Sleep is out of the question. So is staying in the apartment a moment longer.
I grab the first overgarment spewed at me by the grandmotherly closet in the tiny entryway. It’s a comically appropriate broody duster I’ve ordered on one of my latest drunken online shopping sprees.
A mellow pseudo-classical melody is oozing from beneath the new neighbor's door. Tilo Wolff’s velvety growls accompany the dolorous howl of a slow violin tune. Turns out Emo Boy and myself even frequent neighboring fantasies in our sleep. Would be awkward to run into him in one of these.
For no reason whatsoever, I’m somewhat tempted to knock on his door. I guess anxiety loves company. I don’t, though. Especially not at the buttcrack of dawn. I hasten my pace.
I’m too edgy to wait for the elevator. It’s never there when you most need it and it manages to germinate the creepiest fucktards at the most ridiculous hours. I tell the useless box to go fuck itself and drag myself down the stairs. Regret strikes right away, a bitchslap for every muscle cramp. Prolonged immobility tends to do that. It’s the lazy bastard’s ultimate Catch 22.
No matter how much of a non-morning person you are, you can’t help but appreciate the first taste of early morning wind. Painfully cold and exquisitely refreshing, this shit is the damned energy drink of the gods. On the third gulp my gears are ready to get in motion.
Time to start thinking. Step number one: assume sanity. If last year’s shitstorm taught me one thing it is that it’s always safer to believe whatever madness my senses choose to perceive. This is the only way I can hope to defend myself.
Hence, step number two: acceptance. The problem ahead is real, and it needs to be solved. Period. It’s never too late to check yourself into a loony bin if proven wrong. It is, however, too late to fend off super-nasties if you’ve gotten yourself killed while operating on the erroneous assumption that said nasties are a mere brain chemistry glitch.
The next step is tuning one’s expectations accordingly. Shit happens. This is the second most important lesson I’ve learnt over the course of said events. It seems almost idiotically trivial, but as trivialities go this is a good one to hold in mind. Expecting shit to happen makes it the tiniest bit less intimidating when it does. Sometimes, this tiny bit can make all the difference.
So there’s fuckery ahead and action is needed. That’s a start. Except I don’t have the slightest clue what fuckery and, accordingly, what action.
The easy stage of philosophical fluff is over. Now we need to talk practicalities. I hate talking practicalities, especially with hardly any data to go on.
This needs a hell of a lot more oxygen. I take a deep breath. Through the nose and all the way to the bottom of my lungs- just like my first therapist taught me. She was a little dewy-eyed shit-for-brains hippie bitch. Very bad for my anger management issues. But she sure knew her breathing exercises. I guess the lower your intellectual faculties, the harder you need to focus on processes normally controlled by the autonomic nervous system.
As usual, the exercise does me much more good than I expected. I’ve never thought city air could smell this good. On a glassy winter morning like this the concrete itself seems to palpitate with alpine freshness.
The dirty white monotony of the buildings is tinted at the corners with gentle brush strokes of a pellucid rosy glow. The gaps in between throb with liquid pastels so tender I hardly dare to exhale in their direction, last the coarse steam of my breath scatters them.
An unseen hand takes advantage of the momentary distraction to inject my newly forged spirit of determination with a barely detectable, yet unmistakably lethal amount of hope. Shuddering at the prospect, I banish the gentle-winged pest in favor of more practical notions.
First and foremost, I need more information. Or rather, any information at all. For now, all I have is one weird little girl across the street, one cringeworthy aging neo-Goth next door and a bunch of vague suspicions provoked by an open curtain and an increase in drowsiness spells over the past two days. Plus some mysterious incorporeal Presence, with neither proof nor name. Not a lot to go on.
Suppose we do, indeed, enter the realm of the paranormal. Which abilities does our suspected mojo-slinger possess? Thus far the girl has proven herself capable of some sort of telepathic mind-fuckery. Allegedly. Plus, a mild form of telekinesis. Allegedly.
