Vampire Blues

EPIGRAPH:

“How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams.”

― Bram Stoker, Dracula

Sanguivoriphobia: The irrational fear of vampires. This phobia has a rich history thanks to the very popular Dracula movies.

--Psych Times

The next card got his attention.

“The card – Death – doesn’t mean, necessarily, physical death,” the Gypsy, Annabelle, said. “Possibly, yes, but more likely this indicates an ending. Or a dramatic turn of events. The closing of a door, perhaps?”

She paused. He felt she wanted a reaction, possibly insight into why he’d come to consult with a “Psychic & Spiritual Counselor?” Quinn was beginning to wonder the same.

“Does this resonate,” she asked.

“Maybe,” he said, “I’m a writer, and I’m, uh, working on this story about a vampire. Could something like that show up? Nothing else, nothing really earth-shaking going on.”

“You tell me,” Annabelle said.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “working on this vampire thing has brought back some memories. When I was a kid, just seven or eight, my brother and his friend, they were a few years older, took me to see a vampire movie. Scared me silly. I hadn’t thought of that in years, till I started writing this story.”

♦

The giant face on the screen beckoned to Quinn in ways unspoken. Drew the child in, forced him against his will to watch: Quinn didn’t really understand the story, but he felt the evil. Those bloodlust-y red eyes, the terror on the face of the vampire’s victim.

Quinn desperately wanted to hide his eyes, but didn’t want to be called a scaredy cat. So, he stole another quick glance. What he saw – vampire fangs clamping down on soft flesh - sent cold chills up and down the boy’s spine. His hands flew up to cover his eyes. He braved another glance at the screen. Blood dripped from Dracula’s fangs onto the voluptuous dark-haired victim’s milky breasts.

♦

“Interesting,” Annabelle said, “The un-dead, the vampire from your past.”

The Gypsy’s voice roused Quinn from his flashback. He was briefly caught between two realities. He’d been in the old showhouse, transfixed by the horror on the screen and now found himself back across the table from Annabelle, ogling her ample cleavage. He silently chided himself – Eyes up!

“It became a fixation, sort of,” he managed. “For a while, I actually believed Dracula lived in our basement, and, uh, over the years, I’ve had some nightmares.”

“Perhaps, in the process of writing down your childhood fears, you could be putting them to bed.”

Annabelle paused, her eyes cast down, in deep thought; almost as if she’d gone into a trance. When at last she spoke, it was with a quiet force and a certainty that riveted Quinn to the chair.

“The Wheel of Fortune, here in the ninth position—the position of Guidance—this is the key. Unexpected twists of fate, a turning point, your destiny asserting itself, and maybe a bit of luck. The Wheel goes ‘round and ‘round and where she stops? None may know. I see a new person or persons, perhaps a chance encounter. This may be the force that brings the change the Death card represents. Have you met someone recently? Someone new? Does this ring a bell?”

“No, not really,” Quinn said.

“Then I would say that you will. Or, this can also mean a sudden realization or even a vision, but it feels more like a person. Either way, I believe that whatever has been haunting you from the past is on its way out. So, that is good news, yes?”

“Yes, I guess it is,” Quinn stole a quick glance at the hourglass sitting on the extreme edge of the table. Annabelle had set it there to begin the reading; most of the sand had now run through and pooled at the bottom. She noticed him looking,

“We have a little time; I’m not strict about that. Do you have specific questions, anything unclear?”

Quinn didn’t, not really, though he wasn’t sure how any of this would help pay the rent. He’d come with the hope of being pointed in some direction. As he sat in Annabelle’s parlor, with its bold sign out front offering Help For Lost Love & Spiritual Guidance, he felt incomplete, resigned.

“So, I’m a writer, a screenwriter, one of about a million in the city. Work’s been scarce,” he confessed. “Do you see that changing? I mean, could that be the change, the metaphorical death? Could this person you see in my future, could they be somebody who’s going to offer me work? A producer, say, who wants to buy the rights to my screenplay, make it into a movie?”

“I see a turning point, a new beginning, and an end coming to whatever fear or demons you’ve been carrying from the past. The Wheel of Fortune tells us the turning point can come from many directions. So, yes, you will perhaps meet someone who offers you work. I do see your fortunes changing. Keep an open mind, be open to new things,” she encouraged. “See the past as over and done.”

