Thursday, March 8, 2018


I, Jonathon speak these things -

We who you call 'vampires' witness so much. Long lives allow us to absorb all manner of things. Some dissolve into welcome memories. Others are as undigested pits and bones. And it's odd, but they rise up to confront us when we least expect it.... I walk the streets at night. You know that, for I share so much. God bless you all for being there. No other life-eater has, or ever had such sympathetic friends. No real life eaters anyway.

I saw THE BLACK PANTHER and I liked it. ... possibilities made real. That which we imagine can be achieved. All that's required is sincere dedication. I also saw a group of young people exit the theatre giddy and transfixed by the magic of it all. They laughed and danced about reliving scenes as they rapidly traded dreams. Few on the street noticed, but I did. Mortal emotion means so much to me. I saw the car round the corner and run right through them. It kept going, as if the city and all the people in it were invisible. One young man died instantly, crushed against the curb. I snatched another and sublimated up to the rooftops, so he might live. Did I transform him?... No, but I gave him a few drops and he lived... I redeemed him. His surviving friends from that night never realised what happened. But he went home healed and a week later, recieved an official document from a bank notifying him of a one hundred thousand dollar account, set up, tax free,  in his name. He and his family were quite pleased.  I, even more so...

This season does that to me. Friends of my tale know this. Few life-eaters, what most call 'vampires' forget their mortal faith. Indeed, we hold it all the more dear. For what else gives reason to this?... After all... we are only human... but (quietly) more than mortal.... So I do my job. I guard the sheep and tend the flock... Not the shepherd, but the sheepdog. That's why The Passover is so important to me... And I know there are people who 'tune out' when I don't give them recollections of bloody vampiric gore, or ancient, fiendish tortures. I have to accept that. Yet if people think vampire existence is all lurid killing and smoldering stares, they are wrong. In these postings I tell things how they are. I hope you all believe that. Those familiar with La Ciencia Vampirismo, the centuries old tome of vampire 'magic' and lore know the truth. God knows, I've referenced it here many times. Just go and do 'good things.'....

When vampires sleep during the light-time, we have visions... not dreams, as you do, but something much more precise and immediate. You see, it's even wrong for me to call it 'sleep,' for we are not just slumbering in our shelters. We are, in the spirit sense, somewhere else. You will know, when you die. In that state we see the face and feel the essence of the soul to be culled.... Who picks them? Well, one more spiritually adept than us. We behold the voice of angels... and they hear someone else. I believe that. All 'noble' vampires do. Thankfully, most are 'noble.'

So, once a month, I have my pre-ordained meal... I cull the soul and it sustains me. Those who don't know claim it's the blood. Granted, that fluid provides a certain heft, mouth sense and satisfaction, but the job well done gives even more.
and on those other nights, the nights when I don't feed, I save people, as I saved the boy, Michael, (that is his name) at the beginning of this episode. Or I gift my blood in subtle, quiet ways too. Sometimes I provide containers of hot coffee to homeless souls on the street, but I spike it first with you know what and they live. Most also find a banded 'flat' of hundred dollar bills in their pocket. Fifty to a stack. Five thousand dollars in all, with a note that says - take this to ( such and such) bank and deposit it... I give them one hundred dollar bills because I know few places will take them. The bank, a small private affair, belongs to a 'familiar' of mine. It's all arranged... They get a debit card  with a fifty dollar a day limit... and another note that says - To get off the street contact (another familiar). Let me just say that my success rate is higher than most other programs in the city. True, fifty dollars a day can buy quite a bender. But after a few days most learn. Oh, and if I didn't tell you, my blood can cure alcohol toxicity too.

I remember, as a newly made vampire, experimenting. I tried healing sick stray dogs... It worked... Alley cats mangled in fights were restored too... A near dead, juvenile Barbary Ape torn and dropped by a hawk was made whole. It seems the 'magic' works on all warm blooded creatures.... And in the candlelit gloom of medieval cellars I healed children from charnel houses, snatched just north of death and they came back too. We had to be careful to place them with families a few villages away, lest they'd be recognized and thrown down a well due to 'witchcraft.' Sadly, death cured everything in that culture and those days.... Death, death, death, death, death... They couldn't get enough of it, while I, as a vampire (0ther than my monthly 'meal') fought against it....

