The tall man in a hat had been seen several times. People knew he was there; the hoards of wannabe occultists who had been descending on the cemetery for the past 3 years had witnessed the figure stalking the wide grave-lined paths towards Egyptian Avenue, only to vanish into thin air. Many locals suspected these were just the fancies of bored and stoned teenagers getting wrapped up by the ensuing media frenzy, but I know better.
But my encounter with the creature now known to the world as “the Highgate Vampire” was more than a mere flight of fancy. I hope you will forgive the absurdity of my tale, but I feel I must unburden myself for the good of my soul.
My mother had passed away just a few years earlier — she was not particularly elderly but had been very ill for some time and her ending has been particularly unpleasant. I had been too much of a coward to see her in her final days and when the phone call had come from the hospital to say she had finally succumbed, I felt a horrible weight of guilt that has not lifted even now. My father had been dead for some time and I had no siblings, meaning that I had to take a few weeks away from work to make the arrangements for the service. She had few friends left and much of the extended family we had had long moved away from London, so the funeral was small. I said a few words about how she had loved gardening, volunteered at the local church and had been a WAAF during the war. Then she had been laid to rest in a plot in Highgate West cemetery. This had cost me a pretty penny, even on an accountant’s salary, but she loved this place, found it tranquil and uplifting, and so I felt obliged to have her buried there. I, on the other hand, found it strange and creepy, with it’s odd structures and catacombs. It seemed to attract strange visitors, the likes of which I would rather avoid. Once the funeral was over, I laid flowers on her grave, said my goodbyes and never came back.
That remained the case until February 1969. I was at my office when I received the phone call. A journalist from the London Evening News was investigating reports of grave robbing incidents across North London. Those undesirables I talked about — strange people who watch too many films and had overactive imaginations — had been visiting the Victorian cemeteries in the middle of the night, had dug up graves, bodies had been disturbed, remains desecrated and so on. I found it all rather unsettling and had no idea what this had to do with me.
“Your mother is Edith Thornton, is she not?” The young man enquired. My blood ran cold. He explained in rather too much detail what had happened and I was so shocked I could only recall snippets of information — flowers had been arranged in circular patterns and chalk occult symbols were drawn on the ground, dead animals were arranged on the floor, their blood strewn about the place, and at the centre was my mother’s burial plot. She had been exhumed and an iron stake had been driven through the coffin into her chest. I thought I might faint. The young man asked if we could meet to discuss the matter further, which I agreed to, but my first reaction was to contact the police. Why hadn’t I been informed about this sooner? What on earth were they thinking? I gave the officer quite the dressing down over the phone and demanded answers. I excused myself from work and immediately made my way to Highgate.
It was chilly and late in the afternoon, the sun beginning to set. As I arrived at the gates of the cemetery, I strongly recall the ethereal orange and purple light in the sky descending beneath the trees, with stars and a bright full moon beginning to be visible in the twilight. It was beautiful yet made me uneasy, and my fury at being kept in the dark about what had happened to my mother’s grave boiled inside me. The police officer was meant to meet me at the west gate but had not arrived. The man at the gate greeted me cordially and asked if he could be of any assistance and advised me that the cemetery would be closing soon. As patiently as I could, I regaled what the journalist had told me and his expression changed. He apologised profusely and genuinely; he told me that my mother had not been the only one subjected to the ritual, that the police had been called on several occasions to similar instances in the past few weeks and that security had been tightened. I looked at the man, who must’ve been pushing 70, and the small perimeter fence littered with holes and removed sections, and I became suspicious of how tight this supposed security could be. Another 10 minutes passed and still the police did not arrive. I asked if he could at least show me to the grave so I could see the situation for myself.
“I’m sorry sir but I can’t do that,” he said flatly. “It’s an active crime scene and… well… I don’t dare go in there with it getting dark and all.”
This was impertinent. How could a man who works at a cemetery be afraid to go in? Ridiculous. I told him I would take myself in there if he would point to me on the map where I might find it. He was unsure but my frustration and ire were clearly visible, so he let me go.
“You’ll need this,” he said, handing me a makeshift crucifix. I gave him a look of incredulity but as he was so insistent, I took it anyway and made my way to the colonnade, up the steps and along the paths towards the northerly part of the cemetery.
