Vampires were a known 'commodity' in Old Russia. They'd been bringing them up since Byzantine times and from the Ottomans after that. Indeed, up till Soviet times, the Black Sea city of Odessa, quite a cosmopolitan place and in feeling more akin to Italy or Greece than Romonov lands, maintained a brisk trade in night-folk and other exotics.
Among the Turks, most had the status of slaves, but very pampered slaves, under the protection of great pashas and beys who used them to dispatch enemies and kill revolutionaries. Long time readers are familiar with that, since we've highlighted the famed vampire-training-academies of Topkapi before. The imperial palace, actually a series of jewel-box residences, pleasure domes and administrative offices contained many strange installations. Some far more unusual than a night-folk school. One evening we'll tell you about the flesh sculptors, who created freaks for noble collectors and sold them all over Europe, North Africa and the Middle East. What a sad business that was. And yes, it is possible to create a 'chicken woman,' or a 'chicken man.'
Elaina Buhkovina, our vampire-ballerina, fell under the tutelage of a French vampirina and a Turkish import. French expatriates wound up in Russia all the time, Italians too. They were viewed as international sophisticates. Many of the women became ladies in waiting to the Czaritzas and the males often served as imperial advisors in such matters as architecture, viniculture, foreign finance and military training. You see, for those with breeding and money, Russia was an opulent, worldly playground. But for the subjugated classes, for they whose very names had no meaning, life was endless toil. Oh, there was a small business class. In the eighteenth century most entrepreneurs were sons of former aristocratic servants or semi-acknowledged, 'illegitimate' offspring of the selfsame class. Most other souls were serfs, or ostensibly 'free' peasants (especially in 'Little Russia') with superficial rights that did not really mean very much, for any boyar (noble) could crush them, if he so wished.
One evening the two vampirinas, the one's who tutored Elaina, attended a little recital at the ecole du ballet in the Winter Palace. They were very well known, since they'd done this thing before. When the French one presented the dancing mistress a letter from Prince Usipov (an early progenitor of our own Russian, vampire oligarch, Grigori Usipov) directing her to give the exotic duo a girl they might instruct, her gaze fell on little Elaina, for she already had a dreamy air and her baba was reputed to be a witch.
Now the vampire lessons took place on Saturdays and Sundays, since there was no dance school then. A man came for her. He was a retired member of the constabulary and still wore the old, blue coat with the silver buttons. Every Friday afternoon he'd rap on the door, wait for Elaina to exit, take her hand and walk with her to the place where the vampirinas lived, a strange, narrow, though well set up residence on a skinny, little street behind Perfumery Lane.
They'd already set her to a task... not exactly blood-drinker oriented, but designed to foster her hunting instincts and a willingness to kill. She was their 'mouser,' charged with keeping the place free of unwelcome tiny guests. They gave her what looked like a small baseball bat, an old little shovel and set her to it. At first she cried, but it soon became a game... two kopecks a head... And they expected to see heads. That's what the rusty sharp edge of the shovel was for....
'Kitty,' they called her Kitty, for she was just like a little cat...
And so it began.....
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They say the dead have no sense of time. Even more than that. They say time is just an illusion. The omniverse is a swirling morass of infinite points in space and their accompanying occurrences. And the thing is, every point in space-time occupies every possible point in space-time. Everything is everyplace... Just like it says. The dead just float in it. Perhaps that's what the ether is?
To be dead for an instant is the same as being dead for all eternity. I'm not talking about what goes on after death. We're not addressing God here. He may very well retrieve righteous souls from the bubbling pot and deposit them safely upon another shore. And even if He does not, eternity still feels but an instant, though one that never ends
But what about ghosts? What are they? To that I must say they are not monsters or frightful creatures from gothic novels. They are just people, devoid of any material presence, but people. They are the true essence of what we are. Call it energy, or spirit, or soul. They are what is left when the great engine of physical life stops running.
Students of these things say they separate from the ruins of their bodies soon after chemical reactions and synapses between neurons cease. Is that a shock, or a blessing? I don't know.
Could be the ghost has a choice to make. Do they flee this realm, or remain for a while? Do they stay with the living, or catch up to those who've gone before?
Those fortunate enough to experience familial spirits consider it a gift. They know 'life' in its truest form goes on. They've seen beyond and that can be a wonderful thing.
