*from the upcoming book, Stories from the Slaughterhouse, coming soon to digital and paperback*
The thunk of the gun on the table in front of me holds such a finality that I am stunned into stammering. Had I truly come to a point in my life where all my troubles could be bought away by the uttering of a name and the pulling of a trigger? Apparently so – I had to consider my situation carefully and had relatively no time to do it. “That’s the deal, sweetheart. One name, and one bullet.” The man behind the weapon wears a smile that seems more predatory than genuine. It’s odd how predatory fits best with those pointed teeth of his. The smile is not reassuring in the least.
“It all sounds a little too good to be true, and you forgot about the lifetime of guilt and nightmares,” I snark back, more out of fear than anything else. A big hand lands like a wet blanket on the butt of the gun and I realise that I was lashing out at the one person who was willing to give me what I needed. No one ever said that I was smart.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wolf. I suppose that I’m nervous. This is a big decision to make, you know?” The hand vanishes as quickly as it came and I inwardly sigh relief. “So who is it? I need the name before I turn you loose. It’s one of the rules.” Who, indeed? There really were so many I could choose from, but whose death would everyone’s world best benefit from? “You already know, don’t you?” I shake my head, because I did and I didn’t want to admit it. I’m a horrible person. A monster.
A monster, but I don’t mean to be, and I try so hard not to be. “Yeah. I know who, and you won’t be needing that gun, either, thank you. I could use a priest and maybe a team of exorcists though, if you know of any.” A bullet will do no good and so the gun is useless, unless I want to blow my own brains out my ear with it. If he takes it with him, It’s sure to happen to him; I am not ready to die, yet, and I’m positive that he isn’t either. It’ll happen, though. It has before.
I am unwell, or so they say and I would normally agree but my point of view has changed drastically. There are some things that one simply cannot unsee or pretend they are untrue Last summer, while I was in a bad way, I voluntarily did a short stint in the local mental hospital. What my family called a sanity sabbatical. I met someone there, a strange and wonderful man who shared so many of the same things in common that for the first time in my life, I began to be happy right where I was.
His name was Piotr and he made me feel like a normal woman, someone with worth, worth the time and I fell in love, hard. From the moment I saw him, he became hypnotic and all-encompassing. Our romance grew in the shadows and in empty doorways, finally resulting in the consummation of our love late on the 13th of June. We found each other in the darkness of the abadoned north wing and on a bed he had thoughtfully set up for our first romantic endeavour he took the only thing I had to give.
There was something – a presence – about him that made me drool with desire every time he came near. The intoxicating scent of the one I adored was more delicious than anything else and my head was full of him when he peeled my clothing off and spread my legs. He kissed me, there, then, and I shivered when his tongue began tracing its pattern; up and down and round and round. My slit was wet but I wanted him in my mouth first and then between my legs, but he refused one and laid me back onto the thin mattress.
I could feel the hot throbbing head of his sex against my virgin opening, and it probed deeper as his tongue did my mouth. There was so much pleasure that I forgot about the pain and spread my legs wide, begging him to pierce my maidenhead and then fuck me til I screamed. No greater pleasure experienced in one’s life than that first time and so it remains the greatest pleasure of my years. The stars in my eyes masked the truth in reality and though he was everything, I had forgotten about the chains of responsibility that come with rapture.
Weeks later, I learned that I was to be a mother, on the very day that I was to be released from my sanctuary, torn away from Piotr and dumped back into hell. I had written him a note after repeated failed attempts to pull him into a private corner to tell him the news. The nurses thwarted me at every step, and I finally resorted to paper and pen; my love left bleeding on paper and handed to a trusted friend to deliver after my departure.
My room remained the same as it had when I was a child, thus relegating me to the child they saw me as. I hated it, chafed at the social collar that I was forced to wear. The only saving grace is that when Poitr was finally free, it would l be easy for me to slip out of the window and into his arms. For a time, it was easy, for maybe a month or so after I received word that he gained employment and was living in a rooming house nearby. The first time, we planned to meet at the gazebo at the local park. It was our first public meeting, and I was a nervous wreck, with my hand caressing the slight bump of my belly as though I would a talisman.
Poitr appeared on the path leading up to the partial secluded building, his eyes on the ground until he reached the stairs; then, nothing existed for a while but our bodies and hearts meeting and beating together. The sound of his knees hitting the wood and the feeling of his soft lips on the slight bump of my belly was more erotic than I ever imagined. The sensation of the hardest part of him resting against my ready slit and then sliding forward was delicious and I arched my back with a groan. I remember that, but the rest is lost in a haze of my own making. It’s for me.
We met that way as often as time would allow, with me climbing from the bedroom window and shimmying down the drainpipe to walk half a mile to the gazebo. It was perfect until I was unable to see my toes, and then we knew we needed to find another way. Piotr proposed on a Friday, in our gazebo. It was raining and the world was draped in mist from the river. The baby kicked hard when he kissed my inner thigh and produced a beautiful small diamond. Of course I said yes and we lay together on a blanket he had brought with him, his hand on my belly and his lips on my ear, telling me about how it would be when we were married and our little one was here. He made it sound so plausible.
“Is it safe? Nadia? Is it – if we -” He was so nervous and I nodded against his neck, nipping my teeth along his collarbone when he growled. “Easy, Poitr, you must go easy,” I gasped when he shoved me onto my back and flipped my skirt up over my hips. I hadn’t worn panties, as he’d requested and his fingers were stroking my already ready slit in a rougher manner than I’d experienced before. “Poitr,” I whined, trying to push his hand away but he chuckled and slipped three of his thick fingers firmly inside my tunnel, wiggling them in a manner that made me squirm in pleasure and discomfort. Baby was active and seemed to be struggling inside of my belly.
An enormous agony tore through my back and up my spine when my juices drenched his still thrusting fingers, easing with the first shriek from Piotr and the frantic wriggling of his hand deep inside of my body. The world stopped, and for a while, so did I, lost in a fog of numbness and the shrieks of the man I loved.
When the mists had cleared, Piotr was gone; his eyes had flies in them and his hand was gnawed away, through to the stub of white gleaming in the red. My belly was empty, and felt empty too, until I felt the warmth of two tiny hands st my breast and the sharp nip of pointed teeth. I was a mother. My son’s first meal had been his father.
That was six months ago Piotr was found shortly after our son wax born by an off duty officer on his morning run. There were no suspects and the papers said it was an isolated animal attack He’s an animal alright, of a sort, my fallen angel who sleeps now in his toddler bed nearest the window. He will wake later so that he can sit up and admire the moon. He’s grown fast, feeding while I sleep and crawling beside me warm and content as the sun rises each morning, waking me the same way he did the day he was born His teeth are sharper.
I miss Piotr, dreadfully. Our child looks so much like him that it makes me ill. I can’t look at him anymore, especially not now He is rapidly losing his grip on what little humanity he’d been born with. I knew that it would happen anyway but I’m frightened by how soon it has occurred.
What brings me here, at this point in my life? Two nights ago I found a man in my house. I just stood in the doorway stunned at seeing a nude stranger it my bed, and the sweet face of my should be infant boy buried hairline deep in his guts and grunting like a boar. The man was still shrieking in agony when I crept away from the open bedroom door and drove away. I haven’t been back.
“Hey beautiful, what’s the word? Going to give me that name?” I really detest this asshole, but he is exactly what I need to get the job done. Raising my eyes to his, I smile and push a folded scrap of paper towards him, and brush the cool metal of the gun in the process. “Gideon. There is the address. I’ll wait for the call.” Mr. Wolf scanned the information I’d carefully printed on it and refolded the paper, placing it in his left breast pocket.
“Okay Ms. C. Give me 24 hours and I’ll have good news for you.” He traipsed away without a care, and never glanced back once. I’ve been waiting for that call, the text, something with the proof of death to secure my freedom for almost 48 hours That is a full day longer than the amount of time that he committed to, but I am loathe to leave yet. This is my child, after all, my son that I’m awaiting word from after all. I afraid that things went terribly wrong.
It’s all Al Kennedy can think about. Three weeks’ vacation to spend seven days of it driving while Angie slept and the kids fussed and fought endlessly in the back seat. Then she would admonish him for being grumpy and out of sorts when they finally stopped for the night. Al loves her but sometimes he daydreams of choking the fuck out of her when she starts sniping at him. Then last night she drops that fucking bomb on him and expected him to cheer and bitched when he stepped out for a walk and a joint. “A man needs to clear his head, for fuck sake,” he thought, slamming the door behind him.
Angie is asleep, again, with her head on his lap; her breath is warm through the summer weight trousers he wears and his cock twitches when she moans lightly and tightens her fingers on his inner thigh. Fuck me, kid number three on my three-week vacation, he thinks bitterly and flicks his eyes up to scan the road behind him. Rest and relaxation, Angie insisted, laughing at him when he emphatically refused and then ended up relenting as he always did.
The dark clouds are building behind the old but still solid station wagon and Al is growing weary of the constant bickering in the backseat. If not for the kids, he would wake Angie with a poke in the eye and a hard fuck against the passenger door. Turner, their six-year-old starts whining that he has to take a piss and Al realises that he wasn’t paying attention to the road and swerves back into his lane with an embarrassed flush.
“Dad please! I really gotta pee,” Turner nearly sobs and Al’s heart drops when he sees the stricken face of his son in the rear-view mirror. He’d only been trained a couple of years and the kid still remembers the cold showers he’d gotten when he’d had an accident. Al suddenly feels like a shit. He had hoped to be safe at home by now and indoors before that storm hit them head on, but likely he’d be stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere with two bitching kids and a sleeping wife.
“Yeah okay kiddo. Let me find a safe place, okay?” Turner nods and wipes at his eyes with an irritated swipe of his hand, then stares out the window with his knees trembling. God, I’m an asshole, he thinks and veers off to the side of the road at the nearest wide place. The second the wagon shudders to a stop, Turner bolts from the car like a flash, yanking his shorts down around his narrow little ass in a smooth practiced motion that makes Al laugh.
He expects the kid to lift his small face to the sky in relief, and steals a peek at his eight year old daughter CeeCee, who was sitting oblivious and enthralled in the latest Thea Stilton book. They were good kids all in all. It wasn’t their fault that their vacation was spent driving instead of relaxing beside a pool somewhere. Angie sits up abruptly and flops against the door, bonking her head on the window and Al winces. She would feel that later and that would be no sex for him again tonight.
Turner was standing in the long grass with his shorts around his ankles and his hands slack at his sides. Jesus. Al feels the air freeze in his lungs, and jumps out of the door, slamming his knee on the door handle. He tells CeeCee to stay with her mother, then rubs at his knee and sprints towards his son. “Hey Slugger! What’s the deal? Are you going to take a leak or what? That storm ain’t gonna wait,” he calls to the kid and his stomach drops as the Turner turns towards him with his pale face wan and cheeks wet with tears. He runs to his son’s side and drops to his knees wincing, visually checking him for anything out of the ordinary. “Turner? Why haven’t you gone pee?” The kids shakes his head and points to the ground about three feet from where he was standing.
“I couldn’t Daddy. I didn’t want to pee near the dead lady,” he says in a thin scared voice and starts to cry like a frightened toddler when his bladder finally lets go. Al looks to his left and chokes back the horrified scream that is in his throat. There is a woman lying there, nude and completely hairless with her legs splayed and her hands cupping her full breasts. Her face is gone and her empty sockets are full of flies as is her empty stomach cavity. Her arm looks as though it has been chewed on. Al turns to vomit and then grabs Turner close to him to whisper in his ear, “Close your eyes Slugger, and cover your ears.” He waits for the kid to comply before he picks him up and runs for the car, screaming for Angie and his cell phone.
I am dying. I know it as well as I know the new lines around my eyes and the finer ones around the corners of my mouth. I know it like the spectre that dogs me every step I take for the past six months, that shadow that won’t go away no matter how bright the sunshine. No one knows my suspicions, and won’t if I have my way, and I will. This is between me and whatever remains of the faith I once had. There isn’t much faith left. Over the years it has dwindled like the rotgut gin in a hobo’s paper bag.
