The Book of Sarah

It's me, Bob. They think I'm stupid, because I don't say much. But I am not stupid. It's better to keep quiet and listen. You learn more that way and you don't get into trouble. But I am afraid. I don't want to be destroyed. I'm the youngest of the crew and there's a lot I want to experience and see. I think I'm beginning to remember things. I can see lots of grass and fields. There are mountains or high hills that are almost mountains in the distance. So I guess I was born in the country or at least in a little town out in the country. There might have been a farm. I don't know if it was my parents' place or my grandparents' place. Sometimes we went to a Dairy Queen for ice cream and hot dogs. Boy, did I love human food. And now I love humans for food. But I'm not some kind of ghoul or cannibal. I do like Tomas and the others. Everyone I ever had came to me in a vision. I can't remember how I got this way. I don't know who did it, or if I was a volunteer or a draftee. When did it happen? Not sure, but some of the cars I visualize are mid sixties models. One was a dark burgundy, Pontiac G.T.O., a convertible with tan leather seats. A classic. You know the model.  So if I was translated in the mid sixties and if I was about forty two years old at the time, that means I was born some time around nineteen twenty three. That would make me about eighty five in human years and lets see...   approximately five hundred and ninety five years old in dog years. I wonder how old Annie's dogs are? Did she round them up here in town, or do some of them come from somewhere else? And what are they, some kind of vampire animal or monster animal or zombie or what? I'm really scared. I don't want to end before I remember my name. I used to think I was born in Europe. I don't know. I guess it was because of all the uhmp-pah music. Oh...  Oh... No, I see it. I see it. It wasn't Europe. It was in Pennsylvania, somewhere in central Pennsylvania. I see the road sign. I see it. It says State College (where Penn state is... beautiful town... beautiful campus) twenty six miles.  But that's it. I can't see any more. I'm cold. Sure, I know that the cold can't do me any harm. It's just a sensation  But it hurts. It cuts. It makes me feel dead. And I can't even shiver to warm up a little. We don't shiver. We don't have to. The mole people offered me one of their prisoners. I told them it was OK and that I could wait. I guess that made the guy they were gonna feed me happy too. Yeah, he is a bad piece of shit. But even bad pieces of shit probably don't want to die. Especially the very worst pieces.  His name is Howard. I know. I asked him. We shook hands. He said - Pleased to meet you. But that was probably just some kind of social reflex. I don't think he really meant it. It's a shame. I mean the guy looked so scared. He crawled back to his blanket and put his head back through that collar so fast. It probably felt like home-sweet-home to him. Imagine, living a life like that. I gotta do something to take my mind off things. Excuse me, but I think I'm gonna go over and join some mole kids in a game of Yahtzee. Wish me luck.

The Book of Sarah

I was unable to communicate with you last night. I just needed quiet. I did not go out. That is very rare. My eyes were open. I knew it was night. I could smell the darkness. But I never ventured out. Sarah stayed with me. Maybe it was selfish of me, but she still needs my help to sublimate and I just did not feel up to it. We can't open the door to this chamber. It is painted over on the other side, so we usually sublimate (well, I do. she holds on for dear life) through the cellar wall into an unknown underground tunnel (a common thing in the older districts of this city) and from there make our way up to our starlit stage. So we stayed there, laying in the shadows of our two hundred and sixty year old hiding place. We talked. Well, I talked. I  needed to escape. The destruction of that young man two nights ago was too much for me. He was exactly the type of soul we try to preserve. It was not right. He did not deserve it. The world is poorer in his absence. Bob is incoherent with fear. He is burrowed in with the mole people. From what we can sense, he lays curled in a fetal position against an oozing, concrete wall. But who is he kidding? The darkness of the depths cannot hide him. The beast riding Annie can hear almost everything. Unless we do something, it is just a matter of time. We have to kill the host. We have to kill the little girl. But none of us has so much as seen her in a vision, not that kind of vision. And it would be the first time any of us had ever done such a thing. How would we be punished for it? I do not want to think about that. This night will be spent in comforting recollections. I will conjure up fleeting glimpses of other times and other places. My memories are true, vivid and detailed, like dead bees trapped in amber. I am deep below the surface of the Mediterranean Sea. I walk among the wreckage of a bronze-age galley. The water presses in with a viscous, silent weight. Everything is lost in  blackness. But not to me. My storybook eyes find strange illumination in the darkness. Vampires can do that. We see heat and we see life. Every surface under the sea is buttered with life. It soaps each shell (both living and dead) and kisses every grain of sand. Bones play hide and seek among the shattered planking. Ghosts progress along the ruined deck. I see them, but they do not notice me. I discover a brooch, such as a nobleman might use to fasten a cloak, or a lady to decorate her hair. I pick it up. The ghosts do not mind. Maybe they have spirit treasures too? Then I walk back toward the shore, gradually ascending up from the depths. My head silently rises above the tiny ripples. I expel the briny fluid from my lungs and start to breathe the cool, night air. Do I truly need it? I think not, but the rhythm of it comforts me. An old woman digs for clams in the moonlight. I approach. She looks up, frightened by my unusual make up and condition. Water drips from my garments. Sea weed crowns my hair. I am a drowned corpse resurrected. She straightens up and stares silently. I smile. I place the cold and precious brooch into her hand. The gemstones twinkle in the starlight.. She slowly examines this rare gift and slips it into her pocket. I walk past. She bends over and resumes foraging. I hear her whisper - thank you. Then I sublimate through the fabric of the air and disappear.

