Discovering the Undead

About to time to shed some light on the history of my Undead series.

        He prodded his memory like clockwork.  An adjustment on the microscope had been made, and the lens flared in his vision.  The blood coagulated just then, the amoebas swirling incoherently.  He jotted down some more notes in his journal signifying the entry of some hard elements, one being holy water, the other garlic.  He  tested out the holy water first on one of the samples, the blood instantly flaming up before him.  The lens instantly ignited and he had to back away.  A little fire had started so he quickly put it out with a splash of bottled water.  So that was the effect of holy water, its chemical reaction with blood instantly became a raging inferno.  Some more notes written down.  Then the second sample came on another lens.  Underneath the microscope he introduced a teaspoon of garlic, the blood did not flame up this time.  Instead it decided to smoke, and an interesting repugnant aroma filled the lab room.  It smelled as rotten eggs mixed with burnt skin, not good.  Now he understood more clearly the effects of various weapons.  Immediately he began storing the samples away that he lugged around in brown leather suitcase.  The chemistry lab of the university was his for the taking since he had broken in after hours.  He made sure no one saw him come in, he needed to do some hard studying, and the evidence of eradicating the vampires became increasingly more effective.  

Gathering his things he made his way down the marble walled hallway.  Posters stating ‘Chemistry is for You’ and ‘What is the deal with Biology?’ stared at him as he walked briskly.  Of course the campus was always open to eager students, the thing was he was not one of them.  In fact he was the opposite of a student, an intruder on a mission, a mission that no one knew about, a mission of hunting the undead.  Of course that had been their greatest strength, that no believed in them.  But he saw countless creatures of the night, their hive-like consciousness always haunting him every step of the way.  The evening was misty as the previous drizzle died down.  The trees of the university loomed high amongst the stone buildings.  Students had been talking amongst each other in a nearby courtyard that was situated between the Chemistry building and Mathematics building.  But none of that was his concern, his next best bet was the college library.  There he would find literature on what he had to do next, his next courageous venture.  

The library was three stories high and must have been built in the early 70s because a musty smell hung in the air.  It was the stench of old books, of unread literature, and most students that ventured in and out barely noticed it.  Their meaningless lives never unraveled before them.  They had no goals, no ambitions, no motivations.  They were college students.  All they thought about was partying and getting laid, who was going to the next keg stand at the frat party.  But the young man had been ambitious, and his mission never left his wandering mind.  At that moment he touched the silver cross that rested around his neck, the faith of a soldier gave him peace, it gave him hope.  Too many adversaries had been turned before him.  They were still out there, lurking behind closed doors, rummaging through abandon homes, sleeping underneath the streets of cities and bunking in sewers.  He tried to not think as he approached the front desk of the library, its student residential advisors had been the ones renting out countless editions of books that were of no use to him. 

Ignoring the crowd of people huddled at the front, he made his way toward  the back where he could go unnoticed.  The library grew dim, the fluorescents becoming few and far between.  The occult section had to be somewhere, but instead of searching he made his way to lone stationary computer that rested between two long bookshelves.  He typed the word VAMPIRES in the search engine  that linked itself with the library directory.  The entries were endless, where to begin.  He jotted down the dewy decimal number that seemed to be similar under all the possible data.  After deleting the search history from the computer he made his way upstairs into a much more comfortable atmosphere where there had been less people.  

They had a whole selection of books on vampires and the occult.  Most of them had been based on the history of vampires, but he knew that already from reading countless volumes on the origins of Dracula, Varny the Vampire, and Elizabeth Bathory.  He skimmed those that related to history and went towards a thick novel that stood out, it did not have any words on it, just a thin layer of dust covering a leather bound book.  It seemed almost ancient, it stood out amongst the rest, a treasure at the end of a tunnel.  He walked over to a study desk, there had been plenty in a row and most of them were vacant.  He opened up to the first page, in big letters the name Vampirius Nocturna stood out.  He flipped through the book and various images, occult symbols, etchings, and hand writing had been the majority of the text.  It was not printed as most encyclopedias were, this was done in cursive.  The text spoke old English and a date struck him in the middle of book, 1492.  Wow, whoever wrote this had been well versed in the vampire lore.

A long time ago there had been an awakening, a ceremony of some sorts.  It had started back when America was founded by Spaniards.  It spoke of Columbus’ journey, and the original settles, the Natives.  The Natives had their own customs of treating the dead, they sacrificed the recently deceased to pagan gods.  They worshipped animals such as owls, wolves, and dear.  They believed that the spirits of these animals had become one with human souls in the afterlife.  Thus the rituals were held unanimously, each one of them geared towards a person’s own spirit guide, an animal spirit.  The Spaniards once they arrived were stunned and amazed at such rituals, their own symbols and idols represented the living God.  Columbus himself was a Christian nonetheless, and he perceived these rituals as heresies and worshipping false idols.  The Spaniards had mingled with the Natives for years upon years, each of their customs bestowed upon the other.  But the Spaniards had their priest, and the Natives had their witchdoctors.  Little by little the two separate entities did not mesh right, and their was a falling away of the rituals learned by the Natives.  Slowly but surely Christian edification took over the lands, house-held masses and prayer circles had become the norm and old pagan gods were replaced by the more powerful omnipotent Lord of Lords, God himself.  

