That morning, sleeping in Geyer’s aluminum coffin, I had a strange dream.
I dreamed that I was on that beach in Florida. Where I first saw the ocean all those years ago. And in the dream, I was again kneeling in the sea oats in my bum clothes. Staring out at that watery horizon where giant waves broke in the dark. I felt, in the dream, as I had then. Humbled. Insignificant. Not even a godamn footnote in time. And yet, paradoxically, I felt as if I were a part of something immense. Something necessary. Something…
Holy
Yes. That there was some indefinable holiness out there beyond those breakers. The waves crashing over and over. A dominion connecting my callused heart to the stars…
How ‘bout that sports fans? The stars…
And in the dream, as it had been all those years ago, I could have knelt in the sand indefinitely, the wind whistling its sea shell chats in my ears
Love is forever…Love is forever…Love… Is FOREVER that ocean wind seemed to whisper.
“Sara…” I whispered back. And then, as a grace-note, I shouted “Jill!”
And in the dream then, something sinister happened. Another variation on the source code. Before another wave could curl and crash out there in the sea, it seemed to detach itself from the waters entirely. It became a shadow instead of a wave. Rose up. Some black, shapeless, almost sentient cloud. And after, it started to move inland toward the white beach.
Toward me.
I had a feeling it was coming for me.
My mood turned quickly then. From elation…to cold fear.
“Sara…Jill” I said. But oh, so weakly now.
And then, that strange shadow reached the beach. Where I was still kneeling. My ghost heart pounding in my chest. For I knew what that shadow was. WHO it was. I knew, instinctively. The sea wind whispered that in my ears as well…
Serling…Serling…SERLING
And, lo and behold…The shadow coalesced there at the water’s edge. Became vertical. Brightened, if that is the word for it. And as if he had stepped out from behind some curtain or, perhaps, exited from some black hole, Charles Robinson Serling now stood there, glaring down at me. As if I were his fucking vampire acolyte or something and I had come here merely to make obeisance to him. He was as I had first imagined him long ago in some fever nightmare. Deathly pale. Colorless lips. Filthy eyeglasses set in gold wire frames. But he was dressed now in the uniform of some B-movie bloodsucker. Black dress pants tucked into black leather boots. And a black, woolen cloak wrapped tightly around his insignificant frame.
His eyes…his eyes burned red behind those dirty glasses. As if they contained, in concentrated form, all the hate in the universe.
All the hate that has ever been. Or ever will be.
And then, Charles Robinson Serling smiled at me. And that smile, as innocuous as it was, was even more frightening than his red eyes.
“Henry Wordsworth Lovell,” he said to me, his voice booming above the wind and the night surf. “Henry, the Vampire…”
His face began to vibrate then. Before I could reply. As if there were some intense pressure building up inside his skull and very very soon it would explode. His head whipped back and forth, violently, several times. And then—there on the Daytona shore—Serling transformed himself over and over into other people and vampires. As if he were merely shedding a series of masks for my entertainment.
My name is Legion. For we are many…
Most I recognized. Others I didn’t.
Some are living. Others are dead.
For meager seconds he was Marky. That shithead barkeep I used to best back in the day. And then he morphed into that anonymous dude with the ragged moustache and the sad eyes. That John Wilkes Booth doppelganger I had battled on top of an unfinished building in Detroit. And then…And then, he appeared briefly as that girl from my bookstore dream. The sexy brunette who had been hot for me to sign her neck and immortalize her. Bones and Slobber collateral. And then, for a shining moment, he was Emily Diller. My maker. Standing there on the beach. Dressed in her dark hair and heart-shaped face
Emily…
No time to think about that. He morphed again. Became that prostitute I had drained a few weeks before in the D. The one with the Tourette’s and fiery red hair.
Shit Piss Motherfucker…
Each transformation came on now with greater frequency. As if Serling were just some rich dandy, discarding hats or something. Impatiently trying to find the right fit for the day.
The only thing that didn’t change were his hateful red eyes…
In rapid succession he took on the guise of Lee and Mae. Those gaunt drug vampires of Columbus, Ohio. His own murdered children. And then he became some ugly dude with a broad nose and coarse red hair, the face a No-Man’s Land of scars and pockmarks.
And then…and then…
I started to feel sick watching him. Watching as the changes came with such rapidity, that his face no longer settled enough for my eyes to register any new guise at all. His face became a luminous blur. A dizzying blob.
“Stop…make it stop,” I cried. As if I were on some stomach-churning ride at some amusement park. “Please…STOP.”
And, mercifully, it did stop. Serling’s features came into focus one final time around those feral eyes.
And then, really, it was no mercy at all…
For standing there in front of me, with the dark Atlantic as a backdrop, was Jill Porsino. Poet. Same aquiline nose and black/gray hair.
A monster in the shape of Jill Porsino.
A monster in the shape of love.
And before I could demonstrate further, Serling/Jill opened its mouth to reveal gleaming, white teeth. Ravenous vampire teeth that looked like they could easily devour me, the beach, the night, the whole world even, in one decisive, violent snap. And, at the corners of this new creature’s mouth, dark blood started to trickle. As if it had just glutted itself on some invisible victim’s blood.
“All this I will give you…if you worship me” Serling/Jill gurgled down at me.
And then, mercifully, I woke up.