Canticle of the Undead

Going back to the past once again, our character charters for the old world and finally discovers the true origin to all this darkness.

The boat sailed ferociously through howling winds, the wooden planks on the starboard side almost capsized.  The moon dipped down in its hidden galls of the clouds overhead cascading an ominous glow on the ship’s captain and the crew mates.  All of them pulled  their weight and worked tirelessly tying down the mast and pull strings.  Winds never changed course as many of the crew heard the oak and ply wood of the hull buckle under the pressure.  Many of the deck hands scrambled to secure all the buoys and regulated safety precautions.

Meanwhile most of the secondary crew stayed beneath in the confines of the ship.  All the regulars huddled together in a makeshift parlor, most of them holding on to each other for dear life.  There had been a solitary doctor who was taking care of a young sick girl, a minister who was holding tightly on to rosary beads while praying over anyone who is willing to listen, a fine young couple who recently got engaged and were sailing to England to be wed, a family that was made up of a single father, one son and one daughter in which he tried to calm down, and George O’Rourke himself who kept a cool head under all this pressure of a passenger ship that might or might not make it to the mainland.  Even if this ship would drop to the caverns of Davy Jone’s locker, he probably would have blamed it on the forces of evil at work.  Hell…even on a night like this he wondered if there was some type of negative energy or entities holding him back to tackle his journey onward.

The ship tumbled to and fro in bleak black waters, the howling winds made the ply wood beams creak and jolt.  The captain held sternly the wheel making sure the bow of the ship was aimed directly at incoming waves.  If one or two were to change course midway and either hit the stern or starboard, this king size ship would have definitely tipped in the favor of the night’s terror.  But the captain remained strong and steadfast, barking out orders left and right to the deck hands that battered down all the hatches so the ship could take on full mast at increasing speeds splitting the oncoming hurricane induced waves in half.  As the captain pummeled through the howling tides of hell, he screamed and wailed at the top of his lungs and crew sung along with him. 

 

Beneath and inside this rocky wooden turmoil George glanced up to hear the crew and its captain shout.  A smile came to his face nodding in satisfaction.  Nothing needed to be said, he knew everything was going to be alright.  “I guess there are many good men left in this world,” he thought to himself.  He knew he was surrounded by decent hard working men who knew how to get their job done, and they do it well and by the books.  He peered at the two children who now were sitting close to their father, one arm around each of their shoulders.  George gestured kindly to the man and man favored him back with a slight grin and an encompassing nod.  He too understood everything will be alright, their lives were in the hands of great men, honorable sea-fairing men.  And he knew sooner or later that England would be on his doorstep.

A full five days at sea was all it took to make it the country of proper Englishmen.  All the passengers thanked the captain and crew, except for the minister who only thanked God and completely ignored the men who were actually responsible.  George just shook his head, walked on by, thanked the crew first then the captain.  His beige duster hung loosely over his shoulders.  Two cattleman were strapped to his belt, a long rifle draped around his back along with a backpack of clothing, tools, and more importantly…weapons.  He was still not sure what he would find in a country he never visited before let alone knew anyone.  All he was given was a name and an address.  Somewhere in this country he would find the minister’s friend.  

The story he believed to be true, that his friend had purchased some type of key, an ankh to be exact that held a secret to something living within the Egyptian desert.  Hoping that whatever this thing or this creature was had been subdued before, he knew and prayed that he was able to perform what his friend, the minister had done before.  If he could the find the courage and determination to beat back or repel or perhaps even destroy such a malevolent force, he would do so.  He would have to reach back into every fathom of training, using all his skills and willpower, he definitely had the adversity to destroy any dark entity or specter or undead monstrosity he would encounter in this journey.  The only question burning his mind was how long would it exactly take?

