Even though Clayton’s house was nowhere near as large as many of the homes up and down the street, it represented itself well in this neighborhood. His home sat on what had to be the most desired piece of land on the block: an oversized lot that could honestly boast that it offered the best view of any of them. Even from Ian’s vantage point as he remained for the moment sitting in his Jeep in Clayton’s driveway, he could tell Clayton’s view from his front windows and deck had to be at least a one-hundred-eighty degree panoramic view of the Pacific and its expansive light-gray, sandy coastline, all of which were not even a mile off in the horizon.
Ian took a deep breath and attempted to gather his composure. He was not even certain what questions he might be asking Clayton as he silently surmised, Sometimes, it’s best to just wing these things. Don’t overthink it.
Ian checked his cell phone; it was 2:27 p.m., and he was right on time. He exited his Jeep and walked directly up to the street-side front door. He noticed a medium-sized pumpkin, neatly carved into a Jack-o-lantern, seated on the porch just to the right of the front door. Ian cleared his throat twice as he rang the doorbell.
The front door opened. Clayton immediately smiled and shook Ian’s hand. “Ah, Ian. Right on time. Please, come on in.”
For the first time, Ian witnessed that Clayton had a pronounced limp. He walked with a cane held in his left hand. Ian also noted Clayton was still wearing his sunglasses.
Clayton gave Ian a quick little tour around his home. He then suggested that they both take a seat in his living room, which offered the best view of the ocean from inside the home. Once they both were seated, Clayton, without asking, poured Ian a glass of red wine from an ornate crystal carafe that exactly matched two equally ornate crystal glasses, all of which were perched on the coffee table before them. Clayton’s glass was already filled.
Clayton then turned slightly in his swivel-rocker chair and stared momentarily directly at Ian, who was seated on the couch alongside Clayton’s chair.
“Ian, please excuse the dark glasses. I have an eye condition. I’m supposed to refrain from exposure to bright light. Anyway, it’s been said of me … well … that I’m a very assuming person. Occasionally too assuming, of that I’m certain. I hope you’re a person who enjoys a glass of wine now and then. In this case a fine Chianti.”
Ian smiled as he took a sip and replied, “As a matter of fact, I am. And this is delicious. Thank you.”
Clayton smiled back as he continued. “Excellent! That said, I feel compelled to say … well … Ian, obviously you’re a highly-educated man. I noted from your business card that you have a Ph.D. I can only assume in some biological discipline.” Ian didn’t speak but nodded his head slightly.
Clayton continued, “Still, you seem … How shall I put it? Not unlike one of the local good-ole-boys, so to speak.”
Ian smiled and let out a small sigh. After a second’s pause, he gave a slight up and down nod, indicating that at least that too wasn’t far off the mark, as he silently mused, He’s certainly observant. A useful trait in both our fields.
“To tell you the truth, Clayton, from where I sit, much the same could be said about you. I read in the back of your book that you received your Masters in English Literature from Emory University. Anyway, there was a time, not long ago, that I probably was pretty full of myself. But things and times change. For instance, I recently had the pleasure to work with and get to know a couple of the most down-to-earth people to be found anywhere. Smart guys. Very smart, competent law enforcement professionals. Something I’ve actually been experiencing to be the norm, well, regarding smaller communities, anyway. The two guys that I’m talking about … Neither had more than high-school diplomas that I’m aware of. But as far as I’m concerned, the notion of higher education making a man somehow better or smarter … Well, it doesn’t. It just opens certain doors, ones that would otherwise remain shut, and makes pursuing various opportunities more plausible or at least a bit easier. Suffice it to say, I’ve been hanging around the northwest a while now. I guess the local vernacular and maybe my previously California-cated attitudes, especially pertaining towards people that I once would have referred to as hicks or rednecks, has changed somewhat for the better I hope.”
Clayton smiled and lifted his glass of wine in salute to that. “Okay, Ian. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’d bet my Aunt Gladys’s Sunday bonnet – well, that is if I had an Aunt Gladys and she wore a bonnet – that you’re looking into what’s been going on regarding the recent unsavory happenings in Astoria, principally pertaining to the scuttle-butt one hears that there’s one or more crazed lunatic serial killers of, shall we say, the nocturnal variety hanging about.” Clayton smirked slightly.
