Vampire Moon
Chapter 8-10
Chapter Eight
I gasped and stumbled.
I reached a gloved hand out and braced myself on the hot fender of my minivan. Heat from the sheet metal immediately permeated the thin glove. Maybe Stephenie Meyer's vampires had it right. Maybe I should move up to Washington State, in the cold and rain, where gray clouds perpetually covered the skies.
Maybe someday. But not now. I had real-life issues to deal with.
I gathered myself together and strode across the quiet parking lot, filled mostly with teachers' and school administrators' cars. I'm sure I must have looked slightly drunk - or perhaps sick - huddled in my clothing, head down, stumbling slightly.
A small wind stirred my thick hair enough to get a few strands stuck in the copious amounts of sunscreen caked on my face. I ignored my hair. I needed to get the hell out of the sun. And fast.
I picked up my pace as another wind brought to me the familiar scents of cafeteria food. Familiar, as in this was exactly what cafeteria food had smelled like back when I was in elementary school.
After crossing the hot parking lot, I stepped up onto a sidewalk and a moment later I was under an eave, gasping.
Sweet, sweet Jesus.
Keeping to the shade and sliding my hand along the stucco wall to keep my balance, I soon found myself in front of the main office door.
Focus, Sam.
I needed to look as calm and normal as possible. School officials didn't take kindly to crazy-looking parents.
My skin felt as if it were on fire. And all I had done was walk across a school parking lot. I wanted to cry.
No crying.
I sucked in some air, held it for a few minutes - yes minutes - and let it out again. My skin felt raw and irritated. I picked hair out of the heavy sunscreen with a shaking hand, adjusted my sunhat, put a smile on my face, and opened the office door.
Just another mom here to see her kids.
* * *
A few minutes later, I found myself in the principal's office; apparently, I was in trouble.
Principal West was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-fifties. He was sitting behind his desk with his hands folded in front of him. He wore a white long-sleeved dress shirt with Native American-inspired jade cuff links. As far as I knew, he wasn't Native American.
Principal West had always been kind to me. Early on, just after my attack, he had been quick to work with me. I was given special access to the front of the school when picking up my kids. Basically, I got to park where the buses parked - thus avoiding long lines and sitting in the sun longer than I had to. Good man. I appreciated his kindness.
That kindness had, apparently, come to an end.
"I can't let them see you, Samantha, I'm sorry."
"I don't understand."
"I got a call today from Danny. In fact, I got it just about a half hour ago. Your husband - or ex-husband - says that the two of you have an unwritten agreement that you will not be picking the kids up anymore."
"Yes, but - "
"He also says that you have agreed to supervised visits only. Is this true?"
Principal West was a good man, I knew that, and I could see that this was breaking his heart. I nodded and looked away.
He sighed heavily and pushed away from his desk, crossing his legs. "I can't allow you to see them without Danny being present, Samantha. I'm sorry."
"But I'm their mother."
He studied me for a long time before saying, "Danny also said that you are a potential danger to the kids, and that under no circumstances are you to be alone with them."
I was shaking my head. Tears were running down my face. I couldn't speak.
Principal West went on, "You're very ill, Sam. I can see that. Hell, anyone can see that. How and why you pose a threat to your children, I don't know. And what's going on between you and Danny, I don't know that, either. But I would suggest that before you agree to any more such terms, Sam, that you seek legal counsel first. I have never known you to be a threat. Outside of being sick, I have always thought you were a wonderful mother, but it's not for me to say - "
I lost it right there. I burst into tears and cried harder than I had cried in a long, long time. A handful of secretaries, the receptionist and even the school nurse surrounded me. Principal West watched me from behind his desk, and through my tears, I saw his own tears as well.
He wiped his eyes and got up. He put an arm gently around me and told me how sorry he was, and then escorted me out.
Chapter Nine
I hate all men, I wrote.
Even me?
Are you a man, Fang?
Yes, but I'm a helluva man.
Despite myself, I laughed. I was in my hotel room sitting in the cushioned hotel chair. I should have been comfortable, but I wasn't; the chair's wooden arms were bothering me. Come to think of it, the chair wasn't that comfortable, either. Maybe I should complain to hotel management.
Or maybe I should just calm down, I thought. Even better, maybe I should get myself an apartment somewhere and decorate it with my own chairs.
It was a thought, but something I would think about later.
