There are some conditions I must ask you to agree to before opening this package:
First, understand that it is not a gift, but a loan. I will, at a time of my choosing, ask you to return these items. On that point, I need your solemn promise that you will protect them at all cost, and treat them with the same care and respect you would afford any item of tremendous value.
Second, the contents of this package are of an extremely sensitive nature. I must ask that you not share or discuss them with anyone other than myself and the eleven individuals listed opposite until you have received my permission to do so.
Third, these items are being lent to you with the expectation that you will write a manuscript about them, of, let us say, substantial length, and subject to my approval. You may take as much time as you wish. Upon the satisfactory completion of this manuscript, you will be fairly compensated.
If you cannot meet any of these conditions for any reason, please stop and wait to be contacted by me. However, if you agree, then you may proceed.
I believe it is your purpose to do so.
—H
Well, shit… there was no way I wasn’t opening it now.
I tore the paper off, uncovering a bundle of letters held tightly by a red rubber band, and ten leather-bound books. I opened the book at the top of the pile. As I did, a lock of blonde hair fell onto the desk. I picked it up, studied it, and twirled it in my fingers as I read a random sliver from the pages it’d been pressed between:
… wish I could but vanish from this earth, for there is no love left in it. She has been taken from me, and with her, all hope of a…
I skimmed through the rest of the first book, spellbound. Somewhere upstairs, a woman was listing off the names of counties. Pages and pages—every inch filled with tightly packed handwriting. With dates like November 6th, 1835; June 3rd, 1841. With drawings and lists. With names like Speed, Berry, and Salem. With a word that kept showing up, over and over:
Vampire.
The other books were the same. Only the dates and penmanship changed. I skimmed them all.
… there that I saw, for the first time, men and children sold as… precautions, for we knew that Baltimore was teeming with… was a sin I could not forgive. I was forced to demote the…
Two things were obvious: they were all written by the same person, and they were all very, very old. Beyond that, I had no idea what they were, or what would’ve compelled Henry to lend them to me. And then I came across the first page of the first book, and those seven absurd words: This is the Journal of Abraham Lincoln. I laughed out loud.
It all made sense. I was amazed. Completely, kicked-in-the-teeth amazed. Not because I was holding the Great Emancipator’s long-lost journal in my hands, but because I had so thoroughly misjudged a man. I’d taken Henry’s quietness to mean he was reclusive. I’d taken his fleeting interest in my life to mean he was outgoing. But now it was obvious. The dude was clearly out of his mind. Either that, or messing with mine. Playing some kind of hoax—the kind that rich guys with too much time on their hands play. But then, it couldn’t be a hoax, could it? Who would go through this much trouble? Or was it—was this Henry’s own abandoned novel? An elaborately packaged writing project? Now I felt terrible. Yes. Yes, of course that’s what it was. I looked through the books again, expecting to see little hints of the twenty-first century. Little cracks in the armor. There weren’t any—at least as far as I could tell on first glance. Besides, something kept nagging at me: if this was a pet writing project, why the eleven names and addresses? Why had Henry asked me to write about the books, instead of asking me to rewrite them? The needle began to lean toward “crazy” again. Was it possible? Did he really believe that these ten little books were the—no, he couldn’t possibly believe that. Right?
I couldn’t wait to tell my wife. Couldn’t wait to share the sheer insanity of this with someone else. In a long line of small town psychos, this guy took the cake. I stood, gathered the books and letters, crushed the cigarette under my heel, and turned to—
Something was standing six inches from me.
I staggered backward and tripped over the folding chair, falling and banging the back of my head against the corner of the old tanker desk. My eyes were thrown out of focus. I could already feel the warmth of the blood running through my hair. Something leaned over me. Its eyes were a pair of black marbles. Its skin a translucent collage of pulsing blue veins. And its mouth—its mouth could barely contain its wet, glassy fangs.
It was Henry.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I just need you to understand.”
He lifted me off the ground by my collar. I could feel the blood running down the back of my neck.
I fainted.
Have a good one. See you next time.
III
I’ve been instructed not to get into the specifics of where Henry took me that night, or what he showed me. Suffice it to say it made me physically ill. Not from any horrors I may have witnessed, but from the guilt that I’d been a party to them, willing or not.
I was with him for less than an hour. In that short time, my understanding of the world was torn down to its foundation. The way I thought about death, and space, and God… all irrevocably changed. In that short time, I came to believe—in no uncertain terms—something that would’ve sounded insane only an hour before:
Vampires exist.
I didn’t sleep for a week—first from terror, then excitement. I stayed late at the store every night, poring over Abraham Lincoln’s books and letters. Checking their incredible claims against the hard “facts” of heralded Lincoln biographies. I papered the basement walls with printouts of old photographs. Time lines. Family trees. I wrote into the early morning hours.
For the first two months, my wife was concerned. For the second two she was suspicious. By the sixth month we’d separated. I feared for my safety. My children’s safety. My sanity. I had so many questions, but Henry was nowhere to be found. Eventually I worked up the courage to interview the eleven “individuals” on his list. Some were merely reluctant. Others hostile. But with their help (begrudging as it was), I slowly began to stitch together the hidden history of vampires in America. Their role in the birth, growth, and near death of our nation. And the one man who saved that nation from their tyranny.
For some seventeen months, I sacrificed everything for those ten leather-bound books. That bundle of letters held tightly by a red rubber band. In some ways they were the best months of my life. Every morning, I woke up on that inflatable mattress in the store basement with a purpose. With the knowledge that I was doing something truly important, even if I was doing it completely, desperately alone. Even if I’d lost my mind.
