Do you have music in your blood? Are you a songwriter, musician, or performer? If so, Red Tooth Music of Nashville, Tennessee, would be happy to listen to your songs, or even to attend your showcase. Contact us immediately if you crave immortality. We’re always looking for new blood—one way or another. –Ad for my company, running in nationwide magazines.

Generally, people believe that night provides a cloak into which a person can slip out of sight, but I say day is a much simpler time to avoid attention. Distraction carries the day,

literally; details scamper under the radar of hectic schedules; and even the most obvious data

goes unnoticed when deadlines, always present, must be met. And I’m sure to provide impossible deadlines to those who answer to me in the ordinary world, so those closest to my truth don’t notice it.

Sometimes even I’m surprised by how easily I fit in, how effortlessly I fill my needs, how invisible I become.

I have built a small empire. It provides me with the necessary distractions in order to manage through so much time. Eternity can feel like – well, eternity – to me and my kind. Mortals shrug a shoulder and a measurable piece of their life has passed. A century can go by and be no more than a fraction of a moment in my damned life.

And, yes, my life is damned. Has been damned since the beginning of history, or close to it.

Because you’re undoubtedly curious, I’ll tell you this much: My father, a barbarian war lord, led battles across what’s now the Eastern European landscape and I, his first born son, was destined to follow. Ironically, I had no heart for bloodletting; I preferred the sweet sounds of song, be it by birds or by ladies, and regularly fell into trance at the notes of a simple flute or stringed instrument.

Distracted by the delicate whoosh of a nearby brook through a stand of cattails, an enemy club split my skull down the middle before I’d grown out of my teens. Left for dead on the side of a rock-strewn field, I watched night fall through clouded vision. Scavengers would finish me off before morning, but that certainty was a vague, dull thought with little meaning. I felt myself lift from the crumpled body I had been. Dark surrounded me, inside and out.

The impossible happened. Something pulled me back into my broken body, something luscious and full of demand, something indefinable, something irresistible. My first returning sense was of curiosity, the second of my vision clearing. A beautiful dark creature cloaked me with its black wings. Its head bent to mine with a grace I’d never before experienced. It made no sound, but emitted the purest music I’d ever heard, and mesmerized me by its very presence. As I regained clarity, I realized it had no wings, but wore a black cape lined in red, and the drops of my blood that splattered against the flow of material disappeared into its threads.

And so I was made, as we say, into an immortal on the night of my death.

*

So much for my past, as it was long ago and no longer of consequence. What does matter, at least to those of you in the present, is that I exist, and I am not alone. Be careful, as the bloodthirst constantly grows.

Of course, you will be drawn to me. I’ll tell you a secret only because this is the year 2010 and no one believes in my kind. At least not publicly.

My work both distracts me from the hunt and provides my prey. Red Tooth Music—perhaps you’ve heard of it? I employ the usual administrative staff as well as thirteen songwriters, and am involved in developing at least two young performers at any given moment. We’ve had some success – more than enough songs cut on Indie labels to keep us all going, as well as a few Top-Tens on the Country charts. My songplugger does well, but I do better. In the night, after a round at the Red Robin Café, for instance, I might pull an A&R staff member aside, give them a taste, so to speak, of possibilities, and then – imagine that – they’re suddenly convinced the song I’m promoting is the perfect one for their lead artist. My kind tends to make deals quickly, one way or the other.

I’ve made many deals on the rickety stairs behind the Red Robin. And I’ve feasted in the shadows below it. Do you think my business ethics are less honorable than what usually goes on in the industry? Think again.

Ah, the Nashville music community. So many hungry, creative souls. Such sweet blood. So many newcomers, so many loners. So many wannabes passing through town. It’s not unusual for someone to disappear for months at a time—a creative surge, or a creative block, or the need to make some real money before cutting demos again, or giving up and going home without telling anyone for the shame of it. When a songwriter or an aspiring singer disappears forever after a show at the Red Robin, no one thinks twice about it, which makes things almost too easy for me.

Why do I tell you? Warn you?

