Chapter Text
Quincy P. Morris: Vampire Hunter
By: Andrew Slinde
I
Quincy P. Morris’ Diary, 11 November
The old man played with my business card in fingers that looked like tallow. Even sittin’ in his fancy armchair he couldn’t stay still. He just fidgeted with that little piece of pasteboard and twitched his mustache at me, nervous as a cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs. It was all I could do not to fidget with him.
“You strike me as a whisky man, Mr. Morris,” the elderly gent said.
Stereotypes aside – har har the cowboy must like his whisky – I wasn’t liable to refuse a glass. Besides, a fancy fella like this in a big ol’ house probably had some mighty fine drinks to hand.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m a man of means myself, with a working ranch back in Texas on a lot of land with lots of heads of cattle. But there’s a world of difference between me, a well-to-do rancher, and Mr. Rudolph, the shipping magnate, sitting across from me. For starters he lived in a big mansion in what I reckon they call the gothic style – with lots of archways and whatnot. Honestly, the joint gave me the heebie jeebies as it reminded me of certain architecture from a certain foreign land.
Once Rudolph’s manservant delivered the drinks and a couple of fat cigars, my client-to-be finally settled down. “I have a problem, Mr. Morris,” he said, maybe a tad too dramatically. “Or, rather, my daughter has a problem. A rather persistent suitor has been harassing her. Nothing dangerous – at least not yet – but he’s been following her around town, lurking outside her window at night, and sending cryptic telegrams and presents.”
I nodded along, not wanting to interrupt. Instead, I lit my fat cigar and took a swig of the old man’s whisky. I was right, it was the good stuff.
“My daughter was recently engaged to a man with whom I do business and I cannot have this…stalker compromising that.”
The engagement or your business deal? I wondered, but didn’t say. Rich people get sensitive about this kinda thing.
“That sounds like a dilly of a pickle, alright, Mr. Rudolph,” I replied. “But this doesn’t exactly sound like my line of work.”
He bent an eyebrow at me. “Your friend Mr. Holmwood told me something much to the contrary,” he said. Then he shook his head. “But of course, I failed to mention that my daughter’s stalker died six weeks ago.”
I nodded. Now I understood.
Grinning at me – probably expecting me to applaud his theatrics – he flicked my business card onto the table. In the stylish calligraphy I’d paid good money for, the words glimmered in the light of the fireplace.
Quincy P. Morris
Vampire Hunter
II
Letter from Quincy P. Morris to Arthur Holmwood, 12 November
Dear Art,
I’m writing to thank you for the referral. Although he’s a dramatic old coot, Mr. Rudolph is generous with his pocketbook. Oughta keep me in whisky and women until I return to the ranch. I know, I know, you don’t care for it when I’m “uncouth” as you put it, but I am what I am, old boy.
Taking a page out of old Abe Van Helsing’s book, I decided to visit the grave of the young suitor myself. Sure enough, his grave marker bore the name of Percy Johns, the same one who’s been riling up the Rudolphs. I took a pouch of my best tobacco and a flask of coffee to stake out the boneyard. As usual, I carried with me my crucifix, a piece of the holy host, and a vial of holy water (the local priest looked at me like I was nuts when I told him what I needed). However, I made sure to have my trusty six-shooter strapped to my hip, too, just in case.
Art, when I tell you it was the second spookiest night of my life, you know I ain’t spinnin’ yarns. After all, you was there on my first spookiest. Just huddled up there in the trees, watching that grave by moonlight, I caught myself startin’ at every little sound. I’m no stranger to the hoot of owls or the howl of wolves, my friend, but all of that changes when you’re lying in wait for…what was it Abe called ‘em? The undead? Yeah, like that term ain’t enough to make you holler.
It was around midnight that I watched the gravesite fill up with fog. Strangest thing in the world seeing just one grave get all foggy, especially on a clear, warm night. Even stranger to watch it gather up and congeal together into a man. I’m glad I dropped my cigarette so he wouldn’t see the cinder in the dark. The way those pale, dead eyes of his roamed around, I thought for sure I was caught. After holdin’ my breath for a couple heartbeats, though, I watched the dead man mosey off toward the main drag.
Percy was dressed in his funeral best, a black three-piece suit still crisp and pressed. That and the fact that he was whiter than a sheet with dark red lips and glassy eyes made him stick out among the few people on the street at this late hour. Given that they, too, were creatures of the night (in a metaphorical sense) they probably didn’t reckon he was anything to be concerned about. Knowing what he was and what he was capable of, I shadowed him at a safe distance.
