The Book of Sarah

Sorry, we cannot communicate with you this night. One of our number was destroyed. Still in the Pines. wilkravitz is with the elves and cherubs in their place in the park. Please...Please... We have to stop

The Book of Sarah

Hello? Hello? Can you see me? Can you hear me? It's Edith. I'm the one they call the Pow Wow Woman. Shit, you'd think after two months of living together and being in each others business they'd refer to me by my name a little more often. I know they do sometimes, but between you and me, I'm Edith. Call me Edith. Enough with that Pow Wow crap. It's stupid. It don't make no sense. It's like if I was talking about the Pope and I said - The Big Chief Catholic Boss instead. OK? Are we good? You got it? But, hey, who the hell is typing this? I ain't got no God damned computer. I ain't even got a good toaster-over, so it sure as hell can't be me. But yet I am positive somebody is tapping it all out. It's like some disembodied spirit is letting its fingers (if it has fingers) dance over a giant, universal keyboard and tattooing this story right onto the actual skin of your brains. But we're all here now. We're all deep, deep into the Pines. Regular folks would hardly think there'd be places like this stuck down between all that Philadelphia and New York nonsense. But we been here as long as they have. And some of them as lives in the Pines have been planted out here a lot longer. I'm teaching the 'blood folks,' the vampires all about them. I'm learnin' them about The Red Paint People. That's what all them scientific egg heads call 'em. Listen how I talk when I get back home, as if I ain't knowed the difference. Well, I know the difference. But this way's more comfortable on my mouth. And if you want to know the truth, for my brain too. Who are The Red Paint People? Just people. Just old people. Not them. I am speaking about their culture. How old is it? Real old. From back before all them 'henges.' You know, Stonehenge, artificial brick henge, asbestos siding henge... all of 'em. It's older than the Barrow Builders. For folks who ain't got no old culture smarts, them was folks who piled up humongous hills of dirt, like mud pies for the biggest Godzillas you ever saw. And they burried all their boss-men in 'em. Some say they are the great grandfathers of the henge builders. But The Red Paint folks are older than that.. Some say they go back more than seven thousand years, because they've been dancin' around over here for at least that long. And they did not trek over from Siberia, you know, near Sarah Palin's house? They cruised over from Europe, but this was way before Rick Steves discovered it and it got all fancified. A group of science guys found a few specks of dried up ocher colored paint on some of the trash in their old garbage dumps. That's how they got the name. Funny thing is they don't hardly care what a bunch of fast talkin' folks with too much school stickin' to 'em calls 'em. You wanna know what they look like? What do you think!? Like God damned teletubbies, you ass holes! No they don't. I'm sorry. I realize you do not know too much about our ways and we are not Red Paint folks. We just happen to live right by 'em. One of 'em I'm a little bit friendly with seems  to favor Captain Jean-Luc Picard, you know, of the starship Enterprize? And his lady friend sorta looks like a skinnier Peek-a-boo Street, that  world famous Olympic skier woman? Just gimme a little time. You'll meet 'em.