To uncover a key and then trace it back to its source?  It might take a while, a couple of months maybe even a full year to pull off this crusade.  He knew deep down it had be to done.  Not only that but the mysteries of the undead also plagued his mind.  Where did these unholy creatures come from?  Was there a source to their madness, their psychotic and delusional tendencies?  And what was this source?  Was it some sort of diluted bloodline?  Maybe some type of parasitic organism? (as modern science was becoming more popular year by year)  But the more he tried to reason this source of infestation, having plague-like qualities and like-minded hosts garnering in packs and covens, the more his rational thoughts geared towards being one person and one person alone.  If indeed it had been a person that inflamed and originated this venom induced poisonous blood canticle, was it a man or was it a woman?

As he walked along the cobblestone street walks, the rising sun illuminated all that was good and sacred.  Witnessing families of familiar faces but speaking in more proper tongues and walking elegantly than most Americans, he thought to himself maybe we could take some inspiration from our fellow English men.  In general their poise seemed more grandiose and studious not as stubborn and far fetched as most American men had become.  It was almost like America had taken a backseat to high culture, and their English brothers endowed with more fastidious apparel and culture.  

He walked down the cobblestone streets of the city of England, where high rises gave way to a more upper class of renown individuals.  People and families wearing nice dress wares and all the men wore suits with tailored jackets.  Most of the men had top hats that tipped with a kind welcome gesture as George passed through the crowds.  The women were decorated in fine attire, corsets and thigh stocking left nothing to the more regal American eye.  Left nothing else for George to think about by taking one of them in the back of a barn stall and having his way with her.  He tipped his duster to the men and eyed most of the brunettes and blondes that made their impression noticed.  

He saw the works of Big Ben in the making, the perfect ensemble of English perfection.  Hard working union men worked with strong effort and ambition, something most Americans have adopted well from their English brothers.  George thought to himself, “I guess that old work horse mentality still has some blood left in its veins.”  I guess some of their culture rubbed off on Americans quite well, or it could be in the reverse after what the Revolution had done over a hundred years prior.  In made other countries fear what America was capable of exerting its power over worldly influences.  That tired work ethic was not forgotten or maybe it was heightened due to the war of 1815 or the voice of Civil War that echoed in other countries across the world.

And yet George felt a more compelling darkness underneath it all.  Something sinister and vile in the making.  The thing that had occurred with his brother and his minions that beckoned to his call.  Could it be that ilk migrated to other provinces and counties?  Possibly to other countries?  How far did his brother Ryan’s power reach?  Something illusive and menacing made George shiver making him squeeze the butt of one of his cattleman’s as if one of those bastardized creatures was following him down the streets of London.  Glancing over his shoulder he noticed no one out of the ordinary, just simple Londoners walking, shopping, out for their daily routines and working day shifts.  Keeping one keen eye open that is what he learned since this darkness not entrenched just him but his family as well.  One eye over the shoulder, one finger on the safety, that was his motto he lived by…it’s worked pretty well for him so far.  Hell it got him to this country that held all wonders and beauty as well superstition and the unknown.

George kept his guard up not sure if any of the Londoners had been what he deemed as “guard dogs.”  These so called “guard dogs” were merely human and they acted as gatekeepers to what he liked to call “blood hounds.”  These guard dogs had been mere mortal men, most of them normal working steady jobs and taking in their pay every week.  But they had wanted something more of this world, something vicious and unattainable.  They would work their way up the totem poll of success wanting to be like the “blood hounds” but they were never fully initiated into covens.  So the more vile and dominant blood suckers kept them as bodyguards and watchmen…just like George thought once again “guard dogs.”

The more violent and terrifying creatures were the ones controlling them, pulling all the strings, acting as the puppet masters.  They were the smarter of the bunch, initiating plans in motion, trying to find safe havens to call covens and nests.  Their masters promised the “guard dogs” eternal life but they only gave him a taste of the darkness, they never indulged their little marionettes all the way into sacred blood rituals and sacrifices.  They kept them around as scapegoats and fall guys, the ones that put the blame on others and every once a while you would find one down in a dark alley with its throat gouged out and drained completely.  Probably promised they will seek and meet their dark god, but in the end they just turned out to be a rotting corpse lying naked on the floor on the entrance to hell’s burning inferno. 

