Doom of the House of Duryea

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  Doom of the House of Duryea

  By EARL PEIRCE, JR.

  [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales October1936. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]

  [Sidenote: _A powerful story of stark horror, and the dreadful thingthat happened in a lone house in the Maine woods._]

  Arthur Duryea, a young, handsome man, came to meet his father for thefirst time in twenty years. As he strode into the hotel lobby--longstrides which had the spring of elastic in them--idle eyes lifted toappraise him, for he was an impressive figure, somehow grim withexaltation.

  The desk clerk looked up with his habitual smile of expectation;how-do-you-do-Mr.-so-and-so, and his fingers strayed to the greenfountain pen which stood in a holder on the desk.

  Arthur Duryea cleared his throat, but still his voice was clogged andunsteady. To the clerk he said:

  "I'm looking for my father, Doctor Henry Duryea. I understand he isregistered here. He has recently arrived from Paris."

  The clerk lowered his glance to a list of names. "Doctor Duryea is insuite 600, sixth floor." He looked up, his eyebrows archedquestioningly. "Are you staying too, sir, Mr. Duryea?"

  Arthur took the pen and scribbled his name rapidly. Without a furtherword, neglecting even to get his key and own room number, he turned andwalked to the elevators. Not until he reached his father's suite on thesixth floor did he make an audible noise, and this was a mere sigh whichfell from his lips like a prayer.

  The man who opened the door was unusually tall, his slender frameclothed in tight-fitting black. He hardly dared to smile. Hisclean-shaven face was pale, an almost livid whiteness against thesparkle in his eyes. His jaw had a bluish luster.

  "Arthur!" The word was scarcely a whisper. It seemed choked up quietly,as if it had been repeated time and again on his thin lips.

  Arthur Duryea felt the kindliness of those eyes go through him, and thenhe was in his father's embrace.

  Later, when these two grown men had regained their outer calm, theyclosed the door and went into the drawing-room. The elder Duryea heldout a humidor of fine cigars, and his hand shook so hard when he heldthe match that his son was forced to cup his own hands about the flame.They both had tears in their eyes, but their eyes were smiling.

  Henry Duryea placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "This is the happiestday of my life," he said. "You can never know how much I have longed forthis moment."

  Arthur, looking into that glance, realized, with growing pride, that hehad loved his father all his life, despite any of those things which hadbeen cursed against him. He sat down on the edge of a chair.

  "I--I don't know how to act," he confessed. "You surprize me, Dad.You're so different from what I had expected."

  A cloud came over Doctor Duryea's features. "What _did_ you expect,Arthur?" he demanded quickly. "An evil eye? A shaven head and knottedjowls?"

  "Please, Dad--no!" Arthur's words clipped short. "I don't think I everreally visualized you. I knew you would be a splendid man. But I thoughtyou'd look older, more like a man who has really suffered."

  "I have suffered, more than I can ever describe. But seeing you again,and the prospect of spending the rest of my life with you, has more thancompensated for my sorrows. Even during the twenty years we were apart Ifound an ironic joy in learning of your progress in college, and in yourAmerican game of football."

  "Then you've been following my work?"

  "Yes, Arthur; I've received monthly reports ever since you left me. Frommy study in Paris I've been really close to you, working out yourproblems as if they were my own. And now that the twenty years arecompleted, the ban which kept us apart is lifted for ever. From now on,son, we shall be the closest of companions--unless your Aunt Cecilia hassucceeded in her terrible mission."

  * * * * *

  The mention of that name caused an unfamiliar chill to come between thetwo men. It stood for something, in each of them, which gnawed theirminds like a malignancy. But to the younger Duryea, in his intenseeffort to forget the awful past, her name as well as her madness must beforgotten.

  He had no wish to carry on this subject of conversation, for it betrayedan internal weakness which he hated. With forced determination, and aludicrous lift of his eyebrows, he said,

  "Cecilia is dead, and her silly superstition is dead also. From now on,Dad, we're going to enjoy life as we should. Bygones are really bygonesin this case."

  Doctor Duryea closed his eyes slowly, as though an exquisite pain hadgone through him.

  "Then you have no indignation?" he questioned. "You have none of youraunt's hatred?"

  "Indignation? Hatred?" Arthur laughed aloud. "Ever since I was twelveyears old I have disbelieved Cecilia's stories. I have known that thosehorrible things were impossible, that they belonged to the ancientcategory of mythology and tradition. How, then, can I be indignant, andhow can I hate you? How can I do anything but recognize Cecilia for whatshe was--a mean, frustrated woman, cursed with an insane grudge againstyou and your family? I tell you, Dad, that nothing she has ever said canpossibly come between us again."