How do I know? I can’t eat, or, I have no desire to eat anything. I realise sometimes that I go all day and even into the next without more than water and the occasional cup of coffee or juice. It’s not healthy but I don’t feel hungry, and so I just don’t think about it. I can’t digest much these days anyway and less time feeling queasy is fine by me.
I’ve been thinking about God lately, and whether or not there is such an entity at all. I lost belief in anything outside of extraterrestrial life, species that still prove their own intelligence daily by avoiding humanity. The idea that we are not alone in the universes and beyond seems so much more plausible than some God who has been on extended lunch for 2000 plus years. Still, I hope there is something on the other side, someone waiting to meet me. I hate to travel alone.
I can’t sleep either. In the worst of my insomnia I still slept a couple of hours a night. It’s been a week now and I haven’t had more than twenty minutes each night. I’d give anything to not wake up at three each morning drenched in sweat and biting back a scream. I’d give anything not to wake up feeling ill with my chest locked and tears in my eyes. I’d like to remember what wakes me in the first place. I stay away and draw pictures in the air with my mind, eyes drooping closed at exactly 2:40 am and springing open at exactly 3:00 am.
The sky is on fire outside my window and the chill in the air reminds me that it is soon to be autumn again, another season passed bringing us closer to winter. Closer to the short dark days that I’m not sure I can endure again. Not that I will be here by then. Likely as not I will be in another place.
It occurs that I’ve been pulling away from everyone around me and it makes me a little sad. Not many need me around these days; kids grow, families change, distance and decisions. It’s not a bad thing really. It proves that life will go on as it always has and nothing much will change my world. There is that niggling uncomfortable feeling again, the one that always has been a precursor to misfortune, and I fight the urge to vomit.
Today I heard an odd ticking on my nightstand as I cleaned the ashes of my dreams from the floor and try as I may I can’t find the source. An internal clock or some kind of weird audio hallucination maybe. It won’t stop but quiets some as the sun goes down, and my heart beats faster. Time is flying by and the ticking is louder than ever as the clock races towards 2:40 am. I’m afraid more than ever now, my limbs shaking like a tree in a hurricane. I can’t stay awake. 2:39 am.
The sun is too bright and I raise my hand to shade my eyes, confused. It was dark as Satan’s asshole and then suddenly I’m on the sun. There is a woman, her voluptuous frame silhouetted by the blinding luminescence. I can hear her speaking but not the words, and the point is moot when the explosion overtakes all other noise. My ribs feel like they are glass, shattered inside and the burning pain in my left breast is more than I can take. She comes closer, her long bare legs scissoring then bending as she places a hot circle on my forehead between my eyes, breathing in a husky, sensual voice, “Time to go home.”
Enroute Phoenix AZ 5 pm Final Destination – Los Angeles CA
I am on the way to the sunshine state, and looking forward to the warmth after the chilly climes of my rocky mountain home. On my iPad, I’m watching Iowa, and find myself giggling at Esper Harte waving his gun around. My seat mates are interested and interrupt my viewing to ask about the film. They asked the right girl, and naturally I obliged, turning on The Orphan Killerto give them a taste of my favourite monster’s wrath. As always, talk turns to Matt Farnsworth and give them the lowdown, and links, and resume my viewing. But still I muse, knowing soon enough I’ll fill my eyes with more madness and bloodsauce than a girl can handle, what can I say about Matt Farnsworth? Besides the obvious?
The eyes THE EYES and they are the deepest pools of blue this girl has ever seen. Trust me people, they are authentic blue. No contacts enhance those babies. Are they hypnotizing? Absolutely! Most of us would willingly drop to our knees and pledge devotion for just one gaze. Body? Yes, he is in mean shape, legions of sighing and drooling women would love to sit in on a Farnsworth Gun Show, some men too. The Tattoos, now that is some fine decoration to adorn such a bonecover. We do delight our eyes in the physical beauty of this man, and we let him know. With no remorse.
For me, it’s what lies behind the eyes that holds my interest, that beautiful mind. Such talent he holds in that mind. I could be eloquent about it, but I think blunt is the perfect way to honor him. He is an incredible talent. Inspiration has come hard and fast directly from the Cruel Creator of our favourite unfriendly neighbourhood monster, Marcus Miller. A word, an image posted, the delighted continual viewing of his brainchildren brings something new to the forefront each time. For now, its time to board my next flight, the one that will take me to LA and the adventure that lays in wait for me.
8:35 pm Los Angeles CA LAX – Airport
It’s Wednesday night, and LAX is a bustling hub of humanity, mostly friendly and unaware of the terror that stalks the shadows. My research tells me that Los Angeles is full of monsters, and I see them dancing merrily in the eyes of several around me. I could be unnerved, but I know that there is a bigger, meaner menace in the city tonight, and nothing these minor demons could show me can terrify me more than the one I’m going to meet, and his minder, Father, Matt Farnsworth. And it’s Matt I’m most curious about.
The air is close and I begin to shiver in anticipation, as I hail a cab and arrange my destination. The driver glances at me quickly, and back to his GPS before requesting confirmation. He’s nervous, and shakes it off as he takes my bag and opens the door. How chivalrous, and fascinating. As we travel, I begin to hear a low muttering, reasons why it’s not safe for a women alone there, earnestly attempting to change my mind, and shaking his head as I tell him it’s the safest place to be, that night. He doesn’t know of the madness. He will.
Ahead, lies the bloody oasis I’d been craving, a perfect place where bloodsauce flows, and some of the most creative minds I’d had the pleasure of meeting gather. The cab driver falls silent and I’m glad for the end to the endless chatter I’d been assaulted with, my mind already in the adventure ahead. I have little idea of what is to befall me, what sort of cruel scenario I may be walking into, the possibilities are endlessly drool-worthy, save the kind and loving words of my sister in slay Diane Foster, and her wicked sense of timing, I knew only that my death was to be exactly how I would choose to go, at the hands of viciousness personified, and her bloody big brother, He who has plagued my dreams for over a year now. How I adore her. I quote. “Oh. btw…we’re going to chop you up on Monday.”
So now I had an inkling as to what is on deck for me, and little else to go on. Strangely enough, I’m not worried. I should be, where the Miller Killers and axes are concerned, but instead I’m simply curious, nervous and ready to face one of the bigger events of my life thus far. In a short time, I will be in the presence of horror royalty, an audience with dark king Matt Farnsworth, and my curiosity becomes smothered by a nervous energy. I’d learned upon my first meeting with Matt that unpredictably was to be expected, that where this particularly brilliant man is concerned, it was something to be looked forward to.
The cab pulls up to a large gate on a deserted street that would normally make me cringe, watching as a lone man unlocks and allows the cab entry. My greeter turns out to Simpat Beshirian, he of Severed Souls/Nocternal Creations and the man behind the bloodsauce. This, is where movie magic has been taking place, and the site of much bloodshed and mayhem. This is the set of The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood. the location that the TOK Murder Crew have been filming in looms over me, the heavy scent assaulting my sinuses and making my eyes water in defence. It’s a fantastic place to film, all the shadows and dark corners inviting murderous fun. Here and there I see evidence of the bloody vision Matt is bringing to life, and I swear I can taste the madness in the air.
And, just like my first sighting of the elusive smile, I am struck by the beauty of it, though thankfully not speechless, this time. I break protocol and embrace the madness, my dark king, my Brother, and am amused by the sinister gleam in his eyes. I should learn to be afraid more often. This night is a homecoming of sorts, a first time reunion of family and friends that bemuses me. Onlybabysisteris missing from the fray, and is missed.
I watch my Brother in Brutality, and listen to the surreal and blasé conversation about the kill about to happen. He slips into his directors role like second skin, his mind’s eye suddenly visible in my own, as he describes what he sees. For anyone listening in, it would easily have been the strangest and scariest they might have ever witnessed. Not for this crew, however, their creativity overflows, almost electric and in each eye I see the same, focused interest.
Camera in hand, I trail behind, taking in my surroundings in this obviously haunted place. Laughing male voices lead me deeper into the maze of shelves and in some cases lethal looking metal implements, to where they all stand, surrounding Marcus’s most recent prey. I stay where I am, only doing what I do best, watching them work. Unable to resist, I creep out to snap shots of true brutality, the likes I’ve never seen, and to the point the first taste of Matt’s vision leaves me taken aback. It is much different animal, you see, when you see it played out live in front of you, rather than finished on your screen. It’s raw, and incredible to witness. Watching Matt direct from behind the camera holds much interest for me, and I intend to observe him at every opportunity. Coming into my line of sight is Marcus Miller, his mask and shirt splattered with the blood of the fortunate souls who have crossed him. He hulks out of sight, but not out of earshot and what comes next shivers me into sickened giggles. It seems Matt is pleased as well from the bellow of laughter. This crew does indeed move like a well oiled thrasher, nearly a dance if you tune out the evil chuckles. the hulking beast becomes my Brother in Slay Matt Horwichand all seem right with the world. I stand, chatting with Keeperand taking in as much as my eyes will hold, when I hear my name, and the manner in which my dispatch would come, only hear another evil chuckle from Keeper.
Lessons are big with me, and I learned that I’m going to die, in the most brutal, painful, terrifying way possible, and I couldn’t be happier or more scared. I snap a shot of Matt, at that moment, when I found out, one that I will cherish for the darkly pleasant smirk on his face. My perception of Matt Farnsworth changed at that moment. I suspect it will evolve further as I become immersed deeper into his vision. Always have had I had the utmost respect for Matt, his talent and his way with his fans, that has never changed. What has, watching him now, that beautiful camera on his shoulder and focused intently on his task at hand, is how his mind is a funhouse and that in that moment, his Monster is real – a breathing, remorseless psychopath. My arrival was like baptism by fire, and I’ve survived the experience. In 2015, you will see if you survive yours. The Miller Killers are coming for you….are you ready?
The television mutters in the other room, white noise in the back ground to fill my mind as I fulfil my needs, feed my tendencies. I find it surprisingly easy to forget my humanity here, in this place. To let the demon that lives in me breathe, spread her wings and destroy. The Reaper has been lurking near these past few days, his steely eye on mine whenever I allow him to catch it. Grim is a bad sport, I’ve found. I’d really don’t fucking care that his schedule is thrown out of whack by my extracurricular activities. A girl has to live after all.
The newscaster has a delightfully sonorous voice that sets my nerves on edge along with my teeth. He is speaking of yet another body found, this time in pieces each encased in a balloon and left at the bottom of a public pool. Police have no suspects. Oh look, a composite drawing of the victim. Morons, they got the eyes wrong. They always do. Ingenious plan though, even if I do say so myself.
My current friend is coming out of her unconsciousness like a champ. She is very strong. I chose well this time, the fight she puts up refreshing to the mewling whining the others have given in response. “You bitch.” Her muffled voice is low and mean, full of killing passion. I smile as my mouth fills with water, pouting my lips slightly. “Music to my ears. Welcome back.”
Her golden honey brown eyes glare at me, sparkling with dagger dripping fury that fly in my direction. “He’ll come for me, and you fucking know it, he’ll KILL YOU,” she spits at me, baring her teeth at me in a snarl so deep that I could see the delicate lining of her upper lip, pink as a virgin’s folds. Her rage ebbs slightly as I stride across the room to where she sits on the floor, squatting down and spreading my knees, making my small skirt slide sensuous up my thighs. “You’re a whore,” she bites, “you think I want to see that?” lifting her chin to gesture towards the bareness I’d revealed.
“He’ll come and then we will see won’ t we darling,” I chuckle, running my fingers along the smoothness of her throat to the shelf of her chin, and pull my hand back quickly as she snaps at them with her strong white teeth. “I don’t care if you don’t want to see. You’re free not to look, yet you did..” I laugh at her, rising to my feet on my 3 inch heels and pulling on the chain that bolts her to the wall, making it rattle like a metal maracas. She begins to sob, and desperately pull at the silver collar that surrounds her neck, her body wracked with the force of her fear and grief. I stand for a moment, watching her and finding myself disgusted with all this emotion. “You can stop crying. Your tears mean nothing to me. You were warned, I did so on several occasions. As you can see, patience is not one of my strongest Virtues.” She looks up at me, regarding me with dawning horror, finally understanding and knowing I was right.
