The Book of Sarah

It's me, Bob. They think I'm stupid, because I don't say much. But I am not stupid. It's better to keep quiet and listen. You learn more that way and you don't get into trouble. But I am afraid. I don't want to be destroyed. I'm the youngest of the crew and there's a lot I want to experience and see. I think I'm beginning to remember things. I can see lots of grass and fields. There are mountains or high hills that are almost mountains in the distance. So I guess I was born in the country or at least in a little town out in the country. There might have been a farm. I don't know if it was my parents' place or my grandparents' place. Sometimes we went to a Dairy Queen for ice cream and hot dogs. Boy, did I love human food. And now I love humans for food. But I'm not some kind of ghoul or cannibal. I do like Tomas and the others. Everyone I ever had came to me in a vision. I can't remember how I got this way. I don't know who did it, or if I was a volunteer or a draftee. When did it happen? Not sure, but some of the cars I visualize are mid sixties models. One was a dark burgundy, Pontiac G.T.O., a convertible with tan leather seats. A classic. You know the model.  So if I was translated in the mid sixties and if I was about forty two years old at the time, that means I was born some time around nineteen twenty three. That would make me about eighty five in human years and lets see...   approximately five hundred and ninety five years old in dog years. I wonder how old Annie's dogs are? Did she round them up here in town, or do some of them come from somewhere else? And what are they, some kind of vampire animal or monster animal or zombie or what? I'm really scared. I don't want to end before I remember my name. I used to think I was born in Europe. I don't know. I guess it was because of all the uhmp-pah music. Oh...  Oh... No, I see it. I see it. It wasn't Europe. It was in Pennsylvania, somewhere in central Pennsylvania. I see the road sign. I see it. It says State College (where Penn state is... beautiful town... beautiful campus) twenty six miles.  But that's it. I can't see any more. I'm cold. Sure, I know that the cold can't do me any harm. It's just a sensation  But it hurts. It cuts. It makes me feel dead. And I can't even shiver to warm up a little. We don't shiver. We don't have to. The mole people offered me one of their prisoners. I told them it was OK and that I could wait. I guess that made the guy they were gonna feed me happy too. Yeah, he is a bad piece of shit. But even bad pieces of shit probably don't want to die. Especially the very worst pieces.  His name is Howard. I know. I asked him. We shook hands. He said - Pleased to meet you. But that was probably just some kind of social reflex. I don't think he really meant it. It's a shame. I mean the guy looked so scared. He crawled back to his blanket and put his head back through that collar so fast. It probably felt like home-sweet-home to him. Imagine, living a life like that. I gotta do something to take my mind off things. Excuse me, but I think I'm gonna go over and join some mole kids in a game of Yahtzee. Wish me luck.

The Book of Sarah

I was unable to communicate with you last night. I just needed quiet. I did not go out. That is very rare. My eyes were open. I knew it was night. I could smell the darkness. But I never ventured out. Sarah stayed with me. Maybe it was selfish of me, but she still needs my help to sublimate and I just did not feel up to it. We can't open the door to this chamber. It is painted over on the other side, so we usually sublimate (well, I do. she holds on for dear life) through the cellar wall into an unknown underground tunnel (a common thing in the older districts of this city) and from there make our way up to our starlit stage. So we stayed there, laying in the shadows of our two hundred and sixty year old hiding place. We talked. Well, I talked. I  needed to escape. The destruction of that young man two nights ago was too much for me. He was exactly the type of soul we try to preserve. It was not right. He did not deserve it. The world is poorer in his absence. Bob is incoherent with fear. He is burrowed in with the mole people. From what we can sense, he lays curled in a fetal position against an oozing, concrete wall. But who is he kidding? The darkness of the depths cannot hide him. The beast riding Annie can hear almost everything. Unless we do something, it is just a matter of time. We have to kill the host. We have to kill the little girl. But none of us has so much as seen her in a vision, not that kind of vision. And it would be the first time any of us had ever done such a thing. How would we be punished for it? I do not want to think about that. This night will be spent in comforting recollections. I will conjure up fleeting glimpses of other times and other places. My memories are true, vivid and detailed, like dead bees trapped in amber. I am deep below the surface of the Mediterranean Sea. I walk among the wreckage of a bronze-age galley. The water presses in with a viscous, silent weight. Everything is lost in  blackness. But not to me. My storybook eyes find strange illumination in the darkness. Vampires can do that. We see heat and we see life. Every surface under the sea is buttered with life. It soaps each shell (both living and dead) and kisses every grain of sand. Bones play hide and seek among the shattered planking. Ghosts progress along the ruined deck. I see them, but they do not notice me. I discover a brooch, such as a nobleman might use to fasten a cloak, or a lady to decorate her hair. I pick it up. The ghosts do not mind. Maybe they have spirit treasures too? Then I walk back toward the shore, gradually ascending up from the depths. My head silently rises above the tiny ripples. I expel the briny fluid from my lungs and start to breathe the cool, night air. Do I truly need it? I think not, but the rhythm of it comforts me. An old woman digs for clams in the moonlight. I approach. She looks up, frightened by my unusual make up and condition. Water drips from my garments. Sea weed crowns my hair. I am a drowned corpse resurrected. She straightens up and stares silently. I smile. I place the cold and precious brooch into her hand. The gemstones twinkle in the starlight.. She slowly examines this rare gift and slips it into her pocket. I walk past. She bends over and resumes foraging. I hear her whisper - thank you. Then I sublimate through the fabric of the air and disappear.

The Book of Sarah

Annie killed one of the workers at the appliance store where Bob hides. I know she did it just to get to Bob. The young man she destroyed was totally innocent. He was twenty one years old for God's Sake. A part-time college student, a volunteer driver for 'meals on wheels'. An all around good kid. And she did not use the dogs or the rats or anything like that this time. She snuck up behind him as he was walking home from work. The neighborhood where Center City blends into South Philadelphia is stitched together with lots of incredibly narrow streets, old cobbled lanes, like what the British call 'mews'. And it's dark too. Very dark. She spoke. She said - Excuse me, mister, can you help me find Bainbridge Street? When he turned to answer, and according to the akoshic records he was about to ask her why a nice, little girl like her was out all alone, she opened her mouth. She opened it extremely wide, wider than a natural human ever could. And a greenish fog issued forth from deep within her. It blanketed the young man and he froze. She reached into a coat pocket and took out a small empty plastic soda bottle filled with gasoline. Now the twenty one year old's mouth was open. He was preparing to speak after all. She stood on tip-toe, lifted the bottle to his lips and poured it in. He had a shocked, surprized look in his eyes. And when she whispered 'swallow', he swallowed. He began to tremble. His brow began to sweat. She reached into another pocket and retrieved one of those little spark wands, the kind daddies use to light gas grills. She reached up on tip-toe once again, slipped it into his mouth and back toward his throat. She looked him in the eyes and pulled the trigger, instantly incinerating him from the inside out. He never had time to so much as say a prayer. And the residents on that street? They see nothing. They say nothing. Just another suspicious bombing. Possibly tied to organized crime. If you lived there and if you heard it, what would you do? Annie just brushed some greasy ashes off her coat and walked away. But according to the akoshic records (a repository of all that was, is, or will be in the universe) she cried. I am the nameless voice. And I know things. The Pow Wow Woman knows. Tomas knows. Sarah knows. Bob knows. And Baylah knows...... Speaking of Baylah, things have been going fairly well for her. She still styles herself a transvestite. It simplifies things. True, she is 'just' a tall, statuesque, West African beauty. But in the piano bar industry a sharp, swank drag queen draws more custom than a two hundred and fifty plus year old, Shang-Hai-ed, Ashanti (I think Ashanti) princess ever would. I suppose the drunks 'round the piano know what to make of a cross dresser. But an actual vampire might tend to disorient them a bit. What can I tell you? Humans can be so self-limiting. And our band of Nobel vampires trembles in their tombs. What are they, but the white blood cells vanguishing disease in the afflicted body that is humanity?

The Book of Sarah

Sarah had a bad night. I was close by, but she did maintain a bit of independence. It happened when she was giving a boost to a poor girl nursing a low fat latte at a coffee bar. You can picture it. The place is crowded. They share a table. They talk. Sarah naturally knew how hard the girl's life was. She's been following her for a while. So she distracts her. I don't know. Maybe she didn't have to distract her. Maybe the girl just got up to go pee or something. That's when she took her chance and dribbled the blood into the 'skinny' latte. The girl comes back, downs the now fortified drink and the rest will eventually be history. No, really, it will. The Pow Wow Woman says she's destined to be the fourth or fifth female president of The United States of America. Only she says by then it'll be The United States and Provinces of North America. Canada will still be Canada. Mexico will still be Mexico. But we'll all be tied together in a kind of European Union fashion. Cuba will be part of it too, so will a little slice of the moon. At least I will be able to speak Spanish on a regular basis again..... Listen to my voice. Listen to the way I sound. At times I am aware of it and at other times I am not. I lose myself in this weirdly exotic culture. I forget my origin. Yes, I speak their 'English'. But I attempt to retain the poetic cadences of Old Granada. The courtly, early Spanish. The artistically flowing Arabic. The fundamentally spiritual Hebrew. I try to distract myself from the difficulty at hand. It must have been hard for her. When Sarah left the coffee bar she encountered a much beloved cousin. Now this comely young woman had always resided in Baltimore. They had not seen each other for years. But there was a time when they were children. There was a time when things were different. Their mothers were sisters, close sisters. And they would all spend summers together in a modest, little tourist colony in the Poconos, trading secrets, exploring the nooks and crannies of the surrounding, lake-front town, floating in the pine scented water. You can imagine. But that was then. Now the cousin recognized her. She looked. She stopped. She did not utter a word. But she knew, or she was almost completely certain that she did. Sarah almost broke down. She almost spoke. Now I have heard that certain vampires can do that. They manage to preserve their human relationships. But I don't know. I had cousins too. Sometimes after almost one thousand years, I still feel only eighteen years old.....Bob is sure that Annie is focusing  on him, like a shark spiraling inward. He never goes out. Not even in a group. Not even with us. Atlantic City? Forget Atlantic City. The only time he was there was when we dropped off the 'familiars.' Bob was a good sport about that. He had four or five nights worth of comps, so he let them use it. After that, I paid. They should be safe down there. Safe and quite comfortable too. I managed to get them reservations at Chef Vola and everything, But Bob, I don't know. He has visions. He has visions of a victim, an exceedingly distasteful person. It is a man, a man who made millions in the African 'blood diamond' trade. He was truly looking forward to the act. To the feeding. To the culling. All of it. But now? I just pray he changes his mind. No one skips their monthly call. It is tied to the phases of the moon. It is a fundamental element of creation. God made things that way. It is natural. It is basic. It is us. I have never known a vampire to put down this burden. I have never known a vampire to put it down and still go on. And Sarah? What did she do? She stared straight ahead and silently walked on.

