A Problem of Coffins

by | Jul 5, 2020

When the editor of my newest short story collection read “A Problem of Coffins” he remarked it was by far the most enjoyable thing that he had read that I had written. It came as quite a shock to me, because I never intended for it to be any good. It was simply an experiment in writing for me – I never intended for it to see the light of day as it is presented here. After some heavy editing, I repackaged it and formatted it into what you see before you now – a series of unrelated vignettes seemingly going somewhere, should I get my act together and complete it as a novel. I hope you enjoy it, for what it is. I often find myself wondering about our protagonist, as I’ve written him… Will he ever become his own full length story or is this his last gasp? For certain, I’ll wager, no good news will be forthcoming for him, in either scenario.


 

Beginning Notes – A Greeting

 

To my dearest lord and savior, Parashaminalami

 

All hail the overlord Kali in her good pleasure as she has seen fit to allow me to live yet another cycle of our moon. I owe my life to her good pleasure, to our great Archon, and the 365 spheres of her delight.

What follows are the notes of the dear late Natash, by his sometimes life partner and progeny born, Valparaiso of The Americas. Contained within are the last few entries in his last journal. I, his old friend Valparaiso, have collected these journal entries and tried to make the best sense of them for you, oh Parashaminalami. They were somewhat confusing, so I have broken them down into suitable chunks (or segments) so that none will be confused… Not that anything would ever be confusing to you, oh great one.

I was to meet our dear friend Natash today, this Elembivios (or Eilmí as it is sometimes called), at dawn, at Saint Andrews to celebrate with the Greater area Wiccan Coven. Thirteen thirteens of witches in all. There was to be a volunteer feeding, and possibly, if the right person presented herself, he was to turn his first centennial dhampir disciple this millennia. Alas it was not to be, and as such as the situation sits now, all engagements have been cancelled for both he and myself, as I have thrown myself headlong into the mystery surrounding his disappearance. Mayhap I can grasp at some answers in my searching.

I have only added this brief greeting at the beginning of my letter as a summation of what I have found, in this assemblage of the ramblings of this last remembrance of our late friend Natash, what you would call your humble servant. He knew of the old ways, and was always submissive, and had the old knowledge of our miraculous and stupendous history. His personal journal entries bear no date nor time to relate to anything that one would call a reasonable order. They are simply an account of his last days and how he spent them, and a few extraordinary events and accounts that transpired along his most recent time with us. There are some things that unfold that have no explanation. Yet, for the sake of continuity of the work, I have placed them in the most orderly manner possible.

This journal was gathered mostly from his manor, near Savannah, Georgia, where I now find myself. I had not seen him in over four seasons so I do not know how long he had been gone. It was a ramshackle manor, all but one of which was let out to renters, being split into a five-plex. There was the hallmark older colonial woodwork, mixed and mashed almost pell-mell into larger and more modern furnishings. No temptation into feng shui afflicted my friend in his renovations of this place. Large armoires here and there were combined with stainless steel trappings, and that was arranged inharmoniously with the decor of 1960’s wallpaper and 1980’s blonde wood floors. The renters were sheep, who knew nothing and could tell me nothing, but the house told me a little. As you know, I share one of the small gifts of the Apollonian, so I questioned the non-human inhabitants as to what may have happened to him. Most helpful was a Fiddleback who told me that it had been almost two whole moons since the dead one (meaning our Natash) had been seen.

And this is where I truly begin my tale. It is of one of us, a true Brahmaparusha, who lost his way, due to curious circumstances. But in the recounting, I would do ill if I thought that my interpretations would suffice, so, in order to do it the justice that it merits, it would behoove me to let our protagonist tell his own story and not edit the actual text, save for grammar and spelling. Though it grieves me to do such, to let his memoirs reach the eyes of someone other than his own self, I must do so – that his truth be known.

 

Segment – Coffin, Metal, and Christopher Lee

 

“Have a happy and merry, fun and jolly, merry, merry Tuesday.” the facebook post read. Simple. So Slen did not celebrate Christ-mass. That was really all I needed to know. He didn’t have to rub it in my face. Catholics can be such idiots. They don’t even know when the Sabbath is. But I had other plans to think about. Tonight I was going to try my new experiment, and I hope it worked out as well as I think it should.

