I, Vampire

by Jean Marie Stine

  She was very gentle with me, and it was to her patience and bird-like appetite that I attribute the fact that I am that rare victim who survives a vampire's repeated attacks long enough to become one of the Kinder von den Nacht.

  Everyone thinks Philly Joe Jones was the one who took down Buddy Holly, but Philly Joe had a gig at the Blue Note that night, (our band opened for the Jazz Messengers and MJQ that year) so he had a tableside alibi; me.

  There were others, many others, who were my victims. One loses track in the roiling wake of victims. And to be honest, these days, to me, all humans look alike.

  I didn't mean to kill "Mama" Cass Elliot, either, and it wasn't my fault. She was right next door, eating a very attractive kosher tuna sandwich on Levi's rye bread. I was tempted, but I can't touch tuna fish, and it's not just the mercury.

  Between my eczema and my diverticulosis, all I need is more rancid oil in my system. I still eat food and I drink nonalcoholic beverages. Naturally, I never drink ... wine...

  Why do I eat and drink, even though I don't have to? I'm a member of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Can you imagine me going to an Academy luncheon, sitting across the table from Oliver Stone and Joyce and Kurt Kenyon and not eating anything?

  It's bad enough, my publicist has to deal with the Bulemia rumors in the tabloid press. Things like that cost a bundle to fix, and unless you get the negatives, they don't stay fixed. It had gotten very hot for me in L.A. and the East Coast was still buzzing with excitement over my last feasting, when my record company, who'd loused up both the cover of our new album (which is why it went out with no graphics whatever) and our Frankfurt booking, flew me to London for the first leg of our tour (the Laughing Wolves had come onto the charts that week with "Round Midnight" at twenty-seven with a bullet) and I'd found a little flat at number 11 Curzon Place, which was just close enough to Harrod's department store to suit my light, on-the-road shopping needs.

  Imagine my surprise to find that Keith Moon was my next-door neighbor! Keith went quickly – generally they don't pass into final slumber until the sixth or seventh bite. This had absolutely no bad effect, however, and with any luck, halilah, he'll continue to be the best guitarist in the business.

  I still run into him now and then at one of our favorite feeding grounds (the Vatican is now considered a Protected Vampire Sanctuary).

  I'd lived next door to Number 9 for a couple months, (it's now owned by Pete Townshend to protect it from human contamination) when Cass decided on a whim to stay there during a London concert appearance, rather than have to endure the misery of a commercial London hotel, even a good one.

  Here she had some privacy from the paparazzi and TV journalists, the hangers-on, groupies, newswire stringers and "wannabe" songwriters. It was also here that she had a private kitchen, and that was why the tuna sandwich.

  If it hadn't been for the aroma of that tuna sandwich wafting across the way, I'd never have been able to go on, because it was Mama Cass who gave me the idea that saved the lives of all my victims since that day.

  I loved Cass, and wouldn't have hurt her for the world. We'd been introduced by Sky Saxon, and my friend Jon, who danced with Vito, a venerable sculptor/bodhisattva who invented body-painting and freakouts, and Cass and I had become good friends.

  We used to get high together, and with Michelle, John, Vito, Leda, Frank, Al, Alice and Famous Gene (who was the acid connection) and drive up to Lake Malibu to watch the flying saucers land.

  I had intended to confer immortal life on Mama Cass (whose name came more from her membership in "the Mamas & the Papas" than her "Venus of Villendorf" figure, at the suggestion of Fred and Martha Adler, two adorable Gardnerian Wiccans.

  At her ponderous Rubensian womanliness, she needed something, and I thought immortality would fit the bill. How could I have known she had Angina and would have a heart attack when she saw my fangs?

  "Look at this newspaper clipping from the Corpus Christi Times!" she'd murmured as I'd bent fondly over her invitingly pulsating neck. Then, suddenly, she slumped over on the big brass bed on which Keith Moon had expired under my hypnotic spell only a short while earlier.

  I knew a cardiac infarction when I saw one. Believe me, this was not a person choking on a sandwich.

  "Hold on," I encouraged, using my Dracula Family Crest Decoder Ring (we can't communicate in the open, of course, and digital encryption devices cost an arm and a leg) to administer slight shocks to her throat, as I'd thought vaguely I'd seen some doctor do somewhere in the distant past.

