The Book of All Things New

This is Zebulon. Of course you  know this is Zebulon. What am I thinking. With what other narrative voice do you have such a relationship! The other narrators like to maintain their anonimity, but not me. Oh, and via the akoshic records, I know your names too! Hello, Jason! Greetings Melissa! I could go through the list, but you know who you are. Now back to the buzzings and bitings in the nocturnal world. For the time being, things are good. The world, or the Philadelphia part of it, is a better place. Still, no one thing, no one force is universal and absolute. There are always bubbles in the batter. And so, some 'iffy' souls are still breathing. That means our life eaters still have a certain measure of work to do. Not much, but some. They have gone back to monthly, lunar cullings. If I am correct, right now, Sarah is taking out a crooked civic guard ('cops' I think they call them). She knows where he hides. She knows where he sets his trap. If you have the right 'look' and the right last name, you don't get the ticket. But if you have the 'wrong' look and the 'wrong' type of last name, you get the ticket, regardless of how you were driving. And that is but one of his lesser crimes. Neighborhood thugs who 'play ball' are ignored. Others are robbed, or beaten, or killed. Does he act alone? Unfortunately not. But  tonight it is his turn to 'learn his lesson.' Although I fail to see how this newly acquired information will be of any benefit to him, since he will soon be completely and utterly dead. Look, look, look! He stops her on the street. He thinks she is a 'street walker.' He threatens to take her in.But it is only a 'scam.' We know what he really wants. Sarah pretends to ce concerned. She invites him to join her in a nearby, dark, sticky, greasy alley. He smiles and says - What for?..... She says - A free sample. I've got some new 'merchandise.' Come and tell me what you think.'........ He parks the car and follows. He pushes her against an unsavory surface. But before he can unfasten any of his many buttons, 'snaps' or 'zippers,' she has him. She caresses him. She kisses him. He growls - Cut that shit, you bitch. I don't have all night..... So she does what he wants. She gets right to it. She rips his collar, twists his neck to better present the necessary blood vessel and goes to work. He shudders. He moans. He struggles and tries to draw his gun. But it is too late. His blood is hers now. His life is over. His crimes are done. Sarah watches as his body collapses down onto the filth and burns away. But she did take his watch first, a nice one. Gold, inscribed with the name of some famous 'creative' and well marketed individual. It will be a welcome addition to their treasure cache. Jonathon and Baylah did their duty too. There were three blue flames this night. And the treasure cache was fattened accordingly.........And later? Later they all retreat back to the snug refuge. The three life eaters, joined by Edith, the telepathic Piney woman, take their ease in front of an orange, electric fireplace blazing forth from a genuine Amish mantle (it was a good deal on some shopping station and the elves and cherubs wanted it so they bought it). The vampires each enjoy a soothing aroma candle. Edith sips a cup of tea laced with a liberal splash of Jack Daniels. They stare into the quasi authentic, somewhat animated flames. But all is not peaceful. They can sense it. They can feel something. Jonathon knows. The one who created him, the one who named him Tomas, is on his way. His spiritual father is coming by for a visit. And as in most 'families' there is friction......For 'Daddy' seems just a wee bit upset.....

