The Wrong Guy

April 15, 2014April 24, 2014 ~ zkullis ~ 17 Comments

Jon stubbed out his cigarette and took a mint out of his pocket. The mint might have seemed odd, given the circumstance, but it was for his enjoyment rather than consideration of the man in the chair. He rolled the mint around his tongue for a minute before he pulled it out and placed it next to his cigarette.

It was time to get started. The leather of his imported loafers made a gentle scuff-tap sound on the aged concrete as he walked. Jon’s cultured voiced bounced across the large room. ”Greg. You’ve had enough time to think about what happened yesterday.”

The man in the chair breathed unevenly through his nose. Jon knew Greg was exhausted. Certain steps needed to be taken before things could be corrected, but Jon was ready to be free of this problem. “I need you to think about what happened four days ago, and I don’t want you to respond until I’m ready for your input. Do you understand?”

Greg nodded his head. He was broken and compliant.

“Good. Four days ago you were driving down the turnpike shortly after 8:25. You were in a Jeep. You cut in front of somebody in a vintage Jaguar.”

Greg’s breathing sped up.

“The individual in the Jaguar briefly flashed his lights at you. Do you remember what you did next?”

A drop of moisture fell from Greg’s nose as a quiet whimper sounded in his throat. Jon felt a sudden spike of heat in his chest and head. “Answer me,” Jon screamed.

Greg sobbed through his nose and shook his head dejectedly. Jon backed up and cleared his throat. “I apologize. A refined man doesn’t need to raise his voice. Besides, I should have remembered that you are not allowed to speak yet.” Jon straightened his shirt and toyed with the cuffs until he was calm and collected. He opened a box of latex gloves and began to put them on.

“Back to four days ago, Greg. You slowed down, dangerously, and then pulled behind the Jaguar. Then you proceeded to follow the Jaguar, flashing your lights, driving erratically, and endangering other people on the toll way.”

Jon’s voice lost its refined tone and picked up an angry edge he could no longer hold back. His heart beat heavily as adrenaline started to flow through his system. “You followed the Jaguar into the city, stopped in front of him at a light, jumped out of your Jeep and began to scream obscenities. I want you to tell me the last thing you said to the driver of the Jaguar before you left.”

Cold silence filled the room.

“Don’t forget what happened yesterday when we did this,” Jon warned. “I only want to hear one thing from you.”

He turned on the industrial lights, filling the large room with their intense glow. There was a table covered with an array of dirty surgical instruments. The wood of Greg’s chair was sprayed with stains, old and new, in a horrific mix of colors and odors. Greg’s right foot sat in a dark pool of coagulated blood and gore. His left foot, ankle, and half of his lower leg had been carelessly removed. The frightful stump was still raw and stinking from being cauterized yesterday. Greg’s arms were secured tightly to the chair’s arms, his thighs tied down to the seat, and thick bands kept his shoulders pulled flush against the chair’s back.

Jon’s manicured hands deftly pulled a knife out of his pocket, slipped the curved blade under the dirty material tied savagely around Greg’s head, and slashed through the gag. Much of the material had been tied in a large knot and shoved into Greg’s mouth. Jon yanked the material and pulled the foul-smelling knot out with a dry flop. A soft mewling tumbled incoherently out of Greg’s mouth.

“Now, Greg, tell me the last thing you said to the driver of the Jaguar. If you don’t, I will cut both of your hands off at the wrist. It will hurt much more than what I did yesterday.”

Greg moaned pathetically. His words passed over his dry tongue like sand over boulders. “I told him to watch who he flashed his lights at. I told him that one day he was going to fuck with the wrong guy.”

There it was. Greg had admitted it. Jon felt the fury swell, but he did nothing to hold it back. He no longer needed to. The way was clear. Greg had admitted his impropriety, had exposed himself for the ignorant wretch he was, and now it was time to excise this cancerous growth.

Jon slipped the knife behind the dirty blind fold and cut it off. The rag fell from Greg’s head. His eyes, hidden from light for the last three days, opened and shut sporadically as he tried to see where he was. He finally stopped squinting and looked at his captor. It was the guy from the Jaguar.

“Please no,” Greg wailed.

Jon smiled as he felt his anger move beyond the point of no return. He only had a few more minutes of self-control before he lost all composure. Jon hated people like Greg, and he had known more than a few. He viewed this as a social service he offered to educated and polite people who had to share their oxygen with human waste like this. His vision started to grow dark around the edges. His time for coherency was coming to an end, so Jon decided that he had better start now while he could still remember some of the cutting. It was his favorite part.

He picked up the medical bone saw, something he was very familiar with, and turned towards Greg.

“It was you that fucked with the wrong guy.”

~ Zack Kullis

Talk of the Devil

January 28, 2014January 16, 2014 ~ zkullis ~ 27 Comments

The house was always cold. It didn’t matter what the temperature said on the thermostat. Troy begrudgingly took his coat off and put it away. For years he had assumed his house was simply cold, but it had been getting worse over time. Now he knew why.