The real problems were those that controlled honorable and decent men behind the scenes, these were the true “blood hounds.”  Those that seek pleasure and indulgence over keeping others weak and submissive.  These undead creatures loved to have their little watchmen and protectors around, it kept them powerful and domineering, twisting the minds of playthings that wanted the taste, wanted to be indoctrinated but were never given the chance or the opportunity to taste the blood of one of these self-induced and self-proposed leaders.  These blood hounds treated normal common folk even George who glanced at all of the beautiful London architecture and monuments as cattle.  For some reason George could see behind the illusion, the false masks, the façade these blood suckers wore oh so well.  From experiencing the creature at the farm, to his brother who transformed at will, and to the hulking monstrosity who was one of their enforcers but in the end was clumsy and flat footed.  All this and more that he saw in his years being opened to this darkness allowed him a keen and skeptical eye, an unforeseen defense mechanism that radiated in his gut from time to time traveling up his spine to let the alarm bells ring out of tune in his cool-headed mind.  

A couple of women had passed George and gave him a hard look.  Tipping his duster in their direction they smiled as they walked by quickly, giggling and looking back.  His blue eyes turned at the scantily two clad women who left nothing to ponder to the naked eye.  His smile was equally devilish and charming as they kept looking back and curtsying in his direction.  One of the lifted up her blouse as she rounded a corner leaving nothing to the imagination.  George flirted with the gesture and laughed.  The two sultry vixens laughed as well, fingers curling and tempting the American to follow them.  George was no stranger to advances but he saw no harm in some fun sexual antics.  It had been a while for him and making a 180 on his feet, he followed the two women as they started walking even more tantalizing towards a more rugged district of London.

The streets had darkened and the lamps were all turned off.  Just a tad bit of sun came down between towering buildings as the roads dipped further down and turned into more of a roughneck terrain.  It reminded him of the western plains instead of urban delight, where things had been more tuned down, more at home and more rustic in general.  As the street dipped and the side walks became narrow, he realized he was entering in one of the districts that had more enlightened characters, more tellers and store fronts that had been from the far east and beyond.

The stores became more occult based and free flowing.  The more upper class mentality gave way to tarot card readers on street corners, gypsies selling eastern pawned trinkets, talismans, and dream catchers.  Elegant families were traded for the occasional drunk and the random prostitute catering not to one but to at most three other men.  George eyed his surroundings but still followed the two women, they kept their seductive eyes on him the entire time.  Their hands moved up and down their dresses, pushing  up their breasts just to tease him a bit and he smiled foolishly as if he too fit in with one of the drunks teetering on the edge of inebriation.  Still his hand rested on the holster of his cattleman, ready for any random panhandler or spendthrift to have a go at him.  

“Oh honey, you don’t need that right now,” one of the women cooed at him and he let his fingers slip off the hammer.  

“I’m always prepared…for anything,” George spoke honestly.  The two women laughed once more and began running their hands along his duster.  The one fixed the collar of his farm shirt underneath.  The other ran her fingers up and down the rifle jutting from up from his shoulder blade.

“Oh…I like him…an American,” the one that fixed his shirt spoke quietly, tempting even the most average and husk of men.  George stared into her eyes and sensed no danger, just a lively young vixen wanting to have a good time.  Maybe not just with her but with her friend as well.  The more George smiled the more he thought of not only being with her for the night but her friend as well.  Were these his thoughts or those of someone else’s?  For the moment it didn’t matter any more as they led George into a darkened estate in the corner of this grimy district where the sun barely glowed.

They danced easily and spun around George, smiling and captivating him.  Once again he saw no harm in this, just mindless sexual conquest.  Nothing particular, nothing out of the ordinary, like one of the brothels back at home.  Loose women with insatiable appetites for whatever male escorts wanted and could dream of.  No harm in a little fun here and there as the one women removed his backpack and the rifle, the other women started deeply into his eyes and giggled as she removed his belt that held the two revolvers.  He noticed there were other men in the same establishment all staring, mouths open wide, some drooling at these half and full naked women of regal temptations.  George didn’t mind, he actually helped the one remove his sidearm belt and she whispered sultry in his ear, “That’s it sweetheart…want to come in the back with me?”

