TOMAS SETTLES IN TO FACE HIS DEMONS...the vampire's nightmare begins...

We sat on the cold, flagstone floor of the ruined domicile. At one time, it must have been an isolated farmstead, or possibly the hunting lodge of some Philadelphia gentleman. Almost a manor house in it's own right, though now just a shelter for wildlife.... If they only knew how wild. 


Sarah huddled against me. Sublimating isn't always easy. It can be painful and draining, especially to someone 'new' like her. And the damp, spring rain only made things worse. Coppery stains played out across what remained of the plaster ceiling. Fat drops jumped down to die upon the floor.


We retreated to an inglenook. It was drier there. And the snug, little, hearth-side corner gave us a bit of security against any lurking foe. I waited for the SOUL PARADE to begin. But such things follow quite independent schedules and rarely appear on cue.


A fire would have been nice, but we had no stores and the bracken and twigs upon the forest floor were soaked through. There was a cedar chest in a storage room off the kitchen. It held a fine collection of thick, warm blankets, Bay Company trade goods from the look of them. Probably found their way down here via the Great Lakes. I'd discovered them long ago and now they gave us comfort. A plump, little rabbit silently hopped in from the wet.  At first she didn't notice us, but then Sarah sighed and the sweet, warm receptacle of life froze, stiff as death, afraid to even breathe. I sent her a message. Not words, just emotion. Then I got up and 'nested' a particularly worn and soft blanket in a cozy, little spot under the stairs. After a few encouraging clucks, she understood and hopped in to rest. A few dozen heartbeats later, a friend came to join her. Could be she also had talents like mine?


I went back to Sarah and kissed her. She said - Is it starting? Are they coming? Can you feel them?......... No - I said. Soon, but not now....... So we gathered up the blankets and crawled down into the root cellar. It was safer there. Daylight would not find us. And except for the moldering bones of that long forgotten murder victim sleeping in the corner, we were quite alone. Even the spiders had left. Perhaps in anticipation of  tortures yet to come?


And then I heard the sing-song voice of a child.......


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VAMPIRES DON'T FEAR MUCH, BUT THEY DO FEAR CERTAIN THINGS

Zebulon flits through the old, stiff, vellum pages of Tomas' copy of LA CIENCIA VAMPIRISMO and since the book's possessor prepares for a SOUL PARADE, I will share some things. Creatures of the night have few worthy enemies. True, they cannot sublimate through lead. Those of you familiar with Marianne's transformation know that. But they can sublimate through just about anything else, rendering said substance into a shredded, pulpy mass. Human adversaries quickly resemble bloody, lumpy, viscous, steaming puddles. Sometimes an eyeball remains intact. Occasionally a tooth floats around in the mess. Feral cats seem to like it. Rats and pigeons too, so I'm told.


Some fall prey to beheadings. Yet should the vampire have but a moment to compose herself, she can easily sublimate through the blade and survive unscathed...provided the neck-slicer isn't made with lead. Certain headsmen in polities rife with life-eaters, commission blades made from a lead containing alloy, called demonbane. It is brittle, but reliable in such instances.


Dogs and by extension wolves play a role in their eradication as well. Attack by a feral pack sends the vampiric victim into a petit mal type trance. They fall to the ground trembling, while the sharp, gnashing teeth tear them to bits. Wise men versed in such things claim it's naught but an exaggerated superstition. A belief prevalent in the nighttime world, however based on no actual fact. Others say such animal attacks are God's way to call the offending creature 'home.'


I had planned on sharing more, but a few spirits close to me are fond of the life-eaters and loathe to share their secrets. Please note that I  have vampire friends, yet that doesn't make me a fool. I've seen incorporal beings, such as myself, transported to the surface of the sun....and they're never the same after that...


Imagine the hellish monstrosities writhing across  that monstrous orb. It's as if Dante's Inferno grows the crops.


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O. G. Tomes: People say the nicest things! Check them out! Se...

O. G. Tomes: People say the nicest things! Check them out! Se...: We rush around marketing and we lock ourselves away to write!   But when you come up for air wondering if its all worth it....? Tha...

A SOUL PARADE and, no, it's not like SOUL TRAIN

Sarah and I are sitting on a bench in Washington Square park. That's the one designed over an old Revolutionary burial ground. Now it's a charming, urban greensward surrounded by stylish, Center City condominium towers. It's also where Chi-weenies go to pee.  


I like a clear, night sky. Actually, the residential nature of the immediate neighborhood cuts down on light pollution <see? i do keep up with contemporary terminology>. Summer constellations slowly float by overhead.. I see tiny red pinpoints of light from a passing jet. Sarah spots a shooting star, but perhaps it's just a piece of space junk? Hope that has no bearing on my wish. 


I'm due for a Soul Parade. I don't think I've ever told you about that. It happens, to vampires,I mean, about once every ten or twelve years. The life-eater in question retreats to an isolated spot, often in a cave or a grotto, or a crypt. Some preferred catacombs. The immortal being goes in, lies down, closes his eyes and prays. Then, in order, from first to last, each and every soul 'culled' within that time period condenses out of the ether to visit a while. Oh, it's very real. This is no illusion. Occasionally one of the innocents killed during a lapse does not make an appearance. That means they've reincarnated, hopefully into a more benevolent atmosphere. Could be their death was meant to make that possible? At least that's what we tell ourselves. 


Sarah wants to go with me. I know an old, abandoned gray, Pennsylvania stone cottage, deep within the up-state forests. Wolves still frequent the area. There are no roads or paths. I sublimate in. The site came to me in a dream. I've seen ghosts there. Once I saw a headless child stumbling through the filtered moonlight. But then I blinked and it was gone. Another time a pack of skinless Indians, obviously the spirits of those flayed alive, passed single file by the doorstep of my refuge. Worst of all are the orange eyes reflecting out from the blackness. Some are just animals, but some are not. I hate the way they stare. 