The immediate plan was not to take place at this moment, for it was the time of the sun, and I must retire to my casket to regain my life through the dark. My casket, made of Indonesian Teak, lay waiting. The long dark planks, fitted together by a memorial maker in Djakarta, had been my favorite this century. I had paid for it handsomely and here it was, calling me to retire into another day of escape.

The coffin was longer than usual, for I am an unusually tall person. I am 2.4 meters in height. Men balk when they see me for the first time usually, when I am first risen in the night. When I was young, I would wear the classic vestures of “Count Dracula” and I would get no ready customers. But I am wiser now and plunge men’s minds into the fog and though they may look up at me at my unusual height, they seem not to notice the particulars of it. It seems to them that I am quite normal, and that there is nothing odd about me.

Because men are sheep. They are, for the most part, drinks to be sipped with the greatest of delights. Not all men are this way, mind you. Some men are reborn with The Christ, and they are the hardest to pierce. Ah, not that my teeth or my fingers have lost their edge, but it is the Spirit that dwells within them that gives them their power. I almost drink no men who have the Spirit, but when I do, I dine with delight.

I was speaking of my coffin though, and I digressed away from it like a man. I apologize.

Each tree has a life and story of its own and this Indonesian Teak is no different. The wood grows with the life that is given it from where it was planted. My teak was harvested on Irian Jaya, where the world is still wild with the lusts of the primitives. My tree was one of special delight, for it grew in blood of sacrifice. Where the fetishes of men waxed deep with their hatred of their neighboring tribe, they had slit the feet and genitals of their enemies and left them to bleed out into the roots of this marvelous old god of the forest.

The fresh Mayim and old Shemesh had given this tree a particular feel as well. Lizards and insects and who knows what else died and lent their spirits to the folds of the bark, and the tree had grown tall and fit. I had heard of the harvest of this great wonder and had hired the casket maker to acquire the materials from it for my coffin. The dark lusts bled through the wood and made it intoxicating in every way. It was a joy to touch.

The bottom panel was the heart of the tree, it was strangely lighter in color than all parts of the other planks, and there was a cracked seam that ran the entire length. The men who had planed the boards had specific instructions to leave the heart alone, for it was cracked. They were going to cut it and seam it together, but I found out about their plans and flew down to their workshop to stop them. I almost killed them, but I calmed myself and told them to leave it alone, for the flaw was part of the story of the wood. They plugged it with sawdust from the cut around the top, sealed it with the sap of the Guggul tree, and made it smooth.

The design was not sarcophagus style, with the loose lid that could be thrown back. It was a unique side-hinged device, with the hinge working off the bottom part of the side, from shoulder to toe-board. My coffin was not lined, or designed with copper or gold or silver. I had no dirty metals in use either. None of the designs of men over the smelting pot had any love from me. Though they mixed brasses and alloys and various steels with all their imaginations, none of these concoctions held any love from me. The hinges on the coffin were made of ironwood, fitted together using the old techniques.

My affinities were my own however. I only knew of one or two other purists among the fold. The brass family was a love of ours. Amusingly, many of the fold loved the faux silvers. Cupronickel swords and buttons and fasteners were all the rage during the 1960’s. This was in part due to the sweeping fever with our kind from those in power in Hollywood. The man Christopher Lee had appeared in the 1958 movie: “Horror of Dracula” and after this, a wave of vampire movies swept the nation of the great United States of America.

I would tell you more of Christopher’s involvement with our kind but he has just recently passed (anything less than 100 years is still recent to our kind). So I shall not slander him or his name with any stories. But from 1958 to 1976, that his face was your world’s only relation to the people that is my kind, is not lost on us. Our love for him is that of deep, abiding respect. Man though he was, he promoted us in the spirit of our beloved Bram Stoker.

 

Segment – Margin Notes

 

It’s not like Brahmaparusha need sleep or anything. We don’t. It’s the pineal gland that needs to recharge. Like most animals, we have ours intact but it works much differently now than when we were but base men. The pineal gland produces serotonin. This helps give men sleep and affects your entire nervous system. We Brahmaparusha are basically a sufferer from an endocannabinoid system mess, as well as other strange afflictions since our transmogrification into the greater gods that we are today.