Troublesome hauntings are rare. Restless spirits rattle the china and tap the floorboards precisely because they are not acknowledged, especially by those they love. So it's best to recognize their presence. They only want to go on.
Long term 'hauntings' (if that is the right word)...spirit presences that last beyond the time when all earthy contemporaries have already passed over too, usually involve spirits more attached to surroundings than people. Sometimes they never had much family, but loved their home, or workplace, or various vistas encountered in life. So they walk the halls of old apartments, or visit the offices where they were employed. Now these spirits can become intrusive if they think the 'living' fail to value these sites. So it's always prudent to consider the feelings of everyone, whether in the flesh, or not.
Now we will get back to our regular story, but I saw an episode of 1st Look, that comes on after SNL and being October and Halloween and all, they aired segments about hauntings, one of which involved the centuries old, vast, semi-ruined, dungeon-like, Eastern State Penitentiary right here in Philadelphia.... But there's one ghost story they skipped...
It happened a few years ago. They touched up the place a bit to ready it for tourists. The ancient decrepitude was maintained. New wood and steel beams were carefully installed to preserve the structural integrity of the building (really a labyrinth of discreet wings and constructions, rather like an old, European castle). Near the end of the project, painters were brought in to artistically restore assorted nooks and corners without obfuscating the (very early) nineteenth century originals. They worked in dim, forgotten passageways and maze-like spidery cellars, dabbing somber color amongst the cracks, chips and old, brown (quite genuine) bloodstains. They'd talk quietly, the painters I mean, but sometimes near quitting time, sad muffled voices would join them. They always attributed these utterances to crews working 'round the corner,' or on the other side of the wall. But the walls were very thick and the passages very long.
One night, as the others left, a lone painter remained to get the job done. He toiled at the end of a long interior hallway. There were some old, iron doors along its length, but all were securely locked. The lights hanging from the twelve foot high barrel ceiling had yet to be connected and the solitary artist worked with a mechanic's light plugged into the one working outlet. There were no windows... not even traffic noises...
And then it happened. The bulb in the mechanic's 'trouble' light fizzled and went out. Complete solid darkness... Nothing... The painter, who'd been working up toward the ceiling, clambered down his ladder and attempted to find a replacement bulb. He tried to make as little noise as possible. No one likes to announce their presence in such eerie circumstances.
But he began to hear footsteps... far off... at the other end of the hallway... Shambling footsteps, as a prisoner in chains might take.... He froze... The only muscles moving within his body were those necessary for circulation and respiration. Maybe he blinked, but that's all. Still, the footsteps drew closer. He heard breathing... raspy wheezing and every so often a low mumbled word. Then whatever it was started banging on the heavy iron doors as it passed. 'It' knew where things were. 'It' could 'see' him.
He prayed. The painter prayed. But the walls wouldn't vanish and he could not escape.
Then it was upon him. He could smell the rotted breath. He could feel the tangible presence of some hulking thing there before him. He pressed against the wall and whispered 'no, no, no,' as he slid down to the cold, cement floor
Whatever it was reached down and grabbed him, pinning his arms to his body. He whimpered. The thing roared and the sound echoed from the old, crumbling plaster. Then is smashed his head against the wall and that was it...
They found him in the morning sprawled on the cold cement. But there was a thick smear of paint and blood tracing a stripe from high up near the ceiling all the way down to the floor.... and the bulb in the trouble light was on.
He lived. The painter lived. They interviewed him. The story was everywhere. All the papers had it. Tourists flocked to the gray, artistically crumbling 'castle.' Psychic researchers came too, some for their own purposes, some to learn the truth.
And that's it too.....
What have you seen? What have you heard? Please comment. Share. I'm sure we'd all love to read them all.
'Life' goes on.....
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The next day, if it was a day, they brought me hard boiled eggs and caviar. Never had caviar before. Good actually. And there must have been some kind of drug dissolved in the juice they gave me, because ... well, I just didn't care about anything. Escaping? Who the hell cared? Being imprisoned in a dark, cellar closet? Oooh, cozy! I can't even tell you what kind of juice it was. It was cold and sweet and vaguely fruity. Could have been Kool Aid, but I don't think they'd have given me Kool Aid. Czarist Russians did have standards, you know.