Quinn wanted to believe the Gypsy’s divinations, but there was something he’d held back. The Dracula nightmares had returned.

♦

Quinn stood at the counter of his usual evening hang out, the Nite Owl Café. He’d come straight from the Tarot reading. As he waited for his drink, he mused on the Gypsy’s words.

He knew it was true—working on this tale of Count Emrick, the 19th Century vampire whose ship broke apart in heavy seas off the Washington State coastline, and whose coffin was found and subsequently pried open by an unfortunate worker had definitely contributed to the return of his Sanguivoriphobia.

“Sangui—what?” Eddy, the Nite Owl barista asked.

“Sangui-vori-phobia,” Quinn sounded it out. “Fear of vampires.”

“Vampires? You scared of vampires?”

Quinn felt the color rise in his cheeks.

“I used to be,” he chuckled defensively, “when I was little. My big brother took me to see this vampire movie. One of those Christopher Lee, Hammer Films’ flicks—”

“Oh, say no more. Those were pretty scary, alright,” Eddy said, “Christopher Lee, yeah—"

“—and for a while after, I was totally afraid.” Quinn went on, “Thought Dracula was hanging around in our basement.”

“That would freak any kid out,” Eddy nodded, “It woulda freaked me, for sure.”

“Yeah, kids are impressionable.” Quinn suddenly felt uncomfortable.

What am I doing? Confessing childish fears to Eddy? Seeing a fortune teller? Must be weighing on me. Still haunted by a black & white horror movie? This Death card? Is there a connection there?

“Ya know,” Eddy said, setting Quinn’s latte down on the counter, “You might think about hanging some garlic up around the place. Just to be on the safe side.”

“Laters, Eddy,” Quinn picked up his cup, “Back to the grind.”

With coffee and writing pad in hand, Quinn made his way to a quiet table. Soon after he sat down, he became preoccupied with an arty black & white photograph hung on the wall opposite. A flock of birds or possibly a swarm of insects arose in masse, silhouetted against a silver-gray sky. A wavy pattern, a shoreline, cypress trees … Quinn stood and moved closer for a better look. A 3 x 5 index card adjacent to the photo read: “Colony of Bats, Sri Lanka, 1967.”

“Haunting, isn’t it?” Asked a deep voice.

Quinn turned discreetly to see who had spoken. A man, who’d seemingly come out of nowhere stood just a few feet away.

“Is it sunset or is it sunrise? One can‘t be sure.” The stranger’s accent caught Quinn’s ear. “Did you see them as bats?”

Quinn hesitated, I guess he’s talking to me? then answered.

“I wasn’t sure. I was thinking a flock of birds, maybe locusts or something …” Quinn said. then added, “Excuse me?” A quick step between the stranger and the photo returned him to his table.

“Of course,” said the man.

What is that accent?

Quinn stole a second look at the stranger: black trench coat, black tee-shirt, dark jeans, longish dark hair, pale skin, a single silver dagger earring, and heavy black leather boots.

Aware that he was staring, Quinn turned away and took up his notebook. He turned to a poem he’d been wrestling with the past few nights:

“Vampire Blues”

Evil eyes red

laser needles

pierce fragile receptors.

Big screen fangs

sink deep

fleshy pale neck

Leaks, blood spreads, pools

floods

tender senses.

He muttered under his breath; the poem just wasn’t gelling. He looked up to see the man had taken a seat at a nearby table.

Quinn finished his coffee and stood, thinking this was a good time for a refill. First, though, he paused again to take in the photograph.

Bats??

As his eyes followed the ribbon of wings rising in the skies of Sri Lanka his mind mused on this strange encounter: the macabre imagery of his poem … those bats … this mysterious stranger … the dark clothes and the guttural accent … Eastern European, possibly? Or … and his next thought brought a wry smile to the writer’s lips: Transylvanian?

Quinn decided against a refill and returned to wrestling with the poem, but it was no use. His mind kept drifting back to Annabelle and the Tarot cards. Finally, Quinn called it a night, packed up his writing, nodded to the stranger, and headed for the Nite Owl’s exit.

♦

The mid-century bungalow he’d lucked into was just a short walk from the café. As he walked in twilight through the familiar streets, Quinn couldn’t shake off the unease he’d felt at the Nite Owl. He ascended his front steps, then paused. The street and sidewalks were eerily quiet, not a soul in sight.

Guess I’m still a little freaked by the Tarot reading and that weird dude at the café.

