“Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered, and went down to my uncle’s library.
She returned a few moments later with several volumes. From a book of Scott’s poems, she chose “Rokeby” and soon we were conveyed, as if by a Magic carpet, to medieval Yorkshire with its moated castles, dense forests, sparkling streams, jutting crags and enchanted dells.
She had finished the poem, and we were chatting gaily, when Mrs. Rhodes entered.
“A small boy brought this note for you, sir,” she said, handing me a sealed envelope.
I tore it open carelessly, then read:
“Mr. William Ansley.
Dear Sir:
“Owing to the fact that at least one member of nearly every family in this community has been smitten with a peculiar malady, in some instances fatal, since the death of James Braddock, and in view of the undeniable evidence that the corpse of the aforesaid has become a vampire, proven by certain things which you, in company with two respected and veracious neighbors witnessed, an indignation meeting was held today, attended by more than one hundred residents, for the purpose of discussing ways and means of combating this terrible menace to the community.
“Tradition tells us that there are two effective ways for disposing of a vampire. One is by burning the corpse of the offender, the other is by burial with a stake driven through the heart. We have decided on the latter as the more simple and easily carried out.
“You are therefore directed to convey the corpse to the pine grove which is situated a half mile back from the road on your uncle’s farm, where you will find a grave ready dug, and six men who will see that the body is properly interred. You have until eight o’clock this evening to carry out these instructions.
“To refuse to do as directed will avail you nothing. If you do not bring the body we will come and get it. If you offer resistance, you do so at your peril, as we are armed, and we mean business.