Free The Box: Uncanny Stories by Richard Matheson

collar and examined his neck.
    “You, too,” said Vares, sickened.
    “What does that matter?” Gheria clutched at the younger man’s hand. “My friend, my dearest friend,” he said, “tell me that it is not I! Do
I
do this hideous thing to her?”
    Vares looked confounded. “
You
?” he said. “But—”
    “I know, I know,” said Gheria. “I, myself, have been attacked. Yet nothing follows, Michael! What breed of horror is this which cannot be impeded? From what unholy place does it emerge? I’ve had the countryside examined foot by foot, every graveyard ransacked, every crypt inspected! There is no house within the village that has not yet been subjected to my search. I tell you, Michael, there is nothing! Yet, there
is
something—something which assaults us nightly, draining us of life. The village is engulfed by terror—and I as well! I never see this creature, never hear it! Yet, every morning, I find my beloved wife—”
    Vares’ face was drawn and pallid now. He stared intently at the older man.
    “What am I to do, my friend?” pleaded Gheria. “How am I to save her?”
    Vares had no answer.
     
    H ow long has she—been like this?” asked Vares. He could not remove his stricken gaze from the whiteness of Alexis’ face.
    “For many days,” said Gheria. “The retrogression has been constant.”
    Dr. Vares put down Alexis’ flaccid hand. “Why did you not tell me sooner?” he asked.
    “I thought the matter could be handled,” Gheria answered, faintly. “I know now that it—cannot.”
    Vares shuddered. “But, surely—” he began.
    “There is nothing left to be done,” said Gheria. “Everything has been tried,
everything
!” He stumbled to the window and stared out bleakly into the deepening night. “And now it comes again,” he murmured, “and we are helpless before it.”
    “Not helpless, Petre.” Vares forced a cheering smile to his lips and laid his hand upon the older man’s shoulder. “I will watch her tonight.”
    “It’s useless.”
    “Not at all, my friend,” said Vares, nervously. “And now you must sleep.”
    “I will not leave her,” said Gheria.
    “But you need rest.”
    “I cannot leave,” said Gheria. “I will not be separated from her.”
    Vares nodded. “Of course,” he said. “We will share the hours of watching then.”
    Gheria sighed. “We can try,” he said, but there was no sound of hope in his voice.
    Some twenty minutes later, he returned with an urn of steaming coffee which was barely possible to smell through the heavy mist of garlic fumes which hung in the air. Trudging to the bed, Gheria set down the tray. Dr. Vares had drawn a chair up beside the bed.
    “I’ll watch first,” he said. “You sleep, Petre.”
    “It would do no good to try,” said Gheria. He held a cup beneath the spigot and the coffee gurgled out like smoking ebony.
    “Thank you,” murmured Vares as the cup was handed to him. Gheria nodded once and drew himself a cupful before he sat.
    “I do not know what will happen to Solta if this creature is not destroyed,” he said. “The people are paralyzed by terror.”
    “Has it—been elsewhere in the village?” Vares asked him.
    Gheria sighed exhaustedly. “Why need it go elsewhere?” he said. “It is finding all it—craves within these walls.” He stared despondently at Alexis. “When we are gone,” he said, “it will go elsewhere. The people know that and are waiting for it.”
    Vares set down his cup and rubbed his eyes.
    “It seems impossible,” he said, “that we, practitioners of a science, should be unable to—”
    “What can science effect against it?” said Gheria. “Science which will not even admit its existence? We could bring, into this very room, the foremost scientists of the world and they would say—my friends, you have been deluded. There is no vampire. All is mere trickery.”
    Gheria stopped and looked intently at the younger man. He said, “Michael?”
    Vares’ breath was