  Finally it came to me. It wasn't in Columbia University Medical School as I'd first supposed (they used to lock people out of John Jay Hall if you were a few seconds after curfew).

  I saw the scene clearly now; Bela Lugosi leaning concernedly over Glenn Strange, who was lying helplessly against the ice, in Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein.

  I watched Cass as she lay on the big brass bed, her beautiful saftig face relaxed in the gentle release of death.

  I realized I had only nanoseconds to react. Biting deeply into her throbbing carotid artery, I held her wrist gently; soon that terrifyingly mortal pulse was gone, replaced by the nice, steady coolness of the undead.

  I managed to get the vampire enzyme – or whatever it is that turns you into a vampire or a werewolf once you've been bitten – into her jugular vein, long before she was brain-dead, or she wouldn't be walking the streets (and flying the airwaves) now.

  Like Morrison, she never looked better than she does today and, like most of my vampire friends, she's into Zen and jogging.

  Last week, she visited me at my mountain retreat where we cut some background vocals for my new album "Only Sleeping," the profits from which were largely eroded by excessive studio time, according to the record company execs and, as usual, they can't locate the spreadsheets.

  As I stood over her, waiting for her to revive (she was back up on her feet soon enough to accompany me on a shopping spree that very afternoon – like natural childbirth – I finally had a panic-free moment in which to read the press clipping from the Corpus Christi Times:

  TIME SHARE NEW CRAZE AMONG YUPPIES, read the headline. It wasn't front page, but to me, it meant escape from the shame and disgust I felt every time I drained the last drop of blood from some victim I'd kept lingering pale and wan, weak and weary, over tedious months and years.

  Imagine that! From just a little headline on a two-column-inch story from the family section of a Corpus Christi, Texas newspaper, I obtained, not the secret of life – what good would that have done me? – but the secret of half-life.

  Cass was right; I wouldn't ever have to kill – and feel that horrible guilt about killing – ever again. I could be a vampire and still have my self-esteem.

  Could that have been what Dick Price was trying to murmur at that last, lingering moment when I drained the final drop of blood from his slowly crumpling form?

  Believe me, he's a lot better off busing tables at Lieberman's Resort in Mount Freedom, New Jersey, than running a broken-down 70's encounter center converted from your typical Big Sur motel (I think either he or Michael Murphy inherited, but what do I know from these New Age megillahs?).

  And could it have been what David Crosby was trying to tell me, his eyes bugging with horror, when he pulled that handgun on me backstage as I went for his half-screaming throat? He's a family man, now; they tell me his memory of that event isn't good; so I guess I'll never know.

  Could those have been the final words gasped by Forry Ackerman when he crumpled beneath my bloodlusting spell? Or was it, as some say, "What some authors won't do to save a lousy ten percent!"

  Why am I telling you this, you ask? I'll tell you why. My current husband is a nice guy; a good provider, not very rough in bed, sensitive, kind, good sense of humor, doesn't have more than three affairs a year.

  I wouldn't want to lose him over a thing like this. But he's very straight. A country-clubber. What does he know from PMS, quiet non-urgent h
ugging, and unwanted facial hair? Believe me, he wouldn't understand you and me, two women, in bed together.

  Don't be afraid. I'm actually doing you a mitzvah – a favor.

  I'm going to bite you on the neck.

  Now.

  There… That didn't hurt, did it? It's the hypnosis; gives you a feeling of euphoria. Lots of victims – especially R&B musicians – ask for a second and a third, just for the rush.

  On my word you can rely; a vampire's bite comes on stronger, and hits heavier peaks, than pure Sandoz liquid acid. But a kid like you – what are you, honey, maybe thirtyish? You're welcome – what do you kids today know from psychedelics?

  Twenty minutes from now, you'll be a vampire, just like me and all my rock musician, film industry and science fiction publishing friends. But don't worry. Not only will you be immortal, you'll have the secret of obtaining reasonably fresh human blood without having to ever kill a victim.

  What? Another hit? Sure. Here's your timeshare punch-card. We rotate between victims, allowing them to bounce back. And unlike our ancestors, we pay them for the privilege. All our donors are screened and tested regularly, not that human diseases will ever affect you again, but it's a strictly kosher club.

  Which means you can't fly on Saturdays. And you can't drink blood and milk together.