Some souls cry. Others just hover and say nothing. A few screech like banshees. Some babble incoherently. 


They pinch me. They scratch my face, gouge at my eyes and molest me in the most horrible ways, all within the velvety darkness of a ruined cellar. I believe the remains of a murdered vagabond lie buried in the rammed earth floor. But he doesn't bother me. He just laughs and blurts out obscenities. 


Some expect apologies. Others want to dance. But I never dance with them


One time a cold, young man silently entered that place. However, he was very  much alive. God knows what he heard. His presence roused me from my painful reverie. I sublimated straight up through the remnants of the old, oak floor and smiled at him. It was an evil smile. Needless to say, he died right on the spot. Pity, the blood died with him. 


You see, dead blood has no 'good' in it. All the vampire specific 'vitamins' fly away, like ravens from a dried up corpse. So I was forced to drag him out into the midnight chill and feed him to the wolves. I had no knife, but by twisting the limbs repeatedly, was able to separate them from the rest of the body and feed them to the greys.


Then I crawled back in ...to finish my ordeal......


Perhaps tomorrow, I'll set off again. Will I take Sarah? I suppose. She never ceases to surprise me. A strong life-eater that one is.


Now leave me alone. I want to go kill somebody


Exactly 2:00am EDT, on a wrought iron bench in the forgotten bone yard that is Washington Square...


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The VAMPIRES Want YOU to 'like' STUFF on Billy Kravitz' FACE BOOK PAGE...OK?

Look at the BEAUTY IS AS BEAUTY DOES episode appearing right under this. Please READ IT. I can't stay up late enough tonight to 'channel' a new one. But this one is VERY WORTHY OF YOUR ATTENTION. Check out the new COMMENT POLICY  (at the bottom of the BEAUTY IS... post) too. It may THROW SOME TRAFFIC YOUR WAY.


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vampire wonderland: BEAUTY IS AS BEAUTY DOES..... VAMPIRES SHARE THE B...

vampire wonderland: BEAUTY IS AS BEAUTY DOES..... VAMPIRES SHARE THE B...: We're half way 'round the Sun since last THANKSGIVING. This episode ran back then. Can't post a new one tonight. Must retire  (ZZZzzzZZZ) a...

Edith and Baylah drink a toast to DONNA SUMMER

First of all, before we start, let me direct your attention to a little bon-bon left as a COMMENT after yesterday's post by the great Southern tale spinner, O.G. Tomes, where she gives us a peek into one of her latest books A TEST OF FAITH. Reads like a movie. I like that. Go to http://ogtomes.blogspot.com for more. A 'clickable' link at bottom of comment.


                    AND NOW, BACK TO OUR SHOW


Vampires have trouble with tattoos. It's not a question of infections, or things like that. Microbes cannot harm them. But the pigment tends to disappear. It just dissolves and goes away. How they excrete it, I do not know. Zebulon is not an alchemist.  But I do know they leave no scat and pass no water. However, they do perspire. A light dewiness appears on the skin. So perhaps it escapes that way? They continue on as they were at the time of transformation, preserved as if in amber. 


Baylah has a tattoo, a small one. I believe it represents some pre-Islamic Tuareg talisman. It's on the outer side of her left wrist... a small, black stylized camel spider, applied while still a mortal. 


Edith admired it. They're having tea right now, snug in the little, jewel-box apartment above the piano bar. I can hear the muffled tinkling of the show tunes wafting through the floor. Baylah can drink tea. Not too much. Just a little. She lets it slide down drop by drop. Tomas can tolerate certain varieties of distilled spirits. That's just the way it is. Papa can handle thick, yeasty beer...and occasionally a chewy pine nut. Don't ask me about the pine nuts. Perhaps it has to do with his great antiquity? 


Now he's singing 'Last Dance.'  It isn't a show tune, but not all of them are. Baylah got to know Donna Summer back in the early days. She'd appear in small, South Street clubs. Baylah loves to dance. Well-off admirers  squired her about the city in stylish Cadillac El Dorados. You know the cars, the ones with those discreet, little  'opera' windows. Miss Summer never knew she was a vampire. Not everyone can handle that. Some believe the lies spawned by The Inquisition. Others fear magic of any kind. Still, Baylah did give her a small vial, a beautiful, faceted crystal thing, like a pendant. And you know what was inside. It held a few drops of her blood... relics of a 'saint' not truly dead. I know they were in contact over the years. Some letters passes. Some phone calls. Maybe they spoke of the magic? Maybe she knew the truth by then? But she never drank the 'special drug' inside..... Pity. Zebulon cannot tell you where she is on my side now. I do not know. Death is a big place spanning many Heavens and countless Hells. I have only been to some of them. And think on this~~~ to be dead for a heartbeat, or for a billion years is all the same to us. Dead is dead is dead. I have heard of some who reincarnate and go back....like widows returning to Florida. But I have never done it.... not yet.


So the two unusual creatures, the Piney witchy-woman and the Sub-Saharan former princess sit at the small, polished dining table in the lavish pied a terre and raise a cup to the vanished diva, as the last well dressed, tipsy patrons exit the cozy piano bar down below. If it  was winter, the cold air would refresh them. But this is May, when such things never happen.


Most vampire nights are devoid of drama, though poignant just the same.


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And for a different take on the VAMPIRE genre, take a look at the very well received, BEST SELLING  books by ANDREW HARDING at http://AHardingBooks.com a delicious melange of THE MENTALIST meets CSI with a dash of enchantment and a healthy dose of NINE AND A HALF WEEKS..... a REALLY HEALTHY DOSE!!