The Book of Sarah

Annie killed one of the workers at the appliance store where Bob hides. I know she did it just to get to Bob. The young man she destroyed was totally innocent. He was twenty one years old for God's Sake. A part-time college student, a volunteer driver for 'meals on wheels'. An all around good kid. And she did not use the dogs or the rats or anything like that this time. She snuck up behind him as he was walking home from work. The neighborhood where Center City blends into South Philadelphia is stitched together with lots of incredibly narrow streets, old cobbled lanes, like what the British call 'mews'. And it's dark too. Very dark. She spoke. She said - Excuse me, mister, can you help me find Bainbridge Street? When he turned to answer, and according to the akoshic records he was about to ask her why a nice, little girl like her was out all alone, she opened her mouth. She opened it extremely wide, wider than a natural human ever could. And a greenish fog issued forth from deep within her. It blanketed the young man and he froze. She reached into a coat pocket and took out a small empty plastic soda bottle filled with gasoline. Now the twenty one year old's mouth was open. He was preparing to speak after all. She stood on tip-toe, lifted the bottle to his lips and poured it in. He had a shocked, surprized look in his eyes. And when she whispered 'swallow', he swallowed. He began to tremble. His brow began to sweat. She reached into another pocket and retrieved one of those little spark wands, the kind daddies use to light gas grills. She reached up on tip-toe once again, slipped it into his mouth and back toward his throat. She looked him in the eyes and pulled the trigger, instantly incinerating him from the inside out. He never had time to so much as say a prayer. And the residents on that street? They see nothing. They say nothing. Just another suspicious bombing. Possibly tied to organized crime. If you lived there and if you heard it, what would you do? Annie just brushed some greasy ashes off her coat and walked away. But according to the akoshic records (a repository of all that was, is, or will be in the universe) she cried. I am the nameless voice. And I know things. The Pow Wow Woman knows. Tomas knows. Sarah knows. Bob knows. And Baylah knows...... Speaking of Baylah, things have been going fairly well for her. She still styles herself a transvestite. It simplifies things. True, she is 'just' a tall, statuesque, West African beauty. But in the piano bar industry a sharp, swank drag queen draws more custom than a two hundred and fifty plus year old, Shang-Hai-ed, Ashanti (I think Ashanti) princess ever would. I suppose the drunks 'round the piano know what to make of a cross dresser. But an actual vampire might tend to disorient them a bit. What can I tell you? Humans can be so self-limiting. And our band of Nobel vampires trembles in their tombs. What are they, but the white blood cells vanguishing disease in the afflicted body that is humanity?

