ANNIE TALKS.....Don't be scared. I can talk sometimes. He lets me talk sometimes. I am here. And I am me. And I am afraid. I have a soul. No, I am a soul. I know that from Sunday School. No one can create a soul but God. And every soul has an earthly home. Every soul has a body. I'm not sure I understand what all I say. Maybe that's because I'm only seven and a half years old. When the Shaky Hand Man is awake I can't talk. It's like he puts me in a box. No, it's worse than a box. It's like he buries me in dirt. Just dirt. No box. Sometimes the Shaky Hand Man has to think. Sometimes he has to plan things. He plans bad things all the time. I  don't know where he goes when he thinks, but that's good, because it means he's not here. That's when I feel all better. That's when I don't feel so sick anymore. I really, really, really want to go home. I want to go back to California. I miss my mommy and daddy. I miss everybody. I miss my whole generation. Even the dogs. Especially the dogs. I miss Barkley. He's my dog. Please! Please! Please! I gotta stop. I can't tell you anymore. I can't. My stomach hurts........ And then her eyes glazed over. Her hands contorted and she stopped....... It is I, the unnamed voice. I saw her. I found her. I came to her. She likes me. She enjoys my presence. She calls me her friend. And you must know that she does not want to do it. But she is helpless. The Shaky Hand Man allows her to sleep. He leads her through rich, quiet hotels. He can unlock the doors to empty rooms. He can cloud the sight of onlookers. She wanders down thickly carpeted hallways. She opens a door and goes inside to sleep on large, formal beds. But never, never, never under the covers. Not like that. Sometimes the Shaky Hand Man allows her to bathe in warm water. Sometimes he does not. When she requires fresh clothing, he unlocks the sinister, nighttime, loading dock doors to a cavernous department store. She walks in, all alone, except for the Shaky Hand Man. It's dark and empty. She cries. She sobs softly. Sometimes she picks up a package of children's underwear. Sometimes some socks. whatever she needs. She knows it is wrong to steal. But this is not stealing. Her hands are not her own. This city is in the cold part of its year now, so she takes a coat, whatever. She needs  a small, stuffed dog. But the Shaky Hand Man will not permit it. So no stuffed dog. Nothing to hug. She exits the loading dock door and carefully climbs down the cement platform to the street. She knows how to be careful. It hurts when she falls. Her tiny shoes clip-clop down the icy street. There are sinister beings about. Most of them are merely humans, but some are not. They fail to see her. The Shaky Hand Man has clouded their vision. Sometimes she walks all night. Her legs hurt. Her feet hurt. She uses dirty toilets. And she enables this non-physical entity to kill people. Her name truly is Annie. And she wants to go home. But first she must help him cleanse this city. She does not understand it. And he does not care. The Shaky Hand Man will tell her anything. But she will never go home. He will use her till she dies. Oh, but he does not want that to happen. He does not want her to die. Not soon amyway. That would only create problems. That would force him to gnaw into the soul of an unfortunate, near-term fetus and enter the world all over again. But at least he'd be all fresh and whole and new.......... You know that I can see things. People like when I share what I see. Here is what I see right now.......... There is a girl in Arizona. Wise up! He is a liar. You know what I mean. Look him in the eye and tell him. But take a friend. Do not go alone....... For Jimmy in New Jersey - Do not take the household refuse out late at night. That thing at the end of the lane is not just an optical illusion. It is not just a playful combination of moonlight and shadows. Stay away........... To Mitzi somewhere along the Gulf of Mexico - That Gloria is nothing but a lousy cheater. Do not play the ancient, Chinese game known as Mah Jong with her again. Go with Doris. Have an 'early bird'. See a motion picture performance and call it a night.......... Oh, and if any soul out there has similar capabilities, might they please contact me and tell me my name? I am on the Twitter. Reach me through Tomas' familiar, that wilkravitz character. Go to Billy Kravitz@wilkravitz. That is all you have to do. And do not be so shocked to learn that a disembodied spirit, such as I, uses the internet too. For in this medium are we all not disembodied spirits?