The Boob of Sarah

Where is everybody? I'm talking now. It's me, wilkravitz. I've been sitting in this Starbucks for two hours waiting for him, Tomas, to take over, but nothing. I feel empty. I feel none of them.  But I'm afraid to go outside. There's a little girl pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. I think it's Annie. She seems nervous. It's funny how nobody pays her any mind. She's about six years old for Christ's sake. Doesn't anyone think it's strange for a tiny, little thing to be parading around this late? But I know different. I know how strong she is, or rather how strong her controller is. I can't afford to lose any toes. I'm not that good a dancer as it is. I don't want to wind up like that nurse. And to be truthful, the idea of being torn to shreds  by frenzied, hell hounds doesn't do much for me either. Maybe she's clouding the perception of people on the street. Maybe that's why no one sees her. But she sees me. Oh God, oh God, please help me. Please get me out of this....... STOP, STOP, STOP, I can't let him suffer like this. It is I, the disembodied spirit. Let that wilkravitz fellow take his fingers off the keyboard. Let him see the allies I have sent him. Look, he does...he does see them. The other humans chattering away over their hot water and bean bullion see nothing. Good, that is how I want it. A little toddler crawls out from behind the counter. I must say that adorable, warm, layered outfit suits him. Sarah has good taste. The chubby, little fellow gurgles with delight. He chugs over to wilkravitz,, who stares tranfixed. Then the smiling, rosy checked cherub (for that is what he is) levitates up from the floor. He stops when he reaches eye level. He stretches out his sweet, little baby hand and caresses wilkravitz' cheek. Our 'typist' gets up and follows the tiny 'angel' as he floats toward a rear exit. They leave the aromatic coffee den and proceed along a narrow alley meant for deliveries, as well as the nocturnal wanderings of selfsufficent cats. Pay attention. Can you see them? There, in the shadows. It's Albion, the 'elf prince,' and his equally comely tootsie, what's her name. The miraculous children surround wilkravitz. Each elf takes an arm, as they rise up into the darkness and spirit him to safety. No one notices. It must be wonderful to be an enchanted, pre-pubescent vampire. It must be wonderful to possess a physical body. I envy them the sensations. Some day I will explore that reality. Annie sees them ascend into the void. She (or her master) is angry. She screams, clenches her fists and stamps her feet.... a real six year old's tantrum. She lashes out, tearing an expensive, stylish weave or extension or whatever the fashionistas call it out by the tight, artificial roots. Her innocent,  twenty-something victim screams.. She hauls back and bitch slaps Annie right across her face.  But you have to know better than to mess with a devil child, because Annie instantly grabs her by the wrist and bites off a couple fingers, rings and all. Serves her right. Look at her bawling and crying. What's she complaing for? She's got eight others. Besides that God damned wig thing didn't do much for her anyway. Look, I'm going over to Jersey. I gotta see what that 'throwing of the bones' thing is...

The Book of Sarah

Everything has been arranged. We will go into the pines. Familiars will take care of our house, our assets and anything else here. Baylah is still a bit skeptical. But she is willing to cooperate. The Pow Wow Woman went on ahead. She's driving an SUV loaded with our things. It's amazing how much pointless junk supposedly miraculous creatures like us 'need' to survive. Tomas tells tales about rustic, Nobel hermits who hid in a different shadow every morning and clothed themselves in rags, veritable John the Baptists of the vampire world, or Elijahs. He claims that some of the 'crazies' ranting away on nighttime urban corners in cities throughout the globe are souls such as these.... Itinerent travelers out to save the world. I asked him, if this is so, why those God intoxicated souls never managed to cull many of the truly wicked characters, dictators and satanic killers plaguing humanity. He reminded me, for we speak of this often, that the most evil among us explore the occult and recognize the element of magic in our world.  True they tend to follow it down poisoned tributaries. But they learn useful secrets none the less. Most of the high ranking members of Germany's government during the nineteen thirties and early forties were quite adept in the black arts. Lord Voldemort??? Do not make me laugh. There were hundreds of thousands like him back then. In many nations. In many groups. That is why the world needs us. We do our best to cull those within our reach. What about Bob? He refuses to go with us. It's like a fate thing with him. He wants to stay here and wander the starlit streets  alone. If misfortune finds him, it must have been ordained. That's what he says. That's how he feels. Like a fatalist monk administering to the countless sufferers left dying on cold cathedral floors during the worst of The Plaugue. Well, the rest of us do not agree. If remedies are offered we will take them. For it is also said that God helps those who help themselves. Oh, and that nurse who woke only to find that she'd apparently misplaced all of her toes?  She died. Sepsis set in and the high priced posturing shamans working above her could do nothing.... Nothing but accept their extortionist fees. Some were sincere. Some tried. But not enough. Now Baylah remembers much about the arcane sciences from her time spent in Old World African courts back before her transformation. And the crazy, French bitch that brought her over knew a lot too. But she still doesn't have much faith. The throwing of the bones? What could it achieve? If truly as powerful as Edith claims, why are so many Piney's (by no means all, but many) still crowding 'round poverty's edge? Inquiring minds would like to know. Perhaps soon we will. The three of us, Tomas, Baylah and myself intend to travel via sublimation. It can be done. As you know, we have been practicing. And we can zip through woodlands in the park very easily. Look out for us if you happen to be traveling along some of the lesser routes through the South Jersey  and Central Jersey forests. Attend to that fleeting bit of night mist passing stage right. It may just be 'friends' winding through the night.