She led George with one dainty hand, the other hand slipped off the strands to the top of her dress.  Peering around he noticed other men in the dark corners of the back room.  Layers in fine silk linens, oval and rounded beds and ottomans, draped in colors of reds and violets and blues all adorned the back of what seemed to be an expensive brothel.  

“I don’t have that much on me,” George’s husky voice bellowed out as the woman led him into a secluded corner.  This one reeked of sexual desire, a bunch of pent up fetishes that oozed out of her ever pore.  She began to circle around George, removing his duster and tossing it to the side of their little cubby hole.

“Don’t worry sweetheart…this one’s on me,” she spoke in an elegant English accent.  Her sexual prowess was intoxicating and George grinned as a schoolboy.  The strands to her corset came tumbling down, each on the side exposing cleavage that made George relax even more.  Her legs widened as she bent over him rubbing the top of her breasts in his face which made him stumble on over-sized pillowed bench.  Not fighting back but tracing strong hands along her legs, she let the music in the background lead her into an erotic dance.  One by one she lavished in the American’s delight playing with each button on his farming shirt.  Her hands snaked over his chest as she undid the buckle on his pants.  Her hands removed from his body and moved seductively across her skin undoing one strap on every buckle of the tightened corset.  His own fingers helped her undo the metal clasp at the bottom, she grinned and placed a long passionate kiss on his lips.  Her hands trailed over the bulge in his pants which made George moan just a bit as she licked her lips tasting the heat off this mortal.  He indeed was more mature, very handsome, dark and mysterious unlike most of the boys that made up her daily routine.

She knew he wanted her as his grease monkey hands wrapped around her waist pulling in her close as he took control.  The woman didn’t mind as she let the corset fall revealing two luscious breasts that any man would die for.  His mouth fell on top of them sucking and lapping as she danced against his waist, grinding and equalizing with his own moans.  George’s eyes were closed and loving every moment as she squealed and cooed with delight.  She held his head in the cup of her hands staring vivaciously in his eyes as his hands worked up her backside undoing the bottom of her dress with his masculine touch.  Immediately she took his hands into hers beginning to suck on his index finger then traced the other finger down her naked torso to her hidden treasure which was vibrating forcefully against his pants.  George let his defenses down as she smiled wickedly biting playfully at his neck and slowly irked her way down his chest sliding between his thighs spreading them open gently.  

George couldn’t help but to let his arms dangle on the sides of the bench as the vixen worked her magic, her spell twisting his mind into any man’s sexual fantasy.  She played into his desires of him wanting to take charge but allowing him just enough foreplay to switch roles.  Now George was all hers and he knew as his head tipped backwards as she started to undo his dark brown slacks, his bulge inches away from her face in which her tongue lapped out just to tease the edge of his zipper.  George closed his eyes momentarily as he felt her hands make her way inside, and it only made turn his head to gaze at the other men in the room receiving similar gifts even more so than him.  

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed one man dressed in mostly rugged attire struck in awe as he watched his own goddess step out of her dress completely.  George wondered just then what it would have been like not to just have one but also her friend perform the same exotic montage on him.  And that was when he saw the full naked woman huddle over him bury her head into the man’s neck and he let out a silent scream.  George’s eyes slanted coming to slits, noticing the blood trickle down the man’s neck soaking the top of his collar.  He tried to reason, to clear his head but what his own vixen was doing between his legs made his waist buckle and felt himself orgasm without hesitation.  And as he did he noticed another man in a second dark corner mouth the words “help me!” as the prostitute behind him had her head buried into the side of his neck as well.  Her eyes opened shockingly to glare at George and gave him a sexy smile as she let the man tumble over to roll on the floor.  

She sauntered over to George, her full naked body walking erotically over to him, her hips swaying back and forth, her hidden treasure throbbing with blood lust, her breasts looked pale yet supple, vein-ridden yet pulsing with sexual heat.  George felt as if he was in a daze, some type of trance and could do nothing about the situation.  In the back of his mind only one thought remained…get yourself out of this fast or your dead, a*****e!  But there was nothing he could do about it, the second woman advanced on him, her hands running over her naked torso, cupping her breasts which were now just inches away from his face.  It had been her friend that walked down the street with the one that led him here, and they both stood and rose before the haphazard lazy American.  Each of them gave the other one blood soaked kiss, each of the them having a taste and he watched petrified, his eyes glazed over.  Part of him wanted this to happen, the other part told him to dart towards the door and out into the sunlight.

