Daily Realities
Before beginning today’s post, I have to do something which, hopefully, won’t happen too often. I need to give a kudos to the Old Monster. While I would normally avoid any advice from this source like holy water, I have to admit that the monster has hit the coffin-nail on the head with the August 17th column. Nothing is more frightening to a writer than scam publishers - as a rule, anyone asking YOU for money is a scam publisher or a scam editor or a vanity press.
My colleagues often believe that these bloodsuckers are useless, but my colleagues are mortals, with a limited outlook. I have had quite a few scam editors as guests of honor at my bloodbaths parties, and I can tell you that hot pokers and sharp objects are quite satisfying when used judiciously. Always remember that plastic sheeting is a good way to spare the Louis XIV upholstery.
Writing, we all know, is a poor and frustrating way to keep body and soul apart (mortals might see it as a way of keeping them together, but I lost my soul nearly a thousand years ago, and would be seriously put out if if came areound to bother me again). But what are the alternatives for the nicely aged undead?
The thing might be to to do what Jarvis did. Jarvis is my butler, and has held the position for the past couple of centuries. He is ideally suited for the position, as he is that rarest of creatures, a fat vampire, and makes for a perfect butler of the Wodehousian persuasion. So, if you are a bloodless creature with a tendency towards obesity, I highly recommend it. Well preserved Zombies are probably also a good bet here (by the way, and just as a pedantic aside, doesn’t it irritate you that all the move zombies are thin? Why, if much of the world has a weight problem, are there no fat zombies in the movies?). Jarvis’s duties include dusting the coffin and mopping up the blood, which are both light enough, although feeding the rabbit from hell, who doesn’t like him for various reasons too lengthy to go into here, is heavier going.
But what if you’re one of those creatures who just doesn’t clean up that well, or looks ridiculous in a tux (werewolves, regardless of what you may have seen in the movies, this means you!)? Then I see two paths, the easiest of which is becoming a programmer. Trust me, even the tattiest zombie will look like the MC at the French Embassy gala compared to the fashion don’ts perpetrated by this crowd. I know a programmer who regularly wears a blue shirt with the Superman logo to work with a straight face.
If you have no computer skills (excusable, I guess if you were created undead during the plague years), I would go for telemarketing - or better yet, consumer service callcenters. Even raspy undead voices will be hired, and, as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, you are allowed to say ANYTHING to the customers, as long as you leave them indefinitely on hold after they ask for your supervisor. Even zombies who can only manage a tortured moan should do well here. Good place for banshees, too.
If you have no pride, of course, you can do what the Monster does, and live off of whatever you find in your victim’s pockets, but that leads to a different kind of lifestyle altogether, and respectability does not lie down that particular path, even for those of us with all of eternity to save money in.
I, of course, do none of these things, because I invested wisely after the French Revolution. But that’s another story.
Yours,
Hieronymous
Burying the evidence… In style
Greetings, all. I’m honored you could make it. I think today’s column will be of interest to most of my readers, but first things first: after some discussion and dismemberment, it has been decreed that my little column will be appearing on WordPress and on Daverana.com once every two weeks. While I understand that this is a hardship for those of you who truly need guidance as to how to interact with your fellows, there is no need to fret - being undead gives you all of eternity to polish. In the meantime, the off weeks will be catered to by my fellow columnist, The Old Monster. While I can’t condone or approve of anything the Monster says or thinks, even I haave to admit that the column does seem to be popular among some of the less discerning undead. I hear there’s even some mortals reading it. Oh, well, there’s no accounting for taste. Or lack thereof.
Speaking of taste, today’s column deals with a subject that is, or at least should be, a constant concern for anyone who wishes to make a hit on the undead social circuit. I refer, of course, to the selection and decoration of one’s living quarters.
While it is evident that economic concerns might limit the options available, it is also true that most of the undead can have low risk access to other people’s money, especially if you eat the bodies afterwards.
The way I see it, there are essentially two ways to go on the decoration front this decade: Sophisticated or Rustic. Both can be made to send the message “I’m undead, and therefore mortals should be frightened of entering my lair”, but both face specific challenges in order to avoid falling into a mixed hodgepodge.
Sophisticated, of course, is the classic way to go. This is de riguer when choosing property in the chic parts of town, or if you are lucky enough to fall into a chateu somewhere. Vampires tend to be very good at Sophisticated styles. The trick here is to avoid any furnishings produced after about 1900 or so. Heavy drapes -preferably in the darker crimson shades - and dark upholstery are a great counterpoint to moodily lit renaissance artwork depicting some great atrocity or another. Please remember that it is a social gaffe to have any Christian imagery or crucifixes among the décor - your vampire guests will be discomfited by it. Mysterious Indian, Vodoo or African figurines, if made of dark poished wood, often add to the effect, and I recommend them heartily - the cognoscenti among your guests willl appreciate it.