The Book of All Things New

The parking lot surrounding The Olive Garden Restaurant is now a pilgrimage destination. Reform Congregation Rodeph Shalom is now a pilgrimage destination. People claim to have received cures. People claim to have had encounters with 'passed' loved ones. A Red Paint 'seer' tells Jonathon and Baylah that they have created a truth. It is not a falsehood. It is no longer a lie. God has stepped in to make it real, like the healing sap, bled by a tree to seal a wound. Jonathon asks - Whose reality, whose truth did I create? And the seer answers - Elijah the Tishbite's, the Prophet Elijah. He who prepares the way of the Annointed One.....Jonathon asks - Does that mean the Annointed One, blessed be he for whom we have been waiting, will come?..... The seer simply shrugs. He turns to Baylah and says - You need not ask. You know. You set out to emulate the Mother of the Nazarene. And you  did it very well. You created a void for her to fill. And there is a pattern here, in Philadelphia I mean. First we had  the unexplainable events captured by the universal eye. (he turns to Edith) What is it? She responds - The internet. He says - Yes, the internet. Like a fisherman's tool. It gathers us all in. Then we had the night without death. That one was a 'biggie.' And now we have this....... Sarah says - I see young people wearing 'My hands are God's Hands' hoodies when I go out. I don't know where they're getting them or if anyone makes a profit, but I see it. And the news says street corner drug traffic is way down...... Albion puts down a handful of Legos, silently approaches and adds - We visit aged ones in those orphanages for the elders they have. And the care givers are starting to seem as if they really do care. Even the physicians. There are less bed sores and less carelessly spread infections. There are more visits by children too. I condensed  at a bed side late last night, about the second or third hour after midnight, and a doozing son and daughter were still there keeping vigil over their ailing mother. They woke just as I offered her the blood. Just as she tasted the drops in the vial. They looked, but did not say a word. And they heard me say 'God bless you' as I quickly sublimated away. To them it must have seemed as if I disappeared........ Sarah - I wonder what they thought?....... They know that she is well now. Isn't that enough? - whispered the young 'elf.' And they sat there, in the hours before the dawn as they always do, discussing their 'lives,' sharing hopes, expressing fears. A peaceful night, in a snug refuge deep within the woods of the vast city park............But in Rome, things were not so peaceful. Police and other more mysterious individuals surround a  house in the rain where The Teacher had been sheltering as he composed his thoughts. The area is cordoned off. A chorus of glossy reporters hovers in the distance. People whisper - The Vatican Bomber, The Vatican Terrorist, they have found him. He is about to be apprehended..... Everyone grows silent. The police begin to move in. But their prey rushes out like a charging bull. He roars with rage. The humans fall back. Some of the civic guards hold their ground. And he sublimates and barrels right through them, his tiny, glass-like particles shredding them to bits. The remains splash down onto the paving stones and are  washed away by the rain drops. But those body parts which were not shreaded, such as the occasional head, knee or hand, do not wash away. They lay there on the ground as a swarm of image recording devices whirr away.....

The Book of All Things New

And the city of Philadelphia was a changed place. The atmosphere seemed softer and easier to breathe. Pilgrims came into the city, more than came after the first internet postings a few months earlier. More than when Morticia and her lot arrived. The 'New Pilgrims' are not just goths and lovers of magic, heaven forbid. The new people are true spiritual seekers and they come in all faiths. Something happened here (if they only knew the truth). And they all want to be part of it.  The hotels are filled. Some residents rent out rooms in their homes. Everyone in our own little group, the vampires, the humans (both Pineys and Red Paints) and any other assorted disembodied spirits we may have floating around are caught up in it too. Who cares how it started? Thank God that Jonathon and Baylah are such good actors. Thank God they've kept up their sublimation skills. Jonathon is still not quite sure how he managed the 'heavenly' illumination that accompanied his descent into the sanctuary. But things like that sometimes happen and that, in itself, is a miracle. Wait, did I say that all the humans among us were caught up in this? Well, that is wrong, or at least it appears to be wrong. The Old Woman and Annie are almost completely silent and impassive, so it is hard to tell. But I would guess that they are not in this. I am sure of it. Look, I could pass through the akoshic records and pick up a few things. If you want, I will try. Send me your thoughts. I will get the message. And I have tried. But the 'records' are troubled by a strange spiritual static as of late and they are quite difficult to understand. I could go, but it would only be a guess. I am even having trouble communicating with you right now. Someone else wants to speak. And the 'someone else' scares me. So say good bye to Zebulon for the time being. Believe me, I am glad to get out of 'its' way...............Open yourself to me! Witness my reality! Pay attention! There is much to absorb! Open your eyes (your spiritual eyes) and see! The prison shatters. The walls fall away. I thought that I would be able to sublimate through the very lead and rocks. But this is different. The ceiling crumbles. Lead whines and groans, splits open and explodes. Functionaries scream. They pray. They scramble off to safety. They contact others on little, black, magical communication shards. Lights rains down to blind me. It is not the sun, but it is bright and hot and new. I have not felt the like for centuries. My skin begins to steam, but I do not truly burn. I rise up, whether via sublimation or by simply scampering out like a demon freed from hell I do not know. There is a hallway, a passage way. The floors are paved in polished granite. The walls finished in marble and the finest, ivory-like plaster, but the structure seems to groan and pop. Little ant-like workers in black cassocks race around shouting to each other. Loud wails echo from the walls, over and over and over. Their sound is deafening, like the great bells of Kiev! A few of the terrified humans begin motioning to me. They want me to follow them. They want me out of this fortress of stolen artwork (for that is what I sense it to be......indeed, they once 'stole' me) as soon as possible. Small cracks appear on the granite with my every step. The cassock-wearers cry and gnash their teeth. They plead with  me to follow (and I do). We seem to be going toward an exit. Someone throws me a monk's robe. I haistily tie it on, my own garments long since turned to rags. A door flies open. BOOM!! I am out on a street. No, not a street, a public square. Frightened people run in all directions. Is it an earthquake? No one knows. Masonry rains down on the populace. People fall. People bleed. And I raise the cowl, lower my head and walk on. Horrific, shell-like vehicles race onto the scene, each carrying a contingent of civic guards. Weapons are drawn. Those tiny communication shards are much in evidence. A group of carefully groomed humans race into the area, turn to face a bank of torches (I think they're torches), lick the food from off their teeth (each one checks the other) and begins  speaking into thick, little magic wands. A crowd gathers to watch. But I continue on my way and disappear into the still surviving, winding recesses of The Eternal City........

