ANNIE CONFRONTS A HELLISH ENEMY DEEP WITHIN THE CONCOURSE AFTER DARK

There's a maze-like warren of shops beneath the surface of Center City Philadelphia. I believe Kevin Bacon's father helped create it. The venerable Sir Edmund was our City Planner for many years. It facilitates lunch hour jaunts on rainy days, or sweltering summer broilers. A plethora of jumped up fast food vendors hawks savory, but greasy, wares to  ambitious young strivers and their not quite so hopeful stenographers (is that term still in vogue?). Umbrella and breath mint kiosks do very well too, I am told.


But the five thirty exodus brings mystery to this labyrinth. Metal gratings rattle down to bite into the floor. Lights blink out. The people leave and shadows come to play. Though all is not quiet. And eyes still glitter deep within the gloom. Some belong to rodents and some to vermin far more sinister than that.


Annie knows these midnight passageways. The homeless know them too. Not the breed found down below forgotten subway tunnels. This tribe is far more confrontational. And shattered glass is the weapon of choice. An army of janitorial super heroes swarms in before dawn to wash away the blood. All manner of flotsam and jetsam collide in this place. The enemy knows it too. It's where he hones his skill. It's where the dogs are trained. It's Annie's favorite playground. 


Imagine you're a drunken, street pirate stumbling down a long,narrow, white tiled 'worm hole'. Tiny, caged bulbs shed a weak gray wash over the sour surroundings. Not every passage has shops. Some are merely ant trails, meant to facilitate the comings and goings of entry level ants. And they echo. Oh, how they echo. Each footfall resonates with a hoof-like beat, as fear drips down through the cracks.


Sometimes Annie flies here. She floats along with a demon's grace, perhaps three or four feet above the floor. Her body tilts forward. Her eyes stare out and she grins..... how she grins....... A figurehead straight from hell. Many an unwary soul fall victim to that grin. They stop. They freeze. They turn. They run. But she gets them. She gets them every time. And how odd that her little body can drain an adult of so much blood. But what did you expect? This is The Vampire Wonderland. 


Though in this instance you are not a drunken street pirate. This time you're the enemy. And this time you have dogs.


He sees her, as she rounds the corner, a tiny figure, hovering unnaturally perhaps three hundred feet up ahead. Two of the beasts (large mastiffs) begin to growl, but he gestures and they stop. Then the enemy bows. He smiles. But the six or seven year old night thing never stops. She draws closer and closer and closer...... until the hounds begin to cry.....


Ah.... Philadelphia after dark..... what stories the cobbles tell.....


Come join us next time and listen......


<O> <O>   <O> <O>   <O> <O>   <O> <O>   <O> <O>


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Lahongrais: Andrew Harding Pink Diamond Interview

Lahongrais: Andrew Harding Pink Diamond Interview: Hello everybody!! ‘Tis I, Sinner Reems and I am back with our latest Pink Diamond Interview! This month we are featuring Mr. Andrew Hardin...

Lahongrais: Andrew Harding Pink Diamond Interview

Lahongrais: Andrew Harding Pink Diamond Interview: Hello everybody!! ‘Tis I, Sinner Reems and I am back with our latest Pink Diamond Interview! This month we are featuring Mr. Andrew Hardin...

ANNIE RAN AWAY FROM PAPA...and you know what a rumpus that little vampirina can make

Tonight you have Zebulon once again. I have just returned from The Sea of Harps, known to you as The Sea of Galilee. But the ancient Hebrews preferred the more poetic name, for the coastline does form a giant harp and was home to many Biblical bards, virtuosos on an instrument identical to that portrayed on countless bottles of Guiness.


I'd been hob-knobbing with a certain ghostly personage once powerful at the court of King Jeroboam. We'd float above the verdant hills tasting fragrant breezes from off the storied lake. How the moonbeams tickled me. Some disembodied spirits are sensitive that way, but I view it as a blessing and an exquisite pleasure known only to those of my kind.


But then I heard 'Papa' and so I hurried right back. Annie is off on a tear. Once, during a similar episode, she sublimated into the Academy of Natural Sciences and did obscene things to the stuffed monstrosities in all the dioramas . Eskimo matrons frolicked naked with drunken zebras and Neanderthal hunters forswore their prey for a rather bawdy game of buck-buck. Even the beavers got high on grass. And Mrs. Simons' forth grade class (arriving first thing in the morning) genuinely appreciated the altered presentations, though most parents in attendance did not.


Needless to say, vampires (known to certain officers of the venerable museum) were persona non grata there for quite a while.


Still, it's only natural for the former six year old to get that way. She's only been a life-eater for a year and her mortal existence was none too pleasant, but I don't want to get into that. Besides, there are conflicting stories.


Philadelphia vampire life is unsettled now. The 'enemy' storms the gates. Tomas grapples with depression. He'd never admit to that, but it's true. Safe berths are hard to find. Albion, Marianne, Roland and Celeste, our elferino-vampirinos, flit amongst the moldering monuments of Laurel Hill Cemetery. And the caretaker's wife knits light, wool outfits for the sweet-cheeked, little cherubs. She giggles at each tiny kiss, begrudging not the blood, for how else can they get it?


And while it is true that cherubs rarely drain a victim to the point of death, they do have that ability. Teeth or no teeth, the nubile, little, sharp tipped tongue does it all.


Perhaps they'll form a nimbus and confront the 'enemy'?


Now, let me go attend to Annie, before she bites off any more toes...... Oh, and make sure you tuck that blanket in real tight around your feet. No telling where she'll pop up next.


<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3


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THE 'DEATH BY NATURAL BEAST' ORDEAL was only the beginning

Two hundred spectators looked down into the circular pit, but the light was too dim. It was hard to see. Those in attendance began to stamp their feet and 'boo.' The pit-master, ever wary of a dissatisfied clientele, had circular, highly polished mirrors fitted behind the rough, iron sconces to reflect and focus the light. Some closest to the balustrade (no more than crude, wooden fencing) complained that the heat was melting their face paint. A few even removed their heavy wigs, slinging them over their shoulders like saddle bags in an effort to stay cool, while revealing the nearly shorn pates underneath.


