I�ve said I would write this book for years, and now I intend to do so. As I�ve just come off of a long hard week of radio, television, and magazine interviews for Jeff Guinn�s book "Something in the Blood" (Summit Publishing Group, 1996) the idea now seems inevitable. My chapter is the only one in his book dealing with vampirism from the unwilling victim�s point of view.
Over the course of six years, I wrote to many victims, like myself, and when I was more confident, I started writing to the blood drinkers as well. Most people familiar with modern day vampirism can tell you that these blood drinkers, for the most part, have willing donors, usually within monogamous relationships. These people drink the blood of other humans for various personal reasons. Some say it is something that they�ve felt was natural, even as small children. And some have come to this lifestyle influenced by a book or a movie. And others still are brought into this habit by association with other people who have introduced them to it. What ever the reason, there are people who drink blood. This doesn�t make them bad people. I see it as a personal and private part of their lives. The blood drinkers that I have written to over the last four years have been very normal people in all other respects. They have become some of my best friends.
There�s one major difference between these blood drinkers who have been kind enough to share their stories with me, whom all have willing partners (donors), and the man who bit me. The man who bit me did not give me a choice or even a warning that he was about to take my blood, nor would he admit to having done so to anyone else. He would only confess what he had done to me in completely private conversations with me.
I was very excited in September of 1992 to finally hear from someone who could help. I wrote to Martin Riccardo, a vampire researcher and hypno-therapist in Chicago, to ask if he had ever heard of the man who bit me... to see if there were other people victimized by this man. I learned nothing more about my "assailant," but I did find many other similar victims, with stories almost exactly like mine! Martin Riccardo and all of his help have truly been a blessing! If I had not been able to hook up with other people through this "underground" network of pen pals, I would have gone completely insane years ago. With any sort of trauma, or life changing event in one�s life, it is always more reassuring to find others who have shared the same kinds of things in their lives -- to become friends --to share the frustrations --to try and understand such a thing from all angles.
Yes, perhaps you could call my pen pals a "support group" for vampire victims. By sharing our stories, putting the pieces of the mystery together, we support each other because it is comforting to know that we are not alone. We support ourselves in gaining more knowledge about what has happened to us. It just helps to talk about it with anyone who will listen and not judge us.
When something as strange as this happens to you, trying to relate it to others can be difficult. I was normal one day, and the next I was running around the city saying, "Oh my God! There are vampires. They are real. They are in Indianapolis!" (This was not something my friends could have expected me to say!) This kind of thing changes your life. Granted, I�ve not been unhappy with most of these changes. Most of it has been very positive. I�ve turned it into something positive.
Most of the other victims in this book have been what I call "happy victims." No one has said that they hated that this has happened to them. They�ve written to tell me that although it may have been uncomfortable at the time, now that they have their distance, they are taken by a sense of awe. They wonder just how such a thing could be done, or perhaps how they could eventually gain such control.
All of the stories I�m about to relay to you are about people who were once under the influence of a very powerful person, that controlled their thoughts, their lives, their free will, and eventually (or simultaneously) took their blood.
You may wonder how anyone could fall prey to such a person, and especially how we could come out of it with a respect and admiration for our villainous attackers, but I assure you, this happens. I can explain this phenomenon.
There is a growing subculture in America, based on such books as Anne Rice�s Vampire Chronicles, and movies like Lost Boys and Bram Stoker�s Dracula. People are drawn to the image of the seductive, powerful, immortal characters. Is it any wonder that people would want to become a vampire in these days when vampires can be portrayed as heroes? Anyone who has ever read of one Anne Rice�s novels can surely understand why one would want to be a vampire. Her characters are very human. They have regrets for the things they do, which makes them easy to relate to. Yet, they have incredible powers, which most of us would love to possess. It is the perfect fantasy bridging the gap and accepting our human flaws. This type of fiction is romantically sweeping readers off their feet.
I don�t think this has been an influence, though, in the following cases. Regardless of whatever books and movies that might have been around at the time, we were victims of something very real. The man who bit me didn�t pretend to be Lestat (Anne Rice�s main vampire character). He was not acting out a fantasy from a book. He did not claim to be a vampire. That is a word that I used to describe him.
Establishing labels for people is not the point of this book. If we had to come up with a word to describe folks who drink blood, and take energy from others, and have hypnotic control, what better word could we use than "vampire"? What brings a person to the desire to drink blood, and why take that blood from someone who has not consented, (when there are actually quite a few people in this world that would be willing to give it... as research has proved)?