The Book of All Things New

I can see the cracks. Not in actuality, but in my soul. I see them spidering through the heavy, leaden walls. How is it happening? I am not sure of that. I cannot tell you. And I do not sense an awareness of it on the part of my captors. They have sensors. They have these little, all knowing devices planted all around. But this is something different and they cannot pick it up. Of that I am sure. 'The Teacher' knows. I feel restless. There is a tingling in my fingers. My skin feels hot. Soon...soon I will slip away. I will go through the cracks. I will sublimate out into this world, this time of a thousand wonders. What will I be to them? Who will I devour? Which ones will deserve to be devoured. And do I even care?....But will it ever happen? Do I have the strength to sublimate through untold thicknesses of lead and rock and marble? Will I make it, or will I begin to condense while still imprisoned deep within the ground? That would destroy me. Every tiny shard of rock and mica would slice me into an infinity of oozing particles, a strange and magical feast for the minute death eaters inhabiting that space. Yet even that would be a freedom of sorts. Tomas.... I must find Tomas. He is the next link in my chain. Kill him? Yes, I would delight in it. But that cannot happen. I made him and I am responsible. He must go on. But oh, how torturous his journey will be. He did not even attempt to save me. He knew where I was (indeed, still am) and was content to forget me. But I did not forget him...... Look at him there in the municipality known as Filidelfia. Look at the ersatz 'family' he has assembled 'round himself. His great granddaughter-wife. His helpmate, Baylah. Those infernal 'children.' And the humans, such talents they have. Like accomplished shamans from the time of my birth. How I would like to study them and maybe even sample a few. What  does Tomas/Jonathon call them? The Red Paint People. It has a certain ring to it. It seems to stimulate various oilly nodules in my brain (yes, I am quite familiar with human anatomy.....I've dismembered enough of them.). Perhaps they are my cousins? Perhaps we are related? Ah, what a family reunion that would be.....me, my spiritual offspring and my fleshly brothers and sisters. Ooh, I must bring gifts! The cracks... The cracks are growing longer. They grow wider. He sees me. Jonathon sees me. I can sense it. I can feel it. He stops, grows silent and stares off into space. Baylah notices. She sees everything. And then there is Annie. Some say she is 'cured.' Of what, I am not exactly sure. What a twosome we could be. What playmates! Shhhh, they're sliding  down more food, some students from a nearby university. What crime did they commit? Why are they so damned? Listen to their prayers. And in this place, at this site, you'd think that they would be heard. There are three of them, two girls and a boy. They've hit bottom. They're doing what they all do, searching for some means of escape. Listen to the hearts. Listen to them pounding. Smell the bloody fingers. Dig, dig, dig. Search, search, search. Pray, pray, pray. Curse, curse, curse. I think I will take the first two quickly. I will pounce like a great cat, or a steely eyed raptor. The first two will go fast. But the third one will have to wait. And I will take my time. And I will progress at my leisure. Slow and deliberate, like a spider in the dark........ Filadelfia, here I come.