The Book of Sarah

It is me this time. It is Tomas, I am deeply depressed. Even those new pairs of spectacularly fitting jeans I purchased on Walnut Street failed to raise my spirits. The girl said it made me look like one of the dancers on Dancing With The Stars. But I do not look at that program, so I do not know what she was talking about. If they want to see dancing, real dancing, they should watch some dervishes, or maybe a belly dancer, the good ones like they had (and I suppose still have) in Istanbul. My Uncle Hanan always had belly dancers at his dinners. They were wonderful. I cannot remember their names. One of them ran away with the Gypsies. That is all I can recall. I ramble. But it is only because I morn for my copy of La Ciencia Vampirismo. At first I thought we took it when we fled our crumbling tower. However I was wrong. We do not have it. The Old Woman has it. I can imagine the poetic secrets inscribed within whispered into the ears of demons. Will they learn of The Reign of Pan? Will they laugh at the vampiric betrothal rites of Chin Dynasty Cathay? May the night wind dry them like dead, November leaves. We do go out, but always in a group. Sarah and I meet Baylah and the three of us go to the Mutter Museum to get Bob. We stroll about the byways of Center City. No one notices. They have other outlandish specimens to gawk at. There is the levitating, toothless crone of Head House Square. The twelve fingered fandango dancer of South Street (quite the virtuoso on the castanets). And the greasy dwarf of Pig Alley, who ignites his powerful farts for five dollars a pop. I hear he is quite wealthy. Annie took another victim. The Pow Wow Woman knew. I did too. Sarah is still oblivious to such things. She picks up certain simple nuances, but there is still much work to do. Annie's victim was an important personage, a political leader in town for a certain award ceremony. He was to receive the Franklin Crystal, a large bowl (meant to recall Benjamin Franklin's famous musical armonica) given to those people who work to bring 'harmony' to humanity. Annie did not use the dogs this time. I told you. she has apparently developed a taste for the unusual, a taste for variety. She used her latest weapon. The victim was dreaming between the eighthundred count sheets of his sixtyfive hundred dollar a night suite, when a magical, minute 'conga line' made its way up from the tiny, shadowy depths. Thousands (or maybe it was millions?) of loathsome redish-brown  creepy-crawlies, the size of boiled rice grains, marched into a random assortment of his bodily orafices. Others satisfied themselves with a bite of his skin and deeper layers as well. By the time he awoke, he was blind,tongueless and deaf. Other important pieces of equipment were mangled to the point of unrecognizability. They had to scrape what was left of him off the sheets. Fortunately for the housekeeping staff, the down topper saved the mattress. I wonder who is sleeping there tonight. It was all kept quiet. Few individuals even know. But we know and Annie knows. That is the important thing. I think they wound up presenting the bowl to former President, James Carter. He seems like such a nice man. We've been catching glimpses of the elves and cherubs. Have I told you about them? I do not remember. Anyway, they are an especially enchanted breed of vampire, made from juvenile humans brought over just shy of puberty. Others are even more exotic than that. We will discuss their uniqueness some other time. Baylah is afraid the Enemy will trip us up with simple tactics. Nothing extravagant. Maybe just a good, old fashioned 'drive by'. She could bewitch her own strain of familiars into doing it for her. They could 'stitch us up real good'. It would have to be in a public area. What could we do, lay down on the sidewalk and pretend to be dead? The ordeal would be painful, but it would not kill us. Should we just continue walking? Don't make eye contact and just keep going? Either way, we would be 'outted'. Poeple would see. Society would notice. The government would swope down. We would wind up hidden away deep beneath the Pentagon, unexplainable specimens, exploited for military purposes. Quite like my maker, who lies deep within the Vatican Archives in Rome. No, no, no, no... that is a reality I would not like to experience. We're strolling by the coffee bar right now. The one where my wilkravitz familiar types this all up. He knows I'm close by. See? He's nervous. Look how he scratches at his ear. Oooh! He almost spilled his coffee. We had better hurry on our way before he ruins that new lap top.

