The Concubus of the Palms

June 26, 2024June 13, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Checking the palm of my hand, all those lines leading where? If I stretch back the skin, I can open things up, peer between the cracks. I perceive nothing but a white screen. There’s pros and cons with every addiction. Mine keeps me alive. I need new parasites every seven days. I’m weak and shaky now, and if I don’t find and absorb more, I’ll fade and die. I need to shock and rejuvenate my body. Sure, it’s in exchange for absolute dependency, but I make my own choices.

I close my palm line opening, drop my hand to my lap, then fiddle with my computer as my first client enters, a tiny wrinkled up woman wearing several layers of ragged clothing, pulling a cart filled with garbage bags. She leans to one side as she limps into the room, lowering herself to the chair using an intricately cut wood cane. I can only hope she’s infected.

“I was pushed into the road by a crazy woman. She spat my face, and I hurt my hip and back,” her voice quavers.

I look up from the computer screen.

“Ms. Bonella, tell me about the pusher.”

“She came running and screaming towards me. A blur. She spat in my face. I know I was her target.”

I nod and write something on a piece of paper. The clients always like that.

She adjusts the various kerchiefs draped round her neck and head, multicoloured cloths of blue and white. “The bank echelons sent her. It was a warning.”

“Yes, she’s their agent,” I reassure. “She was carrying infective parasite cells in her body like so many maggots and passed them on to you with her spittle.”

I take a kleenex and wipe drool off my mouth. I smell the high already, but I’ve got to play the counsellor game. Ms. Bonella wipes off the edges of her own mouth too, using a filthy brown tissue and eyes me up and down. “Are you a witch?”

“No, Ms. Bonella. Like my card and website say, I’m a palm reader who helps individuals with their difficulties.”

“I am an old woman,” she continues. “What am I going to do?”

“You are already infected,” I tell her. “From that pusher sent by the bank echelons. You must obtain treatment.”
Mrs. Bonella pulls her topcoat layer around her, then leans forward some more. She pauses before speaking. “Mistress Cindy, the infections are rolling around inside me. Giving me random electric shocks.” She rubs her side “Those evil bankers are stealing from me. I am a good person. In my will, I want to give everything to my grand nieces, for their university education.”

“That is very generous of you,” I say, and I mean it.

“Hold up the palms of your hands,” I tell Ms. Bonella.

I walk round my desk and kneel before the client.

“Look at the ceiling,” I tell her.

I trace along one palm and proceed to open a riverline of skin with thumb and forefinger. As I suspected, one milky blue eye shows in the line gap. It passes by slowly. Then I see another. Mrs. Bonella winces. I wipe my mouth off again, for I’m drooling with want. The echelons are in her system, those so-called electric shocks are their liquid forms pulsing through her veins. They’re keeping her decrepit body alive by circulating, but she doesn’t know that.

She holds her side tighter. “They’re prodding me right now, Mistress Cindy.”

“It’ll be okay,” I reassure her again. “I want you to place your palms in my palms.”

She sits and I kneel, and her tiny hands push into mine. I close my eyes and feel the bulbs of the parasites through her skin. I move my knuckles along Ms. Bonella’s fingertips, making note of every whorl and line.

“Don’t be alarmed, Ms. Bonella,” I say. “I’m going to suck out these invaders.”

I put my lips on her left palm and prise open the central palm line with my teeth and jaws.

My tongue slips between that line. I stick the tip, then the rest of it into Mrs. Bonella’s palm, deep and deeper. As they parasite eyeballs go by, I grab them, lick them up into my mouth and swallow. It’s a warm, satisfying drink.

“What are you doing?” asks Ms. Bonella, “I feel so weak.”

“You are being drained of the echelon energy,” I tell her. “It’s natural to feel that way.”

I go back in with my teeth and jaw, this time for the other palm, prising it open and sticking my tongue in the opening.

Ms. Bonella slumps back in her chair.
“You can move your fingers now,” I say as I devour the last of the parasites.

Ms. Bonella tries to stand. She holds onto the chair for a moment

“That was very strange treatment, Mistress Cindy.”

“Go home and rest,” I say. “Tomorrow you’ll throw away that cane.”

“I feel so weak.”

“No charge for the treatment,” I say, as I experience a few seconds of guilt.

She’ll never throw away that cane, without the energy from the parasites. When she sleeps, she will never wake up.

As she totters out the door, I feel my strength rising. The parasite electric impulses whirl within me, merge into my brain. I lift my palm and pull back the skin. No white space now. An eye stares back, then rolls by, and another one peeps out. I whirl my arms around so fast they blur.

I’m alive again, in full strength and vitality, resurrected by the very parasites that consume my soul, even as they crank my body high.

