With cat-like tread, lit by a flickering lamp,
  They nervously crept down the slippery stair.
  The crypt below was clammy, cold and damp;
  A stench of death hung in the choking air.
  Coffins and skulls were scattered everywhere,
  As though the thing had thrown them in a rage,
  While looking for a living being down there,
  Among dry bones and perished cartilage, 
His searing thirst for fresh blood to assuage.

  One coffin, in the carnage, was intact,
  So Edward, knowing well what he must do,
  Battered the coffin 'till the woodwork cracked.
  Slowly he opened it, fearing to view
  The sunken face, the mouldering tissue,
  The bloody fangs, the long hair black as soot,
  The ancient clothing rotted with mildew,
  And, proving how accurately he could shoot,
A bullet in a fresh wound in the creature's foot.

  He took a stake and drove it through its heart;
  At which the evil creature writhed and screamed,
  Then shrivelled to its human counterpart:
  The withered corpse of an old man who seemed
  Feeble and harmless. Nonetheless, they deemed
  It wise to accomplish what the books require
  For the old man's mortal soul to be redeemed.
  So while the priest said prayers they raised a pyre
And burned the creature's body in the cleansing fire.   
   
  Now, though the Cumbrian moor is just as bleak,
  There is a haven there called Croglin Hall.
  It is a pleasant place: rambling, antique,
  And, these days, full of happiness withal;
  And if Amelia ever should recall
  That terrifying Summer, long ago,
  She hardly knows if it were real at all,
  Or just a nightmare's feverish tableau,
So thoroughly Time heals the darkest depths of woe.