  As a new member, you get an automatic 1000 hours, and a hundred shares of stock. As a matter of fact, are you in luck! Our TimeShare BloodClub just went public at 64-1/8. You should see this prospectus!

  THE WOLF CREEK FRAGMENT

  ADRIENNE MARTINE-BARNES

  MEMO: TO JOEL BRITTEN:

  Here is all I could recover of that journal I told you about on the phone. The pages seem authentic – we tested them at Carnegie and the paper is certainly nineteenth century, as well as the binding. It is a typical ante-bellum commonplace book, and the handwriting is consistent with that of someone who had attended a little of some dame's school between say 1840-1860. Beyond these verifiable facts, I refuse to hazard any guesses.

  As I told you, I found this journal in the still warm remains of what looked like a small settlement while I was hiking in the Shenandoah Mountains. The town, if it was a town, had been burned within a day or so of my arrival – damn good thing the entire forest didn't catch! I found some axe heads and pots that survived. I also found the burned skeletons of several adults. I didn't stay to play detective. I just went over to Jay's Crossing and called the state police.

  I knew of your interest in cases like the one described here – at least I assume this is authentic. Or, rather, I can't imagine anyone going to the extent of attempting a hoax of this magnitude in the middle of nowhere, and hoping a patsy would be hiking by at the right time to find this book. I don't have a clue if the place was burned out by the inhabitants, by the folks from nearby, or by parties unknown. (The townsfolk from Jay's Crossing were unfriendly, bordering on hostile – so I didn't ask too many questions.)

  Let's discuss it when I get to Philly next, over some of your good sherry.

  Sincerely,

  Bruce Pickering

  No day goes by I don think bout what we did, and what a bitty thing she was. It been eating at me for so long, so Jacob set me to puttin down what I member.

  Strong and bitty – how she tore at us an lickt the scratches and bit us. We wus all to drunk to feal it, me an Carl and Zeb an Jacob, to drunk an to stupid to think. Her licks burned my skin lik fyre, so I hit her. I never hit a woman befor nor sinct. Zeb, he banged her pur hed on a rok, an she hisst lik a rattler, an her greeny eyes got funny. I wisht I kud furgit, an I wisht we hadna dun it. Jus caus we wus so drunk an she were alone an a stranger werent no scuse. I kan heer her a screamin, til ol Zeb he kut her hed off with his Daddys ax. He alwus wus a meen one, Zebulon wus. We all figgered no one wud never no bout no bitty, dark gal with no kin that we layed with an kilt. We dug down a littel an shoved dirt over her body – she wur so small – an Zeb put her hed in a feed sack and tosst it inna Wulf Creek. The moon was hi, an her blood cum otta that sack an made the water dark. An we swore we wudden say about it, an we dint, even after the hunger came. Not for a long time.

  Ma an Pa rayst me an Carl as good as they kud, bi the Book. I no my Skriptur, and I no not to steel or kill or covet. I did that one bad thing, an I knowd Id burn for it. But I never nowd bout any thin like the hunger. It aint in the Book. I dint never think there wur things that wusent in the Book. The Life Everlastin is promist after we die – which never made no cents to me, but Preecher tol us – but this here livin an livin and never gettin no older – I jus don rightly no how that kud happen. That bitty gal lookt 12 or 13, so I don no how old she relly wus. I hate to think she was a hunnert.

  Jacob reeds better an me – he got more skoolin an he was right smart to begin. He figgert out we got a sickness from that bitty gal. Alwus has his hed in some book, does Jacob. Hes got sum way to rite away to somewheres, an after a wile, theres a big box on the stump by the Crossin an we put it on our wagon an bring it back. I askt him what he yewes fur money, an he jus smiles. Zeb, he kudden reed worth a dam, and he wus alwus a bad un, even when we wus jus boys runnin round in the woods, been foolish. Zeb was born meen an bad, an we follert him caus he were meen an bad. He wus big an onery an ful o the Devil, I spose. But he was kin – Ma wus his aunty – so he wus here a lot, inna mischiff like a coon.