“I’m sorry Mrs…,”

I pause and then flail my arms again. My legs kick out. I’m wild and high. All I remember of the old woman are the lines on her palms, widening, opening, showing me inside.

∼ Harrison Kim

The Silence Below

June 19, 2024May 16, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Jerry had always been drawn to the mysterious and the unknown. So when he found himself lost in the dense forest, he couldn’t help but feel the thrill of excitement. Amidst the serene embrace of nature, Jerry found tranquility in the solace of the forest. As he trudged through the underbrush, his senses heightened for hidden dangers, he came across a concealed path. It led deeper into the woods. With a casual shrug, Jerry stepped onto the path. His sense of adventure rose louder, smothering the doubts screaming in his mind.

Jerry followed the path and emerged into a small clearing. His laid eyes upon a village unlike any he had ever seen. The buildings were quaint yet eerie, their windows dark and devoid of life. What struck him the most was the absence of sound. No birds, no bugs, not even the rustling of leaves. It was an oppressive silence that hung like a wet blanket in the air.

Intrigued, Jerry cautiously made his way into the village. His footsteps echoed loudly on the cobblestone street. The few villagers he encountered glanced at him with wary eyes before averting their gaze. Their faces displayed a silent concern for the outsider that had stumbled into their silent domain. Jerry observed with curiosity as the villagers communicated through intricate gestures. Their hands weaving a silent tapestry of meaning in the air. A shared language born of necessity. They exchanged knowing glances as they looked at hastily scrawled notes passed between them. They refused to speak a single word.

As night fell, Jerry’s unease only deepened. The silence seemed to intensify, pressing down on him like a weight. As his nerves began to frazzle, he sought refuge in a small inn. A grizzled innkeeper offered him a room for the night. As he led him to his room, their eyes met in a moment of silent understanding. The unspoken tension hung heavy in the air. The absence of words between them spoke volumes, the oppressive silence wrapped around them like a spider’s web.

Alone in his room, Jerry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong with the village. He tossed and turned in his bed. Unable to sleep, he began to pace the floor. He paused. He thought he heard a faint scratching sound coming from beneath the floorboards.

His curiosity piqued, he tore up the loose floorboards revealing an open, hidden trap door leading down into the darkness. Jerry leaned on the hanging door, its ancient hinges gave a grumbled whine. The stairs descending into the blackened void were weathered and worn. Jerry retrieved the flashlight from the night table. He illuminated the shadowy corridor, and he stepped down. The ancient stone steps creaked softly with each cautious footfall. His flashlight caused the shadows to dance across the dusty walls creating eerie phantoms that beckoned him to venture deeper. As he dared to go further into the underground tunnels, Jerry discovered ancient runes etched into the walls, their meanings lost to time. He gently caressed the outlines. He began to sweat as adrenaline coursed through his body. He was unnerved by the sudden rush of anxiety. However, it was more the sense of dread hanging in the air that chilled him to the bone.

Jerry explored the tunnels. Deep within, the air grew stale as a warm silent breeze wafted over him. He stumbled upon a chamber unlike any he had seen. A vast cavern with a gaping chasm in the center. In the dim light of his flashlight, Jerry beheld a grotesque sight. It was a writhing mass of tentacles coiling and undulating in the blackness. The slimy appendages reached out hungrily towards him. Glowing eyes peered out from amidst the squirming mass, their malevolent gaze fixated on Jerry. The creature seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy. Its form shifting and contorting in a nightmarish dance as if to defy reality itself.

As Jerry stood on the precipice of the chasm, a chilling realization washed over him like a wave of icy dread. In that moment, he realized that the absence of sound was not just an eerie aspect of the village but a haunting reminder of the looming threat lurking beneath. He realized that it wasn’t merely a choice but a necessity born from the need to keep the creature at bay. As he faced the creature, its own silence seemed to scream louder than any sound he had ever heard. It was a deafening void that echoed with the weight of centuries, old fear and desperation.The villagers were bound by an ancient pact to keep the creature below at constant rest. For even the slightest sound would awaken it from its slumber.

But it was too late, Jerry’s presence had disturbed the being, and now it hungered for sound. As it surged towards him, he scrambled for freedom. He realized that sound was both his enemy and his salvation.

Jerry’s heart pounded in his chest as he stumbled backward. His mind raced with primal panic. Before he could react, the creature’s slimy tentacles shot out at lightning speed, wrapping around his limbs and pulling him closer with an inexorable force. Despite his terror, Jerry’s throat constricted in fear. It rendered him speechless as he struggled against the creature’s grasp. His scream was trapped inside of him like a caged beast yearning to be free.

With the creature’s tentacles tightening around him like a vice, Jerry’s fear reached its breaking point. In a burst of desperation, he unleashed a deafening scream that echoed through the cavernous chamber.

