What is a vampire to do? Sir Francis Varney has needs, just like he did back when he was human. He needs a good house. He needs money to pay servants and to buy the props of humanity. He needs a good wife. But most of all, he needs blood. It is the final need that drives him to Bannerworth Hall during the dark and stormy night, that drives him to break into the bedchamber of Flora Bannerworth, and that drives him to suck her blood. This begins James Malcom Rymer’s Varney The Vampyre part 1: The Feast Of The Blood, raising questions about Flora’s future – married or spinster, human or vampire? Will her fiancé love her enough to overlook her destiny? Who will she choose; vampire or fiancé? And who will save her from this fate which is not only worse than death, but beyond death? This modern language version, Risen From The Grave, produced by Leslie Ormandy allows a modern reader a glimpse of an earlier era and their ideas of Vampires.

CHAPTER I.

"How graves give up their dead. And how the night air hideous grows With shrieks!"

MIDNIGHT.--THE HAIL-STORM.--THE DREADFUL VISITOR.--THE VAMPYRE.

The solemn tones of an old cathedral clock have announced midnight -- the air is thick and heavy -- a strange, death-like stillness pervades all nature. Like the ominous calm which precedes some terrible outbreak of the elements, they seem to have paused even in their ordinary fluctuations to gather a terrible strength for the great effort. A faint peal of thunder now comes from far off. Like a gun signaling the battle of the winds to begin, it appeared to awaken them from their lethargy, and one awful, warring hurricane swept over a whole city, producing more devastation in the four or five minutes it lasted than would a half century of ordinary phenomena.

It was as if some giant had blown upon a toy town, and scattered many of the buildings before the hot blast of his terrible breath, as suddenly as that blast of wind had come it ceased, and all was as still and calm as before.

Sleepers awakened, and thought that what they had heard must be the confused chimera of a dream. They trembled and turned to sleep again.

All is still--still as the very grave. Not a sound breaks the magic. What is that a strange, pattering noise like a million fairy feet? It is hail. Leaves are dashed from the trees; windows that lie most exposed to the direct fury of the pelting particles of ice are broken, and the rapt repose that before was so remarkable in its intensity is exchanged for a noise which drowns every cry of surprise or consternation which arising from persons who found their houses invaded by the storm.

Oh, how the storm raged! Hail – rain -- wind. It was, in very truth, an awful night.

There is an antique chamber in an ancient house. Curious and quaint carvings adorn the walls, and the large chimney-piece is a curiosity itself. The ceiling is low, and a large bay window, from roof to floor, looks to the west. The window is latticed, and filled with curiously painted glass and rich stained pieces, which send in a strange, yet beautiful light when sun or moon shines into the apartment. There is only one portrait in that room, although the walls seem paneled for the express purpose of containing a series of pictures. That portrait is of a young man, with a pale face, a stately brow, and a strange expression about the eyes, which no one cared to look on twice.

There is a stately bed in that chamber, of carved walnut-wood, rich in design and elaborate in execution; one of those works of art which owe their existence to the Elizabethan era. It is hung with heavy silken and damask furnishing; nodding feathers are at its corners--they are covered with dust, and they lend a funereal aspect to the room. The floor is of polished oak. God! how the hail dashes on the old bay window! Like an occasional discharge of mimic musketry, it comes clashing, beating, and cracking upon the small panes, but they resist it--their small size saves them; the wind, the hail, the rain, expend their fury in vain.

The bed in that old chamber is occupied. A creature formed in all fashions of loveliness lies in a half sleep upon that ancient couch--a girl young and beautiful as a spring morning. Her long hair has escaped from its confinement and streams over the blackened coverings of the bedstead; she has been restless in her sleep, for the clothing of the bed is in much confusion. One arm is over her head, the other hangs nearly off the side of the bed near to which she lies. A neck and bosom that would have formed a study for the rarest sculptor that ever Providence gave genius to were half disclosed. She moaned slightly in her sleep, and once or twice the lips moved as if in prayer--at least one might judge so, for the name of Him who suffered for all came once faintly from them. She has endured much fatigue, and the storm does not awaken her, but it can disturb the slumbers it does not possess the power to destroy entirely.

Oh, what a world of witchery is in that mouth, slightly parted, to exhibit pearly teeth that glisten even in the faint light coming from that bay window. How sweetly the long silken eyelashes lay upon the cheek. Now she moves and one shoulder is entirely visible -- the smooth skin of that fair creature just budding into womanhood, whiter, fairer than the spotless clothing of the bed on which she lies. She is in that transition state which presents to us all the charms of the girl--almost of the child, with the more matured beauty and gentleness of advancing years.

Was that lightning? Yes--an awful, vivid, terrifying flash--then a roaring peal of thunder, as if a thousand mountains were rolling one over the other in the blue vault of Heaven!

The hail continues. The wind continues. The uproar of the elements seems at its height. Now she awakens--that beautiful girl on the antique bed opens her eyes of celestial blue, and a faint cry of alarm bursts from her lips. It is a cry which, amid the noise and turmoil without, sounds faint and weak. She sits up and presses her hands upon her eyes. Heavens! what a wild torrent of wind, and rain, and hail! The thunder seems intent upon awakening sufficient echoes to last until the next flash of forked lightning should again produce the wild concussion of the air. She murmurs a prayer--a prayer for those she loves best; the names of those dear to her gentle heart come from her lips; she weeps and prays; she thinks then of what devastation the storm must surely produce, and to the great God of Heaven she prays for all living things. Another flash--a wild, blue, bewildering flash of lightning streams across that bay window, for an instant bringing out every color in it with terrible distinctness. A shriek bursts from the lips of the young girl, and then with eyes fixed upon that window which in another moment is all darkness, and with such an expression of terror upon her face as it had never before known, she trembled, and the perspiration of intense fear stood upon her brow.