Ian noticed for the first time that Clayton’s glass of wine seemed, in the dim light of the room, to be just a bit darker than his own. He quickly surmised the effect was only an optical illusion and dismissed it from his mind.
Clayton took another slow sip from his wine glass and continued. “Perhaps, as it has been more than suggested, it can be linked in part, or entirely, to the owner or frequenters of that Astoria nightclub aptly named The Morgue. It’s a club that principally attracts, besides just the curious, canine-dentured, undead role players and various persons turned onto the occult. I hear tell that the club’s owner, Salizzar, is an Eastern European fellow. I tell you all this, all the while knowing with relative certainty that you already knew at least that much. But of this I am equally certain; you would have no way of knowing that Salizzar not long ago granted me a brief audience much like the one we are having now. It was at his home, at night. He, as you also no doubt already know, lives in Astoria at the once aptly-named Flavel House Museum. I asked him during said interview if I could perhaps stylize a character based loosely on him – and perhaps his club as well. Salizzar seemed genuinely flattered and agreed with certain conditions and limitations. At that time, I was allowed no further into the house than the front sitting room, though I’ve been promised a tour of the home sometime in the near future. I came away from the short interview, I believe, a little wiser for the visit. In my humble opinion, Salizzar, in the nomenclature of my profession, at the very least assumes quite convincingly the role of a charmingly suave though egocentrically narcissistic, nocturnal by necessity, possibly nefarious, self-proclaimed nosferatu. A term I’m confident you’re quite familiar with, being a paranormal investigator.” Ian nodded his head twice.
Ian enjoyed how Clayton spoke. It was pretty much how he assumed he would, being an author, whose words were the tools of his trade. Ian was slightly surprised at Clayton’s presumption that he would have already known much of what Clayton had to say to him so far. Though so far, he was spot on!
Ian was also a very quick study of people. Had already made a couple of presumptions pertaining to Clayton, one being that authors often must be pseudo-investigators when it came to researching their topics. Ian had already come to the conclusion that the man who sat beside him possessed great instinct and powers of observation, much like himself.
Clayton briefly became silent as he momentarily stared out his living room window towards the surf. He then slapped his knee with the palm of his left hand, wineglass still held in his right. “Okay, Ian. Let’s cut to the chase. How can a simple author of fiction, a novelist of vampire stories, further educate you? Assuming I’m correct that you’re here to perhaps learn a thing or two on the subject, beyond the realm of what one can mistakenly presume to learn by watching humorous 80’s genre films like Fright Night and The Lost Boys and so forth. Make no mistake, those films, among many others, I happen to enjoy a great deal. In those days, selling vampire stories that often ended up as movies was as easy as eating popcorn. Anyway, I suspect that you, being an investigator of the paranormal, may have on occasion seen for yourself at one time or another the line become blurred or erased altogether between the perceived normal and paranormal. I don’t believe I need to tell you nor try to convince you, of all peop
le, that there perhaps is truth to what Friedrich Nietzsche once so eloquently stated, ‘Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.’ Pointedly poignant, wouldn’t you agree?”
After all that Ian had gone through over the last few weeks back at Harmony Falls, he had to nearly bite his tongue as he mused to himself, When it comes to supposed fiction turning out to be fact … Clayton, you have no idea what I know to be true.
After listening to Clayton talk for nearly the last half-hour, Ian’s willingness to discuss the topic of vampires, and his investigation, with the man he was with had grown exponentially.
“Clayton, you are correct on every point. Understand, I am counting on your absolute discretion regarding what I’m about to reveal to you. I’m not even certain why I’m going to tell you other than I need some help. And you just might be a very valuable source of information, but I doubt you would be very informative if you don’t know at least some of my reasons for asking the questions I’m going to be asking. So here goes. I am conducting a private investigation very loosely in conjunction with the Astoria Police Department. All strictly on the down low. I would be instantly disavowed by them and left dangling in the wind if my name was even associated as such. At this point, my investigation is principally targeted at Salizzar and his nightclub. No surprise there. But please understand, what I’m about to ask or tell you must remain strictly confidential if I’m to have any success. And perhaps remain healthy, if you get my meaning.”