What happens to our own free-will when we run across an individual who has incredible mind control over us? Time and again, I am reminded of the cult leaders, of men like Charlie Manson, when I try to explain this "brainwashing" that generally precedes and accompanies the taking of our ungiven blood.
All of this is perhaps easier to explain when you learn my story, and the stories of other people, like myself, who have experienced what I call "being bit by a vampire."
I was born and raised in a small town in Indiana. My parents were very nice people. We were middle-class, I guess, although some people would say "upper middle class." I can�t explain how my father would own an airplane without saying we did have perhaps more than most. I was perhaps spoiled when it came to getting material things. I had music lessons, and I always got what I asked for on Christmas.
I was lucky that my parents never drank. They weren�t abusive. My mom was a Sunday school teacher for a short period of time, but I can�t say we were a religious family. My dad is an atheist, as a result of having religion shoved down his throat as a kid. Regardless of the church-going habits, my parents are very respectable people in their town. My father is a retired welder, and my mother is now in real-estate. My older brother and I have never really been close, but everyone in the family gets along well.
I was what you could call a "geek" in school. I had the glasses and pimples, and hung out with people at the bottom of the "popularity chart." My friends were the smart kids, the "pencil heads." We were all social outcasts because we weren�t cheerleaders and we didn�t wear the latest fashions. That wasn�t because my parents couldn�t afford it, but because I never knew what was going to be in style that year. I tried desperately to fit in with the popular kids at school for most of my grade school and junior high school years. After that, I started to take guitar lessons, and that completely changed my attitude.
I had two guitar teachers. The first was Johnny, who taught me "every Beatles song known to man." Over the years I developed a great friendship with him. Most of the time he was like a personal counselor, I would tell him everything that happened in school that week, everything that bothered me, and he shared in my excitement when I was interested in something. My admiration for him developed into a teen-aged crush. I was crushed when I found out he was married. (Odd that I found him to be a great counselor, because when last I heard he was studying to be a psychologist!)
My other guitar teacher was Rod. He was younger, and single, and in the same band with Johnny. Rod taught me a lot of "show off" songs. As I became more confident with guitar, I also became more confident with myself at school. I didn�t care anymore what people were wearing. I wouldn�t be caught dead wearing what anyone else wore after that. Other kids started to have a tiny bit more respect for me. It didn�t actually help ease the pain of being teased for years; because as soon as I had a good grip on feeling good about myself in high-school it was time to graduate!
Next I was in college. It was a blast. I was pretty popular in college. I was only there one year, and I quit to marry the younger brother of my tattoo artist. I thought it would be fun to get a tattoo when I was in college. I had no idea that it was going to change my life so much. I started dating Dan, after we met in the tattoo parlor. The original plan was to live with him for the summer, and go back to college in the fall. My dad, however had a strong opinion about that and said, "There will be no shacking up!"
Dan asked me to marry him, not more than five seconds later, and I said yes.
My life with Dan was miserable. We had no food. He wouldn�t go on food stamps, or anything to help us. My parents often gave us bags of groceries. His older brother was the president of a rather large motorcycle club. The bikers had rules about women. I wasn�t allowed to speak in public, except to other biker women, or when I was spoken to. I was what they called "property." At nine-teen years old, I was referred to as Dan�s "old lady." I learned to hate my situation, and started to develop a bit of a sexual identity crisis. I woke up every morning wishing I was a man, because until then, I had no idea that women could be considered inferior to men. I was miserable. As soon as I had saved up five dollars (which wasn�t easy) I used the money for gasoline to drive back to my parents house.
I moved back home, and took several different small jobs. The town didn�t have much to offer. After a squabble with my father, I made all the necessary steps to join the Army. They gave me a contract for journalism. I feel like a quitter with this part of my life as well, but I didn�t feel like "the type of soldier they were looking for." On my twenty first birthday, I signed the necessary papers to get out of that.
I was still playing guitar. I had always played any time I could get friends to jam. I was living in Indianapolis, playing a lot of open stage blues jams. I had struck out with another relationship (with a man named Jon), perhaps the blues were appropriate.
