Threads of Fear: The Vampire

Threads of Fear! The first real update.

Exciting.

In order to make this laborious project a little more streamlined, we're starting out by focusing on a single classic monster: the vampire.

Bitey. Isn't that still kind of a broad topic though?

It is. There are probably thousands of vampire films, books, comics, games, poems, songs, even toys. Think of the modern vampire. What does it mean to you? Fangs, blood, romance, aristocracy? Is the vampire a tortured romantic soul, or a savage monster? This is one particular thread that has gone in a thousand different directions.

Just thinking of some of the most popular vampire movies from, say, the last few decades, you have Dracula, 30 days of night, Interview with the Vampire and even TV shows like True Blood and The Vampire Diaries.

There's that other series, too. The one about, I don't know, sunset or something? With the glitter?

I. . . don't remember anything about glitter?

That last one came out not too long ago. Breaking. . . something. I can't remember the title.

Breaking Bad? Great show, but this is strictly a horror blog. You've really got us off track, Yikes.

Nevermind.

Anyway, the diversity of the modern vampire is exactly what makes it a perfect start to this topic. But you're right, We need to get a little more specific if we're going to follow this thread.

How specific?

Let's start with one vampire, probably the best known: Dracula.

We talked about him before.

Yeah, we've addressed his. . . agenda, but now we can track his trail from modern times back to the origins of the character. These days, Dracula has been everywhere. Movies, books, games, you name it. He's been portrayed by a multitude of actors, enough that his face is blurred across dozens of different men. Even now, there's a new series about Dracula in development for NBC. Previously, we've had the Dracula 2000 series, the 1992 Coppola Bram Stoker's Dracula, which always makes me think of graham crackers.

It does what now?

In the early 90s, I had just discovered cinnamon graham crackers. I associate that with seeing tons of previews about the new Dracula movie, those behind the scenes things that HBO used to show a lot. Graham crackers. Bram Stoker. I dunno.

. . . Alright.

Anyway, who played the best Dracula is very debatable, but there are certainly some frontrunners. You have the Hammer films giving the classic monsters a huge resurgence, lead by Christopher Lee's portrayal of the count. That may be my favorite, and it's what I tend to think of when I think of Dracula. He gives you a great mix of classy gentleman and terrifying monster.

In a way, he's a great example of the vampire being more than a one-dimensional creature of the night. It's not a zombie. It's not just some creature crawling out of the mud to kill the living. There's intelligence there, a real cunning. Yet, he's still really just a killer. He has brides, sure, but they're subjects of his, not a great lost love. You can contrast that with Gary Oldman's performance in Bram Stoker's Dracula, where he is seeking not just blood, but his lost love. Regardless of whether or not you enjoy that direction, there's an evolution there.

All of those films, of course, may never have existed if not for the originals: The Universal classics. A number of different actors portrayed the vampire in those films, from Lon Chaney Jr., through John Carradine and of course back to the original, Bela Legosi.

So you take all these modern Draculas running all over the screen, and you trace them back to Legosi.

Well, Legosi may have been the first screen actor to play Dracula in name, but he is preceded by Max Schreck, playing a count Orlok in the first real movie adaption of the original Dracula novel.

Right, so the first actor to play Dracula didn't play Dracula at all. He played some other vampire named Sherlock?

No, it's Orlock. Sherlock is the detective. But Max Schreck was playing Dracula in spirit. The film makers just didn't have the rights to the novel, so characters were renamed. It's the same story.

But his name is Morlock?

Orlock. Morlocks are those monsters in The Time Machine.

Olrox?

That's a minor boss in Castlevania.

You know what, let's just call it Dracula.

The point is, if you're looking for the root of the vampire in film, it has to be here. And here, we do have something closer to a creature climbing out of the mud. Count Orlok is a frightful creature, hairless and ratlike with prominent fangs. The groundwork is laid for the romance as well-- he is distracted, enthralled with the beauty of a woman, and that is his weakness. Yet, there is never any doubt that the Nosferatu is a creature of nightmares.

The nightmares are what we're looking for.

Precisely, and there is a lot more history to go before we get to their source. Traveling back through time, at this point, we have to leave the world of film, and we find ourselves with the novel. We're entering the world of the written word. It's an interesting point in the past of the genre. The written word is the first time the things that scared us were really being recorded and preserved outside of our own fearful minds.

It's kinda like our journey left the pavement and went to a gravel road.

That's the best sign that we're getting somewhere. We'll pick up there, in the next Threads of Fear.

Orlock!

Dracula.

It's Good to be Afraid -- 05, October

05,October–Night

Midnight had passed while William hurried down the street. He had thoroughly searched his own family's fields, just in case, before moving on to the neighbor's. The Coby's farm was larger than theirs, but grew mostly wheat for hay. There was also a sprawling pumpkin patch, and, other than stumbling over some vines, it was easier to cover the distance. Also, the scarecrow would have stood out better. The boy did note that the Coby's farm lacked a scarecrow of its own or even a post for it to live on.