Clayton smiled. “Yes. Well, Ian, You can rest assured that I will not discuss your activities with anyone. That is, with one possible exception. But let me hear your questions before I decide if that might be a good idea or not. I will, if I can, assist you with what I understand on the subject.”
Ian had to suppress his instant curiosity to ask Clayton whom he was referring to. But he decided for the time being to remain silent about it.
“Clayton, I have heard that there are supposedly different types of vampires. Looking past for the moment the presumption that it’s all fiction, that is, other than role players and crazies.”
Clayton took a sip from his wine glass then replied, “Yes, well, there are ...” Clayton cleared his throat then continued. “Basically, in my opinion, they can all be pretty much placed into four categories.” Obviously having anticipated this question, Clayton reached into the pocket of his golf-style cardigan sweater. He retrieved a sheet of paper that had a list typed on it. Without saying another word, Clayton handed the sheet of paper to Ian and gave him sufficient time to read its contents.
1) Vampire – Psychic … (rubbish).
2) Vampire – Role-players … (real).
3) Vampire - Renfield’s syndrome/Porphyria - mental/physical illness … (extremely rare, though real).
4) Vampire – Sanquinarians … (?)
Before Ian could comment on the list he’d just read, Clayton commenced speaking again. “Ian, as you know, vampires in lore as well as in reality in one form or another exist throughout the world.”
Ian interjected, “You’re speaking of creatures like vampire bats and insects like mosquitos and fleas and such, I presume?”
Clayton grinned impishly. “Quite right. But of course, in essence we’re talking about something much different when we make the quantum leap to any sort of humanoid vampire.”
Ian paused, then began his questions, paper in hand. “What’s meant by a Psychic Vampire?”
Clayton sat back deep into his chair. “A Psychic Vampire is a person who believes they have the power to psychically, parasitically, draw from a human target, or donor, their energy. Their life force. This of course, like I wrote on that list you’re holding, in my opinion is utter rubbish.”
Ian nodded his head in agreement. “Okay. I’d say the role players … Well, that pretty much is self-explanatory. I assume some do it just for fun and some take it more seriously. Some get into that self-mutilation bit by cutting their wrists and arms with razor-blades and drink a bit of blood from a donor. Stuff like that?”
Clayton nodded slowly. Ian continued, “Then that takes us to the mentally ill. That I get. I’ve read of things like Renfield Syndrome, taken of course from the character Renfield from Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula. It refers to someone who, due to some form of schizophrenia, believes whole-heartedly that he or she is a vampire. But you have here physically ill listed as well?”
Clayton interjected, “Ian, have you ever heard of a disease called Porphyria?”
“No,” Ian replied without hesitation.
Clayton let out a small sigh before continuing. “Well, without delving into a medical explanation beyond my depth, Porphyria is, in essence, a disease that can cause many of the symptoms which have been classically associated with vampirism. Blood lust. Aversion to sunlight. Some physical changes as well, like increased hair and fingernail growth. Even an aversion to strong scents from flora like, say, garlic. I subscribe to the theory shared by many scientists regarding a very plausible link in this disease to some vampiric conditions both mentally and physically. Some blood and flesh-coveting mass murderers have been diagnosed as suffering from Porphyria.”
Ian didn’t question that further. It sounded perfectly plausible – and explained some very serious human-vampiric phenomena. He took a deep breath. “Okay, then that takes us to number four, where I see you wrote a question mark. My guess is that the prior three types of vampires pale by comparison. No pun intended.” Both men laughed.
“Is that where you place Salizzar? In the number four question mark category?” Ian asked with nervous anticipation.
Clayton scooted forward in his chair. He looked Ian square in the eyes, then all at once, he became as serious as a heart attack when he answered, “Yes.”
Ian once again took a deep breath before continuing, “If that’s true on any level, then I’m going to need some help.”