  Henry Duryea nodded his head. His lips were tight together, and themuscles in his throat held back a cry. In that same soft tone of defensehe spoke further, doubting words.

  "Are you so sure of your subconscious mind, Arthur? Can you be socertain that you are free from all suspicion, however vague? Is therenot a lingering premonition--a premonition which warns of peril?"

  "No, Dad--no!" Arthur shot to his feet. "I don't believe it. I've neverbelieved it. I know, as any sane man would know, that you are neither avampire nor a murderer. You know it, too; and Cecilia knew it, only shewas mad.

  "That family rot is dispelled, Father. This is a civilized century.Belief in vampirism is sheer lunacy. Wh-why, it's too absurd even tothink about!"

  "You have the enthusiasm of youth," said his father, in a rather tiredvoice. "But have you not heard the legend?"

  Arthur stepped back instinctively. He moistened his lips, for theirdryness might crack them. "The--legend?"

  He said the word in a curious hush of awed softness, as he had heard hisAunt Cecilia say it many times before.

  "That awful legend that you----"

  "That I _eat_ my children?"

  "Oh, God, Father!" Arthur went to his knees as a cry burst through hislips. "Dad, that--that's ghastly! We must forget Cecilia's ravings."

  "You are affected, then?" asked Doctor Duryea bitterly.

  "Affected? Certainly I'm affected, but only as I should be at such anaccusation. Cecilia was mad, I tell you. Those books she showed me yearsago, and those folk-tales of vampires and ghouls--they burned into myinfantile mind like acid. They haunted me day and night in my youth, andcaused me to hate you worse than death itself.

  "But in Heaven's name, Father, I've outgrown those things as I haveoutgrown my clothes. I'm a man now; do you understand that? A man, witha man's sense of logic."

  "Yes, I understand." Henry Duryea threw his cigar into the fireplace,and placed a hand on his son's shoulder.

  "We shall forget Cecilia," he said. "As I told you in my letter, I haverented a lodge in Maine where we can go to be alone for the rest of thesummer. We'll get in some fishing and hiking and perhaps some hunting.But first, Arthur, I must be sure in my own mind that you are sure inyours. I must be sure you won't bar your door against me at night, andsleep with a loaded revolver at your elbow. I must be sure that you'renot afraid of going up there alone with me, and dying----"

  His voice ended abruptly, as if an ag
e-long dread had taken hold of it.His son's face was waxen, with sweat standing out like pearls on hisbrow. He said nothing, but his eyes were filled with questions which hislips could not put into words. His own hand touched his father's, andtightened over it.

  Henry Duryea drew his hand away.

  "I'm sorry," he said, and his eyes looked straight over Arthur's loweredhead. "This thing must be thrashed out now. I believe you when you saythat you discredit Cecilia's stories, but for a sake greater than sanityI must tell you the truth behind the legend--and believe me, Arthur;there is a truth!"

  * * * * *

  He climbed to his feet and walked to the window which looked out overthe street below. For a moment he gazed into space, silent. Then heturned and looked down at his son.

  "You have heard only your aunt's version of the legend, Arthur.Doubtless it was warped into a thing far more hideous than it actuallywas--if that is possible! Doubtless she spoke to you of theInquisitorial stake in Carcassonne where one of my ancestors perished.Also she may have mentioned that book, _Vampyrs_, which a former Duryeais supposed to have written. Then certainly she told you about your twoyounger brothers--my own poor, motherless children--who were suckedbloodless in their cradles...."

  Arthur Duryea passed a hand across his aching eyes. Those words, sooften repeated by that witch of an aunt, stirred up the same visionswhich had made his childhood nights sleepless with terror. He couldhardly bear to hear them again--and from the very man to whom they wereaccredited.

  "Listen, Arthur," the elder Duryea went on quickly, his voice low withthe pain it gave him. "You must know that true basis to your aunt'shatred. You must know of that curse--that curse of vampirism which issupposed to have followed the Duryeas through five centuries of Frenchhistory, but which we can dispel as pure superstition, so oftenconnected with ancient families. But I must tell you that this part ofthe legend is true:

  "Your two young brothers actually died in their cradles, bloodless. AndI stood trial in France for their murder, and my name was smirchedthroughout all of Europe with such an inhuman damnation that it droveyour aunt and you to America, and has left me childless, hated, andostracized from society the world over.

  "I must tell you that on that terrible night in Duryea Castle I had beenworking late on historic volumes of Crespet and Prinn, and on thatloathsome tome, _Vampyrs_. I must tell you of the soreness that was inmy throat and of the heaviness of the blood which coursed through myveins.... And of that _presence_, which was neither man nor animal, butwhich I knew was some place near me, yet neither within the castle noroutside of it, and which was closer to me than my heart and moreterrible to me than the touch of the grave....

