By MARGARET MITTELBACH and MICHAEL CREWDSON

It's midnight, and we're in one of New York's vampire dens. The D.J. is spinning a band called Switchblade Symphony and a sexy black-clad vampiress with a bat tattooed on her belly is swaying to the music. Vampire couples are snuggling in the corners, and on the rare occasion that someone smiles we can make out the glint of white fangs.

We're in the epicenter of Long Black Veil, a gathering held every Thursday night at True, a club in the Flatiron District, where as many as 300 undead heads dance, drink and make merry late into the night. It is only one of a cluster of havens for the daylight-challenged. CBGB's, Downtime, the Korova Milk Bar, the Pyramid and the Limelight all hold vampire-friendly nights at least once a week.

With a small but dedicated legion of followers, New York's vampire scene has been going strong since the mid-90's. It's been fed by a profusion of Hollywood images celebrating the supernatural, a wave of dark-themed Internet sites and chat rooms, the city's undying tolerance for underground movements and, of course, a wicked desire to dress up. Although Halloween is long gone and even Fangsgiving has passed, Gotham's "vampire lifestylists" are always ready to don their capes and paint the town blood red.

There is a strict dress code enforced for Long Black Veil nights. When a young woman who looks as if she just stepped out of a J. Crew catalog somehow wanders past the doorman, the club's promoter, Father Sebastian Todd, ushers her out.

"This is a private party, sweetie," he says.

Although "gothic," "dark fetish," "faerie," "wiccan" and "Celtic" are all acceptable garb, patrons (most of whom are in their 20's and 30's) usually opt for "vampyre" or simply all black. And that's not your average New Yorker all black. We're talking head-to-toe coal black. Black nail polish. Black bustiers. Black watchbands. The only person wearing white is a cocktail waiter dressed in drag as the ghost of Marie Antoinette.

No "mundanes" - the goth-vampire term for nonfabulous night people - are allowed. "We used to charge $20 to people who were out of dress if we deemed them worthy, but now we charge $50," Mr. Todd says. "We don't want people just sitting and staring. We want members of our community to feel comfortable."

Mr. Todd, who once worked as a dental technician, does not look much like your typical vampire. In his late 20's, with long, straight blond hair and cornflower blue eyes, he is wearing a flouncy maroon "poet's shirt" with studded leather straps, "Battlestar Galactica" combat boots and a silver ankh necklace. The ankh, the ancient Egyptian symbol of life, is also the symbol of the Sanguinarium, a nationwide network of vampire clubs that maintain the air of a secret fraternity, complete with ranks and initiation rites. In 1995 Mr. Todd founded the Sanguinarium (www.sanguinarium.org), the goal of which is to unify the vampyre subculture. (Vampyres like to spell their name with the "y" to distinguish themselves from literary or Hollywood vamps.)

Mr. Todd will not divulge what the rites are. (We do catch him performing a secret handshake with one of his brethren.) But we're able to glean the following facts: Vampyres are not affected by garlic or crosses, nor do they speak with phony Romanian accents. They do, however, strongly identify with the vampire mystique. They prefer night to day. They are drawn to vampire icons, like bats, capes and coffins. And they're particularly interested in seduction in all its forms.