The Book of Sarah

I am here. I am in your reality once again. Who am I? I do not know. We communicated before. I remembered the sun on the Ganges. That is all I can tell you. If any of the souls out there are capable of astral linkages, please tell me who I am. I am somewhat sure that I would like to know. But I do know certain things and I do see things. Some are trivial. Some are fundamental to the continuation of the firmament. The things I will relate to you now fall approximately twelve python lengths above the middle. I can feel that thing you call 'Annie'. I can feel that personage capering about in the skin of a little girl. I don't know if the little child possesses her own soul, or if she is merely a vessel, created to clothe the Enemy. Forgive this lowly individual, but I do not know. Let me now share those things I am sure of. The 'Annie' is still in the New World City of Fraternal Unity, the place known as Philadelphia. She has cut short the earthly sojourn of many souls. And she plans to curtail the lives of many more. Her victims are all innocent. You can search the akashic records from The Silver Eternity to The Golden Eternity and you will find no strike against any of them. But this one is not come into the world to right wrongs. She is there only to kill. I suspect her true purpose is to take out those souls who are laboring (or who might labor) for peace and harmony. She (it?) is very bad, more evil than The Seventh Benighted Monkey. And that is very, very bad indeed. I think that Tomas, or the consort Sarah is trying to come through. I think they are attempting to contact you. For that reason I will be brief. But there are things I know about particular people out there. Let me begin. A girl in a house near a beach has been neglecting certain responsibilities. She is in denial. But she is concerned. Face these chores, no matter how repulsive. Triumph over them. You will rise to a level of increased earthly happiness. One nearby is eager to help. There is a man in a city, a New World city who has misplaced something of great value. He has been searching for days. He has been searching in vain. Fear not, your frustrations will cease. The physical object in question lies hidden deep within the cushions of a large divan (what you commonly term a sofa). Look once more, right where you usually take your ease and you will find it. That is all. I am evaporating. The one known as Tomas condenses in my place....... Please forgive me for the delay. Someone else was on  the line, as they used to say. His identity is a mystery to me. My wilkravitz familiar (the one busy typing this out in some crowded coffee bar) must be greatly confused. Sarah is progressing. She is a very willing pupil. We are currently working on sublimation. Solid walls are still too much for her. But she is very able to pass through fabric barriers such as curtains, Japanese soji screens and the like. We are also trying to strengthen her latent telepathic abilities. As I have stated before, these have little to do with her present vampiric state. She has had them since birth. You all do, at least those of you who are human. But Jerusalem was not built in a day. We work, yet we are patient. She has not taken her first preordained victim . That pivotal event will most likely (God willing) occur in a week or two.  I think she's been having visions of an especially loathsome schoolmaster, or some similar type who holds dominion over children. All I can tell you is that come a fortnight from now some needlessly tormented little tykes will be deleriously happy. But we have been extant in the world. Her favorite thing is leaving fat wallets (naturally minus any identification) where beaten-down poor souls might find them. One sad individual, a hard-working mother with a little boy, visits a neighborhood doughnut shop every night to ask for any stale or otherwise unacceptable pastries she might have before they are unceremoniously thrown to the rats. Last night, we left a black, leather wallet down on the sidewalk where she would find it. Now she is the proud owner of a stack made up of fifty onehundred dollar bills. I can tell you her angelic son is not waiting for dried up bits of sugary dough tonight. And that is but one example. Baylah does things like that too. So does Bob. It is how we are. It is the nature of the beast. Look, of couse we know about Annie's exploits. How could we not? But it is difficult for us to neutralize her. The dogs are the problem. Human psyches are easy to influence and controll. Animals are different. When she does not use the dogs, she uses rats.  And I sense that of late she has been experimenting with a new weapon, a certain noxious, nocturnal insect particularly fond of human flesh.........Always the innovator that one. Now I must be off........... Goodnight, (and please, if at all possible) don't let the bedbugs bite.

