Whitby Vampyrrhic

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First world edition published 2009

in Great Britain and 2010 in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2009 by Simon Clark.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Clark, Simon, 1958-

Whitby Vampyrrhic.

1. World War, 1939-1945–England–Whitby–Fiction.

2. Hotels–England–Whitby–Fiction. 3. Motion picture

industry–Employees–Fiction. 4. Vampires–Fiction.

5. Horror tales.

I. Title

823.9'2-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-113-2    (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6831-2    (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-204-6    (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

{
Anonymous graffiti, circa 1940
}

THAT FIRST TIME IN THE CAVE

{
From the
YORKSHIRE EVENING MERCURY,

October 1, 1924
}

One

Fear of Falling

Eleanor Charnwood ended the argument with her mother by slamming the front door. Then she raced into Whitby's tangle of narrow streets. The argument had been an old one. The same angry words received an airing at least once a week. Eleanor wanted to leave this out-of-the-way English town at the edge of the ocean and find work at one of the new advertising agencies, springing up all over London. And after London? Who knew? Paris? Berlin? New York? But Eleanor's mother always shook her head. ‘No. Not ever.'

The October sun hung low in the sky as Eleanor strode out in all her righteous fury across the swing bridge that spanned the River Esk. Her long black hair fluttered in the sea breeze; the heels of her ankle boots clicked against the pavement.

‘I'm nineteen years old,' she seethed. ‘I'm not going to be trapped in this prison forever.' The rush of anger turned into something near gloating. ‘I'll show her. I'll prove I'm not some stupid child.'

On the bridge, she saw Gustav Kirk. At eighteen, he had a lot in common with Eleanor. Although he lived in Whitby, he seemed adrift from the town somehow. A doctor's son, slightly built, fine blond hair that looked as if it would blow away in the wind, he enjoyed his own company. More than anything, he liked to tuck himself into some corner or other to read books about Norse mythology, visionary tales by Machen, Stoker or Poe, and the bone-chilling ghost stories of Edith Nesbit. He also enjoyed an eccentric dress style. Under that heavy overcoat, he'd be wearing his customary tennis whites. And instead of a belt around his waist, he'd always use a red and white striped necktie. Oh . . . and another thing . . . a deep shyness of girls made it nigh impossible to hold a conversation with him. He'd nod politely, offer a shy, ‘Hello.' That's just about it. Then he'd back away so quickly that he'd often stumble into passers-by, which would result in him stammering, ‘I'm so sorry,' and, ‘I do beg your pardon.'

So, when Eleanor blocked his path across the bridge, his blue eyes met hers with a startled flicker.

‘Eleanor? Good evening.'

‘Gustav. Do you ever feel like doing something
forbidden
? Acting in a way that's so
wrong
that your parents would cover their eyes and scream in horror?'

‘Oh? Erm.'

‘Even though you were born in Whitby, you don't feel as if you belong, do you?'

‘Well . . .'

‘We went to the same school. We grew up in these streets, yet we still feel like strangers here, don't we? As if we really belong somewhere else? And to other families?'

‘Well . . . I'm sure I don't have much in common with, ahm . . .' His shy blue eyes darted over men and women bustling across the bridge; they were busily attending to their own lives, which revolved round work and families, and chatting to the same friends about the same old thing. Or so it seemed to Eleanor.

‘This is 1924, Gustav. Nearly a quarter of the way into the twentieth century. It feels as if we're trapped in the past here.' Eleanor Charnwood surged on, gripped by a searing passion. ‘Damn Whitby, I tell you. Damn everyone in it. What do you say?'

‘Eh, you have strong opinions, Eleanor. Hmm, have you seen your brother?'

‘By that, Gustav, you really mean you want Theo to save you from this wild woman who's confronting you now.'

‘No, that's not, ahm—'

‘Where are you going?'

‘Oh—'

‘Usually, you've got an armful of books. What's in the sack?
A shovel
! Crowbar. Rope. Satchel. You're going to break into a house! Whose?'

Gustav fluttered in shock. ‘No. Not burglary.'

‘I know, you're going to the cemetery to rob graves.'

Her accusation made him appear light-headed. ‘No. Nothing like—'

‘Take me with you.'

‘I . . . I don't think that would be really—'

‘Alright. If you don't let me come, I'll take off all my clothes.'

The shy youth backed away in horror.

‘Starting with my blouse.' She undid the top button. ‘When I take off my stockings you'll have to put your arm around my waist, because I always fall over when I slip those off.'

Despite his embarrassment, his eyes rolled down to her calves, which were clad in black silk.

Grinning, she undid another button of her blouse.

‘Alright, alright!' His voice rose so much that pedestrians on the bridge shot him quizzical glances. ‘You can come with me. But I warn you. It's not safe. Not safe at all.'

‘Good. That's what I wanted to hear.'

Suddenly affectionate, she linked arms with Gustav. His slender limb quivered beneath the coat sleeve.

They crossed the bridge together back into the old half of Whitby town, with its amazing profusion of red-roofed houses that climbed up the hillside towards the church on the headland. To Eleanor, it seemed as if the town had crashed into England from another mysterious realm. Despite the fact that there were motor cars, steam engines, electric lights, and Woolworth's had stocked the first wireless sets, there was something unearthly and disturbing about the way Whitby clung to sides of the estuary. Certain buildings employed the jawbones of whales to frame doorways. Fish aromas filled the air, courtesy of dozens of herring boats that docked in the harbour each day. And there was always the restless vista of the ocean. This was where two worlds collided – the world of deep, dark waters and the dry world of humanity.

From an early age, it struck her that these two worlds were at war. Whitby was the battlefield. There were dangers everywhere. Tides raced in fast over the sands. Often huge waves would explode over the piers. Down through the years, many a person had been swept away. Vicious currents swirled around the timber posts that supported the wharves. Underwater, discarded nets lay in wait to trap unwary swimmers. The cliffs were towering, precipitous rock faces. And always, in the twist and turn of dark alleyways, she was convinced that one grim night she'd come face to face with something monstrously inhuman.

They passed by the Leviathan Hotel on Church Street. Owned by Eleanor's father, the big red-brick building boasted starkly white window frames that reminded her of bones snatched from a tomb.

From Gustav's expression, he clearly hoped she'd tire of teasing him and return home to the hotel. But this was no tease. This was serious. Today, she was determined to commit a reckless act. Whitby be damned. Caution be damned.

Seeing the doorway she'd stormed from just minutes ago made her decide to air her grievances before an unprepared Gustav, the pleasantly shy man, who loved nothing more than to read his books about Viking gods and demons.

Eleanor began. ‘I told my mother that I wanted to move to London to work for a company that make advertisements for magazines. This is 1924, not the dark ages. Women can have professional careers, too. But, no, my mother won't have it. She says I'm too fearful of people. That I'm far too timid to live in a big city. Mother says I must stay here and learn the hotel trade, so I can take over from my father when he retires. Charnwoods are doomed to be hoteliers. We even have one up in godforsaken Leppington.'

‘Oh . . . and your brother?'

‘My brother can escape Whitby. They're happy with him enlisting in the army. Then, the pair of you are the best of friends so you'll know that already. But I'm a prisoner. In Whitby! The bloody town!' She saw that he appeared to regard her with genuine sympathy. ‘So, Gustav. Where are we going with your shovel and crowbar? To do something illegal, I hope?'