Vampire Moon (9 page)

 
      
 
“Stop!” I suddenly shouted. “I get it. I’ll do it.”

 
      
 
I brought the pen over to the pad of paper, and the flickering stopped. The light blazed on, cheerily, as if nothing had happened at all.

 
      
 
Okay, that settles it,
I thought.
I really am going crazy.

 
      
 
I set the tip of the pen lightly down on the lined paper. I closed my eyes. Centered myself, whatever that meant. I did my best to do what the article on the internet said. Imagine an invisible silver cord stretching down from each ankle all the way to the center of the earth. Then imagine the cord tied tightly to the biggest rocks I could imagine. Then imagine another such cord tied to the end of my spine, attached to another such rock in the center of the earth.

 
      
 
Grounding myself.

 
      
 
I briefly imagined these silver cords stretching down through nine hotel floors, plunging through beds and scaring the hell out of the occupants below me.

 
      
 
I chuckled.
Sorry folks. Just centering myself.

 
      
 
When I thought I was about as centered as I could be, I realized I didn’t know what to do next. Maybe I didn’t have to do anything. It was called automatic writing for a reason, right?

 
      
 
I looked at the pen in front of me. The tip rested
unmovingly
on the empty page. The lights above me had quit flickering. No doubt a power surge of some sort.

 
      
 
Maybe I should quit thinking?

 
      
 
But how does one quit thinking? I didn’t know, but I tried to think of nothing, and found myself thinking of everything. This was harder than it looked.

 
      
 
One of the articles said that focusing on breathing was a great way to unclutter thoughts. But what if someone didn’t need to breathe? The article wasn’t very vampire friendly.

 
      
 
Still, I forced myself to breathe in and out, focusing on the air as it passed over my lips and down the back of my throat. I focused on all the components that were necessary to draw air in and expel it out.

 
      
 
I thought of my children and the image of me strangling Danny came powerfully into my thoughts.

 
      
 
I shook my head and focused on breathing.

 
      
 
In and out. Over my lips and down my throat. Filling my lungs, and then being expelled again.

 
      
 
And that’s when I noticed something very, very interesting. I noticed a slight twitching in my forearms.

 
      
 
I opened my eyes.

 
      
 
The twitching had turned into something more than twitching. My arm was
spasming
. The feeling wasn’t uncomfortable, though. Almost as if I were receiving a gentle massage that somehow was stimulating my muscles. A gentle shock therapy.

 
      
 
I watched my arm curiously.

 
      
 
Interestingly, with each jerk of my muscles, the point of the pen moved as well, making small little squiggly lines on the page. Meaningless lines. Nothing more than chicken scratches.

 
      
 
My arm quit jerking, and I had a very, very strange sense that something had settled into it, somehow. Something had melded with my arm.

 
      
 
The chicken scratches stopped. Everything stopped.

 
      
 
There was a pause.

 
      
 
And then my arm tingled again and my muscles sort of jerked to life and I watched, utterly fascinated, as the pen in front of me, held by own hand, began making weird circles.

 
      
 
Circle after circle after circle. Big circles. Little circles. Tight, hard circles. Loose, light circles. Sloppy circles, perfect circles.

 
      
 
Quickly, the circles filled the entire page. When there wasn’t much room left at all, my hand grew quiet.

 
      
 
Using my other hand, I tore out the page out, revealing a fresh one beneath.

 
      
 
My arm jerked immediately, tingling, and the pen wrote again, but this time not with circles.

 
      
 
This time words appeared. Two words, to be exact.

 
      
 
Hello, Samantha.

 
      
 
Chapter Eleven

 
      
 
I stared at the two words.

 
      
 
Had I written them? Was I deluding myself into thinking that something beyond me was writing?

 
      
 
At that moment, as those questions formed in my mind, the gentle shocking sensation rippled through my forearm again and the pen began moving. Three words appeared.

 
      
 
Does it matter?

 
      
 
The script was flowing. Easy to read. Big, roundish letters. Completely filling the space between the light-blue lines of the writing paper.

 
      
 
“You can read my mind?” I said aloud.

 
      
 
My hand jerked to life, and words scrawled across the page.

 
      
 
Thoughts are real, Samantha. More real than people realize.

 
      
 
I watched in amazement as the words appeared before me. I had the sense that if I wanted to stop writing, that I could. I wasn’t being forced to write. I was allowing something to write through me. If I wanted this to stop it would.

 
      
 
“Who are you?” I asked. My heart, which averaged about five beats a minute, had increased in tempo. It was now thumping away at maybe ten beats a minute.

 
      
 
There was only a slight pause, and then my hand felt compelled to write the words:
I am someone very close to you.

 
      
 
“Should I be afraid?”

 
      
 
You should be whatever you want. But let me ask you: Do you feel afraid?

 
      
 
“No.”

 
      
 
Then trust how you feel.

 
      
 
I took in some air, and held it for a few minutes, staring down at the pad of paper. I exhaled the air almost as an afterthought.

 
      
 
“This is weird,” I said.

 
      
 
It is whatever you want it to be. It could be weird. Or it could be wildly wonderful.

 
      
 
Half the page was now full. My hand also moved down to the next line on its own, prompted by the gentle electrical stimulation of my arm muscles.

 
      
 
A weird, otherworldly sensation, for sure.

 
      
 
“So you are someone close to me,” I said, and suddenly felt damn foolish for talking to my hand and a piece of paper. “But that doesn’t tell me
who
you are.”

 
      
 
There was a pause, and I had a strong sense that whoever I was talking to was considering how much to tell me.

 
      
 
For now, let’s just say I am a friend. A very close friend.

 
      
 
“Most of my friends don’t speak to me through a pen and paper,” I said. “They use email or text messaging.”

 
      
 
Words are words, are they not? Think of this as spiritual instant messaging. A SIM.

 
      
 
Despite myself, I laughed. Now I was certain I was going crazy.

 
      
 
I looked down at the printed words. The fresher ones were still wet and gleaming blue under the overhead light. The printing was not my own. It was big and flowing. My own handwriting style tended to be tight and slanted.

 
      
 
Finally, I said, “I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

 
      
 
Do you have to understand everything, Samantha? Perhaps some things are best taken on faith. Perhaps it’s a good thing to have a little mystery in the world. After all, you’re a little mysterious yourself, aren’t you?

 
      
 
I nodded but said nothing. I was suddenly having a hard time formulating words—or even thinking for that matter. I was also feeling strangely emotional. Something powerful and wonderful was going on here and I was having a hard time grasping it.

 
      
 
Then let’s take a break, Samantha. It’s okay. We made our introductions, and that’s a good start.

 
      
 
“But you didn’t tell me your name,” I blurted out.

 
      
 
A slight pause, a tingle, and the following words appeared: