The Norwegian vampire is not a vampire at all.
There is no need for garlic or crosses hanging above.
No sharp fangs reaching down along your neck.
No bites. No blood.
Not in this place of dense forests and high mountains.
Instead, the Norwegians fear the Troll.
His long crooked nose points out at you.
His rancid odor tickles your nostril hairs.
His red skin boils over in puss and sores under his tattered clothes.
His eyes hold darkness and lonlieness, an involuntary solitude.
In the caves. Under the rocks. In the forests.
The earth shatters and shakes as he comes after you.
A mammoth of a monster chasing you down.
He craves to boil you alive and eat your flesh little by little.
Your only defense is the coming dawn.
Sun.
Daylight.
A safe way home down the moutain valley.
One ray of light will turn this troll to stone.
And once in stone, he can become a monument.
Memoralizing the tradition of fear among the darkness.
The villagers now gaze up at a monster no longer a threat.
But, if the sun does not rise tomorrow.
If the darkness overcomes you.
There is no hope.
Little by little, you will become his feast.
You evolve into the shadows and secrets of the forest.
You become the story. The fairytale. The legend.
And with a legend, the fear is passed on.
The Norwegian Vampire, the Troll
keeps you out of the forest and in the light.
Safe and sound.
But the water continues to boil high up in the mountains.
He waits for you.
Curiosity and foolish Americans are like salt and pepper for this troll.
Signe Maten!
