Some nights I haunt the streets like this, especially late, snowy nights. I'm all in black... black jeans... black pea coat... waterproof black lace up work boots... matching turtleneck... scarf and black 'waxed' (waterproof) fedora.... trim, fur lined leather gloves too. At times I meld with the shadows. No one knows I'm there, even most of the cats.
I glide along, just above the cold surface. If anyone does happen to see me, they think I'm sliding, or 'street skating.' But there are no tracks. There are no foot prints. I can do that. When I sublimate through creation altitude is not important. Flying is flying. I pass through the air. I pass through snowflakes. They do not melt. They just go on.
Sometimes I whistle, not loud, but in a low and resonate manner. If people hear, I don't care. There are nights when I tail someone for quite a while. We skim the perimeter of silent, photogenic squares all covered with snow. The prey turns down some sporadically lit residential street. I turn too. We pass classic, pre war apartment buildings, coveted brownstones and beaux arts towers.
In PHILADELPHIA AFTER DARK, the seminal screenplay Vampire Wonderland is based on, I lived up there, safe in a lofty redoubt. My name was Thomas (not Tomas) and I'm not Spanish, but the second son of a Scottish aristocrat. Please know that is fiction. This is not.
The prey slips into an all night coffee shop. I wait outside. Hidey-holes are everywhere. I don't fear the cold, or the rain, or the snow. There's a thing I do, a type of sublimation, that causes all manner of precipitation to evaporate before touching my clothing. So I'm quite dry and comfortable. I fall into a state, contemplating things from years ago. But when the prey leaves the warmth of that coffee shop, I move too.
You see, what I'm sharing here is another way I hunt and kill those souls unworthy of mortal life. During this stage of the pursuit I make no sound at all. Teddy Bears Picnic is a favorite of mine. Sometimes I whistle it, not loud, but I do. Am I repeating myself? If so, forgive me. Night-folk rarely think in a linear manner. Time is different for us.
The prey climbs the steps to his stylish quarters in a converted townhouse. I glide up too, not stepping on each marble tread, but rising up, as if on an incline, till he unlocks the door and steps inside.... But I pass through too.
There's no drama, no grand orchestrated dance. I merely restrain him and levitate up perhaps eighteen inches from the floor. When their feet can't touch a solid surface the whole thing is much easier.
I quickly drain him dry and let the body crumple down onto the black and white, checkerboard quartz tiles. Then I leave, not even waiting for the remains to ignite with a 'cold' blue flame. Should some one enter right after my departure, they'd think it a case of spontaneous human combustion. Believe me, that more or less, fictional occurrence veils many a vampire's feast.
Don't ask me what I'd do if interrupted whilst in the act. Does that happen? Yes, not often, but it does and I hate to think about it.
Thus is my life, or my existence, if you're picky about such things...
I pass through the thinly blanketed streets and leave no tracks. The snow stays clean and pure....
Ah, but the air feels good....
<more next time>
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You see, what this blog is, is like a notebook. I record everything the vampires and other night-folk want me to record. They'll start telling a story, a recollection of what happened to them that night, or maybe centuries ago and then just go silent. That means they're already thinking about something else and that 'something else' might be a different long ago experience, or the quiet sound of a rooster coming from a TV that's left on because it's always left on. Vampires are like that. Years later they'll go back to an old story like they never left it.
Sometimes Jonathon takes me with him when he goes wandering through closed museums. We pass through darkened halls and galleries barely lit by tiny night lights. He likes dim illumination. They have rooms brought over from Europe and Asia piece by piece and reconstructed here. We sit in a medieval cloister originally from a French monastery. It's a series of rooms opening onto a square arcade. A low stone wall separates the arcade from what was once geometric flower beds surrounding a little fountain in the middle. Fountain's still there. Flowers are long gone. Now there's an authentic geometric design made from distressed looking stone cobbles. Little flickering, artificial candles shed an orange glow through the doorless rooms. We sit on the low stone wall looking at the dry fountain. During the hours when the people come, they play a low recording of tinkling water. But not now.
Jonathon starts saying something in a northern dialect of Vahmperigo. I can hear the romance words in it, but this is more like French than Spanish, so I just go 'uh huh' and let him talk. Vampires are proud of their languages. His is more like Spanish, Catalan and Piedmontese Italian with a few ancient words from a source unknown even to the vampires.
