Vampire Set Steps into Spotlight The vampires wait outside the back door of the Ybor City nightclub. Newcomers stand on the fringes. The regulars talk about work, about the weather. But not about blood-drinking. Not out here. Up walks a man in a cashmere trench coat. Evan Christopher, 39, is the group’s founder. They gravitate toward him. “It’s a great night to be Victorian,” he says, revealing fangs. After dispensing hugs and kisses, he stands at the entrance and scans the group. He spots two women in jeans and leans to his right. “They’re not with us,” Evan tells a stocky, serious vampire who serves as one of the group’s “gargoyles.” Anyone who wants to get into a Vampire Gathering needs to see the gargoyles first. They’re the protectors, the first line of defense against tourists. The monthly Gathering at the Castle nightclub isn’t a role-playing game or a convention of Twilight fans. These people don’t sleep in coffins, fear garlic or live forever. But they do feel a need to feed on others, whether that means absorbing energy or blood. They call themselves vampires and consider their yearnings a physical affliction. They say they can’t absorb energy like “mundanes,” who often start every morning revved up for the day. Some feed on blood volunteered by donors who allow them to cut their skin and drink. Some feed from strong energy bonds with their lovers. And some “psychic” feed, sipping life energy from the auras of others. Not everyone at the Gathering at the Castle is a vampire. Some are “black swans” – allies who might donate their blood. Some don’t know what they are but feel they may be “awakening.” It’s unclear how many people identify as vampires. The Tampa group draws a few dozen, but many keep to themselves, according to a study by Suscitatio Enterprises, a research arm of the Atlanta Vampire Alliance. I learned about the Tampa group on MySpace. They agreed to meet me at Sacred Grounds coffee shop in North Tampa. Two days later, I sat across from three men in vampire regalia. Evan sat in the center, sipping chamomile tea. After that night, Evan told the rest of his group a reporter would be joining the Gathering. Online, a vampire protested. “How does a reporter learn about Us? I am a Vampire and I lurk in the shadows, not in the sensationalized media, beware.” But even the biggest skeptics were polite in my presence. On this Saturday night in Ybor City, the door cracks open and I walk in. On the second flo0r of the Castle, vampires claim the cozy, candlelit Red Room. Into the Red Room The vampires sit on plush thrones and on each other’s laps and on the floor. When there’s no room to sit, they stand. Evan speaks. They hush. “Tonight’s topic,” he says, “is the purpose of the community.” He tells them the story of Rod Ferrell, in prison for life after killing his ex-girlfriend’s parents in Eustis in 1996. The teen called himself a vampire. His is a story of blood thirst, power hunger and the ultimate manipulation – pitfalls when young people questioning their identity cling together in secrecy. “This is not a cult,” Evan tells the group. “You are the only one that knows your path.” The vampires feel that many reports about the subculture focus too much on murderers who have claimed to be vampires but ignore the everyday vampires who live by a code of ethics. The vampire lifestyle contains a spectrum. To some, it’s religion. To others, philosophy. Modern vampires Take away the fangs and Evan could be a motivational speaker. He fields e-mails from recently awakened vampires looking for guidance and preaches at gatherings about eating healthy and staying in school. He makes his money as a nightlife promoter and “fangsmith,” selling his high-end dental acrylic caps. Evan lives in a subdivision near Temple Terrace, his living room adorned with Gothic-style mirrors and a library of vampire films. At 10 a.m. one Sunday, Evan sits barefoot on his couch. His girlfriend pours him some orange juice. Fangless, he sips. He’s respected throughout vampire-kind, but his family has no idea about his lifestyle. He says he has yet to “come out of the coffin” to them. “I’m not by any way ashamed because I believe in this,” he says, “but at the same time, I don’t want to cause them any shame.” When he was a kid, his mother let him stay up late to watch Dracula. He says he immediately sympathized with the villain. He remembers going to church three times a week, believing he wouldn’t live longer than 18 because of the Rapture. He lived to see his 19th birthday. The Rapture never came. But the vampire subculture did. The late ‘80s and early ‘90s created the perfect incubator. Films like The Lost Boys and Interview With the Vampire were box office magnets. Fanzines were all the rage. A role-playing game called Vampire: The Masquerade was taking off in New York City nightlife. New age ideas were becoming mainstream. With the Internet, the subculture exploded. And as pop culture blurred vampirism into a spiritual philosophy about energy and identity, Evan jumped aboard. After a decade in the Air Force, he went to New York to apprentice as a fangsmith under a national elder. Then he established the Tampa group. Now, as a leader in the vampire subculture, he has seen what can go wrong. He has seen other vampire leaders demand money from wanna-bes to ascend to higher levels within the community. A few years ago, he excommunicated one of his members for having sex with an underage teenager. Over the years, teens have contacted him about the Tampa group, but Evan insists that no one under 18 is allowed. Evan says he established the Tampa Vampire Gathering as free and open to avert all the problems he’d seen people wielding power over those trying to learn more about themselves. “We’re here to peel away the mystique,” he says. Gainesville Sun
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