Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

one thinks of how many souls have suffered this fate in all of history—of the untold murders of untold men, women, and children… it is too much to bear.
Fortunately, Lincoln’s duties as a lawyer and lawmaker kept him too busy to dwell on death for very long. When he wasn’t required at a committee hearing or a vote, he was likely deposing a client in his office, or filing a suit at the Springfield courthouse (most of his cases concerned land disputes or unpaid debts). Twice a year, Abe joined a group of his fellow lawyers on a three-month tour of the eighth Judicial Circuit, an area made up of fourteen counties in central and eastern Illinois. There were dozens of settlements on the circuit, and precious few courthouses. So when the weather permitted, the courthouse came to them, lawyers, judge, and all. For Abe, these trips were more than an escape from the long, candlelit hours at his desk. They were a chance to catch up on his vampire hunts.
Knowing that my work would take me twice yearly around the circuit, I deferred certain errands until such time as they were more suitable. By day my fellow lawyers and I tried cases, using churches or taverns as our courts. In the evenings we gathered at the supper table and discussed the business of the coming day. And at night, when all but a few were asleep in the overstuffed rooms of our boardinghouse, I ventured out with my coat and ax.
One hunt in particular stood out in Abe’s memory:
I’d received a letter from Henry bearing the instructions: “E. Schildhaus. Half mile beyond the north end of Mill Street, Athens, Illinois.” Rather than set out straightaway and dispense God’s justice, I chose to wait until such time as my work brought me to Athens. And so arrived the day, two months later, when our traveling mob was due in the little town to the north, and the lawyers gathered at the tavern that was to serve as our courthouse. Here they were introduced to the plaintiffs and defendants whose cases they would argue in just a few hours’ time. Having been sick most of the night before, I was unable to join Stuart until midday, by which time our case was already before the judge. It was a matter of some small debt owed by our client—an older red-haired woman named Betsy. I recall only that we lost, and that I contributed nothing to the effort beyond a parting, apologetic handshake with her—much distracted by my illness. That night, Stuart having turned in along with most of our mob, I unpacked my coat and ax and quietly made for the address on Henry’s letter. As I was feeling feverish, I had elected to simply knock on the door and drive my ax into whoever opened it, so that I might return to bed with the utmost expediency. The door swung open.
It was my client, Betsy—her red hair held in place by an ivory comb. I closed my coat in hopes of hiding the ax beneath it.
“May I help you, Mr. Lincoln?”
“I—I apologize for intruding at this late hour, ma’am. I must be mistaken.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, ma’am. I understood this to be the home of an E. Schildhaus.”
“Indeed it is.”
A vampire and a woman under one roof?
“Mr. Lincoln, you must excuse my asking, but are you well? You look rather pallid.”
“Fine, ma’am, thank you. May I… do you think I might speak with Mr. Schildhaus a moment?”
“Mr. Lincoln,” she said, laughing, “you are speaking with her.”
E. Schildhaus…
Elizabeth…
Betsy.
She caught sight of the ax in my coat. Read my face. My eyes. My thoughts. At once I was on my back fighting to keep her fangs from my neck, my ax knocked out of reach. I pulled at her red hair with my right hand and reached into my coat with the left. Here I found a small knife, which I used to stab any part of her that I could reach: her neck, her back, the very arms she pinned me with. I brought the blade down again and again, until at last she released me and sprang to her feet. I did the same, and we circled each other cautiously—I holding the knife in front of my body; she staring at me with those black marbles. Then, just as quickly as she had attacked, she stopped… and held her hands in the air as if to surrender.
“I must know… what quarrel have we, Mr. Lincoln?”
“Your quarrel is with God. I merely wish to offer Him the opportunity to judge you.”
“Very good,” she laughed. “That is very good. Well, for your sake, I pray you are a better combatant than you are a lawyer.”
She struck at me, and in doing so knocked the