The Book of Sarah

Our little alcove. Our little refuge. We retreated into the inky solitude all the time. The complete absence of light was comforting. And the vermin never troubled us. They tend to stay away from vampires. I don't know why. Perhaps it is because they like to take the blood from the living and the flesh from the dead. We are neither, so they leave us alone. Sarah too. I suppose my essence must have rubbed off on her. But the alcove was a place where we could be together. We could talk. We could touch. We could explore..... We made vows to each other. She was mine. She was my beloved. And I was hers. We recited the old, Hebrew marriage service. I knew it. I remembered it from all the weddings I'd attended as a boy. The sacred words rose up through the centuries and we were united. Before The Great Throne of Heaven, we were united. What? Do you doubt this? How can you?. If supernatural beings such as I can exist, who can deny the reality of angels, the reality of the prophets and the abiding presence of an everlasting God? We were married and we were one. The Pow Wow Woman knew. She smiled when she saw us. Baylah laughed. She laughed like a child. Not to mock us, but because she was glad. Even Bob was happy (real emotion seems a rarity for him). He almost remembered his true name.... Almost. The Old Woman's thoughts trod a different path. She was not happy. And she stopped eating. What did the mortals eat underground? Well, mushrooms. as I have told you. Snails. Doves. Snails are obvious. They crave shadows too. The doves would flutter down into the subway tunnels during cold weather. Over time, some of them were snatched up and carried deeper by cunning, little mole children. They were put into crude pens fashioned from old, dried, bench slats scavenged from never used platforms in never used tunnels. The birds were fattened on dried mushrooms, plus other occasional exotic tidbits. Their wing feathers were snapped in such a manner as to make flight impossible. Thus was a race of subterranean squab born. Life giving water trickled out of cracks and the loosened joints of old, rusted pipes. But the Old Woman would have none of it. She even refused the periodic gift of a drop or two of my blood. And she would wander into the lowest, maze-like warrens, into places never felt by human fingers, or by one-time human fingers. And then there came a night (at least we thought it was night) when we all felt it. We sensed the change. But only the Pow Wow Woman spoke. She said - The little one has stopped her killing. She is not killing anymore. Actually, I  knew it too. But I did not trust my God given talents. It wsas time to leave our grave-like state and go up into the open air once more. Would the evil girl kill again? We did not know. If she did, we would hopefully react in the proper manner. We would face it. This time, I would face it with Sarah. Look, I must be truthful with you. There was not any one act. There was not any one night when I made her as I am. But little by little, I took tiny draughts of her blood and replaced it with my own. And so, over time, she was changed. I cannot tell you when that happened. In truth, nor can she. But there was one night. I believe it was the First Night... the First Night of our Feast of the Rededication (Hanukah), when she took her last human meal and passed over into a more spiritual state. She never shed her skin. She was spared that horror, for she retained it, but in a radiant and perfect form. Why did this occur? I do not know. Perhaps she is different. Perhaps it was preordained. Only the Lord of the Universe knows for sure. We were residing in a tiny, clean, dry cell beneath an old Spanish Rite (Sephardic) meeting house (synagogue) on a fine, pre-Revolutionary red brick street in the Society Hill district.. The congregants up above never knew we were there. The chamber was forgotten long ago. But we could hear their hymns and prayers and it was a great comfort to us. It was a sign. As long as we culled only those seen in visions we would be all right. As long as we fed on the truly wicked and no one else, we would one day, ages hence, be welcomed into the Shining Presence of God. And we believed that with a 'most perfect faith' as the blessed biblical commentators were known to say. Now Bob managed to get his old job back at the Mutter Museum. And Baylah opened a jewel-box-like little piano bar. We all got together at the museum or the bar from time to time. The Pow Wow Woman made a comfortable living giving 'readings' at stylish ladies' luncheons and gatherings of that sort. The Old Woman? She simply disappeared. Odd, occasional deaths still occured. But the girl, Annie, was not seen and so she was not blamed. We spread our blood among the needy, along with timely sums of cash. We made the world a better place. And so life went on. Perhaps it was the beginning of The Age To Set Things Right? And then again, perhaps not.