The Book of Sarah

Good evening. It is I. It is Albion. I am still here. There are further truths to tell you. Look at that wilkravitz person type away. I can see him through the window. I wonder if he knows the words are coming from me? I wonder if he even knows that he is inscribing words? Maybe he's just like a link in a circuit? Who knows. I have seen him doing this before. Tomas was directing him then. He does this all in real time. It takes as long for him to write it as it takes for you to read it. It just spills out. Stream of consciousness, as they say. Now, what else did I want to tell you? Oh, yes. This is how I got here. To Philadelphia, I mean. There were four of us, me, Celeste, Roland and Marianne. There were two cherubs in the cask as well. But they did not have names. The spoken work is not relevent to them. Their communication was (and is) primarily mind to mind. Well you know, that is due to their nativity. Strictly speaking, they were vampires since birth. Imagine, never human. Oh, I know some of the cherubs were brought over as toddlers, the victims of crazy vampires like the rest of us. But even they have few human memories. When it comes to the cherubs, their souls are different. If you ask me, they are the truest vampires of all. Now, back to how we got here. I often wonder why our casket did not remain wedged in some deep, dark crevace .It happened to others. Granted, a tempest could have tossed us up onto some beach. Yet how did we get near that beach? Why are we not still locked in tortuous contortions off some stormy, Normandy headland? Others suffer such a fate. How do they endure it? I will tell you. They retreat into their dreams. They renounce their physical body and its many sensations. They become minds, just minds. But we did not have to face that. Why? Just remember there are other intelligences abroad in the sea. Kindly consider Their Serene Highnesses, The Whales, of both the baleen and toothed nationalities. Their consciousness met our consciousness. And they took pity upon us, pushing our tiny leaden prison along until we finally reached this welcoming shore. In other instances, it is said that some caskets would literally disolve after a few years in the briny deep, releasing their occupants out into the ocean like so many wildly paddling sea monkeys. Instinct kept them to the depths, rising up to meet the moonlight when at last they reached the New World shallows. They'd quickly scurry into coastal forests, like newborn sea turtles clamoring toward the surf. That is it. That is how we came to be here. Now, there are more than six of us in this metropolity. I do not know the exact number. It is bad luck to count. We make our living a lot like the Nobels do. When our not-killed nocturnal guests stumble back to their nearest and dearest after their dreamlike night with the fairie folk, they do so minus their gold and jewelry. Don't think of us like that. Please, have a care, for we are only orphans. Another thing, we can fly. Why are we so blessed? I do not know. Perhaps the magic effects each type of human differently. Many are the late-night mortal wanderers who have witnessed our airborne burlesques. But who could they tell? What could they say - Oh look! There's a naked, little baby zipping around the Dunkin Donut sign!? Can you imagine the reaction?  They'd lock them away with the alien abductees. And we all know that aliens are real too. Tomas wants to reclaim that wilkravitz' psyche. I must depart. It seems he has a lot to tell you.

The Book of Sarah

I wanted to speak with you sooner. But I am a well behaved young man, so I stayed back and patiently waited my turn. I am Albion, the leader of the elves and cherubs. The Lord of the Flies, so to speak. Tomas may have mentioned us to you. He knows much. Still, he is not one of us. So his reality is much different than ours.We are those who were brought over too early, at least by grown-up standards. We are those who have not yet gained their full maturity. And now we never will. Our human years range from about thirteen down to near-term fetuses. Most of us are the 'blood' children of insane vampires, or the offspring of women brought over during the last stages of a pregnancy. Those of us who appear to be children are called elves. The little tykes are the cherubs. Some of them actually gnawed their way out of  novice vampire mothers before flying off to take their places in the night. That's another thing. We can fly. Why can we fly? I don't know. Maybe the magic effects each age differently. Old crones become banshees. Old goats morph into ogres. That is how it is. To each his own. I know. You want to know how the cherubs (and some of the aged) take blood if they do not have any teeth? They do it with their tongues. In their case that agile muscle ends in a tough, horny point. Sort of like the mandible of a bug. They jab or scrap this tool against the skin of their victim and drink away. Now in our case (elves and cherubs) we're more like those bull fights they have in Portugal, where el torro is allowed to live. That's because we rarely drain our mortals to death. Most of us could not tolerate that much blood anyway. Our victims wander off and babble about nights spent with the fairies. We are Puck and Oberon and Titania.Oh, we have the same ability to preserve the lives of the worthy as other vampires. And we often do that. But the benighted, hate-ridden masses of Europe (actually, most of the Old World) refused to accept us. And as 'religion' grew in their hearts, they tortured and destroyed us to an even greater degree. In some places the peasantry would lure us into caverns with sweet music and fanciful lights. But once inside, they'd throw metallic nets over us and crush us into huge, lead chests (like monstrous caskets) which they'd drag to a cliff or some other rampart and throw into the sea. I can promise you that there are countless, conscious elves and cherubs languishing in corroded, moldering abysmal tombs right now as we speak. Most nights we say prayers for them. Why are we here? We are among the lucky ones. Our prisons washed up on foreign shores, usually in a tempest. Curious natives heard crying inside and broke us out. Well... can you imagine their surprise? .  But we were usually good to them, curing sickness and bewitchments with little blood kisses and all. Still we have to be careful. Naturally, we must avoid the vampires of the Noxious sort at all costs. They're just a bunch of mindless beasts who can't really control their actions. Nobels usually leave us to our own devices. Sometimes they come and visit. They like to watch our dances. They like to watch us fly about. Sometimes we  assist each other in times of need. We are aware that the Philadelphia Nobels are having problems. We know they are being targeted by something bad. Well, not just the vampires. Others in this city are suffering too. Perhaps it is time for us to help? Oh, and about our elfin ears, about those pointed ears. That happens because certain cells in a human body survive for a time after 'death' and continue to grow. Our ears grow and so do our fingers and toes, providing us with nimble elfin hands and vulpine elfin faces. To be truthful, I  love the way I look. Watch for us. We are particularly evident in cities during the Christmas time. Be alert. Look closely. Some of Santa's helpers are quite real.

The Book of Sarah

This time it is Sarah. As you know, I culled my first victim last night. The experience changed me. I felt a cleansing energy pass through me. When the victim ceased to exist, defects in this universe seemed to lessen. And I do not know if it is the blood that nourishes me or something much more fundamental than that. I suspect it is the assurance that I am a tool in God's Hands used for the perfection of creation. I feel like a saint. This is what the rapture must be like. I do not know. Maybe this actually is the rapture. And tonight I will walk among the mortals dispensing life saving trickles of my heaven blessed blood. Will I help the sick, locked away in mercenary hospitals? Should I visit the poor? Perhaps give assistance to homesick, struggling college students? The sad souls filling the jails? Helpless children in brutal surroundings? In time I will come to them all. I am told that most beings such as I make a kill their first night. I did not. I did not require it. What is it that sets me apart? Tomas does not know and the others do not care. But I wonder. Once, at a carnival, the fortune teller told me I was destined to bring about great change in the world. I was still a mortal back then. Did she foresee my transformation? Did she see me as I am now?  During the light-time, while I was 'sleeping' (Tomas says we actually wander the streets of heaven) I heard the voices of children. They called to me from a distance. They whispered my name. They loved me. I'm sure they loved me. Tomas was not surprised when I told him. He said that he was right there with me. Baylah just looked down at her hands and said nothing. She wants a soul to share things with. True, she does have the Pow Wow Woman. But she does not want to join our ranks. She is just here to listen and share the things she knows. Bob does not know what to make of any of it. He appears to be the least spiritual miraculous person imaginable. Bob has problems. Perhaps I can help him solve them? Please excuse me. But I must renounce the ether to another. I must choose my garments for this evening. I do so want to look my best when I make my rounds. After all, a 'visitation' is a life altering experience........ Is she gone? Can I speak now? Did you ever see such a case of 'Jerusalem Fever' in your life? Converts get that way. She has the furvor of the newly saved. Perhaps she is sincere. But everlasting (or practically everlasting) life has taught me that angels lose their enthusiasm after an eon or two. They start picking at their wings. They start shedding feathers. Lose too many feathers and you fall. Well,maybe she will be different. Tomas seems to be. Oh, come on. You know who I am. It is me, the unnamed voice. Let me see. What did I want to tell you? Oh yes! The Old Woman has resurfaced. She was in a women's shelter, a bleak place, straight out of Dickens. The others thought she was crazy. She told them. She told them everything, about how she had tiny gifts of vampire blood in her, about how she was more than onehundred and forty years old. They laughed at her. One brazen bitch even spit in her face. They stole things from her, mostly baubles and valuables she took from the penthouse. The matrons knew what was going on. As long as they got their cut, what did they care? One night she just wandered out onto the street and disappeared. But she did not disappear. None of you can. We always know where you are. Want to know what happened to her? I will tell you. She came face to face with Annie. That Annie thing backed her into an alley. She was about to sic the dogs on her. No, she didn't have the dogs that night. Excuse me.That night she was using the rats. She was about to loose the rats on her. But the Old Woman just looks at her, cool as punch, and says - Aw, you don't wanna kill me. They locked eyes. The Old Woman giggles quietly and says - You know me... And I know you. Not this little thing. Not this little meat puppet. I know YOU. Come on (she bats her eyes like a silent film vixen) give a girl a chance. She approaches Annie, gets down on her knees among the scrambling mass of rats and caresses her. She whispers in her ear. I do not know what was said. I do not know the words. But if I had some lungs. And if I had a mouth. And if I had some lips, I could sure as hell whistle the tune for you.