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.
"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.
I gasped and stumbled.
I reached a gloved hand out and braced myself on the hot fender of my minivan. Heat from the sheet metal immediately permeated the thin glove. Maybe Stephenie Meyer's vampires had it right. Maybe I should move up to Washington State, in the cold and rain, where gray clouds perpetually covered the skies.
Maybe someday. But not now. I had real-life issues to deal with.
I gathered myself together and strode across the quiet parking lot, filled mostly with teachers' and school administrators' cars. I'm sure I must have looked slightly drunk - or perhaps sick - huddled in my clothing, head down, stumbling slightly.
A small wind stirred my thick hair enough to get a few strands stuck in the copious amounts of sunscreen caked on my face. I ignored my hair. I needed to get the hell out of the sun. And fast.
I picked up my pace as another wind brought to me the familiar scents of cafeteria food. Familiar, as in this was exactly what cafeteria food had smelled like back when I was in elementary school.
After crossing the hot parking lot, I stepped up onto a sidewalk and a moment later I was under an eave, gasping.
Sweet, sweet Jesus.
Keeping to the shade and sliding my hand along the stucco wall to keep my balance, I soon found myself in front of the main office door.
Focus, Sam.
I needed to look as calm and normal as possible. School officials didn't take kindly to crazy-looking parents.
My skin felt as if it were on fire. And all I had done was walk across a school parking lot. I wanted to cry.
No crying.
I sucked in some air, held it for a few minutes - yes minutes - and let it out again. My skin felt raw and irritated. I picked hair out of the heavy sunscreen with a shaking hand, adjusted my sunhat, put a smile on my face, and opened the office door.
Just another mom here to see her kids.
* * *
A few minutes later, I found myself in the principal's office; apparently, I was in trouble.
Principal West was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-fifties. He was sitting behind his desk with his hands folded in front of him. He wore a white long-sleeved dress shirt with Native American-inspired jade cuff links. As far as I knew, he wasn't Native American.
Principal West had always been kind to me. Early on, just after my attack, he had been quick to work with me. I was given special access to the front of the school when picking up my kids. Basically, I got to park where the buses parked - thus avoiding long lines and sitting in the sun longer than I had to. Good man. I appreciated his kindness.
That kindness had, apparently, come to an end.
"I can't let them see you, Samantha, I'm sorry."
"I don't understand."
"I got a call today from Danny. In fact, I got it just about a half hour ago. Your husband - or ex-husband - says that the two of you have an unwritten agreement that you will not be picking the kids up anymore."
"Yes, but - "
"He also says that you have agreed to supervised visits only. Is this true?"
Principal West was a good man, I knew that, and I could see that this was breaking his heart. I nodded and looked away.
He sighed heavily and pushed away from his desk, crossing his legs. "I can't allow you to see them without Danny being present, Samantha. I'm sorry."
"But I'm their mother."
He studied me for a long time before saying, "Danny also said that you are a potential danger to the kids, and that under no circumstances are you to be alone with them."
I was shaking my head. Tears were running down my face. I couldn't speak.
Principal West went on, "You're very ill, Sam. I can see that. Hell, anyone can see that. How and why you pose a threat to your children, I don't know. And what's going on between you and Danny, I don't know that, either. But I would suggest that before you agree to any more such terms, Sam, that you seek legal counsel first. I have never known you to be a threat. Outside of being sick, I have always thought you were a wonderful mother, but it's not for me to say - "
I lost it right there. I burst into tears and cried harder than I had cried in a long, long time. A handful of secretaries, the receptionist and even the school nurse surrounded me. Principal West watched me from behind his desk, and through my tears, I saw his own tears as well.
He wiped his eyes and got up. He put an arm gently around me and told me how sorry he was, and then escorted me out.
Chapter Nine
I hate all men, I wrote.
Even me?
Are you a man, Fang?
Yes, but I'm a helluva man.
Despite myself, I laughed. I was in my hotel room sitting in the cushioned hotel chair. I should have been comfortable, but I wasn't; the chair's wooden arms were bothering me. Come to think of it, the chair wasn't that comfortable, either. Maybe I should complain to hotel management.
Or maybe I should just calm down, I thought. Even better, maybe I should get myself an apartment somewhere and decorate it with my own chairs.
It was a thought, but something I would think about later.
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.
"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.