The Pineal gland also handles photoreceptors, hence, we cannot abide in the sunlight. Most of our Endocrine system functions differently, as well. The Thalamus, Thymus, Thyroid, and Pituitary glands are what you would call: “wonky.” So, when you hear stories of us ripping open the heads of our victims, it was mostly so we could get at the Pineal, Thalamus, and Pituitary. We don’t actually eat the brains of our victims. That’s disgusting. We just harvest certain parts. If we need Thyroid or Thymus, we simply rip out their neck. Science really.

Lest I forget – I have come across a man in the Masonic Order of the old Templars who has readily agreed to supply me with as much Adrenochrome as I wish. I am to meet him two days after the morrow.

 

Segment  – Continued explanation of the coffin

 

In doing some quick research, I have inappropriately related to you my dealings in Indonesia. Evidently, they’ve changed names of places again. Djakarta has now lost its silent D and Irian Jaya has lost its ever so lovely and unique name and gone to the most boring name of West Papua. How droll their government systems must be… How insipid. But I would not stay there except to tell you of the purposes of my beautiful casket…

And I have failed in that regard, for few Vampires write. Wait. Is that the first time I’ve used that word? No, I used it before when I talked about Christopher Lee. That is fine, because that is what we are. I am the night king who dines on the lives of men who walk the earth.

This generation and the use of the word: “men.” It was a month ago that I ran into this argument with my friend, another vampire, named Herbert. His name is odd, but in 1929 when he was made, it was quite a popular name, so I must forgive him that. I am off track again.

Writing! Bah!

At any rate, Herbert and I were having coffee and two youths got into an argument about the word. We placed their minds into a fog, lured them out into the night, raped them with rebar, and drank them like coconuts, but alas, we were hungrier afterwards than before we dined. The empty souls of man are not a meal. “Man” or “men” means “mankind.” That the male of the species has this as the name as well is the way it just came to be. In the English tongue, fe-male or wo-man is not diminutive, but derivative. This seems to infuriate some, rather than educate and illuminate. There are a thousand things that people think of us that are completely false, and I wish I had the power to change their views on these images… But again, I have only come to realize that people are sheep to be drunk.

So… Where was I? Ah yes, my coffin. It is a lovely device, devoid of any trappings of comfort, for that would delegitimize its purpose. It was plain and bare and smelled of the old world. Some vampires, having not undergone the full transformation into their true selves are stuck within the coffins drifting off into a listless slumber where they are somehow able to achieve human sleep. These half -blood Satanists drift away into their dream world and let the opportunities of the day escape them fully. For the fully actualized Master, like myself and so many of the other masters, spend this time in a loose spirit travel, something akin to the yogi masters of Hinduism. We are of the same family – Hindus and Vampires… At least we serve the same gods.

 

Segment – Margin Notes

 


There is one aspect of the Brahmaparusha that is not known to most, and that is the need for the Adrenal gland, specifically the Adrenochrome that can be harvested from it, as well as from the brain stem. Most of us just like to eat the adrenal glands raw, but there are some of us more endowed with the understanding of chemistry. Several communes in Romania offer all of these substances in over-the-counter doses, but those of us in the real world have to go about it in the old way. I understand now that even our Illuminati brothers are using Adrenochrome in their rituals. Ah. Refreshing to watch the puppets in their escapades.

Gone are the old ways of the Asura possessions, the coming in, the cocaine use, the dying and resurrecting… That may be how the foolish Satanists still do it, but their only hope is to achieve that of the nosferatu – the disfigured ones… The cheaters. Real and still existing vampires come out of the past, and are immortal, and we only take on a few new souls at a time to transform. It’s really out of boredom more than anything. We… I do not wish to rule. What fun is that? I hunt as a fox in the hen-house, as it were. I do not wish to rule the chickens.

