Now to get back to the dusty, buried remains of the old Santa's Toyland, hidden in the bowels of the long forgotten Gimbels Department Store....
The vampire known as Tomas lay on the floor and retched all over a tumbled display of Weevles (they wobble, but they won't fall down). And a thin, rather iridescent, sticky 'gruel' dribbled from his mouth with each gnawing contraction. A roach or too scurried over to taste it, but soon realized the exotic nature of this soup and ran back to their secret dens.
'Papa' stopped, looked down at his stricken 'son' and the pain immediately lessened. This twenty eight thousand year old presence has great power. No showy hand gestures or Elizabethan verse spells for him. He thinks, therefore it is. Then he turned his gaze to the strange, almost physical ghost and walked on.
Now ghouls are a rare breed...' survivors' of premature burial. Oh the actual bones rest moldering in a crypt somewhere, but the essence, the spirit, of the soul so tortured, races from the unbelievable horror of the situation, erupting from the earth like a rocket. And the tight, hard knot of terror draws power (the ether is always willing to release a little of that). And the power condenses into something dense and 'real' and cold. Cannibals they are... cravers of human flesh... dead flesh 'cause it's easy... live flesh 'cause it's hot. Makes them feel all real. In that way they share a bit of the magic with vampires. But those noble princes of the night despise them.
Not every soul gone live to the grave becomes such. Most lost darlings gasp, cry, scream, thrash, scrape their fingers to nubs (true, the bones pierce through the flesh), smash their noggins 'gainst the lid (noggins get bloody too), gasp some more, wheeze a little, whisper prayers and die. Them's the pious ones. Some what ain't pious end like this... like Johnny Jump Up, over there... He's scared. Would shit hisself, if he could, but the energy what moves him is strong, immediately burning up each gobbet of meat, leaving him empty, always empty. He smiled at 'Papa,' showing that silvery, shark toothed grin. Maybe he meant to scare him. I don't know. But what a fool he is. Can't put no fear in one like this.
'Papa' moves closer. The fiend lurches back and crab walks up a Christmas tree shaped display of Great Garloos . Thirty six inch tall green, plastic, robot geniis tumble to the floor. Some of them still talk. They croak - Your wish is my command... Your wish is my command.... 'Papa' points at the ghoul... The terrified thing yells - No! No! No!.. as his body rapidly shrinks to the size of a small, manikin-like doll... Not Barbie... Not Ken... More like Skipper (we disembodied spirit narrators know many things). And the uber vampire scoops him up like a runaway ferret. He holds him. He strokes him. The thing cries. It whines and pleads for mercy. But there will be none of that tonight, for the twenty eight thousand year old avenger presses down hard and crushes him, breaking every 'imaginary' (though to the ghoul, quite real) bone in his body..... The crying stops... 'Papa' cleans his hands on Strawberry Shortcake's dress. Then he drops her to the floor. Two heartbeats later the roaches come out to dine. Maybe the feast seems real to them? Perhaps they're ghost things too?
And whether the thing known as Johnny Jump Up is gone for good, I do not know. Events are quite fluid in the night world. Magic is so hard to pin down.
Then the powerful being picks up his injured 'son' and departs, leaving only frightened child ghosts peering from the corners of this ruined, dusty space lit by dozens and dozens of false, plastic, lithium fueled candles. Heartbeats pass and even the ghosts dissolve, as abandoned toys alone in the feeble, glow look on...
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You know how seriously our vampirino, Tomas, also known as Jonathon takes his faith. He's said - If miraculous creatures such as we can exist, who can deny the existence of so much more.
May the 'Season of Miracles' be joyful for you and yours, no matter which part of Abraham's Robe you hold on to. Enjoy the cozy trailer. Links~> 1,300 MORE BLOG EPISODES ... HERE'S WHERE WE ARE ON TWITTER... please explore and as always, your COMMENTS mean a lot to us. thank you.... And now the trailer...
And the 'espiridion' froze. For to Tomas it was but a 'little spirit' in no way equal to him. This twisted demonic cannibal is anathema to everything El Mundo Vampirido stands for. But of course you know I speak of the 'noble' breed. 'Noxious' vampires will do anything and 'eat' anyone. And our Sephardic 'grandee' hates them too. So proud these ancient Spaniards are. A millennium spent wandering other realms cannot change that.
But the creature known as Johnny Jump Up was elusive and hard to pin down... less a physical being, more an extremely strong and focused ghost able to manipulate matter with exacting certainty... thus the teeth... thus the claws... thus the strength. He eats because he wills himself to eat. Physical hunger has nothing to do with it. Like a hologram with substance he is. And he smiled when Tomas bit his ear. For no sooner did the vampire loose his grip then the wound disappeared. How can one vanquish smoke?