I ask him if any spirits ever come over with these reconstructed rooms. He shrugs. That means he's contemplating his answer. Sometimes he just contemplates and never answers. But not this time.... He says they don't usually do that, because the initial destruction of the site drives them away. Some pass on. Some wander. Though he says there might be a local ghost, maybe somebody from here who liked this exhibit (it's a permanent exhibit) and visited often. They might be here, especially if they lived alone and didn't have much family. They might come by.... I ask if there's one now.... He doesn't answer. That might mean 'no,' or one's here now and it's none of your business, or 'What? I'm thinking of something else.'
Jonathon already fed tonight. It was his time to 'cull' somebody. This time it was a lawyer. He's equal opportunity. Culls all types.... shyster doctors... shyster investment advisors... shyster politicians... violent haters... abustive people. I can't remember all of them. Tonight was a shyster lawyer. Guy took advantage of widows... trusting grown children beneficiaries, some of them handicapped. He was a real creep. Put an old lady in a home. Then he had a house sale and sold off all her stuff. Kept a seventeenth century Dutch painting for himself. Said it covered expenses. Chipped away at the rest of the estate real fast. You know how those 'expenses' can be?.... She died without visitors. Who would go, him? He never went. And she wasn't the only one. He got rich. They died broke and alone.
So now it was his turn to die. Jonathon sublimated into the right house. Found him watching some basketball game on TV. Oh, yeah, what an athlete. Let me tell you. He had a bet on it. That's why he cared. Sure, his team lost. Well, they won, but didn't make the spread. But he won't have to pay. Jonathon jumped out, pinned him to the floor and bit a whole mess of gristly tissue from his neck before he could even scream. Then the vampire, blood and gore still dripping from his chin, leaned down and whispered into Mister Lawyer's ear.... He said - Your time is up. The years are done. I've come to end your life..... Like a poem. That was it.... The guy squirmed. Tried to punch him. Jonathon quickly broke both arms just below the wrist, so that took care of that. The guy mewed like a little kitten, till he died ninety four heart beats later, when the last of his blood was gone. Jonathon's a fast drinker. Never say vampires 'suck.' They don't suck. They drink.
When done, he stood up and exhaled. Blood rush produced an all over hot flash. Steam rose from his body, instantly evaporating any bits of dried blood and gore. It's remarkable how clean vampires are. Soon the victim ignited into the 'cold' blue flame, like they all do, and disappeared.
Before he left, Jonathon 'liberated' a few substantial pieces of jewelry... a heavy, gold watch... a signet ring... and ninety five thousand dollars in cash, neatly packaged in nineteen, paper banded 'flats' (stacks of fifty, one hundred dollar bills). Of course there was a safe, but vampires have an extremely deft touch and can finesse their way into anything.
Even your throat....
Look, I was going to tell you a bit more of how they view and deal with winter. They love the longer nights, but suffer a heaviness brought on by the dense, cold air. Thoughts are somber and dark. Not so much at the beginning of the season. Then they like it. But as February and March drag on, even they hunger for a warm night breeze and the perfume of flowers.
Maybe next time?....
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A snug winter night in the townhouse. Jonathon peeks through the draperies, taking in the icy drizzle. The cobbles shine like onyx. He turns to face Billy, typing away on his laptop. They're in the little library, a warm refuge. Billy works in a small pool of light from a genuine, ginger jar table lamp. Who knows? Perhaps it once belonged to a Mandarin prince? Our vampire hero, watches his mortal friend tap the keys.
He says - You do that every night. I read your 'Twitter.' I know what goes on. You work and you hope and when it doesn't happen, you work and you hope some more. Do you think they're ever going to help you? My God, don't you know by now? They don't care. You're invisible to them....
Billy - Not all...
Jonathon - No, not all. One or two. Maybe three of four. But think what you do. You mention and retweet people night after night after night who never even notice. Who knows if they notice? They never answer back. You hope for it. No, once, I take it back, Amy Schumer answered back. One time... and the timeline was jumping for weeks. A few words. A picture. I'm sure she's forgotten she did it. But she did. Alright, she did. Yet the others take it all in and never give it back.
Billy doesn't answer.....
Jonathon continues - I peek over your shoulder all the time. You don't even know I'm there.
