Duck Parade
The Prey
Vampires and werewolves pursue Morivania through revolutionary France
The Prey is available in paperback format at amazon.com
Reviews:
(taken from Amazon.com)
This is one of the greatest horror books ever written. Everyone that I know who has read it would agree. As I type now--about 17 or so years after last reading the book for the 2nd time--I still have no doubt this is likely the best horror novel I have ever read.
Gre
This book had the feel of a classic! The style and language literally transported me to the 1800's during the time of the French Revolution. Smith's first rate talent as a writer will keep you in bone-chilling suspense as Morivania enters ghastly catacombs and numerous dark wooded trails. There are plenty of moments which will make your hair stand on end and which develop into outright terrifying events!The Prey is a magnificent novel that is sure to please fans of classic horror. I can't recommend it highly enough!
--Jeanne Allen
ONE OF THE TOP 5 I HAVE EVER READ. I RATE THIS MAN'S WORK RIGHT ALONG WITH W.W.JOHNSTONE, BRIAN LUMLEY AND A CHOICE FEW OTHERS.COULD NOT PUT IT DOWN AND HAVE KEPT IT IN MY COLLECTION FOR OVER 25 YEARS NOW.
--rbmongo
From the Prologue
I came upon these papers in the ruin of a fortress in Luxembourg, in the spring of 1897. I had been exploring the city throughout most of the day, and I had reached the citadel late in the afternoon.
I found the ruin irresistible, and I decided to linger for an hour or so. It was situated on a natural bridge of land that descends into a deep chasm gouged out of the rock by the Alzette River. From its bleak ramparts, one could see the sweep of the valley, with the medieval streets of the Grund off to one side, beyond the beige towers of the Eglise St. Jean.
Gazing upon this scene I found it easy to imagine Frankish artisans at work in their shops, crafting barrels for Moselle wine, or iron shoes for war horses.
I turned to the remains of the fortress with a sensation of pleasure, for it was here in 963 that Sigefroi, first Count of the Ardennes and founder of the House of Luxembourg, built his castle.
As I examined the site, a sheet of lightning boiled out of the clouds. The sky grew progressively darker, and soon I could see very little between intervals of lightning. A few drops of rain splattered among the stones and soon I began to fear a long walk back to my hotel in a torrential downpour. No driver would venture out for the chance of a fare on a night like this.
I don't suppose I could tell you to this day what kept me there in the fierce vanguard of the storm. I remember vividly the great, forked bands of lightning, glimpses of towers and iron bars, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of a bell tolling.
The rain came and I huddled under an overhanging arch, getting what protection I could. And there, with the smell of wet stone and earth all around me, I stumbled on a battered tin box.
At first I thought it was the modern relic of a tourist, one of the breed that leaves itsdechets everywhere to spoil the beauties of the historical scene for those that follow. But on closer examination, I saw that a plaque had been affixed to it, with the Latin inscription:
Attendite a falsis prophetis, qui veniunt ad vos in vestimentis ovium, intrinsecus autem sunt lupi rapaces.
I recognized this immediately as St. Matthew: "Beware of false prophets, who come to you in the clothing of sheep, but inwardly they are ravening wolves."
Curious, I snapped the hasp with the blade of my penknife, and opened the lid. The smell of ink and old church cloth assailed my nostrils. There were sheets of yellowed paper inside, hundreds of them, each marked by the same, peculiar, crabbed handwriting.
A frontispiece gave the name of the author as Albrecht Morivania Von Dunkelfeuer und Molgenherz, and the date as 1825. There was a letter attached in a different handwriting. This was in a peculiar variety of Latin, and I made it out with considerable difficulty:
The manuscript contained herein was done at my request; it is a record of grisly and hideous events, all of which are true and marked down with great fidelity to the remembered past. The witness has sworn to me that nothing here is false.
I am the wretched man who caused this chain of horrors. In my ignorance and pride, I tampered with mysteries dangerous to mankind, and others have paid the forfeit.
By my hand was set free a monster that fouled and blotted the work of creation, and, to my immortal shame, murdered my fellow creatures. There can be no forgiveness for such a crime. My only wish is that others might take warning.
May God have mercy on my soul, and on the souls of those who come upon this history.
You can imagine how I felt upon reading this. I was eager to apply myself to the rest of the manuscript, but I had only a few matches, and darkness was growing upon me steadily.
Forthwith I shut the box and made my way out onto the road, oblivious to the rain that beat down out of the windy sky, plastering my hair over my eyes and soaking through my clothes.
I had just gotten to the road when a burst of lightning threw the entire valley into high relief, and illuminated the figure of a man standing not six feet away from me.
I say "figure of a man," but even in that first instant, I perceived that there was something extraordinary about him. Just as the world was plunged into darkness again, the fact registered on my teeming brain that he was a hunchback, and a cripple. His neck was bent to one side, away from a high shoulder and a grotesque hump, and his arm was held at a peculiar angle, like the branch of a tree that has been broken by a wind and twisted backwards.
