The Book of the Living Dead Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  ZOMBIES, VAMPIRES, MUMMIES, AND OTHER REANIMATED CORPSES

  THE MONKEY’S PAW

  THE AMOROUS CORPSE

  THE METAMORPHOSES OF A VAMPIRE

  FRANKENSTEIN (Abbreviated)

  THE GHOUL

  THE FACTS OF M. VALDEMAR’S CASE

  THE CORPSE THAT RAN AWAY

  THE HAND

  HERBERT WEST: REANIMATOR

  THE HOLLOW MAN

  WAKE NOT THE DEAD

  THE DANCE OF THE DEAD

  THE COFFIN-MAKER

  FOR THE BLOOD IS THE LIFE

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT

  THE TOMB OF SARAH

  TEIG O’KANE AND THE CORPSE

  THE NAME ON THE STONE

  THE VAMPIRE OF CROGLIN GRANGE

  THURNLEY ABBEY

  A CURIOUS DREAM

  THE STORY OF BAELBROW

  THE HERO OF THE TOMB

  THE CROSS-ROADS

  A DEAD LOVE

  SALT IS NOT FOR SLAVES

  A THOUSAND DEATHS

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2010 by John Richard Stephens.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / October 2010

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The book of the living dead / [edited by] John Richard Stephens.—Berkley trade pbk. ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-44401-6

  1. Zombies—Fiction. I. Stephens, John Richard.

  PN6071.H727B66 2010

  823’.0873808—dc22 2010022755

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is dedicated to Charlotte Cecil Raymond

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  John Richard Stephens wishes to express his appreciation to Elaine Molina; Martha and Jim Goodwin; Scott Stephens; Marty Goeller and Dorian Rivas; Terity, Natasha, and Debbie Burbach; Brandon, Alisha, and Kathy Hill; Jeff and Carol Whiteaker; Christopher, Doug, and Michelle Whiteaker; Pat Egner; Gabriel, Aurelia, Elijah, Nina Abeyta, and Justin Weinberger; Jayla, Anthony, Sin, and Bobby Gamboa; Anne and Jerry Buzzard; Krystyne Göhnert; Eric, Tim, and Debbie Cissna; Norene Hilden; Doug and Shirley Strong; Barbara and Stan Main; Joanne and Monte Goeller; Irma and Joe Rodriguez; Danny and Mary Schutt; Les Benedict; Dr. Rich Sutton; SK Lindsey; Jeanne Sisson; Baba and Mimi Marlene Bruner; Randi Bendit; Sarah Russo; and his agent, Charlotte Cecil Raymond.

  ZOMBIES, VAMPIRES, MUMMIES, AND OTHER REANIMATED CORPSES

  John Richard Stephens

  When thinking of the living dead, the first thing that comes to mind is, of course, zombies. The modern idea of zombies is relatively recent. Hordes of wild corpses trying to tear apart the living and eat them is an idea popularized by the 1968 film Night of the Living Dead and its sequels. It was in the 1985 movie The Return of the Living Dead where zombies first focused on eating brains. The creatures in the Living Dead movies were actually undead ghouls, not zombies, but the public has come to see them as zombies, and bowing to the weight of public usage, the definition of the word “zombie” changed for the second time.

  Prior to this—from the 1920s to the 1960s—zombies were largely portrayed as innocent victims of voodoo sorcerers. These people were resurrected from the dead to become blindly obedient slaves. For many people in the Caribbean, freshly liberated from slavery, the idea of an eternity of mindless servitude was, understandably, a tremendous horror.

  There was a belief in zombies in the 1800s but, except for the name, they were unrecognizable compared to today’s zombies. Back then, they were more like spirits that could possess people, animals, or everyday objects. Lafcadio Hearn, while living on the Caribbean island of Martinique, described a woman who opened her front door at about five in the morning and saw a huge crab walking down the street. The woman was convinced this crab was a zombie.

  Things have changed considerably since then. Today zombies are usually undead people who it’s okay to shoot, dismember, slaughter, explode, or use as target practice. It’s okay to murder zombies since they’re already dead. Besides, if you don’t, then they’ll eat your brains . . . so it’s self-defense.

  Of course zombies aren’t the only type of undead. Another extremely popular form is the vampire. These are corpses with class. Modern vampires tend to be young—at least in appearance—suave, sophisticated, well-off, and rather sensual. Vampires are blessed with superhuman and supernatural powers, but they’re cursed with a generally unpleasant existence and a need to feed on the living. They are cool, but sultry. This is often contrasted with vampires who are selfish and revel in killing the living. These vampires usually aren’t as attractive.

  Mummies are another form of the undead. Mummies are kind of spooky to begin with, but when they come back alive they make excellent monsters. Mummies are ancient and visibly decayed, with a desiccated and sometimes geezerlike appearance, making them quite gruesome.

  Another form of reanimated corpse is the one created by a scientist. Frankenstein’s monster is, of course, the most famous. These creatures are usually assembled from parts of a variety of corpses. Or sometimes just one part from a dead body is what gets reanimated.

  Death is creeping up on us all and sooner or later it will strike each of us down. We do our best to ignore it, but our time is running out. Many people are confident they know what will happen after that, but no one really knows for sure. Belief is not the same as knowledge, no matter how much we may want to convince ourselves that it is.

  While the idea of life after death greatly appeals to most people, becoming one of the living dead is not, of course, what they have in mind. The tales in this book t
ake the desire for a continued existence and turn it into a nightmare. Everyone also has a strong desire for the return of loved ones who have passed on. These tales also play off that to create some chilling images. This book is about the dark side of life after death.

