I don’t think I’ll write about vampires.
When I was very small – maybe 5 or 6 – my younger brother woke me up in the middle of the night and told me that he had seen Count von Count in our bedroom.
I slept on the top bunk, and he was telling me this from his bunk below. He kept telling me to look over the side to see if I could see it – the memory is kind of hazy; did he want me to check if it was still there, or was he seeing it as he asked me; I don’t know.
Because I remember that he told me he pled the blood of Christ and the Count coughed and left the room, so maybe he was telling me after the fact. At any rate, there was no way I was going to look!
At another time, I had a dream that there was a red devil lurking in the corner of the bedroom. I woke up trying to figure out if it was a dream or real.
But that’s the kind of home I grew up in: demons were real, and one needed the protection the blood of Christ offered.
I wonder if my parents had any idea how real what they believed in was to a kid, or how long the effect of growing up in that myth could linger.
Then again, my parents took it literally themselves, and they believed they were preparing me for life.
So I guess I did write about vampires, in a way. I mean we did believe the blood of Christ would give us eternal life.
Image by Didgeman, from Pixabay:
https://pixabay.com/users/didgeman-153208/