  Me an Carl wus reel ordnary, mos the time. We did chores an et suppers – I aint et no supper in morna hunnert years now, caus the hunger makes you siken from vittels, like. An I aint had a drop a likker sinct that night. Ive wanted it, but I no it don keep down. I dint think bout nun a this til Jacob set me to puttin it down – me with jus the to yeers a daym skool, back before the War. I never rit this many words in my life afore. Sometimes I kan almos taste Mas chicken an biskits, or greens an bacon, an I wisht I had em to eat now. Corse Mas been in the churchyard sinct 1859, rest her good soul. She never new what we dun, so she was spared e lot of greef, an spared the hunger an the torment by that kwinzy. She got the Life Everlastin, an we jus got the torment. I want to die – Jacob an me both. I dunno what Carl wants. He don talk no more. We jus stay here at the Creek, with the hunger eatin at us, an the hole town a hatin at us – I spose the Lord is just.

  Zeb, now. He went away. When the War started, he scatted. By then, he wurent Zeb no more. I don rightly no what he wus – Jacob might – but he werent no one we wanted fur kin. I spose he werent right in his hed to start, an the hunger worsent it. He wus so big and slow, an after he kut the hed offen that bitty gal, he werent the least sorry. He never seemt to feal no shame in it. But after, he seemt to get a kunnin in him, likt the hunger smartent him sum.

  We all kep reel kwyet an did our chores an went to church an pretendet like we wus good boys. We wus all awaitin for sum kin o that bitty gal to kum round, asskin for her. When no one did, we got a mite ezzyur, and then, bout a week or like after, we all got reel sick an we kudden keep down no food at all. Carl an me jus lay in our bed there, up under the eves, and burned. I never nood a body kud get so hot. I think Hell mus be like that. Meenwhiles, one a Dan Breakstones hounds dun fownt the body o tha bitty gal, an even sick as we wus, Carl and me herd the ol'hens waggin theer tungs an a kluking away over it. Wulf Creek aint never been very big, an the lees littel thing kan caus a lotta tawk. I member when Mrs MacFearson had twins, everyon tawkt, an when one died, they tawkt mor. Zeb thot he wus so kleever, puttin the hed in the creek, but the resta her had sumthin to tell.

  Any ol' woodsman like Dan kan tell purty good how long a things been ded. It don need no booklearnin, like I heer they got nowadays. Leestwize Jacob says there be thing they kan do with ol dirt or flesh or bones, and that there be folks who spent ther hole lives puttin bits in bottles an a testin at em. Seams to me a funny way to put vittels on the table, but hits honest work, I spose. Dan never put no dirt in a jar – he just looked at that gal and nowd shed aben in the grownd a purty good wile.

  Cept she wur still fresh. There w
erent no korrupshun, cept the brewez on her littel legs, an' where we hit her. He wus right befuddelt. She werent buryt reel deep, but no bugs had et at her, an no birds or critters neether. His ol hownd took 1 wiff an bakt off – l member him tellin Pa that, up on the front steps. An Pa gimme such a stare, like he nowd maybee I dun sumthin bad. I wus jus up from siknin an I wisht I was back abed an throwin up my vittels sted a sittin there with my Pa lookin at me like I wus a bug. Carl he lookt bout reddy to cry, but he kep his tung behin his teeth. We swore we wudna say nuthin to no one. But it was reel hard caus we was full a hunger an week an our heds was stufft with the memberin. That bitty gal was almos poyntin her finger at us from that grave we dug.

  They put together a decent coffyn, an sum a the wimmen done her a fair windin cloth, an put her in a corner of the churchyard. Sumtimes, when I go to talk to Ma an Pa under thier stone, I go over an tell that bitty gal how sorry I am. I take her flowers when I ken get em. There wus a few ol' biddies dint want her buried, a caus she were defylt, but Preecher said we wus Christians, and hadent no business tryin do The Lords work for him. I dunno why, but I tuk comfort from that. I dint no I wudent get to chance to see Heven nor Hel.

  Soon afters I wus walkin in the south field, an I was so hungry in my belly I kudda cryd, cept it wudda shamed me. I member lookin at one of the caffs, an my hed gettin all whirlee like I just went an put my teeth on that caffs neck and bit down hard as I kud. My teeth went in so ezzy I wus surprist – right down thru the skin. I kud smell the hide nex to my ol nose. That caff bellert reel hard. I spose it hurt. But the blood kum inna my mouth, an I drunk it down til my belly stopt hurtin. I lickt that blood offen my mouth an lookt to see that no one had seen me. That caff lookt at me so sad, lik that bitty gal, an I kudden look at it. But it dint seem nun the worse, an I felt strong agin.