He was on the road now. His own lantern and the lean moon above failed to provide the sharp cone of light that Jack had shown previously. Everything looked completely different. Without his friends around, the night felt claustrophobic. It seemed like he was surrounded on all sides. Instead of a beam of light, his lantern made only a dim halo. Beyond it was a wall of black, and beyond that, he knew not what. He hoped that old Stingy Jack was with the scarecrow.

After following the road for a time, the boy came to the Sparkill river. He couldn't see its calm waters now at night, but he heard them flowing smoothly below the stone bridge above it. He leaned against the stone wall now and stared down at the emptiness below. It was a peaceful place, day or night.

Peaceful but for one sound. . . or maybe two. The water was a sweetness to his ears, gentle and soft. There were crickets, too, chirping late in the year. And yet. . . one more. There was an additional sound here tonight. A scratching below the bridge.

William froze. As still as he had been, leaning against the bridge wall, he became even stiller now. The scratching continued, not unlike pen on paper: the speed, the intent, but harsher. Something on stone. Not quite sharp enough for a chisel, but something was cutting, scraping quickly across the blocks.

The boy tried to stay still, but the sound never stopped, and it was too much for him. He broke and ran at last the only way he knew-- the way back toward home. He was sure the scarecrow was out the other way somewhere, but there were also miles and miles of nothing out there, and then he would be trapped between the nothing and whatever was making that noise under the bridge.

His small lantern didn't illuminate much, and he felt like he was running faster than what it could reveal, but it didn't matter. For the first time, he felt that he didn't want anything revealed to him-- and then he hit it. He slammed face-first into a solid object and went sprawling.

“Whoa!” said the object.

The boy pawed around the pavement but could not find his lantern.

“I was trying to stay out of your way there, buddy, but you're too fast.”

The tiny lantern suddenly materialized in the air, then was handed back down to him.

“Looks like it's not broken,” said the object who, now in the light of the lamp, turned out only to be a man. He had brown hair and a scruffy jaw, but kind eyes.

The boy took it gratefully.

“I'm Henry,” The man said, offering a hand to the boy, who took it. “Henry Talbot.” He helped the boy to his feet.

“I'm. . . not really supposed to talk to strangers,” the boy said, “But I'm William.”

“I bet you're not supposed to be out here walking around at midnight, either. Where do you live?”

The boy backed away. “I'm not supposed to give out my address, either! You're not a policeman, are you?”

“No, just a. . . regular man.”

“What are you doing out late at night?” The boy was feeling braver again, now that the natural boundaries were plainly stated.

“Just walking. I'm a wandering man. Is this the way to town?” He pointed in the direction the boy had been running from.

“Yeah, but. . . you don't want to go that way right now.”

“Why not? I'm trying to get to town.”

“There's something under the bridge It was making noises. I'm afraid it might be. . .” the boy tried to think of something that would show the adult the fear he had been feeling. No grownup he knew would be afraid of a troll or a late night ghost hanging out by a bridge. “There might be a terrorist down there,” he said at last. “Maybe he's going to blow up the bridge.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” said Henry, “I'd better take a look.”

The man headed down the road. The boy kept his halo of light in a single spot for a moment before deciding the man may have use of it. “Mr. Talbot,” he called out, and began to follow.

By the time he caught up, the man was already working his way down the grassy slope around the bridge.

“Be careful!” The boy pushed his lantern toward the man.

“It's okay,” Henry said. “You hold onto it.” He had both hands against the brick wall and was nosing all around the area, his head low to the ground one moment, then high up below the bridge's arch. At last, he stuck his head fully under, into the shadow of the bridge, and the boy was sure he was going to lose his it. The man was really turning out to be quite a snoop.

He drew closer when the man didn't move, and raised the lantern as high as he could.

“Thanks,” Henry said suddenly. “It's darker under here than I thought.”

In the light of the lantern, the boy studies Henry's face, who seemed to be staring fixedly at one spot on the wall. Reluctantly, he moved the light source closer to the wall and tried to make out what it revealed.

In the stone blocks of the bridge, somebody had labored long on a writing project but not achieved much. Over and over again, possibly thousands of times, something had scratched in the same words.

“Scratch is coming. Scratch will come. Soon. Scratch in town. Scratch in town. Scratch. Scratch is coming.”

It filled the full underside of the arch, rising up overhead, continuing on to the other side, but never changing its orientation. As the writing scrawled down the central pillar of the bridge, the words had turned upside-down.

“Lousy place for advertising,” Henry said.

“Mr. Talbot,” the boy said, “I think I need to be going home.”

“Maybe so. Maybe me, too.”