I've been in Philadelphia since its inception, coming over with The Lord Protector himself in the good ship Welcome. Notice I say 'in' and not 'on.' They had me locked in a large wooden chest down in the hold... I don't think they knew what I was... But the land was not empty. Native settlements were everywhere...There were Dutch and Swedish towns in the area too. And in three hundred and thirty six years I have saved tens of thousands... maybe more. I don't keep track... Counting natural increase via descendants and all only God knows how many.....

At this special time of the spiritual year, holy for Trinitarians and Unitarians both, I go out among the living and do my best to keep them that way... I protect the sheep. It's what I do...

Please know that decent people never have to fear us... Well, rarely have to fear us... Some night-folk do have strange spells every few centuries or so. But for the most part, you're all right.

Now permit me to continue my rounds....

(our hero, Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea, silently walks off, disappearing into the wee hour shadows of the city.... an 'eighteen' year old youth on the town.... I'm sure you locals have seen him from time to time... or, who knows?... maybe he's seen you?)

<more next time>

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Tuesday, February 13, 2018

OUR VAMPIRE AGREES WITH THE GREAT, BERNIE TAUPIN 2/13/18 Mona Lisas & Mad Hatters - Elton John (Honky Chateau 9 of 10)


All vampires are rock stars. We whisper things and people see them. We touch deeper than a simple mortal can... and what's worse, we all believe our ramblings too.... as only twisted magic things can do... and it's cold in Philadelphia, like only Tuesday nights in February are.... not a weekend... not a Friday, or a Wednesday, which is hump night... It's a night to dine on tuna from the can and if you don't have what to drink, it's sour water from the sink. Gotta go make due with what's at hand... The streets are mostly quiet, save for souls who go to movies, 'cause it's easier to watch than just to think.... The movies in your mind, they might be true... but only if some name believes in you...

I talk to ladies on the subway, chipping polish from their nails and laughing 'bout some empty love affair that's through. They take my kisses as I tell them to be careful and look both ways. But you know them and that's not what they will do.... It's much less work to die than try, or almost die and not know why. Don't worry 'bout no body else but you.

And I've seen life play out in Istanbul. I've seen them fall in Rome and off the platform in a subway station too. I've tasted years with those well born, while other nights I felt their scorn, 'cause all they do is laugh and drive away.... You know them what has the money never pays.

Steam rises from the sewer like a ghost... a rat runs off with wet burnt toast.

The bag lady has got an egg and screams about the chick she's gonna hatch... She sits on it and cackles, as she waves to passing taxis that splash gutter water on her crusty pants...

Welcome to the February dance.

I tell my tale to everyone... from birth till mortal life was done. You'd know it all, if you would take a look. A vampire with morals is my hook... Some night they're gonna put it in a book.

And the clocks up in their towers, tell the time and toll the hours, as moms boost jars of Gerber's for their kids.

Shame there ain't no magic beans, to rectify these cold hard scenes... We kill them 'fore the stalks can even grow.

And all the world can do is mutter - So?

What paintings will we leave here when we go?

They say we're gonna reap just what we sew.

(with that Tomas de Macabea, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi disappears into the fog and steals away.... tomorrow's gonna be another day)

[ the purpose of life is opportunity...]

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Saturday, February 10, 2018


There's no music this time. Few people listen to it. I've just gotten up. It's raining . A winter rain is a sad, sad thing. The street glistens. Few souls are out. Our street is quiet to begin with. If I cant my head a certain way, I can see the wider street we feed into. Cars go by bearing they who labor on Saturday home, or bringing others into the city for an early dinner before a show. I will, perhaps, drink a hot vodka-tea before going out. Edith brews it for me. I think I'll haunt the museums tonight. I do so like my 'culture.' Will I feed? Well, it's my time to feed. I'll have my monthly meal and savor it. I am Jonathon... also known as Tomas... You know me.

