The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

The sun was dancing on the horizon, shadows lengthening and the light beginning to fade. Inside the pure white room, only a table and two steel chairs furnishing it, stood a girl no older than thirteen in a shirt and pants the same hue as the room.



She stood, still as a statue, in front of the only window, watching as the sun slowly slipped behind the trees with glassy eyes, half-glazed over with thought. Her dark, waist-long chocolate brown hair was rolled up into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, a blank expression on her delicate china doll face.



A man dressed in a suit of various shades of gray, thick coke bottle glasses, and hair like bleached snow entered the tiny room with its two-way mirror and steel reinforced window carrying a thick manila folder walked over to the table and took a seat in the cold steel chair with his back to the two-way mirror. The door closed at that point, thudding closed with a click, the sound insuring that the heavy bolt was locked in place.



The man riffled through the folder pulling out a heavy stack of papers with tiny handwriting and a yellow steno note pad, retrieving a silver fountain pen from his smoky grey shirt’s breast pocket. While the man in gray flipped through the file, occasionally stopping to read a paragraph or to write on his little yellow pad, the girl just stood there, gazing out the wire-enforced window with unblinking eyes.



She watched the few children playing outside on the grounds, Orderlies not far away and watching with narrowed sharp eyes. In the seven years she had spent there, she had never been allowed outside onto the grounds to play like all the other children, she had never been allowed near anyone other than muscle-bound Orderlies and nurses and doctors in the years she had been kept there; a prisoner in a white world. Once a month, the Orderlies would enter her room before nightfall and restrain her to her bed, despite her fruitless attempts to fight them off.



The man in gray stopped flipping through the file and its many papers, and looked up at the young girl, staring expectantly. He seemed a bit nervous at the way he adjusted the collar of his shirt, the straightening of his perfectly centered storm gray tie.



“Megan…” he finally said, hoarsely. Before he continued on, he cleared his throat hard with some difficulty. “If you could sit down…p-please.” The last words he said were naught but a silent whisper. When Megan didn’t respond, he pushed more firmly, if still soft, with more conviction. “Megan, if you do not cooperate, I will have to ask the Orderl…” Before he could finish, Megan spun on her heel, walked over to the chair across from the man, and to the seat with a wolfish grace. She didn’t look up at him though, only kept staring with a blank face and eyes at the brushed steel table, as expressionless as at the window.



Noting her compliance on the yellow note pad, the old man spoke once again. “Megan, I have been hearing complaints from the nurses assigned to you that you are fighting them when they try to give your medication. I prescribed it to you for a reason. It is needed for your……condition. Why have you been fighting the treatments?”



Megan muttered something unintelligible under her breath, but didn’t look up as she said it.



“I beg your pardon?”



“IT’S NOT MEDICINE!!!” she yelled, looking up swiftly, her eyes a colder blue than ice and burning with the rage of a thousand burning suns. Her pale blue orbs held a fire that burned with a previously unknown rage that seemed to scorch the very air before them. In her voice, a primal growl escaped her bow-shaped lips that was far too animalistic for any human to make.



The doctor yelped in fear, leaning back in his chair cautiously. His body froze with the unspeakable terror that made his knees quiver like jell-o, and his heart beat so quickly and loud that he feared the men outside the door may hear it. Megan scared him; she scared everyone at Demented Hills. The doctor opened his mouth to speak, nut Megan cut him off.



“I know what it is! It’s chlorpromazine! It doesn’t make me any better; it just makes me sleepy and miserable. No matter how much they give me I never get better!”

Megan’s eyes were cerulean fire. The doctor new what she could do and fumbled for words that would calm her, that would soothe her, but he never even got the chance. Megan stood sharply, sending the solid steel chair flying to crumple against the wall like it was putty. She reached across the table, grabbing the doctor by his tie and picked him up over her head like rag doll on a bull’s horn with an amazing feat of strength.



She threw the doctor at the heavy door, blasting it off of its hinges as he hit it. Orderlies swarmed in through the gaping doorway, some carrying full needles of some reddish liquid, others with metal-plated sticks that were sharpened at one point.



Everyone saw not a cowering girl in a corner, or a heavily breathing, raunchy teenage girl; what they saw was a furry brown tail disappearing out the smashed window with shouts from the doctor such as “Get her!” and “Don’t let her get away, you fools!”



Sometime after Megan could no longer hear the shouts and the screaming of the alarms, she stopped just on the edge of a moonlit meadow where a small grouping of deer lay resting. Her stomach growled with hunger and her mouth watered like it was Niagara Falls.



She was different. She could barely control the storm that raged inside of her when she turned into that…that…monster! Finally, she decided she would go to London and find the famed Dr. Henry Jeckel. It was said he had been conducting experiments on the evil that he believed existed in every individual. Perhaps he may be able to help her control the beast inside her being. She just had to hold onto her humanity until she found him. Then, she would seek out her parents, the king and queen of Der Wolfsippe, the Wolf Clan.

For the Discordians out there, here is a story you may know, if you know me. For everyone else, here is a little entertainment.



Nykl Dormir





A serious young man found the conflicts of mid 20th Century America confusing. He went to many people seeking a way of resolving within himself the discords that troubled him, but he remained troubled.



One night in a coffee house, a self-ordained Zen Master said to him, "Go to the dilapidated mansion you will find at this address, which I have written down for you. Do not speak to those who live there; you must remain silent until the moon rises tomorrow night. Go to the large room on the right of the main hallway, sit in the lotus position on top of the rubble in the northeast corner, face the corner, and meditate."