Two buxom doxie-girls, naked from the waist up, snaked through the crowd selling small bowls of shaved, honeyed ice for the exorbitant price of one whole shilling. And overheated gentlemen called for their 'doxie-cups,' as the canine assassins entered the ring. Were they large? Not very. And please know I speak of the hounds, though the naked breasts in question were most certainly of the first rank.


Most pit-masters preferred to use bull-baiters, compact beasts weighing maybe three or four stone. This venue was no different. And six of the most fearsome, solid knots of feral muscle silently cantered into the ring. They made not a sound, but went straight to work inspecting every inch of the death chamber with their cold, wet sensitive noses. And the crowd watch breathlessly, as the leader went to the more-than-human victim, subjecting him to a thorough crotch inspection. Desirous of a closer look and frustrated by the fine, linen drawers, the doggie chieftain took hold of the flimsy fabric and tore the garment to bits. The doomed vampire just stood there, determined to maintain his footing, as the two doxie-girls erupted into cheap, shrill, low-life cackles. He quietly recited prayers. The vampire, I mean. But they were in a Vahmpeerigo dialect unknown to me, save for a phrase here or there. Oh, I knew they were prayers, however the specifics were lost.


Then the pit-master, or one of his minions, ceremoniously struck a rather sizable  'Cathay' gong, signaling others to come forth with large, blood-filled watering pots, which they tilted over the barrier sending a light, crimson drizzle down to bathe the participants waiting below.


Upon tasting the rich, salty shower, the dogs became quickened and the horrific mauling proceeded with a vengeance. No demon depicted on the most accurately ornate altar piece could have done better. The stoic alabaster figure convulsed and fell, as his 'plum sack' was torn away. For a moment or two he was left to his 'ease,' while the frenzied executioners fought over this toothsome prize. I believe it was a pie-bald bitch what finally choked them down.


The entrails came next, followed by his hands. They played with his guts like sausages, spraying those close by with the blood from the vampire's last meal.


Some gobbled buttocks. One savored face-flesh, each morsel disappearing in its turn. But the eyes remained, fixed and staring into worlds far removed from our own.


No one cheered. Even the doxies fell silent, as two hundred dumb-struck humans bore witness to the death of an immortal.


It took the hounds more than one hour to properly clean the bones. And the heart beat on til the very end.


When it was over... when the blue flame had passed...and the last glowing ashes rose up and disappeared, those in attendance soundlessly filed out into the inky darkness, where footmen, bearing lanterns, safely ushered them back to their various houses.


And a lone soul, who'd tarried 'mongst the nearly dead too long, passed on to something new....


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TOMAS KNOWS ABOUT THE KILLINGS and also tells some old tales

Tomas here~~~ I feel each senseless killing. We all do. It offends our nature. Whether the obscene death comes at the hand of an 'enemy' or a lapsed noble vampire makes no difference. The disorienting pain is just the same. But know this...There are ways to bring down these villains. Subtle tricks and life-eater chicanery. You can figure it out. Go on. give it a try. I will tell you in a night or two. If you like, post your guess as a COMMENT. But I am referring to human assassins, like the beast responsible for last nights tragedy. Renegade vampires of the noxious sort are treated differently. To each his own, as they say.


But I have been witness to night crimes and foul misdeeds. I have seen our 'enemy' at play. It happened in London, just before my crossing, just before I came to Philadelphia. The City was a merry place. Assemblies, balls, brothels and bear pits were everywhere. And I sampled everything. Some bloods (I always loved that term) sported long, shoulder wigs, made from the finest Persian lamb. Others, possessed of more luxuriant locks, fashioned their own wavy tresses into something akin to the Cretan style. I , quite naturally fell in with the later group. Ah, those times were good, discounting the plague and fire, I mean. The town was in a constant state of flux, determined to throw off every last vestige of pre-Stewart methodologies (although the plays of Mister Shakespeare were naturally much in vogue.) Domiciles took on a less 'storybook' appearance, adopting a form you might  almost call Georgian. And the Trinitarian prayer houses, led by Sir Christopher Wren, sported grand, neo-Roman finery. Domes were all the thing. And every gentleman of a military bent fancied himself another Scipio Africanus. Heroic busts, commissioned to prove that point,  found refuge within a myriad of niches in the newly plastered walls (Tudor paneling being decidedly declasse.) of  aristocratic, West End establishments. 


Yet the bear pits still remained, a potent reminder of ancient barbarity. All the best clubs had them... raw excavations in damp, Thames-side mud, surrounded with rude fencing separating one or two tiers of boisterous young bucks  from the wild, bloody carnage below.


The usual thing involved a flea-bitten, addle-brained bear, often quite bloated on ale, or lager of some sort, forced into the enclosure at spear point, where it was summarily torn to shreds by huge, coarse-coated hounds. The spray was horrible. The stench, even worse. 


Wagering went on in a fast and furious manner. How many minutes til dispatch? How many dogs would die? Would the bruin be blinded, castrated or  worse? Many a noble, or near noble house lost plenty. Let me tell you that.


But one night, the sport was quite different. Oh, the dogs were still there, though the ursus was not. In it's place was a finely formed, clean limbed young man. And he entered the pit willingly. That was the thing. He was calm of manner and mild of face. The eyes had a certain all-knowing sorrow. At first the stands went silent, waiting for some sort of explanation. Was this some type of re-born gladatorial contest? Could it be a novel form of public execution? Puzzled faces flickered in and out of the dim, orange glow cast by crude, iron sconces along gray stone walls. Minutes passed, in order to give them time to contemplate the uniqueness of it all. And then he spoke. The master of ceremonies stepped out onto a pulpit, placed high on the wall and began - M'lords, knights and gentlemen, tonight we offer an exceedingly rare diversion, one unseen in these parts since The Lion Heart. Behold the creature standing before you, human in every detail save one... the wretched bewitchment of his immortal soul. For this is no man, but the fruit of a succubus ........ Then he yelled down to the unusual young man. He said - Show us your teeth, lad.......And the attraction complied, opening his mouth to reveal the fangs. Some spectators gasped, a few made the sign of the Cross, not so dangerous under the present governance. There were calls of - How'd you get 'im? Why's he here? And the master replied- We didn't get him. He offered himself up free of charge. What we have here tonight is an act of atonement. For this pitiable being seeks absolution. He's tired a sinnin'..... (looks down) Ain't ya, boy?......... The vampire, stripped down to linen drawers and a tear stained face, simply nodded.


