Tuesday, January 21, 2014


The essence of the vampire-oligarch, imprisoned in the body of the Moscow haberdasher's assistant thrashed and cried. They tried to comfort him. Doctor Franklin whispered reassurance in his ear. But he couldn't hear it. Then he tried something. The three hundred and seven year old reprobate went back to the console of his pet device and fiddled a bit. Four heartbeats later a faint, almost bagpipe-like thrum emanated from the baroque contraption, bathing the space in a deep, warm, almost subsonic peace. The pin-heads actually dozed. So did the strange, bullet-headed thing. Even the newly blind and deaf, apparently former vampire laying on the cold, marble slab relaxed. 

Doctor Franklin climbed down, went back and gently rested his hand on Usipov's new body. He spoke again and the deaf-blind man seemed to know. He whispered - This is but temporary. This can be fixed. I know you don't hear the words, but you know it. You feel it.

An assistant standing near by said - Excuse me, Doctor, but how do you know?....... I know. After almost two hundred and seventy years, I know. The frequency, the harmonic 'tickles' that part of the brain. The auditory part, I mean. Yours too. All of them. Everyone here. But you CAN hear, so you're unaware of it. He doesn't actually 'hear' it. But his brain felt it. His brain detected it and he knows that. Now if we were back in our own complex, in Philadelphia, I could hook him up to something and transmit rudimentary visual data too. But we're not. - said the Doctor. Yet look at his face. He knows that too....... Doctor Franklin patted the blind man's belly, turned and walked toward the door. Before exiting he turned and said - Get him ready. The cars are back. We're going home. But keep that playing. You, Rockwell... (Rockwell turned around)... Add an 'orphean' element. I want them all to sleep.......... Rockwell nodded, ran up and played around with the controls. Five heartbeats later the surviving, abandoned offspring of sad, Stalinist victims, still infesting the isolated complex, all went beddy-bye, just like the servants and courtiers in Sleeping Beauty's castle. Even the ghosts went dormant. And peace reigned over the desolate, crumbling Soviet era installation.  A bit later, a small cadre of Philadelphians, plus the hopefully temporarily blind and deaf vampire-oligarch, quietly exited an unassuming portal and hurried across the dry, cold, empty steppes to the waiting line of Land Rovers.

No sooner had they left when the ghost hunters from L.A., led by ZAK BAGANS himself (yes, you can click on that) pulled in with their caravan to do their thing.

Strange place, that complex. Another Eastern State Penitentiary.

But now the tale goes back to Philadelphia, with Tomas de Macabea, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi, his consort, Sarah and the rest of the folks on 'the night shift.'


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