They both huddled over George smiling their fanged grins, both of their naked frames lain on each side of him.  They kept his hands immobilized and they started to undo his farm shirt, completely removing his pants.  All of a sudden a buoy knife jutted out of one the w***e’s chest and she wailed in horror.  A tall man standing behind her was barely seen by George’s shrouded gaze.  Just then a sharp machete came out and decapitated the prostitute’s head drenching George in a bile of dark coagulated blood.  The sight of it broke George out of his reverie and shook his head of that temporary trance.  Another man entered the backroom where the finely decorated alcoves were holding and brandishing nothing but a makeshift crossbow.  He raised it carefully aiming high and a single bolt flew through the air landing right between the main woman’s eyes.  Her head flew back and her body landed right next to George who was stunned and mortified.

Stumbling to stand up George quickly pulled up his pants grabbing his shirt in the process and he heard one of the men yell to the other.  “The heart…it has to be the heart…she’ll be back on her feet in minutes.”  The tall man from the beginning lunged over to the first naked prostitute bringing out a custom wooden stake and drove it right between both of her breasts.  Meanwhile the second man brought out two bottles from his jacket smelling of kerosene and liquor dumping them out on the velvet carpet all around them.  George finally made it to his feet putting on his duster and watched from a short distance these two men perform a ritual he knew all too well.  The ritual of dispelling the undead, their performances almost perfect down to an exact science.  One grabbed the drapes spinning them into balls and dousing them with the kerosene, the other used his buoy knife to break out blackened stained windows that seemed to be hidden throughout the backroom of this brothel letting in the daylight.

George moved towards the entrance and into the parlor where there was a strain of dead corpses littering the floor.  He knew exactly who these men were, they were professional, experts…they were hunters just like him.  Stepping over the corpses who were mostly beheaded, some had their throats slit open, others had wooden and iron stakes jolting out of their chest cavities, he made his way to where this coven had kept all their victim’s essentials and livelihoods.  He barged through a nearby closet door using all his weight but still feeling lightheaded from the encounter.  He still had to get bearings straight, his head was still jumbled with thoughts racing back and forth.  He began rummaging through all the pocketbooks, weapons, hats, shirts, and pants that littered this vestibule of lives who once were but not anymore.  He found his backpack still in tact in one of the corners, with his belt strap and rifle leaning against it.  He looked around at the rest of the random objects just tossed in here, leftover wallets, top hats, fine suits and ties, along with revolvers and long rifles, hunting knifes galore…all lives taken by these w****s of the undead.

Shaking off more of his headache, his eyes focused on the scenery more and he felt nauseous.  He came out of the closet carrying his equipment and quickly he dropped to his knees to vomit on a corpse.  When he glanced up wiping off his mouth he noticed the two men standing at the entrance glaring back at him.  He noticed a small fire starting in the backroom and the two men nodded to him.

“George…George O’Rourke?”  the tall man belted out.  George himself stood in shock and backed away a foot.

“You know me?”  George sighed.

“No,” the man replied, “But I know your friend, father Andrew.”

“You better come with us, we have much to talk about,” the other shorter one sounded off.  

Through London they walked, George simply a few feet behind the two.  They carried themselves with poise and elegance.  The tall man would look back at him every now and then.  He wore mostly black attire, suede pants, an overcoat with a checkered vest underneath.  The shorter one kept his eye out for anyone suspicious glancing up and down the occasional alley.  This was one wore more regal attire like himself, a brown suit jacket with tailored pants and a simple workman’s shirt.  Rounded spectacles adorned his face along with a bushy mustache and frizzled brown hair.  The tall man had a top hat on pulling out his pocket watch out from his vest.  