There was no wagering..... not that time. Though it was recommended that all in attendance turn over a gold ducat, or two for the opportunity to see such a thing....... A few, a very few, departed. But most stayed and the offering baskets filled to the brim (half promised to charity) as the barriers slid open and the dogs poured in......


The 'death by natural beast' had begun........


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THE FOX AMONG THE CHICKENS ---a blood thirsty ENEMY on the prowl

The night was still warm. 'Twenty-something' enamoradas strolled along the mellow brick lanes of The Old City, as the moon peeked down through gossamerclouds. The young woman left her friends, exited the club-like bar and proceeded west along the quiet thoroughfare. She passed couples whispering together at outdoor tables. Pampered, Center City dogs dragged humans for that one last pee before bedtime. All was still, but far from deserted.


And he saw it all. The almost-monk watched from the shadows. Odd how his clothes mirrored the traditional habit, though altered to fit the current pattern --- black flip-flops, a black hoodie and black jeans. He left the dim recess of a commercial arcade and silently drifted along the pavement. His footfalls practiced and measured, an unseen cipher haunting the midnight streets.


The young woman entered an all night bodega. He stopped, pretending to wait for a bus. She exited, carrying a small, brown, paper bag. He pressed close against the dark side of the rain shelter and disappeared. She scanned the street, as she always did, before dashing down the narrow lane (little more than an alley). Then she made her move and hurried toward her door. Twenty five yards isn't so far. The key was out. And it could even be a weapon. They told her that at self-defense class. She had the pepper spray. She always had the pepper spray. It was her key chain. It was her life line. Besides, the street light was right there. Two dozen steps and she'd be home. But then it happened. The forty six year old wiring leading up the pole to the bulb gave  up the ghost and the scene went blank. Lights out. Utter darkness. Nothing.


She froze, waiting for her eyes to adjust. God damn that cheap old bastard. It wasn't 1:00am yet. The step light should have been on. It was always on. That was part of the lease. What the hell was wrong with that disgusting son-of-a-bitch?


But she would never know. For with one, swift, expert motion, the midnight wraith sliced deep into her soft, frail neck, liberating the venous blood within. Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips shaped a final, silent protest and then it was over. She never felt her kneecaps hit the ground. 


The monk-not-quite-a-monk walked on, barely touched by all the gore. He muttered prayers, as he drifted through the darkness, thanking God for his success. Misguided souls needed correcting. Yes, they did. They needed it very much.....


And tonight he had not even used the dogs.......


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MEMORIAL DAY ~~~~~ the vampires remember

They met in Philadelphia. Tomas was back from his 'Cavalcade of Souls.' I dislike that 'parade' designation. One expects bass drums,  brass bands and glockenspiels. ..... Baylah hadn't gone to the seashore yet. Papa, always observing from a distance, turned up too. I don't know about the 'lesser vampires,' such as Blackie and Minnie. And I call them 'lesser,' only because they frequent other haunts. Though I'm sure their trials and tribulations are just as compelling.


Baylah poured drinks 'round the little dining room table. What a cozy nest she has. I believe one of her familiars is a decorator and the place is done up like a dog's dinner, but a pedigreed dog, to be sure. By now you know most of them can tolerate alcohol. That could be because it really isn't a 'food.' .....'And the fluid that quickens all life shall be to you as sustenance'..... that's what it says in LA CIENCIA VAMPIRISMO...... 'While all other forms of mortal fare shall be unto you as filth and caustic poison.'....... it says that too.


Baylah says it also talks about 'the preservation of the vampirina breast,' and that's why vampire women don't need no God damn brassieres. But Tomas says it means something else. Sarah buys herself nice bras, even though she don't need a wear them. She buys fancy silver wear too. What do you expect? She was raised by school teachers. Rules are rules and respectable middle class people are expected to do certain things. You should see how she tidies up her sleeping cabinet every sundown. Tomas tells her these things shall pass. But she don't believe it. And who is he to talk? He still says prayers for his dead parents. According to The Canon, surviving children are called to do that. Guess they never expected no kids to live so long..... Maybe they did? Who knows?


This night the tiny glasses held wee drams a good, Scots whiskey. Baylah brought it up from the piano bar downstairs. They savored the sweet, woody undertone and the rich, nut-like flavor. Such welcome sensations brought back memories of lost humanity. Though among 'noble vampires'  true 'humanity' is never really lost.


Tomas recalled the thick, creamy porridge served on cool winter mornings. It was never truly cold in his Andalucian homeland, but such things are relative. 


Sarah pictured Christmas Dinner...the savory turkey.....the spicy, pumpkin pie. Baylah recounted the coarse, grainy flat breads of Old Timbuctu, dipped in luscious pots of chick pea paste, flavored with peppercorns and honey.


Papa told of huge, carved, wooden bowls of mead and bemoaned the lack of good product available through the Pennsylvania State Liquor Store System. But Edith, the human witchy-woman watching from the corner, said state stores weren't the problem. Because even in her home state of New Jersey (just across the river), mead was still hard to come by. A few of the Red Paint types still brewed some, but even they were switching to hot Dr. Pepper, Sue-Bee-honey and beer. .....Eh, modern life.....What are you gonna do?


So they huddled 'round the table. They drank their little toasts. The Advent of Summer has always been a momentous occasion among enchanted folk.... a sensual time of warm, sultry skin and hot, salty blood.


In fact the 'elves' were out enjoying some, as they spoke.


