This principle also applies to other scary favorites, such as ghosts and doppelgängers (ghost
doubles or evil twins). We can take it almost as an act of faith that ghosts are about something besides
themselves. That may not be true in naive ghost stories, but most literary ghosts—the kind that occur
in stories of lasting interest—have to do with things beyond themselves. Think of the ghost of
Hamlet’s father when he takes to appearing on the castle ramparts at midnight. He’s not there simply
to haunt his son; he’s there to point out something drastically wrong in Denmark’s royal household. Or
consider Marley’s ghost in A Christmas Carol (1843), who is really a walking, clanking, moaning
lesson in ethics for Scrooge. In fact, Dickens’s ghosts are always up to something besides scaring the
audience. Or take Dr. Jekyll’s other half. The hideous Edward Hyde exists to demonstrate to readers
that even a respectable man has a dark side; like many Victorians, Robert Louis Stevenson believed
in the dual nature of humans, and in more than one work he finds ways of showing that duality quite
literally. In The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886) he has Dr. J. drink a potion and
become his evil half, while in his now largely ignored short novel The Master of Ballantrae (1889),
he uses twins locked in fatal conflict to convey the same sense. You’ll notice, by the way, that many
of these examples come from Victorian writers: Stevenson, Dickens, Stoker, J. S. Le Fanu, Henry
James. Why? Because there was so much the Victorians couldn’t write about directly, chiefly sex and
sexuality, they found ways of transforming those taboo subjects and issues into other forms. The
Victorians were masters of sublimation. But even today, when there are no limits on subject matter or
treatment, writers still use ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and all manner of scary things to symbolize
various aspects of our more common reality.
The last decade of the twentieth century and the first decade (and counting) of the twenty-first could
be dubbed the teen vampire era. The phenomenon can likely be traced to Anne Rice’s Interview with
the Vampire (1976) and its successors in the Vampire Chronicles series (1976–2003). For a number
of years Rice was a one-woman industry, but slowly other names came forward. Vampires even made
it to weekly television with the unlikely hit Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which debuted in 1997. Things
really took off with Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight (2005) and the series of teen-and-vampire tales it
spawned. Meyer’s great innovation is to center the stories on a nonvampire teenage girl and young
(these things are relative, I guess) vampire who loves her but must fight his bloodlust. Much has been
made of the element of the bloodsucking (and therefore sexual) restraint of the novels, notable in a
genre where traditionally the main figures have had no self-control at all. What turned out to be
unrestrained was the reading appetite of teenagers; Meyer was the top-selling American author in
2008 and 2009. Critics generally cringed, but, clearly, adolescents don’t read book reviews.
Try this for a dictum: ghosts and vampires are never only about ghosts and vampires.
Here’s where it gets a little tricky, though: the ghosts and vampires don’t always have to appear in
visible forms. Sometimes the really scary bloodsuckers are entirely human. Let’s look at another
Victorian with experience in ghost and nonghost genres, Henry James. James is known, of course, as a
master, perhaps the master, of psychological realism; if you want massive novels with sentences as
long and convoluted as the Missouri River, James is your man. At the same time, though, he has some
shorter works that feature ghosts and demonic possession, and those are fun in their own way, as well
as a good deal more accessible. His novella The Turn of the Screw (1898) is about a governess who
tries, without success, to protect the two children in her care from a particularly nasty ghost who
seeks to take possession of them. Either that or it’s about an insane governess who fantasizes that a
ghost is taking over the children in her care, and in her delusion literally smothers them with
protectiveness. Or just possibly it’s about an insane governess who is dealing with a particularly
nasty ghost who tries to take possession of her wards. Or possibly . . . well, let’s just say that the plot
calculus is tricky and that much depends on the perspective of the reader. So we have a story in which
a ghost features prominently even if we’re never sure whether he’s really there or not, in which the
psychological state of the governess matters greatly, and in which the life of a child, a little boy, is
consumed. Between the two of them, the governess and the “specter” destroy him. One might say that
the story is about fatherly neglect (the stand-in for the father simply abandons the children to the
governess’s care) and smothering maternal concern. Those two thematic elements are encoded into
the plot of the novella. The particulars of the encoding are carried by the details of the ghost story. It
just so happens that James has another famous story, “Daisy Miller” (1878), in which there are no
ghosts, no demonic possession, and nothing more mysterious than a midnight trip to the Colosseum in
Rome. Daisy is a young American woman who does as she pleases, thus upsetting the rigid social
customs of the European society she desperately wants to approve of her. Winterbourne, the man
whose attention she desires, while both attracted to and repulsed by her, ultimately proves too fearful
of the disapproval of his established expatriate American community to pursue her further. After
numerous misadventures, Daisy dies, ostensibly by contracting malaria on her midnight jaunt. But you
know what really kills her? Vampires.
No, really. Vampires. I know I told you there weren’t any supernatural forces at work here. But you
don’t need fangs and a cape to be a vampire. The essentials of the vampire story, as we discussed
earlier: an older figure representing corrupt, outworn values; a young, preferably virginal female; a
stripping away of her youth, energy, virtue; a continuance of the life force of the old male; the death or
destruction of the young woman. Okay, let’s see now. Winterbourne and Daisy carry associations of
winter—death, cold—and spring—life, flowers, renewal—that ultimately come into conflict (we’ll
talk about seasonal implications in a later chapter), with winter’s frost destroying the delicate young
flower. He is considerably older than she, closely associated with the stifling Euro-Anglo-American
society. She is fresh and innocent—and here is James’s brilliance—so innocent as to appear to be a
wanton. He and his aunt and her circle watch Daisy and disapprove, but because of a hunger to
disapprove of someone, they never cut her loose entirely. They play with her yearning to become one
of them, taxing her energies until she begins to wane. Winterbourne mixes voyeurism, vicarious
thrills, and stiff-necked disapproval, all of which culminate when he finds her with a (male) friend at
the Colosseum and chooses to ignore her. Daisy says of his behavior, “He cuts me dead!” That should
be clear enough for anyone. His, and his clique’s, consuming of Daisy is complete; having used up
everything that is fresh and vital in her, he leaves her to waste away. Even then she asks after him. But
having destroyed and consumed her, he moves on, not sufficiently touched, it seems to me, by the
pathetic spectacle he has caused.
So how does all this tie in with vampires? Is James a believer in ghosts and spooks? Does “Daisy
Miller” mean he thinks we’re all vampires? Probably not. I believe what happens here and in other
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