IVAN STEPANOVICH, the Russian Prisoner, contemplates his fate... 1/11/14

He sat alone in a small space they set up for him. How they did it, I don't know. Ghosts cannot easily influence physical matter. Perhaps there are others like the pin-head? Russians can be so secretive.  The space was once an office. Not a big one. No commisar, or anything like that. Probably some timid little clerk. The current tenant, the prisoner from Moscow, had an old, canvas mattress, worn but not too soiled. a pillow, some blankets and a box of candles meant to be used during storms. Even in a rather advanced (for its time) experimental center such as this, regular electrical service so far from the capital, or any other sizable town was questionable at best.

And he heard no sound at all, save for occasional trips to the food room with his spectral jailer, Usipov. He asked if he might take a can or two of beans, or Vienna sausage back to his place, but the temporary ghost said 'no,' so that was it. There was an old, institutional, chamber pot, straight out of Dostoyevsky or Chekov, once white, but now tinged with gray due to a fine network of spidery cracks. Someone emptied it while he slept. It had to be while he slept. He never saw them. He tried to wake up. He tried to hear whomever it was, but detection was futile.

There were twelve candles left in the box. Each burned four hours. Maybe three days worth. Unless 'they' gave him another box, it would probably end then. So he sat on the mattress with his back to the wall watching the shadows dance. 

Thirty four years old he was, born as the old system died, a foundling left at an orphanage. Usually mothers wrote a note, some scrap pinned to the swaddling, but in his case there was nothing. The matrons named him Ivan. One out of seven male Muscovites bore that name. so statistically they stood a chance. Stepanovich came from a popular footballer. Once the necessary forms were filled out there were no further questions. He grew to be a quiet child. Never disobeyed. Rarely (if ever) fought with the others. Always said his prayers. Always cleaned his place. So grateful for the small tokens given him for Christmas and his birthday (a matron picked that date). Colorful, cardboard picture books, a rubber sponge ball, gloves, things like that.

He thought about the walks through the district. How regimented they were. Poor, little soldiers. People called them 'the boys from the baby gulag.' Once he lost his blue, woolen cap. Like a military cap it was. They beat him for that. Some older boys, not from the orphanage grabbed it and ran away, but that didn't make a difference. 

When he was sixteen they put him out. He walked the streets for three days and nights til a man and his wife gave him a job in their haberdashery sweeping the floor and folding and re-folding the shirts and sweaters. The man and his wife kept a sweet, rich brick of halvah under a little glass, bell jar in the back. Sometimes they gave him some. Best thing was they let him sleep in the storeroom on a little folding cot he won at a carnival and raise sleek, undulating eels in the restroom sink. Luckily the patrons didn't seem to mind. And the small, Sterno stove he cooked the eels on was easily folded up and stored away. Life was good. He liked thinking about the old days, though soon he grew sleepy and drifted off. And the candle at the bottom of his old, empty pineapple juice can was the only light in the whole, vast, long forgotten complex.

Ninety minutes later, while he was dreaming (apparently the forces controlling this place understood the nature of R.E.M. sleep) a stooped, shuffling, half human, half bonobo hybrid quietly came in to empty the chamber pot. When it was gone, the temporary ghost (but rightfully a vampire) known as Grigori Usipov sublimated through the wall to study his future physical form. 

Harmonics would do the trick. Powerful, almost musical, vibrations would break the bond between spirit and flesh, allowing the vampire, oligarch to move in. And whether the former orphan-haberdasher's assistant survived in any form was quite immaterial.

Is it painful, this harmonic separation of the spirit and the flesh?

Well, I'm told it's torture......

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The ETHEREAL SCIENCE OF HARMONICS ... 1/9/13

You know, I believe they once had a fairly decent art collection in this place. Hundreds of pieces scooped up when Stalin split Eastern Europe with the Germans. Stuff from Krakow and Breslau and Bratislava too, if I'm not mistaken. Now The Red Army did not reach all those places, at least not then. Not in the early days of the war. But the party had agents and things sort of slip-slided their way over the border. Some was still here until 'the fall,' of The Soviet Union, I mean. Though when the Lenin statues started to come down the place became a grab bag. I have some pieces in my palace on the Neva. Pushkin's ghost is there, not permanently. He's not in residence. Don't get me wrong. But he does come by from time to time. (and the temporary ghost whispered to himself) God, I miss that place. 

Then he retreated into silence, but his eyes continued to study the unfortunate prisoner's form. There are storerooms filled with irradiated food in this complex. Big cans sealed in the nineteen forties. The temporary ghost vampire named Grigori Usipov knows where they are. And he knew the prisoner was hungry, so he spoke..... There's a can opener in the desk. Right here. Top drawer. In the middle. Come take it - he said.... Then he stood up and moved aside so the prisoner would have room. The helpless mortal did as he was told and he hefted the large implement in his hand. It had a mother of pearl handle with some type of printing or writing on it.... a souvenir from a 'People's Resort' on the Black Sea.
W-what is this? What is it? - he said...... The strange being, locked in spirit form said nothing. He simply moved toward the doorway and gestured for the mortal to follow. So lit by the feeble light escaping from the Russian 'ghost' thing's form, they hurried through the endless corridors to the food room. For the next two hours the hungry scared mortal ate. I can't vouch for the flavor of the feast, for much of it was basically steamed and that steaming took place more than sixty five years ago, but the radiation did it's trick and it was more or less germ free. Pressed duck he had and scalloped potatoes and Vienna Sausage plus some disgusting, wet, noodle pudding concoction that looked like it came from King Tutankhamun's kitchen. But he ate it.  And for six or seven 'days' they returned to that place. There were cans of pineapple juice too and some type of wafer that approximated crisp toast.