I saw an ad for Rod�s band in a local paper. I hadn�t seen Rod in six years. So I went to this strange club hoping to see him. I dressed to kill, in what I thought was sexy, a black mini-skirt and fishnet-stockings. It was February, with snow very deep on the ground. I remember hating to wear high heels, and just feeling very uncomfortable and nervous. Which seems odd, now that I think of it, because Rod was the one I felt was responsible for any self-confidence I had. My nervousness probably had more to do with the unfamiliar club, driving in snow, or my clothing, than in seeing Rod. My self confidence was probably lost at that time because I had just lost a very important relationship in my life, and Jon�s reasons for leaving were very vague.
First thing, I walked up to the man controlling the sound board, and asked where Rod was. The guy replied, "Rod died of cancer two years ago."
I stood with my mouth hanging open, in total shock. Rod was dead! I was about to burst into tears, when the sound man jabbed me with his elbow and said, "Nah, Rod�s just in Toledo giving lessons!"
I stood there in relief, still a bit angry with this man for playing such a cruel joke. I began to feel even more uncomfortable, especially knowing that Rod was not there.
The sound man continued to joke, "So, you�re one of Rod�s disciples. We�re looking for a female guitarist. Wanna join?" I said, "Hell no! Rod left your band for a reason, and I�m sure it was a good one." Then I walked away.
I found myself rather lost in this club. The place was packed. I couldn�t even get to the bar to order a drink. I didn�t really want to stay, but I was watching this guy on stage playing an electric violin, knowing full well that this guy was the one who took Rod�s place in the band. He even looked somewhat like Rod, but to me he was a lousy impostor.
The crowd was incredible, and I was standing right in a busy walk way. People kept shoving past me. I kept backing up, trying to step out of the way, and hating my high heeled shoes. I nearly lost my balance and fell backward into the table behind me. I could hear drinks falling over. I turned to apologize to the people I had disturbed, and that�s when I laid eyes on the strangest looking man I had ever seen.
He was as white as a sheet of paper with long black hair covering most of his face. He was dressed in black, and his thin wrists jingled with bracelets as he cleared off a chair and said, "Sit down, won�t you?"
I nearly fell into the chair attempting to sit. Then I mumbled something about my guitar teacher no longer being with this band.
The strange man said, "Oh, you play guitar! We�re looking for a female guitarist."
Having just heard this line from the rude sound man, I was quick to be sarcastic. Without a thought, I said, "I bet you are!"
He then formally introduced himself as Christopher, and the large man across the table that I hadn�t even noticed before despite his size, was Larry.
We shook hands and the conversation about music began. He asked many questions about my musical background, and types of equipment I had or was familiar with. He explained that he had a band called Lost Angels, that had sort of an old Alice Cooper/Queensryche sound. He spoke very intelligently, and politely.
When the waitress came around to the table Christopher ordered me a beer. When the drink came, he made Larry pay for it.
The conversation continued, and I was beginning to regret being so rude to him. He seemed very sincere about auditioning me for his band. He didn�t waver from this topic, or seem to have any other intentions toward me.
The beer had been put in front of me, but I hadn�t taken a sip from it. I forgot all about it, actually. (I add this statement to make it quite clear that I was not under the influence of any drug on this particular night, and no one had the chance to slip any unknown drugs into my drink.)
I was a ctually wrapped up in this conversation. One thing I can remember very vividly about Christopher was that despite the almost non-existent lighting in this club, I could see that he had the strangest, most beautiful gray eyes. (not blue/gray, but gray like a wolf�s, or perhaps like in the television series The Incredible Hulk, when David Banner would freak out and become the Hulk) I couldn�t take my eyes off of his eyes.
He said, "Look, it�s too loud in here. Can we go someplace else and talk?"
I don�t know why, but I instantly envisioned a White Castle restaurant down the street. I thought it would be very nice to continue this conversation in a more quiet atmosphere, so I immediately said, "Yes!"
We got up from the table. He helped me with my coat, (a very rare polite gesture in this day and age)! and we walked out into the snowy parking lot.
I got into my car. The next thing I know, my passenger side door opened and Christopher got into my passenger seat. I don�t know how he got in. I always kept that side of my car locked. I never had passengers. I was slightly startled, but tried not to let it show.
He asked, "Do you live far from here?" I said, "No.", but what I really meant by "no" was "No, you can�t come to my house."
I said, "No, it�s not cool for us to go there. I have two really conservative roommates that would probably tear my head off if I brought someone home at this hour."
He spoke in almost a whisper, "It�s okay. They won�t mind."
I said, "You don�t understand, man. It�s their house, and I�m not going to start a war with them. Besides, I can�t play guitar at this hour!"
