Callicantzari

[smokingboot]

Beware of those born around Christmas...some say in the 8 days after Christmas, some say the 12, others that the deadly time starts on the 23rd. For these are prone to become a particular kind of demonic hobgoblin vampire recognisable by;

"A terrible mania, that they rush to and fro with the most amazing speed, that their nails grow to a terrible length like the talons of a bird of prey while their hands become as crooked claws. If they meet any person on the highway they seize him and put the question "Tow or Lead?" If he answer "Tow" he may escape unharmed, but if he be inadvertant enough to reply "Lead" they grip him with terrible force, mangle him with their talons and often tear him to pieces devouring him wholemeal.

During the seventeenth century this belief so strongly prevailed that the most cruel precautions were taken in the case of children who might be suspected to be liable to become Callicantzari, since the soles of their feet were exposed to a fire until the nails were singed and so their claws clipped, and even today in parts of Greece these practices prevail in a highly modified form, for among the Aegean islanders it is said that the small Callicantzari are particularly prone to attack and devour their own brothers and sisters[...]another link with the tradition of the vampire who, as we have noted before, seeks the destruction of his own kin.'*




My entire immediate family are in the fatal octave come decan come whatever; even my dear aunt only just escapes with a birthday on the 6th of January, for some pessimists extend the cursed time to 12th Night. I am the only one with a July-born guarantee of non-Callicantzarosity, sans talons, manias, cannibalism or nearby highways to haunt. Not that I think my family are demonic hobgoblin vampires, no, not at all; at this distance, they are merely unusual. Today, after my forgotten step-sister's forgotten birthday, my father (born on the 24rd Dec) sent me an email, courteous, gentle, polite. Not a word about my neglect. Something is wrong, I can just sense it. And then he tells me. He wants to bring his horrible horde to my door in the early part of January.


Noooooooooooooooooooooo! Noooooooooooo! Noooooooooooo! Nooooooo! Noooooo!


There are so many good reasons to avoid this for the rest of my life. I have nothing to say to my father, or his second wife, a pilsbury dough woman permanently accompanied by farts potent enough to make the slitheen proud. And god alone knows what I could possibly do or say to entertain my little step sister. Besides, what can Dad possibly want except to insult my boyfriend or me, or just get very drunk? No, no, no.

But there is more. He wants to know if I can give him my brother's address. My mother (31st Dec) has phoned me this very day, determined to wander the streets of Brussells until she finds said imbecile brother (27th December)because he hasn't kept in touch, won't answer phone calls or emails etc. I love my mother very much; she, despite her oddities, is welcome here, but will not leave her flat in Penge without mighty cause, ie, a random need to disappear or some disaster, real or imagined. The case of the disappearing offspring is, however, quickly becoming a mission with her. She fears something may have happened to him. I fear her wandering round a foreign city alone, unknown and unknowing. Brussells is said to be safe, but my mother can turn a visit to the local B&Q into a fight for survival. And all because the little cretin** won't answer his phone.

All right, I can well understand why, but he needs to work on his modus operandi. They always find you in the end. Fob them off with a phone call every now and then and they ignore you. Run away in the silence and they'll just bribe Interpol or Van Helsing to hunt you down. Which brings me back to Dad. I don't want him here, I don't know how to avoid it without lying and I'd rather not do that. So I can tell him the likeliest truth, that we won't have time. He'll have to find some other family member to torment.

My mother would like my brother's address but no contact from dad; my brother would like my father's address but no contact from mum; my dad would like everyone's address, my aunt would like everyone's address, and I would like no-one's address. Which is unfortunate, as everyone has my address.

I have no mercy; they can all have each other's details and then run around Brussells in little circles ready to chow down on fellow Callicantzari.

Christmas is for families. Ho ho ho.


* From 'The Vampire' by Montague Summers

** OK, the 'little cretin' is 38. The point still stands.

Comments

[semyaza.livejournal.com]

I'm assuming that a plain 'no, we don't want you here' isn't an option.

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

It kind of means I am not giving him a chance to have changed and grown, so in emails and stuff, I try to assume the best. But I would rather not test my optimism through face to face contact!