August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: Old Souls (Part Seven)

They walked in syncopated elegance; as they walked the streets, the crowds fled from them like they were parading a head upon a spike before them. Expediently, they made their way to the hospital. Sebottendorff, proud in his uniform and accompanied by his six dark servants, approached the receptionist with a haughty air. His boots shined brilliantly as they clattered against the polished tile floor. The receptionist sat, barricaded behind her desk, which was thick, wide, and curving. She glanced up at Sebottendorff and peered at him through her thick cat’s eyes framed glasses. She looked at the vampire with a look of disbelief.

“What’s this? Some kinda joke?” she asked, looking for the hidden cameras that she knew must have been concealed somewhere. The pale man, in his dark uniform, grinned predatorily, exposing his mouth filled with pointed, shark-like teeth. He pointed at the girl and one of the men that flanked him leaped across the expanse of the desk. She clawed helplessly at his thick, dead skin as his hands wrapped around her neck. A security guard, who had been watching passively, rushed to her aid, but was intercepted by another of Sebottendorff’s victims.

“This is no joke. I need to find a man called Zelinski. He has information that I need, and if you wish to survive, you will assist me. Otherwise, I will be forced to let my associates eat you. Do you understand?” Sebottendorff’s eyes were fixed on hers; he could see her desperation and savored it. “Put her down, Fowler.” he commanded, and the creature obeyed. The receptionist coughed, trying to catch her breath. Once she gained her breath, she let out a scream; the security guard’s head rolled back as his bloody body collapsed.

“I believe that the authorities will be here soon enough,” started Sebottendorff, “We will need to secure a perimeter. We’ll need more if we are to hold the lobby. You three go and bite some folks; let them rise. We need numbers more than food right now. Focus on women and children; the authorities are less likely to fire on someone with the visage of innocence.”

Sebottendorff looked at the receptionist’s shining gold name tag. “Rebekah. You will find Zelinski for me, yes?” Rebekah shuddered, fighting her urge to flee. Sebottendorff saw her face sink in obedience and felt his heart lighten. It would be only a matter of time before he would know where his book was.

***

 

A scroll hung on the wall of August’s tiny apartment. An intricate labyrinth had been painted on it centuries ago by a monk from some cloister or other. It was made to contain evil spirits; when an incantation was recited, the spirit would be drawn into the scroll. The spirit would then wander the labyrinth until its release; their wanderings were noted by tiny specks that moved about the labyrinth’s rings. In some way, he found watching the movements soothing.

He was vexed by the mysteries before him. He wondered why the folio seemed to mean so much to Sebottendorff. While it seemed to profile him, there was nothing truly incriminating. A knocking sounded on his apartment door; August grabbed hold of a small, silver dagger that he kept in his apartment in case anything ever came for him at home. Peeping through the hole in the door, he saw that it was the vampire Claude. Bald headed, wearing a woven poncho, and bespectacled with tinted granny glasses, Claude waved casually.

“What do you want?” asked August as he opened the door.

“I think I might have an answer for you.” said Claude. August looked the vampire up and down, and was repelled by his dirty, bare feet and overgrown toe nails. “But I’d ask for you to let me in before I share.” August knew that there was no use in arguing with the vampire, so he invited him in, but didn’t sheathe his dagger.

Claude marveled at the confusion that August called home. A black and white television sat defiantly in the midst of the apartment, tuned to the ten o’clock news. Unwashed dishes and dusty tomes filled the kitchen counter, while an unappetizing stew simmered in a black pot. “Going for the single male modern witch thing, huh?” asked Claude. “Kind of a Season of the Witch meets Martin thing, you know? Very Romero-esque. You know? Like the fiction, but in a real, deconstructed way.”

“I don’t have time to talk about old movies, Claude. I have something to figure out. You said something about knowing an answer, so here we are.” said August, more angrily than he intended. Claude appeared crestfallen.

“It’s something he owns.” said Claude plaintively. “We all go through these fits where we need something we’re connected with. It’s hard when you’re old, you know? You forget things easily, and sometimes they get muddy. Then, you remember something clear as day and you need it. Like earlier, I was talking with Minerva about Roger Corman, then I remembered that he worked on that movie, The Trip. I remembered the whole flick, vivid as this very moment. Then, I really wanted to actually see it. I sent the girls out to find me a copy; Shelia insists I should just put it on my Netflix, but I just can’t wait.”

“But to kill over it?” August asked. “That’s kind of extreme.”

