More Frightening Than Fiction
One day, while I was browsing in the local bookstore looking for a collection of classic fairy tales to read to my great-grandchildren, I spied a crowd of young girls gathered around a display of Twilight books, all eager to purchase the latest installment of Stephenie Meyer's bestselling series and learn if Edward Cullen turns his girlfriend, Bella Swan, into a vampire.
Having never read any of the series of her bestselling books, I have formed no opinion of Ms. Meyer's talent as a writer. Still, I know the gist of the series' plotline, and I cannot help wishing the author would stop filling innocent heads with the notion that being in love with a vampire is romantic—far from it! Lord knows Ann Rice's Lestat de Lioncourt and Louis de Pointe du Lac were bad enough; now we have to contend with Edward Cullen, as well. Thankfully, male writers are more realistic in their portrayals of the undead. It is unlikely any young girls ever had adolescent longings for Bram Stoker's Count Dracula or Stephen King's Straker. Yet even these fictional bloodsuckers fall short of an accurate depiction of a genuine vampire.
You ask how I know this. The answer is simple: I was married to one.
I was but a young girl of sixteen years, fresh out of the exclusive, all-girl, private school to which my parents had condemned me when I met Sébastien Benoît in an art museum in Paris. Having led a sheltered existence, I knew no men other than my father, Addison L. Thorndyke III, our elderly family physician and the parish priest. In short, I was a true innocent. My parents believed that was the reason I fell in love with Sébastien in the first place. However, this simple explanation is doing the young man a terrible injustice. It was not a case of my falling in love with the first good-looking boy I laid eyes on. Rather, it was fate, the predestined meeting of two souls who were meant to be joined together for all eternity.
I beg you to pardon my flowery prose, but you see both my darling Sébastien and I were poets at heart. Of course, the love of poetry is just one of the many things we had in common. We were both ardent devotees of art in all its forms: music, painting, sculpture, literature and classical dance. We took such delight in our world dedicated to aesthetic pursuits that we could have spent every hour of the next thousand years together and never have grown bored with life or with each other.
Sébastien's parents were overjoyed with our falling in love; such was not the case with my parents. On the contrary, when my mother learned there was a young man in my life, she took the first boat from America to France. Upon arriving in Paris, Evelyn Thorndyke immediately stormed into my hotel room, determined to put an end to our relationship. She and my father were certain my future husband was only after my money since few families were as wealthy as mine—except Sébastien's, that is. The Benoîts, as my anxious parents was relieved to learn, were one of the oldest and richest families in France, much higher on the social ladder than the nouveau riche Thorndykes. Once assured that their daughter and only child was marrying into a blue-blooded family of considerable means, my mother and father gave their blessing to the union.
Our engagement, by today's standards, was an extremely short one, only somewhat longer than our brief courtship. A little more than a year after Sébastien and I first met at the Louvre, we were married in the Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris. The wedding guests from both sides exclaimed that I made a beautiful bride. I cannot attest to that, but I do know that my gown was exquisite, having been designed by the most sought-after couturier in Paris.
For our honeymoon, my beloved and I took the grand tour including England, Spain, Italy, Greece and Egypt. Every day was a new adventure as we visited the Tower of London, the Alhambra, the Coliseum, the Parthenon and the Sphinx. Meanwhile, our nights were spent in a discovery of a different kind. Both of us were strangers to the physical aspects of love, but we proved to be quick learners. Oh, those glorious nights we spent in each other's arms! Two young people in love with life and with each other. What wonders the world held for us!
On the day after my eighteenth birthday, Sébastien and I returned to France. My new in-laws had generously given us a lovely home in Paris, not far from where the Palais de Tuileries once stood. We immediately proceeded to fill the rooms of our home with paintings, sculptures and books. Since Sébastien did not have to work for a living, by reason of his family's wealth, he devoted most of his time to writing poetry. Lacking my husband's gift for verse, I chose to express myself through painting. While I was no Rembrandt or Van Gogh, I must admit I did have some raw talent.
If ever two people were destined for happiness, it was Sébastien and I. Regrettably, destiny can be fickle. There soon came a day when a cloud darkened our horizon. We had just attended a musical concert and because the weather was warm and the night sky dotted with stars, Sébastien suggested we walk home. I readily agreed since no place on earth is as romantic as Paris at night.
With each block we walked, we traveled further from the center of the city and encountered fewer people until eventually my husband and I had the street all to ourselves. We were laughing and debating who was the more talented composer, Mozart or Beethoven, when I saw a mysterious, dark figure move in my peripheral vision. Within moments of this sighting, I felt a cold, bony hand grab my arm, and I let out an involuntary shriek of fright. Sébastien immediately placed himself between me and danger, and in so doing fell victim to the foulest fiend ever to walk the earth.