The Natives driven from the homes sworn vengeance upon the Spaniards, so they had their medicine men and witchdoctors perform ceremonies to cleanse their lands of this newfound religious sect.  They rose their arms up high to their many gods, most of them wandering animal spirits that resided in different planes of existence.  The wolves beckoned to the call of the wild Natives, the owls became their protectors, the hawks became their eyes, and the serpents became their weapons.  Each animal spirit held itself close to the ritualistic custom of the Natives, each one of them praised for its abundance of food and water and land and sky.  The lands became barren, replaced with stoned roads, erected house dwellings, villages and markets where people gathered to trade and sell and buy materials and goods.  Each facet replaced the pagan worshiping of many gods, most of the Natives were driven from the homesteads.  So they did something in return, they put curses on the new people, these right-minded Christians and Spaniards.  They put hexes upon people’s heads, especially those who had taken their lands from them by force.  The Natives never attacked the towns or villages, they only praised their spirited gods, which gave them leverage over their so-called Christian God.  

One evening a bat was sacrificed by the Natives, and they drank its blood.  From the depths of their souls they had tasted the spirit in its truest form.  They were infused with the power of the bat, they believed their senses were magnified to a thousand, their hearing increased, their touch intensified, and the call of the night bestowed upon them.  Most of the Natives were drawn to the blood of the bat, its power derived from the draining of its energy.  They believed that once the blood was drunk from an animal, its essence, its spirit was consumed in the heart.  And there it remained, the lust for the blood of the bat.  But this was no ordinary bat, it had been a vampire bat, one that drank the blood of its victims, and in doing so it gave the bat life.  This energy was now transfused to the Natives, members of certain tribes howled at the night sky, their high pitched wails beckoned the creatures of the night.  The wolves and hawks and serpents and owls bowed to them, the bat had been their successor, the life force that made all others subservient.  

Slowly the Natives began to die off and they did not know why.  Some of the Indians had begun to blister during the day, boils breaking out on their skin, festering in pools of blood.  A plague had started and the Settlers did not know why the Natives were dying, their huts and homes deserted, their fires extinguished, their ceremonies vanishing over the centuries.  The night had made them so powerful that when daylight came most of the ritualistic Natives begun to burn unstoppably.  They knew it had been the sun, the sworn enemy of the vampire bat.  Most of the tribesmen headed for the mountains, finding solace in caves and slumbering below their earth.  They went back into the soil that had been theirs to begin with, and they found it to be pleasant and invigorating.  

Only at night did they come out of their hiding places, to wander aimlessly throughout the lands.  Every once and a while a Native was sighted walking aimlessly through condensed towns and cities.  Their bodies becoming whiter and paler with every coming night, afraid of the sun to come up again.  The Natives grew thin and restless, and a new type of hunger was formed, that of the blood they yearned for.  At first they started off in the dense forests and wood, hunting down wolves, squirrels, raccoons, and the like.  The animals blood gave them semblance, nourishment and strength.  The spirits of these animals were theirs for the taking, the vampire bat once again becoming the pinnacle of its dominion.  Each creature once drained gave them the life they once lost.  They cursed the Settlers, forming covens in the dark places, in mountain caverns, in deserted tombs, in pilgrim graveyards.  Their thirst was quenched, but they yearned for something more, something more pure than the blood of an animal.  They wanted revenge, to take their lands back, to bring back the old rituals and ceremonies, of those worshipping their pagan gods.  It brought them closer to the villages and the towns and  the cities.  

They began to infiltrate the Settlers homes and dwellings.  A purge had begun, the cleansing had been released upon the original lands the Natives inhabited.  At night civilians were vulnerable, the Settlers grew accustomed to their traditional ways.  Street lamps were ignited and fires burned inside houses, giving the new settled Americans a place of solitude and peace.  But at night the Natives came with a growing lust, a taste for the blood of a pure human soul.  Little by little the Settlers began to discover little children missing, being stolen from cribs and torn from mother’s arms.  The Natives would devour in their chaotic endeavor, and bring the children back to the cavernous covens and feast on youngling blood.  The taste drove them mad, some may say even insane.  They wanted more, the souls of the humans were more precious than the soul of a animal.  Their blood was more rich and bountiful, for with the Settlers faith, the life was in the blood.  