Billy - I know you're there.
Jonathon - No you don't. You only know when I want you to know.
Billy - So why are you watching now for?
Jonathon - I just feel bad. I know how long you've been at this. What is it, six years? You have those guys, those directors and actors you tweet to. I don't know the names. The 'comedies,' the comedies, where everybody says 'fuck' more than they say 'the.' You retweet them when they ask for retweets. Sometimes you're among the first who do. And every few months you say 'Hey, if you get a chance, please click on my links and look around.'.... Do they do it?
Billy - How would I know?
Jonathon - You'd know. There'd be something. Once in a while you see them tweet to a name you don't recognize and think 'oh, look. maybe they do answer unconnected people sometimes.'... But then you google the name they're talking to and see it belongs to a guy with one and a half million followers. Have you ever seen them actually address somebody like you? I mean other than to belittle some dope over politics, or to retweet people with diseases or money problems, or a one word 'thanks' for desperate fans who gush over anything they do. Come on, tell me.
Billy (quietly) - No.
Jonathon - Then WHY do you do it? And that other one. That girl. That comedian. What's her thing? She says 'vagina,' 'vagina' and 'clitoris' all the time. Like the words to a song.
Billy - But she's funny. You saw her special. You even said she was funny.
Jonathon - But has she ever tweeted back even once? I don't care about her. I care about you. Well, has she? Has she ever helped you?
Billy looks at the keys, but says nothing.
Jonathon - They're worried about their own stuff. They're worried about their own projects. They're not gonna acknowledge you. What can you do for them? You can't even do little favors. You can't do shit.
Billy - Thank you.
Jonathon - No, I don't mean it like that. You have talent. My God, I could never tell this story like you do. You know how few blogs ever come close to four hundred thousand hits? Less than one percent. A fraction of one percent...
Billy - How do you know?
Jonathon - I asked that kid, the one from the computer classes at the library. They're open till nine. I get over there.
Billy - W-w-who does he think you are?
Jonathon - Who CARES who he thinks I am? You worry too much.
Billy - So I worry too much...
They sit in silence for a few moments...
Jonathon sighs and says - Here, I'll give you something. You never heard this. They like weird, stuff. Tell them this. There used to be a carnival that stopped around here maybe a hundred and eighty five, a hundred and seventy five years ago. A few Gypsy caravans, fortune tellers, sword swallowers, fire eaters, a sickening contortionist. I hate contortionists. And a whole bunch of crap like that. You could win a glass 'diamond' ring by tossing a little hoop over a wine bottle, or guessing a number on a crooked wheel of fortune. That got a wreath of wax flowers. I'd go and I'd watch them. Got friendly with the 'geek.' You know what a geek was? I mean the first meaning.
Billy - No.
Jonathon - Well, I'll tell you. They used to have a crazy looking guy. Ran out on the little torch-lit stage screaming and jumping and rolling his eyes. Ladies weren't supposed to watch. They'd go look at some grimy looking doxie make 'Japanese fans.' And this was always in the autumn. They'd come in the autumn. Chilly nights. People bought cider. Hard cider too. Ate hot, buttered corn on the cob. Stood around looking like smacked in the face idiots.
Billy - Where was this?
Jonathon - Where City Hall is today. They used to take down the gallows and let them set up. Everybody came. Coaches dropped off aristocratic couples, young bloods from the University. They didn't go home with glass diamond rings, or wax flowers. They went home with the 'clap.' But that's another story.
Billy - Did you cure them? You could have cured them with a drop or two of your blood. Did you do it?
Jonathon shrugs - The one's who deserved it. The ones I liked. Even cured the carnie girls too sometimes. But they just came back with a new case next year anyway. (loses train of thought) What was I telling you?
Billy - About the geek.
