Ghosts, werewolves, vampires, oh my!

As a child, I was obsessed with ghosts. I didn’t believe in them, but I saw them all around and heard them whispering in my head. Those technicolor entities in the corners, so transparent they are invisible. The black blobs and psychadelic lights that pulsate when you rub your eyes hard and long enough before you open them. I read every ghost book I could get my hands on. I wanted to see IT on the telly when it came out (I would have been about six or seven) and Interview with the Vampire in the theatre. I bought ghost stories local to wherever we visited. I have several books from Washington DC, one on the Hope Diamond.

The Hope Diamond fascinated me. I found it an honor to see it in the museum, but a real risk. There it was, glimmering behind the glass. Huge, beautiful, deadly? I wasn’t sure, but it fascinated me anyway.

Before I could write, I would draw ghosts with magic markers, cut them out, attach them to a little strips of paper, and then attach this strip of paper to a ghost castle I had drawn onto a bigger A4. Mother would put them above the radiator, where they would jiggle and vibrate from the heat for a truly spooky effect. I’ll have to see if I can dig one of these castles up someday.

My favorite ghost book was In a Dark, Dark Room. It was simple, but effective. The librarian, Mrs. Cook, oozed the normally homely and cozy library with darkness as she softly, gently read the words. My favorite story from this collection? The Green Ribbon, of course.

After ghosts, it was werewolves. My first successful encounter with a werewolf was in the form of a poem. I can’t remember who it is by or where I found it, but it was in a collection of poems. It was simply the thoughts of some unfortunate as they beheld with terror their own transformation into a werewolf. I loved it. Maybe it suited the beginnings of puberty when things begin to grow weirdly and hair starts to sprout in odd places. Or maybe I liked the sheer hopelessness of it. Or perhaps it had something to do with the introduction to the music video of Thriller Night. I quietly obsessed about werewolves for a while without reading any particular books on it. Most of it was in my mind and in my dreams.

Eventually, I moved on to vampires. Now I read whatever books I could find on them, but wasn’t very pleased with Anne Rice’s version. While I loved both the film Interview with the Vampire and the book, I was less satisfied with the rest. I resumed my efforts on reading The Witching Hour, which was too much for me to handle while I was in the beginnings of my werewolf-phase. I still haven’t finished that book. (It’s truly good, but a bit heavy. Maybe next time I go home?) I didn’t enjoy the prettiness of Anne Rice’s vampires. Sure, they were tormented. Well, some of them. Sure, they were sexy. Sure they were pretty… but the writing lacked the hopelessness or brutality and ferility of some other writings I was exploring at the time. (Michael Moorcock for tragic but vengeful stories and Stephen King for the mindless brutality I craved.)

Now? Who can say? I like to think I haven’t grown up yet. I think these days I draw on something that is the combination of all three. Perhaps a transparent vampire who is hairier than Burt Reynolds, but whose head will fall off if you happen to tug at the ribbon around his neck.