Read Necroscope 4: Deadspeak for Free Online Page A

enough. You have avoided looking … you avoid it even now! What, and are you my son, Dumitru, or some puling babe in arms? I thought I had called strong wine in unto myself, only to discover that the Szgaaany have been brewing water all these years! Ha-haa-haaa! But no … I make jokes … don’t be so angry, my son …
    … It is anger, is it not, Dumiitruuu? No?
    Fear, perhaps?
    You fear for your life, Dumiitruuu? The voice had sunk to a whisper now, but insidious as the drip of a slow acid. But you shall have your life, my son—in me! The blood is the life, Dumiitruuu—and that shall go on and on … aaand …
    But there! Now the voice sprang alive, became merry. Why, we were grown morose, and that must never be! What? But we shall be as one, and live out all our life together. Do you hear me, Dumiitruuu? … Well?
    “I … I hear you,” the youth answered, speaking to no one.
    And do you believe me? Say it—say that you believe in me, as your father’s fathers believed in me.
    Dumitru was not sure he did believe, but the owner of the voice squeezed inside his head until he cried out: “Yes! … yes, I believe, just as my fathers believed.”
    Very well, said the voice, apparently placated. Then don’t be so shy, Dumiitruuu: look upon my works without averting your eyes, without shrinking back. The pictures painted and graven in the walls—the many amphorae in their racks—the salts and powders contained in these ancient vessels…
    In the daring torchlight Dumitru looked. Racks of black oak standing everywhere, and on their shelves numberless jars, urns: amphorae, as the voice had termed them. Throughout these rooms in this subterranean hideaway, there must be several thousands of them, all tight-stoppered with plugs of oak in leaden sheaths, all with faded, centuries-stained labels pasted to them where handles joined necks. One rack had been shattered, thrown aside by a falling ceiling stone; its jars had been spilled, some of them breaking open. Powders had trickled out, forming small cones which themselves had taken on the dust of decades. And when Dumitru looked at these spilled remains …
    See how fine they are, these essential salts, whispered the voice in his head, which now contained a curiosity of its own, as if even the owner of that voice were awed by this ghoulish hoard. Stoop down, feel them in your hands, Dumiitruuu.
    The youth could not disobey; he sifted the powders, which were soft as talc and yet free as mercury; they ran through his fingers and left his hands clean, without residue. And while he handled the salts in this fashion, so the Thing in his mind gave a mental sniff: it seemed to taste of the essence of what it had bade Dumitru examine. And:
    Ah … he was a Greek, this one! the voice informed. I recognize him—we conversed on several occasions. A priest from Greek-land, aye, who knew the legends of the Vrykoulakas. He’d crusaded against them, he said, and carried his crusade across the sea to Moldavia, Wallachia, even to these very mountains. He built a grand church in Alba Iulia, which possibly stands there even to this day, and from it would go out among the towns and villages to seek out the monstrous Vrykoulakas.
    Individuals of the townspeople would name their enemies, often knowing them for innocents; and depending on the power or stature of the accuser, the “Venerable” Arakli Aenos — as this one was called — would “prove” or “disprove” the accusation. For example: if a famous Boyar gave evidence that such and such persons were bloodsucking demons, be sure that the Greek would discover them as such. But only let a poor man bring such a charge, however faithfully, and he might well be ignored or even punished for a liar! A witchfinder and a fake, old Aenos, who upon a time accused even myself! Aye, and I must needs flee to escape them from Visegrad who came to put me down! Oh, I tell you, it was a very troublesome business, that time.
    But… time settles