Some nights I haunt the streets like this, especially late, snowy nights. I'm all in black... black jeans... black pea coat... waterproof black lace up work boots... matching turtleneck... scarf and black 'waxed' (waterproof) fedora.... trim, fur lined leather gloves too. At times I meld with the shadows. No one knows I'm there, even most of the cats.
I glide along, just above the cold surface. If anyone does happen to see me, they think I'm sliding, or 'street skating.' But there are no tracks. There are no foot prints. I can do that. When I sublimate through creation altitude is not important. Flying is flying. I pass through the air. I pass through snowflakes. They do not melt. They just go on.
Sometimes I whistle, not loud, but in a low and resonate manner. If people hear, I don't care. There are nights when I tail someone for quite a while. We skim the perimeter of silent, photogenic squares all covered with snow. The prey turns down some sporadically lit residential street. I turn too. We pass classic, pre war apartment buildings, coveted brownstones and beaux arts towers.
In PHILADELPHIA AFTER DARK, the seminal screenplay Vampire Wonderland is based on, I lived up there, safe in a lofty redoubt. My name was Thomas (not Tomas) and I'm not Spanish, but the second son of a Scottish aristocrat. Please know that is fiction. This is not.
The prey slips into an all night coffee shop. I wait outside. Hidey-holes are everywhere. I don't fear the cold, or the rain, or the snow. There's a thing I do, a type of sublimation, that causes all manner of precipitation to evaporate before touching my clothing. So I'm quite dry and comfortable. I fall into a state, contemplating things from years ago. But when the prey leaves the warmth of that coffee shop, I move too.
You see, what I'm sharing here is another way I hunt and kill those souls unworthy of mortal life. During this stage of the pursuit I make no sound at all. Teddy Bears Picnic is a favorite of mine. Sometimes I whistle it, not loud, but I do. Am I repeating myself? If so, forgive me. Night-folk rarely think in a linear manner. Time is different for us.
The prey climbs the steps to his stylish quarters in a converted townhouse. I glide up too, not stepping on each marble tread, but rising up, as if on an incline, till he unlocks the door and steps inside.... But I pass through too.
There's no drama, no grand orchestrated dance. I merely restrain him and levitate up perhaps eighteen inches from the floor. When their feet can't touch a solid surface the whole thing is much easier.
I quickly drain him dry and let the body crumple down onto the black and white, checkerboard quartz tiles. Then I leave, not even waiting for the remains to ignite with a 'cold' blue flame. Should some one enter right after my departure, they'd think it a case of spontaneous human combustion. Believe me, that more or less, fictional occurrence veils many a vampire's feast.
Don't ask me what I'd do if interrupted whilst in the act. Does that happen? Yes, not often, but it does and I hate to think about it.
Thus is my life, or my existence, if you're picky about such things...
I pass through the thinly blanketed streets and leave no tracks. The snow stays clean and pure....
Ah, but the air feels good....
<more next time>
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He stood there in the crisp, bright moonlight and listened. They sang. The choir sang, but the language was unknown to him. At times he heard a chant. Then a single voice broke forth in an aria, or perhaps an old cantorial. After a while it stopped. But there was a faint, metallic echo in the air. Snow began to fall, light and clean and dry, powdering the rocky path before him. And then, after perhaps ten score heartbeats he saw them..... footprints made by an unseen soul, going up before him.... The vampire known as Jonathon followed. All was silent, save for the wind. 'Earth breath' they called it. But he did not know that then. The path was steep and slick with gravel. But night-folk are strong..... Soon there was a change and the unseen soul began to congeal. A tall, spare figure materialized before him. Jonathon spoke. He said - Who are you? Tell me your name..... But the figure said nothing. Nor did it turn 'round. So they went on. The air grew icy. But 'cold' is just another flavor of reality to a life-eater, like a perfumed breeze, or spiders in the dark. As they neared the summit, a portal opened (or disappeared) and small, plump beings flew out. Wings, they did not have. Yet they sliced through the night tracing patterns like skaters. 'Cherubs' they were.... tiny children, stolen into darkness by demon vampires of the noxious sort, but redeemed and sheltered by they who lived within. They danced about the Andalucian pilgrim ... tiny moths 'round a flame, tasting him via quick, sharp nips from their pointy tongues. Too young for teeth they were, though Providence blessed them in another way. And by the blood they knew him. And they smiled. Their kisses tickled. Jonathon laughed, as tiny trickles of red ran down his cheeks... He reached a flat place, a natural terrace. Ten steps hence there was a door, a plain, strong, thick, wooden door, with naught but a loop of rope, wrapped 'round an old iron hook for a handle. Instinctively he pulled it and went in. Then he heard a voice. The ghostly figure from the ascent was real now and seated on a simple, rough bench against the far wall of a small, gray, cave-like room. Fat, yellow candles in small, natural niches popped and sputtered, washing the space in a rich, dim glow. Close the door - he said. So Jonathon did. And the sound of the wind disappeared. Where the cherubs went, I do not know..... Sit down - said the figure.... Jonathon slowly took a seat at the other end. He was wary, for even a vampirino knows fear. The figure laughed, lowered his hood and smiled, revealing the fine, sharp tips of lethal fangs. ..... Are, are you 'vampirici'? - Jonathon said.... The being thought for a moment before responding - We prefer night-folk, or life-eater, if you must, but yes, you can call us that...... What is this place? - the young vampirino quietly asked...... What do you want it to be? - said the other..... Then he got up and proceeded down a narrow, raw stone corridor. Jonathon watched him leave. Seven heartbeats later the fat, yellow candles began to go out, til only one was left. Jonathon (not eager to be abandoned in this place) carefully took it from the wall and hurried after the man with the fine, sharp fangs. There was knowledge here. Jonathon knew it. So he followed the mysterious guide deep into the rock-face, til they came to another room, lit by a radiance independent of flame... + + + + + + + + + + + + But back in the dream that was real, he still slept within the cool, leaden chamber, as drop by drop, his blood was drawn away... Tobias drank it and was glad... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ thank you. please hit THIS .. for episodes you may have missed. your COMMENTS & LINKS are very much appreciated.
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