“It will be dark soon,” the tall man gazed back at George, “You are doing well, American?”  George nodded at the English accent of the tall man.  His headache slowly dissipated and he kept a wary eye on the two.  He was not sure if he could trust them yet even though they saved him.  If he played into his baser impulses he would have been food for the undead, so he had to give them at least some  recognition.  They made their through the streets of downtown London walking into a more industrialized district.  Men of high class rode in stage coaches and the women seemed more sophisticated. 

The two men made their way into a three story high rise, the shorter one unlocking the front door with an ornate key.  George wondered who these two men were the entire time who barely spoke a word.  They kept their dignity intact and they both held a quiet resolve.  Almost like a silent willpower something George admired that he himself also acquired.  He was a novice maybe even an apprentice compared to these two.  They walked inside taking off their jackets handing them over to a maid who also asked George for his duster.  Smiling reluctantly he took off his jacket and the maid grinned back at him.

The two men still kept silent only motioning for George to follow them.  He glanced around the high rise noticing paintings from all corners of the world.  Some of them were of renown English families, others were of native tribes of India, some were of single individuals that of Egyptian pharaohs, monarchs from Medieval times, Romanian and Slavic culture icons.  The house was decorated lively and full of color.  Simple browns tans and beige's highlighted most of the rooms, shiny floorboards with lavish rugs, all curtains open to let in the last rays of a dusk-ridden sun.

The three men walked towards the back of the high rise into a den.  Or what appeared to be a den at first.  When George finally walked in he noticed it was more of a laboratory containing vials, scientific apparatuses, humming devices made of earthly and refined metals.  The room felt almost like a geniuses’ playroom filled with desk that had botanical herbs and flowers growing, chemicals that poured from one flask into another, tubes that had liquids vaporizing into containers and arrowheads.  George’s jaw dropped in amazement at all the contraptions this science lab had to offer.  The two men gestured for George to join them at a round table and he gladly sat in one of the chairs.  Finally relaxing he felt safe here more than his own home.  

“Welcome to my home, Mr. O’Rourke, I am Carter by the way,” the tall man obliged by stretching out his right hand.   

“Pleasure, Carter,” George shook his hand aggressively returning the invitation, “Quite a place you have here.”

“All this and more is what we use to detect and hunt the undead,” Carter’s hands waved at all the experiments and the weapons hanging on an adjoining wall, “this is my assistant, Mr. Redgrave.”

George shook the hand of the shorter man and he uttered a name, “Edward.”

Nodding in unison at the two men he sat back in his chair.  George pulled out his tin and yanked out a cigarette.  His eyes questioned Carter as if to ask permission.  Carter smiled as he pulled out a cigar from his vest.  Lighting up one end he took a deserved inhale enjoying the relaxation that tobacco had to offer.  That was when Carter began his rant.

“For years I have called this place my home.  Rest assured Mr. O’Rourke you will be safe here for the time being.  All window sills have been encased with refined silver.  Bulbs of garlic hang from door knobs and curtains.  Dog roses and lilac bushes are planted in all four corners around the perimeter to keep out any unnecessary entities.”

“You mean vampires?” George smiled as he took another drag.

“Indeed, George.  Creatures of the dead.  Immortal entities that plague our world like an infestation.  Like the bubonic plague of day’s past, just more cleverly planned and orchestrated.  Demonic and vile sub humans that crave the thing that connects us all together…for the blood is the life, is it not?”

George liked this man already, speaking like Andrew but holding so much more knowledge.  He had been more sophisticated and more scientific in his approach not like the minister.  Americans held a more spiritual approach to combating what these creatures were using symbols and signs to repel vampires.  It worked to a certain degree unless, he wondered, if they grew a tolerance to such things making them more treacherous then before.  He had seen one of the undead spit hellish blood onto a homemade cross and even have one place a finger a scapular with no reaction to something that had been blessed.  He tugged on his own cross that he wore across his neck just to make sure that too was not tainted by an unforeseen force.