Jonathon - Ah, yes, the geek... They had him dressed up, or almost dressed up in torn scraps, dirty rabbit skins mostly. Maybe a dog's tooth choker 'round his neck. He'd screech like an ape and go berserk. And imagine, all torch lights. The whole carnival was all torch lights. Shadows dancing. Carnies paid local boys to run around with big galvanized garden pails to put out all the fires. Just little ones. Most never got too big. Then some roustabout would throw a burlap sack out onto the stage. Sack was filled with live chickens, all squawking and flapping. Geek got down on all fours. Starts sniffing around. Works his was over to the sack. Sits down. Lifts one out. A big leghorn. They were always big, white leghorns. White feathers made for more contrast... Chicken would beat those big wings. They knew what was coming. They could sense it. And chickens don't deserve anything like that. They're good souls mostly. Take care of their chicks. Count them all the time. Show them how to scratch up fat little bugs. If one goes missing the mother goes crazy. Even the rooster gets involved. God loves chickens. He'd rather we left them alone...But the geek is a big draw. He can't leave them alone. They're the reason he lives. Curls his right thumb and forefinger 'round the chicken's neck up by the head. Does the same with his other hand a few inches down. Brings it up to his mouth. Teeth all filed to points. He gnashes them a little bit. Lets the crowd see. Birds all manic by now. Feathers flying. Grab a feather at the geek show, get good luck. You know what they say?
Billy nods.
Jonathon - Then he grins, brings his jaws together. Carnie guy smothers a few of the torches. Doesn't want any apoplectic fits. Nothing too lurid. People dropped dead over anything back then. Everything was a big deal. Folks eating raw sushi would of wiped out half the town. Funny, raw oysters never did, though. Mortals are strange.... I have to think of something....
Billy - What do you mean?
Jonathon - We have to get those bastards to pay attention. To the blog, I mean. How many words do you have up?
Billy - Uh... eight hundred thousand words... Why?
Jonathon gives him a look - No reason....
Billy - So what happens with the geek?
Jonathon - He gnawed through five leghorn chicken necks. Bit through the feathers, the skin, the spine, all of it. Red blood. White feathers. Sports in the crowd, that means gambler types, bet how far he'd go. Held the heads up to the crowd. Beaks still snapping. Put one on each earlobe. One on each nipple. Hung the last from his upper lip. Soon as they clamp down they hold tight, especially once they're dead. That's how chickens are. Geeks were a big thing. They were cutting edge. Blood dripping down their chins. Eyes bugged out. Grinning and all. People remembered.... For an encore they'd bring out a newly hatched baby chick. Had to be a 'runt.' Human mouth isn't that big. Geek would carefully stuff it all in, look at the crowd. Face all distended. Could still hear it peeping. God knows what it thought. Five heartbeats later he started to crunch. Blood running out. Yellow fluff and all. Crowds love blood. You'd think they were the vampires. Carnie gives geek a jug of cider to help get it down. I once saw a geek die from a punctured esophagus. Convulsed a good long time too. Crowd figured it was part of the show. Carnie-king didn't tell them....
Billy - Wow.... And that's it?
Jonathon - That's it. Eating live chickens, or biting their heads off, was a growth industry back then. You could by stock in it.
Billy - For real?
Jonathon - No, not for real. I just thought you could type it up and maybe people might like it.
Then he put his hand on Billy's shoulder.
Billy - Thanks, Jonathon.
The vampire nods....
They switch on the little tv set among the books and watch an old black and white movie.
If you read this and know some famous bastards, please ask them to look at Vampire Wonderland...
What could it hurt?
<more next time>
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In past posts we learned that among night-folk, this is the beginning of The Age Of Independent Actors. They've tried organized movements before. We've outlined some of them in Vampire Wonderland. But mass movements never last. People get bored, or just tired. It's no fun being cannon fodder and unless you are the leader, or among the chosen few, that's all you'll be. There's a reason why pawns are so numerous.
Yet things will still happen. History will be nudged and tweaked in many different ways. Vampires are a weapon. They cut with extreme accuracy. People just disappear. Nobody ever finds them. Nobody takes credit. That's it. Oh, stories get out.. a detail here... a night mare there. Puts the 'scare' into people.
I can't tell you who gets snatched. I can't tell you what they did, or who fingered them. But I can tell you it happens. And 'noble' vampires are doing it too. The ones who take vows. The ones who 'cull' the wicked. They got ways. Sometimes traditional vampire methods don't even enter into it. Hell, they get enough blood.
A lone life-eater will sublimate into a room, snatch up a victim and sublimate out. The energy, or 'the aura,' forms a halo all around them. Vampire holds on real tight. Just so the victim's inside the cloud. If they are, they pass through walls and everything else too.