A bit after that, the silver eyed 'man' came back and led me to a small tiled room that was apparently for showering. He turned on the water (comfortably warm) and stood there as I washed. There was a fat, sputtering candle in a far corner so I could see. And you're probably wondering how that ballerina-vamperina from last night got battery powered candles back in nineteen seventy one. But there were a lot of anomalies like that. To be truthful, I still can't explain them all. I have theories. I can tell you what I think. They tell me the 'burden' (vampirism) settles differently on each and every one of us. Some sublimate with ease. Others manipulate matter. Elferinos are natural fliers. While a few... a very few... can smear themselves through time. And I've only heard of two or three. One saw the Exodus... another the burning of Saint Joan. That's all I can tell you. I live a fairly independent existence, vampire speaking. But some rules I will not break. Catch me sometime when I'm in my absinthe ... maybe then... maybe.
After my ablutions, the silver eyed thing gave me a big, thick bath sheet. I dried off, expecting to be led back to my prison, however my guard threw me a paper bag containing two packages. One held three pairs of tightie-whities, the other had three matching t-shirts. The shrouded figure said - Get dressed. I pulled on one of the shirts and snapped on a pair of the briefs. The 'thing' quickly gathered up the opened packages and put them back into the paper bag. He scrunched it closed and motioned toward the door, then shepherded me back into the darkness.... More passages...whether the same ones, or different I can't say. We came to a room lit by the screen of a small, black and white television. It must have been twenty years old even then, a twelve inch picture in a wooden console, square, cloth covered speaker at the bottom, two chunky, black, plastic knobs, one on each side. The Russian ballerina sat on an equally vintage mohair sofa, chuckling at a morning rerun of The Dick Van Dyke show, wearing the same dusty tu-tu as before, though topped by an off-white Playtex bra. And if you question the cadence of my speech, or the words that I use... If they sound wrong for a sixteen year old boy, please remember I am night-folk for almost forty five years, which makes me officially sixty one. And as I've already stated, drama club kids were different to begin with.
She left me standing there, the Russian dancer, I mean, till commercial, then gestured for me to be seated. She took a long, deep swig from a bottle of Stoli, before passing it to me. I took a neat, little sip and passed it back. She moved closer and began to kiss me. Then she tickled me till I laughed and began to kiss her back.
But I couldn't help but wonder, if they had electricity for the old television, why no lights... why no lamps? Then I noticed the cord, wound round toward the front of the console... It wasn't plugged in.
She saw that I'd noticed, pulled back and whispered - Do you want to see my home?... I nodded. What else could I do? She stroked my hand, turned to face the screen and sighed. Then she trembled. Her eyes rolled back in her head. The television screen went dark for a few heartbeats. You know how those old TV's were. There was a white horizontal line in the middle, then a bright, white dot, then nothing, till the screen began to quicken with an image... a house made from rough, stones... plain and somber... maybe larger than an ordinary house, with two white marble steps leading up to a darkly painted door. There's a brass plaque off to the side. The inscription is in Cyrillic. I couldn't read it. But the door opened and a woman who might have been a nun, or a nurse, led twenty little girls out onto the street, each dressed in a dark uniform.... long skirts topped by long cloaks, buckled shoes.... It was summer and the new capitol of St. Petersburg shone under a temporarily benevolent sun, as the girls of the foundling home went out for a morning walk. Great carriages rolled passed, pulled by matched pairs. Old women sold flowers. Tall, spruce officers from elite regiments trod the streets with an entitled air. An ancient peasant did southern, Cossack dances on the corner. People threw coins.
In a hoarse small voice, with her eyes still rolled back, the Russian ballerina said - Can you see it? Can you see it? ... I told her that I could. And she whispered - Gut... gut... gut...
Then she showed me more.....
I could not look away.....