It went on like that for a bit. They tumbled down to the floor, gouging and biting... lunge and parry... lunge and parry. Tomas lost an eye, sucked out by his ghostly adversary. Ghouls love that trick. Severing optic nerves is a big thing to them... a treat... a signature move. And Tomas, ever cognizant of his white-hot, throbbing eye (or what was left of it) and an almost testicular, excruciating pain, tore out a nice big chunk of ghoulish loin. But there was no blood in it, for once ripped from the fiend it quivered for an instant, then flickered before dissipating into nothingness. Demonios necrofago can do that. All spiritual entities can. The apparent solidity of their form but an illusion.... though a very 'real' and strong one....
Tomas sprawled on the old, wooden floor amidst shattered doll houses and smashed model planes. A few conventional ghosts, child ghosts, watched from the darkest shadows, not knowing what to make of it all, as the ghoul just stood there and grinned, revealing a rictus of small, silver, shark-like teeth . Tiny, fat maggots crawled over his black serge suit, but they were illusions too.... and how do you kill a dream?
Perhaps a heartbeat later the Johnny Jump Up thing crouched down and whispered - Stand clear of me, 'tarantula' (a ghoulish slur). Then he coldly studied the stricken vampire, before leaning in to bite off a cheek. 'Espiridion' indeed... Vampires can be so presumptuous... so vain... and so wrong.
But before our fine, 'young' vampirino suffered further harm a phantom breeze moved through the space... a shifting of the ether if you will, accompanied by the salty tang of ozone... Then a soft voice said - Who troubles my offspring?... as a figure bearing a strong resemblance to a thirty threeish Richard Gere, though dressed in clothes from I don't know where condensed out of the darkness...
And Tomas mouthed the word 'Papa,' before lapsing into the vampire equivalent of unconsciousness...
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It all happened very quickly. Tomas sat ruminating on Santa's old Toy Land throne (see last night's episode) when one of the child-ghosts, in these dusty shadows, started whimpering...a lost keening sound, akin to an old violin on a dark, drizzly night. The spirit saw, or felt something. So sensitive they are. And after a heartbeat or two our vampirino 'Hamlet' (well, sort of) also felt it.
He rose from his resting place and began to explore... silently... stealthy, like a cat. I don't know why simpletons liken them to bats. They're much more feline in nature with perhaps a pinch of arachnid thrown in. But that's just me... and disembodied, spirit narrators are so particular.
After a bit he picked up the scent... thin and weak, for spectral beings are subtle that way. But the taste of blood was in the air... dead blood... young blood. Then he saw him, perched upon a tall stack of cartons, hastily pushed into a corner during the last days of this place. The midnight fiend, known as Johnny Jump Up finished a meal, gnawing on the ragged remains of juvenile thigh muscle left clinging to a none too fresh femur. The cadaverous monster in his tight, black suit mindlessly savored each semi-dry morsel. You know how ghouls get when they dine? But the vampire, Tomas, ever aware of his surroundings, moved closer, creeping up on old displays (Motorized Erector Set! $9.95!) and surviving, though non-functioning, light fixtures.
Night-folk here about despise ghouls, tragic though they are (victims of pre-mature burial) and confront them at every turn. Odd that the greasy haired monster crawled in here. They usually favor rooftops. Something must be afoot.
But his vampiric adversary cared little for dark-time politics, as he soundlessly crept across the ceiling, coming to rest just above the loathsome head. The scent, thin though it was repulsed him. He stopped and steeled himself a moment before creeping down the wall, coming to rest behind the chalk skinned ghoul. Then he silently leaned in, delivering a quick, little nip to the monster's rancid ear.....
Time froze for a moment. Such a macabre, artistic composition they made, there in the feeble glow from the battery powered, liar-candles.
But an instant later it was over... and the razor sharp battle was on....
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good night.
I left the Anti-Enchantment Bureau. Always hated that name. But according to Doctor Franklin, they had to call it something like that and pretend to be against the very thing they sought. Back then, simplistic bumpkins really did storm 'the manor' with pitchforks.
Of course they wanted me to stay... not so much for my company, but for what they could learn from me and I had given them enough. In his own way, the doctor understood. So I sublimated up through the below-ground levels and walked away. And no, I did not wander naked through the city. The good natured old reprobate gave me garments from his own supply, which meant I was outfitted in Philadelphia Eagles wear from head to toe... green sweatsuit...down filled jacket... knit cap... socks, underwear and sneakers too. Those abroad at this late hour took me for a rabid fan and I actually joined a bunch of them for drinks in a certain, well known after hours club. I do have a tolerance for alcohol, you know. Beer, not so much. That has food value. But alcohol, particularly vodka and gin, is something else.
