Chronicles of the Undead

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Samuel Harrington's Diaries
1793-1795
London, England

April 26, 1793.
A rather uneventful day.
I accomplished some profitable business at the Exchange; trade was excellent, a rare thing these days. Owen's coffeehouse was livelier than usual, very spirited with political debate and talk of the war. It was quite enjoyable.
The vicar stopped in for a late afternoon visit. He was brimming with accounts of our new neighbours, Henri Forain, and the cousin, Eleanor de Burgh. The vicar seems to think they are foreign, of French origin he believes. I do hope they are not Catholic; the vicar did not seem to think they were. I know such things are not taken into much account these days, but one does have to have standards.
I wearily listened to Eliza at dinner, as she complained about the household accounts. She never ceases to beg for more money. I cannot reason why she has such trouble keeping expenses to a minimum. She is the one who insisted we hire a cook, and staff. She must make do on the money that has been allowed.

April 30, 1793.
Eliza has invited those foreign neighbours to her card party tomorrow. They are to be her honoured guests and she plans to make the proper introductions into our little neighbourhood community. She is all aflutter over the details, and the household is in a domestic uproar.
I do wish Eliza would not carry on so about her parties. It is so tedious and annoying.

May 2, 1793.
Eliza's little card party was quite the success; even I enjoyed myself. Our favoured guests were witty and charming, utterly delightful. Henri was particularly well versed in all manner of subjects. It made for fine conversation. He also has good taste in port, bringing an excellent vintage as a gift. The cousin, Miss de Burgh, was likewise well mannered and poised, a proper lady.
Both were excellent whist players; several of the other guests remarked on their skill. I had the privilege of being partnered with Henri during the evening and the fortune to have the winning hands as a result. I do enjoy a lively card game with a good partner.
I fear our neighbours may be in slightly ill health, though, as both were of rather a pale complexion. In addition, they did not seem to partake much of the cheese and wine that was served.
I may suggest a good elixir to restore their vigour.

May 7, 1793.
I talked to Henri again this day.
He kindly thanked me for the invitation, and remarked on the fine time he had enjoyed. I replied it had been our pleasure to have him as a guest, and would happily extend another invitation. He seemed quite pleased.
As such, I informed Eliza to make a point of inviting both Henri and Eleanor to her next card party; she was ecstatic. Eliza so lives for her entertainments and it does keep her quite occupied, for which I am thankful.

May 9, 1793.
Eliza has arranged for a family outing tomorrow evening. She insists we take the children to Vauxhall. I am sure Flora will enjoy it and I am equally certain Edmund would much rather be carousing with his friends. I would prefer to stay at home, but Eliza insists. She says this will be one of the few times we have together as a family before Edmund goes off to Oxford.

May 10, 1793.
Vauxhall was tedious, crowded and a wasted expense. Of course Eliza loved it, and Flora was swept up in the whole garish entertainment. Edmund strayed from our little party, no doubt trysting in the shadows with some gullible young lady.

May 11, 1793.
I ran into Henri today at the bookshop. It seems we have similar taste in books; we both take an interest in the works of William Blake. We shared the walk back to Holburn Street, and had the most lively, invigorating discussion.

May 12, 1793.
The vicar was in rare form this morning at services. He preached soundly on morality and family, a subject I heartily approve, but I would have preferred to do without the lecture on the sins of the brothels. There is nothing wrong with a gentleman indulging on occasion.
I will say though, the vicar did hold the congregation spellbound; even Edmund did not fidget in the pew. Perhaps that year abroad has instilled some decorum in the young man. My darling Flora was the perfect angel, as always. She has become quite the lady at seventeen, with her mother's fair and delicate features. Thank heavens she has not inherited her disposition. Eliza even managed some cheer; the vicar had informed her before services she was on the ladies' committee to raise funds for foundlings.
Disappointing that neither Henri, nor Eleanor came to services. The vicar thinks they may indeed be Catholic after all; such a pity. I hope I can overlook that flaw, for Henri is such an interesting gentleman.

May 15, 1793.
The vicar visited this morning. He was rather disturbed regarding some neighbourhood disappearances that have happened recently. It seems that some vagrants have gone missing. I do not know why he is so concerned, they were just hired labourers. Most likely they simply left. That type is always so ungrateful.



Edmund Harrington's Diaries
1795-1797
London, England

September 2, 1795.
Last night was so shocking, I felt the desire to set down on paper what I had seen. There must be a record, so I began this journal with the morning light. I will commence this chronicle at the beginning, from the moment I was first aware.
I am still at home, not yet returned to my studies at Oxford. Ever since last night's incident, I have worried and pondered, but I can remember seeing nothing amiss in the house since my return. Yet something is very wrong.
Last evening I was troubled in my sleep, for it was far too warm in my room. I awoke some time past the midnight hour, to hear heavy footsteps on the landing. I thought this odd considering the late hour, and the only rooms on the floor being mine and Flora's. So I climbed from my bed to investigate.
I opened my door slightly and saw Father carrying the limp form of Flora past my room. The sight was an enormous shock, I can only conclude this was the reason I did not cry out. I cannot remove that image of her still body from my mind, nor the strange bliss written on my father's face.
I watched Father take her into her boudoir, closing the door behind them. I waited there, expecting Father to call for some assistance, but I heard nothing. I was still peering out the crack in my door, when my father crept back out and fled downstairs.
I should have gone to Flora then, I should have checked on her, but instead I shut my door. I cowardly gave in to dread and shrouded myself under my bedcovers; I believe did not want to know what my Father had done. I waited all the remaining night to hear the sound of someone coming to Flora's aid, but all was silence until the morning.
I cannot write anymore. I shall continue later.

September 3, 1795.
I do not know why I did not tell anyone what I had seen. Perhaps I was afraid of what had truly happened, perhaps I was hoping for some explanation from my father. Whatever the reason, I said nothing when they came and told me my sister was dead.

September 5, 1795.
Now I finally understand why Flora died.
Henri came to visit Father, ostensibly to convey his sympathies for Flora's death. It was not hard to eavesdrop on their conversation in Father's study; I had been doing it since I was a boy. I was rewarded in my suspicions and I learned the truth.
I could not comprehend it and I certainly did not want to believe it. Henri had killed Flora. Henri was a vampire. Moreover, my father, the man I had always looked up to, had willingly participated in my sister's death for his own gain.
It was atrocious to hear my father's whine, his pleadings to Henri for his reward; I imagined him on his knees, that monster's little supplicant. I felt an intense anger as I listened to that inhuman fiend Henri assure my father he would fulfil his promise, that my father would become a vampire.



Charlotte Harrington's Diaries
1825-1826
London, England

March 1, 1825.
Were my father and grandfather insane? After reading their diaries, I can think of no other rational explanation, yet I cannot believe it to be true. This conflict of mind has led me to follow their example and begin a diary of my own. I shall record within its pages my search regarding the truth of my family.
There were stains on the pages of my grandfather's journal, where he had written his last entry. They may even be bloodstains, if my father's journals are to be believed.
Did my father kill my grandfather? Did he commit such a horror for the reasons he states? Was my grandfather truly a Vampire, a monster who would sacrifice his own daughter? What kind of blood flows in my veins?