Vampires exist. And Abraham Lincoln was one of the greatest vampire hunters of his age. His journal—beginning in his twelfth year and continuing to the day of his assassination—is an altogether astonishing, heartbreaking, and revolutionary document. One that casts new light on many of the seminal events in American history and adds immeasurable complexity to a man already thought to be unusually complex.
There are more than 15,000 books about Lincoln. His childhood. His mental health. His sexuality. His views on race, religion, and litigation. Most of them contain a great deal of truth. Some have even hinted at the existence of a “secret diary” and an “obsession with the occult.” Yet not one of them contains a single word concerning the central struggle of his life. A struggle that eventually spilled onto the battlefields of the Civil War.
It turns out that the towering myth of Honest Abe, the one ingrained in our earliest grade school memories, is inherently dishonest. Nothing more than a patchwork of half-truths and omissions.
What follows nearly ruined my life.
What follows, at last, is the truth.
—Seth Grahame-Smith
Rhinebeck, New York
January 2010
PART I
BOY
ONE
Exceptional Child
In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares.
—Abraham Lincoln, in a letter to Fanny McCullogh
December 23rd, 1862
I
The boy had been crouched so long that his legs had fallen asleep beneath him—but he dared not move now. For here, in a small clearing in the frostbitten forest, were the creatures he had waited so long to see. The creatures he’d been sent to kill. He bit down on his lip to keep his teeth from chattering, and aimed his father’s flintlock rifle exactly as he’d been taught. The body, he remembered. The body, not the neck. Quietly, carefully he pulled the hammer back and pointed the barrel at his target, a large male who’d fallen behind the others. Decades later, the boy would recall what happened next.
I hesitated. Not out of a conflict of conscience, but for the fear that my rifle had gotten too wet, and thus wouldn’t fire. However, this fear proved unfounded, for when I pulled the trigger, the stock hit my shoulder with such force as to knock me clean onto my back.
Turkeys scattered in every direction as Abraham Lincoln, seven years old, picked himself off the snow-covered ground. Rising to his feet, he brought his fingers to the strange warmth he felt on his chin. “I’d bitten my lip clean through,” he wrote. “But I hardly gave a holler. I was desperate to know if I had hit the poor devil or not.”
He had. The large male flapped its wings wildly, pushing itself through the snow in small circles. Abe watched from a distance, “afraid it might somehow rise up and tear me to pieces.” The flapping of wings; the dragging of feathers through snow. These were the only sounds in the world. They were joined by the crunching beneath Abe’s feet as he found his nerve and approached. The wings beat less forcefully now.
It was dying.
He had shot it clean through the neck. The head hung at an unnatural angle—dragged across the ground as the bird continued to thrash. The body, not the neck. With every beat of its heart, blood poured from the wound and onto the snow, where it mixed with the dark droplets from Abe’s bleeding lip and the tears that had already begun to fall down his face.
It gasped for breath, but could draw none, and its eyes wore a kind of fear I had never seen. I stood over the miserable bird for what seemed a twelvemonth, pleading with God to make its wings fall silent. Begging His forgiveness for so injuring a creature that had shown me no malice; presented no threat to my person or prosperity. Finally it was still, and, plucking up my courage, I dragged it through a mile of forest and laid it at my mother’s feet—my head hung low so as to hide my tears.
Abraham Lincoln would never take another life. And yet he would become one of the greatest killers of the nineteenth century.
The grieving boy didn’t sleep a wink that night. “I could think only of the injustice I had done another living thing, and the fear I had seen in its eyes as the promise of life slipped away.” Abe refused to eat any part of his kill, and lived on little more than bread as his mother, father, and older sister picked the carcass clean over the next two weeks. There is no record of their reaction to this hunger strike, but it must have been seen as eccentric. After all, to willingly go without food, as a matter of principle, was a remarkable choice for anyone in those days—particularly a boy who had been born and raised on America’s frontier.
But then, Abe Lincoln had always been different.
America was still in its infancy when the future president was born on February 12th, 1809—a mere thirty-three years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Many of the giants of the American Revolution—Robert Treat Paine, Benjamin Rush, and Samuel Chase—were still alive. John Adams and Thomas Jefferson wouldn’t resume their tumultuous friendship for another three years, and wouldn’t die for another seventeen—incredibly, on the same day. The Fourth of July.
Those first American decades were ones of seemingly limitless growth and opportunity. By the time Abe Lincoln was born, residents of Boston and Philadelphia had seen their cities double in size in less than twenty years. New York’s population had tripled in the same amount of time. The cities were becoming livelier, more prosperous. “For every farmer, there are two haberdashers; for every blacksmith, an opera house,” joked Washington Irving in his New York periodical, Salmagundi.
But as the cities became more crowded, they became more dangerous. Like their counterparts in London, Paris, and Rome, America’s city dwellers had come to expect a certain amount of crime. Theft was by far the most common offense. With no fingerprints on file or cameras to fear, thieves were limited only by their conscience and cunning. Muggings hardly warranted a mention in the local papers, unless the victim was a person of note.
There’s a story of an elderly widow named Agnes Pendel Brown, who lived with her longtime butler (nearly as old as she, and deaf as a stone) in a three-story brick mansion on Amsterdam Avenue. On December 2nd, 1799, Agnes and her butler turned in for the night—he on the first floor, she on the third. When they awoke the next morning, every piece of furniture, every work of art, every gown, serving dish, and candlestick holder (candles included) was gone. The only things the light-footed burglars left were the beds in which Agnes and her butler slept.