Sarah, my consort stays in tonight. She paints miniatures now, tiny vaguely Persian things. They sell them in her bookshop. Philadelphia After Dark has a little display hung among the ticking assortment of vintage clocks mounted behind the oaken counter. I like that place... the cramped, narrow aisles.. the creaking wooden floors... the small, silk shaded pin-up lamps and sconces (some attached to the actual shelving) providing just enough light to facilitate browsing, while maintaining a proper atmosphere. The girl at the register (an old embossed, bronze affair from an 1890's occult apothecary down seven ancient steps on Sansom Street, a hidden byway set between the lofty towers) is a witch. Not a born-witch, but a witchy-woman, like our housekeeper, Edith. She came to town a few years ago, during an earlier paranormal dust up and stayed. We call her 'Morticia.' She lives in the back, passed a half-height door, in a small cozy studio. How would she escape in case of fire? Well, in the mundane world she wouldn't... but our world is far from mundane. I'll nod to her, through the partially opened curtains of the mullioned windows, as I pass by.

The museums are especially enticing. I like the dim, marble galleries. Sometimes I hear whispers coming from the still, white lips of polished effigies stretched upon their one time tombs. Is the spirit still in there, or do I hear but an echo? A tiny shadow scurries by, not a mouse, or a rat, for what would they eat in here? The galleries are so cold and organically empty. They might gnaw the backings of paintings, but how would they scale the stone veneered walls? Watchmen fall dead at their posts much to infrequently.... The tiny things are mere spiritual wisps.... particles of beings long gone. They say a few errant Van Gogh nightmares shelter here. They say a lot of things.

I am no longer in our townhouse. I am dressed in my usual trim black attire, save for the starched white shirt. My long dark hair flows poetically about my face.... ah, the bone structure... I have it in spades. I sublimate through the city till I reach this vast jewel box of ages past. The cellars are the real prize. Mussolini's tongue in an old green-glass bottle, floating in pungent alcohol..... preserved cadavers from the charnel houses of Parma, some in attitudes of prayer, others sealed in silent screams..... Vagabonds from the streets sneak in for the warmth, such as it is. They snuggle amongst the crates. Some stay but a night and leave. Others never leave and go mad. I pray for them, as they rake the skin from their flesh with long black nails. How they shrink from the Noggins (old, animated, yellowed skulls) that prowl the maze-like passageways and roll over the floors looking for food.... Yet, comes the daylight and everything shimmers back to 'normalcy,'... or so they tell me.

Tonight I search for a thief... Museums hold treasures, you know. There's a painting, a certain late medieval representation of Ezekiel Ascendant... the prophet translated to the heavenly state. I saw it displayed in Florence seven hundred years ago. A merchant of extreme wealth and renown, newly raised to the minor nobility, featured it at a reception. It was the birth of the Renaissance and Giotto was all the rage. We did not know it was the birth of the Renaissance. We knew it only as Thursday evening, even the vampires.... And now it's here in Philadelphia and this mortal means to take it... He's a contracted thief... bound to a certain old world potentate. A similar piece, The Torment of Saint Rusticus, went for eighty five million. This one should bring even more. I'm going to kill this thief. Please know he's more than a thief. He's killed too. Blew up a pleasure yacht just to get a certain hated 'enemy' on board, along with his wife, and three little children... plus the crew and a nineteen year old au pair too.... I'll tap on his shoulder just as he takes his prize. He'll flinch. It'll be quick. I'll drain him. He'll ignite with a 'cold' blue flame and disappear. Nothing else will burn. In the morning they'll find a greasy slick where that soul used to be and it will be done. Screw that 'old world potentate.