As Jerry’s scream tore through the silence, the creature recoiled, lifting Jerry higher into the air. It howled as its form contorted and twisted as if assaulted by an unseen force. With a guttural roar, it released its grip on Jerry who was tossed onto the floor. He watched, gasping for breath. As if in response to the creature’s rising, the very ground beneath them began to rumble. The walls of the cavern began to groan and crack under the strain.

The ground under the village started to split apart, fissures snaked their way through the cobblestone streets. With an explosion of dirt and rubble, the creature burst forth from the ground with an ear splitting roar. Its massive form towering over the village like a wrathful titan. Homes crumbled in its wake, reduced to splinters and dust as the villagers ran for cover. Their silent world was shattered by the unleashed fury of the being below. Its massive tentacles lashed out indiscriminately, reducing buildings to rubble. With each step, the ground trembled beneath its monstrous form.

Even as the village lay in ruins and the creature’s hunger sated, there was no sign of it returning to its peaceful slumber. Instead it continued its relentless march. Its glowing eyes fixed on the horizon with an insatiable thirst for destruction. As it disappeared into the depths of the forest, a sense of dread fell over Jerry and the villagers. They knew that the true horror had only just begun.

∼ Kathleen McCluskey

Room 57

June 12, 2024May 27, 2024 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 3 Comments

Adorned with only a simple handle and the number 57, the door stood closed. I stared at it for some time, eyes darting between the numerals and brass knob. It was one among many in this seemingly endless hall, but it garnered my interest more than any other. I couldn’t say why. The reason was just as much a mystery as what was behind that door.

Sweat dripped down my brow as I contemplated opening it. I feared I might be caught, only more reason for them to keep me here… But my curiosity outweighed my worries. I reached for the handle and turned it.

I was surprised it wasn’t locked. Maybe there was nothing there to behold other than an empty room. The darkness seemed to ebb from the small sliver between the door and frame. I pushed it all the way, only to see more darkness. The light from the hallway couldn’t travel beyond that threshold. It was as if the room itself pushed it away.

I had to know what was in there, so I stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind me, leaving me sightless. “Hello?” I called out.

Heavy breathing was the only reply.

Then the sound of dripping.

A rancid stench assaulted my nose as I felt warm breath on my face. Then agony as unseen teeth tore away at my flesh.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

The Ocean Beach Motel

June 5, 2024May 7, 2024 ~ Marge Simon ~ 4 Comments

I am the spirit of the Ocean Beach Motel off Route 66. My office is run by a witchy clairvoyant name of Madeline Williams. In exchange for her labor, I allow her unlimited use of several rooms for her personal business, no questions asked. We have an excellent working relationship. Between the two of us, we know the score on what goes on inside my rooms.

Room #5: Winning the Lottery had brought her more grief than joy by far. Dorothy Ann Thomas wasn’t expecting company. She rented this room for a month, told no one, not even her sister and certainly not her son, David. He was a liar and a thief and had disgraced himself beyond forgiveness in her eyes. She’d given most of the money to the local animal shelter. Somehow, David found out she’d won, and showed up at her door. She let him in, explaining how she didn’t have the money anymore. He snarled and shoved her. She fell, cracking her head against the corner of a dresser. He saw something was wrong with her neck. He didn’t stay.

Room #11: Rodrick Pierce set the bottle of Jim Beam on the bedside table with a glass from the kitchen. “Nice little kitchen, I could stay here until I rot,” he laughed. “Nobody would notice.” His wife had left him on his birthday last year. That was bad, but not as bad as being fired that morning, two months short of retirement. He cleared out his office, got in his car and drove until nearly dark. Stopped at a liquor store, and then found my place. He’s lucky my rooms provide stout rods on the bathtubs, strong enough to hold a man dangling by his neck. Rodrick will use his belt if he can’t find any rope around here. Probably won’t even finish that bottle before he decides to get the job done.

Room #19: She’d been a little drunk when Robert checked them in. She wasn’t “that kind of girl”, she’d told him that repeatedly, plus he had to promise over and over how it wasn’t going to be a one-night stand. “No, Sherry, I promise. Being with you is all I want. You want me too, right?” And so on, but he had to get another drink down her before she’d let him unhook her bra. After it was over, she fell asleep, or so he thought. He was sneaking out the door at the crack of dawn when he heard “Robert Botts, that better not be you going out that door!” He turned, surprised, to see his silly little Sherry holding a Glock. Where it came from, he couldn’t imagine. “One night stand,” that’s what this was all along!” she cried. Robert didn’t have a chance.

Indeed, there are more like this on any given day. As motels go, I do a pretty interesting business. Another example, if you like naughty, the extraordinary things that go on in my hot tub never disappoint either. Stop in, sometime!

∼ Marge Simon