The Book of Sarah

Sarah took her first victim last night. I was so proud. It was some heir to a racketeer dynasty who thought he was a local celebrity. Bob used to see him all the time in Atlantic City, groping cocktail waitresses and shooting his mouth off if they didn't seat him down in front  for the jumped up wedding singers and 'nostalgia' (read has-been) acts they booked in that joint. Apparently he was responsible for a few bad beatings. His people worked over an innocent graduate student who was in just a little bit too much. They tied the young man to a chair upstairs in one of the hotel rooms and took turns punching him in the face. Now there was a cleaning woman making her rounds on the floor while this was going on. She heard the screams. She heard the solid punches. When she got on her little radio device to notify the management, they could not have cared any less. Nobody came. The beating continued. The kid went blind. They dumped him on the front steps of his parents house a few hours later. His eyesight never came back. And his family was advised not to call the police. Now do you know why the universe needs creatures like us? Sarah culled him in the parking garage of his million dollar plus condominium. The half asleep fellow watching the security monitor never noticed a thing. It just looked like the not-so-young, sticky Lothario was locked in a clinch with yet another over-impressed, tarted-up, working class slut. Bravo to my protege for her incongruous costume. Was he scared? He was terrified. He fought. He begged. But he had no way to defeat her superior strength and abilities. The lousy bastard even soiled his linen. That is no way to treat a lady. When she was finished, she dropped him between two parked cars and quietly walked out. He ignited into a cold, blue flame (as expected) and vanished. The father of this putrid specimen killed the equally distasteful spawn of a rival in retaliation. Two birds with one stone. Quite a good first night's work, if you ask me. I saw it all unfold from a slight distance away. She had to solo after all. She had to earn her wings. Now I am going to make it my business to run into that blind young man sometime. He still takes classes at the university. I'll engage him in conversation. It is harder to mesmerize the blind. But I am sure of my talents. He will imbibe a small taste of a strange drink and his body will heal. Who knows, perhaps you'll see him on Oprah? Annie has managed to kill two of my best familiars. She got the two lawyers who handled most of my wealth and investments. It was the dogs. She used the dogs. The Pow Wow Woman and I did eventually pick something up. But by the time we got there it was too late. The little girl was already picking up the bones. I could not confront her. The pack was still nearby. It would be difficult for me to have any effect on them.. They're animals and they do not react to spiritual pressure. They need training. They need signals. They need hand signals. They need people. And they have Annie. I'm sure she, or someone else, has brought them along in th e ancient way. Perhaps they already have a taste for our blood from their encounter with the foreign vampire. What do I mean 'perhaps'? Of course they do. I think the Pow Wow Woman is growing too stout. Something must be done. She is still seriously involved with certain, local delivery boys. They run the greasy cargo up to Baylah's place above the piano bar. That's where she spends most of her time. I have been watching recorded episodes of Dr. Phil (our sub-basement cell is now rather well equipped) so I know what to do. We will have to stage an 'intervention'. That idea is not so strange to me. It is remarkably similar to the exorcisms I grew up with. Yes, Jews have them too. You see, Sarah was smart. She starved off her extra few pounds before her transformation. She also went to a spa and had a more or less complete body wax too. So now she looks like an angel, a full angel, not the demi-angelic things we believe we are. You know, good looks for vampires are not a given. Oh, maybe such is the case for Nobels (yes n-o-b-e-l-s , I don't know why they spell it that way. I'm told it's a remnant of some ancient Latin influence) like us. We always look great. Even Bob has a certain waifish allure. But the Noxious variety is different. Did you ever see Wilem Defoe as the vampire Max Shrek in that movie? Well, then you know. I must find a way to protect my surviving familiars. We could board them with the Pow Wow Woman's cronies in the Jersey pines. I've even brought it up at meetings. But the wives are rather down on the idea. They'd prefer suites at The Borgota in Atlantic City. Well, we'll see. Perhaps Bob can arrange to have the rooms 'comped'? I will definitely inform you of our decission.

ANNIE TALKS.....Don't be scared. I can talk sometimes. He lets me talk sometimes. I am here. And I am me. And I am afraid. I have a soul. No, I am a soul. I know that from Sunday School. No one can create a soul but God. And every soul has an earthly home. Every soul has a body. I'm not sure I understand what all I say. Maybe that's because I'm only seven and a half years old. When the Shaky Hand Man is awake I can't talk. It's like he puts me in a box. No, it's worse than a box. It's like he buries me in dirt. Just dirt. No box. Sometimes the Shaky Hand Man has to think. Sometimes he has to plan things. He plans bad things all the time. I  don't know where he goes when he thinks, but that's good, because it means he's not here. That's when I feel all better. That's when I don't feel so sick anymore. I really, really, really want to go home. I want to go back to California. I miss my mommy and daddy. I miss everybody. I miss my whole generation. Even the dogs. Especially the dogs. I miss Barkley. He's my dog. Please! Please! Please! I gotta stop. I can't tell you anymore. I can't. My stomach hurts........ And then her eyes glazed over. Her hands contorted and she stopped....... It is I, the unnamed voice. I saw her. I found her. I came to her. She likes me. She enjoys my presence. She calls me her friend. And you must know that she does not want to do it. But she is helpless. The Shaky Hand Man allows her to sleep. He leads her through rich, quiet hotels. He can unlock the doors to empty rooms. He can cloud the sight of onlookers. She wanders down thickly carpeted hallways. She opens a door and goes inside to sleep on large, formal beds. But never, never, never under the covers. Not like that. Sometimes the Shaky Hand Man allows her to bathe in warm water. Sometimes he does not. When she requires fresh clothing, he unlocks the sinister, nighttime, loading dock doors to a cavernous department store. She walks in, all alone, except for the Shaky Hand Man. It's dark and empty. She cries. She sobs softly. Sometimes she picks up a package of children's underwear. Sometimes some socks. whatever she needs. She knows it is wrong to steal. But this is not stealing. Her hands are not her own. This city is in the cold part of its year now, so she takes a coat, whatever. She needs  a small, stuffed dog. But the Shaky Hand Man will not permit it. So no stuffed dog. Nothing to hug. She exits the loading dock door and carefully climbs down the cement platform to the street. She knows how to be careful. It hurts when she falls. Her tiny shoes clip-clop down the icy street. There are sinister beings about. Most of them are merely humans, but some are not. They fail to see her. The Shaky Hand Man has clouded their vision. Sometimes she walks all night. Her legs hurt. Her feet hurt. She uses dirty toilets. And she enables this non-physical entity to kill people. Her name truly is Annie. And she wants to go home. But first she must help him cleanse this city. She does not understand it. And he does not care. The Shaky Hand Man will tell her anything. But she will never go home. He will use her till she dies. Oh, but he does not want that to happen. He does not want her to die. Not soon amyway. That would only create problems. That would force him to gnaw into the soul of an unfortunate, near-term fetus and enter the world all over again. But at least he'd be all fresh and whole and new.......... You know that I can see things. People like when I share what I see. Here is what I see right now.......... There is a girl in Arizona. Wise up! He is a liar. You know what I mean. Look him in the eye and tell him. But take a friend. Do not go alone....... For Jimmy in New Jersey - Do not take the household refuse out late at night. That thing at the end of the lane is not just an optical illusion. It is not just a playful combination of moonlight and shadows. Stay away........... To Mitzi somewhere along the Gulf of Mexico - That Gloria is nothing but a lousy cheater. Do not play the ancient, Chinese game known as Mah Jong with her again. Go with Doris. Have an 'early bird'. See a motion picture performance and call it a night.......... Oh, and if any soul out there has similar capabilities, might they please contact me and tell me my name? I am on the Twitter. Reach me through Tomas' familiar, that wilkravitz character. Go to Billy Kravitz@wilkravitz. That is all you have to do. And do not be so shocked to learn that a disembodied spirit, such as I, uses the internet too. For in this medium are we all not disembodied spirits?