“Nah. Claus is a nasty guy.” said Claude, realizing that he let something slip.

“Claus. So, you know a bit more about him, huh?” asked August.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“So why didn’t you tell Minerva what you know? Just plain and simple?”

“Because I thought she wouldn’t come back if I told her everything.” admitted Claude, feeling ashamed of his selfishness. “Truth is, most of what I know is just legend. He’s sort of a bogey man amongst my kind. They say he can turn anyone into his slave with his bite, even if it is another vampire. He’s a nightmare.”

“And you decided to wait this long to tell us? I’ve spent half the night trying to figure out what was in this folio. I translated the damn thing, then ran a ton of tests just to make sure that there was nothing hidden.”

“And did any of your tests reveal anything?” asked Claude, expectantly.

“Nothing.”

“Well, then how about the fact that it was written by Rudolph von Sebottendorff, Claus’ brother and the principle founder of the Thule Occult Society. I’d have figured you would have recognized the name, given your profession and all.” said Claude, feeling vindictive. “Also, if you hold the pages up to the light, you’ll find even more information.”

Then, in a moment of silence, August noticed the voice on the television. It is a scene of utter destruction. Police have yet to reveal what has happened at Pioneer Medical Center; currently, the SWAT team has entered an intense shoot out with unknown terrorists on the third floor Intensive Care Unit…“Mr. Zelinski.” muttered August as he rushed towards the door.

 

 

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: Old Souls (Part 6)

August studied the folio’s miniscule cursive writing. The pages were yellowed and let off a dusty, musty smell as he rifled through them. The folio contained the reports of an anonymous writer that was trailing a series of bizarre murders across Germany prior to and during the first World War. August had difficulty with the archaic prose that the folio was written in. He quietly typed his translation on his laptop, doing his best to reflect the original author’s intentions.

The bites are abnormal and inconsistent with a typical vampire‘s bite. Rather than leaving fang marks, the vampire’s teeth seem to shear and tear flesh. I would guess that the creature is likely to eat flesh as well as blood. Bodies that did not reanimate were found dried and withered, as though they had decomposed for about five years or so.

Fresh bites have shown signs of swift degeneration of tissue; the infection spreads visibly through the veins. When the body is consumed with the infection, it dies and then reanimates as a cannibalistic ghoul.

August was happy that he had managed to get Mr. Zelinski to the hospital and defeat the infection. He would have hated to see such a kindly man become a monster. August felt that the folio was proof that Sebottendorff was active prior to World War II. The attacks showed similar patterns; the bite and the infection cinched it for him. However, the skeptic the hid inside of him still had questions. How had Sebottendorff find Mr. Zelinski? Where was he hiding now? How old was the vampire? Was this an account of Sebottendorff, or just a coincidence? August kept asking himself these questions as he continued his translation.

***

“I think we’re going to need your help.” announced Minerva suddenly. Her grandfather, Adrian, was a powerful wizard. He used the power of captured souls to fuel magic that would be impossible otherwise. His technique had extended his life far beyond normal human expectancy. Without an illusion, he appeared as a youthful man that was no older than twenty, despite his actual age of nearly two-hundred years. He had been in his laboratory organizing vials of shining vapor when his granddaughter had paid him a visit.

“Yet, I doubt that August wants my help. That is why you are here alone.” observed Adrian, indicating a chair that Minerva could sit in. Like many things that Adrian owned, the chair was strictly utilitarian. It was comfortable enough, unassuming, and practical. None of his possessions indicated the vast wealth he had accumulated. Minerva sat in the chair, crossing her legs and pushing her long, blonde hair from her face.

“Young men in this country seldom like to ask for help from their elders. They want to carve their own way through the wilderness of the world. I guess its like that in most places. Yet, there is much to be said of a man that is willing to become a student.” lectured Adrian. Minerva knew that Adrian was trying to steer the conversation; he wanted to question her decision to abstain from using magic, but he wanted to be polite about it. She found that most conversations with her grandfather were like this one.

“I don’t want you to teach him anything.” said Minerva, trying to deliver the message as politely and firmly as possible. “I was just saying that I think that we may need your help.”

“If you want someone to help you, you should go find Gandalf.” retorted Adrian brusquely. “From what I’ve read, he loves to save weak people from peril.” Adrian ended his statement with an emotionless chuckle.

“Alas, Gandalf is but an idealized fiction. We all need to do with what we have on hand.” said Minerva, unwilling to be cowed by her grandfather. Adrian looked like he was stabbed in the heart, but was trying to shrug off the pain. “I could have gone to grandmother, or even my mother. Instead, I came to you, grandfather.”