A knock at the door disturbs our discussion, and I excuse myself to answer the insistent ringing of the bell. Apparently Patience isn’t my visitor’s strong suit either. I can hear muttering and grumbling from the other side, a fist pounded against the heavy wooden door. A male voice I recognise, in a snit it sounds like. How wonderful, we can begin, I think as I open the door and am nearly bowled over by the force of his embrace. His hands are everywhere as he pushes me backwards, pinning me between his body and the wall with a lip bruising kiss as his hand finds its way under my skirt.
“You changed the locks you bitch.” I can hear her gasping for air and trying to scream his name as he ravages me, his fingers finding my wetness and driving deeply as he bites my throat. My hand finds his hair and I grasp a handful, pulling hard as my orgasm breaks, unable to stop the groan that escapes my lips. “Turn around,” Zander says, reaching to spin me to the wall as I step smoothly away, straightening my skirt with a smile. He can wait. “No. I have something to show you. Come in here and see.” He smirks at me, and I gloat inwardly, wondering how I could possibly remain with this fool He has no clue as to what I’ve done and saunters my way, full of self-confidence, reaching to stroke my still hard nipple through the thin silk of my blouse and making it harder still. I slap his cheek and shove him away, not speaking but pointing towards his latest conquest.
She whimpers his name, her hand out and crying as he roughly pinches and twists my nipple, enjoying how I flinch slightly at the pain. And smile, flicking my eyes to her. His own smile fades from his eyes as he takes in his lover, her hair in disarray and nose running snot down her chin and turns back to me with a narrowed expression. “This is why you wanted me here? What am I supposed to do with her now?” I shrug, indifferently, not really caring what he does with her now that the excitement was gone. It wasn’t new anymore, and I’d frankly lost interest.
The newscaster was back with a special bulletin, The police had a lead and I laughed out loud. What buffoons they were. I’d been operating under their noses for months and they didn’t have an inkling. All the better for me, I think, hearing scuffling and the minute tinkle of the chain hitting the floor. A strangled scream follows and I spin around to see Zander thrusting his hips with abandon into her open drooling mouth. “Fuck Zander, You couldn’t wait until I was out of the damned room? Let her breathe. She’ll suck better,” I throw over my shoulder before leaving. I didn’t need to see the person I’d chosen to spend my life with fucking his whore, it was bad enough to know about them. This one came to me to gloat over their dalliances, to our home. I snapped, having had quite enough of the rumours and confessions. Five women in two weeks had come to me, one knocking at my window at 3 am, photo evidence in hand to make her point.
Reaper is lurking in the shadows, his bony hand wrapped around the handle of his Scythe as he watches the sideshow behind me. Perhaps he will take them both and make my job slightly easier. I fee his gaze on my face as my eyes flick up to the ceiling, spying a stray drop of blood that had escaped my notice until now. I’d been so careful, or so I thought. It holds my attention, that one drop of blood, the one thing that stands between me and detection. “You bit me you bitch!” Zander roars and I chuckle under my breath. Men are stupid, I think as I stare at that one drop of blood. The one thing that could ruin everything. I’d left my specially concocted cleaner and a clean rag on the bookshelf, forgotten in my exhaustion following the last bloodletting. Grabbing what I needed and carrying the small ladder, I place it underneath the offending evidence, and climb the first three narrow steps. The solution is eye wateringly astringent, and I cough as I spray it on the rag. Balancing on the narrow step, and reaching until I was on the balls of my feet, I wipe it away. The evidence destroyed, I take a step down, noticing vaguely that the whimpers and choking sobs have stopped. She didn’t last long, Lightweight.
A rough inhale behind me alerts me to Zander’s presence, his teeth on my side a moment later tear holes in my blouse and nip at my flesh as his hands roam across my body. I glance down at him, feeling the wetness of his tongue through the thin fabric and grab his hair, pulling his head back with a snarl. “Really Zander? I’m done being anyone’s sloppy seconds thanks.” Using the handful of his hair in my hand for balance, I step down from the stool and release my grip. “I didn’t fuck her,” he mutters, taking my hand and leading me to the stairs, “lets go upstairs.” I laugh at him, yanking my hand away, “Hardly. We have a mess to clean up soon.”
“We? What mess? You need to figure out what to do about her. Is this my punishment?” he snaps at me, pointing his finger at the prone body lying on the floor, “You refuse me because of her? Change the locks? What did you expect Jes. You’re a cold-hearted cunt and a man needs a little warmth.” It’s all true, every word, and still I don’t give a fuck. I didn’t suck off every guy who came my way, where he took every opportunity to bury his dick in whatever warm hole made itself available. A soft whimper and crude mutterings from his toy serve only to irritate me further. “You want it so bad? I’m sure that will accommodate you. I’m going upstairs, alone. Don’t bother me.” I knew I was pushing him closer and closer to the ledge, pushing the buttons and baiting him deliberately. I planned to make him pay for his choices and none of those payments included me.
“Don’t you walk away from me.” Zander’s low tone screams danger, and I turn my back to him as I climb the first few steps towards the upper level. “I’m coming up with you, and if you play nice, then we will take care of that, together. Or I could fuck you and make her watch, then cut her throat.” So inelegant, without foreplay what is death, to cut her throat would end the careful work I’d done to insure that her end would come at a snail’s pace. I turned to gift him with some biting remark, probably about his manhood, as that has always made him burn faster to find him in my space. “Why must you torture me? You get off on it…..God you’re sick.” He knocks me to the floor, his tongue invading my mouth as his hands continued their earlier courses, like independent beasts seeking to slip under my skin. He was nearly ruthless as he pushed himself into me, daring me to bite and scratch. I did; I fought like an animal until I couldn’t fight any longer. Human biology being what it is, I couldn’t help my body responses, and met his every angry and frustrated thrust with one of my own. When he’d had his fill and subsequently filled me with his seed, he fell limp, as was also the norm. “Get the fuck off of me. I have things to do now. Go make sure you didn’t damage her.” I quickly climbed the remaining steps and turned back to look down at him, laying there watching me as I moved away. “Please,” I smiled, relieved to see his smile in return. He’d never know what hit him.
I descend the stairs, wrapped in nothing more than my skin, already thinking ahead to the tasks ahead. The air is scented with the smell of blood, salted copper, and I hesitate. I could rip out his throat with my hands, being unarmed is no concern. The complete and utter silence was. The bottom floor was dark, only the drifting movements of the tattered robes Grim insists on wearing change my surroundings. Slowly I continue down, my ears tuned to any sort of noise that might alert me to what awaits me in the dark. My hand finds the switch on the wall where I’d had my fun for the evening chained and am nearly blinded as it flares into life. That mother fucking imbecile. I was going to hurt him badly and with delight. She sits staring at me, her eyes bulging from the chain that had obviously cut off her air supply when he’d hung her from the heavy-duty hook I’d had installed by the back door. Her lips were swollen and her bloodied tongue protruded from between them, as through she were mocking me. The back door is banging back and forth in the night breeze. I assume the asshole left that way and stalk to the door, giving the body a hard kick in the gut as I pass, stepping through with no care who sees me. “Goodbye.” The world explodes in a flurry of white screaming light as I drop to the ground, all strength gone and feel my breath as it escapes. “Zander….” I barely am able to whisper and he smiles, the same smile I fell in love with and it carries me away.
I wake in hospital surrounded by police and nurses, wired for sound and extremely pissed off. The sheriff informs me that I’d been injured and was now in good hands, fully aware of the first fact and still I debated on the second. I simply nod, rather than speak and run the risk of my tone betraying me, and so I sit and stare, waiting for the real reason he was at my bedside. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“I do indeed. I came downstairs from the shower, presuming I was alone, as I live alone. I had a boyfriend but I kicked his ass out and changed the locks recently. I came into the kitchen and found that poor woman when I turned on the lights.” “You were found unconscious beside her. Your fingerprints were collected from the collar and the chain around her neck. Care to explain?” I pause, allowing the tears of rage and frustration to come flooding from the corners of my eyes. He bought it. “I tried to lift her but she was too heavy. I tried to get the chain from around her neck but…” I didn’t try at all. But he doesn’t need to know that, I did touch the links nearest the bruised flesh, and ran my hands up the cool metal that was slipped over that hook. “Do you know who did it?” the Sheriff asks, as he looks out the window to the parking lot below, then down at his hands before meeting my eyes. He knows who did it. “Yeah, I do. I saw him after he hit me. The bastard tried to knock my brain from my head with a fucking hammer. A HAMMER. What kind of person does that?” The son of a bitch. Not only did he steal my kill but he did it so inelegantly, and left me to clean up his mess. I’d have his fucking head for this.
“You’ll be released tomorrow. Do you have anyone we can call for you?” I shook my head, suppressing the smirk that threatened to spread across my lips. Reaper stands at the door, his fingers tapping on the symbol of his Office, making me distinctly nervous. “I’ve no one. Can I go home?” asked quietly, keeping my eyes on my lap. Perhaps one day I would have sisters to call my own, fabulous bitches to share my secret world. For now, I had only the one who was not reachable in her travels. I’m sure she will be most unhappy with my chosen recreation. No matter. She’d adjust. He nods and hands me a heavy envelope. “This was left for you at the desk. Looks important to me. I’ll be in touch.” I tear into it the moment my door closes, and smile at what I find inside. If I ever see Zander again I’ll cut him to pieces. For now, my path calls me forward.
3:21 AM Los Angeles time. My eyes fly open as someone, something, twists the handle of my hotel room door, seeking entry as I lay awake, my heart banging in my chest. A mostly sleepless night has turned my mind to a more macabre place to be than normal. What could be lurking outside my door? I hear a deep muffled voice, a maniacal giggle, harsh grunting, the scraping of an axe played along the metal railing of the stairs, and I am afraid. Is all this designed to make me worry about my own sanity or the realities of my impending doom?
Not far from where I huddle under my blankets, listening and wondering if I’d fit through the small bathroom window should my escape be necessary, my colleagues still lay aslumber, content in their own dreams. Both unaware that terror may well be hunting them as well. I have no real fear for them, for they would enjoy any of the torture that would befall them.
A final whisper sounds just outside my window, this sing-song tones brutal delight, you’re going to die before it fades away into oblivion. This is true. Today I meet my death. Knowing that Sandman has flown, probably screaming, I sit at the desk, the bleached glow of the laptop throws eerie shadows about the small space, and I lose myself in words. My mind plays over and over the lessons I learned as I muse on the implications of what had transpired the day before.
This marks my sixth day and final day on set of The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood, and also slayday for me. Yesterday I saw a vile individual born out of the darkness of my heart, her inception and subsequent venomous words dragged out kicking and screaming by Cruel Creator Matt Farnsworth. Keeping in mind that I am no actress, and therefore am unaware of how exactly to reach into myself to find this bitch, I found myself in the capable hands of Matt. With support and encouragement from my Sister in Slay DianeFoster, and my good friend and cohort Keeper,and under the watchful eyes and ears of the Murder Crew, I finally found the cobweb ridden trap door where all my darkness is stored. And I’ll need that for what is about to transpire
Hours later I find myself sitting in the backseat of Associate Producer Kaleb Tholen‘s low slung car in LA traffic, listening to live story time as Keeper reads his latest. A welcome distraction to my raving thoughts. Soon I will be at the mercy of the intense sunlight and the TOK Murder Crew. Am I nervous? Does Marcus his swing axe with precision? The answer is yes on both counts.
Now anyone who knows me knows I’m about lessons. And bloodsauce, and that’s exactly what I have received thus far. The lessons came yesterday. Today the bloodsauce will flow in bloody rivers, or so I have been told. I can’t let that feline out of the bag. It knows too much. But I can tell you my impressions.