The Book of Sarah

It is me this time. It is Tomas, I am deeply depressed. Even those new pairs of spectacularly fitting jeans I purchased on Walnut Street failed to raise my spirits. The girl said it made me look like one of the dancers on Dancing With The Stars. But I do not look at that program, so I do not know what she was talking about. If they want to see dancing, real dancing, they should watch some dervishes, or maybe a belly dancer, the good ones like they had (and I suppose still have) in Istanbul. My Uncle Hanan always had belly dancers at his dinners. They were wonderful. I cannot remember their names. One of them ran away with the Gypsies. That is all I can recall. I ramble. But it is only because I morn for my copy of La Ciencia Vampirismo. At first I thought we took it when we fled our crumbling tower. However I was wrong. We do not have it. The Old Woman has it. I can imagine the poetic secrets inscribed within whispered into the ears of demons. Will they learn of The Reign of Pan? Will they laugh at the vampiric betrothal rites of Chin Dynasty Cathay? May the night wind dry them like dead, November leaves. We do go out, but always in a group. Sarah and I meet Baylah and the three of us go to the Mutter Museum to get Bob. We stroll about the byways of Center City. No one notices. They have other outlandish specimens to gawk at. There is the levitating, toothless crone of Head House Square. The twelve fingered fandango dancer of South Street (quite the virtuoso on the castanets). And the greasy dwarf of Pig Alley, who ignites his powerful farts for five dollars a pop. I hear he is quite wealthy. Annie took another victim. The Pow Wow Woman knew. I did too. Sarah is still oblivious to such things. She picks up certain simple nuances, but there is still much work to do. Annie's victim was an important personage, a political leader in town for a certain award ceremony. He was to receive the Franklin Crystal, a large bowl (meant to recall Benjamin Franklin's famous musical armonica) given to those people who work to bring 'harmony' to humanity. Annie did not use the dogs this time. I told you. she has apparently developed a taste for the unusual, a taste for variety. She used her latest weapon. The victim was dreaming between the eighthundred count sheets of his sixtyfive hundred dollar a night suite, when a magical, minute 'conga line' made its way up from the tiny, shadowy depths. Thousands (or maybe it was millions?) of loathsome redish-brown  creepy-crawlies, the size of boiled rice grains, marched into a random assortment of his bodily orafices. Others satisfied themselves with a bite of his skin and deeper layers as well. By the time he awoke, he was blind,tongueless and deaf. Other important pieces of equipment were mangled to the point of unrecognizability. They had to scrape what was left of him off the sheets. Fortunately for the housekeeping staff, the down topper saved the mattress. I wonder who is sleeping there tonight. It was all kept quiet. Few individuals even know. But we know and Annie knows. That is the important thing. I think they wound up presenting the bowl to former President, James Carter. He seems like such a nice man. We've been catching glimpses of the elves and cherubs. Have I told you about them? I do not remember. Anyway, they are an especially enchanted breed of vampire, made from juvenile humans brought over just shy of puberty. Others are even more exotic than that. We will discuss their uniqueness some other time. Baylah is afraid the Enemy will trip us up with simple tactics. Nothing extravagant. Maybe just a good, old fashioned 'drive by'. She could bewitch her own strain of familiars into doing it for her. They could 'stitch us up real good'. It would have to be in a public area. What could we do, lay down on the sidewalk and pretend to be dead? The ordeal would be painful, but it would not kill us. Should we just continue walking? Don't make eye contact and just keep going? Either way, we would be 'outted'. Poeple would see. Society would notice. The government would swope down. We would wind up hidden away deep beneath the Pentagon, unexplainable specimens, exploited for military purposes. Quite like my maker, who lies deep within the Vatican Archives in Rome. No, no, no, no... that is a reality I would not like to experience. We're strolling by the coffee bar right now. The one where my wilkravitz familiar types this all up. He knows I'm close by. See? He's nervous. Look how he scratches at his ear. Oooh! He almost spilled his coffee. We had better hurry on our way before he ruins that new lap top.

The Book of Sarah

I am here. I am in your reality once again. Who am I? I do not know. We communicated before. I remembered the sun on the Ganges. That is all I can tell you. If any of the souls out there are capable of astral linkages, please tell me who I am. I am somewhat sure that I would like to know. But I do know certain things and I do see things. Some are trivial. Some are fundamental to the continuation of the firmament. The things I will relate to you now fall approximately twelve python lengths above the middle. I can feel that thing you call 'Annie'. I can feel that personage capering about in the skin of a little girl. I don't know if the little child possesses her own soul, or if she is merely a vessel, created to clothe the Enemy. Forgive this lowly individual, but I do not know. Let me now share those things I am sure of. The 'Annie' is still in the New World City of Fraternal Unity, the place known as Philadelphia. She has cut short the earthly sojourn of many souls. And she plans to curtail the lives of many more. Her victims are all innocent. You can search the akashic records from The Silver Eternity to The Golden Eternity and you will find no strike against any of them. But this one is not come into the world to right wrongs. She is there only to kill. I suspect her true purpose is to take out those souls who are laboring (or who might labor) for peace and harmony. She (it?) is very bad, more evil than The Seventh Benighted Monkey. And that is very, very bad indeed. I think that Tomas, or the consort Sarah is trying to come through. I think they are attempting to contact you. For that reason I will be brief. But there are things I know about particular people out there. Let me begin. A girl in a house near a beach has been neglecting certain responsibilities. She is in denial. But she is concerned. Face these chores, no matter how repulsive. Triumph over them. You will rise to a level of increased earthly happiness. One nearby is eager to help. There is a man in a city, a New World city who has misplaced something of great value. He has been searching for days. He has been searching in vain. Fear not, your frustrations will cease. The physical object in question lies hidden deep within the cushions of a large divan (what you commonly term a sofa). Look once more, right where you usually take your ease and you will find it. That is all. I am evaporating. The one known as Tomas condenses in my place....... Please forgive me for the delay. Someone else was on  the line, as they used to say. His identity is a mystery to me. My wilkravitz familiar (the one busy typing this out in some crowded coffee bar) must be greatly confused. Sarah is progressing. She is a very willing pupil. We are currently working on sublimation. Solid walls are still too much for her. But she is very able to pass through fabric barriers such as curtains, Japanese soji screens and the like. We are also trying to strengthen her latent telepathic abilities. As I have stated before, these have little to do with her present vampiric state. She has had them since birth. You all do, at least those of you who are human. But Jerusalem was not built in a day. We work, yet we are patient. She has not taken her first preordained victim . That pivotal event will most likely (God willing) occur in a week or two.  I think she's been having visions of an especially loathsome schoolmaster, or some similar type who holds dominion over children. All I can tell you is that come a fortnight from now some needlessly tormented little tykes will be deleriously happy. But we have been extant in the world. Her favorite thing is leaving fat wallets (naturally minus any identification) where beaten-down poor souls might find them. One sad individual, a hard-working mother with a little boy, visits a neighborhood doughnut shop every night to ask for any stale or otherwise unacceptable pastries she might have before they are unceremoniously thrown to the rats. Last night, we left a black, leather wallet down on the sidewalk where she would find it. Now she is the proud owner of a stack made up of fifty onehundred dollar bills. I can tell you her angelic son is not waiting for dried up bits of sugary dough tonight. And that is but one example. Baylah does things like that too. So does Bob. It is how we are. It is the nature of the beast. Look, of couse we know about Annie's exploits. How could we not? But it is difficult for us to neutralize her. The dogs are the problem. Human psyches are easy to influence and controll. Animals are different. When she does not use the dogs, she uses rats.  And I sense that of late she has been experimenting with a new weapon, a certain noxious, nocturnal insect particularly fond of human flesh.........Always the innovator that one. Now I must be off........... Goodnight, (and please, if at all possible) don't let the bedbugs bite.

The Book of Sarah

Our little alcove. Our little refuge. We retreated into the inky solitude all the time. The complete absence of light was comforting. And the vermin never troubled us. They tend to stay away from vampires. I don't know why. Perhaps it is because they like to take the blood from the living and the flesh from the dead. We are neither, so they leave us alone. Sarah too. I suppose my essence must have rubbed off on her. But the alcove was a place where we could be together. We could talk. We could touch. We could explore..... We made vows to each other. She was mine. She was my beloved. And I was hers. We recited the old, Hebrew marriage service. I knew it. I remembered it from all the weddings I'd attended as a boy. The sacred words rose up through the centuries and we were united. Before The Great Throne of Heaven, we were united. What? Do you doubt this? How can you?. If supernatural beings such as I can exist, who can deny the reality of angels, the reality of the prophets and the abiding presence of an everlasting God? We were married and we were one. The Pow Wow Woman knew. She smiled when she saw us. Baylah laughed. She laughed like a child. Not to mock us, but because she was glad. Even Bob was happy (real emotion seems a rarity for him). He almost remembered his true name.... Almost. The Old Woman's thoughts trod a different path. She was not happy. And she stopped eating. What did the mortals eat underground? Well, mushrooms. as I have told you. Snails. Doves. Snails are obvious. They crave shadows too. The doves would flutter down into the subway tunnels during cold weather. Over time, some of them were snatched up and carried deeper by cunning, little mole children. They were put into crude pens fashioned from old, dried, bench slats scavenged from never used platforms in never used tunnels. The birds were fattened on dried mushrooms, plus other occasional exotic tidbits. Their wing feathers were snapped in such a manner as to make flight impossible. Thus was a race of subterranean squab born. Life giving water trickled out of cracks and the loosened joints of old, rusted pipes. But the Old Woman would have none of it. She even refused the periodic gift of a drop or two of my blood. And she would wander into the lowest, maze-like warrens, into places never felt by human fingers, or by one-time human fingers. And then there came a night (at least we thought it was night) when we all felt it. We sensed the change. But only the Pow Wow Woman spoke. She said - The little one has stopped her killing. She is not killing anymore. Actually, I  knew it too. But I did not trust my God given talents. It wsas time to leave our grave-like state and go up into the open air once more. Would the evil girl kill again? We did not know. If she did, we would hopefully react in the proper manner. We would face it. This time, I would face it with Sarah. Look, I must be truthful with you. There was not any one act. There was not any one night when I made her as I am. But little by little, I took tiny draughts of her blood and replaced it with my own. And so, over time, she was changed. I cannot tell you when that happened. In truth, nor can she. But there was one night. I believe it was the First Night... the First Night of our Feast of the Rededication (Hanukah), when she took her last human meal and passed over into a more spiritual state. She never shed her skin. She was spared that horror, for she retained it, but in a radiant and perfect form. Why did this occur? I do not know. Perhaps she is different. Perhaps it was preordained. Only the Lord of the Universe knows for sure. We were residing in a tiny, clean, dry cell beneath an old Spanish Rite (Sephardic) meeting house (synagogue) on a fine, pre-Revolutionary red brick street in the Society Hill district.. The congregants up above never knew we were there. The chamber was forgotten long ago. But we could hear their hymns and prayers and it was a great comfort to us. It was a sign. As long as we culled only those seen in visions we would be all right. As long as we fed on the truly wicked and no one else, we would one day, ages hence, be welcomed into the Shining Presence of God. And we believed that with a 'most perfect faith' as the blessed biblical commentators were known to say. Now Bob managed to get his old job back at the Mutter Museum. And Baylah opened a jewel-box-like little piano bar. We all got together at the museum or the bar from time to time. The Pow Wow Woman made a comfortable living giving 'readings' at stylish ladies' luncheons and gatherings of that sort. The Old Woman? She simply disappeared. Odd, occasional deaths still occured. But the girl, Annie, was not seen and so she was not blamed. We spread our blood among the needy, along with timely sums of cash. We made the world a better place. And so life went on. Perhaps it was the beginning of The Age To Set Things Right? And then again, perhaps not.