Most start screaming. One minute they're snug in their bed, or some hotel bed in Washington, or probably New York (at least the American ones) and ten heartbeats later they're high above the city, up where it's nice and cold. Teeth start chattering. Vampire loosens up a second. Lets them slip a little. They scream some more. Vampire whispers - Scream again and I'll let go. Let me tell you, they don't scream.
We talk about 'independent actors,' but in certain cases two or three night-folk buddy up. They find a place, maybe a cave somewhere... a real hidden cave. Ones with lots of secret, little twisty turns are best. Don't take no blood. Kill other folks for that. This is something else. This is the Righteous Wrath of God. That's how they see it. Natural 'culling' would be too easy. Some don't deserve 'easy.' Get an old hypodermic needle, fill it up with muscle relaxer. Shoot it in the bastard's ass.... They go - What's gonna happen? What are you gonna do to me? Who ARE you?! WHAT are you?! ..... But the vampires never answer.
When the drug kicks in and the eyes start to flutter the pigs mumble. They say - W-what you do, poison me?.... It's awful dark in there. They can't see too much. Vampires carry cigarette lighters, for draggin' folks into caves and all. Maybe the vampire nods. Maybe they don't. This thing isn't about communicating. This is about taking action.
Bastard gets dumped in a little niche, or natural alcove. Rocks and mortar are all ready. They whimper some more. They pray. They beg. Offer money. Offer lots of money. Vampires set a little candle in there with them and light it. Then they just keep sealing them in... more stones... more mortar. You should see the look in their eyes before that last stone gets tucked in. Some don't say anything. Some moan. Who cares.
By the time the drug wears off everything's all dry and set. God bless that quick curing mortar. They get up. Try to find a way out. But there is no way out. You see, vampires don't get tired. That wall's probably three rocks thick. And when that candle burns out... when the last little orange pinpoint goes pffft that's it. They smash their heads against the rocks. Most curl up like an unborn baby, but they're not waiting for birth....
Vampires got other ways too. You come back tomorrow and I'll tell you...
<more next time>
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I slept through the actual Event. Being a vampire, that's a given. But It was still all over the television when I rose. I saw enough. He also assumed a 'burden' today. And do not think it's a light or easy one. I know about burdens...and you know about me. For those who don't, I am the life-eater, Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea, a reverent, 'noble' vampire, who sought not this dark contagion, but transcended it. I take not the innocent. Indeed, discovering the 'noble' breed has been my salvation.... or my most recent salvation.
Many know I was born into a believing family in Old El Andalus approximately one thousand years ago. I play the oud and the Spanish guitar. I speak in the cadences of El Cid. We had a chapel in my father's house. Old Rabbi Abravanel, the chaplin emeritus of Elijah The Prophet synagogue in Sevilla rode out in a closed 'Roman' carriage every Sabbath Eve to lead us through the prayers and stayed the night to preach again the next day. How I loved the service, delivered in a mix of Hebrew, Andalusian Spanish and Arabic. When I sit still and all is quiet I can still hear it.
There's a part I'd like to share with you now, especially in light of today's important events. So, brethren, and I consider all righteous searchers as my brothers and sisters, let us consider Deuteronomy 24:14-15 and we begin... Thou salt not oppress a hired servant that is poor and needy, whether he be of thy brethren, or of thy strangers that are in thy land within thy gates.
In the same day thou shalt give him his hire, neither shall the sun go down upon it, for he is poor and his heart is set upon it.
That simple teaching means a lot. It means be a good 'boss'... be a good leader... be true to all. There are no strangers. That word is our creation, not God's. Would that America's new elected king (for that is what presidents truly are) know that.
And there is a passage in The Holy Book of Ishmael. Considering the land of my birth, I knew that too, a short couplet, but a vital one ~
And our Merciful God says ~
I created you as many nations and groups
so that ye may know each other.....
Sometimes I think this nation, America, is the land where that revelation truly came to be. Who is NOT here? What people do we lack? What creed prays not within our shores? This is the place where all become one, not blended into a featureless mass, but true and unique, like the sparkling facets of a diamond. I hope we all remember that. And may it be that we come to accept, love and respect each other. May we come to know each other as worthy brethren and beloved neighbors on this 'island' Earth.
That's all... The purpose of life is possibilities. What choices do we make?
