Horror QQ #8 - Beautiful this little place

Music: TV noise in the background

I used to like vampires. I find the idea of their existence in literature and films intriguing, mysterious. When I was younger I'd imagine what it was like to be a vampire--of living forever, of never being able to be go out in the sun, of sucking the blood of unsuspecting victims, of transforming into a pack of bats that would put Batman's little pets to shame.

Then Twilight happened.

Now all I can think about when I hear the word "vampire" is half-naked men sparkling under the sun. Damn you Meyer, for forever destroying one of my childhood fantasies.

In an attempt to salvage what is left of my childhood delusions, I'm quoting lines from Anne Rice's The Vampire Lestat. Sure, Rice's vampires cannot compare to the classics, but I'll choose Lestat or Armand over Edward Cullen any day. Heck, I'll even go as far as pick Louis over him, no matter how annoyingly boring the protagonist of Interview With the Vampire is.

It seemed Nicki stirred. But maybe it was only the growing illumination on his profile, the soft light that emanated out from the stage into the darkened hall. The deep folds of the velvet came alive everywhere; the ornate little mirrors affixed to the front of the gallery and the loges became lights themselves.

Beautiful this little place, our place. The portal to the world for us as mortal beings. And the portal finally to hell.

When I was finished, I stood on the boards looking at the gilded railings, the new chandelier that hung from the ceiling, and up at the arch overhead with its masks of comedy and tragedy like two faces stemming from the same neck.

It seemed so much smaller when it was empty, this house. No theater in Paris seemed larger when it was full.

[...]

I went past Nicki, who had never once looked up at me, and down the little stairs behind him, and came towards him with the violin.

[...]

I lowered the violin over Nicki's shoulder and held it in his lap. I felt him move, as if he had taken a great breath. The back of his head pressed against me. And slowly he lifted his left hand to take the neck of the violin and he took the bow with his right.

I knelt and put my hands on his shoulders. I kissed his cheek. No human scent. No human warmth. Sculpture of my Nicolas.

"Play it," I whispered. "Play it here just for us."

Slowly he turned to face me, and for the first time since the moment of the Dark Trick, he looked into my eyes. He made some tiny sound. It was so strained it was as if he couldn't speak anymore. The organs of speech had closed up. But then he ran his tongue along his lip, and so low I scarcely heard him said:

"The devil's instrument."

"Yes," I said. If you must believe that, then believe it. But play.

- The Vampire Lestat, Anne Rice (pp. 258-259)

*****

Horror QQ #9 - Chitchat about dismemberment techniques

Horror QQ #7 - The ruins of a man