SLEEPERS AWAKE among a dead room in an ABANDONED STALINIST COMPLEX 1/8/13

The only light came from the glowing eyes of the ghosts. The first was the baby in the arms of the headless man, but soon there were others. One by one, the canvas straps around an assortment of coffin-like boxes broke and the unfortunate Russian prisoner jumped every time it happened. He screamed when the tops slid off and hit the floor. The 'contents' were unwrapped, sad, desiccated remains of hellish experiments performed long ago by Stalinist doctors. Bodies half stripped of flesh.... Legless stumblers hobbling about on stiff, ancient, proto-bionics.... Humans with beaks like giant eagles (made of strong, early bakelite) affixed to the place their jaws once were. And they eyes, the dried up currants sunk deep in ocular, bony wells began to glow with a cold, dead, blood red light.

He ran. The prisoner ran... down passageways lined with similar containers, each spilling it's contents as he passed. Skeletal hands stretched out to grab him. Some pinched hard, but he tore free, oblivious to the blood, til he reached a pale, green, cinder block wall and could no longer escape.

They were on him in a heartbeat, tearing and grabbing and eating... stinking of death, though not of the grave, for these were never buried. And he fell to his knees, as they swarmed his body, devouring his flesh. The bite that took the bit of meat beneath his trembling chin hurt most.

Then it was over. The dead, red eyes were gone and he lay there on the old linoleum tiles, wheezing and coughing and gasping in the dark. He ran his hands over his body expecting to feel bone, but  the skin was still there. And at first he thought it a dream and he laughed, alone in that pitch, black isolated place, thankful just to survive.

Four heartbeats later he heard the footsteps. They came 'round a corner and he saw the small, red eyes. The headless man and his seeing-eye-baby were back. The baby held out its little hands to him and went - da da ba ba da da  ba ba. And the headless ghost adjusted his crotch. I guess even headless ghosts like their pants to fit right.

But there was a third 'figure' with them and he seemed focused on other things.

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Impossible Coincidences That Actually Happened ...1/7/13 ..

Want to see if blog is posting properly and thought I'd do so with an eerily cool vid like this.
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No Wall Street People In This Movie (no wait. it's a blog post. sorry) Just Twisted Ghosts On The Russian Steppes.. 1/6/13

This is what ghosts really are..... they're people... more or less regular people. They can think and feel and communicate and do all that shit. But they don't have no body. You know how old people what got feet, or legs chopped off, 'cause a the diabetes still get 'skeeta bites on that leg? That 'cause the ghost a the leg still there. And ghost just another word for energy, or soul, or essence. Essence also the name of a magazine. I don't think they got a magazine called 'Ghost' though. Maybe dead folks read it? I don't know. 

If you been with us a while, you know narrators ain't just voices that leak out a the air. We disembodied spirits. Which means if you too lazy to type 'disembodied spirit' you could write 'ghost.' I not Mister Never You Mind, or one a them big ones, but you can call me 'Mert.' I got creamed on the subway tracks by a train screechin' through the China Town spur. Slid off the platform 'cause it dangerous tryin' not to step in cat piss when you drunk.  Hell wit' the cat piss. Quit dancin'! Jus' step in it. Better than windin' up like the insides of a Chunky Soup can. Pigeons and rats liked me though. It tickled.

Not all ghosts like me. Some got 'bility a move stuff. Some like a throw a knife, or twis' a head all the way around. Them the nasty ones you gotta watch out for. Some jus' sit there wit' they malf all open, droolin' an' all. That 'cause they thinkin.' They re-livin' every minute a they life. They sayin' - Why that lunchroom lady tell me to go f*ck myself in first grade? or - Why they not call boy ballerinas 'ballerinos?'.... Not like dead folk gotta punch a clock. Sometimes they just stare at dust...

And sometimes they kill folks. Doan even got a touch nobody to do that. Step creak late at night. Window crack cause a the cold. Toilet make a funny noise. Front door get knocked on at 4AM specially when you live out in the country. Lectricity go out an' you see sumpin. Half a them what die a heart attack when they home alone, really die a ghos' attack.

Some ghost  jus' evil, like them what Russian prisoner up against. (read post before this if you doan know, 'cause they all go together) Headless shadow man got no right totin'  red eyed baby. An' I  doan mean red from rubbin' them wit' its little fists. Got like a evil glow shinin' out. An' when Russian prisoner guy get a good look he see it ain't got no malf. Can see them gums movin' round behind the flesh, but it ain't got no malf.

