“What do you crave?”
That’s what she asks me as we slowly walk through the rain in SoHo.
She understands craving. She manipulates it and uses it. Feeds off of it. She’s a qarînah. A succubus.
What do you crave? Surely there is something you crave for. Someone maybe?
I throw out the typical – happiness, love, security.
That’s bullshit. What do you crave? C-R-A-V-E. What burns inside of you? What is something that you must have? Your soul hurts for it. Your heart breaks because you don’t have it. That’s what I’m asking about.
She smiles her little qarînah smile, knowing she’s making me uncomfortable.
Ah, you don’t have to tell me. I’ll find out in your dreams.
The qarînah are not like normal succubus. They mostly appear in dreams, sometimes you can see them while awake, but you need to have a special kind of sight. Or they need to allow you to.
I sought her out due to a giant increase in sleep walkers throughout lower Manhattan. Between Sunday night and last night there were over 600 cases of sleepwalkers reported.
People are vulnerable in their dreams. Their desires and wants are laid open. It’s like a banquet for my kind.
She sighs. A little sigh of content.
These sleepwalkers you’re looking in to…they are the most susceptible to us. They aren’t just walking in their sleep. They are searching. Searching for what they crave.
By the way. How hot is that word? Crave. So powerful, isn’t it? It’s one of those words that goes far beyond what it means. It’s not simple want or need. It’s a deep emotion. It’s nourishment.
What do you crave? Who do you crave?
She’s been in my dreams. She knows. She enjoys this, prying and toying- it’s part of her charm. Once the secret is out it’s no longer a secret, it’s a loss of power, like knowing a hidden name.
Your sleep walkers will stop once we are sated. But, I have to tell you, we are hungry. Even the qarînahs are not immune to craving.
A man in pajamas stumbles by. Eyes closed, whispering to himself, whispering to someone else.
That man…he’s thinking of an ex lover. That woman over there, walking down the middle of Broadway – she’s remembering the first boy she kissed when she was six years old.
She links her arm in mine and we walk towards Bowery, dodging sleep walkers and declarations of love.
Don’t worry, dear. What you crave will come to you in the night – like all the good things do.
She pats my arm and ducks into an alley, disappearing.