I screamed repeatedly as what I assumed to be a thief struggled with my husband, yet no one came in answer to my cries for help. Where were the police? I wondered. When I realized no one was coming to our aid, I began to pummel my husband's assailant with my fists. Then I heard a whistle from a block away, so, too, must have the attacker since he scrambled off into the night.
I fell to my knees beside the prostrate form of my husband.
"Darling, are you badly hurt?" I asked anxiously.
"My neck," he moaned. "I think he cut me."
The police arrived and took me and my husband to the hospital.
"The wound is deep," the doctor informed us after examining Sébastien, "but thankfully your assailant missed the jugular. I'm going to suture the wound and bandage your neck. Try to keep still for the next few days so you don't open it up again. And you, Mrs. Benoît, will need to change the bandages regularly and make sure there are no signs of infection. If either of you have any concerns, don't hesitate to get in touch with me."
The doctor's medical advice was unnecessary because the following morning I found my husband lying dead on the bed beside me. His once handsome face was white, his body cold. He had apparently died from loss of blood.
* * *
I stared at the gold wedding band on my left hand, unable to cry, for I had no more tears left to shed. It seemed like a lifetime ago that I was one of the happiest women alive, that I loved and was loved and that I looked with giddy anticipation on a long, happy future with Sébastien. Now, because of one foolish mistake, all that we had once envisioned had been wiped out. Oh, if only I could go back to that night and insist we drive home after the concert, or if I'd at least tried harder to save my husband instead of standing on the street screaming for help like a pathetic damsel in distress.
I knew in my heart it was pointless to blame myself for my beloved Sébastien's death. After all, I didn't kill him, and if it were in my power, I would do anything to have him alive again. But fate—or God, if one so believed—had decreed that Sébastien should die.
In less than a week after becoming a widow, however, everything I believed about life, death, fate and God was proven wrong. One evening as I was packing my belongings in preparation for returning home to America, I turned around and saw Sébastien standing in the doorway of our bedroom. I cried out with surprise and dropped the clothing I was holding on the floor.
"You look frightened to see me," my husband observed, obviously unaware of the reason for my terror.
"I'm sorry, but I've never seen a ghost before," I admitted.
He crossed the room and stood inches away from me, close enough that I could detect a faint sour odor.
"I'm not a ghost," he declared, raising his arm. "Here, feel for yourself: solid flesh and bone."
I reached out and gingerly touched his hand. Although cool to the touch, the flesh was firm. Clearly, he was no ghost.
"I don't understand. You died after being attacked by a robber the night of the concert. We had a funeral for you, and your body was placed in the Benoît family crypt at Père Lachaise Cemetery."
Sébastien laughed.
"Yes, I'm aware of the burial. You can well imagine my surprise when I woke up in a chamber full of dead ancestors."
Humor had always been one of Sébastien's most endearing qualities.
"You're really alive!" I exclaimed in amazement, fearful that at any moment I might wake up and realize my husband's miraculous resurrection was nothing but a dream.
I had often heard bizarre tales of premature burials, but I never believed them. Could my dearest have been put in his tomb while in some catatonic state?
"You can throw away your widow's weeds, my love. Your husband is still to be numbered among the living."
"Do your parents know?"
"Not yet. I came straight here to see you first. In a week or so, we can travel to Provence and spring the good news on them."
Sébastien's arms went around my waist as they had hundreds if not thousands of times in the past, but never before had I felt a chill when my young husband embraced me.
* * *
I did not fully appreciate the wonder of my husband's return until I lay in his arms that night. It was as I had slept nearly every night since our wedding night: safe and secure. Only one thing was missing: the warmth. Despite the thick down comforter and heat from the bedroom fireplace, my husband's body still felt cold, as though he had just come inside from a frigid winter's day, so I threw my arms around him, hoping to share the warmth of my own body.
Sébastien soon fell asleep, but I remained awake, admiring the thick, dark lashes that concealed the blue eyes I loved so dearly, the straight aquiline nose and the full lips I had kissed so often. He was beautiful, and I adored him. When I finally closed my eyes with the hope of enjoying several hours of peaceful slumber, I lovingly placed my head upon my husband's chest. After several moments, my head shot back up, my eyes opened wide and I cried my beloved's name.
"What is it?" he asked, waking up.
"I thought you had died. You weren't breathing, and I didn't notice a heartbeat."
Sébastien laughed away my fear.
"You've just had a terrible shock. You lost your husband only to find out he's still alive. You're bound to imagine all sorts of dangers. Now, go to sleep; you need your rest."
He then turned on his side, facing away from me. I curled my body around his, and although I felt his chest gently rise and fall, I couldn't hear any breath escaping from his lips or nose.