Donning my costume, Armenian coffee in hand I pace and allow the panic rat to twist and bite in my chest. My first real taste of madness came the day before, my cherry popped in a most surreal way, and it left me floundering. Today, the shadow of the axe weighs heavily, and I’m ready, I think, to test the mettle of my inner scream queen.
My first view of the Miller Killers, their brutal attentions focused on me is enough to send anyone screaming off the edge of the abyss. It’s easy to forget the cameras in the wake of the bloody tsunami stalking my way, and in the deviant gleam I find in the eyes of my director. His direction is perfect, as is the show advancement of those who will seal my fate. I admit, they were provoked, and you’ll find little remorse for it.
I observe the sinuous movements of babysister, how she slinks forward with the grace of a wildcat, her eyes alight with hunger and desire. She wants to hurt me, the intent nearly dripping from the radiant beacons that are her eyes, and I’m her willing victim. Big brother in his bloody mask, his axe swaying back and forth like pendulum is another story. He is built to terrify and that he does. His eyes rage from the eye holes in his mask like icy blue Hell, a capering psychotic light. I am afraid of him, and the first scream that tears from my lips is real, to my pleasure.
To say I was given the blood soaked royal treatment is not adequate. The memories of what feels like gallons of bloodsauce poured over my head, or sprayed in my face will last forever as will the warm feeling of camaraderie from my brothers in arms, legs…Severed Souls….
Behind The Scenes The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood Matt Farnsworth Cruel Creator Full Fathom 5 Studios
Behind the Scenes babysister Diane Foster and bloody big brother Matt Horwich The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood A Matt Farnsworth Film Full Fathom 5 Studios
Behind The Scenes babysister Diane Foster The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood A Matt Farnsworth Fiim Full Fathom 5 Studios
And so I’d like to spend my greetings and say merci from my dark heart, for the forceful direction of my Dark King Matt Farnsworth, and yes sisters, it IS kinda hot. No Remorse. Thanks Matt, for everything, Brother. The equally cruel yet gentler suggestions from my Cruel Queen Diane Foster. Thanks sis, you opened my eyes. That was hot too… For the discussions, Matt Horwich, you are the Multiverse my brutal brother. Keep smashing those limits.
I could get poetic, but the Murder Crew, man, you guys slay me. Kaleb you are a scary hilarious man with a remarkable eye. I enjoyed getting to know you. Simpatyou are an incredible artist. It was a pleasure to watch you work. And my thanks to Mr. & Mrs. Beshirian. It was a pleasure and an honour. Marcos, thanks for the tips….I’ll never hear sound in film the same again, and David…you taught me much. Thanks for the calming words, I won’t forget them. My good friend Keeper, you sir, impressed me. Thank you for your support and encouragement. It means much.
My time in The City of angels was fraught with horror and delight. Many memories and night terrors await in its wake. For that I am grateful. As for you, my TOK Family, they await you too…the memories of what was and the new ones to come. Prepare yourselves. Deadbolt your doors and make no sound. You know what happens when Miller Killers come around…..The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood
The day has come full circle to where I found myself the day before, the month, the week, aeons of time. The day is bleeding its final goodbye as the shadows draw their elongated fingers across the ground, reaching to devour each light that remains behind. I stand in the newly born darkness, not that anyone could see me, I am practiced in the art of dimness.
I am all things, the All Seeing, existing in both the spiritual world and the physical, simultaneously, the ever Present. I am called Bastian, a forbidden warrior in my human life, I stole lives, ripped them still screaming from their shells, and delighted in it. My sin was discovered, found at the labour of men, and I was sent to meet my own burning infinity, bound to a stake and accused of witchcraft. When mortality found me, a millennia ago, yesterday, I was spared, changed and afforded immortality. In turn, I reap the souls from those that are deserving of Hell and Damnation, fully sanctioned to continue as I was, always whispering “Nicham,” as they screamed denial.
The time has come around once again to feed, to draw the eyes from the living corpses that my henchman has found to serve his merry band of malicious miscreants. Quietus, he who stalks the daylight hours, serves me well, carrying within him the liquefied forms of his minions, Scamp, Slurp and Berserker. In the crowded streets, Quietus has roamed, searching for their quarry in the masses that wander in their daily lives, unaware that they may have met the gaze of one so baneful. So many unaware that their fate lays in the hands of this darkest fiend, they simply move about in their small lives, until one notices his presence. He, too, is practiced in the art of remaining opaque, dressed in his suit of nondescript flesh, catching only the eyes of the one who would feed us.
This night I choose to watch as they work, to observe them as they make their presence known to their unsuspecting prey, pulling them from their slumber and devouring their life essences as they silently scream in their dreams. It pleases me to do so, as I stand beyond the sight of human eyes, prepared to pass into the mortal world, my darkest portal opened by the energy my creatures create, to devour the orbs of our prey and capture the souls as they still lay sleeping.
Once, long ago, he was to be devoured and his soul brought to me, his life essence imbibed along with his eyes. The job had already begun when the seed of darkness was revealed to Scamp, who was first to bite. A most delectable morsel, and not one to be wasted, and so I instructed the Terror Triad to leave him drawing breath. I allowed him to wake, assumed my human form and offered him a taste of the eternal delights I held, those that he agreed to and reveled in, and set him on his course as my confidant and the guiding darkness of the other three.
His soul belongs to me, in payment for immortality and the enjoyment of allowing his own desires to gain freedom. Tonight he has found us a prey that is unlike another, this no ordinary evil, the darkness not a seed but a complete invasion of her soul. This one I will not spare. No, this soul is black as night; it must be eradicated from the human world and it will serve me in the deepest pits of my domain.
Within the bedchamber of the abomination that had been allowed to hunt freely in the sea of humanity, Quietus slips unnoticed, standing at the foot of her bed, watching as she sleeps . His inclinations are evident, the humanity still prevalent in his bearing, as he licks his teeth, making them glisten in the moonlight that floods the room. From behind the veil I observe, curious as she turns onto her back, affording him a view of her bare skin. I his see his desire grow further, as his hand steals forward to pester at the ridge in the trousers he wears.
Aware of my presence he reigns in his appetite, fingers rising to unbutton his shirt, and digging deeply into his belly to tear open the scar created by Scamp in a former time. A bloodless seal broken in order to spill forth the bodies of the ones who devour, inky liquid that reforms into these most evil of creatures.
First to reform is Scamp, he who resembles a small goblin, his talent is to skin the flesh from prey, his teeth that of razors and claws that tear and flay, muttering atrocities as he goes. Slurp, a wriggling delight, sinuous as a snake, she appears next, stretching her tongue like body as she travels up the bed to lick gently at the flesh that will soon be Hers. Berserker, a fallen angel cast out by our counterparts above, He who cannot be seen, his true form hidden, he becomes as his meal imagines him. This night he resembles a tentacled demon, with rows of sharpest teeth ready to rip off the appendages of his meal.
This gathering of darkness draws close to observe the others, our quarry opens her eyes, taking in the monsters that sit before her with a smile, eyes glinting in the meagre light of the room, flickering from one horrific face to the other, before settling on Quietus, who stands in the shadowed corner deep in thought. She speaks words unrecognised to my ears, using her blood-red fingertip to call him closer, offering him his chance to feed upon her flesh before Scamp peels it from her bones.
Her eyes widen in shock as the flesh is peeled from the tip of her lacquered toe, the skin shredded from the row of lethal points that line Scamp’s maw. He works quickly devouring the supple skin from her well toned body, skittering out of the way as she cries pain and flips over, trying to smother the monster that has broken through her defenses. From his corner, Quietus watches, a gleam of pleasure in his eye as he lights the pungent tobacco he’d been rolling into a cigarette. As much as he enjoys the pleasures of the flesh, this act feeds his tendencies more fully. A raspy growl erupts from Scamp, his voice low and menacing as Slurp slides against him, in a gesture meant to annoy or as one of affection I am never sure.
She slinks past Scamp, her rough skin lapping up every drop of precious fluid that oozes from the defleshed body beneath her, desiccating the muscle and sinew as she travels. I can read her mind as she feeds, the delight that she may take her fill and not be concerned with leaving this one to survive. From his corner, Berserker hovers, his eyes bright as he anxiously awaits his turn, watching as Quietus creeps closer, his fingertips lightly stroking our meal’s red and raw thigh stopping only once to blow smoke into her face. Her eyes hold his own, bulging orbs in the ruined features, a slight smile playing on her lips.
She speaks one word only, low and barely perceptible, and strains towards him as he smiles in turn…as he leans closer….
I do what I usually do at this time of day. It’s early, or late if you’re a night owl like me. I sit on the roof of this grand old place, an odd mix of antebellum meets Modern Art. It’s weird, but it’s home. And it suits us, because, to them we are weird. We’re good with it. Where was I?
Oh, yeah, the roof. I sit on the roof, with my XL coffee, Dark as Night, Sweet as Sin is my vice, I can’ t enough of this dark, delicious, nectar……what? Oh sorry, I’m in love you see. Coffee is everything. The roof, I’m getting there, the roof…I sit on the roof, with my lover, and I watch the world turn. It’s a Zen thing, given my line of work, it makes sense.
Who am I? I’m Death. I know, cool job right? Well, I’m a Reaper. Death is my brother. Total Nerd…shhhhh The Girls, they call me Maiden, sometimes Sister Death, which irks my brother so badly! AHAHAHAHA I love that. Scythe lies beside me, snoring, I really have to trim her stalk, that should help. We met quota today, so I celebrate with Jelly Tots and All Dressed Chips. Of course together! Only a weirdo eats them separately…huh? Oh I’m the weirdo. HA HA. But you’re right.
So I sit on the roof and watch the moon sink lower in the sky, it’s really quite pretty, There’s a small river nearby, I can hear the frogs grinding away, they sort of sound like whiskey soaked hard smoking singers.
Hmmm….So the moons sinks in the sky, and the sun peeks just over the horizon, reminds me of a child cheating at hide-go-seek, slowly rising up to smile in the dark sky. I love sunrises. It’s like rebirth. I know, strange thought for a Reaper, but it feels that way too. Each day is a new slay, new souls to acquire, new playthings for my Sisters. Damn are they insatiable. Especially Sloth. She might look all disinterested but she’s a firecracker. They all have their way, all special, lethal? Yes, every single one. I think its funny.
Envy‘s up. I hear her klickity clacking away on her keyboard. Probably planning out the fun for the day. Or working on the story that won’t die. Sheesh *eye roll* Kill them all already and let’s do something new!! I’m bored. It’s not safe to have bored Reaper around. All kind of shenanigans and means of Hell will be raised. You love it. I see, is that Sloth? Holy Hell, she dragged herself outside. She must be on to something. Someone. No I didn’t say that, stop watching me.
I hear Lustsinging in the bathroom. Great acoustics in there. Should be, it’s huge! Our Sister Lustis so lethal. She would be a great Reaper, but my BROTHER has other plans. Of course. Still, it’ll be fun to watch her kick his ass. I might make popcorn. I wonder if we could sell tickets. Note to self, check with Wrath. Speak of the Rage, she’s cussing a blue streak in the kitchen. Wonder who pissed in her cornflakes so early in the day. Oh Gluttony giggle.
She likes to feed. On many things. This morning she is making breakfast, hope there’s bacon. I like bacon. And Coffee. Wrath and Gluttony are hilarious. That argument didn’t last long. Sounds like they have something planned. I sense fireworks, or explosions. Probably explosions. I hope there’s a lot. I like explosions, and Coffee. Bacon.
Avariceis up, and she’s in a rotten mood. That’s not going to be good. She’ll be affecting everyone today, Think I’ll stay up here. Vanity is checking her look in the mirror, brushing her hair back and smiling. It’s kind of funny how they play off each other. I wonder if they realise it. Coffee’s cold. I don’t mind. Like mirror images, together the authorities should be sounding the alarm. Those two are deadly.