Not quite enough to get Mulder and Scully involved, I’m afraid. Unless they want to come by for a little after work bonding activity of point-and-laugh.
The next question is “why.” What is her objective? She doesn’t do it for play or entertainment. Doesn’t strike me as the mischievous type, either. It’s more like a need of sorts. A void to be filled. I remember the haunting sense of insatiable hunger.
She’s feeding, whispers a little voice in my head. Feeding on what? On hurt? On fear? I immediately think of my shrink. That glimmer in his eyes when I’m about to spill it all out.
And Deidre. Deidre owning my life one bill at a time. Deidre savoring the taste of my dwindling self worth, relishing it like a glass of fine century-old Cabernet Sauvignon. Swirling every sip of ambition around her mouth, only to spit it into the gutter.
But that’s neither here nor there. It only proves the girl to be no more dangerous than other people around me. Somehow this thought is everything but comforting.
The next turn places me directly in the wind’s way. The air grows colder, in spite of the rising sun’s progress. A wave of sharp prickles hits the tip of my nose, radiating in a fine web to the base of my nostrils and over my cheeks, all the way to the hairline. A second wave follows, chafing the raw patches left in the wake of its predecessor. Then another. The fourth wave is met with numb resilience. And it carries the smell of fresh coffee.
I check my pockets for cash. A quarter and a handful of pennies. Not good. I reach into the inner pocket of my duster praying for a miracle. Eurika! A fiver. Hot latte is on the way. Maybe a bear claw, if I’m lucky.
I’m not. A whole fucking dime short.
Greedy assholes as they may be, these pricks sure know their coffee. The brew is strong, but not bitter. The milk foam is light and creamy. No film and no trace of overheating.
After a minute’s debate I opt for a to go. The shop is empty, and there’s plenty of space at the whitewashed bar by the window. Yet, I prefer to keep walking. I’ve made quite a progress putting my thoughts in some semblance of order, and I’d hate to risk sitting myself back into stagnation.
The next question I need to ask is whether I’m in danger. Sure, it is always safer to presume I am, as inferred from steps #1 and #2. But I do need a more accurate assessment of the situation. So far the damage has been limited to a bit of dizziness and a touch of unsolicited sunlight.
On the face of it, nothing to worry about. But dizziness is a mere symptom. There is no telling the implications concerning my general health or whatever cumulative damage may occur. This one is relatively simple. My GP will be delighted to prescribe all relevant bloodwork. I haven’t had a blood test in an elf’s lifetime. Not to mention making a doctor’s appointment on my own free will due to anything short of missing limbs or bleeding eyeballs.
The second part is much trickier. A mysteriously opened curtain holds little potential for any serious bodily damage. In and of itself it’s hardly worth a second thought. However, here, too, there is context to be considered.
If an opponent can move a curtain from across the street, what else can they move in the same manner? How far does this power extend? Can it grow over time?
No tests to be run on this one. Neither do I have Sunnydale’s Magic Box or school library at my disposal.
All I have is what can be found on the internet. Which means everything. Alas, when it comes to information, everything is just as good as nothing.
I will have to browse and sift through tens of thousands of pages on hundreds of semi-certified, pseudo-verified domains claiming to specialize in theology, occultism, demonology and everything in between.
Dark backgrounds, gothic fonts, early 2000s interface. Bright animated links to the merch section: Thelemic crystals blessed by Crowley himself, Anton Lavey’s sigil pendants, black candles, pentagram prints. Everything 666 and 777, with 000 other options in view.
I cradle the warm cup between wind-reddened fingers, breathing in the steam between tiny sips of fragrant froth.
No other way to go about it. It’s just another dose of acceptance to swallow with my next mouthful of French roast. Both burn my throat on the way down. I flinch, but persevere.
Once I’m home, every ridiculous combination of paranormal mambo jambo will have to be inescapably typed into the search bar. All but the most obvious simpleton traps examined, every domain scoured for possible hints amidst the plethora of bogus leads and humbuggery. Every source- dubious or otherwise- will be addressed, and every last drop of self respect relinquished.
