In 1922
You watched
A silent movie
Called Nosferatu
And
laughed
So hard that
The ushers
Told you
And Drusilla
To leave.
You quieted,
Fascinated by
The bad
make-up.
Aside from
The Master,
Why would
Anybody
look
That stupid?
That ugly?
That starkly
Insane...
On
purpose?
I mean,
Look at those ears!
You're joking,
right?
Now you know-
Twenty years later
The Prince
of Lies
Ears and all,
Mumbles and
Paces, close-set
Fangs
gnashing,
Within your shared
Steel coffin
After you set
Him,
and some fat
Bore of a Russian
Loose beneath the sea
As
you
Try not
To scream.
To distract yourself
While the song
Of the
dying
Submarine,
Bending steel
And breaking pipes,
Sings
deep
Within your bones
And the
Fat Russian snores
In
counterpoint,
You watch
This hunched and
Crazy relic
Sniff
at
The slowly
Buckling
Bloodstained
Steel deck
In
the dim light
Near your
Hobnailed boots;
Orlock's bald
head
Gleams, his
Unblinking eyes
Stare inward,
Blind to
all
But their own
Visions,
Your stomach
Churns at
the
Guano reek
Of age and
Madness
He gives off
In
these
Close quarters
While you
Try not
To scream.
The Seed of Belial
Scrabbles
Mechanically
With ragged
claws,
Searching for
A way out.
Should you
Outlast
this
Latest cock-up
Of yours-
Killing half the
Men
who
Know how
To work this tub,
And then getting
Trapped
by the
Survivors,
You too
Might become
This old,
This
hunched,
This senile;
Your face a
Map of nightmares,
Power
radiating
From you
So fiercely
That the air
Burns like
Red-hot frost.
The sub
Moans louder
While
settling
On it's side,
"And like Sack
Of Rats here,
I'll
be too loony,"
You say
With a giggle,
"To do
anything
With it!"
As you
Try not
To scream.
Bollocks!
You're a demon,
Remember?
Not pansy
William
Wailing for
His mummy
In the dark.
You'll get
out
Of this mess,
You always do!
This
reeking
Ancestor?
Nothing!
The forces
Crushing
Your
cage?
Nothing!
Your kind can't
Drown!
This
is soddin'
Nothing...
...nothing...
...nothingnothing...
...nonthingnothingnoth-
(What was that?)
There it is again,
A muffled rhythmic
Thudding...
Your ears pop.
Voices.
Coming closer...
You count footsteps,
There aren't many,
You can take
them,
Easy...
Closer...
Gagging
You shove Orlock
Through a hatch,
Dogging it
fast;
You'd stake him,
And that blob of
A Russian,
Only
they might be
Useful later...
Closer...
Demon-faced
And hungry,
You crouch among
The bloating
Bodies of
dead
Germans...
Closer...
You grin.
They won't know
What hit 'em...
The wheel turns...
The stale air...
...carries a familiar scent...
Casually, you
Stand, straightening
Your looted clothes,
SS
black, and
Saunter out
Into the passageway...
...to face your Grandsire,
(Who views you with disgust)
No
longer needing to scream.
Author's Note: Nosferatu, a 1922 silent film out of Germany was one of the first adaptations of Bram Stoker's Dracula and literally the ancestor of just about every screen vampire since. It was also an unauthorized adaptation - Stoker's widow sued successfully to have every copy of the film destroyed. Not long after her death, a copy surfaced in England, which shows you can't keep a good fiend down. Look for it in DVD - by today's standards it's somewhat staid, but try imagining yourself in a theatre in 1922, viewing it for the first time.