The sun is up. Its like someone took every colour ever and painted the sky with it. Mother Nature’s most garish and mind-blowing and amazing art. Red and orange, yellow and pink, blue, so beautiful. Whatever. Reapers don’t cry. I’ll cut you. That’s better. You can stop laughing now HA HA HA. Okay so Sister of DEATH has her squishy moments. Don’t tell anyone okay?
AHAHAHAHAHA Vanity and Gluttony are stalking Matt Farnsworthagain. Wait, they all are…He must be spreading the madness already. Hey! I want in! So yeah, that’s the Warren of Weirdoes, The Den of Iniquity. I’m Death, and those seven women in there? They’re the Seven Deadly Sinners. You’ll meet them soon. Good luck.
ENVY TELL THEM TO WAIT FOR ME! .
The Sequel to the iconic slasher film The Orphan Killer. A Matt Farnsworth Film Stars Diane Foster, Shayna Baszler, Marina Shafir, Jessamyn Duke, Nick Principe, and Matt Farnsworth Music in the trailer by HIRAX TWO KILLERS. TWICE THE CARNAGE
It had been weeks since I had last been out into the world and I was becoming restless. Death Maiden was sleeping, resting up from her last outing, so I decided to go out. It began as an innocent stroll through the woods that surround her home. That would quickly change.
I had been walking and not paying much attention to exactly where I was going. The air had become thick, heavily scented with a vile odor that made my eyes water. When I looked up I could see a street wavering in front of me, like a dream coming to life. I blinked rapidly, hoping to make it disappear, it didn’t.
I found myself in an alley, surrounded by large metal bins filled with the source of the odor. Large bags of garbage emitting noxious fumes spilled over and onto the pavement. Dim lights flickered above my head. I could hear a most unusual noise, a symphony of mechanical growls, some low and rumbling, others high and whiney. I began to walk towards the sounds.
I came to the end of the alley and could see cars, the likes of which I’d never seen before. Shiny and loud, cruising up and down the road. Most were filled with men, young and full of themselves. Many years later I would come to realize I had been in the late 1960′s, watching what passed as fun on a Friday night.
I turned and headed up the street. There was a large area where several of the cars were parked. The young people were standing about, discussing a number of topics. “Can you believe Joey thinks his Chevy can out run me?” “Did you see what Mary Ellen had on today?”
They seemed not to notice me as I made my way past them. I was confident I could go by and disappear unseen. Then it happened. A tall leggy thing with dark hair piled up in an unusual manner noticed me. “Look at the freak show.” Her friends giggled, fueling her, giving her the confidence to continue. “Where’d you come from?”
I continued walking, not giving her the satisfaction of a response. “I’m talking to you bitch.” She accentuated this by placing her hands on my back and pushing. Still trying to remain inconspicuous, I ignore the shove and continue to walk. “You too good to talk to us?” Another shove from behind. The laughter of her posse is more than I can handle.
Swiftly I turn, grabbing her by the throat. “It would do you well to keep your hands to yourself” I growl at her. She smiles at me, thinking she still has the upper hand. Her friends are up and behind her, ready to attack, waiting for the word. She raises her hand to them, signaling to stand down.
“What makes you think I’m scared of you, freak show?” The words are rough and low as they squeak out around the pressure I’m putting on her voice box. “You’re in the wrong place to be so brave.” She has a wild look in her eyes that normally wouldn’t scare me but this….this being is unafraid and she has back-up. Four females that will do whatever she commands.
Slowly I ease up on her throat as I try to reason with her. “I don’t want trouble. Just let me go and I won’t hurt you or your friends.” Looking in her eyes I can see my words don’t faze her. Trying to come across as the malevolent force I am is not working. Her eyes are still alight with a darkness I’ve only seen once before. It is at this moment I realize I may be in trouble.
She smiles “go on then, get on down the road. But don’t come back.” I release my hold on her. Foolishly I believe that I am going to be okay. I nod and turn, picking up where I left off in my journey. My own thoughts fill my head and I don’t hear her tell her friends “we will get her at the cemetery, get in the car.”
It feels as though I’ve walked many miles, my thoughts heavy in my mind. What am I doing here? I know that generally when these portals open there is some one, or some thing, that needs to be taught a lesson, but who? What will it be? Will I know it when I find it? I’m beginning to think that I need to go back, find Death Maiden and then return to this place. After all she is better equipped for this than I am.
My nose begins to twitch as it fills with an odor I recognize, an odor of death, life long passed. I look up and see a it. A large cemetery, filled with old crumbling headstones. I decide to go in and see if I can clear my head. Maybe, just maybe I will be able to focus on what it is I need to find.
I slip through the gate and a feeling of home rushes over me. The air is cooler, filled with the scent of Jasmine. I can see a place in the center where I can sit. I make my way towards the benches, unaware of the women that are flanking me on all sides, preparing for an ambush.
Just as I am about to sit down I see her, the leggy thing from before. “You should have stayed wherever it is you came from.” Her words drip with venom. “We don’t like strangers here, do we ladies?” A symphony of no’s resound from her “ladies” and I look around. I’m surrounded by these women, all with hatred in their eyes.
My mind begins to show me pictures. Pictures of the leggy one. She is older but unmistakable. In some she has a baby, a beautiful creature with curly dark hair. In others she’s with a man, the babies father. These images flash before my eyes, showing me her life to come. The final image is of the child, beaten and bloody, tears streaming down her face. Standing above her is Legs, a smile on her lips as she prepares to deliver another blow. It is Legs that must go. She must be taught that you don’t do this to the innocent.
“I told you, I don’t want any trouble.” I speak these words as my hand goes into my pocket, searching for the card Death Maiden had given me. If I can find it and speak the incantation that is on it, I won’t be alone. She will come and together we will make them pay.
I pull the card from my pocket and begin reciting the words. The air begins to swirl around me, blowing my hair around. Leaves lift up and dance in the air. Legs is the only one not frightened by this. Her eyes are on me, burning with rage. The other four have stepped back, scarred and rightfully so.
To my right a whirling portal begins to open up. A window to the world from which I came. All at once, much like a magic act in reverse, Death Maiden is there, standing beside me with Scythe in her hand.
The air settles back down. Once again it is quiet. Legs speaks, “Who the hell is this?” She is unaffected by what has just happened, her only concern is us.
I smile as I tell her “This is your worst nightmare come true.” Scythe begins to sing as Death Maiden and I step towards Legs.
I wake from my slumber, stretching as the feline that stalks the wilds that surround my dwelling does in the last rays of the displeasing light of day, feeling my back arch and pull deliciously. Some time has passed since my last Journey, and my body is yearning to feed once again. I am ravenous more frequently as of late, each slay driving me to feed more often. I muse on this as I slip bare as the day I was made from the warm coverings I slept in, my unnatural blues still half-lidded in the still bright day. Scythe stands in Her place, Her mirrored eye reflecting my bonecover, it’s sparkle illuminating the markings left from the bites I received on a Journey, making them glow in the dimness of my home.
Prey paid a heavy price for the resulting injuries on my flesh, his ocular orbs still floating in Jar, watching from their place with their brethren. They are still Treasure to my black heart, their own blue pigments faded from the prolonged swim in the preserving fluid. I enclose my bonecover with the fabric I wear, fastening it tight against me, running the bristly contraption through my night shot ember hair, its curls tightening around my wrist as I pull the tangles free. The creature that stalks is close by, watching me as I preform my rituals, it’s curiosity nearly palpable in the its presence.
Raven has wandered from my dwelling, presumably to slink through the shadows. She has been quiet and reflective since our return from our last slay, choosing solitude to my company as she works through whatever preys upon her mind. She has learned her Lessons well and it pleases me, and yet she seems unsure and watchful as I administer the Final Indignities, much like the creature that lingers, and without the heavy disapproval that emanates from its stare.
Scythe moans from Her place, softly singing her discontent to my ears, quivering and rattling against the wooden embrace that holds Her upright. Her voice rises in urgency, pitch noticeably higher as Her anxiety increases. I retrieve Her, holding Her smooth stalk to my breast and whispering my promises to feed to Her quicksilver blade, placing my lips to her cool surface.
The room ripples and an enormous shuddering bang shakes Jar, jostling my Treasure around and causing them to bounce off one another. I am drawn through and find myself in a place of strange smells and loud moving wagons without horses to guide them. Scythe moans her lugubrious song as i spot Raven, nearly snarling with pleasure at a woman nearly naked in her fabrics she wears to hide her bonecover.
“Who the hell is this?” the disaffected creature asks, her tone to my ward most distasteful as is her attitude. Raven smiles at her, all teeth and deadly intent, as she speaks, her voice that of tolling bells, “This is your worst nightmare come true.” Scythe sings as I approach this creature, joining Raven in her approach.
Raven greets me with her snarling smile still firmly upon her lips as she places her hand upon my arm, daring much in her current state. She comes closer still, murmuring her discovery to my ears and bringing a growl of fury to my own lips. This creature must be disposed of, her heinous deeds must not be allowed to continue, and I nod to her, pulling my arm free from her increasingly tightening grip and turning to this disgusting creature and her gathering of darkest sisters.
“What are you looking at bitch,” she spats at me, as I gaze upon the mask she wears, the fear leaking through in the smallest expressions. Scythe is unusually quiet, and would be as an inanimate object but for the trembling that causes Her blade to shimmer in the failing light. The one Raven calls Legs flickers her eyes to my unnatural blues and back to Scythe’s beautiful sickle smile, and straightens her spine. Every nuance of her moment screams warnings to my mind, there is no flight in this creature, she will fight and she will taste defeat.
One of the others charges me, a sneer of contempt on her lips, and her claws bared to dig at my flesh. I whirl low and feel Scythe’s smooth stalk slide through my palm, catching her where her head meets her neck and severing it. The shell remains standing, taking a further step as the lovely crimson jets from the stump that used to hold her mind before collapsing at my feet.
Legs looks on in incredulous horror, watching as her sister’s head flies over her own and lands in the small silver trashcan that stands against the wall. Scythe growls her pleasure at being fed, Her edge sparkling with rubies in the fading illumination. Raven smiles at me, her visage beautiful and lethal as her teeth are bared in the direction of the remaining women standing before us. “My turn,” she speaks in low tones, advancing on the grouping, hunger in her eyes.
I watch, delighted by my companion’s actions, as the crimson sprays around us. The four of them are stunned, horrified by what they have witnessed. This makes my job so much easier. Legs will be the one to catch the full on fury of my powers but she will have to wait, I want her to see just what we can do. I hold her in place with my minds arms as I approach her friends. The fear is sweet and ignites my inner demons.
I grab one of them and sink my teeth into her neck, keeping my eyes locked with Legs. I want to make sure she can see that this is something I take great pleasure in. I feel the life drain from this creature as I drink in her very existence. Her body goes limp and I drop her to the ground.
The others are still in shock and make no movement to help their friends. So I grab another, feeling the rush of power I get from feeding, loving the ease with which I can take them. I take her quickly as well, these pawns are not my main target and there is no need to anything other than dispatch of them in a hasty manner. Once they are out of way I will have such fun with Legs.
Two down and one to go. The trance they have been under is lifting and Legs is beginning to struggle against my hold. I will have to concentrate harder on keeping her still. I look to Death Maiden, using my eyes to tell her that I can’t take the last of Legs posse and to please be so kind as to take care of her.
I turn my full attention to Legs. Stepping up to her I snarl in her face “You will learn a most valuable lesson tonight. I will make sure of it.” She tries her best to wriggle free of my grasp. Her attempts are fleeting as I use both my mind and my body to hold her. Standing behind her, my mind holding her tightly to me, I use my hands to hold her head. One on her throat, clenched and ready to tear the flesh away. In her ear I speak, softly, soothing her, “watch and know that what awaits you makes this look like child’s play.”
I can’t help but giggle as I watch Maiden and Scythe approach the last of the others.