The Book of Sarah

We ditched the limo after about three blocks. They would have been looking for it. There was a worn out  woman trudging home after a hard night changing diapers at a dingy nursing home. The Pow Wow Woman picks this stuff up. She is amazing. In my time they would have burned her twice. That is how good she is. Bob was the driver. He called to the bedraggled woman. He said - Excuse me madam, how would you like a free two thousand and ten Cadillac stretch limo? She said without missing a beat - Fully equipped? Bob said - Of course, only the finest. The title was properly signed and prepared for hasty transfers like this. Believe me. We've been here before. After assuring her she wouldn't have to do no 'hootchy stuff' and demonstrating that the trunk was completely free of 'dead folks with caps busted in 'em', we threw her the keys and ran off. The subway entrance was just around the corner. Lucky for us the morning rush hadn't really started yet . We scrambled down the steps and raced through the turnstile. Pow Wow shot a quick hoo-doo at the bitch in the cage, so we had no problem. Handy things, those hoo-doos. I must learn how she does it. We didn't make for the platform, but went straight toward a heavy, metal door in a corner. I had a key, an old key from when they first built this system more than one hundred years ago. Believe me, it still works. I use it a lot. The creaking portal scraped open. We quickly made our way down into the darkness of the subterranean world of the mole people (some call them the earthworms, but they prefer mole). After descending for two or three additional levels, each more crude than the last, we spied their encampment, the usual collection of small, gray, dirty tents and weak, orange sterno fires. None of the moles made a move. They just sat there, staring into the tiny, flickering light and chewing on their usual ration of mushrooms (fungi grow underground). All was qiet until we reached spitting distance. That is when their cheftain spoke. He said - To what do we owe this pleasure? All the while licking his lips in anticipation of a wee, small blood gift. I told him of events up above. He just shook his head and called to an underling - Bring the magic talking box! Someone duck-walked into a tent and came out with a battered television, which they expertly connected to a wire (among a nest of wires) providing us with a weak, flickering cable signal. The news! Get the news! Channel six! Action News! And so we saw  his favorite personality report the latest on a fast-breaking story. Thirteen dead. Dozens injured. Streets cordoned off. Traffic snarled. All due to an unforseen building collapse.......... We knew we were the intended targets and felt bad for the victims. Baylah said that after a few days, when things settled down, we should 'visit' the injured in hospital some night and give them each a drop or two of our secret, red tonic. I nodded. We would do that. The Pow Wow Woman said - But you know, I am kind of glad that Henry (short for Henrietta) and Oscar got it. (the supercilious, co-heads  of our condo board). Those jumped-up pathetic snobs always rubbed me the wrong way. Bob said - How many times could you have encountered  them? We were not there very long. But he forgot that she could see things. She could sense things. And I had to agree. I too was glad that Lord and Lady Douche-bag were no more. Though I did mumble a fast Kaddish prayer  for the dead. We stayed with our below-grade benefactors for what must have been six or seven days. Time loses all meaning without the moon and the stars. Each of us found a snug, little corner to call our own. Sarah and I found the same corner. After what seemed to have been maybe two days, we consumated our relationship deep within a sheltering cocoon of worn, frayed blankets. The mole people are quite civilized when it comes to questions of privacy and matters of the heart. My own brethren-of-the-night pretended not to notice. The Old Woman noticed. She picked up on it right away. God knows what she will do. I will have to deal with her later. The Pow Wow Woman just giggled and rolled her eyes. I gave Sarah a somewhat larger than usual blood gift. No, she was not a vampire. Not yet. While up above, Little Annie continued to kill those unlucky souls on her naughty list. She struck them off one by one. Santa Claus should be so reliable.

The Book of Sarah

It is one of those chill, misty nights. Who am I? I do not know who I am. Consider me a witness. I see things. I feel things. And I tell things. I do not understand the manner of our communication. Am I dead? I do not know. Did I once walk through creation in a quickened, human form? I do not know. But I seem to remember the pungent smells and throbbing rhythms  of ancient Hind. I seem to recall the burning light of a firey, orange orb reflected in the eternal waters of the River Ganges. And I seem to be privy to other things, current things, events unfolding as I speak. Let me share the things I know with you. A young girl, she is called Annie, progresses down a black, deserted alley. It is the last part of the darkness, when even the spirits rest. She sits upon a huge and monstrous hound. The beast lopes along with a silent strenght. Even the rats run away. They turn from the alley, entering a street of the wealthy, a refuge for princes. Lofty towers line this priviledged thoroughfare. They face a large, manicured greensward.  She stops approximately onehundred cubits from an especially high caste structure. The girl and her evil mount sit there for a few moments. Nothing happens. All is silent. The lesser life forms in the bushes of the greensward make low their life signs. The world waits.  The girl known as Annie grabs the scruff of the dog and pulls back. It raises its mighty head. They break the bonds of divine creation and ascend up into  the night. Upon reaching a height equal to The Great Ghats of Baroda, they begin to circle the building, drawing closer and closer with each revolution. She reaches out her hand and scratches the hard, stone facade. A low and vibrant hum passes through the ether. A crack appears on the towering edifice, spreading over the surface like a scar. The masonry begins to rumble. A lofty corner of the buiding crumbles. Walls fall away. Domiciles of the living are exposed and then destroyed. Soul-filled screaming, fleshly vessels tumble down into eternity. Witnesses gasp in horror. A long and narrow motor vehicle bringing tired laborers home careens wildly in a vain attempt to escape this deadly, urban avalanche.  Sirens pierce the vapors. Little Annie and her faithful dog, drift into a billowing cloud of dust and disappear. Strange beings, domesticated, reverent demons in human form (three in number) and their human attendants, speed down a vertical passage in a magical conveyance. They hurry out into a cellar. The enchanted assemblage piles into a shiny, black carriage with darkened window. It springs to life, transporting them away from the carnage and into the waning darkness.  May Shiva have mercy upon us all.