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The teenaged night-fiend, Donny, continues the tale of his second nativity-----
We kept going. All the while I could taste the rancid breath of the strange, silver eyed thing behind me. The passage was dark... beyond dark... the blackness was solid and inviolate. We went down. Then the floor and walls began to curve, like a great spiral corkscrew boring deep into the earth. We come into a room. I cannot see it, but I can feel it. The movement of the air seems different. And a voice... a woo-mahn's voice says - Dat eez all, Vasili. Now go f#ck yourself. Go go go go... With that, the strange, shrouded, ball bearing eyed thing behind me turned and scampered back through the narrow passage. Four heartbeats later I saw the room illuminated after a fact by the flickering light from four or five thick candles. She wore an old tattered tu-tu and nothing else. Believe me. I could see. One shapely leg was cocked over the arm of a throne-like chair, as she slouched against the opposite side. And the low, creamy light from the candles was adequate enough to show me the truth of it all. But the only thing I could think to say was - H-h-how did you do that?.... Do vat, mahnchik? - she said .... Light the candles - I said. Was it magic?...... Miss Tu-tu chuckled and went - No, my beautiful, new play thing. They are flameless, battery powered pieces of crap from deh Walmart, merely timed to 'ignite' simultaneously... I nodded and went - Oh..... She said - Drop it deh blanket. I vahnt to get luke at you..... So I did and stood there bare and compliant. After all, If I was ever to leave and return to the drama club, that tu-tu lady would probably have something to do with it.... She straightened up, sat correctly and adjusted her breasts. Though I don't recall their needing any fine tuning, or re-alignment. Everything looked OK to me. Like a ballerina plucked from an old music box, she was, though perhaps thrown behind a dusty sofa and allowed to vegetate for a few years.
I could tell that she liked me and said - Please, madam, who are you?.... And without even missing a beat, she said - I ahm first dancer, Elaina Buhkovena, late of Mariinsky Ballet. And you ahr 'Danny.' I know because ve went through your pockets, ven you had pockets. Turn around. I vahnt to see your fundament... How educated and well spoken she was! Naturally, I obliged and in a quiet voice, she said - Wery gud wery gud wery gud. Almost like 'ballerino.'....... I wasn't sure what that meant. But I had an idea, 'cause I'd seen the movie SO FINE on basic cable and remembered the ballet sequence.
Then she patted her thigh and said - Come. Seet awn my lep.....So I did. Her flesh was firm and strong. I didn't know it then, but all night-folk, all vampires have bodies like that. I thought maybe ballerinas and 'ballerinos,' because of all the dancing and exercises and all. What did I know. Failed two auditions to be a Von Trapp kid and in the late sixties-early seventies that was a very big thing.
She had angel hair, long and curly, like a cloud. And she proceeded to tell me secrets, while stroking my body and nipping at my ears. I heard about Old, Imperial Russia and her days at The Academy of Classic Dance, (housed in an obscure wing of The Winter Palace itself). I heard about the clean, new, Northern Venice that was St. Petersburg. Well, in the eighteenth century it was clean and new.... Dashing, aristocratic, cavalry officers.... Presentations in the private, jewel-box theater for Empress Catherine and her many guests.... Champagne breakfasts with balalaika orchestras composed of well trained serfs. For a while she just babbled, sipping from a glass of vodka. Then she gestured toward a pile of satin comforters on the cold, concrete floor. We positioned ourselves upon them and had relations... After a bit we had relations again. That was her word for it. She loved her relations. Upon completion, as we lay there, I felt emboldened and asked what happened to my friends from the drama club, (who were abducted with me). I said - Where is Jerry?... She said - You mean de boy?... I nodded... She said - Deht... I sighed and asked - And what happened to Janis?.... She said - You mean de singair one? You mean de girl?... I nodded some more... And once again she shrugged and said - Deht....
I whispered - oh.... My heart was pounding. She HAD to feel it. I'd be next. I was sure I was next. Any minute that strange shrouded creature, the one she sent off to f#ck himself would come back. He MUST be done by now.
But the strange being did not come back. And the Russian ballerina who remembered the year seventeen sixty two went - shhh shhh shhh, as she began to kiss me where I had never been kissed
And suddenly I did not care who was 'deht' and who was not....
(so ends the first encounter)
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The cabbie offered us 'sweets.' He said 'sweets' not candy or anything like that and I think he was Anglo-British. Looked like Englebert Humperdink . Since the container had yet to be opened we each took one. Rather like Altoid mints, I think they were. We thanked him and watched the crowds squeeze through Fifteenth Street on their way toward the big subway stop by City Hall. They looked soaked and quite eager to ride the escalators under ground. Some would undoubtedly buy umbrellas and hot coffee in the below street level shopping concourse. It ran for blocks.