He simply repeated, "It�s okay. They won�t mind."
I must have argued my point one hundred different ways, and with each thing I said, he repeated that same phrase. I was even at the point of shouting.
I do not know how this happened. Against my better judgment, I put my car in drive, and drove to my house.
Another car followed us out of the parking lot. It was Larry. When I rounded the corner to my house, I looked in the rear view mirror, and asked, "Is your friend still behind us?"
Christopher said, "He�s not my friend. He�s my bodyguard."
I�m sure my reaction was one of disbelief. I believe I said, "Yeah, right!"
As soon as I pulled up on the curb in front of my house, my driver�s side door was opened, and Larry assisted me to the sidewalk. He then opened the car door for Christopher. No question that this was a little more than what you can expect from typical rock musicians in a nightclub! However, I was still a little too sarcastic to think much of them.
I was very unhappy to see that lights were on in my apartment. This meant that my roommates were still up, and would know I was bringing strangers in. We went to the back door. I opened it and stepped in.
Don was standing at the refrigerator, where he always stood, with the door wide open. He didn�t even glance up, but said, "Oh, hi. Michelle called for you."
I motioned for Christopher to step in, and I attempted to introduce them. Don looked up from pouring his glass of tea, saw Christopher, and dropped his glass on the floor. It shattered everywhere.
Don is a very neat and orderly type. I found it highly unlike him to leave a mess, but he panicked. He backed away from Christopher like he was a ghost or a leper. He moved the kitchen rug over the spilled tea, backing up the entire time, then bolted out of the room. I heard him run upstairs and slam his bedroom door.
We walked into the living room. Diane was reading a book on the couch. She looked up and smiled at me. Then Christopher rounded the corner, and I tried to make introductions again. She had no expression. She simply stood up, slammed her book, and went upstairs without a single word!
I thought they were mad at me for having guests. This was the first time I�d had a visitor of any kind since I had moved in with them. Originally I had lived next door with Jon, and when we broke up I had no place else to go. I rented a small room upstairs, and had a small shelf in the kitchen... but I never really felt like it was my house, or that I had the right to invite anyone home.
I turned to Christopher and said, "See? I told you this was a bad idea!"
And again, he said, "It�s okay. They won�t mind" This time I was prepared to argue with that. I already knew that it wasn�t okay, and that they minded very much. I said, "I�m doomed now to a house meeting tomorrow, where I�ll have to pray they don�t kick me out!"
I was very frustrated. I hadn�t felt this silly since I was in high-school! I mean, it was like getting in trouble with my parents for having a boyfriend over. I have to admit it did make me feel a little immature. It wasn�t that I let my roommates control my life... I was just trying to be very careful not to upset them, because I was an expendable roommate, and they had let me move in, without even knowing me. I was also painfully aware that I had nowhere else to go, unless I wanted to move back to my parents house where jobs were impossible to come by. It was important to keep the peace as long as I lived there. The subject of having guests had never been discussed.
Having the downstairs floor to ourselves, we sat down. Christopher chose to sit on an antique sofa in the corner, that no one ever sat on. It was more for decoration, and was very uncomfortable. I sat next to him, and Larry sat in an opposing chair.
The conversation turned back to music. I was told that there was a bass player named Dee that I would be introduced to, and that we would see how well we would work together.
During this little chat, Christopher reached over and took my hand. His hand was ice cold. He continued to hold my hand and talk about the band.
Larry cleared his throat, and for the first time spoke: "You guys can go upstairs if you want."
I ignored this comment and so, it appears, did Christopher. We talked for a few more minutes and were again interrupted by Larry, clearing his throat and saying, "You guys can go upstairs if you want."
After several more interruptions, I tried to stand up. I was about to say they would have to leave now, and again, Larry said "You guys can go upstairs if you want." I began to argue, when Christopher stood and said, "She doesn�t trust me yet."
I guess something in me finally gave way. I realized it was a direct dare. They were daring me to take Christopher upstairs. This wasn�t spoken, but I "knew" it.
I said, "Oh yeah!?" and very forcefully took Christopher by the hand and led him upstairs to my room. The point I was trying to make, I guess, was that I could trust him to come to my room. I was not afraid, really. I wasn�t alone in the house. I was basically sure that I could handle the situation. He wasn�t going to hurt me.
I turned on my bedroom light, showing him my Yamaha guitar in its stand. He took off his black leather trench coat and hung it on the back of my desk chair.
