Sunday, June 15, 2014


Crazy people wander graveyards in the rain. They come right up to the caretakers' cottages and peek into the windows. Usually the shades and drapes are drawn. The wives and children of caretakers like things snug, especially at night. Prayers are said. Lamps turned on. Televisions tuned in. The phone rarely rings after dark. Families and friends of those inhabiting caretakers' cottages know how loud it sounds, so they call early. A knock at the door is a dreaded occurrence.

But sometimes those unburdened by sanity caper about in midnight downpours. They blind rabbits and sing with crows. Then, later on, with the first gray light of dawn, they sneak back to beds in other places.... The nighttime revels of lunatics. 

Children lie still as stone, mummified in blankets, listening to the dust-like whispers of voices down stairs. Floorboards creak. Cupboards open. Clocks tick backwards. Footsteps... barely audible footsteps...The faintest hint of illumination washes up the stairwell... What's down there?... Please, God. Please, God. Please, God, don't let them come up.... Yet in the morning nothing is amiss. The carnival glass treasures in the breakfront are there. The knives in the kitchen lie straight in their drawers. But the terror was real... and so were the whispers.

I am but a voice. Don't ask me more. The one you call Billy types this... all alone in a dark, shadowy parlor 'neath a small, yellow pool of light cast down from an old wrought iron floor lamp. Edith knows. From her porch in the Pine Barrens she knows. And the ghosts know and the Zombie Princess, Opal knows. 

Magic is but the apparent manipulation of life and death. Oh, you know what death is. You've been there... back before you were born. .... I am a disembodied spirit... like Mister Never You Mind, yet far less avuncular. And I bleed through into your world.

Vampires, witches, zombies... What are they but unusual individuals?.... Storied bloodlines trickling through history since page one. And the truth is, no one knows. Unchanging reality is but a conceit. Edith knows. She told you last time, there on her porch in the haunted Pines.

Tick, tick, tick... you're morphing right now. Where are you going? Does it matter? How does it matter?Direction is but a convenience too. But we knit 'beliefs' to keep us warm... Tomas, the dead vampire, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi knows that. He wants to come back. Perhaps he will?.... Perhaps a mouse will gnaw through a wire and burn you as you sleep? Or a dead, gray, wraith thing will silently climb the stairs and enter your room? Doors are but atoms ... like mist... like dust... that's all.

What is that sound? Is it the refrigerator? Is it the pipes? A stifled cough? Laughter?

Nobody lives alone....

.... Next time we move on.


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John L. Harmon said...

Creepy and unsettling, Billy!

Especially love the sentence, "But we knit 'beliefs' to keep us warm..

Billy Kravitz said...

oh like you don't hit lots of cool notes on your freakboyzone blogger blog too.