I sit in my favorite room, the little library, as I write this. I listen to The Avett Brothers and I think. This has been a contentious year. While the inauguration might stop that, let us all stay true. Let us all remember our dreams. Let us all make this place, this America, a better place, but let us proceed without malice, contention,
or hate.
Had I not been burdened with this 'vampire' thing to save me from a martyr's death, I suppose I too would have been ordained. So permit me these moments at the 'bima' (Hebrew for preacher's rostrum, or 'reading table') and thank you for reading my words.
<more next time>
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There are places in the night-world where the media never goes. This post will take you there. No one's sure how this loathsome beast came to be. Some claim the torture theaters of early medieval Byzantium. Others credit a clan of witches in Kievan Rus. A few know the truth, but they don't talk. Most magical truths (of all shades) go back to The Hermetic Order of The Golden Dawn house in London. It's a real place. We're not supposed to reference it, but we do. Look, how many TIMES have we said - First of all, we must pretend, that what comes next is fiction?... That's like a spell. You say that and anything that follows is made right.
Now, as far as we know, the monstrosity in question did not begin in the torture theaters of the Byzantine Empire. Kievan Rus, we can't vouch for, but they were more into burying people alive, or partially burying them in underground catacombs with heads exposed, so they could be fed bits of food and water by hooded attendants and thus cruelly preserved. The dirt around them slowly turning to shit... What we're talking about is different and unique. We've pinpointed one. They say there might be a few more. They say a lot of things....like the steel skinned children of Bombay or the headless, gurgling man-thing who guzzles creamed corn and Raisinettes down his pie hole five times a day (and night) for the delight of carnival fans in nine states.
The Vampire Snake Man has never been featured in supermarket tabloids. They're too frightened. The snake man can still sublimate. The snake man can go anywhere... dragging himself over a shag carpet... stopping by the bed of an oblivious sleeper.... working his way up under the covers till he plants his slimy kiss.... Victims are alive at the beginning. Maybe they see the head. In the dark, how can they tell what it is? Perhaps they feel the thin, pliable body resting on their belly and coming to an end between their legs?... A night terror?... Of course. But this is not a dream. He has no teeth, save for two, long, needle sharp fangs. No hair grows anywhere on his head. No eye lashes. No eyebrows. And his nose is a little nubbin with a pair of tiny holes that serve as nostrils. Don't know what good they do him. South of his Adam's Apple there's little 'human' tissue remaining... the neck vertebrae... the thorax vertebrae... the lumbar vertebrae... the coccyx (that's the tailbone) and that's it. The naked spine is encased in a clear, tough, pliable casing, rather like the membrane on old fashioned, fat kosher hot dogs. It collects the blood when he feeds. And that fluid evaporates through barely detectable, microscopic 'stoma' into the atmosphere. Blood doesn't sustain vampire lives, the 'magic' does.
They surgically removed his teeth, save for the upper incisors, prior to transformation. And they flensed off every other part of his body while he took his master's blood. That first drink is a transcendent experience. There is no free will. None can break away till the thing is finished. When that happened he was as he is now. Maybe there's a bit of gristle and ligament holding the spine together, if the magic allows for it.
Thus he endures, an almost mindless existence. Who 'made' him is a mystery. No one knows the purpose. He moves. He feeds. He hides. Look, to be truthful, this monster can be coiled under the basement steps... your basement steps, as you read this. He can snake through shuttered shopping malls, or the dim, chill galleries of august museums. If security cameras pick him up who'd believe it? And if they did believe it, do you think it'd be publicized?
Secrets are all around us and this clammy, sticky, animated remnant is one of them.
In an infinite universe all things are possible.
Every hellish thought is real somewhere... but you who sail the paranormal sea know that...
Que sera, sera......
We're just along for the ride....
<more next time>
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Sometime Edith go back to the Pines to be with Mr. Edith, her current husband and to say 'hi' to everybody. It supposed to be warm for January, like in the fifties, so she gone down now. Ain't gone miss nothin'. Little Larry gone learn how to fly. She see vampire-cherub learn to fly before. She see all kind a stuff, bein' witchy-woman.