The Book of Sarah

So for approximately twentyeight days we all stayed inside. God bless Scrabble, Monopoly and The Game of Life. Bob missed out on another free weekend in Atlantic City. He had to make do with a bundle of scratch-off lottery tickets from the newsstand in  the lobby. The guy would run them up for him and come up later to pick up any winners. I think one was worth twohundred and fifty dollars. He gave it to the Pow Wow Woman. I felt bad, we all felt bad about  the righteous, needy souls who would have benefited from our little blood gifts. But what could we do? I did manage to keep up with my other distributions, my money distributions. I'd put a few hundred dollar bills (folded in heavy stationery) into plain envelopes and mail them to certain deserving parties throughout the city. Some of them got an envelope almost every day. What do you think they thought? Who do you suppose they thanked? How would they feel about it if they knew the money came from a real live vampire? Oh ye of little faith... I wonder. Bob's bad dreams are still with us. The phantom aroma of vintage dog piss comes and goes. Sarah and I are becoming much more physical with each other. Remember, vampires can have sex. After all, it is just a neurological, muscular reaction. And seeing as every part of our bodies are preserved in working order it is only natural. But the operative word is preserved. Think of divinely embalmed flesh, minus the sickening smell. We can do everything but produce new cells. True, we can heal if injured. I don't know how that comes about. Chalk it up to our magical existence. But we cannot produce reproductive cells. Ain't gonna be nobody's baby daddy, as our contemporary New World Cockneys like to say. That time in the pit when I was created was a one time deal. I still had viable baby-making cells in my body and it was a case of use it or lose it. It was a shameful experience. But... it led to Sarah. I am grateful for that. The Old Woman resents our relationship. In her mind she is still the starving young immigrant girl fresh off a reeking coffin ship and I am her miraculous savior. I saw the potential in this fevered daughter of County Mayo and I rescued her, always expecting that she would move on and create a life for herself. I would have helped. But she did not. She stayed with me, much to her detrement. Ah, the drama in the life of a vampire. Speaking of 'drama', Baylah introduced us to the Entourage reruns on latenight (midmorning to us) television. I like those young men. And yes, it is true what they say. The Vincent Chase character and I do look alike. Although I think mine is the better haircut. And I do possess a much more melodious speaking voice. Some say that is a vampire thing. I think it is a Spanish thing. Do you know that I can play the lute, the oud and the courtly, Iberian guitarra?  I can. I am really quite adept. Perhaps if we ever are so fortunate as to encounter each other I will play for you? The Pow Wow Woman is addicted to the endless variety of Center City, Philadelphia take-out. I have a familiar who brings it over. He is one of those I can contact telepathicly. She (the P.W. Woman) watches the Food Network and gets all juiced up. Then she passes her requests on to me and my man drops it all off downstairs. The doorman brings it  up, in return for a hefty tip. She, Sarah and even the Old Woman gorge themselves on Thai food, Macedonian food, Spanish empanadas (I remember those) gourmet cheese steaks and low fat, breakfast fritadas. Sears delivered a walking machine, I suppose they call it, along with other excercise equipement, so they could burn it all off. Bob likes to use the stuff too. This sends Baylah into fits. She yells and curses at him - What good is all this crap gonna do for you!? You're a vampire, for Christ sake! Your body will never change! Bob says that is not it at all. He likes it because it calms his nerves. The Pow Wow Woman smiles in her own fashion when she hears this. I can read her thoughts. She wants to know what the hell is he so nervous for anyway. She wants to know who he really is... The tedium of the last few weeks has caused us all to wonder the very same thing. Oh, one more thing. I have to tell you how good Sarah looks with those three or four extra new pounds of hers.... And those scampering footsteps on the roof? They've come back.