Then the windshield wipers began to beat a quick rhythm. I suppose they'd been doing that since we got in, but whatever was in those mints started to work . We were drugged and that was it. The people.. the shops... the Christmas lights.. the rain disappeared, as a deep, dark cloud enveloped us. Janis, the singer girl, was in the middle. She fell 'asleep' against me. That's all I remember.
I awoke in a room, or a cell. It was in a basement. There was a window, a very small one up by the ceiling, maybe sixteen inches long and six inches wide. The glass was very thick and it was nailed shut. It was dark out... nothing to see save a light... a streetlamp or more likely a security light pinned up on the moldering brick wall of the building across the alley. But a bit of the glow fell into my prison. The floor was painted concrete. The walls were cinderblock and the door, though pressed like wood, with recessed panels, was metal, a dark, almost black, charcoal colored metal. I could make out the spot where a door knob once was, though it was gone now and plugged with a round piece of iron. I couldn't budge it... the door, I mean. So I sat on the cot (the place was much like a jail cell, but minus that little toilet-sink thing.). My heart was pounding, but I didn't scream... I didn't call out. I was too scared. Where were the others? Were they in 'rooms' like this too? How long had I been there? My parents. My family. Oh God. I pressed myself back into a corner and hugged my knees. I was numb, or pretended to be.
The cold from the cinderblock wall drained the heat from my body. I began to shiver. There was a rough wool blanket folded by the foot of the cot. I lifted an edge. It smelled clean... a bit of a mothball scent, but clean. At least there wouldn't be bugs with the naphtha and all. I wrapped it around me, laid down, curled up and drifted off. Only my nose peeked out from the makeshift cocoon. Then I slept, as the drug was obviously still in me.
Someone was in the cell. I opened my eyes to see a stooped, shrouded figure rush out and lock the door. It was still dark. Perhaps I'd just dozed off for a short while? Perhaps a whole day had passed. I didn't know. I'm guessing I was out for an hour or so, because I hadn't peed yet. There was a jar standing on the floor, an old, glass, mayonnaise jar with a screw on metal lid. It was filled with what looked like a thick, meaty, split pea soup. The outside of the jar was still warm. I unscrewed the lid, dipped in a finger and sniffed... tasted a bit too. I was hungry and drank it down. Then I reached in and scooped out the thick part. After that, I cried, not so much for myself, but for my family.
Eventually, I had to pee. There was no drain in the floor. I looked. But I found a white, enamel pot under the cot... My toilet. What else could I do? Then I laid there and thought who would they send for the slops?
Daylight came. I knew it because the tiny bit of light sneaking in through the small window grew a bit less feeble. The thick pane of glass was obviously smoked, or darkened in some way.
Soon after, I heard the sound of a key. Someone was opening the door. I heard wheezing. I heard coughing. Who, or whatever it was hummed a little song. I didn't recognize it.... Then a person came in... That's it. I can't tell you if it was a man or a woman.. You know how some people are neutral... thick skinned.... mousy hair.... pouchy jowls....dirty nails? Well, this individual was like that. Wore a long, worn, black terry cloth bathrobe too. Don't ask me what that represented. I have no idea.
It raised its head and 'looked' at me. But in place of eyes there were dull, silvery, metal orbs. I saw them glint in the minimal light.
Well... scratch 'traditional' kidnapping.
The thing chuckled ominously and said - Come wit' me..... I froze. Then it added. If you fail to cooperate... if you frustrate their intentions, they will simply kill you... Then it chuckled some more..... It gestured toward the opened door. Beyond lay only blackness.
I got off the cot and walked through the doorway. The strange thing followed. I could feel it's breath, as it said - keep moving....
I carefully made my way down a dark, stone walled passage that seemed to go on forever...
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Some of us hide. Not that we don't walk about at night but we manage to veil our presence. Do I do anything to accomplish that? No. It just comes natural to me. But I've strolled right by other vampires you might know and they were oblivious. I love that. And I take no vows or have much in the way of spiritual beliefs. I view this as an infection... a possession brought about by an infusion of prions.... Yes, I'm one of those.... a modern day, scientifically oriented blood drinker. Look, Barnabas Collins was too. What do you think he paid Dr. Hoffman all that money for. You know insurance didn't cover that.