The next block feels warmer. The street curves slightly to the right, out of the wind’s direct onslaught. The cold sting on my cheeks thaws into a sticky flush. The pleasant warmth of the coffee turns into a stifling tropical mist under the greenhouse dome of my duster.
I wonder how long I’ve been panting. Judging by the soreness in my chest, it’s been a while since I was breathing normally. Apparently my pace has accelerated to match the increasing resolve and hardening pragmatism of my mindset. Over the last mile or so it has culminated in a jittery near-jog. Little brown splashes dot the lid of my cup.
I force myself to slow down and do some more controlled breathing. The relief is not as gratifying the second time, but it will have to do. I open the front of my duster to let in whatever wind remains. Much better. Time to go home for breakfast.
The last of the change in my pockets turns out just enough for a 7-Eleven cinnamon roll. It’s not the artisan custard and raspberry bear claw I was craving, but it’s hearty, doughy and diabetes-inducing enough to suffice. Making all the way back home to grab my wallet and go back to the little hipster cafe four or five blocks away doesn’t seem to be worth it.
You can either be a lazy-assed scatterbrain or a well fed individual. As it happens, I’ve drawn the short straw attached to the former.
The new neighbor’s apartment is perfectly quiet this time. Out for work, perhaps. Or, more likely, asleep for the day. I can clearly see him in my mind’s eye, lying fully dressed on his back, hands crossed on his chest to fit the narrow space of a satin-lined coffin.
The image gives me an idea. Nothing revolutionary, but a place to start. Something concrete enough to be named and studied.
I may not know much about ghoulie-gal’s personality profile and typical behavior patterns, as such. Deidre’s modus operandi, on the other hand, is not only a field of expertise closely examined by yours truly, but one widely explored among psychology experts as well. I’m quite positive even my shrink used this very expression once or twice over our sessions.
“Keep emotional vampires out of your life,” every semi-qualified quasi-counselor will yell at you from the pages of their bestselling self-help manual. Some will recite the warning for a small audience at a local bookstore, while others sermonize it from atop a TED Talks stage.
Although the term is relatively new, the phenomenon it represents is as old as humanity itself. Ancient primates must have manipulated each other into misery with cave drawings and upper-limb gestures before they even had enough distinct phonetic units to coordinate a mammoth hunt.
I throw the paper bag with the pastry on the coffee table and open the lid of my laptop. It takes me a heatstroke or three to realize that I’m still wearing the double damned duster.
When my brain shuts down in protest, I force myself to lay down the laptop and walk back to the entry closet. The culprit is hanged without trial. That’s what you get for attempted murder, bitch. While I’m at it, I pull off my shoes as well.
I walk back to the living room in my socks, leaving the remnants of my slippers to lie where I discarded them before going out. They look like a sad lump of fresh roadkill.
Having decided against getting another coffee, I plop down on my butt next to the low table. In retrospect, the carpet is not quite as soft as I’ve imagined it to be. My life in a nutshell, if you please.
My senses tingle with anticipation as I simultaneously open a browser window and the paper bag. I must admit, though, that cinnamon and custard smell much better than the fickle possibility of gaining a few scraps of legend-based quasi-information.
Olfactory temptation notwithstanding, my first bite is of the latter. The Wikipedia entry isn’t very long. Thus much could well be expected. The actual page is titled “psychic vampires,” but I’m properly redirected there from my original query, so the two must be interchangeable.
The term is briefly addressed as a range of personality disorders. People who suffer from one or more of the conditions grouped in this category tend to have one thing in common: a need to draw emotional energy from others, robbing them of their vitality.
As it turns out, a renowned clinical psychologist- one Albert J Bernstein, PhD.- wrote about the different types of emotional vampirism in a book titled Emotional Vampires: Dealing With People Who Drain You Dry.
I make a note to look up Emotional Vampires in the local library. Sounds promising, not to mention relevant to my current predicament- paranormal or otherwise.