I like mixing with mortals. I enjoy studying them... smelling them and feeling their breath. Even their farts are novel to me. They seem so intertwined with the natural world. Oxygen truly means something to them. Organic food, not in the facile marketing sense, but in a visceral way, is life to them. Have you ever noticed how asparagus scents their pee? I love that. But after two drinks I left, preferring to depart before the ugly drunken part sets in.
I went to a favorite haunt of mine, the dusty ruins of the old Gimbel Brothers Department Store, sealed underground, off to the side of the Eighth Street subway stop. It's still there in tumble-down disarray. The elferinos and elferinas (pubescent vampires) play among the remnants of the old toy department. Santa's Village, it was called. You can still see the sign. Know how they light the place? With hundreds of battery powered artificial, yellow, flickering candles. I believe they 'fell off a truck.' Our elfin caste is so mischievous that way, trading ancient night-folk intoxicants (obviously, I cannot give you the recipe) for whatever they fancy from the bad boys down Delaware Avenue.... No, I believe they call it Columbus Boulevard now. They trade for the batteries too. You see, mortals basically know about us, but pretend not too. Afraid of the 'mysterious' and all that. The police know we're here. The clergy knows. Homeless souls hiding in pitch black 'service' alleys know. Oh, I could go on.... In their truncated parts they do know. But 'humanity' as a whole... whatever that means, does not. It's easier that way. Magic frightens them. They want it, but they fear it.... Maybe we do too.
Night-folk live suspended in it. I know other denizens of this on-going tale speak of 'children from afar,' creatures birthed on other worlds and how they play with and change us, mortals, night-folk, all of us. Yet even those powerful beings are subject to it. Magic is everywhere and it settles on each and every one of us quite differently. Some manifest as witches, or vampires, or elferinos (a somewhat different form). Others grow into merfolk, or wolf-folk, or never-dies, or lucid wanderers. The variations are endless. Perhaps we can move from one phase to the next? Little Annie managed to escape. A vampire no more...
I think about that now. I think about it a lot. Regular friends of course know that. And although a purely mundane life would drive me completely insane, some other enchanted resonance might suit me very well. I could be a very contented magi. The blood is not the thing. I crave it because I am made to crave it. But even vampires, true vampires, know it's the taking of the life that sustains us. The bloody kiss but a dramatic accoutrement.
So I sit here on Santa's abandoned throne, pondering ruined displays of childless toys. The dolls seem very sad, Chatty Baby especially so. Sometimes I pull the ring just to keep her company. Sometimes I conjure forts out of Legos, or their elder brothers, Lincoln Logs, just to give them purpose. Ghostly children peek out from the gloom, but they have not yet learned to manipulate physical things, so I, or my little elfin brothers and sisters, do it for them. The flickering, electric, liar-candles shed a deathly glow. The nightmare after Christmas (or after one Christmas) this is... How the dust softens it all.
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DARK TOWNHOUSE KITCHEN
Some guy types away on a laptop under a weak, focused beam from a recessed ceiling fixture. It's 'wilkravitz' (Okay, you know it's me, BILLY)
He stops typing, looks up from the screen... addresses the camera.
BILLY - They had an idea... a vampire blog... an ongoing journal
detailing their lives, histories and secrets.. Not fiction.
never fiction. We only pretend that it is. Sometimes
they talk and I type. Sometimes I record what I see on
this little audio thing and type it up later. Occasionally
one of them 'sends' stuff telepathically. I'm not the best.
But I try. They tell me I'm pretty accurate, but I think
that's because the 'senders' are vampires and they got this
whole magic-energy-power thing. Maybe that's what does
it. I'm just guessing.
But they're starting to blame me for everything. Vampires
like a certain amount of 'controlled' notoriety. They're
vain. Edith says it's not really that they're vain. They're
just self-conscious about being different. You know, no
matter what they say, they really never stop being human,
just a different kind of human. They want to be accepted.
They want to be understood. And this is real life. I'm not
talking about them leather and lace posers you read about
everywhere else. Jeez, you know what Jonathon does
every year when Hanukah time rolls around? He makes
little, dark, blue velvet, drawstring gift bags. Fills 'em
with like ten silver dollars, maybe some gold foil wrapped
chocolate coins. And you know how much real silver
dollars bring. He walks the streets, giving them out to poor
people. Some are regulars. They wait for him every year.
And he's done this for like three hundred years, maybe
more. I don't know if he did it in Europe. I don't know.