The Book of Sarah

Sarah had a bad night. I was close by, but she did maintain a bit of independence. It happened when she was giving a boost to a poor girl nursing a low fat latte at a coffee bar. You can picture it. The place is crowded. They share a table. They talk. Sarah naturally knew how hard the girl's life was. She's been following her for a while. So she distracts her. I don't know. Maybe she didn't have to distract her. Maybe the girl just got up to go pee or something. That's when she took her chance and dribbled the blood into the 'skinny' latte. The girl comes back, downs the now fortified drink and the rest will eventually be history. No, really, it will. The Pow Wow Woman says she's destined to be the fourth or fifth female president of The United States of America. Only she says by then it'll be The United States and Provinces of North America. Canada will still be Canada. Mexico will still be Mexico. But we'll all be tied together in a kind of European Union fashion. Cuba will be part of it too, so will a little slice of the moon. At least I will be able to speak Spanish on a regular basis again..... Listen to my voice. Listen to the way I sound. At times I am aware of it and at other times I am not. I lose myself in this weirdly exotic culture. I forget my origin. Yes, I speak their 'English'. But I attempt to retain the poetic cadences of Old Granada. The courtly, early Spanish. The artistically flowing Arabic. The fundamentally spiritual Hebrew. I try to distract myself from the difficulty at hand. It must have been hard for her. When Sarah left the coffee bar she encountered a much beloved cousin. Now this comely young woman had always resided in Baltimore. They had not seen each other for years. But there was a time when they were children. There was a time when things were different. Their mothers were sisters, close sisters. And they would all spend summers together in a modest, little tourist colony in the Poconos, trading secrets, exploring the nooks and crannies of the surrounding, lake-front town, floating in the pine scented water. You can imagine. But that was then. Now the cousin recognized her. She looked. She stopped. She did not utter a word. But she knew, or she was almost completely certain that she did. Sarah almost broke down. She almost spoke. Now I have heard that certain vampires can do that. They manage to preserve their human relationships. But I don't know. I had cousins too. Sometimes after almost one thousand years, I still feel only eighteen years old.....Bob is sure that Annie is focusing  on him, like a shark spiraling inward. He never goes out. Not even in a group. Not even with us. Atlantic City? Forget Atlantic City. The only time he was there was when we dropped off the 'familiars.' Bob was a good sport about that. He had four or five nights worth of comps, so he let them use it. After that, I paid. They should be safe down there. Safe and quite comfortable too. I managed to get them reservations at Chef Vola and everything, But Bob, I don't know. He has visions. He has visions of a victim, an exceedingly distasteful person. It is a man, a man who made millions in the African 'blood diamond' trade. He was truly looking forward to the act. To the feeding. To the culling. All of it. But now? I just pray he changes his mind. No one skips their monthly call. It is tied to the phases of the moon. It is a fundamental element of creation. God made things that way. It is natural. It is basic. It is us. I have never known a vampire to put down this burden. I have never known a vampire to put it down and still go on. And Sarah? What did she do? She stared straight ahead and silently walked on.