Of course, according to Wiki, there is no scientific or medical evidence supporting the existence of psychic energy. But then again, neither is there any documented evidence supporting the existence of little humanoid killer demonlings. Lots of good that did me last year.
Now, the next part is quite interesting. I had no doubt that my search would eventually lead me to LaVay. Didn’t expect to run across the name at such an early stage, though. Or that the connection would be this direct.
Apparently, The Black Pope claims to have coined the term “psychic vampires.” Popularized in the 1960s, it was used in the Satanic Bible to describe weak people who draw vital energy from others.
On the face of it, Bernstein’s clinical view of the concept hardly differs from his predecessor’s spirito-philosophical one. Except the former knew better than to attribute his research subjects’ parasitism to weakness.
It’s not that there is no correlation, of course. You can’t be a needy pile of runny diarrhea without feeding on someone for survival. It just doesn’t necessarily work as well in reverse. To wit, Deidre.
Whether or not LaVay can be credited with the particular phrasing he used, he was not the first to point out energetic vampirism as a paranormal occurrence. Occultist Dion Fortune addressed it as early as the 1930s.
And before that, the occurrence has taken countless shapes and names in a variety of mythologies, demonologies, pneumatological doctrines and folk tales. From Lilith to Hungry Ghosts, Succubi and Rakshasas.
The need to feed, whether purely symbolic or interlaced with the physical consumption of various bodily fluids, is definitely consistent with the Presence from the supermarket. Plus, the predominant malevolence associated with these beings is entirely in tune with the general aura emanating from the girl across the street.
But I could have told myself that without bothering to obtain a Wi Fi connection. I don’t need a handful of vaguely interchangeable labels. I need wards and spells. Stakes and silver bullets.
Bernstein’s little manual is a decent ad hoc solution. Potentially even an excellent one. But his so-called vampires are actively toxic. They act through interaction. Which, in turn, makes them easy to respond to. Even a refusal to respond can serve as a means to beat them.
But what about psychic activity of the covert and non-verbal variety? You can’t quite grey-rock them when they feed over distance, with zero additional exchange, now, can you?
For this endeavor I will either need strong antipsychotics or something along the lines of Ms. Fortune’s teachings. The former is out of the question. At least until every other option is exhausted. That’s pretty much the first conclusion I’ve reached today. The prospect is starting to sound exceedingly tempting, though.
For once, there is the question of attainability. Laying my hands on Fortune’s works- to be precise, the one from 1930 titled Psychic Self Defence- will probably prove much trickier than just getting the drugs. The chance of such literature just lying around in the local library is highly unlikely. I’ll have to purchase it online and spend the next week or so biting my nails and pulling my nerves in anticipation of delivery.
And this is before I even get to the fight itself. Whether we’re talking banishing, exorcism, or shamanic energy clearing- whatever ceremony it takes to cut the feeding tube should be arduous and unsafe at best.
Another point to consider: what if there is more than one feeding tube to sever? This makes the idea even less alluring. If more than one parasite is responsible for my symptoms, Deidre’s name will be among the first to make the list.
I’m not sure when I’ve put the roll back on the table- I haven’t even noticed that I did. Must have done it the easier to type with both hands- only to forget all about it. At any rate, now seems like a good time to finally taste the pastry. Anything would be better to chew on than the thought of fighting my big sister.
The glaze has cooled down by now, hardening into a solid sugary crust. But the dough underneath is soft, and the buttery filling is still fragrant and sticky. Not quite escapistic, but pretty damn close.
Proverbial spoonful of sugar taken, I go back to Wikipedia. This time I make a beeline to the page assigned to Fortune herself. I then strike right at the core, directly searching the page for the word “vampire.” Shamefully simplistic as this move may seem, its results are delightfully rewarding.
Apparently, Fortune’s mentor, an Irish occultist and Freemason by the name Theodore Moriarty, has performed the very kind of exorcisms I’m looking for: banishment of etheric vampires. If this isn’t an exact match I don’t know what is.
