He is my only hope.
He is of the night, yet He does not cast a shadow, as do-gooding humans do. Shadow will be dispelled. I want no shadows! Nor can He reflect himself in a looking glass. One sees only oneself.
Mirror and shadow; why are they such mysteries? Why do they hound us so? The blow from a fist or a flick of a switch renders them quite useless. A scientific explanation renders them merely tedious. A vampire abolishes. He cuts through invention and natural occurrence, straddles the dimensions, and toys with perception with a flick of a thorny nail. This is a
In the dark pitch of perfect blackness shadows do not exist, nor does reflection.
Why am I so weak? I need sustenance—with something more than just six legs. Hmmm…
Eight-legged, with claws and an attitude, Class—Arachnida… Spinner of silken tales…
Cool shadow and the damp pleased the spider. And corners— perfect home for its woven artistry, and more. There; the crumbling husks of a fly, and even a bee, once so, but then paralyzed with poison, and now sucked dry and bound up in steely strands of silk.
A quiet chattering drew attention. The spider knew that sound. The chattering of adolescent teeth. The young visitor yet again. His entrance was always sudden, loud and violent. A dark silhouette with a rumbling voice would push the boy into the underworld of the spider.
“And pray for forgiveness!”
The slam of a door. The momentary rising of dust. A short bout of whimpering. And then the chatter. And shivering. Bare white flesh—not much good for hiding. And in the course of time that it took the spider to drop along the thread of its dragline and cautiously approach the naked form, back off, and climb up to a ceiling beam, another silhouette had entered the basement storage room. He dropped a tin plate with a clunk and nudged it towards the youth with his foot.
“Food for Fido.” Or Spot or Rex. The boy seemed to be called by a number of names. “No, you’re a
Now the spider had known the occasional flea. Not bad, but not very filling. Just what sort of flea was this pale chattering giant? Perhaps another dropping-down was in order. But the slow creaking of the door and the flickering flame of a candle held the spider back. And a quiet voice:
“Timmy?”
The faithful flea-boy drew a breath. “Brother Tom?”
“Poor lad; what will we ever do with you?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It was only a scratch. Morgan called me names, and Brother Jim, he…”
“He took his side; I know. It pays to be popular, I suppose. You must be freezing.” He briskly rubbed the boy’s cold chest from behind.
Then silence. The spider stared at the flickering of the tallow shaft. Light had brought a play of shadows into its domain. This was all proving quite the spectacle.
The bearer of light and warmth enfolded the naked youth in his baggy robe. The boy tried to pull away, but claws—the spider envied such claws—pressed against the slim neck. The boy, he
Brother Tom made the young boy’s head seem to disappear in the woolen folds of his robe. No more chattering, but choking and gasping. Forceful arms and legs holding tight the struggle in. An elated shout… a muffled cry—quite the spectacle—ending in threatening tones:
“You mustn’t tell. Ever. You were asking. I gave from the heart. The sin is yours. It could go very badly for you. I’d pray if I were you.”
The spider dropped. The two already seemed half-paralyzed. Fear, and satiation. Tom held Tim in wrapping arms. It was as if they slept as the not-so-itsy-bitsy spewed out his thread from his spinneret. It was as if they dreamt him large. And so the silken threads became ropes of steel; cephalothorax and abdomen and legs with combs and claws now hugely spread. Inspired by their dreams, the spider sewed them shut. Wound airtight the eyes and nose and mouth. Too bad the boy had to be twined, but the spider couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. By midnight Brother Jim would find their mummified remains. And a dark and hungry god to feed, in the bowels of the home for waifs and wayward, wayward… !
Sewn shut… the naked shadows… prey for forgiveness…
the darting tongue… suck dry… the crumbling… flea
Flee
Flee
Flee!
The perfect home.
It was a consummation neither devout not to be wished. Things got more complex after that, and not a little absurd. He once told me to bite his tongue. I did it once. He liked it. But not too hard. It was sorely tempting to pierce straight through. But misbehavior would lead to being dunked in a bath of icy water and left naked in the basement, shivering for hours. Some boys were tied up and hidden behind a screen for being too marked up for show. Bed wetters, stripped half-naked down below, had to face a wall and bang their heads and feet against the brick ‘til they were swollen and dripping blood.
Blood.
It was not the slapping hands and fists that was the worst, but creeping… creeping hands that slid like slugs on a trail of slime. And places touched that should not have been. The Brothers swarmed like a plague of locusts. Gregarious, they spoiled with pennies and sweets, before despoiling their youthful charges. Us.
Things were done that should not have been! I cannot describe the pain of, of… entry. Perhaps if there had been love… But the bigger eats the smaller, and power is the game. I had to bury my underclothes, soiled and soaked with blood, in the playground after lights out.
And when, with time, I no longer felt the physical pain of, of… I knew that I was truly lost.
I want back the blood I shed! The years that were taken away from me. If it takes a thousand years, I swear… !
When The Master, Count Dracula comes, He will bring life everlasting. And then, how they all will quake! Wild justice will tame all those lily hearts, hiding stamen that stab, that
Ha.
The Doctor plagues me about souls. Perhaps