The Book of Sarah

Good evening. It is I. It is Albion. I am still here. There are further truths to tell you. Look at that wilkravitz person type away. I can see him through the window. I wonder if he knows the words are coming from me? I wonder if he even knows that he is inscribing words? Maybe he's just like a link in a circuit? Who knows. I have seen him doing this before. Tomas was directing him then. He does this all in real time. It takes as long for him to write it as it takes for you to read it. It just spills out. Stream of consciousness, as they say. Now, what else did I want to tell you? Oh, yes. This is how I got here. To Philadelphia, I mean. There were four of us, me, Celeste, Roland and Marianne. There were two cherubs in the cask as well. But they did not have names. The spoken work is not relevent to them. Their communication was (and is) primarily mind to mind. Well you know, that is due to their nativity. Strictly speaking, they were vampires since birth. Imagine, never human. Oh, I know some of the cherubs were brought over as toddlers, the victims of crazy vampires like the rest of us. But even they have few human memories. When it comes to the cherubs, their souls are different. If you ask me, they are the truest vampires of all. Now, back to how we got here. I often wonder why our casket did not remain wedged in some deep, dark crevace .It happened to others. Granted, a tempest could have tossed us up onto some beach. Yet how did we get near that beach? Why are we not still locked in tortuous contortions off some stormy, Normandy headland? Others suffer such a fate. How do they endure it? I will tell you. They retreat into their dreams. They renounce their physical body and its many sensations. They become minds, just minds. But we did not have to face that. Why? Just remember there are other intelligences abroad in the sea. Kindly consider Their Serene Highnesses, The Whales, of both the baleen and toothed nationalities. Their consciousness met our consciousness. And they took pity upon us, pushing our tiny leaden prison along until we finally reached this welcoming shore. In other instances, it is said that some caskets would literally disolve after a few years in the briny deep, releasing their occupants out into the ocean like so many wildly paddling sea monkeys. Instinct kept them to the depths, rising up to meet the moonlight when at last they reached the New World shallows. They'd quickly scurry into coastal forests, like newborn sea turtles clamoring toward the surf. That is it. That is how we came to be here. Now, there are more than six of us in this metropolity. I do not know the exact number. It is bad luck to count. We make our living a lot like the Nobels do. When our not-killed nocturnal guests stumble back to their nearest and dearest after their dreamlike night with the fairie folk, they do so minus their gold and jewelry. Don't think of us like that. Please, have a care, for we are only orphans. Another thing, we can fly. Why are we so blessed? I do not know. Perhaps the magic effects each type of human differently. Many are the late-night mortal wanderers who have witnessed our airborne burlesques. But who could they tell? What could they say - Oh look! There's a naked, little baby zipping around the Dunkin Donut sign!? Can you imagine the reaction?  They'd lock them away with the alien abductees. And we all know that aliens are real too. Tomas wants to reclaim that wilkravitz' psyche. I must depart. It seems he has a lot to tell you.

The Book of Sarah

I wanted to speak with you sooner. But I am a well behaved young man, so I stayed back and patiently waited my turn. I am Albion, the leader of the elves and cherubs. The Lord of the Flies, so to speak. Tomas may have mentioned us to you. He knows much. Still, he is not one of us. So his reality is much different than ours.We are those who were brought over too early, at least by grown-up standards. We are those who have not yet gained their full maturity. And now we never will. Our human years range from about thirteen down to near-term fetuses. Most of us are the 'blood' children of insane vampires, or the offspring of women brought over during the last stages of a pregnancy. Those of us who appear to be children are called elves. The little tykes are the cherubs. Some of them actually gnawed their way out of  novice vampire mothers before flying off to take their places in the night. That's another thing. We can fly. Why can we fly? I don't know. Maybe the magic effects each age differently. Old crones become banshees. Old goats morph into ogres. That is how it is. To each his own. I know. You want to know how the cherubs (and some of the aged) take blood if they do not have any teeth? They do it with their tongues. In their case that agile muscle ends in a tough, horny point. Sort of like the mandible of a bug. They jab or scrap this tool against the skin of their victim and drink away. Now in our case (elves and cherubs) we're more like those bull fights they have in Portugal, where el torro is allowed to live. That's because we rarely drain our mortals to death. Most of us could not tolerate that much blood anyway. Our victims wander off and babble about nights spent with the fairies. We are Puck and Oberon and Titania.Oh, we have the same ability to preserve the lives of the worthy as other vampires. And we often do that. But the benighted, hate-ridden masses of Europe (actually, most of the Old World) refused to accept us. And as 'religion' grew in their hearts, they tortured and destroyed us to an even greater degree. In some places the peasantry would lure us into caverns with sweet music and fanciful lights. But once inside, they'd throw metallic nets over us and crush us into huge, lead chests (like monstrous caskets) which they'd drag to a cliff or some other rampart and throw into the sea. I can promise you that there are countless, conscious elves and cherubs languishing in corroded, moldering abysmal tombs right now as we speak. Most nights we say prayers for them. Why are we here? We are among the lucky ones. Our prisons washed up on foreign shores, usually in a tempest. Curious natives heard crying inside and broke us out. Well... can you imagine their surprise? .  But we were usually good to them, curing sickness and bewitchments with little blood kisses and all. Still we have to be careful. Naturally, we must avoid the vampires of the Noxious sort at all costs. They're just a bunch of mindless beasts who can't really control their actions. Nobels usually leave us to our own devices. Sometimes they come and visit. They like to watch our dances. They like to watch us fly about. Sometimes we  assist each other in times of need. We are aware that the Philadelphia Nobels are having problems. We know they are being targeted by something bad. Well, not just the vampires. Others in this city are suffering too. Perhaps it is time for us to help? Oh, and about our elfin ears, about those pointed ears. That happens because certain cells in a human body survive for a time after 'death' and continue to grow. Our ears grow and so do our fingers and toes, providing us with nimble elfin hands and vulpine elfin faces. To be truthful, I  love the way I look. Watch for us. We are particularly evident in cities during the Christmas time. Be alert. Look closely. Some of Santa's helpers are quite real.