Trouble is..... so was the 'enemy.' ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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vampire wonderland: The Book of Sarah

vampire wonderland: The Book of Sarah: Here's a peek at the beginning ------ My, how Tomas/Jonathon has grown!------First of all, we must agree that what comes next is fiction. Y...

Noche de los Muertes..... Death isn't Easy

And then they came, fast and furious. A torrent of babbling, incoherent souls. But he could understand them. Tomas could feel them all. Most vociferous were the damned, deliriously cursing from the fetid, sulfurous pits of Gehenna. They screamed and raked the flesh from off their cheeks. They poked at neighbors and gouged out eyes, shoving fistfuls of oozing, steaming shit down the pie-holes of manically cackling, carbuncle ridden moral savages.


These were the souls deserved of death. And Tomas felt his purpose. But occasionally one of the others came through. For he  did sometimes ravish the innocent. A quiet entity, cool and serene, safe in the company of the blessed, passed close to his heart and forgave him. And then it was his turn to moan and scream like the souls in perdition. 


Sarah hugged him. She rocked him and whispered in his ear ---Shhh, shhhh, I am here. I am here. This will pass. This will end. I love you. I love you....... He trembled. And I suppose vampires do have some sort of physical metabolism, for he was sweat-soaked and shivering. And so the night passed until it was done. The last to depart merely kissed him. 


They could hear birds practicing arias in the cool, dawn sky, but the root cellar remained dark and safe. Sarah took off his clothes and dried him with a soft, worn, woolen  blanket. Then he snuggled close to her and they slept, just like the rabbits in the ruined great-room, up above.


You see, my best beloveds..... death is not easy.......And the 'death that is not death' is the hardest one of all....


Zebulon must leave you now. Life is so, so short..... Be good to each other.... Somebody's keeping records....


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O. G. Tomes: HERE! HERE!

O. G. Tomes: HERE! HERE!: Cheers!    ..........to the characters who live in the worlds of our imaginations!     I had never considered their life after I move on ...

AN ETERNAL SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

Tomas just sits there, staring off into ....nothing. He trembles. Sometimes he mumbles. I can't make out the words. But if I let myself, I can see what he sees. And although I cannot feel what he feels, I can still comprehend it. 


This is Sarah talking to you now. I believe wilkravitz inscribes it. Maybe it's Edith. I don't know. But I'm pretty sure it's the other one.... the one we buy shoes for.


Now how can I convey this to you? How can I represent the totality of it all? Let me do it this way.......


They say the universe is finite. It will not live forever. The stars are not eternal. A time far, far beyond reasoning will come. And it will be a time of darkness. The last pin points of light issuing forth from the few, remaining, feeble stars will disappear. Perhaps the cultures existing at that time will devise toy stars, artificial stars? Yet even they need fuel. So even they will die. 


Life will end. Consciousness will wither and ultimately the last sentient soul will die. Atoms will decompose. Protons will crumble. Nothing detectable will remain. 


The void will be all. 


Tomas floats in such a place. He travels in the mind of Lucretia, his first innocent human victim, taken all those centuries ago. 


She was the girl in the pit. She was his first 'meal.' And although he had no choice, her death still haunts him. True, she is not part of this SOUL PARADE. She's lived among the dead far too long for that. But she leads them, just the same, like a macabre baton twirling majorette. However, she has no baton. She has nothing. That one drifts through a wakeful demise, though even the sense of movement eludes her, since there's nothing left to move. Lucretia 'is,' and she thinks. 


Her mind remembers songs, simple songs, children's songs. She 'sings' them to herself, alone in an empty universe. No 'up.' No 'down.'  Does she warrant such punishment? I don't know. I am just Sarah. I am still so new.


This song, the one she sings now, has been going on for what we would call three hundred years. The darkness never changes (for there are varieties of darkness) and temperature does not exist. 


She conjures images. Flickering snipets of her truncated life burn brightly for an instant, then disappear like flash paper. 


And Tomas sees it all. I hug him, but he doesn't know. 


And she is only the first....


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TOMAS SETTLES IN TO FACE HIS DEMONS...the vampire's nightmare begins...

We sat on the cold, flagstone floor of the ruined domicile. At one time, it must have been an isolated farmstead, or possibly the hunting lodge of some Philadelphia gentleman. Almost a manor house in it's own right, though now just a shelter for wildlife.... If they only knew how wild. 


Sarah huddled against me. Sublimating isn't always easy. It can be painful and draining, especially to someone 'new' like her. And the damp, spring rain only made things worse. Coppery stains played out across what remained of the plaster ceiling. Fat drops jumped down to die upon the floor.


We retreated to an inglenook. It was drier there. And the snug, little, hearth-side corner gave us a bit of security against any lurking foe. I waited for the SOUL PARADE to begin. But such things follow quite independent schedules and rarely appear on cue.


A fire would have been nice, but we had no stores and the bracken and twigs upon the forest floor were soaked through. There was a cedar chest in a storage room off the kitchen. It held a fine collection of thick, warm blankets, Bay Company trade goods from the look of them. Probably found their way down here via the Great Lakes. I'd discovered them long ago and now they gave us comfort. A plump, little rabbit silently hopped in from the wet.  At first she didn't notice us, but then Sarah sighed and the sweet, warm receptacle of life froze, stiff as death, afraid to even breathe. I sent her a message. Not words, just emotion. Then I got up and 'nested' a particularly worn and soft blanket in a cozy, little spot under the stairs. After a few encouraging clucks, she understood and hopped in to rest. A few dozen heartbeats later, a friend came to join her. Could be she also had talents like mine?


I went back to Sarah and kissed her. She said - Is it starting? Are they coming? Can you feel them?......... No - I said. Soon, but not now....... So we gathered up the blankets and crawled down into the root cellar. It was safer there. Daylight would not find us. And except for the moldering bones of that long forgotten murder victim sleeping in the corner, we were quite alone. Even the spiders had left. Perhaps in anticipation of  tortures yet to come?


And then I heard the sing-song voice of a child.......