* * *
The first full day of my husband's return was uneventful. When I awoke in the morning, Sébastien was already downstairs sitting by the fire with pen and paper in hand.
"Listen to this," he said with excitement and then read several stanzas from his latest work.
His passion for poetry brought a tear to my eye. It was so good to have him back again. I raced across the room and playfully threw myself in his arms.
"Mmmm. You smell so nice," I noted. "You're wearing the cologne I bought you for Christmas."
"Yes. I decided to put it on after I bathed this morning."
I went to the kitchen to eat breakfast while Sébastien continued writing. When I returned to the living room less than an hour later, the musky smell of cologne was replaced by the sour smell that now seemed to cling to Sébastien. And as the day wore on, the odor became more pronounced.
"I wonder if the cut on your neck has become infected," I said. "Perhaps you should go see the doctor."
"My neck is fine," Sébastien assured me, yet he tightened the high collar of his shirt so that I couldn't see the wound.
By dinner time, the smell was most unpleasant. It was no wonder Sébastien lost his appetite. Had he not decided to bathe again and dab on more cologne, I doubt I would have been able to eat either.
When we went to bed that night, there was no cuddling, no sleeping in the loving embrace of my husband's arms. Because of the coldness of his body and the sour smell—despite yet another bath and more cologne—I slept on the edge of the bed, as far away from Sébastien as I could get.
The following morning I woke to an empty bed that had the faint scent of meat turned bad. The smell grew stronger the closer I got to the living room. Even the soap and cologne could not mask Sébastien's foul odor.
I walked into the living room and immediately noticed several changes in my young husband. His complexion had gotten paler, his face thinner and his eyes darker. And the alterations were not just physical in nature. Sébastien was clearly agitated, for he was unable to write more than a few words without putting aside his work and pacing the floor.
"I'm going to call the doctor," I announced firmly. "I don't care what you say; you're not well."
"Don't you dare!" Sébastien thundered. "I'm a grown man, able to make my own decisions, and I will not suffer the indignity of being prodded and poked by some charlatan."
I wanted to argue with him but didn't. Maybe a part of me was afraid to hear the physician's diagnosis. Instead, I sought the sanctuary of my studio, preferring the smell of my paints to the sour scent of my husband.
* * *
By nightfall Sébastien was much worse. He looked as though he had aged ten years in a few short hours, and the smell was by now overpowering. No amount of cologne could conceal the pronounced odor of decay.
"Aren't you going to eat dinner?" I asked when I finally ventured out of my studio. "You haven't had anything all day."
Sébastien shook his head, too preoccupied with his pacing to give me a verbal response.
After a late supper, I retired to the bedroom—alone. I fell asleep before my husband came upstairs to bed. Shortly after three in the morning I was awakened by a strange noise in the alley behind our house. I opened the window and shined a light onto the pavement below. I screamed when I saw the form of a man crouched over the unmoving body of a raggedly clothed woman. At the sound of my cry, the woman's attacker looked up. I felt horror mixed with revulsion when I saw the face of my beloved, his mouth covered with blood.
Nauseated by the horrific sight, I quickly pulled my head back inside, shut the bedroom window and ran to the bathroom. I made it just in time. As I wiped the bitter vomit from my lips, I heard Sébastien's footsteps on the stairs, and I felt the gall rise up in my throat again.
Finally, I came to accept the awful truth. My husband's recovery was no miracle; it was a curse. He had died from the wound to his neck and then afterward returned to a semblance of life. He had become a vampire, one of the undead, like the inhuman creature who had attacked him the night of the concert.
When I confronted my husband in the bedroom, the sight of him repulsed me. Blood and bits of half chewed flesh clung to his face and his clothing. The smell of the blood of his victim, mixed with the scent of death, made my head spin, and I fainted.
* * *
When I came to, I was alone in the house. I had no clue as to where Sébastien was. Perhaps he was getting rid of his victim's body, or maybe he was still hungry for human blood and went in search of another vagrant.
I knew I had to get help for my poor, afflicted husband, but to whom could I turn? If I called the police, they would surely arrest him. A priest? Was there some arcane Catholic ceremony that would restore my husband's soul? I thought not. No, my husband's problem was physical, so I decided to contact a doctor.
Had I been a poor woman with no social standing, Dr. Gérard Rousseau probably would have ignored my incredible tale of vampires walking the streets of Paris. He might even have had me committed to a lunatic asylum. Since my name was Benoît, however, Dr. Rousseau listened patiently. Still, he at first declined to see my husband.
"Monsieur Benoît's mind is no doubt unhinged by the attack—a temporary condition, I'm sure. Given the fact that my esteemed colleague wrongfully assumed Sébastien was deceased and his family placed him in the crypt certainly didn't help his mental condition any."