As soon as he walked through the door, it hit him – he hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. Luckily, he remembered the leftover Thai food in the fridge. But, when he opened up the white takeout containers, the smell was not good, so it all went in the trashcan.

Not ready to sleep, Quinn plopped down on the sofa and turned on the TV. Flipping through the channels he found the usual ten o’clock fair: news, weather, and sports. Once the bubbly blonde weathergirl told him skies would be sunny tomorrow, Quinn called it a night, brushed his teeth and climbed into bed.

♦

Quinn stood in naked yellow light. A bare bulb hung from a ceiling stained from nicotine and cigarette lighters. He knew this place: the basement of the old show house of his youth. Teenage hooligans hung about, smoking cigarettes, and writing their names on the ceiling with fancy, retro Zippo lighters. Curling plumes of smoke rose up from a checkered linoleum floor. The effect like dry ice at a rock’n’roll show. But it wasn’t Alice Cooper he’d come to see – this was a different nightmare.

He moved to a far corner in the shadows, and there found the secret passage. A stairway, gone unnoticed before, led up behind the movie screen.

Don’t go! a voice inside him gasped, but Quinn knew he must. Then, suddenly, magically, he stood alone in the dark upper reaches of the theater’s balcony. But something was different; somehow everything was changed. At the top of the balcony where a wall and the projector booth should be, deep-blue, velvet curtains hung.

Quinn sensed that there in the darkness, through the curtains, was another stairway. And somehow, he knew those stairs would lead him up to a third floor. And that, HE—Dracula—awaited.

With no hesitation, Quinn proceeded bravely through the curtains and into the secret passage. The stairs were dark and steep, lit by a single recessed lamp at the top of the first flight, where the stairway took a sharp turn.

Quinn ascended toward the pale light. He paused to look back down the way he’d come. All was inky blackness. He passed by the lamp and made the turn. Five steps of gray stone, narrow and steep, stood between the writer and the arched entryway. In no time, Quinn found himself in a large room with no windows.

“Come out!” It was Quinn’s own voice and the power of it startled him. “I know you’re here, Dracula!”

And then He—the vampire—was there. The undead Count called back to Quinn from the shadowy far corner of the room.

“Yes, old friend, so we meet again,” the deep voice, the heavy accent, chilled, and mocked.

In an instant—as if his black cape were bat wings—Dracula flew across the room.

A wall opened—or disappeared?—the two foes now stood on a small balcony high above the showhouse stage. The ungodly sound of the Count’s laughter rang in the mortal’s ears. Rage filled the man’s body. Dracula’s eyes red with blood lust glowed in the darkness. The vampire’s fangs came out.

Then, a strange sort of alchemy took effect; the fear of all those years lived under the curse of the vampire was transmuted. Quinn was bestowed with the strength and bravery of a Van Helsing.

Dracula moved in close, the better to sink his teeth into Quinn’s neck, but the writer moved quickly. Taking hold of Dracula’s wrist with one hand, he lifted the vampire from the balcony floor and drove his other fist into the Count’s kidney. The force threw the monster over the balcony, out into the air, down into the abyss. An eternity seemed to pass in the silence of those seconds as the body fell.

From the darkness below arose an unearthly howl. A scream unlike anything Quinn had known. He peered over the edge as adrenaline rushed through his veins; nothing but darkness below. The scream was followed by a loud THUMP! Then another, and another …

Was that the vampire landing on the stage …? Quinn puzzled … NO! The door! It’s the door!

Someone was knocking at his front door.

“Coming,” Quinn called out as he rummaged for his clothes. The persistent knocking echoed through the darkened bungalow.

“Hold on.”

Through his peephole, Quinn looked out. He couldn’t believe what he saw. There on the bungalow’s front steps stood the stranger from the Nite Owl café.

Who is this guy? What’s he doing at my door?

Quinn set the security chain and cracked open the door.

“Yes?”

“Hello.” Again, that strange accent … “May I come in?”

NO! Screamed the frightened child’s voice in Quinn’s head. NO! But his fingers betrayed him, as they reached for the door knob.

♦

Quinn woke with a start, bolted upright, and threw off the bedclothes. Gasping for air, he vainly attempted to pull his scattered thoughts together. I was dreaming … Dracula … the showhouse … and that freak from the Nite Owl … but the wheel had turned. The vampire nightmare faded in the coming dawn.

THE END