Now, let me tell you just how Saint Rusticus met his end. You see, he travelled toward the east to preach to the Tartars. At first the great chieftan found him to be a harmless dreamer, but when the holy man told him unless he bowed before the foreign god, his wives, his daughters, not to mention his sons and himself would burn in hell for all eternity, since they were all there for the banquet and heard the presentation. Now the great chieftan loved his sons and even a few of his wives and daughters. And his morals were of the first rank. Why when he sacked the City of The Silver Bells only every other soul was put to the sword. The rest were sold to a consortium of eastern slave jobbers and wholesaled to merchants from Novgorod to Tash Kent, even the young ones, who were used for archery practice. But that wasn't his fault. Such were the 'times.' Needless to say, the pronouncement of his western visitor hurt him greatly, torture being his only recourse. So they severed a horn from a certain breed of cattle known for straight, true, pointed head gear, hollowed it out, rubbed it with butter and unguents and inserted it into the body of the not yet saint Rusticus, via his anus, till the tip reached far into his innards... a quite troubling sensation, though not yet particularly tortuous (considering the age) nor  one hundred percent fatal. Then they trussed him up on a high, wooden armature so all in attendance could see. How he whimpered and prayed, as a cold wind tore passed his exposed body. The august assemblage, wrapped in quilted brocades and furs waited for what was to come, as blacksmiths carefully inserted a long, wrought iron pole (perhaps as wide as two fingers of a full grown warrior) up into the severed bull horn that occupied his innards.  The other end went into a specially made furnace ceremoniously assembled under the martyr's body. Once lit, it would reach temperatures more than twice that necessary to melt lead.... The honored invitees dined on snow goose and roasted yak and downed flagon after flagon of fermented mare's milk, as they waited for the heat to rise. Then, like a modern day thermometer, the pole began to glow red, even in the cold, raw wind.... When it approached the foreigner's fundament he gasped. All heard. Not an eye looked away. He trembled against his bonds. Steaming urine poured from his body. He went limp and whispered prayers, till he was cooked and seared from the inside out.

The banquet when on for a bit. Then they left him there for the ravens. His bones were carefully wrapped and sent back with a ceremonial guard, for he died bravely. Orthodox priests near Rostov were the first to hear his tale. They sent a missive to western Catholics in Hungary, who dispatched people to claim his bones. Thus was Saint Rusticus born.

Come back. I have so many stories.

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Saturday, January 27, 2018

The Vampire entity Known as 'Papa' loves this song 1/10/18The Beatles - Flying (The FH Edit)


The incredibly enduring, vampire personage, known as 'Papa' sits in a club chair... A slowly spinning ice cube hangs suspended in space, perhaps two or three feet beyond his eyes. He focuses on it. It stops. Then, four or five heartbeats later a solitary drop of water hangs from the side before impacting the hardwood floor below. Its small splash pattern instantly congeals into a daisy. 'Papa' exhales. We watch the eddies, swirls and flow of his breath move out to surround the ice cube, which softly vaporizes and disappears.

He makes eye contact with us, nods slightly.. smiles, then gazes down upon the white and yellow daisy head on the floor. The yellow center rises slightly. The white petals draw in around it, as the little blossom reconfigures into a tiny, white, hairless, 'human' thing with bright yellow eyeballs. It titters nervously. 'Papa' raises a well shod foot and crushes it. Then he meets our gaze and smiles, revealing his fine, sharp, small, white fangs.

He says - Life is a mystery...... Then the entity that looks like a thirty two or thirty three year old Richard Gere (sporting a trim, charcoal suit and black, buttoned up, collarless shirt) gets up, walks 'through' us and exits.

The low lit, townhouse den is empty....

Strange things happen on Earth all the time. Unusual animals, some of them human appear out of nowhere . The differences are not always great. Perhaps they have the ability to see in the dark, or to think about two subjects at the same time. Certain strains breathe the rarified air of the heights. Others taste metals through their skin. You might have that power. Take out your keys. Close your eyes. Examine each one with your fingers. Do the 'brass' colored ones 'taste' different than the silvery ones? Can you hear footsteps approaching your door before the dog does? Do streetlights go dark when you pass by? 'Magic' or something very like it happens all the time. Sometimes it's pleasant. Sometimes it isn't.

(and this is still 'Papa' speaking) Tell me, what is it you think I have not seen?....My 'vampire' descendants are many, as are their various philosophies. But you know that, for no longer record of night-folk life exists on line. [ click wander through the wonderland ... and hit SUBSCRIBE when you get there to access it all]... Though more brutality drips from the fangs of men than comes from us. It never stops. Shocking head-severings pepper the web like sprinkles on ice cream. Atrocities get attention and if the holy innocents are little children, even more so..