The Grigori Usipov thing knew of a gym too and he exercised the current tenant of his future body so he'd get a good one. The basic form was already half decent to begin with. They had these kettle dumbbell things. Like bowling balls with handles. And the trapped mortal learned to swing them around like a dancer. But considering where he was and who controlled him, what choice did he have? You know Hansel in the cage and the Witch? Well.... then you know what I mean. And all this happened in the dark, lit by the subtle light wafting off the ghosts.... A strange, mundane horror and deep inside, the mortal knew it. Sometimes the pin-head thing came to watch, but I think he (she... it?) only really came for the pineapple juice. 

One night (look, due to the sealed up windows it was always night in that place) the sleek and improved mortal said - You had them take me. You had them capture me and bring me here...... And then he couldn't say anymore..... Usipov continued - And you want to know how it ends?....... The mortal just looked..... His captor went on - You won't die. No oblivion. Don't worry about that. But it will be 'different.'.... Then he held out a robe. The mortal took it and put it on. The temporary ghostly, vampire oligarch thing led the way back to a gerrymandered living space strewn with old vinyl sofa cushions and a solar powered/hand cranked radio-cassette player. Needless to say, the 'solar' part was out of the question. So the mortal sat down bathed in weak, silvery ghost-light, snapped in his favorite cassette, an old, well worn version of Brigadoon (there wasn't much of a collection to begin with) and cranked it up, filling the place with a poignant song of a magical, faraway world. Then he lay down and sobbed, as the strange jailer quietly spoke of 'harmonics' and the wonderful things it could do.

Please forgive me for stopping now. This disembodied spirit narrator planned to tell you more. And if you are curious, I am not one of the important spirit narrators. I am not Mister Never-You-Mind, or Johannon, or Zebulon (remember him?). I am not the little polio victim in the cellar of the townhouse. I am just 'me.' And that wilkravitz, or 'Billy' mortal who channels this is sleepy.....

Let him rest. Next time you'll hear more.

Oh, if you like, google Brigadoon on You Tube. You might enjoy it.

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The Spirit of The Russian Vampire Oligarch, Gregori Usipov Wants His New Body .. 1/9/13

Who is it, that 'thing?' - the spirit of the Russian vampire oligarch said to the red eyed baby. And the baby, held in the arms of the headless 'thing' responding in a patois not quite Russian and not quite Ruthenian said - I do not know who he is. Body came preserved in big pickle jar. Not pickle jar, but big and full of brine, so I call it pickle jar. Head is in Grand Palace of Soviet Ethnicities....... The still alive Russian prisoner listened in amazement, as the strange, ghostly bundle switched from baby gurgles to the rather raspy voiced adult he heard now. He shuddered and shrank back against battered cartons hiding God knows what.  He didn't want to know, especially considering the 'Thriller' remake he just lived through, so he babbled like a crazed maniac and said - Mommy-Daddy Mommy-Daddy Mommy-Daddy Mommy-Daddy Mommy-Daddy. With that the little red eyed, baby thing began to bounce and clap. Finally, the spirit of the impatient, Russian, vampire oligarch  yelled - Enough! I want to take his body!....... The crazed, Russian prisoner giggled and peed a little. From his viewpoint, what else could go wrong?

Four hundred and ninety heartbeats later they sat in the small, battered and rather institutional remnants of a Soviet office. The Gregori Usipov spirit thing (rather dapper, in an overblown, new money billionaire sort of way) took a seat behind the desk. The still living, severely trembling Russian prisoner occupied a squeaky old chair placed in the spot where the petitioner would normally sit. Frantic ape-human, ghost hybrids screamed from the space next door.  The prisoner swiveled back and forth like an idiot. He wanted to bolt, but he was so completely terrified and besides, where would be go? The place was still dark. Every room was dark. The only reason he could see anything was the 'glow.'  The spirit 'glow.' Apparently, they could emanate a form of illumination. Ghosts? Spirits? Who knew?

Finally, the prisoner found his voice, shaky as it was, and said - Are you a ghost?....... The vampire, oligarch eyed him judgmentally and said - Only temporarily. Did I 'die?' No, I never died, unless you count when I became vahmpyr.  But to me, that is not death. No, not 'true' death. Though I am without my body..... And then he grinned..... Believe me. You don't want to see that grin..... The poor prisoner silently studied the empty, worn, institutional gray, metal desk top and said nothing. Even the frantic screams from the ape-human hybrid ghosts next door stopped. There was no sound, save the wind, from somewhere out beyond this hidden place.

And the Russian, vampire, oligarch... the 'ghost' though not a ghost, told him certain things... Of his time (at least in mortal terms) with the elusive entity known as Madam Shang... Of their visits to other worlds and different, temporal planes. 

For a while the prisoner was entranced and listened attentively. Tiger hunts in Old Baroda and chime-like auroras on worlds far from our own. But when the disconnected spirit spoke of losing his own body somewhere along the way and the near perfect 'harmonic' match he had with the still living mortal there before him, that mortal started to have second thoughts, right about when that 'baby' thing crawled in and said - Don't worry.... You'll like it here....
                                          <<o> <o>>

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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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