The House on Blackstone Moor (The Blackstone Vampires) Read Free

these things. I think she was sadistic.
    I was in time to hold that opinion about much of the staff.
    We passed many sad-faced and disturbed looking creatures. Some reached out to touch me as if greeting a long lost friend or relative. For the most part they seemed harmless, although I remained cautious lest one attack me.
    If I had any questions, the attendant’s stern manner and off-handed attitude ensured I would not pose them to her.
    At last, we stopped before a great door. Three firm knocks and the door opened to reveal Dr. Bannion. “A little talk now Rose, and then I shall take you to your room.”
    Room! That did sound promising as I thought he might have said ward otherwise.
    I took a seat. His desk was massive and filled with all manner of ledgers and papers and inkwells scattered about.
    He picked up a pen and held it mid-air as he spoke. “I do want to just get some facts. I’m afraid these questions are going to sound silly, but there are reasons for them, I assure you. Now then, do you know what year it is?”
    “1868, sir.”
    “And the month?”
    “March and—”
    “And if you would be so kind as to tell me where in London you live?”
    Live? Was he joking? I may have been distraught and muddled in my mind but truly, I did have sense enough to know I would not in all likelihood be going back there ever again!
    “Notting Hill, sir.”
    His hand moved down the page. “And the street?”
    That did it, as they say. The street! I saw them all—dead. Butchered, covered in caked blood, blood that had turned their pale colored nightclothes crimson.
    “Rose!”
    I must have fallen to the floor for I remember nothing but him leaning over me and saying, “You’ve fainted, that’s all. I shall have you taken to your room.”
    *
    The room was tiny, no bigger than a cupboard, but who was I to complain? After glancing around and smelling the place, I was more than happy to find myself alone.
    Dr. Bannion did bid me goodnight. “Rest and we shall talk more in the morning.”
    I stared at the closed door for a long time. I remember feeling so many emotions—sadness, upset, grief, fear but, most of all, dread.
    Yes, dread and fear are different. Dread is beyond fear, I think. Dread knows fear was correct in the first place and it just intends to sit and wait for the worst to happen, which will happen because dread, if nothing else, is sure of itself.
    So what did I dread? The answer is a great many things , but mostly I dreaded the future.
    Emotional pain is, I believe, worse than physical pain. No part of my body hurt, yet I was suffering more than I ever had in my life. Here I was, barely seventeen, without family. My poor Aunt Maude was soon to die, that was for certain.
    If that was the case, where would I go when I was well? I would need employment and a place to live, too.
    But who would have me? I couldn’t very well lie about my incarceration in an asylum. My father’s mad act ensured that what he did would be spoken about for a long time to come.
    But there was a daughter, dear—remember? Rose something, wasn’t she put away in a lunatic asylum? Sad that, but to be expected, wouldn’t you say?
    No point in lying, I was done for, without hope. Dr. Bannion could do as he liked but it wouldn’t matter.
    In a way this realization was calming, for hopelessness brought about resolution and closure. Perhaps there was no reason to dread anything!
    My life was as good as ended.
    With that in mind, I decided to go to sleep and if I didn’t wake up, what did it really matter?
    I fell into a heavy sleep but woke during the night. I had the distinct impression that someone had entered my room—no doubt a genuine lunatic.
    I recalled the words of the grim-faced attendant who told me about the violent ones who were kept in a separate building.
    Had they grown tired of staring at the cemetery? Had they in fact somehow escaped their ward and were now standing in my room watching me, ready to hack me to