We Nephilim are a sordid bunch really. And people laugh that we call ourselves Nephilim. But where do they think we came from? Have they not read any of the Bible? Enoch? The Book of Giants? The epic of Gilgamesh? The daughters of men lay with the sons of god, and thus were born the adversaries. And of that tree, we are but one small branch.

 

Segment – Visitation

 

Here I speak of astral projection in its purest sense. There are only a few who will take to the skies to travel and meet in accords and gatherings around the world. Few of us there are, for few of us really hold to the old ways that made us who we are today.

We must, as a vampire society, come back to the roots of our pure religion. For it was that we intend and we strive and plead with the old ways and the old masters, to do something that we are not supposed to do. If we would just realize our true callings and act beholden to them, we could have enslaved man by now.

But it is not to be. Many of my kind will disagree with me but The Christ will win in the end. Though they deny it, we all know this deep down, but it is our chief desire to rail against Him of Heaven. And now I must write this reverie to myself… To tell a story of great delight and some dismay. Delight in that, I see our true purpose, dismay in that, I also see that no one wants to adhere to it any longer. Woe to us, night born, for we diminish in the light of the new and coming antichrists.

It was December and Shemesh was a half hand from rising… I was “off to bed” as they say. Saying farewell to my venus fly traps, I lay down in the coffin I had before this one (an old cedar monstrosity from Lebanon) when I dove deep into my mind and pulled back the realm of flesh to spring out of my body into the world in my spirit form. This usually takes only a few minutes, as I am a practiced projector, but for some reason it took me longer than normal.

I did not understand what was taking so long until the very last second when I was making the turn into spirit – what some call “fog.” I had not known what it was until the very last moment, for when I rose up out of the casket in spirit, I was greeted by one of His messengers. This was frightening enough, and, adding to the fact that he had his sword drawn, I was terrified. If I were mortal, I would have either shat my pants or fainted dead away.

I did reel and scream like a mewling fool of a little girl, but quickly recovered and lowered my hands. Though he could have slain me in the coffin, he had not taken action against me. He stood as a statue, not moving, his bright golden eyes remaining fixed on my every movement. His ivory sword was still in his hand, with the flame residue dripping like wax into the air before sizzling away into nothingness. Veoyyy veoyyy. The drips gave foleys to his stillness.

“What wanteth thou oh messenger?” This came out of my mouth readily, for most angels speak in the King James English, as did we when we encountered them.

He said nothing immediately, but slowly he sheathed his sword and drew out a living scroll from his side. A living scroll was not a joke. It had come from the commands of Heaven itself, and could not be refused. Not by me nor by anyone. If you were given a living scroll, it was to be followed whether you were in submission or agreement.

It floated to me as if in water and landed in my hands.

Now, remember that I was still in my coffin below the spirit me. The silver thread that connected us was very visible now. If the angel had wanted to, he could have severed the line and killed me then and there, my days of life immortal would be over instantly. However, he had sheathed his sword and addressed my spirit directly. The scroll opened before me.

The words were of the pure tongue and he knew that I could not read it. Was this mockery or a warning? I did glance at it and knew that it was legitimate. Maybe this was his reason for waiting to speak, that I would know it was not a fakery.

It floated back to him, and he placed it once again on his side.

“Elizabeth Macleary.” He said. “You are not to touch her, for behold, she standeth anointed.” As he said her name, a face filled my mind. I saw a Laotian-American woman, twenty three, standing in a supermarket, directly after sunset. She turned, saw me, and screamed. Then the vision went away.

His face came back to view. Stern and humorless. He was a stocky sort. The kind you find no humor with, nor do they find any humor with anything. I had met his kind before. All work and no play. How boring. And now that I knew he could not harm me without provocation, I would toy with him a little.

“Who is thine commander?” I asked him. I knew he did not owe me an answer, but he told me nonetheless.

“I am of Sakoz, of Jarnosh, of Kebar, of Uriel.” He said, and puffed out his chest. There, on his left chest, where a human heart would beat below, stood his rank and insignia. Strange. I had not seen this one before. It was a golden foot crushing an alligator’s head.

“An alligator? Is that not a little dull?” I asked, smiling.

“Behold!” he said. And with that word, I suddenly understood. It was not a lowly swamp dweller after all. It was Leviathan.