Common mistakes in this style generally come from cutting corners. Nothing ruins a sense of dread quite as quickly as adding anything sold by Ikea, or anything solar yellow. Modern equipment such as plasma screens or ipods may be present, but only in the bedrooms, never in the areas seen by your general guests (we assume that anyone who gets as far as the bedroom is never going to leave, at least not while still alive). Excesive lighting is also a no-no. And while there is an ongoing debate about the advisability of allowing dust and cobwebs, take it from me, it won’t get you any points from those you truly want to impress. Finally, for the more entertaining parties, I recommend keeping plastic sheeting in an easily accessible closet in order to cover the upholstery - blood stains are a bear to remove, especially once they dry.
The Rustic style is suitable for those country seats that aren’t chateaus. I’m talking about the typical run-down old house at the end of a rural or suburban street, generally referred to as “the old Stevens place. Nobody goes there anymore, because the family was all found dead, hanging from the rafters.” When dealing with rustic, it is always better to cultivate the dust and spiders - the idea here is to send the message that the house should be deserted, but everyone knows it isn’t. Furniture is typically sturdy and wooden, and there must be a shed or garage filled with a veritable arsenal of sharpened farm or gardening implements, which, despite the dust, must always have a serviceable edge. Chainsaws must always start on the first pull, and basements should have no working lights.
Common mistakes in this style arise from the need to live here. While it is acceptable to have one room with modern amenities hidden somewhere no one will ever see, it is not OK to clean the windows, have pretty little pillows on the couches or own a tabby cat with a pink collar and a bell (horribly disfigured black tomcats that hiss and spit dementedly and attack anything that moves are acceptable). Another thing that willl immediately alert the knowledgable is if you mix styles. Seventies kitsh and a twenties rocker do not - and can never - go together. Actually, if you want a whole list of ways to turn terrifying into tacky, just drop in on the Old Monster.
In either style, it is important to have at least a pair of large, well-refrigerated storage closets in which to keep the bodies until you are done with them.
Hope this was of use, and now go throw out that ole Hello Kitty clock on the mantelpiece - you, too can actually impress your visitors and terrify those mortals who don’t yet know that they’re the main course.
See you in a couple of weeks.
Hieronymous
Keeping Up with the Joneses
Getting something decent to read is just so annoying when one has, over the past few centuries, seen the whole of human nature on display. Having this experience with people living, dead, undead and, best of all, in terrible pain and just about to die, as well as damned souls, various demonic manifestations and phantasms, I can confidently tell you that most literature is written for people who have no grasp on reality.
Think about it. Take your favorite romance, for example. The book ends as soon as the pretty maiden (if you actually believed she was a maiden, you just haven’t lived long enough) conquers the noble heart of the young prince, weaning him away from the ugly stepsister. Let’s be honest. The young prince will be very happy with his juvenile bride up until she starts showing signs of wear and tear herself. Then he’ll trade her in for a younger model - even if the new liason is unofficial. As Mel Brooks used to say, “it’s good to be the king.” The young woodcutter who woos the beautiful princess, of course, suffers the same fate as soon as his pot-belly shows signs of life. This, of course, is why the old queen is always portrayed as a mean hag in these tales. She’s been there, done that, and knows how it ends.
Adventure, westerns and science fiction show normal people doing things normal people wouldn’t do. And, in real life, don’t do. Not much solace there.
This process of elimination eventually leaves us only with the horror genre, in which people and creatures act in a way that comes naturally to them, with blood and guts described in the corrrect manner, and no heroes around to spoil the verisimilitude. The pervading emotion is fear, and the big motivation is self-preservation, just like in the real lives of short-lived mortals. The fact that death and violence are so pleasant to read is icing on the cake. Don’t you just love it when the virile, handsome hero gets his brains unexpectedly bashed out by a hammer-wielding maniac in a hockey mask, or the nubile young heroine is eaten by zombies - the feeling of every tooth described in agonizing detail? Horror is real things happening to real people, the more unspeakable, the better.
But there’s a problem. We need to go to the princess of Transylvania’s five-hundredth birthday gala at her place on fifth avenue, and we know that talking about Stephen King or Dean Koontz will get us shunted to the sidelines and immediately scratched off any future guest lists. Even having one of those books lying on a coffee table at home is likely to have the same effect. You just can’t afford to take the risk.
So what’s the solution? You’ve already read all the acceptable horror. You can recite the Cthulu mythos by heart. You’re sick and tired of having to run and hide The Tommyknockers in a drawer every time the doorbell rings. You need something to read which won’t endanger your social prospects, but, at the same time gives you a believable look at life, not some literary imbecility. You don’t think you could survive a repeat of the The Five People You Meet in Heaven fiasco. Ugh. You don’t want to throw up five pages into the book yet again. What to do?
I’ll let you in on a little secret. The literary snobs that abound wherever decent people get together aren’t all that different from the bored housewife reading The National Enquirer in the laundromat. They are just as morbid, and enjoy reading about murder, rape, debauchery and blood just as much as the lowest-browed mechanic. They have no trouble getting their fix, and yet are safe in the knowledge that they will not be criticized for it.
Why? Because they hide behind the pretense that their brand of titillation is justified by the artistic merit of the work they read. Just as an example, even the most jaded among the undead would find himself nodding in appproval and thinking “yes, that’s how it would have happened in real life” after reading Of Mice and Men. You might be irritated at Raskolnikov for overthinking things but would admit that his heart, as shown in the first half of Crime and Punishment, is in the right place.
