nothing at all
,” Grandmamma gravely replied. “The men—their friends, their kin—they were gone. Vanished.”

“But… what happened to them?” Hendrik asked.

“Taken—by the evil that had taken the monks, by the evil that infested that place. Taken by the
vrolok
.”

“But such things are not possible,” Hendrik stammered. “There are no such things as monsters.”

“Oh no?” Grandmamma countered mightily. She was in her element now; anyone could see that. “Well, believe what you will. But since that time, wise folk have given that evil place a wide berth. Strange things continue to happen there. Unearthly howls can be heard on the coldest and clearest of nights. And people who wander off have been known to never return.”

“I am sure it is just an old wives’ tale, and nothing more,” Hendrik said. He turned to me. “Don’t you think so, Ferenc?”

I could tell he was taking my measure with his question. “Of course,” I said. “It is just silly superstition.”

Grandmamma sniffed. Clearly she did not appreciate whose side I had chosen. “And what of the noises?” she asked. “You have yourself heard them, Ferenc.”

I shrugged, struggling to find an answer that would not have Hendrik think me provincial or—worse—foolish. “Just wolves, Grandmamma,” I said. “And the howling of the wind.”

“There are no wolves in the pass in wintertime,” Grandmamma muttered. “You know this, Ferenc. As the deer travel down the mountain to escape the thick snows, so do they. Besides, what of the Arnok boy, hmm?” she hastily added, playing what I knew was her trump card.

“And what is this?” Hendrik asked, a newfound curiosity playing over his face. “Has the
snagov vrolok
recently struck?” I could tell from the slightly smug tone in his voice that he had gotten over the fear Grandmamma’s story had raised in him and now, embarrassed by it, was determined to needle anyone—namely me—who still felt that way.

“It is nothing,” I said. “Just a local tragedy.”

“He wandered off,” Grandmamma said, “about—ohh, when was it Ferenc? Five, six years ago now? He wandered off and was never heard of again.”

“He was a simple boy,” I said by way of explanation. “Always getting lost. He should not have wandered off. He was probably lost in the dark, in the snow. That is all. It does happen sometimes.”

“It was a clear night,” Grandmamma countered. “There was plenty of moonlight to see by.”

“Did they find—you know—a patch of red up in the courtyard?” Hendrik asked, morbid curiosity filling his tone.

“No,” I replied, giving Grandmamma a smug, triumphant look. “They found nothing up there.”

“They found his scarf,” Grandmamma said in reply.