Have you ever seen living souls lowered into a noxious, fermenting brew of blood, bone meal, suet, offal and flesh eating bacteria? There is no fire, yet it bubbles and steams with foul intent.. The doomed flail about, trying to keep their mouths above the caustic, hellish stew. After a bit they grow tired. By then, the flesh eating microbes have already turned much of their muscle mass into a translucent, fishy mess. No one survives. Trucks pull up to these remote 'treatment plants' 'round the clock... Look for gray, stone 'castles' off in the distance, upon a snow covered plain, or underground installations beneath teeming city streets.

They say, some spray the bacteria from the sky via contrails. Whole regions of Eurasia have been 'subdued.'... For what reason?.... Can't you guess?.... Inconvenient populations always have to go....

And they call us ghouls...

Pay attention to your skin...

<more to come>

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Friday, January 5, 2018

Main Theme From Jurassic Park HD has meaning to the Vampires 1/4/18

Annie went missing. That's why posts have been few and far between. She just dissolved into the crowd waiting to see Santa Claus one night at the King of Prussia Mall. Sarah took her. She wanted to go. So they dressed her up as a normal little Caucasian mortal child. They put her in jeans and sneakers, a turtle neck and sweatshirt. They brushed her fine, soft, sandy-blond hair, anointed her with a powdery scent meant for little girls and that was it.... Annie loves mortal rituals. She joins in and sings 'Happy Birthday' every time the wait staff brings a little, sparkler-topped cake to some smiling simple soul at the Princess Diner they take her to for chicken soup on cold winter nights. Annie never eats the noodles, or the little carrots that swim around in it. She pushes them aside and gently drinks the rest with an oversized tablespoon. Vampires can ingest mostly clear liquids. Broth is OK.

Everyone looked for her. Jonathon went to all the dim sub-basement specimen storage warrens beneath all her favorite museums. He questioned all the dusty mummies. Many vampires instinctively comprehend dead languages. But the desiccated, old North African aristocrats didn't know anything, nor did the immense groupers
 (who could conceivably swallow a deep diving, female pearl fisher) moving through the shadowy depths of their large commodious home, in the aquarium 'cross the river....Same with the elferinas and elferinos. Same with all the night-folk. Annie was just gone. One moment she was explaining to the Mrs. Claus woman why she was wearing the wrong bra and the next she went bye-bye....

They asked 'Papa' her well formed twenty eight thousand year old progenitor, if he could detect anything.... He broke off his mid-space stare, momentarily making eye contact, before clicking on Will & Grace and settling in for his favorite show. 'Life Eaters' (the politically correct term for vampires) are such a strange breed. And the townhouse is such a strange place.

Edith, the witchy-woman housekeeper, offered to throw a hoo-doo. Jonathon told her he'd think about it... She went back to her seek and find puzzles, but proceeded to doodle old New Jersey Pine Barrens magic symbols all around the border of page sixty nine in her latest puzzle book... with a pen she took from the Citizens Bank. I think she hummed an obscure Piney reel, but I'm not sure. She might have just belched or wheezed or something....

This is where I have to supply a little background. You see, Vampire Wonderland has a minor alien problem. Once, some all powerful, off-Earth race decided to get funny with our oceans and Earth woke up surrounded by a two miles thick concentric roiling solid shell of salt water about sixty miles overhead. Not much light came through, so it was hard to see all the stranded ships and submarines and whales and fish and squid and seaweed and all just laying there upon the abysmal plane. Folks on cruise ships were real pissed, because the bottom of the sea wasn't perfectly flat and a lot of those top heavy luxury boats keeled right over, resulting in a whole mess of people who were gonna be dead before they got to the all you can eat buffet. True, there were some disoriented survivors stumbling around on the damp dark sand. Considering the horror of it all, they thought they were dead. People prayed. They called out for loved ones. You know families with little children take cruises too and Bic lighters only last so long. Biologists among you might know that certain marine crabs can survive for quite a while on dry land. Pickings were usually slim down there, but now, especially 'round the tipped over cruise ships (some naval and commercial vessels too, I guess) meat was all over. Close your eyes and think. You can imagine the rest....