Although it was quiet, there was a chill wind in the air that whistled between the trees and the grand Victorian monuments. At least in my rational mind I believed it to be the wind, but it sounded more akin to whispering voices. I could’ve sworn that despite the late hour I could hear the faint peeling of bells but St Michael’s church, which loomed over the north quarter of the cemetery, was too close for such a faint and eerie sound. Small clouds of mist began to roll in from between the sepulchres as I made my way up Cuttings Road towards the Egyptian Gate. I recalled a time my mother had bought me here as a child, the stories she had told me of the way the Victorians celebrated and venerated death to the extent that their resting places had become opulent feats of architecture. I didn’t care for it and I especially disliked the Egyptian Avenue and Lebanon Circle, the catacombs overgrown with ivy; they felt unwelcoming and strange, as if my presence angered an unseen force. But I was only a child then; I was an adult now and there was no reason to be afraid. Why was it then that when my eyes first laid upon the towering obelisks did I immediately feel an urge to leave, or that I was in danger? I should’ve listened to my instincts and turned back — then perhaps I would’ve avoided what lay in store.
It was now dark and the only light was from the brightness of the full moon. I stood in front of the gate, knowing I must walk along Egyptian Avenue, cross a quarter of the Lebanon Circle and up a set of stairs to reach the burial plot. But I froze. The strange sounds that had plagued my walk became more pronounced, as if unsen crowds were whispering all around me. I took a deep breath, tried to steady my nerves and approached the arch. Despite the light of the moon, the arbour of ivy and climbers made the Egyptian Avenue dark and terrifying. The sealed catacombs along the walls, containing the remains of long deceased persons, loomed terrifyingly in the dark. I picked up my pace to get to the other side — the Lebanon Circle — but felt as if I were being followed or watched. When I reached the end of the avenue and was back in the safety of the moonlight, I stopped to catch my breath. I turned around and looked back and felt silly — it’s just the dark and your mind is playing tricks on you, I chided. It was that moment I knew something was horribly wrong.
I turned to face the catacombs in the centre of the Lebanon Circle; one of the doors was not just open, but gone. These were normally sealed and could only be unlocked with a special key, but this one looked as if there were no door at all. Around the frame, symbols had been drawn in what looked like a mixture of chalk and blood. On the floor, there were trinkets, including dozens of burnt out candles, more strange symbols and a dead bird with a slit throat. I stumbled back in horror, tripped and fell backwards to the ground. That was when I saw it. From the blackness of the catacomb, I saw what looked like two bright pale eyes open. The whispering sounds ceased — in fact there was no sound at all, not even from the wind, as if I were in a vacuum. The malevolent eyes moved smoothly toward me. I began to make out other features — a pale grey face with a long pointed chin and thin mean lips, a tall tophat, and long flowing black hair that looked as if it were made of mist. The figure was at least 7 feet tall and did not touch the ground, floating as if carried by the air. It stopped, examined the paraphernalia and symbols in the doorway and a cruel smile spread across its mouth as if amused. It continued to move towards me. I tried to move but felt as if I were fixed to the floor. The creature raised it’s right hand and somehow I was propelled upwards to a standing position, suspended in mid air with my feet not touching the ground. With a movement of it’s long spider-like fingers, it bought my face within a few inches of it’s terrifying face without touching me — the creature was transparent like a cloud of thick smoke. I wanted to speak, to yell for help, but my tongue and lips couldn’t move. It moved my face closer and placed it’s cold lips to mine. It was a kiss but not like any I had experienced before; forceful and horrid. My body began to feel weak and numb. It opened its lips wider and forced mine open with it — I felt a long lizard-like tongue in my mouth and going down my throat, its teeth sharp and pointed. It was like energy was leaving my body; my breathing became weak and I started to feel faint. And then it was over. It dropped me to the ground and it’s eyes flashed blue greedily. It turned towards the open catacomb and vanished.
I scrambled to my feet but was weak and dizzy. I stumbled up the steps to where my mother’s burial plot was. Stood in the cordoned off crime scene, as grizzly as the journalist had described, was a police officer who greeted me and said they had been waiting for me. That’s when I fainted and I remember nothing more.
I woke up in hospital. The doctor said I had had a dizzy spell, enquired as to when I had last eaten and if I was in good health. The police officer who had bought me in had waited for me. I tried to explain what had happened but they were clearly not interested. He told me I was in shock, that it was most likely from witnessing the horrific scene at the graveside, and that I shouldn’t listen to the rumour and hearsay that had been swirling in the local press about black magic and ghosts and the like. But I knew what I saw and experienced was real. I consider myself a rational, logical man, Mr Farrant, and am not privy to superstition. But I swear to you it was almost as if some force of terribly evil proportions had actually sought me out with the intention of doing serious harm. I don’t want this to happen to anyone else who may not be so lucky. I had read of your reputation as a psychic investigator of sorts in the Ham & High and I believe you will take my story seriously. I implore you to please go to Highgate, give me your honest assessment of the situation and rid the area of this dangerous force before someone gets hurt. I eagerly await your reply.