Headless man switch baby over to his right arm and  point directly at the prisoner. Prisoner almost shit hisself. Then big, metal locker fall over. It go CRASH. Doors (it got two a them) fly open, jars roll out. Headless ghost start kickin' 'em all 1000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000.. Sorry, I fell asleep at the keyboard, or rather that wilkravitz fell asleep an' he the only one got fingers. Lot a them jars smash open now. Pickled head roll 'round like they knows where they goin' fry`Hair plastered every which way.  8^)          U*)

I gotta go eat now. Russian fellah sayont ejhi  (I doan even know what I sayin' )

'Gospodyi pom-il-yee... That's what he saiD

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The Prisoner From Moscow Serves A Purpose ... 1/5/13

Stalin wanted to create an invincible army of ape men. Human scientists readily donated home-grown reproductive cells from their own loins. And she-apes confiscated from zoos, or circuses served as receptacles. Originally orangutan women were used as petri dishes, but the harvest was shitful. The genetic make-up just wasn't close enough. Chimpanzee and pygmy chimpanzee women (now called bonobos) worked better. Not every match resulted in a bouncing little fuzz ball, though some did.  And the most promising specimens were nurtured, while lesser varieties perished. Most were thrown directly into one of the huge iron furnaces down in the cellars. They didn't scream long. Indeed, most seized up immediately and didn't scream at all. Twenty five hundred degrees fahrenheit will do that to children, even somewhat simian looking children. And when the plug was pulled on the whole shebang in nineteen thirty six, or nineteen thirty seven, even the top dogs were put down. First they were injected with a muscle relaxant to make them more tractable. Then they were summarily thrown in a pit... more like a large, round deep well, covered with truckload after truckload of pulverized rocks and gravel and sealed under twenty eight meters of cement. I'm told there was probably enough air trapped in the rock and gravel mixture to keep them alive for hours. I wonder if they called out to each other.

Madam Shang picked this place. The powerful spirit bearing that name came here. Once she was a vampire, or something like a vampire. But that was so long ago, even before the Lady Renates time. If you've traveled with us since the beginning, or soon after, you know that name. The Lady Renate gave rise to the one called 'Papa' and they go back to the Cro-Magnons. Magic has always existed. You yourself might be drenched in it and not even know. There are ways to access that elusive quality and we could tell you, but this is not the time. 

But the Madam left her 'toy' here. She tires of them, you know and there have been many, usually drawn from the ranks of 'younger' and more human vampires. The Russian, vampire, oligarch, known as Gregori Usipov was one of those. She liked his strength and passion, so she kidnapped him. And all his billions and all his private jets couldn't keep the Madam away. For a while he had fun. Her treasures are many and the pleasures were overwhelming. She took him to coronations in ancient Sumer, toddler burnings in Carthage and opulent tiger hunts in Mogul India. Some of the tigers could talk. They dallied with prostitutes in le Vieux Carre, long before The War Between The States and ate shish-kabobs made from centaur meat on worlds 'round other suns. Though after a time he missed his physical body, even though the spirit one she gave him could imitate it in many ways it still was not the same. She stalled. She promised. She cajoled. But really she did not care and at one time considered leaving him on an icy, lifeless, Jovian moon. Not Europa... one of the crummy ones. Truth is The Madam Shang could not find his body. Things are so easily misplaced in the magical realm. There is no time. There is no place. It's all quite fluid and hard to control, even for a near immortal entity like her. So in a fit of remorse she dumped him here. The spiritual frissson is quite strong what with the dead 'almost babies' floating around.  That plus that other one, the mortal prisoner from Moscow, makes it the perfect melange for a body hungry vampire. The mix of the spirit and the flesh and all. Gregori Usipov might not get his body, but he'd get somebody's.

The prisoner didn't know his part in all this, as he blindly stumbled through a storage area. Hard, corrugated boxes. Large, sharp edged metal chests. Coffin-like cases sealed with canvas straps. Piled high and all around him. His hands were scraped and cut. His shins were bleeding too. The filthy pants provided little protection. And maybe they could smell it. Maybe they sensed the life there? The pin-head thing apparently knew enough to avoid this place, but he did not...

Then there in the blackness he saw them... two tiny beads of light glowing red in the dark. Small and close together they were..... And they came toward him, moving along in a slow, steady fashion. He froze and by the faintest glow emanating  from those unblinking orbs he saw the figure..... A man it seemed to be.... A shadow man holding a baby... A baby with red, staring eyes... And the man who cradled it had no head.