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VAMPIRES DON'T FEAR MUCH, BUT THEY DO FEAR CERTAIN THINGS

Zebulon flits through the old, stiff, vellum pages of Tomas' copy of LA CIENCIA VAMPIRISMO and since the book's possessor prepares for a SOUL PARADE, I will share some things. Creatures of the night have few worthy enemies. True, they cannot sublimate through lead. Those of you familiar with Marianne's transformation know that. But they can sublimate through just about anything else, rendering said substance into a shredded, pulpy mass. Human adversaries quickly resemble bloody, lumpy, viscous, steaming puddles. Sometimes an eyeball remains intact. Occasionally a tooth floats around in the mess. Feral cats seem to like it. Rats and pigeons too, so I'm told.


Some fall prey to beheadings. Yet should the vampire have but a moment to compose herself, she can easily sublimate through the blade and survive unscathed...provided the neck-slicer isn't made with lead. Certain headsmen in polities rife with life-eaters, commission blades made from a lead containing alloy, called demonbane. It is brittle, but reliable in such instances.


Dogs and by extension wolves play a role in their eradication as well. Attack by a feral pack sends the vampiric victim into a petit mal type trance. They fall to the ground trembling, while the sharp, gnashing teeth tear them to bits. Wise men versed in such things claim it's naught but an exaggerated superstition. A belief prevalent in the nighttime world, however based on no actual fact. Others say such animal attacks are God's way to call the offending creature 'home.'


I had planned on sharing more, but a few spirits close to me are fond of the life-eaters and loathe to share their secrets. Please note that I  have vampire friends, yet that doesn't make me a fool. I've seen incorporal beings, such as myself, transported to the surface of the sun....and they're never the same after that...


Imagine the hellish monstrosities writhing across  that monstrous orb. It's as if Dante's Inferno grows the crops.


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O. G. Tomes: People say the nicest things! Check them out! Se...

O. G. Tomes: People say the nicest things! Check them out! Se...: We rush around marketing and we lock ourselves away to write!   But when you come up for air wondering if its all worth it....? Tha...

A SOUL PARADE and, no, it's not like SOUL TRAIN

Sarah and I are sitting on a bench in Washington Square park. That's the one designed over an old Revolutionary burial ground. Now it's a charming, urban greensward surrounded by stylish, Center City condominium towers. It's also where Chi-weenies go to pee.  


I like a clear, night sky. Actually, the residential nature of the immediate neighborhood cuts down on light pollution <see? i do keep up with contemporary terminology>. Summer constellations slowly float by overhead.. I see tiny red pinpoints of light from a passing jet. Sarah spots a shooting star, but perhaps it's just a piece of space junk? Hope that has no bearing on my wish. 


I'm due for a Soul Parade. I don't think I've ever told you about that. It happens, to vampires,I mean, about once every ten or twelve years. The life-eater in question retreats to an isolated spot, often in a cave or a grotto, or a crypt. Some preferred catacombs. The immortal being goes in, lies down, closes his eyes and prays. Then, in order, from first to last, each and every soul 'culled' within that time period condenses out of the ether to visit a while. Oh, it's very real. This is no illusion. Occasionally one of the innocents killed during a lapse does not make an appearance. That means they've reincarnated, hopefully into a more benevolent atmosphere. Could be their death was meant to make that possible? At least that's what we tell ourselves. 


Sarah wants to go with me. I know an old, abandoned gray, Pennsylvania stone cottage, deep within the up-state forests. Wolves still frequent the area. There are no roads or paths. I sublimate in. The site came to me in a dream. I've seen ghosts there. Once I saw a headless child stumbling through the filtered moonlight. But then I blinked and it was gone. Another time a pack of skinless Indians, obviously the spirits of those flayed alive, passed single file by the doorstep of my refuge. Worst of all are the orange eyes reflecting out from the blackness. Some are just animals, but some are not. I hate the way they stare. 


Some souls cry. Others just hover and say nothing. A few screech like banshees. Some babble incoherently. 


They pinch me. They scratch my face, gouge at my eyes and molest me in the most horrible ways, all within the velvety darkness of a ruined cellar. I believe the remains of a murdered vagabond lie buried in the rammed earth floor. But he doesn't bother me. He just laughs and blurts out obscenities. 


Some expect apologies. Others want to dance. But I never dance with them


One time a cold, young man silently entered that place. However, he was very  much alive. God knows what he heard. His presence roused me from my painful reverie. I sublimated straight up through the remnants of the old, oak floor and smiled at him. It was an evil smile. Needless to say, he died right on the spot. Pity, the blood died with him. 


You see, dead blood has no 'good' in it. All the vampire specific 'vitamins' fly away, like ravens from a dried up corpse. So I was forced to drag him out into the midnight chill and feed him to the wolves. I had no knife, but by twisting the limbs repeatedly, was able to separate them from the rest of the body and feed them to the greys.


Then I crawled back in ...to finish my ordeal......


Perhaps tomorrow, I'll set off again. Will I take Sarah? I suppose. She never ceases to surprise me. A strong life-eater that one is.


Now leave me alone. I want to go kill somebody


Exactly 2:00am EDT, on a wrought iron bench in the forgotten bone yard that is Washington Square...


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The VAMPIRES Want YOU to 'like' STUFF on Billy Kravitz' FACE BOOK PAGE...OK?

Look at the BEAUTY IS AS BEAUTY DOES episode appearing right under this. Please READ IT. I can't stay up late enough tonight to 'channel' a new one. But this one is VERY WORTHY OF YOUR ATTENTION. Check out the new COMMENT POLICY  (at the bottom of the BEAUTY IS... post) too. It may THROW SOME TRAFFIC YOUR WAY.


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vampire wonderland: BEAUTY IS AS BEAUTY DOES..... VAMPIRES SHARE THE B...

vampire wonderland: BEAUTY IS AS BEAUTY DOES..... VAMPIRES SHARE THE B...: We're half way 'round the Sun since last THANKSGIVING. This episode ran back then. Can't post a new one tonight. Must retire  (ZZZzzzZZZ) a...