I recoiled immediately upon the revelation, but anger flared up within me almost as quick.

“Knowest who thou mocks?” I flared up, floating up to the ceiling, showing my full height.

“Knowest who thou challenges?” His sword was in his hand again, his wings flapped open quicker than a blink. His face matched my face and we stood apart almost nose to nose. My legs were almost two feet below his, for again, he was a stocky sort. His short black hair was cut close, modeled after the fashion of Hellenistic Greece and, even in my spirit form, I could smell incense from the Altar. This was an elder, to be sure. He must be old, to be this tough.

I backed down slowly, raising my hands up at my side, and came close to the floor again. Although I did not need to, I bowed. I didn’t want to fight this angel; he would have killed me in seconds. I knew when I was matched, and indeed, overpowered. The spirit body, even the mortal body I possessed would never be able to match his, and I was wise to know it.

“Let it be as thou sayest.” I said, eyes to the floor. I felt the heat of his sword flare up then disappear, and before long I looked up and he was gone, absorbed into the air around me.

 

Segment – Margin Notes

 

With Vampires, there is blood. There is always blood. Usually most of the requirements we need are in the blood. But sometimes for us there is a feasting of the glands… And if it comes from either human or an unclean animal, the former is always preferred. When a human is not available, swine blood is a good substitute. Oh. And there are many varieties of both on the menu, but humans do have one distinction that I will offer now before I move on to the main thrust of this letter. Virgins taste better. And the younger the virgin, the tastier. I recall attending a meeting with the Bohemian Grove and there was a pure, three year old girl there, an actual virgin, I must say. Not even a hint of sodomy from the red shoe clansmen. I admit that a frenzy overcame me and I ate most of her, flesh and all. It was most tasty. Even the meat had a taste that I have not had since the 1400’s at Stonehenge. I was not invited back. But I digress.

Our bodies don’t have the proper serotonin or melatonin. So we avoid the sunlight primarily for this reason, that we cannot handle it. Sunlight actually makes us violently ill. It’s not as you picture it in Hollywood movies at all. They’ve got it all wrong. Most have it all wrong about vampires, specifically, the Brahmaparusha. It all comes down to the Torah and the evil found therein. There it is. I’ve gone and spilled the beans about the reality that lies at the heart of it all. It’s one of the reasons that I enjoy swine blood. Swineflesh, to me, is the most non-Kashrut I could think of… Except maybe the aborted.

To not be confusing to myself on re-reading, I will clarify. Torah is the law of God for Israel. Kashrut is the diet law found inside the Torah. So simple. Certain mystics try to change the diet laws into something called: “Kosher” but it’s all a lie. Just ask a cheeseburger if it’s a goat and a kid – That’s homework for most.

 

Segment – Separate page, insert

 

I recall being told that we were first introduced to Europe by the Diadochi kingdom of Seleucus, where we began to travel westward. Some of us went north to what would become China, but this is not the story of the Jiang Shi, and the soul sort. They moved into another realm and devolved… Or evolved… It depends on who you ask.

Not me. Degenerates one and all.

Migration was easy enough, if you knew who to hire. So we made it to the Capitol of the Seleucid Empire, what was then called Antioch, and eventually moved north to what is now Romania. We have spread out from there.  Chicago, New Orleans, Paris, Moscow, and Tokyo. Now here I am, in Savannah Georgia, writing this. So let me get on with it.

The coffin is the best piece of furniture for blocking out the sun. Oh it gets very boring, mind you… “Sleeping” in a coffin. Mostly I meditate and place myself under a spell. At times, if the mood fits me, I go into a trance and astral project my spirit to other places. This is more fun, but is very taxing and I can only do it if I “went to bed” on an empty stomach. You see, with our malady, the hungrier you are, the more power you have. The fuller you are, you are still absorbing the matter from your host into yourself, and the less of “you” there is to be you.

I have more to write. I need to buy a journal – I shall do this on the morrow.

