The House of the Vampire: Magical Creatures, A Weiser Books Collection

By George Sylvester Viereck and Varla Ventura

Varla Ventura, fan favorite on Huffington Post’s Weird News, frequent guest on Coast to Coast, and bestselling author of The Book of the Bizarre and Beyond Bizarre, introduces a new Weiser Books Collection of forgotten crypto-classics. Magical Creatures is a hair-raising herd of affordable digital editions, curated with Varla’s affectionate and unerring eye for the fantastic.

The House of the Vampire was the first vampire novel to address the terrors of psychic vampires (non-bloodsuckers). The author, George Sylvester Viereck, was friends with Nikola Tesla (whose studies in the world of energy may have inspired the idea of psychic vampirism) and published a regular periodical, The Fatherland, to which Aliester Crowley was one of the many contributors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Wheel Weiser
• Release date: Jun 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781619400818

Book preview

Family Secrets

Recently I was entertaining a visit from my older sister and her daughter when certain family secrets came to the candlelit table. My niece Vivienne (yes, they picked the V in honor of me!) has been living in New Orleans since she graduated from college a few years back, spending a great deal of time cavorting with the ghosts, voodoo queens, and vampires that roam the streets and host endless parties. She is a bit of a chip off the ol' Ventura block: that is to say my mother, my sisters, and I all have a good solid love of cemetery picnics, macabre stories, and horror flicks. Naturally, I'm terribly proud of her wicked ways, and when we began discussing my current writing projects, she nearly fell from her chair when I mentioned Viereck's vampire story, The House of the Vampire. Auntie V! she exclaimed, That is the first story ever to talk about actual living vampires—psychic vampires!

I was admittedly impressed that she was so familiar with this work that I had only recently stumbled upon, so I implored her for her own little review that I could include in the introduction. I think you'll agree with me and Vivienne when you finish Viereck's novel. Vampires are very, very real, and the odds are you have encountered at least one. In most cases garlic won't do it—you'll need a solid foundation, self-esteem, and some serious psychic screening to really combat them. All of these, if I may brag, my beautiful niece possesses in spades. And the secret on the table that night? Well, my sister and I exchanged knowing glances, understanding a tidbit that little Viv was still unaware of. It came as no surprise to us that Vivienne had such a passion for the vampire: her father (rest his soul) was one.

Vivienne writes:

We all know vampires. They are creatures of the night whose undead existence depends on leeching the blood from sleeping maidens; they are darkly attractive individuals with come-hither stares that can reach into your soul from across the room. They are looming figures with skin the color of wilted mushrooms, canines as sharp as knives, and demeanors as silent and calm as a graveyard after snowfall. At night, as we lie in bed reassuring ourselves that vampires are metaphors for victims of The Plague or fairy tales told to frighten virgins, we clutch the blankets a little tighter with every flap of a bat wing or hoot of an owl our strained hearing perceives beyond our windowpane. They do not exist, we tell ourselves, if they did we'd see the puncture wounds on our necks, the bloodstains on our pillowcases. But what if vampires sucked and drained away at our life's essence by some other, more subtle means? What if they commandeered our very thoughts? Perhaps there are no bloodsucking vampires, but what of psychic vampires? Do you ever find yourself exhausted without reason or your mind's train of thought suddenly disrupted? Suspicious don't you think? Deeply unsettling for certain. I dare say they're out there, far more inconspicuous than those bloodsuckers of traditional lore, and they're hungry. Very hungry. The first to explore the notion of psychic vampirism, George Sylvester Viereck shares with us The House of the Vampire.

IN FAMILIAL FREAKITUDE,

VARLA AND VIVIENNE VENTURA

SAN FRANCISCO AND NEW ORLEANS, 2012

The House of the Vampire

TO MY MOTHER

I

The freakish little leader of the orchestra, newly imported from Sicily to New York, tossed his conductor's wand excitedly through the air, drowning with musical thunders the hum of conversation and the clatter of plates.

Yet neither his apish demeanour nor the deafening noises that responded to every movement of his agile body detracted attention from the figure of Reginald Clarke and the young man at his side as they smilingly wound their way to the exit.

The boy's expression was pleasant, with an inkling of wistfulness, while the soft glimmer of his lucid eyes betrayed the poet and the dreamer. The smile of Reginald Clarke was the smile of a conqueror. A suspicion of silver in his crown of dark hair only added dignity to his bearing, while the infinitely ramified lines above the heavy-set mouth spoke at once of subtlety and of strength. Without stretch of the imagination one might have likened him to a Roman cardinal of the days of the Borgias, who had miraculously stepped forth from the time-stained canvas and slipped into twentieth century evening-clothes.

With the affability of complete self-possession he nodded in response to greetings from all sides, inclining his head with special politeness to a young woman whose sea-blue eyes were riveted upon his features with a look of mingled hate and admiration.

The woman, disregarding his silent salutation, continued to stare at him wild-eyed, as a damned soul in purgatory might look at Satan passing in regal splendour through the seventy times sevenfold circles of hell.