He did just as the Zen Master instructed. His meditation was frequently interrupted by worries. He worried whether or not the rest of the plumbing fixtures would fall from the second floor bathroom to join the pipes and other trash he was sitting on. He worried how would he know when the moon rose on the next night. He worried about what the people who walked through the room said about him.



His worrying and meditation were disturbed when, as if in a test of his faith, ordure fell from the second floor onto him. At that time two people walked into the room. The first asked the second who the man was sitting there was. The second replied "Some say he is a holy man. Others say he is a shithead."



Hearing this, the man was enlightened.

It was a dark and cold night that Christmas Eve. A man was driving down the road with presents for his niece and his nephew, and his sister and her husband. The weatherman had said the storm would hit them that night and he was right, but still the man would not be kept from his family on Christmas Eve. He had no children, no wife; only his sister and her family.



As he was looking in the passenger seat of his car at the card his sister’s family had sent him, a blaring horn and bright blinding headlights flared up in his face, wrenching him back to reality from his imagining to swerve just seconds from hitting the semi head-on. His car, out of the truck’s way, skidded and slid towards the ditch on his side, plunging into what he was sure an icy depth of deathly cold waters the ditch still held.



As his car’s engine rumbled and died with a spurt, he realized that he would not make very long without a heat source. Looking through his already frosted windows up the road, he spotted what appeared to be lights. House lights! Without a single thought of what lay just outside his door, he threw it open, allowing the biting sting of the icy waters to flood into his car and take his breath away as it washed over him, drenching his clothes with the subzero liquid.



Already freezing and sneezing with every step, he dug his way out of the car and onto the road, to begin his slow death march towards the house. His legs, leaden with cold, began to snap and pop. Looking down at his legs, he was so cold he could barely comprehend that the water that had soaked him to the bone back in his car, had frozen to create a thick, icy layer over his pants.



Knowing that with every passing second he was closer to death, the man rushed headlong to the house as fast as his numb body would take him.



Upon reaching the door, the man pounded the doorbell with his stiff, broken fingers. He felt deep inside his soul, that unless he found a warm hearth to stay by, he would be frozen in place like a dead living statue.



Inside, behind the shutters, he could make out someone moving towards the door, peeking inside the window. The woman behind it stared at him with wide eyes, as if the man were a creature from her most horrid dreams.



“Heeellpp! P-please help!” he screamed with all his might, but it only came out a soft, hoarse gasp. The woman inside turned away, snapping the shutters closed, shutting all hope the man had for salvation in the darkest corner of his consciousness.



The man whimpered and cried tears that instantly froze on his bare cheeks. He looked around in hopeless despair. Off in the distance, he could just make out the dim lights of a small farmhouse.



Numb, frostbit, and near death, the man stumbled and staggered toward his last chance of survival. He began to slowly place one foot in front of the other, inching his way toward the cold lights of the building. His vision blurred and he felt a type of warmth deep inside as he saw the pair of yellow eyes moving towards him at unearthly speeds. He saw the people inside the SUV, the look of joy on those familiar faces.



As Molly was starting up yet another song, Vinny slammed on the brakes, but it was too late to stop the car from plowing into the object in front of him. He had no idea what it was or what it was doing in the middle of the street, he only knew that he would run into it no matter what he did.



“What…in the HELL was that!” Vinny had slammed on the brakes so hard, that the wheels had locked up and the SUV had bashed into what stood before it, while Vinny had tried in vain to avoid hitting what had popped up in front of him. “Stay here,” Vinny commanded to his son and daughter.



As Molly and Vinny crawled out of the car, the boy inside asked his little sister, “Hey! Do you think dad hit a guy? It’d be cool if he did, right?”



Just as Vinny and Molly looked under the wheel of the SUV at the man they had hit, they were filled with a feeling that few have had the misfortune to know.



“Ooohh…my…God!” Molly gasped, exasperated and stricken with a mixture of grief and horror, at what she feared most.



Vinny had hit a man. He had run his SUV straight into his brother-in-law.

How to be annoying at a funeral....





Tell the widow that the deceased's last wish was that she make love with you.



Tell the undertaker that he can't close the coffin until you find your contact lens.



Punch the body and tell people that he hit you first.



Tell the widow that you're the deceased's gay lover.



Ask someone to take a snapshot of you shaking hands with the deceased.



At the cemetery, play taps on a kazoo.



Walk around telling people that you've seen the will and they're not in it.



Ask the widow to give you a kiss.



Tell the undertaker that your dog just died and ask if he can sneak him into the coffin.



Leave some phony dog poop on top of the deceased.



Tell the widow that you have to leave early and ask if the will can be read before the funeral is over.



Use the deceased's tongue to lick a stamp.



Ask the widow if you can have the body to practice tatooing on.



Put Crazy Glue on the deceased's lips just before the widow's last kiss.



Show up at the funeral services in a clown suit.



If the widow cries, blow a trumpet every time she wipes her nose.



When no-one's looking, slip plastic vampire-teeth into the deceased's mouth.



Toss a handful of cooked rice on the deceased and scream "MAGGOTS! MAGGOTS!" and pretend to faint.



Tell everyone you're from the IRS and you're confiscating the coffin for back-taxes.



Promise the minister fifty bucks if he doesn't keep a straight face while praising the deceased.