The Book of Sarah

Morticia saw Annie. She was sleeping on one of those cushy reclining chairs they have in some of the better pedicure salons. You know the type. They look like those over-sized gray leather seats the airlines have in first class. No one paid her any attention. The Vietnamese girls staffing the place went about their business as if she wasn't there. But she looked OK (according to Morticia). Her hair was combed. Her clothes were neat. A warm looking little girl's coat hung from a nearby hook with all the necessary coordinated accessories. She called me and told me about it. I was 'sleeping.' Tomas and I had a new flower petal lined subbasement pit installed in our new townhouse. It's exactly like the first one and extremely comfortable. HGTV should do a special --- the top ten vampire cryps in North America. Ours would be one of them. But I told Morticia to be careful. Don't interfere. Just observe things. There was no sign of the Shaky Hand Man. I know he's basically a spirit. But he has materialized before. I don't know. Maybe he hasn't. It could be that we (and the Pow Wow Woman) are just able to sense him. There was another strange occurence last night. Not a killing. But troubling never the less. A young nurse specializing in obstetrics and abortions woke up from her nap in the break room  at U of P 
Hospital only to discover that someone had removed her shoes and stockings. But that wasn't all. They had also bitten off her toes. The complete set, all ten, gone. And before she could scream, she saw a little girl  standing at the foot of the cot with blood smeared all over her mouth. By the time help arrived (you know how hard it is to grab one of those dedicated, altruistic doctors) the little girl had disappeared. It was on the news. The hospital refused to answer any questions. Some journalists thought it was a hoax. But we knew better, because Nursie No-Toes gave a description of her macabre visitor. She described Annie. Why did it happen? Who knows? But the Annie that Morticia saw was all clean. No blood around her mouth. No toe gristle between her teeth. And she was laying there sleeping just like a little angel. Did the Enemy make her do it? Was it her own idea? Was is a cry for help? The Shaky Hand Man can't possibly want that kind of attention. He does like to achieve his goals, but in a discreet and dignified manner. Anyway, Morticia and her two assistant Morticias are keeping an eye on things. We've all been practicing our sublimation in preparation for our retreat into the pines. Everyone is curious. We all want to know what takes place at a throwing of the bones. But Edith, the Pow Wow Woman, won't say. She just grins and grins and laughs. Baylah says being a vampire makes no difference at all. Those back-woods white folks scare the beJesus out of her. And considering her life style, she ain't exactly sure how much beJesus she can affort to lose. Tomas is concerned too. He's starting to feel guilty about the heathenness  of it all. He chants the Hebrew Tenents of the Creed, The Articles of Belief,  over and over and over. Every line begins - I believe with a most perfect faith.... And Bob just sits there rocking back and forth with his hands pressed over his ears. I'm telling you, if gushy young girls knew how vampires really lived they'd foget about all that 'romance' nonsense and go back to being fashion designers, nuns and princesses like The Good Lord intended.

