"Talk about your anti-climaxes," Jack said, as he set Clara down on her feet. “You can open your eyes. There doesn’t seem to be anything in here to worry about—particularly.”

Clara, cautiously, opened her eyes to the sight of a dank, rancid, dungeon-like room which—in an apparent attempt to make up for the absence of a vampire welcoming them into the fold—was replete with cat-sized rats and overgrown spiders.

“I’d wait until we’re out of here,” she said, shivering violently at the sight, “before making such bold assumptions. I’ve got a body full of crawling flesh telling me she’s close enough to touch.”

Jack, however, was more concerned with finding a way out than with worrying about something that wasn’t standing directly in his path. The first thing to catch his eye was the single source of daylight making its way into the room. It came from a small window—though large enough to fit a body through—close to the fifteen foot high ceiling. The wall’s abounding cracks and crevices would enable him easy access. Getting Clara up there would be problematical; but it could be done.

“Looks like that’s our first option,” he said, his eyes indicating the window.

With a sigh, Clara squelched the several sarcastic remarks which had come instantly to mind. And said, instead, “Maybe there’s an easier way?”

“Maybe,” he said, looking around. And then, “Right again babe. Take a look.”

There, in the far corner of the room, hidden by cobweb laden vines, like an optical illusion, it faded into view. At the sight of a short stairway granting access to a storm-cellar entrance—the kind that opens skyward onto the outside world—Clara’s eyes filled.

“Shall we away?” she said, her knees grown weak with joy. And for a moment or two, it appeared they were indeed away; but having decided otherwise, fate intervened. Because no sooner had they crossed half the distance of the room when there sounded, set off by their footsteps, a sort of hollow echoing; it came from somewhere deep below.

“Hmm. This is interesting.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could just leave it alone, is there?” Clara said, but fairly hopelessly, for Jack had already pulled open the trap door which had lain hidden by a gross mixture of dirt and dead insect bodies.

“Are you coming?” he said, holding out his hand.

“No thanks. But say hi for me while you’re down there.”

Jack suppressed a chuckle, for it would hardly have done at such a time. “Listen, if she is down there I want to know about it, so when I come back to put her out of her misery, I’ll know exactly where to find her. You may as well resign yourself, ’cause there’s no way I’m leaving you up here by yourself.”

“I had to marry a war hero,” Clara muttered.

“And I admit that my knowledge on the subject is fairly limited, but since it’s daylight, won’t she be asleep?”

“Technically speaking, when the sun is out, she’s dead.”

“Morbid, but even better. Because even when I’ve tried—and believe me, I have—I haven’t been able to wake the dead. So . . . shall we?”

Unable to argue with his logic, she took his hand. Because no matter the situation, the safest place to be was always at Jack’s side. And so once more they found themselves upon a flight of stairs which, as like as not, would end up at the gates of Hell.

As the light afforded from above dissolved into a blackened silence, Clara’s grip around Jack’s arm, helped by an overdose of adrenalin, tightened like a vise.

“You’re cutting off my circulation,” he said, though very quietly.

“Would you prefer it if I started screaming hysterically?” was her frenzied, whispered reply. He put up no argument, but rather placed his hand over hers.

And blacker still with every careful step they took, the silence thundered in their ears.

“It’s actually unsettling how quiet it is,” was Jack’s whispered observation as they stealthily made their way downstairs.

“I’d say it’s more like mind-numbingly terrifying,” was Clara’s.

Then, as if to add persuasion to the silence, there appeared, from somewhere in the distance, a dim and bluish glow: like an evil fire it sought to sear their flesh; to burn their souls. The distant glow; the all-pervading silence; seemed to feed upon each other as though attempting to change the minds of foolish mortals who might have strayed too far from home. And when at last they’d reached the bottom step of this, the final flight of stairs, their journey to the devil’s den was more than amply rewarded.

“I think you’d better prepare yourself for this,” Jack said, for Clara’s face was buried in his shoulder. She opened her eyes and turned to see, and at the sight of the great and glowing marble crypt she gasped; her hands flew to her throat seeking the tiny holes she’d suddenly known would be there; and at their touch, sank to her knees, buried her face in her hands, and let go a most sorrowful sound.

Kneeling at her side, his eyes begging her to tell him what was wrong, she answered him with ragged words.

“That crypt—the sight of it brought the whole thing back to me. The dream I had last night?—It wasn’t a dream at all. You saved my life. You saved my soul.”

With all the comforting at his disposal, Jack held her, but it didn’t make so much as a dent. Because her realization brought with it an understanding of why she felt so drained; so utterly exhausted. How, she wondered, would she be able to tell him? Probably best not to worry about it until later. At least ’til they had gone from Mrs. Trollope’s home.

“You still with me on this?” Jack said, nodding toward the entrance to the crypt. In answer, she took a firm hold of his arm, leaned her head against his shoulder, and placed her body as close to his as it was possible to do. Then, with just a touch, the massive door swung open. And of their own free will they entered.

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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 the next chapter 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.