Now Annie was snatched by some aliens, but not the ocean-moving ones. Ocean-moving ones are real bastards. And Earth did manage to reverse that strange interlude via hidden extraterrestrial info. World leaders thought it best we all forgot about it real fast. As you know, world leaders can do anything, because you all didn't know about it and that's proof.... Annie's aliens were from a more mellow, meditative race... like Mortimer Snerds with octopus tentacles instead of what we got. They had a different take on physical pain too.

So when they sent her back with a big old, multi-colored, swirly all day sucker, but minus one arm torn out from the socket, they had no idea what her (or anyone else's) reaction would be....

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Tuesday, December 19, 2017

WITCHES ARE A KIND OF CHIMERA 12/19/17 Exotic & Mysterious Spanish Guitar Music: CHIMERA - Al Marconi


Many of our posts speak of vampires. We mention other forms of biologic rarities in passing. Tonight we highlight witches... born witches. These are not successful students of the arcane. Their efforts have no real part in it. Such human confections are simply born that way. In most instances, the trait comes down from one parent. Statistically it can devolve from both, but, existing cases are very, very few in number. Please understand that there was no way to positively identify a 'born witch,' at least there was no scientifically recognized method. With the advent of genetic testing, the same mail-away, cheek swab, or spit-in-a-vial investigative procedure can reveal 'magic blood.'

Everything we are starts with our genes. Think of them as hard wired 'spells.' Genes control our physical form, our abilities, or lack of abilities in all spheres of life. Most humans possess the usual combination... an equal distribution of tiny chemical cocktails from each parent. But sometimes an interloper comes into the mix. Such complications happen very early in a pregnancy when two zygotes (potential fetuses) develop. Normally, they'd continue to grow as twins, either identical or fraternal. Under certain conditions the twins unite, continuing development, but as one organism, resulting in one person with more than the normal allotment of genes. Few such people are handicapped by this outcome. Most live average lives. But some are not average. We don't yet understand how extra genetic stores actually 'change' an organism, yet clearly various things can result.

Some tests indicate that various 'talents' we call 'magic' are just enhanced electrical  emanations . The magic happens when we're sensitive to those forces, or able to control them.
Controlled forces can manifest as the ability to move or alter matter. Heightened sensitivity can enable the bearer to 'read' minds. Certain very powerful adepts can control their own atoms to such a thorough degree they can change shape, or transport themselves from one physical location to another . Some are so attuned to the emanations of  others they can discern thoughts regardless of distance... and they can send thoughts too. A very few are able to control atoms with such precision they can conjure objects out of the ether.

One such unusual example was Abner of  Crete, an eighth century physician and alchemist who according to many unrelated accounts had the ability draw the blood out of a living body through the pores and capillaries. Victims were covered by countless tiny, thin arcs of red liquid bursting forth from every part of their bodies, even the corneas of their eyes. It's said that same Abner was able to transport the heads and necks of unfortunate subjects up from their shoulders and to his presence with a clean cut precision not seen till the advent of the guillotine one thousand years later.

A daring woman, the Dowager WarWife of  Loch Negan used to denude a whole great hall of drunken guests with an arthritic clap of her old, liver spotted hands. Needless to say, she caused many clan wars and illegitimate births among the chieftans and land lords of the Highlands. After a while, her visitors had to know what they were getting into. Maybe that was the attraction? Bards of the day sang songs for years.

The practitioner known as Ubis of Ebis (gender unknown) tuned into the Papal Confessional in Rome via remote viewing, thus privy to every foible of every pope during the reigns of all the Frankish Pippins, till eventually being caught and forced to take a molten lead bath in a large vat of what was essentially a nine hundred degree cauldron of viscous heavy mud. Attendants forced the unhappy bather down into the hellish porridge with long, sharp poles most often used to impale the juvenile dependents of heretics and other non conformist types.

Some born witches use magic for good. Some do not.
 Oh, one more thing... What does 'chimera' mean?... It means two differing animals in one body. For instance griffins are chimeras, as are merfolk and squid-puppies.