Fortune, on her part, recounted these deeds in a collection of short stories published in 1922. These were later assembled under the title The Secrets of Dr. Taverner- said Taverner being a fictional version of Moriarty himself.
I can easily imagine the Doctor as a gaunt, tall gentleman with a balding crown and a long, humorless face. In his dark interwar era trench coat, he would make a perfect mirror image of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. I wonder whether his name matching that of Holmes’s archnemesis is a coincidence. Alas, Doyle has introduced his villain long before Fortune was introduced to her mentor.
I scold myself for digressing and return to the original search chain.
And behold, oh ye of little faith. There is no end to the wonders of the immense and all-encompassing international web of server-stored lore. Not only is there a free pdf. file available of Dion Fortune’s collected accounts of her teacher’s deeds, her 1930 psychic defense manual has been uploaded by some kind-spirited occultist to one of these early 2000s Goth-formatted black-and-neon eyesore domains.
Having studied enough dry research material for one morning, I turn to the lighter anecdotal read. Much to my glee, the very first story is titled ‘Blood Lust.’ Good fortune strikes again, if you will.
I fetch a mug of heavily sweetened Earl Grey tea- enough to quench my need for caffeine without triggering coffee-induced heart palpitations- and make myself comfortable in an improvised nest of sofa cushions arrayed on the carpet.
My first impression is one of deja vu. Looks like once it has materialized in the middle of my modest parlor, Sir Doyle’s spirit has no intention to leave. I could as well have made a second cuppa for him.
Fortune’s story collection is no mere flirtation with the famous Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. If it weren’t for the change of names and scenery and the psychic nature of the cases explored, the occultist’s text would reek of plagiarism.
A retired R.A.M.C doctor in search of a new position meets an eccentric fellow whose entire life is dedicated to investigating peculiar cases that no other professional will take. Arrogant in his manner and unconventional in his methods, Dr. Taverner is nonetheless tremendously successful in his field. His undisputed genius makes him the last hope for many an afflicted soul.
So far it sounds like a job for the copyright police, alright. Except instead of solving crimes, the Doctor treats mental infirmities of psychic origin and fends off paranormal attacks on the spirit.
However, at first sight the blood lust described in the story seems all too literal for my liking. On the face of it, the assault is entirely physical, rather than psychic- merely another case of classic blood-sucking, neck-biting vampirism.
Captain Donald Craigie, a shell-shocked WWI soldier fresh out of the army develops a peculiar taste for fresh blood. He kills some chickens, slaughters a bunch of sheep and gives his fiance one hell of a toothy hickey.
I’m about to start losing interest when Dr. Taverner declares that the young captain’s true hunger is not for blood, but rather for vitality. This is not exactly what I was looking for, but interesting enough. Especially if I choose to treat the hematophagy itself as purely symbolic, or rather an instance of hyperbolic exaggeration intended to capture the reader’s attention.
Captain Craigie has fallen victim to a possession by the ghost of a dead Eastern European soldier. In life, said soldier was pretty much your garden variety old world Nosferatu. No longer in command of a corporeal body of his own, though, the soldier was forced to use Craigie as a means of vicarious feeding. The blood consumed by Craigie was then synthesized into the vital energy necessary for the ghost’s survival.
Vampirism, Taverner explains, has sparked during the Great War. Prior to that it has been practically unheard of in Western Europe for nearly a century. With war raging across the continent, a growing number of instances has been reported where a soldier has gone into an apparent franzy, hungering for blood and feeding on the wounded.
At first, the poor fellows were simply gunned down, no questions asked. Call it battlefield euthenesia if you like.
Later on such cases were recognized as a mental disorder, only to be shut off in asylums. While unarguably less violent, I have my reservations in calling this fate merciful.
In all documented instances the hunger was an affliction of the ethereal body, rather than the physical one. Therefore, whether shot on sight or starved in an asylum, the parishing of the latter was not enough.
The spiritual entity- and the hungry soul within- would persevere. These entities would roam the earth in search for a new vessel through which it could feed. Due to their negative nature, they required a similarly unwholesome host. And what is less wholesome than a person suffering from PTSD?