The Book of Sarah

We ditched the limo after about three blocks. They would have been looking for it. There was a worn out  woman trudging home after a hard night changing diapers at a dingy nursing home. The Pow Wow Woman picks this stuff up. She is amazing. In my time they would have burned her twice. That is how good she is. Bob was the driver. He called to the bedraggled woman. He said - Excuse me madam, how would you like a free two thousand and ten Cadillac stretch limo? She said without missing a beat - Fully equipped? Bob said - Of course, only the finest. The title was properly signed and prepared for hasty transfers like this. Believe me. We've been here before. After assuring her she wouldn't have to do no 'hootchy stuff' and demonstrating that the trunk was completely free of 'dead folks with caps busted in 'em', we threw her the keys and ran off. The subway entrance was just around the corner. Lucky for us the morning rush hadn't really started yet . We scrambled down the steps and raced through the turnstile. Pow Wow shot a quick hoo-doo at the bitch in the cage, so we had no problem. Handy things, those hoo-doos. I must learn how she does it. We didn't make for the platform, but went straight toward a heavy, metal door in a corner. I had a key, an old key from when they first built this system more than one hundred years ago. Believe me, it still works. I use it a lot. The creaking portal scraped open. We quickly made our way down into the darkness of the subterranean world of the mole people (some call them the earthworms, but they prefer mole). After descending for two or three additional levels, each more crude than the last, we spied their encampment, the usual collection of small, gray, dirty tents and weak, orange sterno fires. None of the moles made a move. They just sat there, staring into the tiny, flickering light and chewing on their usual ration of mushrooms (fungi grow underground). All was qiet until we reached spitting distance. That is when their cheftain spoke. He said - To what do we owe this pleasure? All the while licking his lips in anticipation of a wee, small blood gift. I told him of events up above. He just shook his head and called to an underling - Bring the magic talking box! Someone duck-walked into a tent and came out with a battered television, which they expertly connected to a wire (among a nest of wires) providing us with a weak, flickering cable signal. The news! Get the news! Channel six! Action News! And so we saw  his favorite personality report the latest on a fast-breaking story. Thirteen dead. Dozens injured. Streets cordoned off. Traffic snarled. All due to an unforseen building collapse.......... We knew we were the intended targets and felt bad for the victims. Baylah said that after a few days, when things settled down, we should 'visit' the injured in hospital some night and give them each a drop or two of our secret, red tonic. I nodded. We would do that. The Pow Wow Woman said - But you know, I am kind of glad that Henry (short for Henrietta) and Oscar got it. (the supercilious, co-heads  of our condo board). Those jumped-up pathetic snobs always rubbed me the wrong way. Bob said - How many times could you have encountered  them? We were not there very long. But he forgot that she could see things. She could sense things. And I had to agree. I too was glad that Lord and Lady Douche-bag were no more. Though I did mumble a fast Kaddish prayer  for the dead. We stayed with our below-grade benefactors for what must have been six or seven days. Time loses all meaning without the moon and the stars. Each of us found a snug, little corner to call our own. Sarah and I found the same corner. After what seemed to have been maybe two days, we consumated our relationship deep within a sheltering cocoon of worn, frayed blankets. The mole people are quite civilized when it comes to questions of privacy and matters of the heart. My own brethren-of-the-night pretended not to notice. The Old Woman noticed. She picked up on it right away. God knows what she will do. I will have to deal with her later. The Pow Wow Woman just giggled and rolled her eyes. I gave Sarah a somewhat larger than usual blood gift. No, she was not a vampire. Not yet. While up above, Little Annie continued to kill those unlucky souls on her naughty list. She struck them off one by one. Santa Claus should be so reliable.

The Book of Sarah

It is one of those chill, misty nights. Who am I? I do not know who I am. Consider me a witness. I see things. I feel things. And I tell things. I do not understand the manner of our communication. Am I dead? I do not know. Did I once walk through creation in a quickened, human form? I do not know. But I seem to remember the pungent smells and throbbing rhythms  of ancient Hind. I seem to recall the burning light of a firey, orange orb reflected in the eternal waters of the River Ganges. And I seem to be privy to other things, current things, events unfolding as I speak. Let me share the things I know with you. A young girl, she is called Annie, progresses down a black, deserted alley. It is the last part of the darkness, when even the spirits rest. She sits upon a huge and monstrous hound. The beast lopes along with a silent strenght. Even the rats run away. They turn from the alley, entering a street of the wealthy, a refuge for princes. Lofty towers line this priviledged thoroughfare. They face a large, manicured greensward.  She stops approximately onehundred cubits from an especially high caste structure. The girl and her evil mount sit there for a few moments. Nothing happens. All is silent. The lesser life forms in the bushes of the greensward make low their life signs. The world waits.  The girl known as Annie grabs the scruff of the dog and pulls back. It raises its mighty head. They break the bonds of divine creation and ascend up into  the night. Upon reaching a height equal to The Great Ghats of Baroda, they begin to circle the building, drawing closer and closer with each revolution. She reaches out her hand and scratches the hard, stone facade. A low and vibrant hum passes through the ether. A crack appears on the towering edifice, spreading over the surface like a scar. The masonry begins to rumble. A lofty corner of the buiding crumbles. Walls fall away. Domiciles of the living are exposed and then destroyed. Soul-filled screaming, fleshly vessels tumble down into eternity. Witnesses gasp in horror. A long and narrow motor vehicle bringing tired laborers home careens wildly in a vain attempt to escape this deadly, urban avalanche.  Sirens pierce the vapors. Little Annie and her faithful dog, drift into a billowing cloud of dust and disappear. Strange beings, domesticated, reverent demons in human form (three in number) and their human attendants, speed down a vertical passage in a magical conveyance. They hurry out into a cellar. The enchanted assemblage piles into a shiny, black carriage with darkened window. It springs to life, transporting them away from the carnage and into the waning darkness.  May Shiva have mercy upon us all.

The Book of Sarah

So for approximately twentyeight days we all stayed inside. God bless Scrabble, Monopoly and The Game of Life. Bob missed out on another free weekend in Atlantic City. He had to make do with a bundle of scratch-off lottery tickets from the newsstand in  the lobby. The guy would run them up for him and come up later to pick up any winners. I think one was worth twohundred and fifty dollars. He gave it to the Pow Wow Woman. I felt bad, we all felt bad about  the righteous, needy souls who would have benefited from our little blood gifts. But what could we do? I did manage to keep up with my other distributions, my money distributions. I'd put a few hundred dollar bills (folded in heavy stationery) into plain envelopes and mail them to certain deserving parties throughout the city. Some of them got an envelope almost every day. What do you think they thought? Who do you suppose they thanked? How would they feel about it if they knew the money came from a real live vampire? Oh ye of little faith... I wonder. Bob's bad dreams are still with us. The phantom aroma of vintage dog piss comes and goes. Sarah and I are becoming much more physical with each other. Remember, vampires can have sex. After all, it is just a neurological, muscular reaction. And seeing as every part of our bodies are preserved in working order it is only natural. But the operative word is preserved. Think of divinely embalmed flesh, minus the sickening smell. We can do everything but produce new cells. True, we can heal if injured. I don't know how that comes about. Chalk it up to our magical existence. But we cannot produce reproductive cells. Ain't gonna be nobody's baby daddy, as our contemporary New World Cockneys like to say. That time in the pit when I was created was a one time deal. I still had viable baby-making cells in my body and it was a case of use it or lose it. It was a shameful experience. But... it led to Sarah. I am grateful for that. The Old Woman resents our relationship. In her mind she is still the starving young immigrant girl fresh off a reeking coffin ship and I am her miraculous savior. I saw the potential in this fevered daughter of County Mayo and I rescued her, always expecting that she would move on and create a life for herself. I would have helped. But she did not. She stayed with me, much to her detrement. Ah, the drama in the life of a vampire. Speaking of 'drama', Baylah introduced us to the Entourage reruns on latenight (midmorning to us) television. I like those young men. And yes, it is true what they say. The Vincent Chase character and I do look alike. Although I think mine is the better haircut. And I do possess a much more melodious speaking voice. Some say that is a vampire thing. I think it is a Spanish thing. Do you know that I can play the lute, the oud and the courtly, Iberian guitarra?  I can. I am really quite adept. Perhaps if we ever are so fortunate as to encounter each other I will play for you? The Pow Wow Woman is addicted to the endless variety of Center City, Philadelphia take-out. I have a familiar who brings it over. He is one of those I can contact telepathicly. She (the P.W. Woman) watches the Food Network and gets all juiced up. Then she passes her requests on to me and my man drops it all off downstairs. The doorman brings it  up, in return for a hefty tip. She, Sarah and even the Old Woman gorge themselves on Thai food, Macedonian food, Spanish empanadas (I remember those) gourmet cheese steaks and low fat, breakfast fritadas. Sears delivered a walking machine, I suppose they call it, along with other excercise equipement, so they could burn it all off. Bob likes to use the stuff too. This sends Baylah into fits. She yells and curses at him - What good is all this crap gonna do for you!? You're a vampire, for Christ sake! Your body will never change! Bob says that is not it at all. He likes it because it calms his nerves. The Pow Wow Woman smiles in her own fashion when she hears this. I can read her thoughts. She wants to know what the hell is he so nervous for anyway. She wants to know who he really is... The tedium of the last few weeks has caused us all to wonder the very same thing. Oh, one more thing. I have to tell you how good Sarah looks with those three or four extra new pounds of hers.... And those scampering footsteps on the roof? They've come back.

