I can’t repeat it enough. North Carolina is the strangest and most remarkable state I’ve ever lived in. Those western mountains, the eastern flat coast, and every crevice in between, is charged with fascinating and unusual things that confirm this. These things aren’t the lions, tigers, and bears from the Wizard of Oz. Oh my! The black bears I saw on the Blue Ridge Parkway in the High Country definitely aren’t.
The things I’m alluding to, are things that cannot be explained by science. Those lucky enough to have encountered any among their ranks might describe them as not natural, paranormal, mystic, or inhuman. Their levels can be frightening the first few times. Especially when they have fangs. I’ve had several extraordinary meetings with them, either by chance or planned. I had my first one soon after I moved to North Carolina for a newspaper job a few months out of college, which did not prepare me for a future with the supernaturals.
Before this, I thought they only existed in occult comics and midnight horror movies like Dracula, the Wolfman, and The Black Lagoon Gill Man. But I was wrong. They are, in fact, authentic. I’ve saved lives with them, punched a work clock with them, was almost murdered by some of them, and even dated them.
All these beautiful and intimidating beasts and creatures. All these memories in my head, contacts, and adventures need to be told. They need to come out.. That’s why I’ve decided to write this memoir, but under the name Larry Byrd, for my safety and security and for the ones I love. I read that name on a granite headstone a while back and always liked it.
I will also change the names of the phenomena and entities I plan to write about to conceal their identities. Putting these accounts in writing could be dangerous if I used our real names. Going back to when I said I was almost murdered by some of them.
My second supernatural encounter happened around my first holiday season in North Carolina. That Christmas and New Years were dreadful. I was alone. I didn’t know the lay of the land and hadn’t made any friends yet. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have relocated to Charlotte without knowing a soul or having family nearby. I wasn’t that forethinking back then.
That year’s Christmas meal was a fast-food burger with uncooked fries. I can still taste the disgusting mustard someone messed up that burger with. I really missed what the family was eating back home. My Mom’s cooking. She always fixed a turkey, green beans, mashed potatoes, yellow corn, sweet potato casserole, and German chocolate cake for dessert. I tragically missed out. I didn’t have the money or days off to fly home.
I promised myself that Christmas alone would never keep me from doing the things I wanted to do. If I hadn’t made that promise, I would have had many more horrible holidays. For New Year’s Eve, I decided to walk down to the neighborhood tavern a few blocks from my studio apartment to be around people. Going forward, I will refer to this place as the Immortal Elf or to I Elf for short. For reasons I’ll reveal later.
This was my first time inside the Elf. We had many adventures inside that medium, L-shaped building. There were a few pool tables immediately to the left of the front entrance door. The brick walls were decorated with bar mirrors and classic rock band posters. The rest of the tavern consisted of restaurant booths along the east wall, a tarnished wood bar along the west wall, and a small row of the shabbiest four-top tables in the middle.
It surprised me that the Elf was relatively quiet that night. This place was typically crowded. It’s located on the corner of two minor thoroughfares, and this area has a nightlife because of it. One guy was shooting pool by himself, maybe around twenty people spread throughout the tables, and five were sitting at the bar. The number of people didn’t matter, since joining that crowd on that night was better than sitting in my apartment watching Quantum Leap reruns.
I became patron number six at the bar after sliding into one of the black bar stools at the end of the bar. I wedged between a wall poster of Mick Jagger and a bearded man wearing a green tweed flat cap and winter scarf around his neck. Which was odd at the time because it was pretty warm in the tavern. But you’ll soon see that these garments weren’t what made that man odd.
The bartender wiped the counter surface before me and laid down a cardboard beer coaster. I ordered a draft of light beer. And then four more beers followed and a Reuben sandwich. Those were the last of the everyday conversations I had that night with the friendly bartender over my requests. Her name is Rosie, and I’ll talk more about her later.
Now, here we are! At almost 11:30 on this New Year’s Eve, my first contact was with something supernatural. This is not an innuendo, but my first time was difficult. It took me a very long time and many more encounters with them to be calm and not fear them. To accept their existence.
“I guess it will all be over in a little bit,” the green tweed flat cap and winter scarf man said to me, “when the ball drops, it will all be over.” He points to Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve on the television screen in the corner about the bar.
“Yes, this year is about over,” I said, but I didn’t know what he was talking about yet.
“Would you have a final drink with me?” he asked. I said sure, but did not know the gravity of his request. We talked for the next few minutes. Mine was mostly small talk, but he said the most bizarre stuff.
He asked me, “So, do you have any New Year’s resolutions?”
I joked that my New Year’s resolution was to save enough money to buy a jet ski. I’ll never forget how his face fell after I said that. Tears sprung from his eyes. His gaze became sullen.
“Thank you for helping me discover mine,” he wept. I’m sitting there beside this emotional guy, having no idea who he is and why he’s crying hysterically.
“You see, my New Year’s resolution was either going to be mortality or immortality,” he divulged, “I was bitten by a vampire last night. Now, I have until the morning to decide to die as a human or become one of them. This was my reckoning.”
What the hell? I was actually thinking of something else, but we’ll try to keep this memoir PG-13.
He unwrapped the scarf from around his neck, showed me fresh bite marks, and pulled out a small vile of blood from his coat pocket. He explained that he needed to swallow the vampire blood to complete his transformation and live forever as a bastard vampire. And if he didn’t drink the blood, he would perish at first light. His wording.
I thought this guy was a straitjacket cuckoo and needed to be in a white padded room. I wanted to get away, but my body wasn’t moving. I understood what he meant: it was all about to end. Either choice meant his humanity was over. Something I did or said that night made him choose existence. Even if that meant being a blood-sucking creature that turned into a bat. That is a lie. They don’t turn into bats.
We watched the ball drop and took cheap tequila shots. We toasted the new year and to my jet ski. I watched Vincent Ortega drink vampire blood in the Elf parking lot before sunrise. He changed into a vampire right in front of me. He fell to hands and knees. His skin looked like boiling water. I thought he was going to rip his skin right off his bones. His eyes turned yellow and he smelled like burning sulfur. His screams were more like shrieks of pain and suffering. Thank goodness no one else was around.
It was a transformational sight, both physically and spiritually. I never felt in danger around Vince, the bastard vampire. He showed back up to the Elf every once in a while. He is a great trivia partner.
This was not the genesis of it all and not the first of many more stories to come.
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