Segment Four – Information

 

I have been bothered recently by the curious, unfolding day of the scroll. I let the day take me and slept through the night, and awoke inside the coffin the next day and the next. Getting my spirit ready, I leapt out into the third day, my mind very anxious to have answers. I travelled above the clouds and heading west and north toward Chicago, where I felt I would find my cabal ready and anxious about my being missing. Things were never less true. Only Indigo Dark Burn, wandering spirit,was there to meet me. Of the others in our order I knew not. Indigo was a second spirit in the middle rite, a fully fallen devil of the stars. I did not like him and he knew this, yet here he was, the only one present. I acknowledged him.

“What are you about today?” I asked.

“Here and there I wander. Here and there I learn.” he said in his obnoxious poetic ramble.

I hated this foul spirit.

“Where are the others?” I asked him. “Selth? Is he not with you?” I asked of his counterpart, for the two were always together these days.

“Gone he is. Back to fire, banished down. Down, ever down he floats into dark.” The devil looked sad. This was news indeed. Selth did not serve the Darker Lords in obedience, he was like Indigo, a wandering devil, but fully fallen – reticent, yet submissive.

“Who cast him down?” I asked.

“The Legion who tramples Leviathan. They come and cast. I escaped because of sympathy, or pity, or fear of my many pleadings.” he said, truthfully.

He was never this truthful. Something changed him.

“Were you shown a scroll?” I asked, looking at him squarely.

He acted like he had been hit and recoiled away from me, screaming a long whine.

I rushed to him and grabbed him by the throat. His small neck fit easily into my hand. I could crush it if I wanted, but it would not hurt him I knew.

“Tell me of the scroll!” I commanded.

“You are not my lord!” he whined. “I need not tell you of these things, for I float long and…”

“Quiet!” I commanded. He shut up.

I let him go. His leathery wings groomed his neck where my hands had been. Silver wisps of smoke trailed and fell away from his neck as he brushed himself from his faux bruisings.

“Go, I must.” he said softly and angrily, like a scolded child. He spun twice like a top and shot out over the clouds, leaving no wake behind in the natural world.

He was powerless. He did not even make wind to affect the water in the air. What a hated fool. I had wasted my time in coming.

I looked down below me, for I dare not look up. From this far up, you could make out the feet of those unfallen. They were always above. So was He, and I did not wish to look at Him.

Spread out before me, a disc with upturned edges, the earth shown blue and green. I needed to get back. It was already growing late. Time worked differently here. Sometimes hours were minutes but today the minutes seemed to have been hours. There were ways to control this, but I had not learned them yet.

 

Segment – A night for giving and dining

 

I awoke two hours before sunset, fully refreshed from feeding yesterday on a nice prostitute and her john. I stripped down to nakedness and gave myself a loofa bath and a Halo hair treatment, and put on my best Givenchy Bathrobe. It was December the 21st and I meant to make the most of it. Tammuz would want her death to be a happy celebration. And what closer time to idolatrize the Catholic god than good old Christmas. I had purchased a Santa Claus outfit last month and had it sent to my tailor, Claude, directly after getting some measurements. It put it on, and it fit like a glove. Rather than have the ordinary paunch that Old Saint Nick has, I opted for the skinny terrifying version. As I have mentioned before, I am lean and I made quite the spectacle in any outfit.

I decided to take it to the next level. Might as well be dapper. Tonight would be the continuation of a glorious Saturnalia for me. Almost as good as All Hallows Eve… The only night of the year I really let loose. “Christ-Mass” has become a second glorious night for me. And this year was going to be full of adventure.

Every vampire has skill sets. The uniqueness of our skills is as varied as our bodies are. Some vampires that I know have bulging bodies in excess of several thousand pounds. Much larger than any human would have ever believed. Some of us fly, some of us bend human wills, and some of us have lycanthropy. I have a very small skill set. My main skill is to bend human senses. It is indeed a very narrow skill yet I use it with great acumen. And not many have my skill. I have learned how to make a mass effect towards groups of people, making them all believe that they were going through an earthquake. When they look, most see me as an old woman. I have not yet learned how to be invisible, but I have managed to get by with becoming a Pomeranian. That was oh so very tiring.