“That cross you bare around your neck, George, you know why nosferatu cannot touch such a trinket?  It is because it is made from a very unique oil.  Or maybe I should say it has a very unique combination of herbs contained in the center of it.  A mixture of dog weed, lavender, and nightshade.  That is why many undead creatures cannot grasp and hold onto such a powerful talisman,”  Carter made a gripping gesture with his hands as if to touch it, “The wood that harnesses those three herbs inside is made of rose wood and the rowan tree.  Two different types of natural baring woods that most vampires fear and can be destroyed with.”  

George’s smile widened more as he understood science more than blind faith.  Carter had been more technical in his approach, much more studious than most priest and ministers that trusted sacred rituals.  Even he knew that there must be at least some hearsay in the matter.  Not every tabernacle had been sacred or cross blessed by the hand of God.  There had to be more of a rational endeavor to eradicating this vermin as Carter put it much more into perspective.

“Since the dawn of mankind, George,” Carter spoke as he rose from his chair grabbing a book from a nearby bookshelf, “Mankind has always been plagued with various diseases.  The common cold, flu viruses, tuberculosis, pneumonia, emphysema…even much deadlier variants like scarlet fever, the swine flu, and smallpox.  All of them silent killers.  All of them harmful to mankind.  But if we delve deeper into nosferatu we find out very intricately that they are affected by none of these natural diseases that can kill like that…”  Carter snapped his fingers.

“So the question I asked myself a long time ago is…what disease is nosferatu allergic to?  So many that came before me, very talented physiologists and hunters alike never seemed to ask that question.  What is a vampire’s ultimate weakness?  What are they prone to?  Some type of infection?  Could it be that a vampire can fall ill?  Could one of the undead have an induction of a common cold?  All these questions have never been asked…but throughout all my years of study I have come to the conclusion that it has be inside the blood of these creatures.  Some type of hemoglobin or strain that exists inside the blood cells of nosferatu.  And these scientific mechanisms that you see before you contain the answers.

“The vampire is very allergic to many different herbs and plants and chemicals.  It affects the creature’s body on a cellular level.  Not on a spiritual level as many people think, that is why when they tried to answer those questions they always came to dead ends.  They were trying to fight the undead, these demonic and ritualistic creatures using blind faith.  Very honorable and notable hunters trusted their faith, they endowed their faith with signs and symbols and crosses.  Even their holy water.

“At the beginning those intricacies worked because nosferatu was afraid of such devices.  They shunned at the sight of that faith.  That resolve that grows inside the heart of a man.  A man can wear that with conviction and pride.  At first the vampires of old, that originated from animalistic rituals and sacrifices and séances  and conjurings, they also feared that kind of faith.  They saw that man, renown men, men of the cloth, men of religion and spirituality would not back down.  And it drove the first vampire, or I should say, the first coven of the undead insane.  It made them barbaric, foaming at the mouth, enraged and borderline psychotic.  They exhibited signs of psychosis and paranoia, sociopath and schizophrenic tendencies.  When they would look upon a cross or be touched by blessed by water or be prayed upon, they became infuriated and diabolical in nature.  Anger and hatred threw them into that type of frenzied state, an almost delusion mindset.

“But in the course of time and spontaneous evolution processes, nosferatu evolved as well.  Just as man invented better medicines and more intravenous machinations, the vampire does as well.  Or I should say, their legion.  More covens sprout up time and time again, and many of us ask that same question, why?  There has to be, or maybe HAD to be a reason?  Was it multiplication by numbers?  A parasitic organism originating from a progenitor?  An incubation process endowed inside the host?  Something given to a subordinate or a submissive to have them endowed with a demonic touch?  Is it something mental or spiritual in nature?  Could it be some form of codependent or coexisting nature, to be controlled psychically using a form of a paralysis or mind control?

Think about it Mr. O’Rourke all the tools that our true enemy uses against mortal victims.  Short term paralysis.  Memory and thought control.  Collapsible incisors resembling the mandibles of a snake.  Blood transfusion in the form of poison to turn a victim as if a worm encases itself inside a cocoon and given the course of times turns into a butterfly.  But in this case it is no butterfly, but a wasp or hornet or bumblebee.  One who is directed and given orders, mentally and psychically by a much stronger and sophisticated queen bee.  One who intravenously controls the rest of the hive, mimicking thought patterns, giving out instructions based on muscle memory and giving off hive-like impulses and desires that most parasites crave and give into the mundane.  The tedious simplistic desires that every man, woman, and child has, the queen bee knows this and plays into that type of deception.