Doctor Franklin knows about me. How does he know? Because I told him. He keeps me away from the spiritual, 'noble' vampires and they've yet to sniff me out. Do I follow their comings and goings? No. And that includes the elferinos and elferinas too. I stay away from the mole people, because they scamper through every part of the underground and they whisper. They tell secrets. They share everything. The one you know about... the vampire called Tomas, or Jonathon, or whoever he is mushes up with Aura and Sylvia, The mole-king's daughters and they talk.
It's strange around here. So many of you know about the night world. You know about the life-eaters and cherubs and ghouls and I don't even know what else is out there... OK, the ghosts. We got ghosts and witches and moms that feed their kids shitty pizza and everything. And this is Philadelphia. We've been around since sixteen eighty two...Sixteen thirties if you count the Swedish and Dutch speaking people who were here first. My God, every time they dig a foundation for a new building they find bones in those horrible form fitting coffins. The midnight air swarms with ghosts... The thing is, you KNOW and for a few minutes here and there you know you know. But then BAM the door slams shut and life is all Cherrios and Almond milk all over again. What hypocrites you all are.... At least I am not that.
Let me tell you something about myself. I was that kid from the drama club. I don't mean 'like' the kid from the drama club. I truly was the kid from the drama club. That's why I'm so well spoken. I know Shakespeare and Eugene O'Neil and David Mamet and Steven Sondheim. Not that we played all that in school. Most of the time it was ANNIE, or GREASE or THE SOUND OF MUSIC. Nazis were A-OK, but not the other stuff. Though we read them. Not in school. On our own. Sometimes we'd run scenes in each other's basements. I was going to study at Yale drama school. Don't ask about the cost. Somehow it was going to happen. We dialed the C.A.S.T.I.N.G. number fifty five times a day. That was a line the unions used to maintain. It was like a telephone billboard. They'd list movies shooting in town... TV shows filming here... all that. I'd scribble down all the information on a little pad I kept in my room. Sometimes they wanted kids. Sometimes they didn't. And I couldn't go to every 'look see,' because of school. Like I was gonna be a professional quadratic equation solver, or Ethan Fromme interpreter. But sometimes I did go. Me and a few others from the drama club, I mean.
We'd ditch school early. Spanish was last period and the Spanish teacher was pretty dramatic herself. She wore long, swirly, wool skirts, wide leather belts and light weight boat-necked sweaters with the sleeves pushed up... and she lived in Center City (analogous to Manhattan) somewhere in the Twenties. That in itself was amazing. The fact that she was forty, while her boyfriend (a talented window dresser at John Wanamaker's) was twenty five floored us. This was late sixties, early seventies. But that's another story. At least she understood.
The auditions were in rehearsal halls, or hotels. Crowds would stream in. 'Cattle Calls'... They named them right. And I never appeared in anything. My parents wouldn't let me. But I went. And I looked. Just being close was something. But why wouldn't anyone listen?
One time they were looking for kids for Bye Bye Birdie, a revival set to play The Locust Street Theater. OK, no way I was going to be Homer, or whatever they called him, but I could have been somebody. This was in November. It was cold and dark... twilight by the time we got into 'town.' Stores lit up for the holidays. Kettle people ringing bells on street corners. I loved all that. Got off the subway at Fifteenth Street and ran all the way to the audition in the old Drake Hotel maybe seven or eight blocks away. Show people lived there... an ever so slightly shabby, but still stylish soaring tower maybe thirty stories high. We worshipped the place.
I didn't even have a head shot. My resume was a joke. I had two or three Polaroid pictures... serious look with a tie... casual sweater with a smile... Homemade Hollywood all the way. But this time the casting director seemed interested. She wrote something at the bottom and put my resume on the top. Then she carefully stapled my photos to it so they wouldn't get lost. Usually they just make us put our names and numbers on the back. Then, God knows what they do with it. People were still pouring in when we left ( me and two kids from school). But it was full ondark and raining outside... a cold rain. The streets were jammed with people heading home... to parking lots, or commuter trains, or the subway. We'd be soaked by the time we got to the Market-Frankford Line, so we ducked into the outside foyer (you know... the place between the windows) of some men's shop. The Carlton Shop, I think it was... and counted our crumpled one dollar bills to see if we had enough for a cab. Not that it cost so much back then, but we didn't know that.
