Vampire Moon (8 page)

 
      
 
How do I know you’re a
helluva
man?
I wrote.
I’ve never seen a picture of you.

 
      
 
You’ll have to take my word for it.

 
      
 
The word of a man? Never! :)

 
      
 
Remember: A
helluva
a man.

 
      
 
So you say.

 
      
 
What’s got you so upset tonight, Moon Dance?

 
      
 
Fang was my online confidant. I had met him via an online vampire
chatroom
years ago, back when
chatrooms
were all the rage. Nowadays, he and I just chatted through AOL, although we kept our old screen names. His was Fang321, and mine was
MoonDance
. To date, I had yet to tell him anything too personal, although he has probed repeatedly for more information. Admittedly, I have too. We were both deathly curious about each other, but I had my reasons to not reveal my identity, and, according to him, he did, too. Of course, my reason had been obvious: I admitted to him early on that I was a vampire. To his credit, or, more accurately, a ding to his sanity, he had believed me without reservations.

 
      
 
So I told him about my attempt to see my kids, and how Danny was stymieing me at every turn.

 
      
 
You could always kill him,
wrote Fang.

 
      
 
Sometimes I don’t know when you’re joking.

 
      
 
There was a long pause, and then he wrote,
Of course, I was joking.

 
      
 
Good. You had me worried.

 
      
 
Still,
he wrote.
It would solve all your problems.

 
      
 
And create a ton more,
I wrote, and then quickly added:
I’m not a killer.

 
      
 
Thus wrote the vampire.

 
      
 
I’m a
good
vampire.

 
      
 
There are some who would say that’s an oxymoron
.

 
      
 
Why can’t I be good, too?

 
      
 
Because it’s in your nature to kill and drink blood. Ideally, fresh blood from a fresh kill.

 
      
 
I won’t kill anything
.
I would rather shrivel up and die.

 
      
 
But by not drinking fresh blood you are denying yourself the full powers of your being.

 
      
 
How much more powerful do I need to be?
I wrote.

 
      
 
You have no idea.

 
      
 
And how do you know so much about vampires, Fang? You’ve told me long ago that you are human.

 
      
 
A human with a love for all things vampire.

 
      
 
And why do you love vampires so much, Fang?

 
      
 
I have my reasons.

 
      
 
Will you ever tell me what they are?

 
      
 
Someday
.

 
      
 
But not on here
.

 
      
 
Exactly,
he wrote.
Not on here.

 
      
 
If not on here, then where?
I asked.

 
      
 
That’s the million dollar question.

 
      
 
I changed subjects.
So what am I supposed to do about Danny?

 
      
 
Another long pause. I often wondered what Fang did during these long pauses. Was he going to the bathroom? Answering his cell phone? Sitting back and lacing his fingers behind his head as he thought about what he would write next?

 
      
 
Finally, after perhaps five minutes, his words appeared in the IM box:
Danny has all the leverage.

 
      
 
I thought about that. Indeed, it had been something that occurred to me earlier, but I wanted to see what Fang had up his sleeve.

 
      
 
Keep going,
I wrote.

 
      
 
Maybe it’s time for you to take back the leverage.

 
      
 
I agree. Any idea how?

 
      
 
Something will come to you. Hey, how psychic are you these days, Moon Dance?

 
      
 
More than I was a few years ago. Why?

 
      
 
Some psychics use automatic writing for answers.

 
      
 
What automatic writing?

 
      
 
It’s when you sit quietly with a piece of paper and a pen and you ask questions. Sometimes answers come through and your pen just...starts writing.

 
      
 
I laughed.

 
      
 
You’re kidding.

 
      
 
No, I’m not. It could be a way for you to find answers, Moon Dance.

 
      
 
Answers to what?

 
      
 
Everything.

 
      
 
I thought about that, and a small feeling stirred in my solar plexus.

 
      
 
So how do I do this?

 
      
 
Research it on the internet.

 
      
 
Okay, I will.

 
      
 
Good. And let me know how it goes. ‘Night, Moon Dance.

 
      
 
‘
Night, Fang.

 
      
 
Chapter Ten

 
      
 
I did research it on the internet.

 
      
 
Normally, I would have scoffed at such nonsense (automatic writing? C’mon!), but my very strange existence alone suggested that I should at least consider it.

 
      
 
And I liked the possibilities. Who wouldn’t want spiritual answers, especially someone with my condition?

 
      
 
According to a few sites I checked out on the internet, the process of automatic writing seemed fairly simple. Sit quietly at a table with a pen and paper. Center yourself. Clear your mind. Hold the pen lightly over the paper...and see what comes out.

 
      
 
Then again, maybe I didn’t want to know what might come out. Maybe I needed to keep whatever was in me bottled up.

 
      
 
With some trepidation, I found a spiral notebook and a pen. I switched off my laptop and slipped it back in its case.

 
      
 
It was just me, the table, a pen, and a pad of paper.

 
      
 
I stared at the pen. When I grew tired of staring at the pen, I cracked my neck and my knuckles. In the hallway outside my door, I heard two voices steadily growing louder as a couple approached in the direction of my door. The couple came and went, and now their voices grew fainter and fainter.

 
      
 
I picked up the pen.

 
      
 
A domed light hung from the ceiling directly above the table. The light flickered briefly. It had never flickered before. I frowned. One of the sites I had read mentioned that when spirits were present, lights flickered.

 
      
 
It did so again, and again. And now the light actually flickered off, and then on. And then off. Over and over it did this.

 
      
 
I sat back, gasping.

 
      
 
“Sweet Jesus,” I said.

 
      
 
More flickering. On and off.

 
      
 
Nothing else in my room was flickering. The light near the front door held strong. So did the light coming in under my front door. It was just this light, directly above me.

 
      
 
And then the light went
apeshit
. On and off so fast that I could have been having an epileptic seizure.