"What--what was it?" she gasped; "real, or a delusion? Oh, God, what was it? A figure tall and gaunt, endeavoring from the outside to unclasp the window. I saw it. That flash of lightning revealed it to me. It stood the whole length of the window."

There was a lull of the wind. The hail was not falling so thickly--moreover, it now fell, , straight, yet a strange clattering sound came upon the glass of that long window. It could not be a delusion; she is awake, and she hears it. What can produce it? Another flash of lightning--another shriek--there could be now no delusion. A tall figure is standing on the ledge immediately outside the long window. It is its finger-nails upon the glass that produces the sound so like the hail, now that the hail has ceased. Intense fear paralyzed the limbs of that beautiful girl. That one shriek is all she can utter; with hands clasped, a face of marble, a heart beating so wildly in her bosom that each moment it seems as if it would break its confines, eyes distended and fixed upon the window, she waits, frozen with horror. The pattering and clattering of the nails continue. No word is spoken. She fancies she can trace the darker form of that figure against the window, and she can see the long arms moving to and fro, feeling for some mode of entrance. What strange light is that which now gradually creeps up into the air, red and terrible, growing brighter and brighter? The lightning has set fire to a mill, and the reflection of the rapidly consuming building falls upon that long window. There can be no mistake. The figure is there, feeling for an entrance and clattering against the glass with its long nails; nails which appear as if the growth of many years had been untouched. She tries to scream again, but a choking sensation comes over her, and she cannot. It is too dreadful; she tries to move, but each limb seems weighed down by tons of lead--she can only faintly whisper the cry of, "Help--help--help--help!"

And that one word she repeats like a person in a dream. The red glare of the fire continues. It throws up the tall gaunt figure in hideous relief against the long window. It shows, also the one portrait that is in the chamber, and that portrait appears to fix its eyes upon the attempting intruder while the flickering light from the fire makes it look fearfully life-like. A small pane of glass is broken, and the form introduces a long gaunt hand which seems utterly fleshless. The fastening is removed, and one-half of the window is swung wide open upon its hinges.

And yet now she could not scream--she could not move. "Help!--help!--help!" was all she could say. But, oh, that look of terror that sat upon her face, it was dreadful--a look to haunt the memory for a lifetime--a look to intrude itself upon the happiest moments, turning them to bitterness.

The figure turns half round, and the light falls upon the face. It is perfectly white-- perfectly bloodless. The eyes look like polished tin; the lips are drawn back, and the principal feature next to those dreadful eyes is the teeth--the fearful looking teeth--projecting like those of some wild animal, hideously, glaringly white and fang-like. It approaches the bed with a strange gliding movement. It clashes together the long nails that literally appear to hang from the finger ends. No sound comes from its lips. Is she going mad--that young and beautiful girl exposed to so much terror? She has drawn up all her limbs; she cannot even now say help. The power of articulation is gone, but the power of movement has returned to her; she can draw herself slowly along to the other side of the bed from that towards which the hideous appearance is coming.

But her eyes are fascinated. The glance of a serpent could not have produced a greater effect upon her than did the fixed gaze of those awful, metallic-looking eyes that were bent on her face. Crouching down so that the gigantic height was lost, and the horrible, protruding, white face was the most prominent object, the figure moved towards her. What was it? What did it want there? What made it look so hideous; so unlike an inhabitant of the earth, and yet to be on it?

Now she has got to the verge of the bed, and the figure pauses. It seemed as if when it paused, she lost the power to proceed. The clothing of the bed was now clutched in her hands with unconscious power. She drew her breath short and thick. Her bosom heaving, her limbs trembling, she cannot take her eyes from that marble-looking face. He holds her with his glittering eye.

The storm has ceased; all is still. The winds are hushed; the church clock proclaims the hour of one o’clock: a hissing sound comes from the throat of the hideous being, and he raises his long, gaunt arms. His lips move. He advances. The girl places one small foot from the bed on to the floor. She is unconsciously dragging the clothing with her. The door of the room is in that direction; can she reach it? Has she power to walk? Can she withdraw her eyes from the face of the intruder, and so break the hideous charm? God of Heaven! is it real, or some dream so like reality as to nearly overturn the judgment forever?

The figure has paused again, and half on the bed and half out of it that young girl lies trembling. Her long hair streams across the entire width of the bed. As she has slowly moved along, she has left her hair streaming across the pillows. The pause lasted about a minute, oh, what an age of agony. That minute was, indeed, enough for madness to do its full work.

With a sudden rush that could not be foreseen--with a strange howling cry that was enough to awaken terror in every breast, the figure seized the long tresses of her hair. Twining them round his bony hands, he held her to the bed. Then she screamed! Heaven granted her then the power to scream. Shriek followed shriek in rapid succession. The bed-clothes fell in a heap by the side of the bed; she was dragged by her long silken hair completely on to it again. Her beautifully rounded limbs quivered with the agony of her soul. The glassy, horrible eyes of the figure ran over that angelic form with a hideous satisfaction, a horrible profanation. He dragged her head to the bed's edge. He forced it back by the long hair still entwined in his grasp. With a plunge he seized her neck in his fang-like teeth--a gush of blood, and a hideous sucking noise followed.

The girl has swooned. The vampyre is at his hideous repast!

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