Because I am still awed by the song of a bird I’ve never heard before; by the color of a leaf in a slant of sun; by the never-before-or-after curls of a newborn’s tiny fingerprint. Perhaps the greatest lie ever told is that there is nothing new under the sun. I can say from an eternity of experience that there is always something new, always something that never existed before, and the greatest wonders are born from creative hearts and minds. Sculptors, singers, poets, weavers, painters, musicians, writers – all of them continuously reinventing the world a bit at a time. And this is enough to keep the earth spinning. At least for me.

Don’t misinterpret me. I’m not soft, or avoidable when I feast. At the same time that I wish to protect the creative, I am of the belief that if I devour enough creative “juice,” enough of the lifeblood of creative people that one day – centuries from now perhaps – I, too, will feel a thread of yarn as I weave it into a tapestry telling the story of the Damned; or will write a play touching a truth that Shakespeare missed; or will sing a song of such longing in its melody that the very gates of Heaven will open and allow me to pass through.

In the meantime, beware. My hunger grows as I haunt the alleys behind Nashville bars where dreams are dreamed and music played and songs sung. I listen to tapes of those who want a deal with Red Tooth Music, and I choose carefully. I thirst most for the emotion behind the sounds, perhaps because when I sink my teeth into a warm, pulsing neck, I feel nothing inside myself…and I thirst most for that which I lack.
The same will happen to you, if you aren’t careful.

Either you or your songs can be immortal – but not both. You see, the soul is immortal – it has access to eternity but only as it leaves the body and moves on from lifetime to lifetime. If your body becomes immortal, however, your soul becomes stuck and atrophies. A frozen soul cannot pour itself into emotions and without feeling, there is no expression or any creative process. Your music dies, but your body lives on with just enough soul left to crave what you can no longer create. As I know so well.

So write your lyrics, strum your guitars, sing your souls out on all the stages of Nashville. I wait, and I listen, and I lust, and I will either bestow on you the blessing of fame in this lifetime, or the damnation of eternity and a thirst like my own. If you have music in your blood, the choice is not yours.

The quiet brought it on. The complete silence. No hum of a refrigerator motor, no cascade of water from the sink, no hiss of a gas flame on the stove. The absence of sound, an emptiness, a vacuum.

But Nature abhors a vacuum, especially Lilah’s nature, and she filled the silence with voices whenever it surrounded her. “Black forest cake, please, one slice.” “I’ll have the red velvet, with a dollop of fresh whipped cream.” “Another glass of white wine.” “Blue cheese dressing for the salad, on the side.” “Eggs, over easy, with hash browns.” The voices collided like a kaleidoscope of color and crumbled her thoughts the way she crushed corn flakes into stuffing.

Lilah pulled her hair back into a tight, neat knot, stretched a net over it so that her face stared white as flour from under the black cap. Her crystal blue eyes waded from side to side, searching the room. She caught a reflection on the window, a motion, and she turned quickly, her bare feet pivoting on the linoleum, to scan her guests. Silent and still, they waited around the dining room table with the five flames of the candelabra centerpiece flickering across their faces.

Turning back to the stove, Lilah stirred the pot with her wooden ladle. She focused, chased the voices from her head, and breathed deeply. This would be the dinner they would remember her for. Potato and leek soup, straight from the garden: she’d washed the leeks in the stream, pulling each layer back gently to uncover the dirt and rinse it away. Clean, everything so clean. She’d scrubbed the potatoes with dry moss until the skins came off and the eyes popped out. Smooth, perfect. Lilah liked things clean, smooth, perfect.

The water Lilah added to the soup came from the spring; she’d lowered the bucket slowly, the way it had been done in this place for two hundred years, catching the well water, turning the handle, watching the bucket rise, and pulling it over the stone rim. She enjoyed the flash of sunlight that glanced off the surface as she dragged it indoors. Sure, Lilah could use the tap water, but this dinner required special preparation, special care. It had a sacredness to it, and for Lilah, the well held secrets, and secrets were sacred.

She’d prepared fresh-from-the-garden salad to follow the soup. Tiny carrots pulled from the ground, their green crowns chopped off. A mixture of small leaves trimmed from the spinach, the radicchio, the endive, the Boston Cobb, topped with a shredding of white Cheddar. Her special dressing: oil, lemon, just-ground pepper, a dab of mustard. Lilah tossed it, careful not to drop any lettuce out of the bowl. She’d been taught, and she’d learned, and she’d become an expert.