“Why me?” asked Adrian, who was all ready conceiving ideas of why.

“To give you one more chance. I know what you’ve done, and I think you need to be given a chance to redeem yourself, even if it is just a little deed.” answered Minerva resolutely. Adrian studied her, and for a brief moment, thought that she must have become the goddess she was named after. She seemed strong and determined; confident, but not to a fault. She was an intelligent warrior, making sure that she had the correct spear in hand before charging into battle.

Adrian indicated a wall of the laboratory that was obscured by shelves lined with thousands of tiny vials. “Each one of these is a life. Each is a life I took. There is not one that I took unfairly, no matter what anyone says. I haven’t done anything wrong, but I will admit that they should be put to use. If I am the last of my line, then I might as well use them all, right?” There was pride and sarcasm in his voice, but he was agreeing to help despite his tone. Minerva felt that she had won a small war, but was still concerned with how August would feel if Adrian’s help was truly needed.

She reassured herself by thinking, If we need Adrian, August will be in a position where he won’t have much choice but to be glad of the help. She had a feeling that powerful magic would be needed; if the moment arose, she knew she would break her vow if she had no other recourse. She continued to convince herself that she did the right thing as she left the laboratory.

***

“Tonight is the night we march.” announced Sebottendorff proudly.

His uniform was ragged, but it still exuded an air of power. The fit was as precise as the day it was given to him. The bright, silver Death’s Head shone brightly from his breast. Around him, six black, shambling, humanoid shapes gathered. They had come so that they could learn about the Nazi party from a vampire that had been a soldier in the Third Reich. They never thought that the meeting could be a trap.

They were all healthy men, in the prime of their lives, yet they couldn’t withstand the vampire’s assault. In less than a minute, they were dying and changing. As their eyes dimmed and their flesh blackened, they felt the hunger for the first time. It consumed their thoughts, surpassing any other thought. Their master would speak, and they would listen. He would tell them where the food was, and they would eat their fill.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: Old Souls (Part Five)

“Himmler told me that I should keep myself secret. He said that if Hitler found out that I was still pushing the research of the Thule Society forward while using the Reich’s funds, I wouldn’t live much longer.” Sebottendorff spoke briskly, each word annunciated clearly and sharply, with little trace of his native accent. “Hitler detested the Society; he had little interest in the great deeds we were undertaking. He only cared for the power we wielded, and once he could use that power himself, he forced us to disband.”

A dozen eager eyes watched him, their attention impaled upon the hook of his story. The men, all young and eager; they were dreamers of violent dreams. However, Sebottendorff was surprised how peaceful they were. Most of them relegated their aspirations to passing fancies, seldom even holding demonstrations. Yet, they were eager to hear about the glory of the Third Reich, and Sebottendorff was willing to tell his mesmerizing tales. They didn’t care that he no longer believed in the Nazi ideals.

“Did you actually think that the Reich could have succeeded?” asked an intelligent looking man with inquisitive brown eyes. Sebottendorff stared coldly at the youth, who began to feel like he was going to die.

“I didn’t care if it succeeded or not. I cared that it filled my belly and my coffers.” snapped Sebottendorff. His joints cracked and popped as he strode swiftly towards the room’s exit, pulling the door closed.

“If you didn’t care about the Reich, why are you speaking with us?” asked the young man, almost consumed by fright.

“Because; when I talk about the past, it gives me perspective on the present. Sometimes, it gives me inspiration for the future. Other times, nostalgia is its own reward. As I talk about the war, the faces of men that served with me come back, even if they had long dissolved into the soil.

“Vampires are immortal, and to know a vampire is to become immortal. Few of us are forgetful, particularly when we’re feeling nostalgic. Even now, I can feel the weight of my MG42 and see the little scrapes along its barrel. I remember a soldier that I shared a machine gun nest with. His name was Herman Klempt, and he was fairly bright. However, he wasn’t bright enough to keep his helmet on at all times.” a sadistic grin was slashed across Sebottendorff’s face as he remembered what happened when some English men finally arrived at the nest to see him feasting on Herman’s remains.

“When did you become a vampire?” asked a frail youngster, likely only sixteen.

“Long ago, before there were calendars.” responded Sebottendorff proudly.

“Is what they say true? Are you actually from Atlantis?” asked the frail youngster. He had a pointed face and teeth that appeared to be too large for his mouth. Nervously, he smiled, seeming proud of his esoteric knowledge. Sebottendorff answered the question with silence, turning his back on the gathering.