  "I was at the desk in my library, my head swimming in a delirium whichleft me senseless until dawn. There were nightmares that frightenedme--frightened _me_, Arthur, a grown man who had dissected countlesscadavers in morgues and medical schools. I know that my tongue wasswollen in my mouth and that brine moistened my lips, and that arottenness pervaded my body like a fever.

  "I can make no recollection of sanity or of consciousness. That nightremains vivid, unforgettable, yet somehow completely in shadows. When Ihad fallen asleep--if in God's name it _was_ sleep--I was slumped acrossmy desk. But when I awoke in the morning I was lying face down on mycouch. So you see, Arthur, I _had_ moved during that night, _and I hadnever known it_!

  "What I'd done and where I'd gone during those dark hours will alwaysremain an impenetrable mystery. But I do know this. On the morrow I wastorn from my sleep by the shrieks of maids and butlers, and by that madwailing of your aunt. I stumbled through the open door of my study, andin the nursery I saw those two babies there--lifeless, white and drylike mummies, and with twin holes in their necks that were caked blackwith their own blood....

  "Oh, I don't blame you for your incredulousness, Arthur. I cannotbelieve it yet myself, nor shall I ever believe it. The belief of itwould drive me to suicide; and still the doubting of it drives me madwith horror.

  "All of France was doubtful, and even the savants who defended my nameat the trial found that they could not explain it nor disbelieve it. Thecase was quieted by the Republic, for it might have shaken science toits very foundation and split the pedestals of religion and logic. I wasreleased from the charge of murder; but the actual murder has hung aboutme like a stench.

  "The coroners who examined those tiny cadavers found them both dry ofall their blood, but could find no blood on the floor of the nursery norin the cradles. Something from hell stalked the halls of Duryea thatnight--and I should blow my brains out if I dared to think deeply of whothat was. You, too, my son, would have been dead and bloodless if youhadn't been sleeping in a separate room with your door barred on theinside.

  "You were a timid child, Arthur. You were only seven years old, but youwere filled with the folk-lore of those mad Lombards and the decadentpoetry of your aunt. On that same night, while I was some place betweenheaven and hell, you, also, heard the padded footsteps on the stonecorridor and heard the tugging at your door handle, for in the morningyou complained of a chill and of terrible nightmares which frightenedyou in your sleep.... I only thank God that your door was barred!"

  * * * * *

  Henry Duryea's voice choked into a sob which brought the stinging tearsback into his eyes. He paused to wipe his face, and to dig his fingersinto his palm.

  "You understand, Arthur, that for twenty years, under my sworn oath atthe Palace of Justice, I could neither see you nor write to you. Twentyyears, my son, while all of that time you had grown to hate me and tospit at my name. Not until your aunt's death have you called yourself aDuryea.... And now you come to me at my bidding, and say you love me asa son should love his father.

  "Perhaps it is God's forgiveness for everything. Now, at last, we shallbe together, and that terrible, unexplainable past will be buried forever...."

  He put his handkerchief back into his pocket and walked slowly to hisson. He dropped to one knee, and his hands gripped Arthur's arms.

  "My son, I can say no more to you. I have told you the truth as I aloneknow it. I may be, by all accounts, some ghoulish creation of Satan onearth. I may be a child-killer, a vampire, some morbidly diseasedspecimen of _vrykolakas_--things which science cannot explain.

  "Perhaps the dreaded legend of the Duryeas is true. Autiel Duryea wasconvicted of murdering his brother in that same monstrous fashion in theyear 1576, and he died in flames at the stake. Francois Duryea, in 1802,blew his head apart with a blunderbuss on the morning after his youngestson was found dead, apparently from anemia. And there are others, ofwhom I cannot bear to speak, that would chill your soul if you were tohear them.

  "So you see, Arthur, there is a hellish tradition behind our family.There is a heritage which no sane God would ever have allowed. Thefuture of the Duryeas lies in you, for you are the last of the race. Ipray with all of my heart that providence will permit you to live yourfull share of years, and to leave other Duryeas behind you. And so ifever again I feel that presence as I did in Duryea Castle, I am going todie as Francois Duryea died, over a hundred years ago...."

  He stood up, and his son stood up at his side.

  "If you are willing to forget, Arthur, we shall go up to that lodge inMaine. There is a life we've never known awaiting us. We must find thatlife, and we must find the happiness which a curious fate snatched fromus on those Lombard sourlands, twenty years ago...."