The Book of Sarah

This time it is Sarah. As you know, I culled my first victim last night. The experience changed me. I felt a cleansing energy pass through me. When the victim ceased to exist, defects in this universe seemed to lessen. And I do not know if it is the blood that nourishes me or something much more fundamental than that. I suspect it is the assurance that I am a tool in God's Hands used for the perfection of creation. I feel like a saint. This is what the rapture must be like. I do not know. Maybe this actually is the rapture. And tonight I will walk among the mortals dispensing life saving trickles of my heaven blessed blood. Will I help the sick, locked away in mercenary hospitals? Should I visit the poor? Perhaps give assistance to homesick, struggling college students? The sad souls filling the jails? Helpless children in brutal surroundings? In time I will come to them all. I am told that most beings such as I make a kill their first night. I did not. I did not require it. What is it that sets me apart? Tomas does not know and the others do not care. But I wonder. Once, at a carnival, the fortune teller told me I was destined to bring about great change in the world. I was still a mortal back then. Did she foresee my transformation? Did she see me as I am now?  During the light-time, while I was 'sleeping' (Tomas says we actually wander the streets of heaven) I heard the voices of children. They called to me from a distance. They whispered my name. They loved me. I'm sure they loved me. Tomas was not surprised when I told him. He said that he was right there with me. Baylah just looked down at her hands and said nothing. She wants a soul to share things with. True, she does have the Pow Wow Woman. But she does not want to join our ranks. She is just here to listen and share the things she knows. Bob does not know what to make of any of it. He appears to be the least spiritual miraculous person imaginable. Bob has problems. Perhaps I can help him solve them? Please excuse me. But I must renounce the ether to another. I must choose my garments for this evening. I do so want to look my best when I make my rounds. After all, a 'visitation' is a life altering experience........ Is she gone? Can I speak now? Did you ever see such a case of 'Jerusalem Fever' in your life? Converts get that way. She has the furvor of the newly saved. Perhaps she is sincere. But everlasting (or practically everlasting) life has taught me that angels lose their enthusiasm after an eon or two. They start picking at their wings. They start shedding feathers. Lose too many feathers and you fall. Well,maybe she will be different. Tomas seems to be. Oh, come on. You know who I am. It is me, the unnamed voice. Let me see. What did I want to tell you? Oh yes! The Old Woman has resurfaced. She was in a women's shelter, a bleak place, straight out of Dickens. The others thought she was crazy. She told them. She told them everything, about how she had tiny gifts of vampire blood in her, about how she was more than onehundred and forty years old. They laughed at her. One brazen bitch even spit in her face. They stole things from her, mostly baubles and valuables she took from the penthouse. The matrons knew what was going on. As long as they got their cut, what did they care? One night she just wandered out onto the street and disappeared. But she did not disappear. None of you can. We always know where you are. Want to know what happened to her? I will tell you. She came face to face with Annie. That Annie thing backed her into an alley. She was about to sic the dogs on her. No, she didn't have the dogs that night. Excuse me.That night she was using the rats. She was about to loose the rats on her. But the Old Woman just looks at her, cool as punch, and says - Aw, you don't wanna kill me. They locked eyes. The Old Woman giggles quietly and says - You know me... And I know you. Not this little thing. Not this little meat puppet. I know YOU. Come on (she bats her eyes like a silent film vixen) give a girl a chance. She approaches Annie, gets down on her knees among the scrambling mass of rats and caresses her. She whispers in her ear. I do not know what was said. I do not know the words. But if I had some lungs. And if I had a mouth. And if I had some lips, I could sure as hell whistle the tune for you.