“You are actually a real Aryan, aren’t you?” asked the man with brown eyes, whose thin, brown hair would eventually leave his scalp bare. Sebottendorff clasped his hands together, intertwining his fingers. He turned to face the group; his skin was white, his hair blonde, and his eyes icy blue. If there really was a race of Nordic super-men, he would have been among their number.

“Ask me a question that matters.” said Sebottendorff, tiring of the game he was playing.

“What do you mean?” asked the youngster with big teeth. “We asked you to come here and share your experiences with us.”

“What would you rather us ask?” inquired the brown eyed youth.

“Ask about the future.” Sebottendorff replied, his voice sending an arctic chill through the gathering.

***

 

“I disdain those things.” said Claude, pointing accusingly at Minerva’s cell phone. The vampire’s aura was a mix of violent, red wisps and soothing blue whorls. The auras of his lovers were a light, lustful pink, which didn’t worry Minerva as much as the volatile vampire. She knew she wouldn’t stand a chance if the vampire attacked her, yet she didn’t think he would actually do it. At his core, he was still mostly human.

“Then again, I don’t dig a lot of the new scene, you know? A lot of it seems like a way to avoid actually seeing real faces. Shelia had set up the Myspace for me, but it just doesn’t work for me. I don’t like the feeling of separation; somehow, it underscores how alone I am.” Claude’s voice had a tinge of sadness in it.

“I generally don‘t do social networking sites,” said Minerva, wishing she could find an easy way out of the conversation. She continued talking with the vampire, slowly making her way to the door. She found herself wondering if it was still sunny outside.

“Well, I need to get going.” she announced. “My husband will be here to pick me up soon. He, my partner, and I have a lot of ground to cover.”

“Be careful.” warned Claude wanly, “I’d like to see you again.”

“I’ll drop by.” she said as she left Claude alone in his dark home. Once she stepped on the sidewalk, she saw August approaching, followed closely by Tobias. They had all ready parked the car and looked very serious.

“Are you okay?” asked Tobias, rushing in front of August.

“I’m fine.” replied Minerva as she was nearly crushed by Tobias’ embrace.

“I was so worried about you.” said Tobias.

“I’m all right. What’s the matter? Your call was disconcerting; Claude was acting strange, and his aura was agitated. Did you find out something?”

“We’re worried that he’s working with Sebottendorff.” said August, standing with his hands in his pockets. “We’re not sure how it all fits together yet, but I can’t help but wonder if Claude knows more than what he’s letting on. I’m going to go to the office and read through the books and the folio I got from Mr. Zelinski; it might offer something of interest. If that’s what Sebottendorff is after, we might have a visitor sooner than later.”

 

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: Old Souls (Part Three)

I can’t believe I’ve been mispelling Claus von Sebottendorff’s name with only one “F”. I hadn’t noticed in the last installment, and just spotted the mistake in this installment after I pasted it into the text box. Hopefully, I caught all the missing F’s here. Now, I need to fix it in my laptop’s spell checker…

~H

————————————————————————————-

Sebottendorff was wearing a threadbare woolen vest over a shirt that has once been white and crisp, but now appeared like wrinkled parchment. He propped his feet on the counter, shoving a tower of books to the floor with a thud. Mr. Zelinski cowered in a corner, clenching his wounded neck, trying to stymie the blood flow. A blush of life lent Sebottendorff a rosy complexion that would fade in about twenty minutes. His eyes, cold and glassy, scanned the old man.

“I’m glad I never had to be broken like you, Antoni.” Sebottendorff smiled sinisterly, clenching his gloved hands. “I always believed that the body was a temple. Yet, it seems that old age weakens its walls. Even now, I can see your foundation crumbling. Your poor heart cannot take much more, can it?”

“Get out, you monster!” commanded Antoni, soliciting a laugh from the German.

“A monster is an old man. He wears his sagging skin like a poorly fitted suit, while his ears and nose out grow his face. The false, pearly teeth are a vain pretense. His thin hair was a reminder that all glories can fade.” Sebottendorff stood up, his once well shined boots clattering against the dusty wooden floor. Drawing closer to Antoni, he pulled off his gloves. “The old man is an eternal reminder of mortality. The old man is an ever present vision of what is yet to come.”

“You feed off of people! Your own kind.” responded Antoni, knocking over a pillar of books as he struggled to his feet.