“Ian, based on years of research on the topic of vampires, werewolves, and all manner of things that go bump in the night, so to speak, I believe in some rare instances there may be a more demonic explanation far beyond anything modern science is willing to accept. Possibly tracing its roots all the way back to the Garden of Eden, if you believe your Bible stories. I’ve come to somewhat subscribe to the notion mentioned in Jewish mythology that Adam had a wife named Lilith, who preceded his wife of mention in the Bible, Eve. Lilith was cursed by God because she thought herself Adam’s equal, refusing to be subservient to him. She further rebelled and defied God’s law by procreating with the archangel Samael. Satan. And later, having been cast aside by Satan, she procreated with Carnivean, a much lesser demon. Whereby creating two related yet distinctly separate species of immortal nephilim, the spawn of devils, resulting in her being condemned by God and transformed from human into the first female demon. Lilith is revered by her followers as The Unholy Mother, the antithesis to the Holy Mother Mary to Christians. Her procreations created a sub-species of human-demon hybrids, if you will. Vampiric blood-lusting, soul-gathering, demon spawn of Satan, and lycanthropic, cannibalistically-carnivorous, demon spawns of Carnivean. Whose supernatural gifts, or curses, depending on your point of view, vary. But they share one commonality; their powers all tend to grow stronger, and in some cases more diverse, the longer they live, which for some could amount to be a very long time indeed. But that’s all topic for discussion another time. Oh, but one more thing, dear Ian. Never invite or accept an invitation to enter any room from such a creature. It has been said, and I speak of course of Carpathian and European gypsy folklore, that should you invite such an entity into your domicile or willfully accept such an invitation to enter theirs, that that would enhance their influence over you, leaving you potentially powerless against them. Or at the very least, you would be more vulnerable than you would be otherwise to their bloodlust-driven cravings!”
Ian had a hard time not telling Clayton right then and there what he had personally encountered
. That he knew too well of the existence and truth to at least one such supposed myth regarding demonically-contrived, shape-shifting creatures of the night. But rather than talk about that now, if ever, Ian decided to change the subject.
“Clayton. You mentioned earlier that there might be someone you’d discuss this with. To whom were you referring, and why?”
Clayton glanced out the window for an instant, then looked back at Ian. “Ian, I did some checking on the computer about you. I was genuinely sorry to read of your wife and daughter’s tragic passing.”
Ian smiled slightly as he nodded his appreciation for the sentiment. So much for establishing any level of anonymity or cover. Maybe I should have given Clayton an alias when I first met him? Of course it makes sense that he would have checked me out, especially after inviting me to his home and all. Well, too late now. I guess I’ve got to trust someone besides Officer Ned Parker.
Clayton continued, “You’ve probably noticed by looking around my home that it’s sadly lacking any female touch. My ex-wife left me a few years back when the money-train in the form of royalty checks stopped arriving to this station. But I do still have one family member who lives on the peninsula here. My deceased brother’s adopted daughter, Zoey. She lives with her friend, Todd, in downtown Long Beach. They own a small hairstyling salon and live in a two-bedroom apartment upstairs. I made the point to say two bedroom so you’d understand that Todd … is … well, other than them being just friends, women aren’t his cup of tea, so to speak. Anyway, Zoey … She just might be very resourceful, especially regarding helping you to not look so … How should I put it? Provincially conventional.”
Ian silently agreed with Clayton’s idea. A hairstylist would be perfect for helping me effect the visual-demeanor of a Goth clubber.
Ian had in fact noticed that Clayton’s house was furnished more like that of a man-cave than a place shared by a woman. Lots of nautical furnishings. Items like a beautiful ship’s wheel above the fireplace. Dark brown leather couch with matching loveseat, and Lazy-boy rocker-recliner. Some beautiful antique sea-chests. It was true, the home was obviously lacking anything even remotely feminine on the walls, tabletops, or anywhere about the place.
Red Tide: The Flavel House Horror / Vampires of the Morgue (The Ian McDermott, Ph.D., Paranormal Investigator Series Book 2) Page 9
