Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

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

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

PART I
BOY

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter
ONE

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter
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

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter
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