But the 'baby' didn't seem to mind...

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MORE HORRORS IN THE DARK.... 1/3/13

Days without food. Occasional mouthfuls of rusty water... And the dark. The worst is the dark. An itch runs down his spine. What is it, an insect?... a finger tip?... sweat?... a nerve? In the dark you never know. He waited near the window, the one with the loose metal cover. Was it day? Was it night? He didn't know, but the light never leaked through again. But was he alone? When the light did leak through he saw it. He saw the eye and a tiny, narrow sliver of the face. Brown, he thought it was. or perhaps amber, or maybe hazel? It was hard to tell. It happened so fast. Sometimes he thought it was still there. That's how he imagined it..... an 'it.'.... And other times he was sure it was gone.

Then he smelled it, a sticky, milky smell and he knew the thing was back. He heard noises like children make when they click their tongue against the roof of their mouth to make like a horse. And it went on and on and on and never stopped. First to the left. Then to the right. It came in close and faded back. But no footsteps...none.

He started to click back and it answered. It came close. First he heard the fart. Then he smelled it. Guess it was the milk... MILK! There must be some kind of food in here. And that thing knew where it was. Not a ghost. It couldn't be a ghost. It had to be alive. So on the next milk-click adagio, he reached out... into the dark.... his hand out there before him, invisible in the void. A mind shark could 'swim' by at any moment and take the whole arm... shoulder too. Once saw a guy on Prospekt Street, in Moscow, a veteran from some military thing in Chechnia  and he didn't have an arm and he didn't have a shoulder. Not a good look for a guy in a wife-beater. On top of being mutilated, he obviously lacked any discernible fashion sense too. Maybe they hit him in the head? who knows?

But he made contact. There wasn't any mind shark and he felt something. He touched it... a rubbery face.... a little one... a little rubbery face.... Like the troll doll his cousin Misha glued to the dash of the new Peugot. Except the part where the hair was wasn't hollow. It was round... a little round head .... a 'pin head'. He didn't know the term 'micro-cephalic' and he wouldn't have used it if he did. Then it smiled (he could feel it. ewww, he touched some teeth) and made more clicking sounds....

Who are you? - he said...... No answer. Just clicks. Then the milk stink... a belch... more milk stink. But the sound was a little too low. Like ,maybe, just above his belt buckle. He crouched down and reached out again. No legs! It had no legs! The milk drinker shrieked and bit his hand, right between the thumb and forefinger. Then it sped away, using its arms like crutches. 

The thing ( who knew the gender?) raced down an unseen passage. He heard the pelvis thud against the floor. And the prisoner from Moscow stumbled after. Milk... Maybe he'd get some milk?..... Warm milk.... tepid milk..... That's how hungry he was.  He didn't care. 

Then the lights momentarily flickered. He heard a noise. In a cluttered storage room room off to the side sat a being. Not human. Not ape... A being. quietly stripping the meat from a dead, little rhesus monkey and shoving it into it's mouth. The poor, little monkey looked so pathetic... He gasped. The being  dropped the half eaten  monkey and gave chase

Please let it just be a ghost. Please let it just be a ghost.

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The DISEMBODIED SPIRIT known as JOHANNON TALKS...... 1/2/13

I am the spirit-narrator known as Johannon. In the flesh I was body servant to the young and still mortal Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea. I saved him when evil Crusader brigands burned that Provencal synagogue. He lived. I died. Although, what really happened to me? My essence did not change. I am still here. Well, when I want to be. For I see other realms too. And although not yet admitted to The Radiance of The Sapphire Throne, that too will happen. What you call a thousand years is not so long. I can wait. I know oblivion is but an illusion. The best is yet to come. Though my life-eater charge, your Tomas, also known as Jonathon, does not know for sure. He has faith... most of the time, but with occasional lapses. This age we pass through is scientific and people are so literal. Newborns are given percentiles and the dead go into coffins in the ground. Do they believe in The World To Come? Do you? How self-serving and cynical this world is. I see the commercials. I know that word. Sick children wracked with a terrible wasting disease, go to a facility called 'Saint Jude's' where they are attended to by those providing costly, costly, costly medical services. Though families pay not one shekel. Yet millions of your dollars are collected every year, for they who provide those services expect to be paid. Their fees are pegged to possible benefits and in few ways related to the actual task performed. Families don't pay, but many, many, many others do. The physician wants that money. I wonder what the nurse gets. In my time healers answered a 'call.' Now no one does... in any field.  You are your brother's keeper. It's written in both The Unitarian and Trinitarian Bibles. You know that. I know you do.