"You don't understand, Doctor," I cried. "This isn't a case of insanity. My husband has no heartbeat. He doesn't breathe, and he stinks of dead flesh and decay. I saw him drinking the blood from his victim. You must examine him."
I shuddered with revulsion, temporarily unable to continue speaking.
"Perhaps you are still upset over your recent ordeal; it must have been quite traumatic."
"Of course, I'm upset. What woman wouldn't be? One day I'm happily married, next I'm a widow and then I'm married to one of the undead. Only that's not an accurate term for what my husband has become. Undead would be synonymous with alive, and although Sébastien walks and talks like a living person, he's still dead."
The doctor looked helplessly embarrassed. I'm sure he wanted nothing more than to have me put away, but he dare not risk angering my husband's family.
"I'm going to prescribe something to soothe your nerves and help you sleep."
I couldn't take his condescension any longer; I snapped.
"Listen to me, you damned fool! My husband is a vampire. He killed an old woman and drank her blood. If we don't stop him, he'll kill again."
"Madame Benoît, surely you don't ...."
I cut him to the quick. This was not a time for genteel manners.
"You'll have to see him yourself. Then you'll believe me."
"Very well. Bring your husband round to my office tomorrow."
"No. You must come to our house tonight, and be prepared to wait for him if he's not here."
The Benoît name indeed carried weight, for Dr. Rousseau dared not refuse my command.
* * *
Gérard Rousseau arrived shortly after dusk, when there was still a fading pink glow of sunset in the western sky.
"Is Monsieur Benoît at home?" the doctor inquired.
"No. I haven't seen him since last night."
I suddenly feared my husband would not return. If he didn't, I had no idea where to look for him. Where did vampires go?
Fortunately, the physician and I did not have long to wait, for unbeknownst to us, Sébastien had been sleeping in the cellar of the house all morning and afternoon.
Both Dr. Rousseau and I turned in anticipation when we heard his footsteps on the stairs. My heart raced with terror. What would come through the door? The odor was a harbinger of my husband's arrival. The rank stench of putrefying flesh made me gag. Even the doctor lost his calm, professional demeanor.
"Is that ...?" he asked tremulously.
I nodded, and held my handkerchief over my nose.
Moments later when the door flew open, I screamed. The doctor cursed, so great was his shock when he saw my husband. No. I stand corrected. The thing in the doorway was not my beloved Sébastien. In less than twenty-four hours, his body had become almost unrecognizable. The skin—the part of it that wasn't already rotted—was an unhealthy gray color. His dark hair had turned white, and his nails were long and sharp, like an animal's claws. He did not speak since he was already beyond such human skills as the ability to communicate in a civil manner.
Sébastien's eyes fell on me, and I saw hunger in them. It was not the hunger of a man for the woman he loved and desired, though, not a hunger satisfied by sexual contact. This was the hunger of a predator for his prey.
Tears came to my eyes, and I shook my head as though I could banish the horrible sight with this simple act of denial. The creature—I no longer thought of him as my husband—came toward me. I was unable to run, petrified with fear. I felt the cold, clammy hands touch my arms. I smelled the fetid breath and saw the blood-stained fangs. I knew the end had come, and I accepted my fate.
It was at that point in time, when I was just moments away from certain death, that Dr. Rousseau came to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Without any thought of the Benoît family's name and money, the good doctor tore the vampire off me, grabbed the fireplace poker and speared the monster through its unbeating heart.
I will not go into any detail about the great lengths to which the eminent Paris physician went in order to destroy the creature's body to insure that it would never rise again. Suffice it to say the actions he took were not pretty.
Blessedly, I was spared the heartbreak of having to tell my still-grieving in-laws that their son was dead once more since Sébastien had not had the opportunity to tell them he returned from the grave. I prefer to let the parents believe their son's body was resting peacefully in the family crypt. If, when the next Benoît was placed in the burial chamber, the mourners discovered Sébastien's body was gone, let them think some scoundrel had robbed the tomb. It was a much kinder fate than learning the terrible truth.
* * *
With my husband gone—for good this time—I returned to Boston where I eventually married the son of one of my parents' Beacon Hill neighbors. My second husband was a banker rather than a poet. He cared little for art, music or literature. Ours was not the grand passion I had shared with Sébastien. With husband number two, I did not experience the exhilarating thrill of first love, but we were happy or at least content. While my heart never danced with joy when he took me in his arms, at least my stomach did not lurch at the stench of death either.
In closing, let me pass on a word of advice to you love-starved young girls: there are no Edward Cullens out there, no broodingly handsome vampires whose urbane delicacies forbid them from drinking human blood. There are only inhuman monsters, hideous caricatures of their living selves, who would willingly rip apart the person they loved most in order to feed.
Speaking of hideous caricatures ...
