CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

TWENTY FIVE
Is this a vampire sending these ridiculous
messages? Imagine this on your computer screen
when turning it on.
We will not endure the abuse of our status much
longer? Be warned.
Would a true vampire, an original vampire,
send such a silly message? Never. It seems more
as though it would have come from a mosquito; or
possibly a human transformed by the blood gift.

Whosoever dares to challenge me only
provokes further revelations. Know this is so. Read on,
my hacker friend. I will reveal all.

One feature of true vampire existence is the
chameleon-like changes we undergo to adapt to
population shifts. When this continent was inhabited
by the original people and the only hint of other,
distant societies were a few intrepid Irish monks
who made the crossing hundreds of years before the
Spaniards; I looked like one of the natives, with long
black hair and coppery skin.
I remember the early Dutch and English
settlers and my first encounters with them. For the
first century or so, I kept my distance. Their unusual
clothing, different languages, pale skin, and their
various devices, wheeled and otherwise, fascinated me. Of particular interest was the ability to create light at night.
While my preternatural night vision makes artificial illumination unnecessary, the allure of lamplight was to prove irresistible. Other than the flames of their campfires, the natives did not possess this power, which is what it seemed at first to me – a mystical, magical power.
As more and more of these light people began to arrive on this continent, and as I was able to observe them over time, it was clear that the Europeans were a potential blood source. I was able to learn their languages by listening and observing. While I understood the tribal dialects of the various native peoples, it was never possible for me to mingle with them. The tightly knit tribal structure of their societies prevented the sort of interaction among strangers that seemed second nature to the Europeans.
The idea of being among these new exotic strangers was very attractive. Equally if not more magnetic for me was the indoor light at night. This seemed an unparalleled invention capable of transforming my entire existence. I wanted to bask in its yellow flickering rays.
Desire is unlike hunger for a vampire. Desire builds for what would seem a very long time to a human before we even consider fulfilling it. Hunger, on the other hand, must be satiated on a regular basis, with blood. So, I fed on the Indians and observed the whites until one night in Connecticut the allure of artificial light became too much to resist.
By this time, whale oil lamps were replacing tallow candles. Taverns began to spring up as the dour religious communities expanded to include traders and adventurers. These public houses astounded me with their openness to strangers. I watched from the woods and often came close to the inns and peered through windows to learn more about these places of entertainment and gathering. Any man could walk into a town, or ride on a horse, and enter a tavern, strike up a conversation, and be accepted.
I decided one summer night early in the eighteenth century to go inside an early roadhouse. It was a one room log building. During this period, it never occurred to me that I looked like a native. In truth, I had no idea what I looked like. There were no mirrors available to me. I should note that vampires reflect their images the same as humans do. I am uncertain as to how the myth to the contrary started.
I knew from observing that money exchanged hands in these taverns, in return for mugs of liquid. I had managed to acquire some coins by sneaking into a darkened home a few nights before, while the residents slept unheeding. Metal money now jingled in a deerskin purse tied to my belt. As soon as I entered the inn, all conversation ceased.
I kept my eyes cast downwards, knowing from thousands of years of experience, that I could terrify as well as seduce with my eyes. It was quite different seeing everything in this light – my feet, the plank tables and benches, the cold stone fireplace. I sat on the bench at a table in a corner away from the door.
I fed on a local squaw before making this foray into the tavern. I did not want blood hunger to distract from my experience of this light. The tribes all had stories about me, and different names – sometimes I was Bigfoot or Sasquatch, due to my dressing in bear skin on occasion; sometimes they called me Coyote, sometimes an evil nameless shadow, a darkling trickster.
There was no system for keeping track of murders among the original people. Members of tribes disappeared; sometimes taken by other tribes; sometimes taken for their blood by me. It was a rough, wild era and there was no need for me to be selective or to cover up my existence. I was a part of the natural scheme.
The innkeeper came over to my table.
“We don’t serve your kind. You have to leave.”
I loosened the purse strings from my belt and dropped the money sack onto the table with a thud and muted clinks.
“Where did you get money?”
“Maybe he stole it,” someone said at the bar.
The innkeeper picked up the drawstring pouch and dropped it into my lap. He gestured with his thumb toward the door. I ignored him. He grabbed me by the shoulder and attempted to drag me to my feet.
“This sure is a new one on me,” said a voice across the room different than the first who spoke. “Usually they won’t come inside a building even when invited.”
“You have to leave now,” said the innkeeper, raising his voice as he was unable to unseat me.
“I know how to deal with this,” said yet another voice.
Without looking up I saw a thick pair of legs topped by an imposing torso stride across the small rude room. I saw a hand with a black powder pistol in it. The pistol was shoved under my nose.
“If you know what money is, savage, you know what this is, too. Now get up and get out.”
I pushed the hand with the gun away from my face.
“Why you . . .”
A second later, I felt the barrel of the pistol slam into my head. I looked up at my would-be tormenter and stood at the same time.
“What in tarnation . . . ?”
“Look at his eyes. . .”
“It’s the devil come to earth as a savage.”
“He ain’t human.”
I heard the hammer of the pistol cock, heard the explosion and felt the lead ball pierce and enter my chest. With both hands I ripped open my deerskin shirt to expose the wound. I stuck two fingers into the bullet hole and extracted the round shot as the injury oozed my black vampire blood. I dropped the lead ball onto the table. I secreted the healing liquid from my tongue, spat it into my hand, and rubbed it over the torn flesh to close it.
The men in the room stood transfixed as they watched my self ministration. Then someone retched. Someone else moaned. With one hand I knocked out the innkeeper with a tap to the forehead and with the other hand I tore open the throat of the shooter, pulled him close and sucked blood. The evening was not going at all as I planned.
I kept my eyes on the other three men in the tavern while I fed. One of them tried to escape through the door but I stretched out one arm, gripped him and dragged him screaming and struggling across the floor. One of the pair at the bar collapsed sobbing to his knees and the other fainted and fell flat on the hard dirt floor, straight as a plank.
I drained them all to death and left the tavern with four whale oil lamps cradled in my arms. I went to my cave hidden in the hills and sat up until dawn staring at the flickering light.
The next night I went back to the site of the tavern. There were five crosses marking graves. The tavern building was ashes, cinders and charcoal -- burned to the ground. A little while later I discovered that a nearby Penobscot clan – more than fifty men, women and children – was massacred in retaliation for my actions.
Their bodies were left to bloat and rot in the sun and coyotes, raccoons, opossums, and skunks were working over the carcasses. Whether the roadhouse was burnt down by a survivor from the massacre of natives or by superstitious Europeans was not clear and did not matter to me.
I went north to what is now Vermont and for the next several nights fed among the tribes hunting there. But I was hooked on the light. Oil and wicks for my lamps were added to my must-pilfer list. I also developed an immediate taste for the blood of the white man.