The main dish, already in the oven roasting nicely, consisted of lamb, also fresh. She’d separated it from the flock yesterday and slaughtered it this morning: one quick slice across the neck with her newly sharpened knife, a single kick, no time for bleating its protest. She’d boiled the mint down into jelly last fall, canned and put it away in preparation for a night like this one. Special, for her special guests.

Lilah peeked into the dining room again. They still sat staring at each other. The lack of conversation among them was rare and peaceful. No bickering. None of the usual accusations or blame cast across the wooden table. How calming the anticipation of a good meal is to a family, Lilah thought, as she continued cooking.

She took a moment to wipe her hands clean on the starched apron. West Family Inne, proclaimed the red embroidery across the top. Proud. Boastful. Enticing. We offer every service to every guest, that had been the motto since before Lilah’s birth, and the first full sentence she’d been encouraged to speak. More important than, “I love you, Mommy,” or “Thank you, Jesus, for this day.” As Lilah grew, she’d learned the sanctity of the words, and learned to offer every service to every guest, as they wished it.

“Another towel, please.” And Lilah’d rush off to the laundry to wash and dry and fold and deliver to Room Fourteen.

A call from Room Seven: “It’s too hot in here.” And Lilah’d search through the barn or the attic for an extra fan, lug it up or down stairs, or across the field, bend over to plug it in, aim it correctly, and remember to smile.

“Come lie down here, girl.” And Lilah’d stretch out on the bed in Room Six, bite her lip while a rough hand searched under her dress in the dark, wait until the snores began, and creep quietly back to her room where she would cry herself to sleep.

She’d grown up that way, working and fetching and providing, and she’d learned to sew and cook and spread her legs and keep quiet through it all. Silence and Lilah were old friends.

But tonight, tonight was only family. A rare occasion when no guests had checked in at the front desk, the rooms upstairs remained empty, and the parking lot deserted. It had been this way for a week or two, and Lilah had taken advantage of the lull to prepare the evening. Every detail had gone according to her plans. She could hardly wait to serve dinner.

Lilah ladled soup into the bowls, careful not to drip. Drips resulted in belts across bare bottoms, and Lilah had long ago learned to avoid them. She carefully placed each bowl onto a matching plate, arranged them on a tray, and served her guests from the left, checking that a soup spoon waited at each setting. Yes, she’d done well this evening.

After a while, she removed the first course and brought the salad with its bright colors that cheered up the room. Those who eat quietly are enjoying the food, she thought. They seemed content with the lamb, and with the dessert she prepared as they ate. Vanilla ice cream, churned this afternoon on the back porch, with heated chocolate syrup and heart-shaped strawberries, one to a platter.

Finally Lilah cleared the table, packed the dishwasher, set it to Full Load, and sat herself on the stool in the corner, under the window, her now-flushed face accented by moonlight.

The silence that had filled the house since morning continued. The complete silence. No hum of an appliance, no cascade of water from the sink, no hiss of a gas flame on the stove. No “I’m cold, turn up the heat.” No “Hurry, girl, Room Three spilled beer on the bed.” No “Come here and get naked, girl, and don’t even think about telling.”

Lilah peeked into the dining room again, noticed that Mama had fallen sideways in her chair. The blood that had spilled from her heart had dried and hardened on her pink shirtwaist, the one she wore to Church and on special occasions. Daddy still sat upright with the gash in his back hidden by his good black jacket. Uncle Eddy stared into Aunt Betty’s eyes forever now, a pool of blood already cool under his wrist that dangled, sliced, toward the floor. Aunt Betty’s red silk skirt hardly showed the stain that had spread from her belly outward. And older brother Billy, riddled with slashes, sat naked, missing pieces of his body scattered here and there.

Yes, this had been a meal to remember. With the imagined food, the imagined candles, the imagined appreciation, and the completely real silence. Even the voices were quiet now.

Lilah smiled, perhaps for the first time in her life.