This could well explain the girl’s choice to focus her assault on me. Plenty of unresolved trauma to gorge on.
Assuming her corporeal form is the one her psychic body was originally born into, she has no need for me as a host. I am little more than a free all-you-can-suck buffet for her. It’s almost offensive, really. And since it’s not blood she’s after, she can suck on my big black pit of psychic energy over short distances, no contact required.
But if there is no physical feeding involved, then Taverner’s method of dealing with the situation is rendered equally moot. Taverner ordered his sidekick, Dr. Rhodes, to pin poor Craigie to the ground while he himself disposed of the ghost, lured out with a drop of blood from the neck of the captain’s fiance.
No blood means no bait. Hence- no exorcism.
Besides, Fortune’s account of the ritual’s details is laconic at best. She only says that in order to banish the ghost Taverner has made a mystical Sign of sorts and produced a unique Sound charged with some kind of magical power. No further elaboration on either is included. For all I know, the Sign was a swastika, and the Sound emerged from Taverner’s anus.
I crumple the empty paper bag in frustration and scramble to my feet. Just in time to meet the beginning of another muscle cramp fit. I kick at the needles prickling my soles, checking my watch in search of temporary aversion. It’s been over an hour since I sat down.
The remainder of my tea has cooled down to room temperature. Its surface shimmers under a fine layer of oily sheen. I carry the mug back to the kitchen with the disgusted grimace its contents deserve. Once set on the sink’s polished floor, the offender takes on an air of shameful dejectedness.
I make myself a fresh cup, strong and unsweetened. On my way back to the living room I toy with the idea of ordering pizza for lunch.
Now that time for magic tricks and entertaining parlor stories is over, I could use some bright prospect to keep me going. Preferably a steamy, cheese-covered one. Because now it’s Hogwarts textbook time. Defence Against the Dark Arts proper, all theory and no wand play.
After browsing through a few pages of general background- Fortune agrees with me that all symptoms should first be examined from the conventional medicine’s point of view- I tire of vague theoretics and go for a bull’s eye strike at the essence. Chapter 5: Vampirism.
A few superficial generalities for background, followed by a reference to Stoker, and then it’s pure meat.
Psychology students’ accounts report some peculiarly exhausting cases- physically, rather than emotionally, draining. Similar power drainage occurs in electric apparatuses. Have I experienced an incline in electrical outages over the past couple of weeks, or is my memory merely reshaping itself to match the required hypothesis? I remember resetting my microwave clock a couple of days ago, and twice (or was it three times?) last week. Is that unusual? How about the low buzzing recently accompanying the first minutes after I turn on the kitchen light? When has that started?
Fortune then proceeds to describe classical cases of what modern psychologists often refer to as narcissistic abuse. Relationships where one side is feeding on the other’s emotions, wasting away their psyche’s vitality and manipulating the victim into submission. The dominant figure in such couples is usually female. It could be a wife or a lover, a mother, a friend. Or, hypothetically speaking, a sister.
In these cases, the writer recommends separation as a means of treatment. The submissive party always benefits from spending some time away from the parasite. It is not, however, clear from the passage how long the separation needs to last for the link to be severed. Nor does it say whether the solution is permanent, or even sustainable. Not to mention the fate of the parasitic figure in case of a permanent cure.
I’m 99% sure I don’t want any harm to come to Deidre, and about 50% reluctant to cut all ties with her. Which renders Dr. Bernstein’s assistance all the more necessary. I barely remember where I put the damned library card, or when I last used it. No clairvoyance required, I foresee long hours of rummaging through old purses and wallets in my near future. I’d really hate to cut any further into my monthly budget by buying the book.
In the meantime, the best I can do is cling to this rare state of undisturbed concentration and focus on the text in front of me for as long as my dormant ADHD permits. Precedence says it will be over soon. Then, I will have little choice but let my mind wander as it pleases. I may even join it for a walk if I manage to find my library card.