The Book of All Things New

It is I, 'The Teacher.' I have not released you yet. There is more that I must say. Be quiet and read. In the beginning, at the start of my captivity, I was pure. I was nobel and true to our calling. But my captors taunted me. They cursed me and said that I was damned, though that did not stop them from wanting to learn of my abilities and secrets. They desired my powers. But I told them nothing, for I knew them to be hypocrites and evil men..... In truth, there were somme sincere believers among them who gainned solace and morality from their creed. But my guards were not of that number. My 'handlers' I believe they would call them now, were of a different breed. Indeed, most Vatican functionaries were unaware of their existance. They survived and endured as a shadowy force, whispered about, but seldom seen........ When the lofty door at the top of the slippery chute was opened and victims thrown down the 'throat of death,' they would listen. When it was over, when the screaming stopped and I had fed, they would ask me questions. Their voices echoed down to me. But I would curl up, hug my knees, say my prayers and tell them nothing. So they would throw down another victim. And another. And another, in an effort to ensnare me and inflame my thirst. for living nourishment. I ate. And I ate. And I ate. Initially I tried to hold back. I tried to controll myself. The pathetic victims would survive. They would sit with me in the darkness. We would talk and confide in each other. I told them of my 'life,' and they told me of theirs. But then the moon would wane. The month would end and a new cycle would begin. I could feel it. Hundreds of cubits below the streets of Rome and I could feel it, a visceral gnawing, a visceral ithching beyond the limits of my endurance. It was a fundamental 'call' and I was helpless. There was absolutely no thing I could do. The victims knew it. They sensed it. They felt it. At first, I would grow unresponsive and then, after a while, completely silent.. And they would grow wary. Small parcels of food and drink were slid down to them. I could hear them chew. I could hear them swallow. And then I would inch closer. And closer still. I would sniff all about them. Tasting the particles of their essence in the dank and putrid air. They would gasp and freeze up in fear. A heartbeat can make music. It can keep cadence better than a drum. The low, throbbing sound would call me. It would tempt me. It would bewitch me and set my soul on fire. The human would suddenly feel my breath upon its neck. I could hear the sobs. I could smell the tears. Sometimes, I would lick them off. I enjoyed that. Not a word was spoken. What good would it have done? And then I would break through the skin and feed, an addict lost to this most dangerous of drugs....... At times I prayed. I prayed for Tomas (known to you now as 'Jonathon') to mount an invasion and swoop down into this vile place at the head of a band of angels and set me free. But they never came. Tomas never came. I could feel his heart. I could live his thoughts. That's what kept me going. And I presume he could hear me as well. But there was no rescue. I had no hope. I could not climb up to the top of the chute and force my way out. Believe me, I tried. But they would force me back with fire and throw down more flesh. And after a time, on a certain level, I did not want to escape. I just wanted the lives. I just wanted the nourishment. They used me as a cesspool. They used me as a sewer to wash away all those deemed unfit, for all those beyond their limited grasp of salvation. And I did my job. And I did it well.....Can you picture me? Can you see my face. I am sending you an image. Remember, since the first posting of this tale more that four months ago, we have only been pretending that this is fiction. But I think you know that, especially one in Sweden and another in the Balkans. Relax....Close your eyes.... I'll show you more....

The Book of All Things New

What name have I given you in the past!? No, wait. What does that matter to me? That is less than shit to me. You are less than shit to me. I dine on better than you. You mean nothing. When  you are no more than earthly corruption, when your name is unknown even to the filth that consumed you, I will  still be here. I will see your descendents perish....if you even have descendents. Who am I? Well, I will tell you, for you find me in a charitable mood. I am He who Made Tomas. Yes, yes, I know he prefers the name'Jonathon' now. But there will be a lot of 'nows' annd he will become enamored of many names. So refer to me as 'The Teacher,' for I will show you what it really means to be a life eater. And believe me. I have learned from the best! What is that Philadelphia band, but a deluded collection of tattered angels? I harbor no pious conceits. I did once, but not now.  Look at that wilkravitz person typing away. He thinks this comes from 'Jonathon.' But does he ever ask why that reluctant killer doesn't sit down and operate this contraption himself? How difficult can it be if the lumpen, sweating masses can do it? How hard to understand, if my cheap, little appetizers comprehend it? The 'chains' are weakening. My captors are blind to it, but they are weakening. Soon I shall shread their soft, sallow hides and send them to bathe in The Lake of Fire. Soon I shall see beyond the eternal darkess of my leaden tomb and walk free in the world once again. I can already see the cracks spidering through the thick, cold walls. I can already see the terror eroding the flesh of my enemies. And they thought a disembodied spirit was hard to handle.  Wait. Have patience. They will scream out new words to label the horrors I will commit.....But now I am hungry. It is 'their' fault. They have made me like this. They have accustomed me to it. There was a time when one 'meal' a 'moon' was enough. But not now. Shhhh, I hear the door opening above. I hear the words. I hear the pleading (odd, I once had a set-up something like that.....ask 'Jonathon' to tell you about his nativity)  The 'meat' is forced through. They push 'it' down the ancient chute, a long and polished wicked fun-faire ride. A greased eusophagus plunging down to hell. And I am there to catch them when they fall. True, at times I do just that. But there are instances when I am not so hungry. I wait. I wait silently in the blackness , two hundred cubits beneath the  eternal cobblestones of Rome. And I listen. I listen to the cries. I listen to the whimpers. I listen to the prayers. They get up. They explore. There must be a way out. There must be a door. There must be some way to escape..... But there is no way to escape. There is no hope. Who better than I to know that fact? I have been searching for an eternity. So I bide my time until the hunger moves me. Then I breathe, or cough, or move about. And they shout - Who is that!? Who are you!? .... That goes on for a while. But then they grow apprehensive. Then they grow silent. And the crying comes back again . And then I make my move. Sometimes I grab an ankle. Sometimes a torso, or a cheek, or an ear, or any other plump and lucious part. My hands are like ice, so cold they burn. And then I begin to feed. I begin to bite. I begin to drink. A few die right then and there. I don't like that. Dead food is worthless. It offers no nourishment. Blood tastes good, but it is the taking of the life that matters. And dead ones, or rather those who die before I am satisfied, do not ignite into the cold, blue flame (my only source of illumination), leaving me with a monstrous pile of oozing , stinking, refuse. The noxious odor sickens me. I am forced to break the bones and shread the flesh with my fingers, rendering it into smaller and smaller bits and patting it all together into a neat, little pile at the spot where I hope my next (successful) meal will ignite into a cleansing, blue flame and burn it all away. This one will not have to wait long. I told you, I am in a charitable mood. Just a little bit.. Be patient. My time approaches. 'Teacher' is coming. And class will be in cession soon enough....

