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Doom of the House of Duryea

By EARL PEIRCE, JR.

[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales October
1936. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Sidenote: _A powerful story of stark horror, and the dreadful thing
that happened in a lone house in the Maine woods._]


Arthur Duryea, a young, handsome man, came to meet his father for the
first time in twenty years. As he strode into the hotel lobby--long
strides which had the spring of elastic in them--idle eyes lifted to
appraise him, for he was an impressive figure, somehow grim with
exaltation. The desk clerk looked up with his habitual smile of expectation;
how-do-you-do-Mr.-so-and-so, and his fingers strayed to the green
fountain pen which stood in a holder on the desk. Arthur Duryea cleared his throat, but still his voice was clogged and
unsteady. To the clerk he said:

"I'm looking for my father, Doctor Henry Duryea. I understand he is
registered here. He has recently arrived from Paris." The clerk lowered his glance to a list of names. "Doctor Duryea is in
suite 600, sixth floor." He looked up, his eyebrows arched
questioningly. "Are you staying too, sir, Mr. Duryea?" Arthur took the pen and scribbled his name rapidly. Without a further
word, neglecting even to get his key and own room number, he turned and
walked to the elevators. Not until he reached his father's suite on the
sixth floor did he make an audible noise, and this was a mere sigh which
fell from his lips like a prayer. The man who opened the door was unusually tall, his slender frame
clothed in tight-fitting black. He hardly dared to smile. His
clean-shaven face was pale, an almost livid whiteness against the
sparkle in his eyes. His jaw had a bluish luster. "Arthur!" The word was scarcely a whisper. It seemed choked up quietly,
as if it had been repeated time and again on his thin lips. Arthur Duryea felt the kindliness of those eyes go through him, and then
he was in his father's embrace. Later, when these two grown men had regained their outer calm, they
closed the door and went into the drawing-room. The elder Duryea held
out a humidor of fine cigars, and his hand shook so hard when he held
the match that his son was forced to cup his own hands about the flame. They both had tears in their eyes, but their eyes were smiling. Henry Duryea placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "This is the happiest
day of my life," he said. "You can never know how much I have longed for
this moment." Arthur, looking into that glance, realized, with growing pride, that he
had loved his father all his life, despite any of those things which had
been cursed against him. He sat down on the edge of a chair. "I--I don't know how to act," he confessed. "You surprize me, Dad. You're so different from what I had expected." A cloud came over Doctor Duryea's features. "What _did_ you expect,
Arthur?" he demanded quickly. "An evil eye? A shaven head and knotted
jowls?" "Please, Dad--no!" Arthur's words clipped short. "I don't think I ever
really visualized you. I knew you would be a splendid man. But I thought
you'd look older, more like a man who has really suffered." "I have suffered, more than I can ever describe. But seeing you again,
and the prospect of spending the rest of my life with you, has more than
compensated for my sorrows. Even during the twenty years we were apart I
found an ironic joy in learning of your progress in college, and in your
American game of football." "Then you've been following my work?" "Yes, Arthur; I've received monthly reports ever since you left me. From
my study in Paris I've been really close to you, working out your
problems as if they were my own. And now that the twenty years are
completed, the ban which kept us apart is lifted for ever. From now on,
son, we shall be the closest of companions--unless your Aunt Cecilia has
succeeded in her terrible mission." *       *       *       *       *

The mention of that name caused an unfamiliar chill to come between the
two men. It stood for something, in each of them, which gnawed their
minds like a malignancy. But to the younger Duryea, in his intense
effort to forget the awful past, her name as well as her madness must be
forgotten. He had no wish to carry on this subject of conversation, for it betrayed
an internal weakness which he hated. With forced determination, and a
ludicrous lift of his eyebrows, he said,

"Cecilia is dead, and her silly superstition is dead also. From now on,
Dad, we're going to enjoy life as we should. Bygones are really bygones
in this case." Doctor Duryea closed his eyes slowly, as though an exquisite pain had
gone through him. "Then you have no indignation?" he questioned. "You have none of your
aunt's hatred?" "Indignation? Hatred?" Arthur laughed aloud. "Ever since I was twelve
years old I have disbelieved Cecilia's stories. I have known that those
horrible things were impossible, that they belonged to the ancient
category of mythology and tradition. How, then, can I be indignant, and
how can I hate you? How can I do anything but recognize Cecilia for what
she was--a mean, frustrated woman, cursed with an insane grudge against
you and your family? I tell you, Dad, that nothing she has ever said can
possibly come between us again." Henry Duryea nodded his head. His lips were tight together, and the
muscles in his throat held back a cry. In that same soft tone of defense
he spoke further, doubting words. "Are you so sure of your subconscious mind, Arthur? Can you be so
certain that you are free from all suspicion, however vague? Is there
not a lingering premonition--a premonition which warns of peril?" "No, Dad--no!" Arthur shot to his feet. "I don't believe it. I've never
believed it. I know, as any sane man would know, that you are neither a
vampire nor a murderer. You know it, too; and Cecilia knew it, only she
was mad. "That family rot is dispelled, Father. This is a civilized century. Belief in vampirism is sheer lunacy. Wh-why, it's too absurd even to
think about!" "You have the enthusiasm of youth," said his father, in a rather tired
voice. "But have you not heard the legend?" Arthur stepped back instinctively. He moistened his lips, for their
dryness might crack them. "The--legend?" He said the word in a curious hush of awed softness, as he had heard his
Aunt Cecilia say it many times before. "That awful legend that you----"

"That I _eat_ my children?" "Oh, God, Father!" Arthur went to his knees as a cry burst through his
lips. "Dad, that--that's ghastly! We must forget Cecilia's ravings." "You are affected, then?" asked Doctor Duryea bitterly. "Affected? Certainly I'm affected, but only as I should be at such an
accusation. Cecilia was mad, I tell you.