  Hopefully these creepy stories will give you another view of mortality, with the added benefit of keeping you awake late into the dark and lonely night.

  THE MONKEY’S PAW

  W. W. Jacobs

  This gothic tale by W. W. Jacobs is considered a classic of horror literature. Jacobs wrote primarily satire and humor, but he also wrote some wonderfully creepy stories. This is his masterpiece.

  Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlor of Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.

  “Hark at the wind,” said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.

  “I’m listening,” said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. “Check.”

  “I should hardly think that he’d come tonight,” said his father, with his hand poised over the board.

  “Mate,” replied the son.

  “That’s the worst of living so far out,” bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence; “of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway’s a bog, and the road’s a torrent. I don’t know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses on the road are let, they think it doesn’t matter.”

  “Never mind, dear,” said his wife, soothingly; “perhaps you’ll win the next one.”

  Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin gray beard.

  “There he is,” said Herbert White, as the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came towards the door.

  The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said, “Tut, tut!” and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage.

  “Sergeant-Major Morris,” he said, introducing him.

  The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whiskey and tumblers and stood a small copper kettle on the fire.

  At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of strange scenes and doughty deeds, of wars and plagues and strange peoples.

  “Twenty-one years of it,” said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. “When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him.”

  “He don’t look to have taken much harm,” said Mrs. White, politely.

  “I’d like to go to India myself,” said the old man, “just to look round a bit, you know.”

  “Better where you are,” said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again.

  “I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers,” said the old man. “What was that you started telling me the other day about a monkey’s paw or something, Morris?”

  “Nothing,” said the soldier, hastily. “Leastways nothing worth hearing.”

  “Monkey’s paw?” said Mr. White, curiously.

  “Well, it’s just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps,” said the sergeant-major, off-handedly.

  His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absentmindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host filled it for him.

  “To look at,” said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, “it’s just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy.”

  He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.

  “And what is there special about it?” inquired Mr. White as he took it from his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table.

  “It had a spell put on it by an old fakir,” said the sergeant-major, “a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people’s lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it.”

  His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their light laughter jarred somewhat.

  “Well, why don’t you have three, sir?” said Herbert White, cleverly.

  The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is wont to regard presumptuous youth. “I have,” he said, quietly, and his blotchy face whitened.

  “And did you really have the three wishes granted?” asked Mrs. White.

  “I did,” said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth.

  “And has anybody else wished?” inquired the old lady.

  “The first man had his three wishes, yes,” was the reply. “I don’t know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That’s how I got the paw.”

  His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group.

  “If you’ve had your three wishes, it’s no good to you now, then, Morris,” said the old man at last. “What do you keep it for?”

  The soldier shook his head. “Fancy, I suppose,” he said, slowly. “I did have some idea of selling it, but I don’t think I will. It has caused enough mischief already. Besides, people won’t buy. They think it’s a fairy-tale, some of them, and those who do think anything of it want to try it first and pay me afterwards.”

  “If you could have another three wishes,” said the old man, eying him keenly, “would you have them?”

  “I don’t know,” said the other. “I don’t know.”

  He took the paw, and dangling it between his front finger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off.

  “Better let it burn,” said the soldier, solemnly.

  “If you don’t want it, Morris,” said the old man, “give it to me.”

  “I won’t,” said his friend, doggedly. “I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don’t blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again, like a sensible man.”

  The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. “How do you do it?” he inquired.

  “Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud,” said the sergeant-major, “but I warn you of the consequences.”

  “Sounds like the Arabian Nights,” said Mrs. White, as she rose and began to set the supper. “Don’t you think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me?”

  Her husband drew the talisman from his pocket, and then all three burst into laughter as the sergeant-major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by the arm.

  “If you must wish,” he said, gruffly, “wish for something sensible.”

  Mr. White dropped it back into his pocket, and placing chairs, motioned his friend to the table. In the business of supper the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterwards the three sat listening in an enthralled fashion to a second installment of the soldier’s adventures in India.

  “If the tale about the monkey’s paw is not more truthful than those he has been telling us,” said Herbert, as the door closed behind their guest, just in time for him to catch the last train, “we sha’n’t make much out of it.”

  “Did you give him anything for it, father?” inquired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely.

  “A trifle,” said he, coloring sl
ightly. “He didn’t want it, but I made him take it. And he pressed me again to throw it away.”

  “Likely,” said Herbert, with pretended horror. “Why, we’re going to be rich, and famous, and happy. Wish to be an emperor, father, to begin with; then you can’t be henpecked.”

  He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White armed with an antimacassar.

  Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. “I don’t know what to wish for, and that’s a fact,” he said, slowly. “It seems to me I’ve got all I want.”

  “If you only cleared the house, you’d be quite happy, wouldn’t you?” said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder.

  “Well, wish for two hundred pounds, then; that’ll just do it.”

  His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the talisman, as his son, with a solemn face somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords.

  “I wish for two hundred pounds,” said the old man, distinctly.

  A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran towards him.

  “It moved,” he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor. “As I wished, it twisted in my hands like a snake.”

  “Well, I don’t see the money,” said his son as he picked it up and placed it on the table, “and I bet I never shall.”

  “It must have been your fancy, father,” said his wife, regarding him anxiously.

  He shook his head. “Never mind, though; there’s no harm done, but it gave me a shock all the same.”

  They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night.