Well, my friend, you know as well as I that monsters of his kind ain’t easy to stalk. A few times during our stroll I almost lost him when he turned into mist or crossed the community garden in the shape of a wolf. Thank God my trackin’ skills are still up to snuff. I wasn’t exactly surprised to find myself backtracking all the way to the Rudolph house while tailing him.
Percy misted right through the fence, and I thought I was licked again when I tried to scale it without making a sound. It’s a good thing these old boots ain’t as creaky as they used to be. I followed him all the way across the back lawn and right up to what I assume was the window of Ms. Rudolph, then hid behind a nearby tree to observe.
I couldn’t make out what was bein’ said, but Percy’s jaw moved in a way that told me he was speaking. A few seconds later, a slim figure in a long white nightgown appeared at the window. She was a pretty little thing: porcelain skin, blonde hair, big brown eyes. To my surprise, the eyes were lucid – she didn’t look like she was in any kind of trance. Least, not any kind of trance I’d seen before from Ms. Lucy or Mrs. Mina. In short, this didn’t look like vampire influence.
Still, when she reached for the sash, I reached for my six-gun.
I know what you’re thinking, Art. There’s an American expression you’d like that goes like this: I don’t look before I leap. An old cowpoke like me doesn’t hesitate when it comes to throwing himself into danger, especially when somebody is in peril. You know better’n most how much trouble that gets me in.
Anyway, I don’t know if it was the creak of my holster or me cocking my gun, but Percy must’ve heard me comin’. Quick as anything, he vanished into mist. Next thing I knew, I felt something hard as rock hit me in the back of my noggin, then everything went black.
It’s hard to admit to you, my friend, that I let him get the drop on me, but here we are. I’m writing to you from the safety of my room. Apparently, after knocking me out cold, the vampire had the decency to leave me alive…that or he thinks I was dead. Anyway, I’m off to hit the hay, if you’ll excuse another Americanism. Thank you once again for the referral.
Yours,
Quincy
P.S. Send my love to Mina, Jonathan, and Jack.
III
Telegram from William Rudolph to Quincy Morris, 12 November
Mr. Morris. I was sorry to hear about your recent injury, however I would thank you to proceed with more discretion. My daughter was frightened half to death by the sight of a cowboy charging half-cocked – quite literally – at her bedroom window. Furthermore, more than one of my neighbors has inquired about a shabby man in denim passed out on my lawn this morning. As I’m sure both of these incidents are related to your investigation I’ve elected not to press charges, but be assured that should anything of the like happen again, it will result in your immediate discharge from my employ.
-WMR
IV
Quincy P. Morris’ Diary, 12 November
Almost getting killed twice in one day is enough to put any man off his supper, lemme tell you. My hackles are still raised from the experience, and my puzzler is still puzzlin’ over what exactly happened to me. I’m hopin’ that writing it out here will help me make sense of it, although I wish my old friend Jack Seward were here to help me sort it.
I’d just woken up late that afternoon to an angry telegram from Mr. Rudolph (I’m enclosing a copy in this diary for posterity). I wasn’t exactly happy with getting chewed out by the old rich man, but I reckon I deserved it, so I sent an apology straight away. I ain’t half as ashamed of being passed out in his yard as I am of letting that vampire get the drop on me. My experiences back in England should have taught me better. I shudder at what Abe Van Helsing would say if he knew.
I had dinner at the bar below my lodgings – they do a roast beef and potatoes that’ll knock a man’s socks off – then started planning my next move. I always think better when I’m rambling, so I took a walk around the city to clear my head, which still ached from Percy ringing my bell the night before.
That’s when I got jumped by a few shady types. Nothing I couldn’t handle really, but it was enough to rattle my cage.
I’d picked up on the three men tailing me before they knew it. Ducking into a blind alley, I waited for ‘em to pass by, then sprung. I disarmed the knife from the first guy while I kicked the second one in the kneecap. The joint issued a wet cracking sound and its owner shrieked as he fell. The third guy took a stab at me, but I positioned the first one between me and him. Once he was stuck by his buddy, that fella didn’t have much more fight in him.
The third guy brandished his knife at me, but I drew my six shooter on him and sent him running. As he retreated, he shouted, “Mr. Blackwell sends his regards!”.
I don’t know what that means or who in tarnation Mr. Blackwell is. I also ain’t sure if I have it in me to go back to the boneyard tonight to deal with Percy. That business is probably better suited for daylight anyhow. In the meantime, I’ve been working on putting together a little care package for Ms. Rudolph – a few holy hosts, a vial of holy water, a crucifix, and a couple wreaths of garlic flowers, just like Abe taught me.