“My own kind? Old age hasn’t given you any more wisdom Antoni. You pathetic Slavs are more beast than man; unable to understand the complexities of the modern world, you lock yourself away in this repository of dusty knowledge.”

“I haven’t got the book! I all ready told you. Please, leave.” Antoni’s voice quivered as he begged. He began to formulate a plan; he wondered if he could manage to tip a book case on top of the German. Then, he wondered if Sebottendorff would brush it aside like a curtain.

“You are still afraid of me, aren’t you Antoni? You remember when I came, and it is one of the clearest memories in that feeble mind of yours.” Sebottendorff’s sensitive hearing warned him that someone was approaching. Swiftly, he warned Antoni, saying “I will be back, and we’ll talk more.” Sebottendorff slowly faded from sight as August and Tobias stormed into the book store. Tobias lunged over a bookcase, grasping for the ephemeral, smiling image of the vampire. Landing on the ground, Tobias sneered. The vampire eluded him and he felt waves of anger crashing over him.

August hurled a power that smelled like a musty basement into the air as he unfurled a long piece of parchment. He began to recite the spell, his chant breaking off when Tobias snarled, saying that the vampire was gone. August produced a crystal from his pocket and glanced through one of its facets, then another.

“He’s gone, but his presence still lurks here. I can see traces of it.” August’s glace passed of Antoni. “Mr. Zelinski! Are you okay?” asked August, happy to see his friend alive. He hadn’t noticed the neck wound at first, but once he saw the severity of it, he knew that they were too late.

“I’m fine, just fine.” assured Antoni, waving away August’s concerns. “It is just a bite. I’ve been saying my prayers. God will protect me.”

Tobias was pacing, smelling the air, and complaining about the stench. “Why did you have to use the dust? It smells so pungent, I can’t get a trail.”

“Don’t worry. I have a few more tricks in my pockets, but first, we need to get Mr. Zelinski to the hospital. If that bite gets infected, there will be trouble.” said August. Tobias acquiesced, taking Antoni in his arms. He carried the old man to the station wagon, and then spotted a rat scampering across the small parking lot. He considered giving chase, but instead took a deep whiff of the air, catching its scent. August arrived soon after, mashing parchment into the pocket of his duster.

“I think I can get a trail; the stink of the powder is still in my nose, but I’m pretty sure I have something I can follow.” said Tobias, helping Mr. Zelinski into the car. He glimpsed the bite, his face twisting in repulsion in response to its appearance. It looked as though necrosis had set in, as it had all ready turned stiff and black. The wound seemed to be spreading slowly through a spider web of blackening veins.

“What’s wrong?” asked August, catching the expression on Tobias’ face. Closing the car door in an attempt to isolate Mr. Zelinski from the conversation, Tobias quietly explained what he had seen. “I caught a glimpse of the wound earlier,” responded August, “It didn’t seem that bad. Looks like its going to progress quickly.”

“You take him to the hospital, I’ll track the rat.” announced Tobias.

“I think we’re getting out of our depth here,” confided August drearily, thinking about the conversation he had with Minerva earlier. “We’re looking at a vampire that appears at least a century old. Minnie told me on the phone that Sebottendorf isn’t only a vampire, but also a magician. Further, I’m really worried because I’ve seen him out in daylight. Granted, he had…”

“Let’s get to the hospital!” interrupted Tobias, “You can pontificate on the drive.” He pulled open the rear passenger side door and gingerly slid into the backseat. “You’ll be okay, Mr. Z. Don’t worry, we’ll get you help.” He tried to comfort the old man, but had a hard time saying the words. Tobias could see the black rot creeping along Antoni Zelinski’s wrinkled neck, striving upwards, likely in hope of reaching his brain. Neither he nor August had seen a vampire’s bite yield such gruesome results.

The car rode along a winding back road, bouncing merrily when it struck a pothole and jarring the passengers inside. August focused on the road, trying to keep his mind from wandering. He needed to know if the physicians would be able to do something for his new friend. August had been confident that he would have plenty of chances to learn from Mr. Zelinski, but with each passing second, the old man hovered closer to death, drawn inexorably towards the eternal slumber, like an obedient dog called to heel.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: Old Souls (Part One)

I was really tempted to name this story arc “Thule Breaker”, but I fought off the urge. It was a valiant battle, and reason won over puns.

~Harry

————————————————————————————-

Nestled among old brick mills, a used book store stood hidden away like a lazy cat. If you didn’t all ready know it was there, you’d never notice it. I had wondered if there was some kind of magic that kept the place hidden, and then I wondered if it was some kind of magic that kept it running. Stacks of books loomed above my head, waiting to tumble at the slightest touch. Feeling like a kid in a china shop, I slid my hands into my coat pockets, just in case.