The Book of Sarah

Greetings. It is me, Tomas, coming to you through my wilkravitz 'familiar' person. Tonight you must permit me to transmit this information as if it were a play. We are sitting in the dining room of the penthouse. The interior illumination is turned down. The draperies are open. The lights of the city sparkle beautifully. We discuss the events of the past twentyfour hours. POW WOW WOMAN - The small one is named Annie. At least that's the name she goes by now. She is what we Pow Wow people would call a lucid wanderer. I can see her in your mind, Tomas, and I know. TOMAS - What is a lucid wanderer? POW WOW WOMAN - It means that she, or it, has never been dead. It has never been divorced from the world of the living. As soon as it dies in one incarnation, it is born into another. BAYLAH - How long has this been going on? POW WOW WOMAN - I don't know. I can't tell. But something happened to it the first time out, something bad. TOMAS - And? POW WOW WOMAN - It's been like a transmitter of the enemy ever since. Yeah, a transmitter. That's what it's like. The people, the bodies are just like the cables or the signal carriers. That's all. SARAH - Is that 'Annie' girl the only one? BAYLAH - No. I can tell you that. I saw a man. I'm sure I saw a man. I think he was the same one who set the dogs on that 'foreign' vampire a while back. What can you tell us about him? POW WOW WOMAN - I don't know. I'm not typing him as a lucid wanderer. I think he's just a regular person who's been soul-jacked by some presence. I don't know. That's all I can tell you. BOB - What are you? Who are you. Just what is a Pow Wow Person? I mean we're supposed to be the weird ones, but she scares me. Tomas, do you think if you asked her, your Old Woman would get me a cup of hot tea? BAYLAH - What the hell are you gonna do with a cup of hot tea, you crazy bastard? You're a vampire! What are you gonna do, throw it up all over the new, antique carpet!? Jeez!! BOB - No, I'm not going to drink it. I'm just gonna hold it, okay? I like it. I like how warm it is. It calms me down. Alright? TOMAS (to Old Woman) Get him the tea. BOB - Thank you. But, no, really, what are you? POW WOW WOMAN - I'm just a plain, old Piney woman. We Pineys are what you call Heinz 57 varieties, a real mixed up conglomeration. We got French blood from the colonial trapper days. We got English blood from the early settlers. Some original, Leni-Lanape Indian and a sprinkle of run-away slave blood to top it all off. Hell, you know that old, ruined Jew church we camped in that first night on the road? Well we even got a few of them thrown in the mix too. That's who I am. We got it all. All that rich folk knowledge flowin' down to us from generation after generation. Village 'wise women', Frenchie Capuchine monks, English Druid-like mystics and rebellious rabbis who've read too much Kabalah, if you know what I mean. Shit, what don't we know. TOMAS - Then tell us. What should we do? POW WOW WOMAN - Well, you could kill that skinny, little Annie girl. That ought to slow things down a little. Won't stop it, but it'll force the Enemy to gnaw into another soul, some newborn and start all over again. That ought to give you a few good years. BAYLAH - But what about the voices? We heard voices. POW WOW WOMAN - Yeah, I know. I figure that means it can leave her body for a teensy bit if it wants to. Can't really do nothing to you. Can't hurt you, 'cause it's only a sound in your head. But it can play with you a little. It can scare you... if you're the type. Look at Bob. We all hear him hollerin' in his sleep every day. He's scared shitless already. BAYLAH - Oh, he's always scared shitless. How he ever worked in that god-damned museum is beyond me. BOB - Shut up! You never appreciated all that stuff, so shut up! I hate letting them down. God knows what they think happened to me. TOMAS - You can all relax. My familiars know what to do. They will take care of everything. Sarah's shop is safe. Your reputation is safe. BAYLAH - Yeah, and we should all be safe, for a few weeks anyway, seeing how we just fed. We can just stay up here. It can't get us up here. Right?  Well, can it? BOB - Phew! What's that urine smell?.......... Tomas trades glances with The Old Woman, as she delivers the cup of hot tea. Bob takes it, reveling in the steamy warmth. The vapors rise up to the ceiling, as they all sit in silence, bathed in the twinkling lights dancing into the darkness from the surrounding buildings.

The Book of Sarah

The Book of Sarah

The Pow Wow Woman spoke first. She said - The small one's name is Annie. At least that's the name she has now. She is what Pow Wow people would call a lucid wanderer. I can see her in your mind and I know. Please permit me to relate the rest of our discussion as if it were a play. That will make things easier. TOMAS - What is a lucid wanderer? POW WOW WOMAN - It means she has never been dead. She, or that which inhabits her, has never been divorced from the world of the living. As soon as it dies in one incarnation it is born into another. BAYLAH - How long has this been going on? POW WOW WOMAN - I don't know. I can't tell. But something happened to it the first time out. TOMAS - And? POW WOW WOMAN - She's been a vessel for the Enemy ever since. SARAH - Is she the only one? BAYLAH - No. I can tell you that. I saw a man. I'm sure I saw a man. I think he was the same one who set the dogs on that 'foreign' vampire a few weeks ago. What can you tell us about him? P:OW WOW WOMAN - I don't know. I'm not typing him as a lucid wsanderer. I think he's just a regular person who's been commandeered by some presence. I don't know. That's all I can tell you. BOB - What are you? Who are you? Just what is a POW WOW  person?

the Book of Sarah

I saw the Enemy take a victim. I witnessed the whole thing. It happened while I was making my way across the rooftops of an especially old district of the city. The streets are very narrow there. They were laid out threehundred years ago, when even coaches were a rarity. I stopped. I heard a noise. I looked down into a small, brick courtyard four stories below. It was not a well kept, gentrified space, like most of the others, but was neglected and trash strewn. I suppose the yuppies, or whatever they call themselves these days had not discovered it yet. There was a man. He was on his knees and he was pleading for his life. A person stepped out of the shadows to confront him. It was a girl. It was a little girl. She was dressed in  a plaid jumper, a grade school uniform. And she just stood there looking down at him. This went on for perhaps two or three minutes. He stopped to choke back some tears and catch his breath. The words he said are not important. What does anyone say when begging for existence? The peculiar child was having none of it. She waited for him to stop. He sniffed. He trembled. He even peed himself a bit. I could see the puddle spreading out around his knees. But his diminuative tormentor was quite unmoved. She snapped her fingers. It seemed odd to see a small child do that. Most of them are incapable of such a move. But she had no trouble and in an instant six menacing hounds silently came out of the shadows and arranged themselves around the still, silent victim. He whispered one more word - Please. But the young one ignored him. She snapped her fingers again and the dogs were on him. It all happened in a strange, dark silence. I could hear him whimper. I could hear the dogs expertly tearing off bits of his flesh. They were delft and neat, like canine surgeons. Their tiny mistress just stood there, never so much as moving a muscle. I could see the blood. I could smell the blood. I could taste the blood. But he was not my intended victim. No, he apparently belonged to other captors. But I stayed there. And I watched until it was done. Now this was late, very late. Most of the district was fast asleep. But the odd traffic noise still came through. I heard a jet, as it etched a line into the blackness high above. The victim must have heard these noises as well. To be so isolated and helpless, while all around the city still goes on. And then he was dead, a heap of bones and gore on a red stained patch of concrete in a not-yet-gentrified yard. The little girl picked up the remains and put them in a large, plastic trash bag. Then she turned on a hose and washed the rest away. Her hounds watched soundlessly, as they contimued to lick their chops. I am sure she saw or sensed that I was up there. One or two of the dogs seemed to sense me as well. But nothing happened. It just was not my turn. They left me alone. The little girl stepped back into the shadows and I went home. We all made it home safely . That night was all right. But there was a large, viscous puddle of dog piss spreading out on the sidewalk at the entrance to our building. And I seemed to recognise the scent......... Now please know that time does not unfold for me as it does for you. I view the passing of the 'great parade' rather differently. Perhaps it is because of my age. Sometimes I think that when I sublimate I stumble through to other realities, what learned individuals of your generation call a 'parallel universe'.  Thus I am not always sure if events are unfolding now, or on some other point in space and time. But it could be that this explanation  is just an attempt to lessen our fear. Things happen. They just happen. It could be that we will never know why.

The Book of Sarah

We settled in. Sarah kept vampire's hours. She had a room, a very nice room with a view of the Rittenhouse Square Park and everything. But she chose to stay with me. The Old Woman made her own schedule. She was there when we awoke, but was sawing wood (and could she ever saw wood) by the time we retreated to our cabinets just before dawn. When it came to the Pow Wow Woman, I don't think she ever slept. She would sink into these trances. They lasted for approximately twenty minutes and seemed to replenish her. And she knew things. She said she could wander through someone's mind like a wide-eyed child exploring a dusty, cluttered attic. It made no difference to her if the mind in question was mortal, vampiric or something else altogether. She did not care. I would ask her questions and she would answer me, uncovering locked, cold memories wedged in dark and undisturbed corners. I rediscovered a beloved Saluki, a noble hunting breed somewhat like an Afgan Hound. We had him when I was a youth, just before the time of my metamorphosis, just before I shed my skin. His name was Malik (mah-LEEK). It means prince. He was supposed to sleep in the kennels out behind the stables with the rest of the pack. But Malik was different. He was a pet. And he slept with me. The Pow Wow Woman visualized him perfectly. And I could feel his warm, soft breath and the solid weight of his trusting body next to me. She also found my time in Thrace at the court of Suleiman The Great, Sultan of The Ottoman Empire and one of the greatest kings in Europe. Oh, but how we lived back then. I'm told the rich and nuainced cuisine was quite exquisite.But other things had flavor for me too. The weighty, silk brocades. The polished, marble floors. I had a chest filled with peerless, Kashmiri gemstones. But one night, on a whim, I gave it to a beggar out by the hippodrome. He went on to found an international banking dynasty. It is still with us in the world today. And then there was Kadeesha, my alabaster Circassian princess. How I did love her. But she backed an attempt (by the hated vizier) to take over The Topkapi Palace. Now she is a mollusk encrusted rock at the bottom of The Bosphorus. They threw her into a seam of molten lava. Here's a bit of advice... Don't mess with the king. It's odd. How could I have forgotten that time? It was over forty years of my life. True, I too was almost destroyed. They wanted to grind me into a paste between  two, monstrously huge mill stones attributed to some long dead local cyclops. Wouldn't that have been a show? You see, they suspected me of sorcery. My Dorian Grey-like eternal youth troubled them. But what can I tell you. The rest  of it was good. The rest of it was all good..................... Oooh! About that floor covering person! He came by. But a completely new surface would have required up to two weeks time. And he was not a 'familiar'. He was not in the least used to vampires. He did not know a thing. So how could we have managed that? No, we made due with a light buffing and resealing of the original oak flooring. The results were quite pleasing. It reminded me of the upper-crust country manors I used to frequent during my British years........... Now to the meat of the matter. When we first moved in, we stayed in the penthouse for a few weeks, until it was time for our monthly feedings. Even Sarah did not go out. The Old Woman did not go out as well. The Pow Wow Woman claimed she did not go out either. But I am sure she was able to project her soul out of her body, so who knows what to think? The Enemy did know we were back in the city. They could conjour visions of us. But they did not know exactly where we were. And none of us wanted to provide them with any clues. We were momentarily safe. We were left alone, as they busied themselves with weaker prey. I believe prostitutes were a particular favorite of theirs. Still, there was one day when the floor sanders were there. The immortals among us were snug in our beds behind stout, locked doors. But Bob had a dream. He called out in his sleep. He screamed. He produced a sound not like a human sound. Not just louder, for it was not simply louder, but more piercing. And one of the sanders noticed it. The Old Woman was watching him. He did not say a word. But he bent down and scooped up a small sample of sawdust, which he carefully sprinkled into his handkerchief  before stuffing it into his pocket. A fortnight later, when we went out to take our predetermined meals, they were there and they were waiting. The sky was strange that night. The stars were colder. The clouds more torn and vivid. How were they so white? From whence came the light? And there were noises, such strange, sad noises. Sounds like whispers. They seemed to eminate from the very stones and cobbles. I could make out my name, my true name. Each of us heard his own true name. But since Bob could not remember his own true name, he did not think they were talking to him. I have no rational explanation for that. It is just how his mind worked. Perhaps he was better off?