With any luck, I can put this vampire business to bed, then figure out why some stranger named Blackwell wants to punch my ticket.
V
A Note from Miss Virginia Rudolph to Quincy Morris, 13 November
Dear Mr. Morris.
I am writing to say thank you for the gifts you sent ‘round earlier this evening. My father insists that the wreaths are hung in my room – I assume their cloying fragrance is somehow for my protection – and I am keeping the holy host and water with me at all times.
With that being said, I told my father I would write you a thank you note, and I have done that so as to not make a liar of myself. My virtue still intact, I would like to inform you that all of these protections are rather unnecessary. I cannot tell you more now as my father is just returning home, but please believe me when I say your services are not needed.
If you require further proof, meet me at the cemetery tonight where Percy is buried. I will explain everything.
Respectfully yours,
Virginia Rudolph
Quincy P. Morris’s Diary, 14 November
I am intrigued. The note I received from Ms. Rudolph (enclosed) started off like any thank you note. Frankly, I expected her to complain about the stink of garlic – I can’t get the smell outta my room either – but what followed had me sittin’ bolt upright.
Because I’m not an idiot, I gathered my tools and headed out for the boneyard. I went at sundown this time because I reckoned that Ms. Rudolph wasn’t a night owl like me. Hunting for things that go bump in the night ain’t exactly a daytime activity, after all. I found her waiting by Percy’s grave, looking stunning in a black dress with a bundle of bloodred roses in her hands. Still, it took more than a pretty little lady to disarm this old cowboy, so I approached with caution.
Maybe I was still paranoid from the attack earlier that day, but I figured a cemetery would be a good place for an ambush.
I made sure to make some noise on my approach so I wouldn’t startle her. When she saw me, Ms. Rudolph smiled a little sadly.
“Mr. Morris,” she said in a voice like silk. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
I just nodded, keeping my peepers open for any kind of bamboozle.
“You’re exactly what I expected when my father said he hired a Texas cowboy to watch over me,” she went on after the silence carried on for a little too long. “He’s very overprotective, my father. But not of me.”
I was already starting to see the picture she was painting. “His interests,” I said. “The engagement to this business partner of his.”
She nodded. “Well…not exactly a business partner yet. He’s hoping that by marrying me off, he can successfully strike a merger with Blackwell, Incorporated.”
The final piece of the puzzle slotted into place, nearly flooring me. So, Blackwell was the business associate in question. Suddenly, him sending his goons to bushwhack me made a whole lot of sense, especially after I’d been caught on the lawn outside his fiance’s bedroom. The poor sod probably thought I was some kind of rival, not a vampire hunter who was actually looking out for him, accidentally of course.
I managed to get a whiff of something else, metaphorically speaking. “You don’t want to marry Blackwell, do you?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
Ms. Rudolph shuddered. “Heavens, no!” she exclaimed. “I’m in love with Mr. Johns…or at least, I was.” Here, she knelt down and put the roses on Percy’s grave. “Mr. Blackwell is a vulgar, angry man with a…reputation when it comes to young women.”
I stepped a little closer, allowing myself to drop my guard a little. “And Percy – er, Mr. Johns – had an aim to protect you from him.”
A single tear rolled down her cheek. At the same time, a ghostly, misty hand reached up to wipe it away. Percy materialized out of the fog seeping from his grave in the dying light of evening.
Embracing his beloved, the vampire turned his red eyes on me. “What is he doing here?” he asked.
“I asked him to come,” Ms. Rudolph replied, her voice hoarse with quiet sobbing. “I’ve told him everything. He understands.”
And I did. Still didn’t take kindly to a vampire cold cocking me, but I understood. Under Percy’s wary gaze I tensed, my hand migrating to the butt of my six-gun. I know a predator when I see one. It also didn’t escape me that, while Ms. Rudolph painted Percy as some sort of folk hero, he must have sustained himself somehow, and I knew what a vampire’s diet mainly consisted of.
“I reckon I do understand,” I said, pulling my eyes away from Percy's. I didn’t want him putting a whammy on me. “But where do we go from here? Let’s say I get Blackwell off your back, then what?”
“What do you mean ‘then what’?” Ms. Rudolph asked.
The vampire knew what I was talking about, and the mournful yet determined bent of his expression told me so. All the stories about star-crossed lovers and damsels in distress didn’t change the fact that Percy was the walking dead, feeding on the blood of innocents in order to maintain his blasphemous life. There was no version of this that ended well for him.
“We’ll burn that bridge when we get there,” I said at last.