Utilization of 'the craft' can be a very nasty business...

But look, don't let that stop you. Take one of those tests. Find out. You might be one of the good ones...

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Sunday, December 17, 2017

Our Vampire Jonathon loves this song-LeAnn Rimes - Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel) - Billy Joel cover


The nearly immortal being known as 'Jonathon speaks -

I've done this every year at this time for centuries. I hope you are a regular visitor. Then you'll know. The house is locked up. Sarah is in her cubicle. Annie sleeps. Conrad, Edith, all of them are snug in their places. I sit in the 'little' library. The draperies are drawn. By the low warm light of a small, Chinese, porcelain lamp I count out coins, large, heavy, yellow, golden coins, Venetian ducats.... a 'vampire' tradition. I measure them out upon a lap desk... five to a sack...(sighs)... A 'familiar' (mortal helper) makes them up for me... small, dark blue velvet, drawstring sacks trimmed with thin golden rope around the top. In other lands, at other times, others made them, but the form has not changed in more than three hundred and fifty years... I'm told, in this time and in this city a gold, Venetian ducat brings more than two thousand American dollars. What's that come to, twelve thousand for each sack...

When ten are filled, I shall go out on the streets and in the wee hours before the light, I shall distribute them where they will accomplish good things...  Our little boy ghost watches me. He came with the house. We've only been here for a few years. Oh, there were other townhouses and a manor up in Chestnut Hill once or twice, but the poor, tiny, polio victim has been here since the nineteen thirties. He likes the 'little' library too. Plays with a set of old, painted, pot metal soldiers on the rug, a hand drawn deck of Hungarian cards and an etched brass top . Sometimes he manipulates them quite well. Death cured his polio, thank God. Other nights he just looks at them. Abilities are not always constant in the supernatural world, especially during the first few decades. Powers lapse, tea cups break. Parakeets talk Romanian. Old Ladies whistle the Barcarole. You know how it is.

Now I am off... a thousand year old soul (well, a thousand years old on Earth) with a young man's body. Most take me for anywhere from eighteen to twenty eight, depending on how they view things. There's a two nights' old icy glaze on the streets. I dress warm and go out, the gold coins, in their velvet sacks, snug in the deep, zippered pockets of my black puffy coat... A vampire with a black, zip-up, puffy coat. They'd drum me out of the union..... Ah, the songs I hear in my head... The Tales Of Hoffman... Rhymes of a Quayside Bawd. Bet you don't know that one... from Paris in the 14 30's.

(he leaves, locks the door behind him and silently hops down the steps... a gray, tiger stripped tabby falls in behind. they turn the corned and are off)

Mortals fear these long nights. It's instinctive and stamped upon the breed. Imagine how dark it was before all the tick-tock niceties we have now. Utter blackness. Maybe moonlit nights were a bit different, but then you'd see the shadows. Then you'd know what was out there... not exactly what it is, but you'd know it was coming.... That's why we have festivals now, parties to lure back the sun and then celebrate when it returns. No more slow, creeping death, but new birth and ever increasing life.

Soon I will slip 'life' into the pockets of desperate people. There's a handwritten note tucked into each drawstring sack --- Please contact Leverett & Reed for instructions and advice in the redemption of these coins..... I've dealt with them since seventeen fifty one, a most reputable counting house. Now they call themselves 'investment counselors.' There's an old gentleman who handles antiques. In the New World, Philadelphia is the mother lode. I'm sure they'll do well. That twelve thousand dollars per sack mentioned earlier was just gold value. Genuine Venetian ducats are highly collectible. Ask the Buccaneers of Hispanola ...

Now please forgive me. I have lives to change and people to see. Well, most of them will be sleeping. That makes it more special. I know some of you heard about the night that started all this... I trot it out every year 'round this time.

Google  --- Indulge me a bit... Vampire Wonderland... it'll be there...

To think if I went up in flames right now, my tale... all, well, by now close to one million words of it would go on for centuries, suspended in this ether they call 'the cloud.'...

That, my friends, is immortality too...

<hasta la proxima>

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