“August my boy! How have you been?” the elderly shop keeper called out from behind the book his face was buried it. Mr. Zelinski had grown accustomed to my visits ever since I bought a mangled copy of the Necronomicon from him. He had no understanding of what the book was; he had thought it was a misprinted early edition of Lord of the Rings. I don’t know what brought me back again, but I had returned weekly to talk with him. He would tell me about his youth in Poland, painting a sharp contrast between the fear he felt of Baba Yaga and the trepidations he held about the Third Reich.

“I’ve been okay. Business has been good; we’re keeping the office open regularly now, and the police have started bringing Minnie and me in as special advisors on occasion.” I said cheerfully. “Since Minerva’s grandfather bought a bunch of our old equipment, our investigation agency has been thriving.”

“That’s all well and good, but how can you manage to see all those grisly things all the time? I would have nightmares. Dead bodies frighten me. That’s why I never want to be one!” He laughed heartily, his boney frame convulsed while the long bristles of his moustache flared on the breeze of his mirth. He placed a ribbon into the ragged copy of The Decameron he had been perusing and then buttoned the old cable knit cardigan he must have been wearing since he was seventeen. “Winter’s coming.” he observed ominously.

“You can’t stop the seasons.” I responded, feeling that my observation was insipid. Mr. Zelinski still smiled, nodding cheerfully, as though my statement was deeply profound. I sat on a dusty club chair that rested by a window that was in need of washing. I looked at the small pile of books that were stacked on the mahogany table in front of the chair. A dozen volumes of the Polish translation of Tobin’s Spirit Guide, including one from 1890, teetered on top of several almanacs from the last century. Below it all was a yellowed folio which detailed a string of vampire attacks throughout Germany during the first World War.

“My father had kept these hidden back in Poland. I remember the night he brought them home. We were staying in the country with my mother’s parents, and he buried them in the barn.” Mr. Zelinski’s memories transported him back all those years; I could see the nostalgic look on his face. The nostagia soon changed to a lingering terror, one that was still fresh despite the passage of more than seven decades. “I remember the man that came in the night, nearly a week later. He called himself Claus von Sebottendorff. He wore the fine grey uniform that all the Gestapo had to wear when in an occupied country. I was only a boy, but I was still interrogated. ’Does your father have books about vampires? Does he have books about demons? Does he hide them?’

“I remember trying not to cry, even when he pulled at my cheek. ’I will pull your face off if you are lying.’ he threatened. I still lied to him because my mother said it would be okay.” Mr. Zelinski sighed. He was floating back to the present, leaving behind the memories. “Later, my father told me that Claus von Sebottendorff was a member of the Thule Society. He was the translator behind some of the editions of Tobin’s Spirit Guide. Later in life, I wondered if he was just trying to preserve his work.”

“That’s a possibility. But didn’t the Thule Society disband in the twenties? And as a member of the Gestapo, why would he want to get his hands on occult books? Wasn’t the party line against mysticism?” I found myself considering the ridiculous plots of movies that feature Nazis and the Thule Society. I dismissed the ideas about the Lance of Longinus and dedicated my attention to Mr. Zelinski’s answers.

“Well, the other kids said that von Sebottendorf was a vampire. That was why he would only come out at night. It was also a convenient way to explain his blood thirsty nature. When I think about it now, I could see how kids could think that he really was a vampire. He was sickly and pale, with nearly white blonde hair. I couldn’t imagine how the war would have turned out if the Nazis actually had vampires on their side.”

I smirked, pretending to dismiss the idea. The Nazis actually did have a number of vampires in their employ, but they were not field agents. I recalled many of the disturbing stories I heard about what happened in some of the concentration camps, and I never wanted to imagine what the vampires did.

We talked about more pleasant things for a while, then I settled my bill, taking all the books and the folio for eighty dollars. Mr. Zelinski tucked the books into a brown bag, folding it closed and binding the package with cord. “It’s just like the way my father did it.” he said proudly. “I hope you enjoy them. If you need any help with the translations, just come back. I’d be happy to help.”

“I’ll be sure to come by if I have any questions.” I replied. I left, passing an incoming patron dressed in a grey woolen coat that was buttoned up to his chin. A fedora topped his ensemble; the brim was drawn very low. I might have given him a second glace if it wasn’t starting to downpour.