The Book of All Things New

Now... one night has gone by and here is where we are vis-a-vis our 'heavenly' messengers. This morning's services were a bit more well attended at the North Broad Street Synagogue. No, wait. It is actually not a synagogue. Rodeph Shalom is a Reformed congregation (a dead former member set me straight) and termed a 'temple,' and not a synagogue. Picky. Me (Zebulon) in my time, we called them Beit K'nesset (bate keh nessette) , which means 'meeting house' or 'house of assembly,' much as the Trinitarian group known as 'Friends' does today. But I must say, I caught a few episodes of their presentation in the magic mirror-television thing and I could not understand it. But I believe they promote the consumption of healthful breakfast cereals (oatmeal, I'm told it is called) and that in itself is a good thing. Where was I? Oh, yes,....'Temple Rodeph Shalom'..... One could not obtain a spot to tie up one's vehicle for a good two leagues in all directions. Indeed, little Robbie Leiberman (the leader of some sort of annual youth service) had more people in the seats than Justin Bieber when he played Toronto (the first time, not the second). And it was like this everywhere. The basilicas of the Ornate Trinitarians were packed. The less elabotate structures of the Plain Trinitarians were packed. The prayer houses of The children of Ishmael (very similar to what we had in Babylon, I must say) were packed too. And what is more important, all those 'food drive' bins found in marketplaces were brimming with donated, metallic cylinders containing all sorts of high sodium delicacies. A painted up smiley, happy girl in the magic mirror, claimed that six hundred and thirteen hand guns ( a sum equal to the number of blessings in the first five books of the Unitarian Scriptures, I might add) were turned in to the municipal security forces. So I guess the number of 'caps busted into people' will go down accordingly. Another suddenly spiritually inspired group distributed coupons good for two free 'buffet' dinners at The Showboat Hotel Casino in Atlantic City. And while I do not know what manner of animal a 'buffet' is, the mere mention of its name seems to drive  people into states of delerium. Granted, a certain number of inndividuals planning to dine on these mysterious delights turned out to be homeless and lacked the means to attend this glorious repast. They cried forth from magic mirrors everywhere, explaining to a different smiley lady that they 'ain't got no ride, Jesus Christ!' I presume their prayers worked, for I heard that fifteen busses, complete with drivers, were quickly forthcoming.........And the mortals infected with these strange, worms of the spirit likewise began to heal. I suppose it is like the part where Tinkerbell gets sick . You know, in Peter Pan. What with all the elves and cherubs, we  of the Fairmount Park redout are thoroughly familiar with that, since they play the disc constantly. So it is like that. It is as they say - 'You gotta believe. You gotta believe. You gotta believe.'....... Well, maybe it was a certain much beloved 'relief pitcher' known as 'Tug' MacGraw who said that..... But you get the idea................................... Oh, as hinted earlier, the being responsible for the creation of Tomas/Jonathon  wants 'out.' His captors find it increasingly difficult to contain him. The ghost of Leonardo Da Vinci (also ensnared in the same ancient web) tries to console him, but to no avail. And his handlers, hidden deep within the maze of Vatican  hierarchies (and unknown to others of the religious community) fear the worst. They fear an escape...... If it happens, I presume one of the smiley, magic mirror faces (male or feamale) will tell us all about it.