The Last American Vampire
By E.L. Block
My name is Edward Browning, and I am the last American vampire. I was made so in 1892 by the first American vampire, my baby sister, Mary Louise. Tuberculosis, among other deadly diseases, was rampant in 19th Century New England. It claimed countless lives in my birthplace of Exeter, Rhode Island, with almost no chance of survival. The doctors of the day knew absolutely nothing about how to treat these diseases. They performed amateur hypnosis to urge their patients toward better health. They ignorantly prescribed fresh air. Once infectious disease settled into a member of your family, it was only a matter of time before it spread throughout your homestead. My grandparents succumbed, then my mother, and shortly thereafter, my sister. It wasn’t long before I fell ill myself. I was all my father had left, and he was desperate to keep me alive, to work the farm and carry on the family name.
Members of the town council claimed that, should some part of a deceased relative’s body still continue to live on, they could supposedly wake in the night, to feed on any living family members who were in feeble health. This was among many peculiar claims that were purported during a time when rational explanations simply did not exist. Word quickly spread that when members of the same family wasted away in succession, it was because one of the deceased was continuing to thrive by draining the life force from their remaining relatives. It was suggested that the undead fed only from their own family members, because they had easy access to their family’s property, and because they anticipated acceptance and forgiveness from their own kin. This rationale is what led to the widespread belief that vampires needed to be invited in.
When it was decided that this was undoubtedly occurring to a family, every recently deceased member was promptly exhumed for examination. On the morning of March 17, 1892, the bodies of each of my family members who had surrendered to unfathomable disease were unearthed. They found appropriately rotting corpses in the graves of all, except for the most recent death, my baby sister, Mary Louise. Her body had been placed above ground in a makeshift crypt, during one of the coldest winters New England had ever seen, awaiting a proper burial after the spring thaw. At that time, there were no autopsies. No embalmings. It was simply the declaration of the town physician, upon observing the body’s attributes, which determined someone’s death.
Because physicians were occasionally incorrect, bells were installed next to the headstones of the recently deceased, so in the event they should awaken, they could alert someone by ringing the bell. If you found yourself unintentionally buried alive, you were to feel around the coffin for a string to pull, which was threaded through a thin pipe in the ground and attached to a bell at the surface. This is the true origin of the terms dead ringer and saved by the bell. It was not uncommon at the time for people to picnic and play games in the cemetery, as if it were a recreational park. Mischievous children would occasionally ring the bells and run away, causing many bereaved loved ones to fall to the ground and begin digging with their bare hands.
Upon opening the makeshift crypt, the town council noticed long, deep scratches along the walls and the back of the door. Scattered across the floor were human feces and the remains of several bats and mice.
Two conclusions were possible.
One: Mary Louise was mistaken for dead. She awakened in the crypt and did everything she could to get out. She kept herself alive for as long as she could, by consuming the bats and mice that entered the crypt to find warmth and shelter, which may have resulted in the contraction of rabies.
Two: Mary’s dead body had been bitten by a vampire bat. She awakened and fed on the bats that had taken up residence in the crypt, including the one that had bitten her, thus completing her transformation into the first American vampire.
The physician declared that her corpse looked startlingly, if not unreasonably, lifelike. He identified her as the creature they sought, and insisted her heart be removed and burned, should she remain above ground until spring. This was originally thought to be the only way to kill a vampire, to destroy the heart. In truth, there are many ways to kill a vampire, and just as many ways to become one.
Mary’s eyes sprung open and her mouth unfastened widely, deeply gasping, as the physician thrust a sharp wooden stake through her breast plate and straight into her heart. Father turned to face the corner of the crypt as she reached out to him, his hands clasped in front of his face while he wept. She fell limp against the slab as the color of chimney soot washed over her skin. The rest of the men left the crypt while the physician cut into her flesh, spread her ribcage, and extracted her heart. Father stayed behind to oversee the procedure, as some final measure of concern for her.
The ashes of Mary’s heart were collected, mixed with bone broth, and fed to me. I was only able to choke down a few teaspoons before passing out in a cold sweat. The concoction did not cure me as they had expected. Rather, the opposite. I laid motionless in my bed with no sound to my shallow breaths for two days and nights before my heart ceased to function. My body was placed in the makeshift crypt alongside my sister. Mary Louise, being a female and just seven years old, had been laid to rest with her favorite doll and the embroidered handkerchief our mother had made for her. I, being a male of eighteen years age, was laid to rest with my modest collection of hunting and farming tools.
I awoke inside the crypt with a greater hunger than I’d ever felt in life. Mary’s body laid next to me, her dark chest cavity left open wide like the doors to the kitchen pantry. I reached inside and pulled out one of the mice that feasted within her. I consumed it, then reached in for another. My transformation was complete, but unlike my sister, I had the good fortune of being locked away with the very tools I needed to set myself free.
E.L. Block is an award-winning artist and author. Her work has been featured in the national media, including People Magazine, The View, Good Morning America, and the Today Show. Her first two novels, American Gothic and Monstera, were published by TitleTown Publishing. She is agented by TTA. Find her online: @elblockauthor