Tells me it's my fault some TV or movie guy doesn't notice
'us'. Actually bought a copy of THE HOLLYWOOD
REPORTER AGENTS & MANAGERS DIRECTORY, I
think it is. Had me make up these really nice proposals...
query letters, synopsis'... all that stuff... on real expensive,
heavy stock too. Believe me. I got the paper cuts, or at
least the scars from them, to prove it. Sent out maybe
sixty of them. Most never responded. I included stamped
envelopes, postcards, everything. A few scrawled 'nope'
on the postcard and that was it. One or two tried to be
polite about it. But it always came down to the same
thing...'recommendations'.... 'who sent you's?'.... and we
just got the wrong kind a 'uncles.' What else can I tell you?
Sarah don't mind too much. She just does her thing and
keeps quiet. But Jonathon minds. It hurts him. I can tell. It's not like anyone on the other side of the velvet ropes
ever read their stories and THEN said no, 'cause that
ain't happened... not even once. They just say 'no.'
Jonathon stares at them rejections and says - They won't
even sanction my right to exist.... Then he lights an
aroma candle (vampires love aroma candles) and sits in
the corner.
The whole idea behind the blog was to draw attention
and it still is. They're not gonna stop. I'm not gonna stop.
How can I? And we have had almost a hundred and forty
thousand 'hits.' Sure some're spam. Everybody gets spam.
But not too much, 'cause I keep track of it. First year we
got zilch. Page views I mean. Second year we got maybe
a little more than zilch. Third year was better. And you
know how grateful we all are for each and every one of
you... 'readers' I mean.
But if you got like a friend, or cousin who 'knows
somebody, and if you like what we put out there,
please point them our way.
Thank you. I didn't mean to go on like this, but you
know how it is... And I gotta stop now and get a drink
'cause my throat is so dry from talkin' so much..
Sighs, gets up. Goes over to the big, stainless steel, French door, refrigerator, takes out a two liter plastic jug of iced tea, screws off the top and guzzled it right from the container... Then he puts it back, closes the fridge, turns off the laptop and flips off the light.
The screen goes black, save for the words VAMPIRE WONDERLAND IS REAL...
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THE MER-FOLK POOL - Tomas sits on the edge, bathed in the pale undulating light reflecting up from the water. He tosses live, baby humbolt squid to the outlandish, aquatic humanoids.
DOCTOR FRANKLIN and his assistant, the lovely physician-vampire known as LUNA, observe from adjacent glass walled room.
DOCTOR FRANKLIN - Look how they twist off the heads... so clean... so fast... so neat.
LUNA - Shame to waste the tentacles. I hear they're very sweet.
DOCTOR FRANKLIN - Not 'wasted' my dear. The young ones get the heads as they sink beneath the surface. I think we have three of four of them in there now. It's a teaching thing. The beaks, you know. They must be taught to pinch out the beaks.
LUNA - How long will we keep them?
DOCTOR FRANKLIN - That's not for me to say. It's entirely up to them. Volunteers, my dear, brought here from a colony just beyond the mouth of the Chesapeake. Imagine, mer-folk inhabiting off-shore waters once again. They never liked the Mid-Atlantic Ridge... so dark... so cold... so remote. But they were safe there so they made do.
LUNA just stares at Tomas. DOCTOR FRANKLIN notices and goes on...
... That one is a remarkable specimen, don't you think? I've dealt with others... older ones... younger ones... all kinds... 'you.' But Tomas, or Jonathon, or whoever he styles himself knows things.... (he studies her and says) Do you still want him?
The physician - vampire, focused on her one-time enamorada doesn't respond. DOCTOR FRANKLIN draws his own conclusions and smiles, as a bare Tomas puts down the empty bucket and slides off the edge to join his aqueous friends.
FOCUS ON underwater shot of the vampire swimming amidst the others.
CUT TO
CLOSE UP... a man's face... one of The RED PAINT PEOPLE... notice how he favors Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the starship Enterprise, but then again they all do... He speaks...
RED PAINT MAN - Beyond 'the magic' is 'the magic.' Each manifestation a reflection of what went before. Passed every door is another room and each has an open door.
PULL BACK.... He sits at the kitchen table in the Center City, Philadelphia townhouse. EDITH serves dinner to her Jersey Pine Barren guests. She knows the RED PAINT FOLKS from way back. All the males have that Jean-Luc Picard look and all the females favor Olympic Skier, Peekaboo Street. No one responds. They just cut their meat and silently chew.
EDITH - (puts dessert on the table) Well, who wants pie?
The warm, fragrant, apple-filled delight slides down the table, coming to a stop before one of the RED PAINT males...
EDITH - Help yourself.
FADE TO the shadowy, blue, undulating depths of the mer-folk pool back at DOCTOR FRANKLIN'S underground complex.
FOCUS ON Tomas' enigmatically smiling face. His hair floats out around him...
He opens his mouth, releasing a cloud of live, swimming, baby seahorses... The tiny young ones race to the surface, transforming into bubbles that burst and disappear...
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