Oh and she uses various tactics.  Scatterbox manipulation.  Covert hypnotism.  Word games such as riddles and  scare tactics.  And so many never asked the question, why?  Fear based paranoia, Mr. O’Rourke.  The vampire has so much more to fear than the common man.  The vampire also thinks nothing can harm them.  That they are life beyond life, that belong not of this natural world of ours.   That they should not abide by the same rules as mankind does.  And slowly but surely the evolutionary process took place, and that basic fear of such spiritual endeavors dissipated.  They no longer are warded off by talismans or symbols, they adapted to them, George.  They learned how to tolerate such basic impulses, refined and honed in on their wicked desires.  They taught themselves how to heighten such senses and pleasures to the point where they have become almost like…experts of the darkness.  Professional undead cohorts that could look past all the psychobabble.

And over the years they have infiltrated so many institutions.  Many charter and boarding schools, teachers who hold high positions of authority what you consider “guard dogs.”  They train younglings and indoctrinate them at a fine age, tailoring them to take over said institutions.  And forget the age old invitation into a household.  These watchmen willingly invite them in, not only onto sacred ground but into personal lives, which makes the vampire keen at adapting at walking on holy ground.  They even instruct priest and deacons and ministers to their world.  They promise them life everlasting which is nothing but a simple mixture of certain red blood cells that produces a monster that goes way beyond mankind’s understanding.

They own many businesses, Mr. O’Rourke.  Even the brothel that Edward and I saved you from,”  George listened attentively and craned his head toward the shorter one that nodded in favor, “The smarter, more intelligent nosferatu uses all the machinations to their advantage.  They use them to get what they want.  And what do they want, George?”

George simply sat there stunned hearing all of this for the first time as if a brick slapped him on the back of his head, “I honestly don’t know.”

“Power, Mr. O’Rourke.  They want power over you.  They want power over me.  They want power over Edward.  They want power over everyone.  To eradicate mankind off the face of this earth and treat us as cattle that they can feed on daily.  Some will do it willingly.  Some will be too scared to fight.  Others would bend the knee out of servitude.  They want that kind of power because it gives them what they truly desire.  They desire the world.  They want this world to live in perpetual darkness and for them to be the vicars of a new day and age.  They want control because without it they would be defenseless, it would show how truly weak they are.  And they cannot be viewed as weak.

They just do not want to be on top of the natural world based food chain.  They want to be the food chain.  To control the food chain.  It drives them to do horrific and terrible things.  To hold leverage over humans, turn them over to submission, either willingly or unwillingly.  And the reason father Andrew brought you here is to learn the source of that food chain.  To hunt down the progenitor, Mr. O’Rourke.  To track and locate that queen bee who procured that origin of a species that is a threat to mankind.  To her…to whatever she is…she views mankind as a disease, a pest on HER OWN earth that she believes belongs to only her.  And she has her minions, both big and small, higher ups and low lows do her bidding at her own will.”

George sat with his jaw wide open stunned at Carter’s long speech to what really was going on behind the scenes, behind every dark corner, in the recesses of human consciousness, in the labyrinths of many places.  Finally he understand where this darkness came from, what caused it, who controls that madness that foams at the mouth of the undead.  Or maybe he should call them the diseased, deranged pests of a maddening queen, host bodies carrying out nothing but mindless orders.  Both Carter and Edward left George to take in all the information as he needed some time to digest all of it.  As Edward left the room he looked back at George sitting there almost stupefied and just said.  “Oh…and welcome to London, Mr. O’Rourke.”  

April 12, 2023

Author's Note

What do you think of the more sexual vampires? How was the read? Did you like the new characters? Do you like the more scientific approach to it? Or should it be more of a spiritual warfare? I love constructive criticism or comments, to see if I could write better for future stories.