As the line I have just read for the fifth time or so states, Dion Fortune makes a distinction between aforementioned cases of pathological symbiosis, in which the energy drainage is unintentional, and actively malevolent vampirism.
She prefers to refer to the former as “parasitism,” reserving the more sinister term to the latter. Vampirism, she argues, is deliberate and has little to do with these common energy leakages. She leaves this area to the more mundanely inclined among her colleagues, electing to dedicate the current chapter mainly to bloodsuckers per se.
Such individuals are a product of dual cohabitation within a single physical body. Initially an ethereal double, a hungry spirit that did not die a proper death, possesses a living human. The victim, in turn, is forced to consume fresh blood in order to provide the undead attacker with the life force necessary to preserve its state of marginal survival. Its spiritual body, and the psyche at its core, can then hold on to the world of the living through the vital energy of its secondary prey.
As illustrated by the fictionalized account narrated in ‘Blood Lust,’ Eastern European practitioners of Black Magic are to blame. Inadequately adept in the dark arts, they possessed just enough skill to avert the death of their inner, ethereal body. Their magic could not, however, prevent the natural death of the physical body.
The resulting spector remained stranded in this world, unable to pass on to the next with the spirit helplessly trapped in its unearthly husk. The Great War served a catalyst to these creatures’ spread across Europe, westwards from their habitual corners of dark superstition. They were carried into the battlefield with the mobilizing troops, riding the unfortunate bodies of afflicted youths. As the soldiers died, the ghouls scattered in search of a new host.
And, as Dr. Taverner’s character previously pointed out, the horrors of war provided plenty of available hosts. Drawn to negativity, the ghosts practically sprang into an ever-growing selection of traumatized boys. The gory inferno of death, fear and loss has become a veritable feast for the ghouls. Thus, many a soldier came back home maimed, broken and haunted. Literally.
What the case on which ‘Blood Lust’ is based lacks in romance, it makes up for in morbidity. One day, a youth in his early teens was brought to a clinic where Fortune was giving tutorials in abnormal psychology. His arrival set off a sequence of disturbing paranormal occurrences, which, in turn, alerts a particularly gifted adept referred to as Z.
The very minute Z. has set eyes on the lad- let’s call him D., as Fortune does- he noticed a malevolent presence accompanying him. He then manages to locate the earthbound spirit and get rid of it by pinning it inside a circle and absorbing it into himself, thus releasing the imprisoned soul and sending it to the world beyond.
A consequent investigation reveals that the ghost, a soul of some unfortunate Magyar magician, has entered D.’s cousin during his service on the French front. An easy feat, as the poor bastard wasn’t all there in the first place. Reports of necrophilia and all that jazz.
When Cousin Perv came back from the war, all shell-shocked and catatonic, the family saw fit to leave the invalide with D. for prolonged time periods. A recipe for disaster even without the supernatural being involved, the interaction proved cataclysmic for young D. Whatever else transpired between the two, Pervy bit D. on the neck, thus infecting him with the haunting. The ghost either moved to the boy altogether, or kept hopping alternately between the cousines, shared custody style. Needless to say, both recovered after Z.’s exorcism. From the haunting, at any rate. Fortune says nothing of the fate of Pervy’s necrophilia.
This last lacona I would have readily forgiven, had the author provided but an iota of additional information regarding the exorcism technique. Alas, a fitting rival to Dr. Taverner in his arrogant prickishness, Z. kept every single detail of his method to himself.
Which makes one wonder- not without a slight impulse to shatter one’s computer in frustration- why on earth bother publishing a goblin-fucking warthog-rimming self defence manual without the tiniest hint at a gremlin-sodomizing instruction.
A sharp unfamiliar noise cancels my subscription to gravity magazine. It sends me flying all the way to the ceiling and back to the carpet in an awkward heap of random limbs and violent shivers.
The prospect of a ringing doorbell is so foreign to me, I forgot I even had one. I don’t think it has even been tested ever since I moved in. It takes me a minute or six to recall the proper doorbell ringing response protocol.
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