I turned to go, but Ms. Rudolph caught my sleeve.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
The question was a valid one, and I wasn’t entirely sure myself. I had a feeling that going after Blackwell guns blazing would land me in the clink, if I even got that far. A few of his hired goons I could handle, but a man of his stature was bound to have bodyguards who knew what they were doing. No, fighting Blackwell meant taking a different tack, and I knew just the person who could help me.
“Leave it to me,” I said.
VI
Telegram from William Rudolph to Quincy Morris, 15th November
Mr. Morris. You seem to have a knack for mayhem. Imagine my surprise when I discovered in today’s paper that a certain Mr. Blackwell was taken into custody on fraud charges. I had the feeling it was no coincidence, as Blackwell was my daughter’s fiance and a potential business partner of mine. I then received a package by courier from your friend Jonathan Harker, Esq. (through various legal firms, since he apparently is a solicitor in London, England) which outlined all of Blackwell’s underhanded deeds, including signed affidavits from women he has scammed in the past. Although it was categorically not what I hired you to do, I nonetheless thank you for protecting my family and our interests. A cheque for your additional services is enclosed along with my heartfelt thanks. Also, as my daughter has had no late night visitors, I assume our primary agreement has been met.
-WMR
Letter to Jonathan Harker, Esq. from Quincy Morris, 16th November
Dear John,
I must thank you for the excellent work done by yourself and your associates this side of the pond. Mighty fortuitous that you were stateside when I tried to reach you and able to expedite all of those documents. I’m happy to report – and I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear – that Blackwell is going to the slammer for a long time hereafter.
Now, in regards to more morbid business. I’m sure Art will want to hear the end of this tale, as I’ve kept him apprised of most of it, but I ain’t got the heart to write it in another letter, so here goes.
After Blackwell was done and dusted, I got paid a visit that night from Percy Johns, the vampire. He met me outside my local watering hole, waiting in the dark all pale and tragic-like. I’d told Ms. Rudolph that he’d have to lay low for a while until I got this all sorted out and I think she remained hopeful that their romance had a future. I couldn’t bring myself to disabuse her of this notion, but Percy apparently could. He’d already said his good-byes and was ready for me to do my work. He was a stand-up guy, in the end.
Anyway, I haven’t the heart to say much more. Love to Mina, Jack, and Art.
Yours,
Quincy P. Morris
VII
Quincy P. Morris’ Diary, 17th November
I might burn this after I’m done writing it. I ain’t sure yet. But what I do now is that I’m glad I’m well away from my friends in London this morning, for I couldn’t look them in the eye knowin’ what I done.
Last night, I paid a visit to the grave of Percy Johns with the aim of digging him up, hammering a stake through his heart, and beheading him in the way old Abe van Helsing taught us. Gruesome, morbid business, but it had to be done.
While I was shovelin’ the dirt and keeping a lookout for the local constable, a thought occurred to me: a man don’t just suddenly die and wake up a vampire. Somebody had to make you a vampire.
“What do you remember from before you died, Percy?” I asked, knowing he was watching me from the shadows. It becomes an instinct.
“A man in a dark alley outside a pub,” the vampire replied, suddenly misting to my side. “At least, I think it was a man. I thought he was a common cutpurse, but then I felt this terrible pain in my throat…” He rubbed his neck as he spoke. I could still see the bite marks.
“Don’t s’pose you got a look at him?” I asked without much hope.
Percy shook his head. “I was attacked from behind. Before I could struggle, weakness overtook me. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in my grave.”
Sounds like a rude awakening to me. I stopped digging, leaned against the wall of the grave, and lit a smoke. “How would you feel about livin’ a little longer?” I asked.
He bent his brow at me. “What do you have in mind?”
“We’re gonna find the dirty sumbitch who turned you.”
Quincy P. Morris’ Diary, 18 November
I tell ya, I have all the luck.
You kill one vampire and suddenly you find yourself pitted up against every damn thing that goes bump in the night. I should explain.
After all that business with Mr. Rudolph was concluded and I sent my dubious new ally into the dark of night to scout out the devil that turned him, I took a little vacation – and by vacation, I mean I found a whisky bottle and crawled inside for a while. I was just sittin’ at my favorite watering hole when suddenly I saw my own calling card land in front of my face.
Quincy P. Morris
Vampire Hunter
I looked up to see a striking woman in a purple brocade dress, a tiny top hat pinned rakishly to her black curls.
“Mr. Morris, I presume,” she said in a smoky voice. “Tell me: what do you know about werewolves?”
To Be Continued…