Right now she out on the porch. Got a snug, little cabin, wit' a root cellar down below. Got a few bottles of Pine Wine. She like the night. It colder now, like thirty eight out. She got a good ski-jacket from the Value City, before it close up. Vampires give her money, but she like simple ways. Bundle up wit' scarf and a Philadelphia Flyers wool cap. Got a little candle flickerin'. She got it in a flower pot so breeze don't blow it out. Not much light. Ghosts don't like too much light, 'cause it wash 'em out an' make 'em look all scuzzy.
Cabin in a little, muddy clearing. Twenty feet in every direction is the woods. Bobcat come by. Got like a little bitty human hand in its mouth. Not little bitty for a child. Like little bitty for a man, or some woman what wash her clothes by hand. You know, wringin' out take a lot a strength. Edith jus' stare that bobcat down till it run away. She stare anything down, even a headless ghost an' that hard to do.
Ghost come buy. It a little shitty, drunk ghost wit' a Six Flags Great Adventure t-shirt. Ran in the woods and got lost. Tripped on a log and got ate up by some snappin' turtles. That why it so shitty lookin.' One eye all gone. Lips all gone. Nose went somewhere. I don't know. Hands all skeleton. Ain't got no external genitalia, 'cause snappin' turtles like that part real fine.
Edith go - Peace, spirit of the Pines.... Little, Shitty Ghost go - Zat where I am?... Then he go runnin' off through them trees yellin' - Help! Help! Help!... Edith go - What you yellin' 'help' for? You dead already?.... But he already a ways off an' don't hear.
She thinkin' she might go see the Talk-To-God Man. He like a shaman 'round here. Sit in a twisty cave off through the woods. Cave used to be a mine, but that back when George Washington still breathin.' Edith not scared a the woods at night, 'cause she a witchy-woman an' can always throw a hoo-doo. Nothin' come near no witchy-woman what throw no hoo-doo. Even them ham-bone spiders stay away. They called ham-bone 'cause big ones can drag a whole, bone-in ham up a tree, or like a baby goat, or like a baby anything. Sometime you hear poor little creature bleatin' in the dark. She find a dried up husk, mostly jus' skin and bone, on a trail one day. Jus' say a little prayer and keep goin'.
Deep in the pitch black maze of Talk-To-God Man's cave is room where he sit. He light little candles too, so it not all dark when he sittin' there. Got a hole in the floor surrounded by rough flagstones. Hole maybe four feet across. Slant down maybe three hundred feet. Sides all slicked with smooth, white lime. Damp keep it slippery too. Got a big room at the bottom. Space like a upside down half a grapefruit. Walls and floor all mud. Them what do bad 'round here get throwed down there. Most try brace they legs 'cross chute, but chute too wide. They go down anyway and it a one way trip. They scream and plead. They promise they gone be good. Talk-To-God Man go - Shit on you, you devil bastid. You gone die!...
But they don't die fast. Eat big fat slugs what live on walls. Slugs eat little fungi what grow there. Don't know what they taste like. Maybe escargot? Them what get throwed down suck water out a mud too. Folks can go on a long time that way... down in the dark and the wet and the shit. Sometimes they throw women type people, young'un type people... even a dog once or twice. Them what do the throwin' in ain't always much better. They just band together.
Edith change her mind. She not gone go see Talk-To-God Man. Horsey Skeezix fly over. He see candle glowin' on her porch and come down to say 'hi.' Edith like Horsey Skeezix. He a little boy Jersey Devil... like a human bean, but with horsey hind feet, a horsey-like smooth, glossy coat, a slightly elongated horsey face, arms with big, strong, long fingered hands and a horsey mane runnin' down from his head to between them big, leathery bat wings growin' out of his back...
He play with Pin Head Mel. He a friendly Jersey Devil. Actually, most a them not that bad. It just lousy public relations.
So now I gonna leave you. Case you don't recognize my voice, I Mister Never You Mind, a disembodied spirit narrator. I a ghost... an old Creole-Cajun gentleman what got tied to a chair and burnt up, or tied to a chair and throwed in a acid vat... When you been dead since Prohibition you forget. Who knows? Who cares?
An' one more thing. The Jersey Pines a magical place... Got great music, great stories, old time traditions. Most folk just like you, only folksier.
But if you float down little bitty unusual river bend, or hike to what they call 'another part of the forest' you gone encounter all kinds a things... and some things got hands an' eyes an' claws an' teeth an' everything.
Jus' so you know...
<more later>
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