The Fiery Vault was first published in the September 1835 issue of The Metropolitan. The horror short story, set in Venice, was published anonymously. It contains the first uses of hot and cold victim torture found in any horror tale. The following passage is not for the faint of heart:
Terrible indeed, was the secret council chamber of the Doge of Venice. A large and lofty room, lighted not by the sun, but by several lamps carefully arranged, to throw their strong lustre away from the judgment seats, and upon a central point, surmounted by a low massive rail, was rendered utterly impervious to sound, bv means of doubly quilted arras, and treble doors. The floor was thick!y carpeted, save in the space alluded to, which was about twelve feet in diameter, and appeared to be boarded. Within this room deeds were whispered to have been done, at the mention of which human blood is ireezingly arrested. A concealed door behind the arras led to a smaller apartmentt, where every engine for wrenching the joints, crushing the flesh, and grinding the marrow of their fellow mortals, had been stored by the relentless agen's of Venetian tyranny. Those boards surrounded by the rail could be raised, and the half breathing body, which had undergone the agonies of that chamber, was thrown into an abyss of appalling depth, at whose bottom, it was rumored, years before a machine had been placed, which the falling mass set in motion, and by which was mangled to atoms. A winding staircase, entered from a corner, also hidden by the tapestry, conducted down to a spot where a more hideous torture than all was prepared. A small low roofed room was there, built entirely of iron, not sufficiently large to enab'e the inmate to stand erect, but allowing the full range of limb in every other direction. Below was a furnace. Stripped to the skin, the victim was led thither, and (hough in utter darkness, ventilation was supplied him.—For some hours, perchance, he was thus left, until he began to dread a perpetual imprisonment. But the atmosphere grows more confined, still more so, and the Mood is thrown violently to his head. Air is again admitted, he breathes again,—it must have been a lancy. But no, this time there is no deception, the heat is stifling, the floor below him is unbearable, he raises himself on his extremities, he raves, he screams for mercy. Anon his scorched limbs become blistered, and writhings and shrieks proclaim his excruciating agony. A few minutes, and all must cease in death. No. The tormentor's craft has been better taught. Suddenly the iron floor is drawn from beneath him, its place is supplied by a slab of the coldest marble, while gushes of icy water from above fall upon his burning frame. The transition is exquisite, almost too delicious for mortal bearing. For a time he lies in semi-insensibilityy, but not long. The chill comes over him, and the relief becomes another torment. Then is accomplished the crowning efforts of the fiends, who know too well the indescribable effect of the unexpected substitution of one agony for another. The marble bed is drawn away and the wretch is writhing on a red hot floor. Then scream follows scream, and the body is drawn into every form and posture conceivable, with terrible swiftness. Malice has now done its utmost, a few more struggles, and a few more groans, and a blackened and (indistinguishable corpse is withdrawn from its fiery cavern, and hurled through a trap-door near, eventually to find its way into one of the canals of Venice. Such had been the late of that Miollano, whom the gondoliers have mentioned as one of the last victims of Count Morentali. Who is to be the next?
The Fiery Vault is treasured for being the best Venice horror short story for the half century in question. It is ashame that the author is only known as Reithra. On the negative side, the storyline is choppy, and the dialogue is stilted and unbelievable in a number of parts:
"So, thou art here. Hast any more tales of the cruel and merciless count to tell?"The prisoner, pale as death, muttered only, "My lord! my lord!" and convulsive breathings seemed to drown his voice."Thou shalt know another," continued Morentali, in the same cold, sneering tone, "ere long. Pity that thou wilt not be able to tell it.""My lord! remember—your promise""Was of secrecy, I believe; and it shall be kept. Look around, whom dost thou fear can overhear thy stories of the count, or thy screams which may follow them?"
But I forgive the author of The Fiery Vault for these transgressions and place this story as the 26th best classis horror short story from 1800-1849.
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