Edith and Baylah drink a toast to DONNA SUMMER

First of all, before we start, let me direct your attention to a little bon-bon left as a COMMENT after yesterday's post by the great Southern tale spinner, O.G. Tomes, where she gives us a peek into one of her latest books A TEST OF FAITH. Reads like a movie. I like that. Go to http://ogtomes.blogspot.com for more. A 'clickable' link at bottom of comment.


                    AND NOW, BACK TO OUR SHOW


Vampires have trouble with tattoos. It's not a question of infections, or things like that. Microbes cannot harm them. But the pigment tends to disappear. It just dissolves and goes away. How they excrete it, I do not know. Zebulon is not an alchemist.  But I do know they leave no scat and pass no water. However, they do perspire. A light dewiness appears on the skin. So perhaps it escapes that way? They continue on as they were at the time of transformation, preserved as if in amber. 


Baylah has a tattoo, a small one. I believe it represents some pre-Islamic Tuareg talisman. It's on the outer side of her left wrist... a small, black stylized camel spider, applied while still a mortal. 


Edith admired it. They're having tea right now, snug in the little, jewel-box apartment above the piano bar. I can hear the muffled tinkling of the show tunes wafting through the floor. Baylah can drink tea. Not too much. Just a little. She lets it slide down drop by drop. Tomas can tolerate certain varieties of distilled spirits. That's just the way it is. Papa can handle thick, yeasty beer...and occasionally a chewy pine nut. Don't ask me about the pine nuts. Perhaps it has to do with his great antiquity? 


Now he's singing 'Last Dance.'  It isn't a show tune, but not all of them are. Baylah got to know Donna Summer back in the early days. She'd appear in small, South Street clubs. Baylah loves to dance. Well-off admirers  squired her about the city in stylish Cadillac El Dorados. You know the cars, the ones with those discreet, little  'opera' windows. Miss Summer never knew she was a vampire. Not everyone can handle that. Some believe the lies spawned by The Inquisition. Others fear magic of any kind. Still, Baylah did give her a small vial, a beautiful, faceted crystal thing, like a pendant. And you know what was inside. It held a few drops of her blood... relics of a 'saint' not truly dead. I know they were in contact over the years. Some letters passes. Some phone calls. Maybe they spoke of the magic? Maybe she knew the truth by then? But she never drank the 'special drug' inside..... Pity. Zebulon cannot tell you where she is on my side now. I do not know. Death is a big place spanning many Heavens and countless Hells. I have only been to some of them. And think on this~~~ to be dead for a heartbeat, or for a billion years is all the same to us. Dead is dead is dead. I have heard of some who reincarnate and go back....like widows returning to Florida. But I have never done it.... not yet.


So the two unusual creatures, the Piney witchy-woman and the Sub-Saharan former princess sit at the small, polished dining table in the lavish pied a terre and raise a cup to the vanished diva, as the last well dressed, tipsy patrons exit the cozy piano bar down below. If it  was winter, the cold air would refresh them. But this is May, when such things never happen.


Most vampire nights are devoid of drama, though poignant just the same.


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And for a different take on the VAMPIRE genre, take a look at the very well received, BEST SELLING  books by ANDREW HARDING at http://AHardingBooks.com a delicious melange of THE MENTALIST meets CSI with a dash of enchantment and a healthy dose of NINE AND A HALF WEEKS..... a REALLY HEALTHY DOSE!!

I HATE BEING SLAMMED AGAINST THE CEILING< BUT SOME VAMPIRES DON'T SEEM TO GET THAT

I wasn't going to blog tonight. Thought I'd sleep. Never do that anymore. Maybe get like three or four hours, sometimes during the dark, sometimes by day. Everything's mixed up and has been since Tomas started to communicate again. For a while all that 'parallel universe' stuff scared him. It was SO real...because it WAS real. And then he was back here. Edith says 'time' can be like that. She knows. The Red Paint People tell her things. ...... Yeah, they're still here. Not in the city. Not in Philadelphia. They stay out in the Pines. Edith was out there too. But she came back today. She does that when it gets hot. Won't go down into the tunnels with the mole people, like Papa and Annie and Tomas and Sarah. Says it gives her the 'heebie-geebies.' She stays with Baylah. They live up above the piano bar... a jewel box of a place. Best of all, it's air conditioned. Edith needs that. You see, she's plagued by prickly heat.


Those tunnels don't bother me. They're dry and the old fashioned 'subway' tiles are 'in' right now. We stay in what used to be a series of offices and storage rooms. Like Hitler's bunker, 'cept without all them baby killers..... Well, Annie's a baby killer. She does try to be good, every once in a while. Lasts for about two weeks. Then she 'forgets' and chews through the necks of  some college kids, or like maybe some old lady sleeping on a bus. They got drivers don't pay attention. You can do that late at night. They don't care. Well, if you're a vampire they don't care. Because they know the body's gonna burn up with that cold, blue flame and not leave too much of a mess. Gonna be 'some' gooey stuff, maybe a scrap or two. No worse than when a high school kids drops Kentucky Fried Chicken and the rest a them all walk in it. They don't HAVE to walk in it. But destructive squalor is fun, I guess.


My eyes are closed. She workin' me like a Howdy Doody. You know, like a puppet, like he was?  I am settin' in a dark, little old-timey office. Ain't got no rats. Mole people got ways to get rid of 'em. Though they do keep some cleaned-up, domesticated ones for food. Taste like ugly squirrel. What, you thought I was gonna say 'chicken?'..... No, it don't taste like chicken. It greasier, gamier. Sort a like what duck is too chicken. ..... You know how many little bones they got in a rat tail? Too many. It's remarkable. 


I wanna go pee and she knows it. But she won't let me. Nose runnin' too. I got a chin beard and one thing I hate is snot on a mustache. But I can't even move my hand to smear it away.


She want me to tell you 'bout all her killin'. Luna got her. She a relatively new vampirina. Papa kissed her up real good. He gave it to her. She used to be one a them secret types workin' with Doctor Franklin and the Anti-Enchantment Bureau. Wern't no vampire back then, just some doctor-scientist girl. Guess she craved a change. Looked cool and sexy in them lab coats. Still has a couple. Uses them when she hunts the hospitals late at night. 