Reginald Clarke walked on unconcernedly through the rows of gay diners, still smiling, affable, calm. But his companion bethought himself of certain rumours he had heard concerning Ethel Brandenbourg's mad love for the man from whose features she could not even now turn her eyes. Evidently her passion was unreciprocated. It had not always been so. There was a time in her career, some years ago in Paris, when it was whispered that she had secretly married him and, not much later, obtained a divorce. The matter was never cleared up, as both preserved an uncompromising silence upon the subject of their matrimonial experience. Certain it was that, for a space, the genius of Reginald Clarke had completely dominated her brush, and that, ever since he had thrown her aside, her pictures were but plagiarisms of her former artistic self.

The cause of the rupture between them was a matter only of surmise; but the effect it had on the woman testified clearly to the remarkable power of Reginald Clarke. He had entered her life and, behold! the world was transfixed on her canvases in myriad hues of transcending radiance; he had passed from it, and with him vanished the brilliancy of her colouring, as at sunset the borrowed amber and gold fade from the face of the clouds.

The glamour of Clarke's name may have partly explained the secret of his charm, but, even in circles where literary fame is no passport, he could, if he chose, exercise an almost terrible fascination. Subtle and profound, he had ransacked the coffers of mediæval dialecticians and plundered the arsenals of the Sophists. Many years later, when the vultures of misfortune had swooped down upon him, and his name was no longer mentioned without a sneer, he was still remembered in New York drawing-rooms as the man who had brought to perfection the art of talking. Even to dine with him was a liberal education.

Clarke's marvellous conversational power was equalled only by his marvellous style. Ernest Fielding's heart leaped in him at the thought that henceforth he would be privileged to live under one roof with the only writer of his generation who could lend to the English language the rich strength and rugged music of the Elizabethans.

Reginald Clarke was a master of many instruments. Milton's mighty organ was no less obedient to his touch than the little lute of the troubadour. He was never the same; that was his strength. Clarke's style possessed at once the chiselled chasteness of a Greek marble column and the elaborate deviltry of the late Renaissance. At times his winged words seemed to flutter down the page frantically like Baroque angels; at other times nothing could have more adequately described his manner than the timeless calm of the gaunt pyramids.

The two men had reached the street. Reginald wrapped his long spring coat round him.

I shall expect you to-morrow at four, he said.

The tone of his voice was deep and melodious, suggesting hidden depths and cadences.

I shall be punctual.

The younger man's voice trembled as he spoke.

I look forward to your coming with much pleasure. I am interested in you.

The glad blood mounted to Ernest's cheeks at praise from the austere lips of this arbiter of literary elegance.

An almost imperceptible smile crept over the other

Reviews for The House of the Vampire

[lgandt · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I listened to this once before, thought it was alright, but listened to it again and enjoyed it much better the second time around. I loved the setting mostly.

[vombatiformes · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The House of the Vampire is a truly strange book -- purportedly one of the first "psychic vampire" novels, where the vampire does not feed on blood but rather the creative "energy" of its victims. Reginald Clarke, adored and respected within his community, is a predator that encourages the young men under his tutelage to create beautiful masterpieces which he then steals -- before they can be produced. The images and words are taken from their minds, and Reginald grows stronger and more confident with each feeding. When he steals the idea for a successful play from a young man, his secret begins to be discovered, and there is an extremely interesting homoerotic subtext to this that is difficult to overlook. The power dynamic between Reginald and his subjects is horrifying, and the helplessness he creates is even moreso. This isn't your typical vampire story, but it evokes a lot of the same themes that the vampire reader has become familiar with -- and branches off in some different directions that you might not expect. Having grown used to the standard bloodthirsty-monster version of the vampire, I didn't think I would enjoy The House of the Vampire very much, but I actually found it really refreshing and fun to dissect. It's a short book and the writing isn't very dense, so if you consider yourself a vampire fan but haven't gotten around to this one yet, you should do yourself a favor.

[arkrayder · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was an okay story. The “vampire” of the tale is certainly unique. All I will say is he is not the blood sucking kind and thankfully not the Edward Cullen kind either. A major mark against this author is his nazism which I didn’t learn of until after reading this on the Serial app.

[justabookreader · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I’ve been over the vampire thing for a bit but every once in awhile an old school one finds me and I can’t help but read it. While looking on the Gutenberg Project for some horror recently, I found this one. Let me tell you, there’s nothing like a Victorian, Gothic, psychic vampire. Reginald Clarke is a man everyone loves. He’s talented in every way and people crave his company. Artists flock to him and he takes in writers, musicians, and painters to his home. But something happens to all these talented people --- they soon leave him with nothing, not a trace of the talent they arrived with. A young writer staying with Reginald, and for all purposes,under his spell, figures it out and tries to get out from under Reginald’s enchantment. The House of the Vampire is good and creepy and the type of vampire story I want more of. There’s no blood and certainly no sparkling going on here. Let’s all take a moment to be thankful for that. It’s an interesting concept, a psychic vampire, and frankly one that’s more terrifying, in some ways, than an actual blood sucking vampire. This is someone stealing who and what you are. Taking it for himself and using it to his advantage until there’s nothing left of you. You are a shell of a human being with nothing to give or take from anyone. Think about that.If Wikipedia is correct, this short story was written in 1907 but it feels younger than its 100 + years.