The lightning came again, and this time I could see his face clearly because he had moved to within a few inches of me. My heart was beating wildly in my chest, my breath caught in my throat. I thought surely he was going to murder me, he looked so warped and vicious. His body was twisted horribly, his hands were enormous, and gnarled like the roots of an old tree.
But it was the face that terrified me, for it was covered in hideous sores. Patches of hair grew everywhere, like tufts of fur on a mangy dog. The grinning mouth was wide and filled with broken and yellow teeth. A fang protruded from one corner like the puncturing incisor of a jungle cat. The ears were elongated and pointed at the tops, and the whole gruesome effect was capped by the eyes, which bulged from his head like two yellow marbles, and fixed their black pupils on me.
I turned to run, and a clawed hand stopped me, fixing on my arm like a vise. Desperately I tried to shake him off, but the grip held, and then a horrible, rasping voice commanded, "Be still! I will do you now harm."
Immediately I ceased my struggles, and gave myself over to the kind of detached observation that takes its origin in despair. What could I do? He had unbelievable strength; even if I broke away he would probably have overtaken me with ease. There was nothing for it but to succumb and look for an advantage; so we stood there in the pouring rain, lightning flashing all around in intermittent frenzy, as though God himself had renounced the world and were about to destroy it in a new flood,
And then the creature said:
"You have the manuscript?"
I thrust it at him at once. "Take it," I said. "Had I known it belonged to you -"
"It belongs to no one! It is yours for the moment. Keep it and read it carefully; when you have finished, place it where another will be sure to find it."
I stared at him in disbelief. When he showed no inclination to attack, I said in a frightened voice, "I’ll put it back immediately. I had no wish to offend."
"Keep it! Read it!" And then he laughed, a hideous, roaring laugh that frightened me out of what was left of my resolve and my dignity, and I begged him to let me go. I stood shivering in my coat, while he, in his indescribable tattered grey rags, with his humped and contorted figure, laughed on and on, possessed by a fit of demoniac mirth.
When it was over, he released his grip and said, "You are free to go. I ask only that you read the manuscript and reflect on it."
"I would like nothing better, sir."
"When you have finished, leave it for another."
"Whatever you wish. I am your servant."
This brought on another fit of laughter. Finally, gaining control of himself, he said, "If you fail me, if you do not read the manuscript, if you do not pass it along to another, I shall come in the night and tear your heart out with my bare hands." He held up his twisted, clawed hands and shook them in my face. "These will rend the fabric of your mortal being," he said, "and scatter the remains among the vermin of the gutter."
My throat went dry. I tried to speak, but my voice failed me entirely.
"I am the guardian of the manuscript," he said. "My task, my penance is to follow it from hand to hand, from immortal soul to immortal soul. Now that you have begun the chain of readings, you have started me on my enslavement."
I made no pretence to understanding. I merely listened, shivering with the wet and the cold. He stared at me for a long moment, and if I could have shrunk under that pitiless gaze, I would have diminished myself to the size of an atom, but alas, I had to endure it, as helpless as a statue.
Finally, after what seemed an age, he turned and began walking rapidly away long the road. I waited for the space of a few seconds, looked back to make sure that had indeed left me alone, and was astonished to see that he had vanished. Perhaps if I had been bolder, I might have gone back and discovered some hiding place over the edge along the face of the cliff; but I had no stomach for that sort of bravery, and so I made off, walking at first, and then running, my boots splashing in the potholes as the distant lights of the city beckoned through the miserable night.
There was a roaring fire in the hearth when I entered the lobby, and a few guests were seated around its cheering warmth, sipping plum brandies and reading the local papers. They all looked up in astonishment when I entered, dripping water onto the fine Turkish rug, and the clerk ran out from behind his desk with a look of distress.
"Mon Dieu! But the monsieur will catch la grippe!" he said. "Arlette!" he called, and a chambermaid came from out of the back room. "Go and see that the monsieur has a fire in his room, and a glass of the best Calvados. And warm towels." He took me by the arm as the chambermaid rushed up the stairs. "Pardonnez-moi, monsieur. You must sit by the fire until the maid has prepared your room for you. "Zut! Another moment and you would have drowned, is it not so!"
The clerk found me a chair in front of the fire and brought me a glass of brandy, warming it over a candle flame. But even then, with the comfort of a good hotel, a drink, the society of my fellow guests and travelers, I could not expunge the sensations of gloom and dread. It was as though I had stepped for a brief interval of time into the very depths of hell, and that single instant had provided me with a vision of eternal torment that would haunt me to the ed of my days and make all people and things around me seem insubstantial.
Indeed, even when my room was prepared, I could not bear to be alone, and it was only later, with great reluctance, that I could bring myself to mount the stairs and face the new terrors of solitude.
I closed the door and put the tin box on the desk. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the light form an oil lamps cast shadows on the walls as I moved. I poured myself another glass of brandy and changed into dry clothing.
Finally, when I could put things off no longer, I seated myself at the desk and removed the manuscript from the box. From the moment I read the first few words, I knew I was caught. Nothing on earth would make me break off until I had finished; and indeed, the sun was rising over the chill and haggard dawn of a new day before I had done with the manuscript.
What follows now, dear reader, is the story of impervious evil that shook forever the foundation of my existence.