So the three of us, me, Jerry and the singer girl named Janis, piled into an old, dirty Checker Cab and headed off... in my mind straight to Broadway.
But we never even got to Broad Street, for the driver took us someplace else...
And since nineteen seventy one, I've played a quite different role... a perennial sixteen year old sneaking in and out of the shadows...
My name is Danny... and I am a night fiend...
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The ghost of the little boy polio victim who lives in the basement level of the townhouse waits for me (Jonathon) to come in every morning. I usually come back around three or four o'clock. Once in a while as late as six o'clock. It's October now. I can to that. He waits in the front foyer, siting on the floor by the tall clock. I bring him things...little toys... cars. He likes cars. I've never seen him manipulate larger, heavier things, but small toys are alright. He asks if I feel OK. I say 'yes.' Then he's happy. I know he doesn't mean if I'm sick, or not. He knows vampires don't get sick... not that way. But he's very attuned to feelings. Edith, our Jersey Pines, witchy-woman housekeeper says most ghosts are like that. Says they draw strength from the living people around them... from their feelings, I mean. He has a tiny, old, transistor radio that still works. I change the batteries every so often... make sure they never run down. He can manage to flick it on and off and rotate the tuning dial. Sometimes we hear it playing quietly downstairs. He likes talk shows. Loves listening to people discussing things. And please don't think that the basement is a cold, bare-stone cellar. It's not. We have it set up as a series of small chambers with regular plaster walls, opening up on a narrow, corridor. Some of the vampires sleep down there. Ghost boy has a room too. Edith set it up for him. Not just her. Sarah, my consort helped too. Actually, we married with a real ceremony and everything. But 'wife' seems such a mortal term and although I am in most ways still basically 'human,' mortal I am not.
Truthfully, none of us are mortal. By 'us' I mean both night-folk (me) and day-folk (you). The only difference is you shed your fleshy parts right away and we don't. That's all. (thinks for a few moments) I suppose there are other differences. You know how it is.
I'm sitting in the den watching late night reruns of that show where Bob Newhart has a cozy inn in a picture book Vermont town. I love shows like that. Believe me, the early middle ages were anything but calm and cozy. I like the den... not the larger 'family room' we sometimes call the den. I mean this little place. Really more of a library. No big flat screen over a mantle piece.... just dark wood shelves full of books, a couple little tables & lamps... a sofa just big enough to stretch out on... a wing chair... nice 'Turkey' rug. TV's a little old one. I like old things. Sometimes I doze off in here. Sarah always comes down before dawn to see if I'm alright. She wakes me up. We go upstairs. In case you don't know, we sleep in a regular bedroom. But it's fitted with special shutters, draperies and shades. Nobody bothers us. Edith put a hoo-doo on the house and the cops look out for us. Not all of them... only the 'familiars.'.... only the ones who know.
Vampires can live rather quietly. And I haven't worn a red lined, black satin opera cape in umpteen million years.. Sure there's drama from time to time. Pig Blood what's her name, the born-witch goes on a rampage... Ethereal, unbelievably advanced alien entities might encase the Earthin a salt water, oceanic-like shell roiling miles above the clouds. Edith might forget to buy aroma candles. Night-folk love aroma candles. We don't normally eat, so we have to get 'flavor' somewhere.
I'm worried about little Timothy. He helped Ca-Ca kill Esther, but in his heart, he's not a killer, just a scared insecure, ten year old, assistant killer. I'll talk to Doctor Franklin tomorrow night. Hope he hasn't experimented on him too much already. You know, three hundred and eight year old patriot reprobates tend to get a little ripe over the years. You ever see him ride that little electric scooter around town, dressed in his green, Eagles sweat suits, with his wispy, stringy hair flying out in all directions?
I'm beginning to feel something. Night-folk (vampires and such) are fairly telepathic. What do you expect? October's a strange month...
Dark things always happen.
(with that he dozes off, as the little ghost boy from the basement, rises up through the floor to sit on the rug and watch ancient, black and white reruns of TO TELL THE TRUTH)...
<more later>
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