And there are more extreme examples, as well. Work that, despite its classic status, satisfies even the most unsavory tastes. Sanctuary is a novel by William Faulkner. As such, you expect long, drawn-out descriptions of uninteresting things. But in this novel, there are long, drawn out descriptions of most entertaining depravity and horror. He crosses lines which, when reading a classic, you expect no one will dare.
Any of these books will meet the standards for how humans really act while allowing you to face your friends and share that knowing look. The look which says “I’m reading about all the good stuff, and no one suspects a thing.” There are other classics that do the same, of course, but I’ll let each of you discover his own road now that I’ve set you on the path. Just remember, it is very, very important to avoid Jane Austen at all costs. That way lies madness.
Until we meet again, happy hunting, and may your human blood come from the original container.
Hieronymous
Make it a Borley Weekend
Greetings, or, as my neighbors a hundred streets up would have you say, “yo!” Welcome to The Undead Smart Set. I hope you’ll join me as we travel to the far corners of the world looking into the better travel locations, gastronomic possibilities and literature of worlds both old and new. I will, of course, focus on the undead and supernatural friendliness of the chosen locales, as well as the suitability of discussion in polite company. I might even, if invited to the manager’s box, be reviewing a play. I hear there’s one about a witch that is currently a big hit, but one must, of course, avoid the rabble.
So, where to begin? Well, there is, really, only one place possible, and that is the spiritual home of the undead - England. Whilst I have to admit to having been tempted by the old eastern European stomping grounds most of my friends used to haunt, I was put off by the throngs of undead doing the Dracula castle tour thing. As the unspeakably crass yet brilliant Berra once said, “Nobody goes there anymore, it’s too crowded.”
England, despite being discovered by the in set a bit later has just as much tradition as the Balkans. The wights among us, after all, didn’t just spring up out of nowhere. No, they were born of unspeakable acts out on the moors.
Once in England, avoid London like a crucifix. There are too many of the more popular ghosts there, at least one Templar chapel and Clark Gable, whom we all know is now a vampire, also lives there. Aaargh! Can you spell “tourist trap”?
No, the trick is to leave Gatwick and have your driver take you to Borley, a delightfully dreary little village in the Essex countryside, near the Suffolk border. Despite its tiny size, this little-known place has much to recommend it, since evil deeds have bloodied its soil since at least the thirteenth century.
On leaving your car, you will immediately feel yourself braced by the negative energy in the air. What you are feeling is simply the belief of the resident mortals that this is the most haunted place in the world. They have no idea what they’re talking about, of course, but the energy it creates is a beautiful thing.
The reason they believe all this is because of one single building - a medieval monastery that eventually became the Borley Rectory, a name most of you will have heard.
The story of the monastery is an inspiring one - a monk and a young novice fall in love, plan to elope and are caught. Please remember that, in the thirteenth century, the church still knew how to be pure evil. The monk, of course, was hanged, and the novice walled up - alive - inside the monastery. The first thing a visitor to Borley needs to do is to look up the monk, one of the world’s most important ghosts, and criminally overlooked. Sadly, he isn’t much of a conversationalist, as he only speaks a little modern English, and he was also driven mad when the bones of the novice were discovered a few years ago and she was given a Christian burial, ending her run as his companion.
Centuries later, a rectory was built on the site of the monastery, but despite being twice-consecrated, the ghosts stuck around, and the succession of parson’s families that lived there were tormented by a flurry of paranormal activity. Manifestations, ghostly writing and an unexplained fire were some of the highlights. Teams of mortal investigators have studied the place more than once, and the seminal guide is probably Harry Price’s The Most Haunted House in England.
The house itself was torn down in 1944, but the energy and the monk are still present, and make the site worth a trip. It is surrounded only by a lowish wall, and security is very lax, especially after midnight.
Borley is a great place for a good vibe - all the undead you will encounter will be well-read and articulate. The refreshing negative energy is unmatched, save at truly evil places such as Verdun or, possibly, old Sodom.
As for the food, well, if you eat human food, you’re basically in a bit of a spot, since the fare is mostly English cuisine - the worst on the old continent. If, however, you’re a traditionalist, you’re in for a treat. Mortals of many creeds and races flock to this tiny hamlet, drawn by the hauntings, so you can have anything you like - from a high-calorie Yank to fish-fed Oriental fare. And, the place is extremely undead-friendly. The kind of people you’re likely to encounter walking the streets of Borley at night are of the type considered a bit weird by other mortals, and their disappearance is unlikely to generate comment or even notice until you are safely miles away. No pitchfork and torch wielding rabble for my readers!
Finally, a word on nearby attractions. Borley is a short drive from the North sea, where you can spend an evening taunting the spirits of drowned Viking sailors barred from Valhalla. Base, low-brow entertainment, perhaps, but one sometimes must endure a certain folkiness in traditional festivities. And, the north-sea taunt is as traditional as they come.
I bid you unpleasant nightmares until we meet again.
Hieronymous