The last of the one Raven calls Legs sisters stands frozen in place, her eyes the colour of spoiled grave dirt wide in fear. She is correct to fear me, for her life is now mine to dispose of as I see fit. This creature watched Leg’s theft of a child’s innocence with no thoughts in her addled head to stop it, and will pay most dearly for her transgression.
Raven has her Prey held firmly in place, her teeth sharp as Scythe’s blade close enough to puncture the flesh should she incline her head even slightly, the desire to feed warring with the pleasure of forcing Legs to watch her dark hearted sister’s demise. She shall have both.
I drift close to the lone woman, who’s eyes are fixed upon Raven and her Prey, left unaware of my closeness to her, and so is startled as I grasp her throat with my own hand, squeezing the supple cartilage in my talons as she begins to struggle to draw air. Her arms flail about, her hands desperate to find purchase and cause me injury in order to gain her freedom. She will not, for my fabric flesh covers are as second skin, and her hands have not strength enough to tear them from my bonerack.
A low and throaty bubbling sound escapes Raven’s lips, pulling them back to expose the sharpest points of her teeth that glow in the fading light. My Prey staggers slightly, the fight gone out of her as she realizes the die is cast and her fate is no longer in her palms but in mine own. Scythe is softly singing, her voice ringing and echoing in empty street, and Raven adds her growl to it, creating a brutally beautiful harmony.
I smile into Prey’s distasteful eyes, pushing her back until her shoulders meet the wall behind us. At her feet, the head of her dark sister lies with its still oozing stump lies staring up at us, mouth agape with the last moments of terror her brain felt as she passed into the Clearing. Scythe bristles in my grasp, displeased with being placed away from my hand, where she will stand and regard my administrations. My hands will provide the necessary punishment that this creature will suffer, and it will please me to do so.
I lean close to her ear, and whisper her fate softly, releasing her throat slightly so that she may sing her aria of pain to my heart. She instantly inhales to scream, and I thrust my talons into her flesh, tearing away the soft tissue of her breast as I drive them deeper, feeling the cage that encloses her black heart shatter under the weight of my fist. Raven breathes deeply from behind me, the scent of this monster’s lifeforce igniting the hunger in her once more. She is insatiable as she feeds, discarding the shells of many before she’s had her fill. It fills me with delight to watch her as she sates her need for nourishment. Prey begins to shiver and shake as I feel my fingers grasp the warm and meaty muscle in my hand, pulling it with a hard yank back through the hole I’d made in her bonecover. It beats still, drooling its crimson lifewater through my hand and landing with a soft pattering noise on the ground between us. I hold it before her eyes, allowing the tendrils of veins and tissues to trail behind, close enough for her to smell the rotting flesh that was the pump of life that kept her diseased body and mind afloat, the tang of the deep red claret it holds within, heartsblood.
Prey stares at me, her ocular orbs flickering from the heart and back again, in disbelief and terror, their light going dim and disappearing as I rip the muscle free of its moors, shredding it with my talons before dropping it beside the head of her sister. Her shell falls hard, in an untidy heap, as I turn to Raven, sucking the still warm fluid from my fingers. She smiles at me, a most savage and gentle smile, and begins to whisper to Legs.
Legs begins to squirm, horrified by what she has just witnessed. I tighten my grip on her neck as I whisper “That will pale in comparison to what is in store for you.” I can’t help but smile as she stutters, “Wh..wh..why? Wha..what did I do?” She is almost crying as the last words escape her mouth. I spin her around and pull her to me. Our noses are touching as I look into her eyes, through them into her soul.
“What have you done?” I can barely control the rage that boils inside of me. “What have you done? What did the child do? Hmmm? That beautiful, innocent child. What did she do that was so terrible? So terrible that you felt compelled to beat her?” Her eyes are wild with fear as she tries to figure out how I know. I inhale deeply, the fear is intoxicating.
I can see Maiden, silently slipping up behind prey, ready to help should I need her. I nod at her as I push Legs back, right into Maiden’s arms. A squeal makes its way out of her as she realizes she is trapped. Maiden has her in her arms and she is fighting. Flailing about, trying to get free, Maiden laughs. The sound of it stills Legs.
I pull the leather strap from my waist, wrapping one end around my hand. She knows what is about to happen yet she is helpless, unable to run, she is at my mercy. I bare my teeth at her and begin administering the lashings. Her clothes tear open as the leather whips across her torso. Small red lines appear almost instantly, blood poppies form and glisten in the moon light. She tries to scream but it is of no use, Maiden has her talons dug deep into her throat, choking off any sound. I lash out at her, her chest, bare legs, arms, not stopping until all of her body is covered with red welts. Tears stream down her cheeks, making her look just like the image of the child that I had seen earlier.
Stepping to her, I drop the strap and run my fingers over the marks on her flesh, smearing the blood. My mouth is watering with anticipation, but I’m not quite done. I touch Maiden’s hand, hoping she will relax her grip so Legs can answer the question I intend to ask. She doesn’t want to, I see it on her face, but she releases her grip slightly. I take hold of Legs hair, it’s fallen down around her face, and pull her head to the side, exposing her neck. “Tell me, did that feel good?” An almost inaudible no escapes from her. “I didn’t think so.” I pull her hair harder, her neck taut, vessels pulsing, I can take no more. I sink my teeth into her flesh and begin draining her lifes blood.
The blood of those who do evil tastes so very sweet, it’s hard to stop, but I do. I leave her with just enough to keep her conscious. She should be conscious for her final moments. Licking the crimson from my lips, I look deep into her eyes. Gone is the fire that raged there. I place my hands on her face and kiss her. “I hope you enjoy the hell that awaits you.” I drop her head and step back. She is Maiden’s now.
It pleases me to observe Raven administering her Lesson to Legs, the lashing from the strip of hide has broken that fierce pride that rested inside this horrid creature that I hold in my arms. I release my grasp, allowing her to fall at our feet, all strength gone from her legs she lands hard, scraping her knees on the stone below.
Raven licks the sweet crimson bouquet from her lips and teeth, her hunger slaked for the moment, and meets my unnatural blues with an eyebrow raised. A silent question asked hangs in the air between us, and I flick my orbs to the dark and dingy passage that runs between two buildings. She reaches down, clasping a handful of Prey’s hair in her delicate hand and barks at her to stand, pulling her up as she stalks away.
Prey squeaks her pain, what once was a proud roar of a confused lioness now the minute whine of a broken woman. This pleases me immensely and I hear that black sound of joy bubble out of my mouth once again. We have an audience, it appears, a dark shadow sitting upon the strange metal staircase that slithers up the wall up one side of the passage. A small red eye appears, blinking on and off as its breath curls in the air. It matters not to me that someone watches, perhaps it too will Learn.
I reach to touch Raven’s shoulder, calling halt to her progress. In the shadows a shadowy eye has opened in the poorly lit passageway, a doorway that would afford some privacy from all eyes, save the shadow on the staircase. Upon the portal to the inside, a single word has been carved, its ink glowing scarlet in the darkness: Sinner. An appropriate place to administer the Final Indignities, as though it had been marked for Prey alone.
Raven hangs back, after slinging Prey headlong into the alcove, a snarl on her lovely face that ripples her upper lip up enough for me to see the pink that lines it. This is confusing to my mind, and I stare at her as a low groan drifts from the dark place. This building makes her distinctly nervous, her jaw muscles clenching and bunching beneath the surface of her bonecover perplexing.
Prey has risen to her feet, and is ineffectually pounding her fists against the portal, screaming in her newly cracked voice for help. From behind me, Raven growls close to my ear, startling me into grabbing her throat and throwing her to the ground. She is on her feet once again and close to me in a blink. I touch her cheek, nodding and see her visibly relax. My companion had informed me of these places, houses of deities, not fearsome to my black soul, holding only air and the memories of voices raised in union.
A faint rattling noise draws my attention back to this reality, and the lush flowing essence that would feed me as the blood feeds Raven. Prey falls silent the moment my gaze falls upon her, lips trembling along with her flesh as I take in the despicable creature before me reconsidering my meal. She should suffer further for her crimes, anything less would not be a lesson learned and no perspective would be gained from a quick death.
She begins to scream, nearly leaping at me with her nails and teeth bared. Scythe lashes out, catching her in the torso and slicking a wide swath of flesh and blood from her bonecover, showing the cage her black heart is encased in. She stops mid launch, pressing her hands to the open wound with her mouth hanging open. With my talons I pierce her tongue, digging deeply into the muscle before ripping it free. Never again would she be able to raise words to spit at another.
Raven darts in front of me, leaning close into her face and whispering a question with barely contained control. Legs nods vigorously, the blood splashing from her mouth as she attempts to speak. I find this amusing, and toss the flaccid bit of useless flesh at her, watching it bounce off her forehead and into the pool of blood that lies at her feet. Raven turns to look at me, her head cocked and a smirk on her lips, sending me a vision that both delights and saddens me. She saunters off, giving the tongue a kick into the passageway before leaving me to my work.
Prey whimpers, a sound that grates on my ears, holding her bloody hands up in front of her, begging me to spare her. I will not spare her. Scythe’s sharpest point enters her body at the pubis bone, sinking deep as it tears up, spilling her insides onto the doorstep, painting the walls with the most delicious claret before tearing the tender hollow that held her breath and her voice. She sinks to the ground, slowly leaving a trail down the door, her legs folded beneath her as her eyes glaze over and her essence evaporates in the cooling air.
I chose not to feed on her, though she had reached the understanding of her wrongdoing, there was no sign of remorse at her end. She will not reach the Clearing, but will wander, impotent to the End of Days. Raven appears at my side, watching the life depart, and pensively so. She turns to me, taking in my blood splattered visage before speaking of her musings.
A million questions run through my mind. I know that Maiden will provide the answers I seek but I believe I will wait until we return to her home. This place is giving off a weird vibe and I’m more than ready to be gone.
Maiden senses my trepidation and puts a hand on my shoulder. Her touch makes most tremble in fear but for me it is a great comfort. She leads the way towards the path that will take us home, out of this strange time, back to where we both will be more at ease. Once there I will try not to overwhelm her with my curiosity.
I won’t ask for your hand
It’s not how I’m made
To ask for anything
Even as I hold the Reliquary
I ask not for even your hand
A turn of the clocks arms
an eternity they chase each other
Never to be in the other’s embrace
To request such
rarely crosses my lips
for it falls often on deaf ears
A game of facades to hide
The aching and constant
Lessons learned most harshly
Scoff not, dear one
For you are the same as I
The common bond wider
Survival is not a choice
It’s an imperative
Ingrained, when I’d rather lie down
in the Clearing and wait for
The Reaper or A Gunslinger
To end my days
To take the cup from my lips
Carry me home, whether to
Greener pastures full of light
Or the Beautiful Darkness
Full of Fire, Full of Night
The Reaper comes not
Her Scythe screams not a note
Gunslingers exist no more
Only the ghost of a memory
to my regret
This day I open my eyes yet again
Curse the light, yearn for the
They that cover and hide
A small riddle their only requirement
Should I answer true
My desire granted,
Sweet indentured servitude
to Collector of Souls
Should I not
The light shall envelope and embrace
it’s promise the exquisite pain
of final reward
Allow me to introduce myself. I am First Governess of Rivers of Grue, Death of The Four Horsemen, Member of the Court of Madness, and Death Maiden.
My Sisters, Vanity, Avarice, Wrath, Gluttony, Sloth, Envy and Lust, have each a talent in their own right and now are part of this esteemed grouping.
Enter here, and be entertained by The Seven Deadly Sinners.
My Sisters of Sin and I have our special roles. We each assist each other, on occasion we block each other, but we always get our target in one way or another. Our jobs are simple, we do them well. We leave our mark so all will know who has been there before, and so the Horsemen know we’re doing what we must. Death is our Governess, our Sister, and our Salvation. You will meet at least one of us during your life, you will definitely meet her.
I don’t know what time it is. Its dark out. The barred windows allow just enough light through to show that dawn is dressing herself up to make an entrance. This makes 3 days now I’ve not slept, my mind racing, filled with lunatic ravings, oh the desire to fix this. I’m sick, physically sick, exhausted, restrained. I deserve it, after last time.