The Book of Sarah

We walked. We walked back to Philadelphia, to a new existence in our new tabernacle in the sky. I led the way. Sarah, Bob, Baylah and a Pow Wow woman named Rachel followed. She was the one who claimed to have a vampire Indian in her lineage. I sustained the two weak mortals with small infusions of my blood. The journey took about three nights. We could not travel by daylight for obvious reasons. The first day, we slept in a forgotten, old mine. On the second day, we found shelter in an abandoned chamber built to contain a sweet water, underground spring. It was a 'mikvah', or baptismal pool used by a late nineteenth century Orthodox Hebrew meeting house (synagogue means 'meeting house' after all). Central and southern New Jersey had a few such congregations comprised of poor, but industrious farmers and chicken ranchers. The people drifted off to the vast cities of the eastern seaboard long ago. But the blessed  water survived. The clean spring still ran true, a trickling, holy presence as we slept. And in the gloaming, when we awoke, I went down the rough, stone steps to bathe in its water. Sarah came with me. After a few moments, the others did too. We were preparing for a battle and we knew it. If this righteous ablusion could give us any help, so be it.. And with the setting of the sun, on the third night, we crossed the bridge and entered The City of Brotherly Love. Considering our rather frayed, woodland appearence, we could not rise up to our new abode, but instead found refuge with my homeless friends in their shadowy tunnels deep beneath the throbbing heart of Chinatown. I summoned an especially well connected 'familiar' of mine, a certain high profiled sports agent. No, not via the spirit, but through a stylish, little cell phone borrowed from one of my underground devotees. The 'mole people' do keep up. He arranged for us to shower and change into clean, stylish attire, in a shuttered, off season basketball clubhouse. When we were all presentable, when we once again looked 'human' , he ran us into Center City. We went up to the penthouse. Thank God it had its own private elevator. After 'oohing' and 'aahing' over the stellar views and peerless surroundings, the six of us settled in and took our ease among the tastful artwork and fine furnishings. The vampires among us, namely everyone save Sarah, that Pow Wow person and The Old Woman, had commodious accommodations fitted out with plush, nest-like sleeping cabinets, safe, dark, private places to dream away the day and hide from the desiccating light. They even came equipped with small, built-in, flat panel TV's hooked up to DVD players so we could take in our favorite programs. I don't know what the others watched. We had a library. But I stuck with my Andy Griffith Show classics. I find them to be spiritually  comforting. Yet that day, Aunt Bea seemed to gaze at me with a threatening look in her eyes. I saw hatred. I saw the feral face of our enemy. And it wasn't just her... Otis too. Bob watched Happy Days and apparently Fonzie gave him no such problems. Baylah didn't watch anything. She just went to sleep. Look, whatever comes, we will just have to face it, along with that guy from the floor covering place who's due here after sundown. Bamboo or cherry? Cherry or bamboo? What the hell do I care. I was born in Spain and we tend to go for the tile. But would the others ever listen to me? You get the tile. You throw on a few thick orientals and you're set. That's how my mother did it. And she came from class, let me tell you. Perhaps I will retreat to those times for a bit. Perhaps I will once again walk across the cool tiles of my youth. Why not, my dreams are very real.

The Book of Sarah

They had this little sub-basement.They called it the root cellar. It was a hidey hole left over from Prohibition, but seeing as this crew were still moonshiners (a venerable profession in these parts), Prohibition was still in force. We slept down there, Sarah and I, I mean. It was perfect and actually quite like the pit in my late, lamented townhouse. Sarah could have kept the hours of our benefactors, but out of loyalty to me, she chose to keep my peculiar schedule. And in the time we spent together I dreamed... And I shared those dreams with her. She saw the warm, golden plains of my homeland, the faces of my loving family and the teeth of the being who made me. We drifted through the palaces of old India and joined in the wild, peasant dances of ancient Muscovy. She lived within my skin as I culled each wicked victim. She felt it all and never once did she flinch. During the night, we sat with the Piney folk and we talked. They asked questions and I answered. One of the senior Pow Wow women, who claimed to have a vampire or two in her own family, asked me why I was so afraid of The Enemy. She wanted to know why I couldn't sublimate through any. human vessel he might sent to confront me. I asked her how she knew about the sublimation. She said that she had a 'life eater' in her family, a Native American, a plains indian , who told stories of flying on the 'smoke wind' and she wanted to know if I thought it was the same as sublimation. I told her I was sure they were one and the same. She asked me how come I was so concerned, seeing as I possessed a tool as potent as that. I explained about the magical serendipity we of the darktime encounter every night. The powers are rarely constant. They change. They fluctuate, like sun spots, or freckles on the face of a child. I told her how that which could save a 'life' could also destroy it. And I think she understood. They asked me about Sarah, how we were bound together and why she stayed with me. Sarah squeezed my hand as I responded and I was glad to have her near me. For as I shared our truth with the forest folk, I was also sharing it with myself. We would always be together. I am not sure what form our union might take, but I know that it is real. From what I can taste of Sarah's soul, she feels the same way too. And those nights 'round the fire were pleasant. Quiet talk. Coppery light. And mellow tunes on old banjos. I think Bob could have remained with them forever, a sylvan 'windago' haunting the thickets and taking the occasional 'meal' or two. But Baylah was impatient to get back. She had things to do in the city. Halloween was approaching and she was a major subscriber to the annual, charity ball. The Enemy? She would face him in her own way. And as I've already stated, she was something of a fatalist. If it was her time, it was her time. But I viewed things quite differently, especially since finding Sarah. and I wanted our time to go on. One night, just as we climbed up out of the root cellar, our guardians told us we had a visitor. It was the Old Woman. She found us. She used her own powers. Strange powers. Old powers. Powers that have little to do with vampirism, but rise from the spiritual birth of humanity. Most mortals fear these abilities and ignore them. But she did not and so she was there. Her clothing was torn to shreads and she seemed to be a bit older. Her usually neat silver-white hair was knotted and matted. And her voice was dry and weak. How did you get here? - I asked. She said that she walked, because it would arouse less notice and it was easier to elude The Enemy that way. She said that she had removed a gemstone or two from a certain safe deposit box and with the help of a dedicated 'familiar', translated the glittering valuables into a new bastion in the sky. We were now the proud owners of a three thousand square foot, pre-War penthouse in the Rittenhouse Square district of Center City (our Manhattan) Philadelphia. and it was imperitive that we return, for the interior designers were coming in a few nights and we had to tell them if the floors were to be Japanese Bamboo or Brazilian Cherry. Ah, the responsibilities of the undead. What would we do about our Enemy? How would we confront him? How would he confront us? And could the contractors get all our granite installed by The Holidays? Bob and Baylah left with us. Their dens were none too safe and with three thousand square feet, there was room in the sky for us all.

The Book of Sarah

This is me, Tomas. I don't know how this is getting through to you. I think it is being channeled through wilkravitz, but I am not sure. I hope it is coming to you via wilkravitz. I do not think any of my other familiars are doing it. May God protect us. We (Sarah and I) spent about fortyeight hours with the underground squatters. The matriarch, Crazy Mary has a 'husband' up topside. She got in touch with him on a 'borrowed' cell phone. He met us on a bench  in a little used station somewhere under Chinatown. We followed him up to his truck, a battered pickup, parked in a sticky, litter-strewn rat trail behind some bus station. The windows were coveered in that dark film much loved by would-be drug lords and paranoid, pseudo-celebrities. He floored it and took us over the bridge into Jersey. I was trying to contact Bob and Baylah. He's not too adept, but she is very strong and I was able to get through to her. She sent me a picture of her surroundings. I described the scene to Crazy Mary's parttime husband. He hunts muskrat, and recognised it as somewhere in The Pines. I instructed Baylah to visualise some structure, no matter how decpreped, nearby. She pictured some little shanty, moonshiner hideaway. There was a dried up old sign on the front. It said 'Zeke's Bait and Gas. I told the 'husband.' He chuckled. He knew where it was, because he and his cousin catch rattlesnakes right by there. They skin them. The skins are valuable. I suppose God was looking out for us. I suppose He was helping us, for ninety minutes later we were there. The 'husband' didn't say a word. He just let us out. Then he turned around and sped back the mud track toward the city. Some people were watching from the tilted porch of a little cabin. I think Jed Clampett used to live there (another TVland show that I like). There was a man and a woman. Bob and Baylah were there too. We were all silent. We all went in. I sensed that the two mortals were very adept. They could read my mind. Not every word, but they got enough. Actual words were not necessary. I told them what happened, telepathicly and verbally. Bob and Baylah told me what they learned from a certain TV host-real estate tycoon in Atlantic City. We just sat there thinking. We had to come up with a plan.  The mortal woman, a big thing, a real virago, toothless and all, started to laugh like a crazy woman. Spit flew out of her mouth. The male just sat there, hugging his skinny elbows and chewing something (a dark wad) in his mouth. The female, after regainning her composure, said - We are in for it now. The Enemy got a wild hair up its ass. But don't worry, at least not too much, 'cause we got some good 'Pow Wow' (folk wizards, like shamans) wimmen in these woods and they know what to do. Sarah said - What, what will they do? The woman said - Not just them, us too. You too. 'Specially you too. You know that hair he got stuck up his ass? Well we all gotta pull it out. We gotta reach up there and pull it out. We gotta pull it out real good. And that's when her male companion softly started to cry. That night was especially dark, even for a vampire.