Their anarchy did not yield, and most Americans became frightened.  They started to tell stories about vile creatures coming from the distant lands to take victims back to their sanctuaries to feast on them.  Stories became myths, myths became legends.  Slowly but surely the legend of the bloodsucker did not die but ravished beyond belief.  The new Settlers had no way of defending themselves against these blood thirsty Natives.  So hunting parties were formed by the townsmen, each of them equipped with muskets and hatchets and swords.  They needed to defend their homes from these Natives like they did once before, they had to send them back to their pagan gods from whence they came.  But it was of no use, tens and hundreds were slaughtered by the more powerful vampire, their sanctuaries reigned with new victims every night.  Some of them were given the blood of the Natives, and immediately these civilians were transformed into horrific creatures.  They  too became pale and restless, with an insatiable hunger for blood.  Some of the hunters that were turned returned home, but they found out right away they could not enter their houses.  Some type of power, an essence, held them from entering their homes.  They had to be invited in by a loved one, so the legends became true.  

These turned pilgrims lulled down the streets, hid in the graveyards, made hiding places in abandon houses and shops.  At night they would return, knocking on windows, seeing their true loves shriek in terror at the sight of their ghastly faces.  Their long protruding fangs eager to get an ounce of blood on their tongues.  They became rabid and somewhat obtrusive.  When there was nothing to be done with these newly turned vampires, most of the Settlers turned to their faith, their Christian God for help.  Churches and missionaries were filled with people eager to learn about the faith, to read the New Geneva Bible in all of its content.  The Settlers became wise in the knowledge of Christ and their religion.  The spiritual realm that God decreed as a holy place was the primary backbone of the faith.  Preachers, priest, deacons, and holy men began to preach the gospel of Christ, and Natives saw how powerful the faith had become.  The night dwellers spied and looked in on masses and services, their deadly faces spitting at the windows of their holy places.  They viewed these people as cattle and food not as soldiers nor warriors.  But the newly turned pilgrims grew afraid and scuttled away from these places of faith.  These new boundaries needed to be tested.  

In the late winters, the night drew closer to midday, and the vampires had more breathing time to take back their lands by force.  The newly turned fledglings, these blood frenzied pilgrims descended upon the towns and cities from their dark brooded hiding places.  These new people with their crosses and their faith had decided to praise idealistic worship.  They began to hang religious icons and tapestries in their homes and even in places of public worship.  The cross had become their weapon, and these new vampires, once Christian men themselves, were repelled by such spiritual artifacts.  Sanctified holy water blessed by priest adorned their foreheads, which glowed bright white in the eyes of a vampire.  Some of these undead were captured by holy men of God, and the water caused their skin to tear and crisp.  The church began to undertake their own rituals, that of exorcism and banishment.  These so-called soldiers of God forged their new weapons to fight the creatures of the night.  They crafted hand held stakes, branded their swords and hatchets with holy water, they wore crucifixes around their necks, and carried with them rosaries prayed over by religious men of the cloth.  

Once again posses and gangs were formed, but now with faith in the hearts, and God on their side, they had their weapons to fight these unholy beasts that came from the lands beyond.  They traveled and marched across open fields, up disastrous mountains, finding tribes and covens of vampires.  The stake proved effective at dispelling them, anchoring their bodies to the earth they so humbly slept within.  Their swords and hatchets and axes blessed with the power God beheaded the turned victims.  Garlic was proved useful to, a natural repellant to ward off the undead from their unnatural places of habitation.  It drew them out of their graves and tombs and caskets they buried themselves in.  Their hiding places were soon put to the flame for fire purifies and releases the soul back into God’s heavenly realm.  The Natives were driven from their sanctuaries, they too were destroyed along with fledgling Settlers, they found out that these holy men knew what they were doing, and they did everything by their book, the Bible.  

Over the course of years the Christian faith announced that the undead had been Satanic, led by Lucifer himself, but the Natives knew better.  The pagan gods gave them their power, and over the centuries the spirit of the bat had come to despise the Christian God.  Its animosity towards anything holy and righteous proved relevant, and the powers of good and evil hung in flux.  The wicked ways of the bat proved relentless, and the spiritual pride of holy warriors  proved victorious.  The years passed and the myths and legends came true of the vampire.  

The young man exhausted read on and on, the person who wrote this must have done extensive research.  He also described the various contraptions of the Christian church that were created to destroy the vampire.  Holy icons repelled them, the stake paralyzed them, and the blade dismembered them.  And fire always purified.  That was the ritual, the killing of a vampire.  He knew that no one should ever find the book, no one should ever know the real history, so he placed the thick volume inside of his bag.  There he sat, alone and tired, staring at the desk surface.  Each grain of wood stood out, and each seemed to resemble a stake.  He closed his eyes and began to pray, the faith of a warrior, one of God’s soldiers.  He had not always been spiritual, did not take religion seriously, but now after knowing the deadly truth, the darkness spread thin, there was a glimmer of hope at the end of the tunnel.  Taking out his journal he wrote down some more important notes, the pencil dulling down to a nub.  There at the end of his entry, a sigh of relief escaped his lips, and he signed his name in all capital letters: PHILIP O’ROURKE, VAMPIRE HUNTER.