Whispers From A Vampire In The Dark .. Elmer Bernstein - To Kill A Mockingbird Suite

Sometimes the magic is to much for me to bear. And after all these lifetimes, I don't even know if 'magic' is the right term. Perhaps, we just begin to see deep into the core of things. We see the energy and the resonance and the essence as no mortal ever can... and sometimes we don't want too.... I fly over the surface of the Earth by night... a vampire lost in the wind... racing low o're moonlit waves, far from any shore, just me and the silvery light. Sometimes I dive down. Depth means nothing to me. Oxygen is but a habit and not an addiction.. I see giant squid propelling themselves through the blackness. Not the forty cubit specimens mortals occasionally find. These are kraken... known only in legends. You've seen old woodcuts. Whole galleons pulled down into the cold darkness... screaming, mad with fear seamen, grabbed by horrific arms and  passed toward the hellish beak... Some swallowed whole, others sheared to pieces... I hear the ghosts of those lost at sea, wandering the abysmal plain forever... and at times I find old corroded leaden chests imprisoning ever conscious vampires thrown into the sea by faithless protectors. I hear their sobs. I hear their prayers, some in languages already old when Rome was young.



I suppose you know that it is I, Jonathon  ben Macabi, who whispers to you. I sit in my townhouse, always in the same room... my favorite place, the snug, little octagonal library, deep in a winged chair, staring out through a narrow gap in the velvet draperies at the flickering light from the street lamp... a modern affectation for the tourists, but oh so very comforting to one such as I, who remembers the originals from a time when trains were new.



My meal lies on the floor. A fleshy thing, an artist's model, lured back to be my muse. I have that look you know... the sensual, well formed young artist... long dark wavy hair... the black jeans... the white t-shirts (at least in August, when its hot)... the rather ancient looking leather sandals with the ring 'round the big toe. She breathes softly, drugged by the finest absinthe... an evil soul burdened by many sins. You know me. I oh so very rarely cull the innocent. When it's time, I'll lift her. I'll kiss her. I'll taste her every essence. Will she feel it?... Of course. I'm very, very thorough. 



Then, when she's dead and her body ignites with the 'cold' blue flame and disappears, I'll return to the streets, quietly dispensing valuable old coins to deserving souls.... homeless people.... sad, desperate waitresses in all night cafes... runaway teens...  They'll know where to take them... I am quite the telepath... an old basement level curiosity shop, down some steps on Sansom Street. Center City, Philadelphia has many little byways like that. I know every one... even the mummies in the great Penn Museum thirty blocks from here tell me their secrets... and I tell them mine...



Do you know ghouls often drag their bound and gagged victims up to the rooftops of old, loft buildings to feast by starlight? Its a 'thing' with them. Sometimes I'll swoop down and rescue one... the victims, I mean.... This world needs rescuing in oh so many ways.... Perhaps the mortal elections eighty three days hence will bring some relief?



I'll have to see what I can do.



I hope you know there are over two thousand night-folk posts waiting to be discovered. Just click MAGIC you'll see... and touch that little free SUBSCRIBE thing when you get there. If you'd like to join Billy Kravitz, the familiar who helps me curate all this, please click TWITTER ... thank you... that's all... good night.