I�m not sure about the passage of time. I�m writing about an event that took place six years ago. It wasn�t long, anyway, before Christopher turned around and flipped my light switch off. He came over to me, and kissed me. He knelt down and removed my shoes. Oddly, as he did this, he said, "You hate high heels, why do you wear them?"
He was pretty much a complete gentleman in the bedroom. I don�t remember anything physically uncomfortable happening that night. He was unusually cold to the touch. He did not take "full pleasure" in our sexual activity, but seems more intent on pleasing me. Other than that, I can�t think of anything out of place.
During our time upstairs, Larry came up on two different occasions. He rattled the door knob to give warning, then opened the door and asked Christopher if he was all right. I thought it was very strange for a man to barge in like this... and even stranger yet to ask if Christopher was all right. Would I be hurting him?
I must say that the idea of Larry roaming about the house did bother me. I didn�t know this man. He could have been loading the television set into his car or something!
Probably several hours later (it is very hard for me to judge the time frames) we got up and came downstairs to find Larry sleeping in the chair. Christopher woke him up and said, "We�ve got to go. It�s almost dawn."
I asked if he worked in the morning. He said "No."
I then guessed that he was probably married, and he also said, "No."
He wrote down his phone number on a pink card that Diane kept by the phone for jotting down numbers, then repeated to Larry, "The sun�s almost up. We�ve got to go."
Larry laughed and said, "Maybe that�s why your initials are C.D."
Christopher said, "What? Count Dracula?" and laughed very loudly as they left.
I thought nothing of this comment. It was just an inside joke that they shared. I watched them walk across the snow covered yard, and get into the car.
I returned to my bed. The whole room smelled of his cologne. It was a smell that was completely foreign to me. I laid there, hugging my pillow, as I had always done, and could not fall asleep. I laid there until long past sun-rise.
Around noon, I got up to use the bathroom. I walked across the cold tiles and sat on the toilet. I started to pee, and felt an incredible pain. I raised my nightgown off my legs and inspected the area. My entire right inner thigh was black and blue. Further examination revealed a few flesh wounds. (As I always say, "in places I don�t even want to talk about.") I felt like I was about to have a heart attack. I panicked. I didn�t have any idea what had caused this. I had felt no pain the night before, no pain whatsoever; but now, I had these bruised areas and stinging open wounds!
I must�ve stayed in the bathroom for hours. Looking at this area with a hand mirror, thinking I must be dreaming; looking again and again as if I half expected it to go away.
I went back in my bedroom and sat at my desk. I looked at the little pink card with his phone number on it. Was it really his phone number? What would happen if I called the number? I wondered where he came from, and what he had done to me. I literally stared at the handwriting on the card, probably for hours, as I rehearsed what I would ask him.
I finally dialed the number. A woman answered. I asked if Christopher was there. She said, "Sure. He�s been expecting your call!"
There was a fumbling sound on the phone, and then he picked up and chimed in with a very melodic, "Halloo!"
I said, "Hi."
His voice changed rather seriously. He said, "I was wondering how long you were going to stare at my handwriting before you would call."
I didn�t have time to respond to that, but I felt that he was only making a joke. Perhaps he was implying that this sort of thing happened with women all the time, and his ego was such that he knew he usually left women in awe.
I bumbled through the conversation; stuttering. I asked, "Who was the woman that answered the phone?"
He paused for a minute, and said, "Oh, that�s Lisa. This is her place. I don�t live here, I�m just staying here for now." There was an awkwardness in this conversation, and he asked, "Is there anything else I can do for you? Anything else you want to know?"
I finally blurted out, "Um... Did you bite me?"
There was a long pause. I could hear my own pulse in my ears. My heart pounded out of control. The pause was incredibly long... I was about to say something to make sure he was still on the line.
Softly, he answered, "Several times." Then, apparently, he hung up the phone. I was left with a dial tone.
I was shocked. I sat there, at the desk, knowing only that he had just admitted to biting me. I didn�t know how he had done it without causing pain during the act. I didn�t know why he had done it. I didn�t know if or when I would see him again. I didn�t know if I wanted to see him again! I was just confused.
It wasn�t like me to take home strange men and get into "one night stands." I had always kept monogamous long term relationships in my life (as long as I could make these relationships last). I guess I had already made up my mind to get to know him better. After all, he was very intelligent, graceful, and intriguing! I wasn�t about to give up without some answers!
TO BE CONTINUED