The Book of Sarah

Sarah reminded me that Annie was not born in Philadelphia. She was born in California. That's where the Shaky Hand Man incarnated. So why was it so important for him to come here? Were there not enough appetizing targets out there? I find that hard to believe. I am aware of what goes on. I see TMZ. I watch Entourage. What is it about our city that brought him here? The Pow Wow Woman says he's probably here to prevent a birth. He needs to get to us, among his other targets, because we're doing something to bring that birth about. So I am thinking... who are we helping? Who has been receiving the little blood kisses? Who drinks the 'elixir' filled vials? We each have our favorites. Am I assisting the woman who is to bear this child? The father who will provide for it? Some other interested party? And is it one of my clients? Maybe it is someone connected to Baylah, or Sarah, or Bob? It is a mystery. We must think. We must talk. What is it that the enemy desires? He hates progress. He hates progress of all kinds. He has targeted activists in the past, usually those who would be termed liberal or progressive and even those conservatives who believe in an equitable leveling of the playing field. I will think of it. I will find it. What would change if we were not here? Would he still devour (not him actually, but the dogs, or occasionally the rats) the random strumpet. I don't know. I do not think his heart is really in that. No, we are the meat upon his platter. The others are merely the potatoes or perhaps  those insipid little garnishes they drop onto the rims of over-sized plates in jumped-up, sit-down, fast-food restaurants. I know they killed a lot of vampires during the renaissance. The enemy tried everything back then to stop the reawakening. Nobel vampires were included in all the best after dark autos da fe. The flames showed up so much better then. And the anguished shrieks  seemed  to echo better in the still, night air. Imagine a twelve year old girl condemned to the stake. Me? Well, I do not have to imagine it. I witnessed it. And when I went after the greasy, hate-ridden, superstitious minded simpletons who implicated her I did so with relish. It was one of the few times I culled those not sent to me in visions. And I liked it. I enjoyed it. Their screams were as music. Their tortured cries a lark-song. Little cuts. Tiny bites. Trickles of acid. Nibbling rats. Hungry lepers. Rabid cats. The 'dance' went on throughout the night. And by the morn the wrong was right. And best of all, I did not have to do the clean up. My familiars took care of that.... I am not proud of such transgresions. But what is it they say? Everyone falls off the waggon now and then. Anyone can suffer a crisis of faith. ..... The Pow Wow Woman wants us all to quit the city for a time and retreat with her back to the deepest part of the dense, pine forests. She wants us to take part in a 'throwing of the bones,' a most potent Piney tool that reveals the future in all its countless, onion skin layers. I don't know. I think that we should go. A crisis of faith is one thing. But this is major unrepentent paganism...... Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

The Book of Sarah

This is our plan. We all agree. We must kill Annie. No one likes it. But it has to be done. At least it will give us some breathing time. And who can say that our enemy will reappear in a human vessel in Philadelphia? He may reincarnate through some poor soul in Jakarta, or Lisbon or on some other world altogether. I'm sure the prey we provide here is not unique. We are not so special. There must be bigger fish to fry. Yet we are charged with frying a little fish, a six year old girl with stringy hair and painfully skinny legs. I have never killed or taken part in the killing of a child. And believe me, the brutal conditions in medieval, supposedly 'God fearing' Europe produced countless numbers of murderous, feral ragamuffins. But I never harmed them. They could not help it. Such was their culture. Father forgive them. They know not what they do. There are many occasions for that prayer, especially in our own time. So who will do the deed? I think it will be Bob. It is strange. I now know that his true name is Lyle, but I cannot call him that, any more than the others can call me Jonathan. I guess we are just creatures of habit and so I am Tomas. Sarah has purchased the most cunning of gifts for the cherubs (and for the elves too). They zip through the air decked out like carriage trade yuppie babies with superpowers. But according to those yuppie braggarts, all their babies have superpowers. Yet I am partial to our own. Yes, our own. We have come to view them as our children. They are orphans with none to protect them. We are men and woman with none to protect. The connection is completely understandable and quite natural to all parties concerned. For the time being we've set them up in an abandoned storage building deep in the forests of Fairmount Park. Sarah, Baylah and their other mothers both magical and human  have transformed the space into a veritable vampire wonderland. But for juvenile vampires, little vampires, not for such as we. They have bright, upholstered chests (their beds) fit for a legion of teletubbies. Warm, thick, comfy carpets grace the cold, slick concrete floor. And viniettes of the finest in nursery furnishings find their places amidst the storybook splendor. The whole is liberally peppered with enough toys and games to satisfy the wants and desires of even the most spoiled mortal spawn. The cost? Do not worry. Our coffers are deep. True we only feed but once a month.And just how far will a purloined Rolex or wallet filled with hundreds go. But remember, we also share our blood with the worthy. We preserve the lives of those souls meant to live. Not all of them are poor. Some are quite rich. Money is not necessarily a bar to goodness. And very often one of our wealthy recipients graciously provides us with a portion of their earthy treasure. Well, I don't mind telling you that I am very easy to shop for. Treasure always works for me. And for the others too I might  add. It's not as if we keep it all for ourselves. Many are those who have benefited from our largesse. And hopefully, if we are able to foil our Enemy and survive we will be able to help many, many more.