Mr. Wallace was known for his volubility. He, however, ignored the fusillade of questions shot at him from across the table. “What happened?” What had happened? Wallace wasn’t entirely sure, even now, what had happened. He dreamt of it; he did nothing but think of it, for it would not abscond his every waking thought, but he could not put into words this experience.

The Investigator stared at Mr. Wallace with a glare when he did not answer. The man seemed supercilious in his silence. The Investigator sipped his vermouth, intent on riding out the quiet until Mr. Wallace brought it upon himself to fill it. Wallace stared down at the table that was moored to the floor with rusted screws; the dust and floor-gunk seemed more apt to hold it.

“You’ll think me a prevaricator.” The Investigator sighed and shook his head.

“I just want to hear your story.” Mr. Wallace shuddered and moved to hug himself. Another few moments of silence before he glanced up at the Investigator and began again. “Even to me it’s inscrutable.”

“Try your best. You seem rather sagacious.” Wallace paused again.

“I had my gaberdine on, heading to the family sepulcher that’s located at the back of the family estate. I find it sort of edifying there. The chapel is empty and silent. Nothing like my busy life.”

“That’s quite enough confabs. Could you get to the point please, Mr. Wallace?” The Investigator cut in. Wallace lifted his head from staring at nothing to look at him.

“Oh yes,” he stuttered, bumbling his words about in a drollery fashion. He pat his face with a kerchief, dabbing at the nervous sweat that accumulated. “I was praying, speaking to my family; my first wife was buried there when she died years ago. I was whispering in there, when a great hullabaloo started up behind me. I turned… I… I turned. There was a somnambulist there… in the door way,” he muttered out slowly. He continued to dab at his face with the cloth, but it became more of a thoughtful, subconscious action than one of need. His hands began to shake, and his shoulders shivered. His eyes turned to glass as he thought. “They said no words, just came towards me in a lugubrious fashion, tottering about without much balance. Then I caught it: a pestiferous smell. It was horrid. Nothing… nothing can describe it.”

Mr. Wallace stopped to breathe deeply. He swiped his napkin across his forehead, relieving it of perspiration as his eyes darted around the room. There was not much there. Just the table and the chair his sat in along with the Investigator, a locked door, and a barred window. Wallace’s fingers twitched on the table where he set them, nervously wringing the moist kerchief between his hands.

“Mr. Wallace? Are you feeling alright?” Wallace swallowed thickly, trying to pull himself together.

“What? Yes. Quite. Quite alright,” he muttered unintelligently, returning the kerchief to his face to continue with his dabbing.

“Would you like to continue with your story?” The Investigator tried to be polite. He tried to stay calm. Mr. Wallace seemed very close to needing medical attention, and the Investigator was very close to calling for it. Wallace nodded silently.

“The… thing. It was moribund, decayed. It tumbled towards me and attacked.” He paused to catch his breath. “It… bit me. Strangest thing. It bit me.” He scratched lightly at his upper arm and chuckled in disbelief. “This… sound that it made was terrible. It just gurgled and groaned.” Mr. Wallace paused, wiping at his mouth delicately as he shuddered. “It was rapacious. It grabbed me and tried to get me again. I fought it off… I beat it with a broken pew. With all my might,” he slurred in disbelief, staring down at his hands as if he had just experienced it a few minutes ago, “I hit it with that piece of timber, and it never stayed down. I must have broken bones, I heard them! I heard them! Yet, still it persisted! It came at me again and again on broken bones and limbs as if it could not be stopped!” He wept, his eyes wide and his body shaking. The convulsions became violent, sending him to the floor in a heap as he pulled his body into a tight ball. He sweat and convulsed while the Investigator stared with wide, confused eyes. The man was in hysterics; maybe he was having a heart attack? The Investigator rushed to the invalid, pulling him from free of his fetal grasp on himself.

Carefully, the Investigator placed his head on the man’s chest, listening for a heartbeat. That’s when he caught it: a pestiferous smell. By then, though, it was too late. Mr. Wallace gurgled and groaned, words no longer able to form in his throat as he attacked rapaciously, digging his teeth into the Investigator. The table was moored to the floor; the chair was behind him. The Investigator could not pry himself Mr. Wallace’s moribund grip.

This was for an English assignment. We had to read Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad and mark all the words we didn't know, find their meanings and do something creatve to show that we learned them. The words in italics are my words. I don't usually post schoolwork, but I was pretty proud of this one. For some reason, everyone thought that Wallace got attacked by a vampire, but it's actually a zombie. Ah well. Thanks for reading!