The Book of Sarah

 This is coming to you through wilkravitz. Something happened. They firebombed the house. They burned it. They destroyed it. I was 'sleeping' in the pit. I was nestled in the bed of flowers. We were nestled. Sarah was in there with me. Everything was so good. Everything was working out. My sublimation skills were what they should be. Just a few hours earlier I took Sarah. I embraced her. We flew. We passed out of the house. And I took her. I took her to see my haunts. She saw all the places I told you about. It was wonderful. I felt completely tied to a mortal being (not counting my victims) for the first timme in twohundred years. We talked. Well, we whispered actually. We laughed, quietly  of course. She could not believe the matter of fact displays of misshappen humanity at the Mutter. And it was positively etherial gliding  through the marble halls of the huge Museum of Art (the Rocky Steps) on The Parkway. The illumination was very low. We could hear the air circulating through the massive structure, as we stood there looking up at a painting of a Trinitarian saint. Saint Anthony it might have been, or Saint Sebastian. His body was pierced by many arrows. Yet he was still conscious and seemed to be gazing from this world into the next. I kissed her. Was it a grandfather's kiss? I do not know. But I have pondered this before and we are seperated by so many mortal generations. The blood tie is very week. It has been almost one thousand years, after all. But the spiritual and emotional tie is very strong. The Old Woman was dusting my collection of ninth century Chinese porcelain when it happened. Two giant hounds came loping into our alley. She saw them through a crack in the heavy, velvet draperies. They broke into a run and made straight for the parlor window, vaulting up and smashing through the mullioned glass. It happened so fast. She thought she saw a bomb or some such device attached to their collars. There had to be a bomb? An instant later they exploded and vaporized into a universe of blazing lights. Fire was everywhere. The flames raced through our refuge. She grabbed my journal, plus my priceless, illuminated, hand copied volume of La Ciencia Vampirismo (always hidden in plain sight) and made it out through the back door. The spiritual and emotional tie we share is very strong as well. I can hear her thoughts. That is how I know these things. When I sleep, there is always a little part of me that spies upon the daylight world through her eyes. Instantly I was awake. I grabbed Sarah and threw aside the heavy stone slab. We crawled through a small, secret door (just as the flames danced down into our chamber) and scratched our way along a tight, earthen passage. You know that I do not actually require oxygen, but it was stiffling. It was suffocating. I can just imagine how it was for her. After a time, we forced our way out, dislodging some old subway tiles on the other side. We tore down a little used, subterranean concorse (Philadelphia has many), making for a certain encampment of delerious, drug-addled homeless folk who welcomed us gladly in return for tiny droplets of blood, which they greedily licked from my cut, scraped fingers. When they finished (I know not to rush them) they presented me with a terrified, babbling prisoner kept for just such an emercency. I took this much needed source of energy (a particularly dishonorable sort) and devoured him. The homeless folk cheered and clapped. Some of their women capered about. They attempted to roast a bag of stale marshmallows in the blue flame that consumed him. But such flames are fleeting and they were sorely dissappointed. Sarah just stood there watching it all in the flickering orange glow of a can of sterno. A few of their offspring tried to roast the marshmallows in that. But it was all very real to her now. We are fugitives. And we are on the run.

The Book of Sarah

Hello? Hello? It is I, Tomas. My wilkravitz is not typing this in for me tonight. I am doing it myself. I cannot believe it, but I think I am beginning to understand this device, me who could barely operate an astrolobe. Sarah is sending some sort of communication to the people who frequent her shop on her own smaller piece of apparatus. I do not remember the word. It is like bird-singing. She is bird-singing to them. She is telling them that the shop will be closed for a little bit, while she takes care of family business. And that is not a lie. I am family. Praise be to God, we do not hear the little running footsteps upon the roof anymore. I think that our Enemy is no longer planning a direct attack. Perhaps they have been distracted by easier prey, such as the 'wrong' type of politician or a clot of unassimilated foreigners? But they have many ways to get me. The Enemy can recruit other individuals to do it for him..Indeed, some believe he always operates that way. His 'familiars' are more than willing to goose step over the innocent and the relatively innocent as well. I don't know, but sometimes I wonder whose 'familiar' I might be. If things remain quiet, and I believe they will, at least for the foreseeable future, I told Sarah we might go out some night. I told her I would show her some of my other haunts - the old Gimbels subway store - the Mutter Museum - other museums - the crawl space above the ornate ceiling of the Grand Ballroom at the Academy of Music - the secret, underground chamber beneath  the 'X marks the spot' compass rose in the center of City Hall Courtyard, just to mension a few.That means I have to brush up on my sublimation skills. You remember. It is how we vaporize our bodies to pass through walls and such. Some of us are more adept than others. I myself am very good at it. Like an ice skater, I just keep going. The aura eminates out from my body transforming me and everything touching me, such as my clothing (it is why I do not wind up naked) or anyone I happen to be holding in my arms. I am going to try it with Sarah. But first I must practice. I must prove to myself that I am still the best.. Maybe I will attempt passing through the plastic shower curtain first. Then maybe I will try one of the interior, non load bearing walls of the house. It is important to be well prepared. A flamboyant vampire I knew back in Scotland, I think it was, once tried to sublimate through the thick, finnely formed, gray stone walls of Glaum Castle. But he did not make it. His body began to solidify while he was half way from the Dowager Duchess' bed chamber and the second, upstairs withdrawing room. It was horrible, like a Tim Robbins fantasy (see? I keep up) gone wrong. His head, his neck one shoulder and the arm connected to it, fell off right onto the Italian silk skirts of a junior lady-in-waiting. And the rest of his unfortunate body (on the other side) crumpled down upon an enraged herd of tiny Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. The Dowager Duchess collapsed and died (they said a blood vessel in her head exploded) just as the now dead, (so much for immortality) vampire's body ignited into the cold blue flame and disappeared. Her little yappy dogs were quite unharmed, a wee bit singed no doubt, but other than that, nothing. You should have seen them fighting to lap up the oily ashes. Well, yes I was there. Of course I was there. She was an especially favorite trysting partner of ours. What? You thought vampires could not have sex? How preposterous! How Bela Lugosi-early twentieth century! Of course we can have sex. Whatever force it is that deems to grant us animation quickens what we have down there as well. Everything that operates in your body, operates in ours. It is just not how we reproduce, that's all.. Ahhh, those were good times. I think I told you how much I enjoyed Restoration Britian. Remind me to tell you what the great ladies of the age really used those little lap dogs for. Methinks I could do with a fortnight or two at the court of The Merry Monarch. But what good is dreaming? Please excuse me while I practice my sublimation.

The Book of When Sarah Was Still Mortal. Tomas/Jonathon Relates A Tale From Before.....

Here is a look at how things were two years ago. Sarah is still a mortal... a 'death eater', since mortals eat dead things. Edith is not with them, but the mysterious 'old woman' still is... And yes, Sarah does descend from Tomas/Jonathon's mortal line..... And remember....  first of all, we must agree that what comes next is fiction~~~~~~~~~~~~~~It is getting close to my monthly feeding time.I cannot leave the house. They are watching me. The Old Woman does not leave either. She cannot attend to certain daily business duties, such as going to the bank and other places. Fortunately, I have other 'familiars' who can help me. Some of the best ones, some of the most astute, I can reach via telepathy. They know it is I. They were trained well. Things will get done. If it becomes impossible for me to get to my intended victim (the one I see in visions) , my intended victim will be brought to me. I do not like to do things this way. It usually makes for quite a scene and I am by nature a very discreet person. They cry. They piss themselves all over my expensive carpets. You should see it. Luckily the Old Woman set up an account with Stanley Steamer. But the way things are going I don't know when they would be able to get here. I just hope this victim isn't much for peeing or shitting himself. Offering cash is all right, because we take the cash and kill him anyway. You do not approve? Well, what can I do? Believe me, it takes money to operate a household in this city. I have 'friends' on the police force too. They help me when I have to bring a 'guest' to my home. Not a true guest. Not someone like my 'granddaughter' Sarah. I'm talking about one of those accursed souls whose time has come. Believe me, the police approve of my work. 'Support your local sheriff' they say. Well I most certainly do. Bob and  Baylah are no longer in Atlantic City. They got word through a certain orange-yellow haired real estate tycoon that the enemy was sweeping the area. I do not know how this mortal individual knew this. I suppose he has his own network of familiars too. Well, good for him. I'm told that my two friends are hiding with a backwoods clan of Jersey country folk deep in the vast pine forest covering much of that state. I would wager that in the next week or so some one is going to report a sighting of the Jersey Devil and a very bad local character will coinsidentally go missing, for it is Bob and Baylay's feeding time too. I like having Sarah here. I wish it was under better circumstances, but I like it just the same. Sometimes we spend our evenings sitting in front of the television watching rerun after rerun of The Andy Griffith Show on TVland. I enjoy that program. It comforts me. Would that all of humanity were like the good people of Mayberry. If they were, I would never have lost my family. I would never have become a vampire and Al Andaluz would be a place of peace and brotherhood for my people and for all people. I do so want to see that land again. They tell me there are regions in California quite like it. But I was warned not to go there. California vampires are of the Noxious variety (not Nobel, such as I and my companions) and they do not take kindly to outsiders. I must stop now. Sarah wants me to sit with her while she eats her tuna fish sandwich. Luckily for us, the local grocery store delivers.