I know…I KNOW…Stop telling me. Just stop, it’s not helping. It only drives me to end it. End it with me, or with the next person who walks through that door. The hospital staff peek through the small window, making notes and nodding to themselves. They feign concern, but I’m truly an experiment to them.
I’m not sure if my roommate is real or a figment of my imagination. He sits there, watching and smiling at my struggles, malevolence lurking beneath the benign mask. I can’t speak to him. I’m unable. I’ve spoken not a word since they put me here. And won’t. I am full of secrets, a cauldron of conundrums, how fortunate that I chose to cut my own throat. That was last time. Before they stuck me here with the monster that sits across from me.
I did cut it. Do you see the scar? With a piece of glass I found on the floor in that room. That room. I don’t want to remember that. That place was Evil, the very maw of Hell, and I stupid and naive enough to think it an adventure. How could I have thought that it would be something to discuss at tea with my girlfriends, a show of bravado to the simpering, slobbering fools that I thought were friends. They can’t understand. They have no to tools to comprehend.
There, again, that flickering smile. Can he hear my thoughts? He nods. So its true. I’ve come undone, the laces of my mind finally loosened and showing the gaps that bear no description. I’m lost. I’m damned. It needs to end. I rattle at the restraints that hold my wrists to the rails, I could use my teeth, if they weren’t so short. Contortion is not my strong suit, but they left my feet free. I could bend myself like undoing a knot, drawing them back behind me. I could undo the heavy leather bracelets that have cut into my skin. Some relief. Relief.
Relief would be for me to be free, for them to understand I didn’t, no I did, but I was coaxed, drawn to it. The lightest touch of a lover with the heavy push of an executioner. How I wish…I wish it was real, the touch. I should have accepted his proposal, packed and left for a happier life. It’s too late now. Far too late. I want to die.
I stare at the wall, away from prying eyes. Tears overspill the high walls that I set up, the barrier. Big girls don’t cry. Wasn’t I told that enough? “Big girls don’t cry. They adjust their beads and feathers, take a deep breath and walk in the room like they are the Queen.” I never was the Queen. I couldn’t be. I wanted to be. The constant drilling of propriety by my family into my head drove only me further into the darkness.
He is at my side, his touch cold on my cheek as he wipes the wetness from it. I glance at him, a little afraid, watching as he lifts his moist fingers to his lips, tongue lashing out to slurp at the leavings of my despair. He is a vampire of sorts. A succubus. And he is never going to leave me, not while I waste away here.
They can’t see him. I thought maybe, somehow, someone would, could, but no, all they see is me, laying here in the thin, nearly see through hospital gown in the most sickening green imaginable. Hardly appropriate for a woman to be seen in. Nor is this situation, for one of my standing.
Hindsight is 20-20 they say, and they are right. I should have never should have opened that envelope. I should have never left my home. I should have run, straight to the arms of my suitor and killed that desire for adventure. Regrets come strong and harsh to my heart, full of things that can never be. I remember now…all of it.
Transcript: Confession of Jennie-May Anderson
Patient #: 15634
The doorbell was chiming, disturbing my concentration once again. I could hear Georges’ shoes tapping on the marble floors of my home. He always had them polished to a high shine, always the hard soled shoes of a man who has struggled and cannot give up the material things that life has finally afforded him. Dear Georges, who had been with us since I was a small child, who looked at me with concern in his masked eyes.
“Miss, the postman has left mail for you. Would you like it here or in your rooms,” he spoke from the doorway, startling me out of my reverie. I held out my hand, with a smile in his direction, my eyes followed the figure that walked behind him, shrouded in mist and barely formed. Georges recoiled slightly, finding something lacking in my smile perhaps, and this filled my heart with sorrow. I met his eyes, and found more of that concern made me drop them as I felt the paper in my palm.
“Thank you Georges. How are you today,” I asked gently, not wishing to cause the poor man more hardship in worry for me. He said that he is well, and took his leave of me, his steps a little quicker as he reached the doorway. I shook my head, trying to clear the nagging feeling of dread that had fallen on me as I awoke into the day. We rarely received mail, that I was aware of, and three letters addressed to me was an unexpected delight.
A letter from my dear friend, penned in his beautiful script had finally arrived, full of the news of our mutual acquaintances and their lives fills my eyes. I did miss them, absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder; the desire to fill my ears with the happy sounds of their voices nearly overwhelming. It brought tears to my eyes as I read his professions of love, asking me to come back, where we should marry and be happy. He couldn’t understand that it was too soon, that I was not ready, and that I had other issues to deal with before I could accept his proposal.
The second envelope was a heavy vellum, heavy in my fingers, as though full of secrets it was dying to spill, it’s off white seeming to glow in the bright light of the library. I glanced into the hall beyond the door, expecting to see someone watching me, as they all seemed to do as of late. With my letter opener I sliced the seam, careful not to tear the paper, hearing its scratchy tear as the sharp edge forces it to give way. An odd smell emanated from the papers, not unpleasant but on the verge. Sweet soil from a freshly dug grave just on the cusp of spoiling Or a rotted apple, its skin still smooth and firm.
One sheet, thick and heavy as the envelope, precisely folded as though by ruler. I slid it from its place, the fragrance stronger now and stinging my eyes, gently unfolding the page, my fingers telling me that it is old, yet my eyes disagree. It felt brittle, the copperplate printing in the centre screaming age, no one wrote like that anymore.
Simply a name, address and tomorrow’s date is scribed there, it’s ink having feathered from the letters it engraved into the fabric of the paper. I couldn’t resist, I had to go, every fiber of my body was quivering with excitement. The third envelope slipped from my fingers, fluttering like a defunct petal to the carpet at my feet. Brookside…. Opening it I read the words of a friend who worked there. I really did have no choice but to go where I was bid. It seemed my family had decided I need “rest” and that placing me away from them in a hospital like a dirty secret is the way to go. Thankfully I had friends who felt it prudent to warn me.
Milladgeville Sanitarium. I knew this building. Here housed the wealthiest and sickest individuals belonging to the families of highest social standing. It was legend in my circles, whispered tales in dark corners spilled tiny nuggets of truth to whomever would listen. I sat in the car, staring out the window at the ill-kept home, its windows still intact and glittering like eyes in the deepening dark.
The taxi driver opens my door, offering his hand to help me from my seat. I took it gratefully, my knees were knocking together with unnoticed fear. I had a sense of foreboding, very cell in my body was screaming for me to run, but I never was one to run from an adventure. I could see the spirits of the place in the windows, their faces staring down at me with empty eyes. So many. There are so many.
I heard the taxi pull away, its tires grinding in the gravel driveway as it speeds away. The driver was unnerved as well, but he has an escape. I’m alone here now, but for the ghosts of this place. The door looks old and warped, having been exposed the elements with no care or maintenance. The door handle was still bright however, its brass worn by many hands having grasped it in the past, and called like a beacon in the dusk. I turned it, feeling it resist in my hand, it emitted a squeal as I forced it to revolve. The door popped open, easily, as though it had been waiting for me. Perhaps it was.
The interior is not at all what I expected from the outside, hardly dilapidated. It had a disused look, the air musty and thick with the smell of antiseptics and dust. An odd combination to be sure, given that it had been empty for years. A gurney sat in the hallway, its sheet impossibly green and clean-looking. There was no one there, except the spirits, and of those there were plenty. They flitted and floated here and there, busy at their duties, some solid enough to cause footfalls, sending them echoing in the emptiness of this place. I didn’t understand. Someone invited me there, I had the invitation in my pocket.
I placed my purse at my feet, and reached to grasp the thick vellum page that I had folded in my coat pocket. It wasn’t there. I checked the other, and found it empty. I reached for my purse, glancing over my shoulder at the still open door, and stared in disbelief as it closed of its own volition, hard. I could hear the locks rattling. I ran then, grasping the handle and turning, pulling as I did, for I wanted out of there immediately. It wouldn’t open, the handle freezing in my hand, refusing to turn any further. I tried the windows, all of them nearby, and they were stuck fast as well. I didn’t want to go further into this haunted place, for fear of what I might find further on the bright hallway.
It was impossible. Night had fallen and it was pitch outside, yet the interior shone like mid-day, the rays of the false sun shining on the polished floor. When I arrived it was dusty and disused, now it was clean and smelled like vinegar. My head hurt, my eyes pulsing in their sockets, my stomach was threatening to regurgitate what little I’d eaten that day. A cool hand rested on my forehead for a moment, before an arm threaded itself through mine and lead me forward towards the gurney and what lay beyond. I didn’t want to go and resisted, or tried to, the owner of the arm was insistent that I keep up. I was alone and yet there were many here, as real as I was and not.
I reluctantly looked to the side where my arm was still being held. There was a hand on my forearm, a woman’s hand, it’s nails short but well-kept, with slim and delicate fingers. My mind screamed impossible, and I staggered with the force of it. I raised my eyes to meet those of my keeper. They were white, all white, dead eyes, the face that surrounded them, as bleached as flour, with claw marks furrowed in its cheeks. Oh how I wanted to run, shriek, just get away, but I froze, my blood icy in my veins, and every hair standing on end. She smiled, and I might have fainted had I not been so horrified. A mouthful of sharp-pointed teeth, a double row of what seemed razor blades lined the inside of a blood-red maw. Blood red because it was blood, that rippled and shifted but never ran.
She whispered in her serrated voice that it was good I was afraid. I was right to be, and that it was time to meet The Doctor. She made it a proper title. The Doctor. I shook my head no, I didn’t need to meet The Doctor. I told her no, I’m fine, I didn’t need a doctor, I just wanted to leave and go home. Her laughter buzzed in my ears, like flies on a carcass, and it made my head swim. Her smile became a snarl and she yanked me forward, towards an ornately decorated door that had no place here. It had the look of another place, and spelled out danger to me.
Again, I hesitated, pulling my arm slightly to test her grip. There was no give. The door opened as she flung me inside, watching me fall to the floor as she nodded to whom I assumed was The Doctor before turning on her heel and fading away. The door closed, and the man turned to look at me. He was tall, well-built and bald, his scalp shining pinkly in the false sunrays from the window behind his desk. He was of another time, an older time, his suit formal, with a high collar, and an Ascot rather than a tie. On the table behind him lay an odd top hat, with gloves beneath it.
He smiled, genuinely, offering his hand to me to help me rise to my feet. I stared at him, untrusting of what I was seeing, then took it, before standing. His hand was solid enough, as it gently pulled me up to where I could properly meet his eyes. They were green, impossibly green, and I shook my head, trying to clear it. Green was important somehow, my intuition insisted this. He introduced himself as Dr. Milo Burton, psychiatrist and Chief of Staff at Milladgeville Sanitarium, and smiled slightly as he said that they called him The Doctor, as though it embarrassed him.
I could feel my nerves relaxing and this distressed me. He was not here, or human even, certainly not biologically challenged, for I felt his hand and smooth skin when I accepted his offer. He called me by name, and said that he had invited me here to offer me sanctuary and a place to rest my mind. The paper that the address had been written on, was stacked at the corner of his desk, the envelopes just above it, and a pot of ink with, of all things, a quill rather than a pen. I stared at him, flicking my eyes from his to the quill and ink and back again. He yet again smiled, and said that he preferred the older methods, that the quill was a family heirloom. It was well cared for, it’s feather still glossy and well coloured, its tip stained not black, but red. The copperplate on the page I had received was black. Not red, not this freshly spilled colour of claret.
I asked him, politely as I felt it was prudent, why he had invited me here, and why I needed sanctuary and rest. “Don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and pleasant enough, yet with a strange undertone that set my nerves jangling, “Don’t you need a place to think? Don’t you need sanctuary?” My tongue felt thick, my eyes threatening to close. I felt so tired, bodily exhausted, as I agreed, not wishing to fight anymore. He began explaining the rules, as I struggled to keep my eyes open, nodding my agreement but not really listening, I just wanted to sleep. “Never,” he said louder in my ear, as I snap my head up and widen my eyes. He was beside me, his arm around my shoulders and whispering “Never open this door without permission. Do you understand?” I nodded, anything if it would get me away from him and a place where I could sleep. His hand slipped down shoulder and slid along the side of my breast where it stopped at my side.