Now they at The Eastern State Penitentiary. That a huge, two hundred year old dungeon/jail. Look like a ruin, but that just for the tourists. They let you go in there when it's day time. Papa knows somebody. so they open it up at night. Not for big crowds, or regular people. Just for Annie. Just for his 'little girl.'  She like what they do there. Stock the place wit' maybe four or five make believe criminals. Look, they very well might be criminals, but never been convicted. Know what I mean? She sniff 'em out. They try an' hide. But she get 'em every time. 


Jus' now she got some guy hidin' under a cot. It dark. It real dark. You can't see nothin' in there. He thought he was safe. He thought she was 'done.' You know, like at a all you can eat, Chinese buffet, when one more piece a dull, dry shushi gonna make you throw up? Only she not at that point yet. First he hear a scratchin'. Think it a mouse. Then he hear breathin'. Think it the wind. Them long passageways they got there got their own wind, so that could be. Next come the whistling. She do like Tomas. She learn it from him. Start a whistling - TEDDY BEARS' PICNIC.------ When you go out in the woods tonight, you're in for a big surprise........ Then she give him the surprise. That when she bite part a his foot off. And all them little bones what run from the ankle to the toes are very sensitive, you know. Blood gushin' all out. He screamin'. He cryin'. She suckin' it all up. Tomas don't like when we say 'suckin.' He say vampires do not suck. And he right, most a the time. But this 'Annie,' and she sucks.


Luna don't actually go wit' her. She sit wit' the guards, or  the watchmen, or whatever they are. They got a little television in that place where they go. Luna like talk shows. Jay, Dave. Jimmy, that Scotland guy, Carson. Kathy and Hoda. I like Hoda. Hope she smash that other one right in the face one day. Who you think win a fight, Charlie Rose, or David Letterman? Wouldn't that be somethin'? Bet people'd pay money to see that. They should do it. Give the money to charity or them Kardashians, or somethin'. Maybe they could each fight a Kardashian gal too.


Now she got her head pushed in a his guts, suckin' all the blood up outta his liver. Don't make no noise, but I can 'see' his mouth movin.'  Damn, I feel sorry for him. That must feel awful funny.


Do you like liver?......... I hate it.


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bloody liver bloody liver bloody liver bloody liver bloody liver bloody liver bloody


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LOST EPISODES ARE FOUND ..ALBION (an elferino) conjures them back from The Akoshic Records

ALBION found something while searching through our history. Approximately 18 postings were lost. We are plagued by all manner of enchantment, some benign and some not so benign. With the help of EDITH, our Jersey Pine Barrens Pow-Wow Woman, he was able to conjure them back from the AKOSHIC RECORDS. We have them now and will post them, along with new material, from time to time. Yet they are there, if you's like to find them. Scroll down, or use the RSS. Be privy to secrets unknown  to most. 


And come back later tonight, when we share the story of ANNIE and her prey.


We of THE VAMPIRE WONDERLAND thank you, as we post this from the safety of our dens.


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TOMAS a.k.a. Jonathon, continues - THE TRUTH IS IN THE TEETH

I am on the surface, strolling along the Head House Square, in Society Hill. I like this place late at night. Most of the motorized vehicles are gone. The people are gone too. And it looks as if I've stepped back two hundred  years. Granted, the shop windows ruin the illusion. But I do my best to ignore them. This is where the old farmers' market was located. Daytime visits were impossible. I'd have to come at night, in the wee, small hours of the morning when the Amish and Mennonites were setting up. 


Some of them recognized me. I don't mean they knew me by name. But they knew what I was. I never approached to close, not wanting to press the issue. But I watched. I observed. Once, I bought  some strawberries, just in order to experience such a normal, everyday thing. The good housewife looked for a market basket. I told her I had none. She smiled, bashfully, not knowing what to do with the large, wooden scoopful in her hand. So I took off my hat. You've seen those hats, a tall, 'Cholly Knickerbocker' from covers of The New Yorker, and told her to fill that. Her husband gave me a look. A dandified do-nothing, out for a night on the town. He almost hated me. But the young one, the child, knew. He gazed up at me through pale, straight bangs and said 'teufl-mann.'  That means devil-man. I reached out to muss his hair. But the father pulled him back. I offered him a penny. He would not take it. So I took my fruit-filled headgear and passed into the shadows. The rats ate well that night.


Baylah was there. In the city, I mean. We'd encounter each other. I'd tip my hat. She'd curtsy. Most took her for a rare hothouse flower, a well bred mulatto or quadroon. But she was a noble daughter of The Sahel. Not every group in Africa is dark. And a true princess too, I might add. Sold away by jealous kinsman. Her mistress did it to her. She passed on the burden. I did not know that female very well, and she disappeared soon after. That's when we made common cause.


She had the fine, small cat fangs too. So, in a sense, we were related. It's all in the fangs. And according to The Grantha-Danshh-Traa, the book I spoke of last night, they come in seven varieties ~~~ CAT, SNAKE, SPIDER, FISH, WOLF, BAT and DEMON. 


The baser types, the vile ones, are demons...sometimes bats. The noble breeds sport cat fangs..... or  occasionally a wolf. The rest are catch as catch can. Think of it as haplo-groups for the night folk. Like DNA for the dead.....Although, you know we really aren't that.


Now, I am off to taste a victim. I  will not kill tonight, but merely sample..... The proverbial ghost at the foot of the bed. Sometimes they scream. Sometimes they actually shit themselves. I laugh, then sublimate into the ether..... a bad dream going back to perdition. 


We 'vampires,' as you insist on calling us, do enjoy our games.


Perhaps one night I'll come to play with you?


But Annie does kill tonight. And next time you'll know how.....


Pull down the shade. Turn out the light. The lanes are 'live with 'creepers' tonight...