Poor Jonathon. He sits. He thinks. He has his dreams. See him in there all alone. The screen-of-visions is dark. No stories pour forth from that surface. And the hearth burns with a low, weak, orange glow. A vampire ponders death. He asks - What if all I believe is but illusion? What if life is life and death is death and dark is dark? What color is oblivion? Edith silently enters from the kitchen with a hot, clear cider. She puts it down (on a napkin) where he can get it and leaves. But he doesn't even know she was there. 

Tomorrow night he meets with the young people again... five more new ones. Liam and Max and Kevin and the other one are bringing friends. He'll put little drops of his blood in the tea. They'll drink it. This is the second time, so they shouldn't be so reluctant. I don't know if they'll be able to meet in that little cafe anymore. The booth in the back will be too small. He's going to need a bigger place. 

They have to go out and make the world a better place. His blood strengthens them. Cures illness and all that. Then they have to come back and talk about it and go out and do it again..... Like a paranormal Weight Watchers, or Gamblers Anonymous. I see things. I know.

But he wonders. This scientific age breeds doubt. Is some miraculous spark there in the blood which he passes along, or is it just microbial in nature? Could there be some prion, undiscovered by science, responsible for it all? Is it even possible to know. 

When we recite the Tenants of The Faith during services in the synagogue (which means meeting house) we say 'I believe with a most perfect faith...' ... 'Most perfect'.... How comforting that must be.

I hope my one time charge remembers.....

Next time you'll go back to the entities in Russia, but I wanted you to know...

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ATROCITIES IN THE DARK... the nightmare on the steppes continues... 1/2/13

Many places out on the Russian steppes are devoid of human life. The abandoned secret complex exists in such a locale. And save for the one trembling prisoner locked inside, no other mortal heart beats anywhere near the place. The closest town is eighty one miles away. There are no roads. Few even know it's here. The doors and windows are sealed shut... blocked by heavy metal shutters. Daylight never enters. Night goes on forever. A fox stalks voles along the periphery, but she doesn't know what's inside. Crows peck the eyes from cornered squirrels upon the roof, yet they're ignorant of much greater tortures within.

Down a dark, dark hallway, with his back pressed hard against the wall sat the trembling prisoner, too afraid to move, too afraid to breathe. Days in blackness. No food. Tiny mouthfuls of rusty water from leaky faucets found stumbling through the blackness. And sometimes he'd hear things. Insane laughter. Moaning. Crying. Desperate screams. Someone sawed a foot off with a hack saw. He knew he heard. The words were familiar. If not Ukrainian, then Russian, or perhaps some dialect from Belarus. Once, after a rather long period of silence, he ventured out, inching his way along the old tiled floor. And he felt it. He touched it. At first he pulled back reflexively, but it seemed to slide toward him. So he picked it up... a severed human foot. Quite a small one. Perhaps a child's. After a time it dissolved in his hand and he cried. Then he dropped his pants and backed into an alcove to relieve himself.

Soon after his skin began to crawl. Tiny, insect-like pinpoints scurried 'round his body, stowaways from the 'night' before, stowaways from those things under the paint. And he scratched... he scratched... he scratched... he scratched til his nails were wet. He scratched til he bled all over. Then he lay on his side, all curled up, as other little things with soft warm tongues crept out to lick the blood.

Terror takes its toll. A soul can only take so much and after a while numbness sets in. You've heard stories. You've seen things. Even martyrs on the stake stop screaming and the flames are just the flames. The prisoner was like that. Just the dark can do it. Just the stench. Just the ghosts. 

Were his eyes open? Were they closed? Did it matter? He just lays there. But then he saw the light... just a sliver... just a little... just a bit. A shutter was loose. A cover was off and he crawled toward it. He peered out. So narrow it was. Just yellow. Just light. It burned. It hurt. After days in darkness he couldn't take it and looked away. But the knife edge of radiance followed him inside and he saw where it feel, upon the wet and shiny surface of another eye... someone else's eye.

The prisoner shudders. He whispers - Who's there?! But the eye is gone. He waits until the sun goes down and darkness comes again...

And then the thing comes back.....

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