Channeling is associated with a number of other paranormal skills, at least by we who channel. Out-of-the-body-experiences are one of them, bilocation is another. But channeling discarnate entities is a fascinating thing to experience. For myself, I am acutely aware of who is using my fingers at the keyboard - in earlier days, it was pen and paper - and I am still capable of direct voice channeling, allowing the entity to use my vocal chords, and depending upon our mutual comfort, the rest of my body as well. I hate to use the word, but I allow the entity to possess me; the distate for the word stems from the association it automatically calls up about the Church's use of the word, or perhaps the Exorcist movies. I had mentioned in the previous entry that I'd allowed a 12th century Roumanian duke named Vlad Dragool the use of my facility and faculties. Channeling Dracula as a first attempt was a lesson almost learned, for a couple of years later I made the same mistake with the Reverend Jim Jones. At the outset let me tell you, at the very least, people like these guys are no fun. I'll take Joan of Arc or an angel any day.

I had been in touch with the poet / artist William Blake for a very short time before this, but was not at all convinced of the reality of it. I'd mentioned it to my then-current lady-friend, whose daughter happened to be having a Halloween party in a few days. The daughter was a prototypical Goth - prototypical because this was the mid-1980's. (She could have had a patent on the whole Goth fashion image, she was absolutely the first person I ever knew who went about in vintage black lace clothing, white makeup and all. Fashionwise she was way ahead of her time; in the context of this story, she was fourteen or fifteen) Milly asked me if I could "get" Dracula for her party. Never one to resist what I perceived as a challenge, I said "Sure! No problem!" But I only had the vaguest idea of how to channel Drac or anyone. The only thing I had to go by was what I'd read of Jane Roberts' experiences with Seth. What I had gleaned from her books was that she was in a very relaxed altered state. Now, if anything is my specialty, it's altered states; having tripped over 3000 times I ought to know a little about them. So I arrived stoned, having smoked an entire joint of very strong marijuana. And what did I know about Dracula? That he was a real historical person, a warrior chieftain of 12th century Roumania whose practices included impaling the heads or bodies of his victims and leaving them along the roadways and that he really did drink blood.

The party was underway when I got there, stoned out of my gourd, reeking of my trademark patchouli oil, dressed all in black. I was introduced to Milly's friends, got a shot of bourbon out of my hip flask and started chatting up her mom. A short while later I was asked to make my appearance and do my thang; I asked for five minutes time, smoked another bone and had a pull from the bourbon. I was relaxed. Oh yes, I was relaxed! I walked into the living room and asked everyone to sit in a circle with me on the floor; we joined hands and I announced that I would close my eyes and go into a trance and see if I could find Dracula; I asked everyone to remain silent and closed my eyes.

I thought of the pictures I'd seen of his castle, the countryside about it, the records I'd read concerning him and drifted for a moment, prepared, if I had to, fake the whole thing. (Which is an illustration of how I was back then) I suddenly felt very cold, and felt the coldness travel down my left hand into the hand of the girl next to me, whom I felt shudder; I had the distinct impression that whatever the energy was that went down my right arm was going through the circle of kids and would be coming up my right arm momentarily. It did, but it was magnified through the minds of the fifteen or so kids who were with me in that circle. For a few seconds I was knocked off my pins and had the sense to let go of the girls on either side of me. I didn't want whatever that was going through what I recognized as a feedback loop, exponentially amplified again.

I felt an anger and fear and viciousness that was not me. It - he - wanted to speak. I had gotten some mastery over myself and acquiesced. "So, you young ones wish to speak to Vlad the Conqueror!," he exclaimed with my vocal chords. What da fuck? "What shall I tell you? How the popeys hated Vlad? How they would not listen to him? Ha! I made them listen! For I am Vlad the Unconquerable!" It didn't seem that death had conquered this paranoid killer. I kept getting mental images of dead bodies opened up in ways suitable for display in an anatomy text book. It seemed to be almost like art for him, he seemed to draw an aesthetic pleasure from them. If this was not Dracula, it wasn't me either. I was along for the ride at this point. He went on boasting of his "work" for quite a while, gradually shifting over to how alone he was. The emphasis on his immense solitude, and how unbearable it was for him, began to impress me more and more. I got his attention and mentally said to him, "I'm cutting you loose in a moment, give these kids some advice so they don't become like you." I sensed rage and helplessness; almost against his will, Dracula spat out, "Become something, someone good. Do not follow me." The tension, the electricity in the room was becoming awful. I broke the connection and fell backwards. My head was spinning. When I sat up, I saw open mouths and popping eyes. Well, I had done it. I was convinced I'd gotten the genuine Vlad Dragool - still am convinced - and in my swirling thoughts was the sad realization that time indeed was on his side - but not in the way he expected.

The apotheosis to this story was that when I went into the kitchen to recover, Milly's mom's eyes popped. As I sat and regained my composure, I asked her what she was staring at. "Look at your hands," she whispered. They were not my hands. They were bigger, darker and twisted as if from multiple injuries, the kind that bar-fighters get. As we sat in shock, they slowly morphed back into my own hands. We neither of us knew what to say. Exhausted, I sought out a couch in the basement and blacked out for the next nine hours.