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The Vampires' BOOK OF FANGS

It is I, Tomas, also known as Jonathon. This one is now presently ensconced in safe quarters. I am back in the City Between the Rivers. In this case the Delaware and the Schuylkill. Philadelphia has been my home for centuries. I have slept in many places. Now, I 'bunk' with they who dwell in the deepest tunnels...the 'mole' people. It is quiet down here. The 'Enemy' cannot touch us. So I sit in a chamber, once part of a long forgotten and never used subway line, down beneath the narrow streets of China Town.


The orange glow of sterno suits me. Papa says it resembles tallow pots in old, Cro Magnon dwellings. We sit on silken cushions purloined from fine, brick, townhouses. At times I 'take' the hookah...... apple wood and cinnamon.... my favorite. Aura and Sylvia (they who now bear those names) massage me. And I, in turn, am free to tickle them. How large their eyes are. They glitter like diamonds. I suppose that's just an adaptation to the dark. And later, when I am done this tale, they'll 'pillow' with me. My 'Gold.' My 'Silver.' For that is what their names mean. And that is what they are.


But now, I have new truths to tell. We've sojourned together for twenty one months. Time to draw you deeper down the well. I know many recall LA CIENCIA VAMPIRISMO, that venerable book of vampire lore I bear from ancient Spain. You've seen things. You've peeked. I know it. The night world is intensely rich. And I am...very proud of it. But there are older books. Papa has one, as yet unmentioned... until now. He's off pleasuring some 'familiars' in Queen's Village. That's why I can talk..............Uhmmmm...wait...please wait.... Aura strokes my favorite spot. (deep sigh...and then an almost a purring sound)......... (low, breathy voice) Kindly permit me to collect myself. (he lays there, supine, as she 'refreshes' him with a cool, scented cloth)..... 


It's time to enter the fearful pages of the Grantha Danshh-Traa. I believe the words are proto Sanskrit, put down before the proverbial 'coming of the moon.'  And they mean 'the book,' or in this case, 'The Scripture of Fangs.'  Lineage is 'all' in the night world. We descend  from primal lines. Sarah came from me. I came from the one known as 'Papa' and he was whelped by the great, enduring she-creature known as Renate.


But there is more to it than that. Return when next the darktime comes again. And I will show you the lacework that holds YOUR world together.


We are the source of all things weird and wonderful. The font of all magic. The bearers of old burdens. Rememberers of spells.


Now  go. One of the mole people will lead you back up. And I hope our nakedness does not offend you, but it's so much more 'convenient' way down here...


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LITTLE BASTID ANNIE WITH THE MOLE PEOPLE

I'm probably like seven or eight years old now. I don't know. 'Papa' says I was six years old when he made me.  But funny monsters were always tryin' to scare me. Edith thinks I was always like this. She says I'm an old soul... like Old King Cole... No, he was a merry old soul. I guess that means  he was like Santa Claus. I ain't never seen no Santa Claus. Saw a dead one once. But they told me he was only one of the 'helpers.' Saw him laying on a whole bunch a shitty stuff back a the Lord & Taylor department store. Guess his elves couldn't do nothin'. The one I saw got hisself all shot up. One bullet went inside like where one of his titties was. The other broke through to the inside of his head. He wasn't actually all the way dead when I saw him. But Papa felt sorry, so he bent down and did the vampire thing. Five heartbeats later, the completely dead Santa Claus went 'whoosh!' Then he shot up into blue fires and disappeared. Ain't nobody seen it, 'cause we was out real late. All he left was some fake teeth . I thought they were like snapping clam things. You know, like what Spanish ladies dance with. But Papa wouldn't let me keep 'em. Said they were dirty, so he kicked 'em down the sewer and took me home. That was when we was living on Glengary Road. I liked that house. It was big. It was in Chestnut Hill. There was a kid next door. I used to like her. She couldn't do no magic vampire shit, but I used to play with her. Not when it was daytime. Like for sleep-overs and shit. Her mom fed her shitty pizza. I don't eat no pizza, but I still knew that was bad. Do you think I say 'shit' too much? Tomas does. He gets mad when I say it. Then he starts talkin' some oingo-boingo talk real fast. I think it's Spanish. But I only talk this talk. Papa talks to me all kind a crazy ways. But I tell him - Go to hell, you crazy bitch you. I don't know what you're sayin'!....... Then he just sits down, makes like I'm invisible and starts reading something.


We gonna go live with the mole people. It's safer down there. They live in like these tunnels down under where the subway goes. It's a secret. Nobody knows. Some cops know. They used to creep down and kick all the people out sometimes. But now we give 'em money, so they leave us alone. Sarah don't like it. But she  does it 'cause Tomas tells her. They vampires. Everybody I mostly tells you about is vampires. Edith ain't no vampire though. She just a fat, old lady from New Jersey who knows how to do 
spooky stuff. Sometimes she scares me. I tell her to go to hell. 


They got all kind a hidey-holes down them tunnels. We get water, like for washin' and all, from these old pipes. The humans make some kind a stew outta cooked rats. I like to watch 'em make it, but I can't eat none. Sometimes I  bite off somebody's toe though. But I never swallow it. I don't do it for food. I just do it for fun.


See, the best thing 'bout livin' with them mole people is we don't have to go sleep in the daytime, 'cause down there, there ain't no daytime. So I can play and play and play. Hide and seek's my favorite. Two  times I found these old, brown skeletons. But they don't dance around like the ones in cartoons (we steal 'lectricity from old wires). The kind I find just lay there and smile.


I like the dark. Two days (or nights...I don't know) from now, I gonna go kill somebody. That's how I get food. And Papa says I'm what you call a big eater.


Know what my favorite song is?.... It's The Teddy Bears Picnic..... When you go out on the streets tonight, you're in for a big surprise. I learned it from Tomas. He likes to whistle it all the time.


Look, I gotta go now. Aura and Sylvia (they two mole ladies) need me to help them shave they legs. I think one a them  got killed once. But this is another lady what got the same name.


They got a lot a crazy shit like that down here....... Whoops! I said it again.... tee-hee-hee......


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