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The Vampire at the Inn

An Ancient Chinese Horror Tale

By Tom BakerPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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Once upon a time, there were four noble Buddhist monks, each a dedicated mendicant, all traveling together to get from one impoverished village to another. As they went, they spread the doctrine wherever their sandaled feet fell.

One night they were too tired to continue, so, spying a lonely inn in the distance, they decided they should bed down for the night beneath its warm and inviting roof. They came to the door, knocked, and reclined on their walking sticks, waiting for an answer.

A strange, nervous man came to the door. He said, "Most gracious and honorable sirs! I regret that we have no room here for four men such as yourselves, as every room is taken, and every bed occupied. The only place I have for you is the barn. But, I must warn you: my daughter is there, resting!"

Not being at all proud or picky, the men replied that they would gladly sleep in the barn until morning, and then be on their way. So, picking up their packs, they went into the dark, yawning mouth of the old barn.

There, behind a silk curtain, lie the form of a young girl. They each called out to her, but she did not respond. The youngest monk, feeling suddenly ill, raced back to the inn and hammered on the door.

"Sir!" he cried, "We have called out to your daughter, but she does not respond! Why is that?"

And the innkeeper said, "Because she is shy, and so is happier to remain quiet. That is why!"

And, accepting this answer, the young monk went back to the barn. There, using his walking stick, he prodded the body of the young girl. She still failed to rouse herself to wakefulness.

The young monk, once more, raced back to bang on the door and alert the innkeeper.

"Sir! I prodded your daughter with my walking stick, but she did not move!"

And to this, the innkeeper replied, "It is because she is drunk, and so has passed out! That is why."

And the young monk returned to the barn. Now, he took a small mirror he had secreted on his person and placed it beneath the nose of the girl. To his horror, the mirror did not mist over.

Racing back once more to the inn, he banged on the door to rouse the innkeeper yet again. The old man finally threw up his hands and said, "Oh, alright! I'll tell you why! My daughter is dead!"

Disturbed, but not especially fearful of dead bodies, the young monk went back to the barn, where his fellow monks had already bedded down upon their sleeping mats.

The young monk unrolled his own mat, lying down. First, though, he made sure to place upon his chest a small scroll with a Buddhist prayer written on it.

It was not long before he was asleep, in the land of troubling dreams. He was awakened, though, a short time later. He could hear a sound that sounded like steam escaping from a kettle.

"Has someone made tea?" he asked himself. Then he spied a strange shadow floating over him. He gasped in horror.

The dead girl stared down at him with blazing eyes and dripping fangs. Her long, skeletal fingers had grown long, claw-like nails. She hissed her foul breath in his face.

He closed his eyes in terror of the foul thing. It bent as if to sink its claws into his flesh. It was stopped, however, by the power of the scroll upon his chest.

Realizing that trying to sup from this victim was futile, she went instead for his companions. He watched in horror as, one by one, she sunk her long, killing claws into their flesh, and then bent to drink their blood.

Getting up, he bolted from the barn, racing out through the trees. To his horror, he looked back and could see the foul thing close behind, closing in on him with her killing claws. Again and again, she came within mere inches of skewering him with her long, sharp fingernails. He ran onward, hoping to make it to the inn.

He hid behind a tree. Thwack! The sound of those long, sharp fingernails being driven into the tree trunk set him running again.

Finally, he made it to the inn. Telling the innkeeper about what was happening, they both bolted the door, watching in terrified suspense the rest of the night.

The next morning they crept from the inn. In the daylight, they knew, such a revenant could do them no harm. Finally, they found the tree where the terrible, blood-drinking ghost had died. It had driven its spikey nails into the tree and had been unable to free itself. Thus, it died at dawn.

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About the Creator

Tom Baker

Author of Haunted Indianapolis, Indiana Ghost Folklore, Midwest Maniacs, Midwest UFOs and Beyond, Scary Urban Legends, 50 Famous Fables and Folk Tales, and Notorious Crimes of the Upper Midwest.: http://tombakerbooks.weebly.com

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