Many of my brothers and sisters can fly in their mortal bodies, some have long fingernails or teeth that can retract and grow at will. Some who cannot fly, can run or move at great speed. While we can all move faster than the normal human, I am one of the slower ones. Some say my skills are low, and yet, can they clear out a building because everyone smells smoke?

So it was with my skills that I grew even taller in man’s eyes and made my face exaggerated with the gauntness that is my norm. Pale eyes, white hair, an almost translucent green pallor – I was quite the sight, and I was ready to hit the town. Watch out Forsyth Park, Santa Zombie is coming.

Once I was ready, there was nothing holding me back from going for a nice walk down the street. I live in downtown Savannah, an area that most consider historic. I will not tell you where really, for I do not know who will ever come to find me.

Consider that, you vampire hunters. Come and find me if you dare, for I will rip you in half. But, if you know anything at all about Savannah, you will know that most of the downtown area is “historic” – Most of the squares are “historic” – most of the graveyards are “historic” and all of the hated humans deem them to be “haunted.” Oh, if only they knew.

 

Segment – Margin Notes

 

I grow weary of talking of my own kind, and yet I find that I must, for the popularity of the subject comes and goes like the fleeting psithurism. Here a whoosh, next a whisper, next there is nothing. And that is our tale with them. We are naught but fleeting imaginations for them to ridicule. If they saw us for what we were, they would die in their sins on the spot. Every movie they’ve ever seen only shows the weakest of us, in our most obnoxious form. They know nothing. Tonight I will take her.

 

Segment – Last Entry

 

The battle may have been my last. Elizabeth Macleary was more protected than I believed her to be. I do not believe that I have much time. Valparaiso, if you find this book, know that this edition is but the latest…

 

THEY ARE HERE!

 

End Notes

 

And so there ends the only tale that I have from his pen. This is the only edition that I have found in all of the articles that Natash kept in his small room. The last segment, which is brief and unfinished and ending ominously with “THEY ARE HERE” is of great import to my very soul, for if it was the Messenger Sakoz, then one might say that there is a bit of a problem… For, as you know, great lord, the angelic blade is one of the only real ways to dispatch one of our kind, but in order to do so, you need special permissions…

As I understand it, and correct me if I am mistaken, you need a very specific form (or scroll as their kind calls them), and it has to be filled out very precisely. But that is indeed the wrench in the works. If Natash is a free spirit and a soul with a will of his own, then how did the permission get written? Inside each form is an exact time and place, and situation that must occur, in order for the dispatch to take place. Literally the year, season, moon cycle, and where the sun is all need to be mentioned specifically, or the form is invalid. That’s precision, and that’s horrifying. This startling accuracy in his execution, nay, assassination, is unequivocal to me.

And it leads me down a philosophical journey, so to speak. I have to begin with the premise that Natash was assigned to be dispatched. So then all of the things that led him to the exact moment of his demise would have had to have been seen aforehand by some all-knowing force.

There is only one explanation: He himself must have seen to it that Natash be eliminated. There is no other logical way to provide answers for this scheme. Unless the Book of Knowledge had it listed as an “inevitable”, then I cannot fathom any other way for the scroll (form) to have been activated.

This is gravely terrifying. It sets me to wonder about my own future. Are we all to be vanquished just as easily?

I pray this letter and the accompanying sets of notes have met your grace with the approval that I deemed it would seek, and I pray that the knowledge, nay, wisdom found herein would be a boon to you on this, the blessed day of our Satan.

 

With warm regards, Valparaiso of the Americas

 

Pauly

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About Pauly

Pauly Hart is a public speaker, actor, painter, singer, poet, and story-teller. His main focus today is writing. His latest works have involved novellas in the vein of “Classical Horror” from the Christ-centered world-view. The Horror story is the story where the character has to survive until the end. What better chance for survival than in Christ? Pauly writes not for the churchy types, but for those who would pick up a Stephen King book, giving them an alternative to the spirits. Pauly writes so that the Holy Spirit will have room made for him in modern day literature. He runs several websites all bent on leaving the mind of the atheist awash with the glory of heaven. You can find him at PaulyHart.com

1 Comment

  1. Debby

    Anne Rice meets Frank Peretti. Fascinating paper, here!

    Reply

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