Though I Walk Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death
The street was empty and silent. Silent but for the leathery thud of neatly polished boots. Night fell in a blinding blanket, the fog of the earliest morning hours obscuring the gaslights that had been lit many hours before. It was amazing that the figure--just one shade blacker than the black of the night and several shades less pale than the fog--could even maintain its footing. But oh the silence! It was unreal, unholy, almost. Even at this hour there were generally signs of life in this part of London. Squalor bred the most unpleasant nocturnal activities, and usually the brawl of those who had had too much to drink or the sound of coupling paid for in pence might near the ear. But this was not the case. It was not possible even to hear the early morning hunger screams of the wage earner's infant.
The steps approached a small apartment building squashed hastily between two others of a similar design--if design one could call it. For there was nothing for the eye to gaze at with pleasure even in the bright noon sun. The brick walls were caked in soot and the contents of chamber pot--likely worse things than these, if one really thought about it. The doors consisted of little more than hastily constructed boards of wood, nailed together and hinged by some miracle of God. And the windows peered at one like dark, thoughtless eyes, void of all expression. Some of the panes were broken, some cracked, most caked with dirt, soot and general grime. What could be seen was often concealed with whatever bit of fabric or newspaper the tenant could procure. This was meant to give a pretense of privacy to those who lived in penury with ten or more other occupants, or to obscure and hide the misdeeds of the less productive of the tenement's inhabitants.
A gloved hand turned the knob of the entrance, letting the door shut behind with a creak and a resounding thud. Up two flights of stairs. Third door to the right, if memory served--and it inevitably did. Three knocks, short, quick raps. This was all that was needed. The sallow face of a careworn woman peered out as the door squealed on its hinges. She was clutching something in her hand. as she opened the door to the stranger, her heretofore tense face relaxing in visible relief. Few things adorned the room but a few sparse pieces of furniture and a cheap print of the Blessed Mother. In another room five other people were standing by a mattress. On the mattress lay in a tight ball a young woman no older than eighteen. Her dark hair hung in stringy locks over her sleeping face, greased by sweat and exertion. The covers had been tossed aside and she wore nothing else but a dirty shift, her feet bare, the blue veins in them visible like indigo cobwebs.
"Oh, I am glad you are here, Father! We've been worried all night since Dymphna was laid out in this way this morning. I was asking her to get up. You see, usually she does." The woman spoke with the accent of the Irish immigrant. "I have never had to wake her before and she was to do some errands for Mr. and Mrs. Greeley up the street. But she was so still I almost thought she was dead. Oh, Father, it ain't right!" At this, the woman buried her head in her hands, the beads of the rosary she was holding slapping against her bare arm. Finally, the stranger spoke.
"She is in God's hands, Mrs. Egan." In the dim light of the cheap tallow candles, the stranger was better delineated. His profile was striking with a generous nose and strong chin, chiseled with the strange cleft which sometimes occurs in gentlemen. His blockish hat obscured his dark hair, often untidy due to his habit of running his finguers through it in thought or irritation. Otherwise he was pallid, almost sickly, the two points of his eyes generally pinned elsewhere, as though a part of him lived in a place other than the world. But they were focused now on the girl, his brows furrowed in consternation.
"But you must tell me, Mrs. Egan, what were the events leading up to this? Little Stephen told me that her condition was peculiar, but anything you might have observed could aid me vastly." His own accent was foreign to England as well and sometimes obscured his words, but he was learning to and always tried to speak as accurately and understandably as he could. The woman pulled her head from her hands as though from a sheer effort of the will. She had not been crying but her eyes were red. She was the type who would not easily crack, so he knew that it must indeed be dire for her to express even a moment of what she would consider weakness.
"Forgive me, Father Verdoux. I know this is not at all the time for me to break down, but you, I believe, are our only hope." Mrs. Egan bit her lip for a moment then let out a heavy sigh. "The night before, she had been out. She didn't tell us why. It wasn't 'til the late hours that she returned to us. I hate to say it, Father, but it wasn't much noticed because my poor Timothy was out at the furnaces--you know he had to remain even tonight--we, we can't afford to lose the money. The little ones were asleep and Marty here was helping his pa. It's hard to keep track of so many children sometimes, Father!
"But as I said, she had left early in the evening. She returned somewhere around two in the morning, which I remember, as she woke me from a snooze by the stove. Startled me out of my wits, she did! And I chastised her, as I am sure you would understand. But she was strange. Usually she would give me an explanation and apologize. She's a sweet girl at heart. But she just looked at me like I wasn't there and went into the room she shares with her sisters. So I didn't think much about it until I tried to wake her a few hours later. She was asleep like a stone and I thought she was dead. She weren't breathing, you know, at least, not as I could see. We had to throw cold water on her, did Jane and I.
"And she finally woke up. But she was none too pleased. She was dazed but soon got a bit violent. She wasn't herself. It was like something had entered her and she was just a puppet. But finally we got her to calm down and I gave her some laudanum that I was lucky enough to have from when we was back home. She didn't say much other than that she wanted to be left alone and then that she was sorry. And so she's slept fitfully since then, Father." The three children in the room had left with a girl slightly younger than Dymphna, a young man remaining. He stood very taut, staring at the form of Dymphna as though it might move any moment. Father Verdoux took a moment to digest Mrs. Egan's story, giving the room a quick glance as she spoke. It was just as barren as the other room but for a few pitiful mattresses on the floor and a little wooden framed painting of the crucified Christ along with another rosary and a smattering of those cheap candles sitting on an old carton.
"Mrs. Egan, will you permit me to examine Dymphna?" Fr Verdoux asked quietly. She responded with a nod and he proceeded, momentarily setting down the Bible which he had brought with him, beside the picture of the Crucifixion. He gently lifted each foot, examining the soles, then did the same with each hand. Both were dirty but otherwise completely intact. He did not touch the girl's shift other than to smooth it down a little to keep her modest. He turned her head, pushing back the hair with a gentle consideration which was second nature to him. Her face was chalky, even the lips (which had before now been so rosy, he remembered) blanched like flour, almost. He put the back of his palm against her forehead. It was clammy and cold. Strange for a fever. He dared push up a lid of an eye. It was red and watery. He let it slide back to its proper place. The laudanum held her in such a sway that she did not wake at these things.
It was with a heavy heart and a sneaking suspicion that he put his fingers on her pulse. It was slow but nothing utterly strange. But he was almost certain. Yes, he felt them. He put on his spectacles as he examined the two little punctures. They were neat, clean and almost healed. Just a bit red against the skin. The girl moaned in her sleep as he pressed his fingers to her neck. He rose straight again and returned his spectacles into a pocket of his cossack. He slowly removed his hat and ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair, several times. He did not put his hat back on. Instead he turned toward the anxious mother.
"It is, Mrs. Egan, yes, it is the worst. It was a vampire." </ij-cut>