I stared at him through heavy-lidded eyes, surprised that he would dare so much alone in his office with a woman so much younger. Did he not care for propriety? He helped me to stand, his hand remaining stuck to my ribcage where I was sure he could feel if not hear my heartbeat racing. He opens his door, with a stern look, telling me to remember what he said. I nodded as Nurse Jaws once again took my arm, less gently than before.
She nearly dragged me back toward the door, and hope surged in my chest again. Maybe I could get away from her, escape this place and never ever look back. I’d run to my friend, marry him and forget this ever happened. She laughed that horrid laugh again, and turned left to pull me up the stairs, as my eyes coveted the door that seemed to grow smaller each second. The stairs are warped and I stumbled, nearly falling back down them. She snarled again in my direction, muttering about how clumsy I am, and yanked me up the last few steps. There are few rooms, perhaps 5, maybe less, my vision is skewed, rippling as though I was walking through water. Nurse Jaws opened a door directly ahead of the stairs, and threw me into it. The bed broke my fall but not before my forehead met the edge of the bedside table, splitting the skin. I half sat up, my hand to my head, and felt the tears close now.
She was at my side in an instant, too close for comfort. That nearly spoiled fruit smell was thick in my nose, and I felt my gorge rising. She leaned in close, her tongue flicking out and tasting the blood that ran freely from the cut, eyes closed and nearly moaning under her breath. I was disgusted and recoiled violently, my whole body shifting backwards in despair and mortification, surprising her into action. Her hand, once delicate and ladylike was then a gnarled clawed terror, and it was gripping my hair as she pulls me forward. Her tongue now improbably long and covered in tiny scales ran roughly against my wound, irritating it into bleeding more. I wanted to scream, fight, something, anything but I was unable to do more than shiver and whimper like a scared puppy.
At last she moved away, her white eyes brighter than before, and her glammer back in place. Once again she appeared nearly normal, but for the teeth, and the eyes. She stalked to the door, slamming it and locking it behind her, leaving me to sit and wonder how I am going to survive this. I could take my life. Then I would truly be free, but my upbringing and my own morals murmur no, no, sleep. Sleep will change everything, and I laid down, closing my eyes and losing myself in happier dreams.
It was dark in there when I next opened my eyes, nearly pitch black, and smelled putrescent, the fragrance hung in the air, and stung my nose. That’s when I saw him. He stood in the corner, eyes glittering like malevolent jewels, with a hint of a smile that both relieved and unnerved me. “Who are you, ” I asked, my voice rasping from my throat. He just shook his head, and pointed to his temple. He can hear me if I think it, and he nodded, confirming my suspicions. Either I am insane, or this person is real and talented. Again, he nodded his head, leaving me confused.
He waved his hand at the door and it opened, creaking as it did, and I bolted for it, leaving this room and this person behind with no thoughts other than getting out, getting away. I ran headlong into Nurse Jaws, who grabbed me by the throat and shoved me backwards. My new, rotting friend had disappeared, leaving me alone with this horror show. Her nails dug hard into the sides of my windpipe, cutting my air intake to less than half. I felt as though I was suffocating, and unable to fight back. In the doorway, a dozen faces hovered, their bodies barely corporeal, all with the same sad, worried expressions.
Nurse Jaws tightened her grip slightly and my eyes were filled with the wings of black butterflies, all threatening to steal my consciousness. The room was full of spirits, so many that there seems to be no space left to breathe, all gathered around us, hands on my shoulders, my hair, touching me everywhere and making my skin crawl with the energy they afforded. She cringed, hissing as she glanced around, unable to see those that surrounded us and sensing them all the same. She let go of me, instead holding her hands up as though in defence as she backed towards the door the spirits surrounding her with their arms out. The Nefarious Nurse screeched and vanished from view as all went black around me.
I come to standing on my feet, in front of The Doctor’s door. My hospital gown is shredded, hanging off my shoulder on one side, feet bare. I have no memories of how I came to be in this state, and really do not care. His words ring in my ears, “Never open this door without permission. Do you understand?” and a feeling of wrongdoing electrifies every nerve in my body.
All was quiet in this house of the dead, in that stale and malignant place. Not a sound echoed around me. I could leave, maybe. The all encompassing desire to escape has ebbed, leaving behind only a dry hope where once it raged. I drifted down the hallway, listening hard for any sort of obstacle that might stand in my way. The front door loomed larger and larger in my eyes, my heart pounding, each step awakening that need to breathe the fresh air. My hand rested on the knob, hesitating. I am afraid to try. My hand turned slowly, feeling the metal cool in my palm, its insides clicked slightly as the tumblers released. It was working, I might have a chance, I might actually be free.
A hand fell on my shoulder, and my hope failed, dying as it strove for its peak. I glanced back over my shoulder, meeting the eyes of my rotting friend, who smiles, his lips splitting and spilling some thick black goo that hung in strings like malignant honey. A sob tore from my throat, tears over spilling their barrier. I just want to go home. I’ve been here forever, an eternity it seemed. There is a softness in his eyes, and he shakes his head again, and gently pulled me from the only portal to my freedom and directing me to a door that was hidden under the stairs.
I was sure it hadn’t been there before, I would have remembered it. I was sure now that this door would take me deeper into the bowels of this malignant place, and I resisted strenuously, stopping dead with it still some feet away. You must sounds in my mind, as though a hand had found the centre that controlled my will and squeezed it. I move with no power to stop, my hand hard on the scar ridden handle and pulling it open. A cold breeze rushed past my face, blowing my hair slightly with the force of it, demons’ breath. It smelled frozen and rank, bodies halted in mid-decomposition, like dreams tortured and left to die. You must my rotten friend speaks more aggressively in my head, the mental shove again in my brain.
Hell is not hot, it is not lakes of fire, a constant inferno. No. Hell is cold, and dead, a river of ice and bitter cold, a place of deep unease and horror. It’s inhabitants are dead, all faces are ugly and eyes are lost in whatever personal hell they found themselves in. This is the Mouth of Hell, and the demons are human. Each one a fleshsack, appearing a living breathing man or woman, a lot of women, but the eyes…those eyes are not human and never could be thought of as.
I back away, climbing the stairs slowly, as to not draw attention, wanting out of this place NOW…NOW my mind screams, through the door, a window, anything just OUT! I’ve been seen. One of the Devil’s Imps has seen me and stands before me, pretty as a picture, but for the eyes. I sat hard on the step above, all the strength having run out of my legs, breath gasping in my chest. I didn’t want to die like that. I didn’t belong in Hell. Her touch on my cheek is a flash freezing, painful experience and I screamed as I recoiled, desperate to get away and having no will to do so. Oh…the lights, millions of lights, all extinguished at once, the end of the world I think, as she pulled the flesh from my face, and the blackness enveloped me.
There was a man there. He stood before The Doctor’s door, hand outstretched to knock. He was real. And I knew him. My suitor was there, why was he there? How did he get there? I felt confused and horror-struck. Slowly his head turned, and he saw me, his hand dropping as does his jaw. I was in disarray, covered in my own blood that oozes from many injuries. My hands bled most, their palms looked more like ground meat than human flesh. I don’t remember how that happened only that I must get him in that room, and that he must die.
It occurred to me that I should feel sick at this thought, as I walked towards him, staring at him through the strings of my hair that nearly obscure my vision. He speaks my name, his voice low and shocked, reaching out for me as I come closer. What he sees makes him drop his arms and retreat a few steps. He must die, my rotting friend’s words echo in my head, and I knew he was right, he must die and he will. The door plaque reads The Doctor, and it rings truer than if it read Dr. Milo Burton, Chief of Staff. I gesture to my suitor to open the door, showing him my raw and massacred hands. He flinched, recoiled with an expression of distaste and disgust rolling over his face and settling in his eyes. I understand fully now. He sees me as the others do, a lunatic, unsuitable for someone of his standing, less than desirable, unstable. He was right on one account.
He opened the door. The Doctor’s words still linger; “Never open this door without permission,” had lost its power over me, a whisper nearly forgotten in the din of screams that sound from The Doctor’s office. My suitor had moved in front of me, blocking access and all vision to what lies in wait beyond the doorway. I used my forearms to shove him inside, my stature belaying my strength, for he is a big man, strong and I smaller and envisioned weaker. He will find out that I am stronger than he could ever be, infused with the molten fury of my companions in my new home. There are monsters here. Hell Beasts. He screamed and tried to run, push past me and escape, and I laughed. I remember that. I laughed and held him back, feeling the door close behind me with a breath of a breeze.
My rotting friend is back, whispering and giggling in my ear, his one arm tight around my waist, the other on my breast, encouraging me to finish him. I want to, as much as I relished the tightening of my nipple under his cadaverous palm, and the fragrance of his sweet yet spoiled flesh. My suitor could see my new Love, and held his hand to his mouth, noisily trying not to vomit. Sweat had risen to his temples and shone on his upper lip, his hand shaking as he spit his disgust at me.
This room is empty now of all things, only a howling wind that blows dust and the few papers that had been left behind by the previous tenants, and the glowing egress into the bitter cold of Hell. My Lover had gone from me, his memory fading as though he were never there, and I was bereft, and angry, listening to this creature that I thought had once loved me loose vile and hurtful remarks at me. Never good enough. Never loved me. A joke. Unwanted. Unworthy.
I smiled then, into his face, as he came closer to me, close enough to touch, and I wrapped my arm around his neck, pulling him down so that he could stare into my eyes, smiled, as the demons cavorted behind my eyes, smiled as my hand was filled with a final gift. I glance over my shoulder to find Nurse Jaws indulgently lounging against the door, maggots squirming in her eyes, nodding her approval. I let him go, lifting my hand and bashed the meat tenderizer into his skull and heard the delightful crack as it split.
He stared at me, astonished as his blood ran in a river from the wound on his forehead, mouth hanging open. I hit him again and again, feeling nothing, only blessedly numb. I was covered in blood, absolutely grue-sopped and my suitor was dead. They wouldn’t be able to identify him visually. His face was gone, teeth shattered, tiny bone shards in the raw goop, his tongue still quivering as it tried to live on. Finally, it ceased and I dropped the tenderizer on his body, backing away to slide down the nearest wall. Nurse Jaws was gone, the memories of this place fading with each second that passed, and only the memories of Hell and what I had just done remained loud and screaming in my mind.
Noises from the hallway, men’s voices, disruptive in the quiet. The door flew open and a handful of uniformed, and armed men entered, shouting their findings, and at least one losing his meal in the corner. They hadn’t seen me yet, hadn’t seen the glass fragment I held in my hand, or the fear that I might not die. I had killed the one I love, my salvation and I don’t know why. I don’t understand where the tenderizer came from, or where this glass came from either.
They’d spotted me, sitting with my legs underneath me, covered in blood and brain, and injuries that I couldn’t explain, not that they gave me the chance to try. All guns drawn and all yelling so loud it hurt my ears, I could nearly smell the testosterone in the air. I smiled at them, and nodded my greetings then dug the point of the glass fragment deep into my throat, at the largest artery and dragged it across my own neck, opening the skin and feeling the warmth flood my flesh. I could feel the life leaving me and I was grateful. I deserved it. As my vision faded, I could hear birds, a multitude of birds chirping and singing, perhaps harbingers coming to carry me to Hell. Birds….
This is my confession as I remember it. I killed my suitor. In cold-blood. I have no reason or excuse. The spirits are real in that place. They are real. And they can kill.
The Sequel to the iconic slasher film The Orphan Killer. A Matt Farnsworth Film Stars Diane Foster, Shayna Baszler, Marina Shafir, Jessamyn Duke, Nick Principe, and Matt Farnsworth Music in the trailer by HIRAX TWO KILLERS. TWICE THE CARNAGE