Floor boards moaned and squeaked as he walked down the hall. He could hear noises from the boy’s room. It sounded like the television as usual. Troy slowed his pace until he stood outside of their closed door. He could hear the chilling voice in the movie perfectly.

“Your mother is in here, Karras. Would you like to leave a message? I’ll see that she gets it.”

He was about to knock on the door when Mary called to him as she walked through the front door. “Troy, are you home?”

He went to her and pulled her into the kitchen. “Mary, we need to talk about the boys. I think they’re getting mixed up in something horrible.”

Troy pulled a handful of pages out of his case and placed them on the granite counter top. “Do you know how many times they’ve seen that movie in there? Do we know what else they do while we are at work? Carson is only 9 and Scott is 7 for hell’s sake!”

Mary looked at him skeptically. “Troy, they are just boys watching movies. What harm can come of that? I think you are blowing this out of proportion.”

“Oh yeah?” Troy asked as he pointed to his papers. “I’ve spent the past few weeks reading and studying at work. ‘Talk of the Devil and he is presently at your elbow.’ Have you ever heard that expression?”

“No I haven’t,” replied Mary with growing concern.

“It’s an old English proverb. Did you know that there are similar phrases in over 50 different cultures? This shit is real, and I think the boys are inviting the devil into our home.”

Mary picked up the papers and glanced through them. “Just what are you saying, Troy?”

“Have you taken a good look at them lately?” He asked. “Have you heard them talk? Watched them eat? I’ve looked at dozens of cases of possession and exorcism, and I’m telling you that we have a problem. If you don’t call a priest, then I will.”

Mary placed a hand on Troy’s shoulder. “I can’t stand to see the family torn apart like this. There is a group of priests that have been close to my family for generations. I’ll call them.”

Troy sat down as Mary walked away and talked in hushed tones on her cell phone. He could only hear bits and pieces of her side of the conversation.

“… so tired of this.”

“… need this exorcism so we can be a family again.”

“Come tonight. Bring them all.”

Mary finished the call and stepped back into the kitchen. “They will be here tonight.”

Troy grabbed her hand, surprised at how quickly she believed what he had been talking about. “I’m so glad. I didn’t know if you were going to believe me or not.”

“Don’t worry, everything will be okay,” she said as she placed a hand on his chest and traced wary circles around the crucifix under his shirt.

***

He had fallen asleep on the couch. Troy opened his eyes and couldn’t see. It was completely dark. Fear pressed him against the soft couch. Strange sounds and hushed whispers had woken him up. “Mary?” he called out.

There was no response. He started to see faint outlines of furniture when he heard the footsteps. Mary came around the corner with a candle in her hand. “Ah, you woke up. The power has been out for a while so I let you sleep. It’s sure nice to see you boys together,” she said with a smile.

Troy turned his head and jumped off the couch. Scott and Carson had been sitting on either side of him the whole time. They sat on the couch and looked at him with vacant eyes. Carson looked like he was barely breathing. His lips were torn and bleeding, and a ghastly smile threatened to tear his lips even farther.

Scott sat on the other side of the couch and simply looked at his father. The little 7 year-old’s chest moved quickly as if the boy were hyperventilating. Scott’s face was as blank as his eyes.

“What about the priests?” asked Troy as he stood next to Mary.

“They should be here any time. I want you to sit down in this chair and try to relax, okay? It will be okay soon enough.”

Troy sat in the chair across from his boys. Mary turned around and walked down the hall, casting the room into darkness. Troy tried to see his boys through the darkness. He gripped the edge of the chair as he hissed a threat to whatever had possessed his children. “The exorcists are coming for you.”

“They are already here,” Carson said in a voice that wasn’t his. “We are ready for the exorcism, Troy. Are you?”

The front door opened and people wearing long black robes came into the house. Troy relaxed a little as he watched the hooded priests carry in various items. A few of the priests lit large, white candles and began to place them around the room. Carson and Scott just looked at Troy from the couch. Their faces occasionally flashed with the ugly images of the heinous things inside of them.

Priests positioned themselves around the room. Troy felt the tension build when the priests started to chant. The temperature of the room plummeted as Carson began to speak in another language.

Troy stood up and yelled. “Shut up and get out of my boys!”

Scott got off the couch and held up a small hand. Everything in the room became quiet. Scott looked at Troy and an ugly sneer spread across the small boy’s face. “Don’t interrupt the exorcism.”

Troy was confused. It was as if the demons wanted the exorcism. Deep laughter rolled out of Scott’s little mouth and shook the walls of the house. “Yes, we want this exorcism. But it’s not the kind of exorcism you are thinking of.”

Mary came around the corner. She was wearing black robes. “The boys need a father that can accept his unique role, Troy. This exorcism was never for the boys. It’s for you.”

Troy looked around the room. The priests each pulled off their hoods, revealing beautiful and grotesque masks. The white candles burned, showing the black wax underneath the white façade. The horror of it all was too much to understand.

“Let’s begin,” said Scott. The little boy stepped in front of his dad. “Sit,” he commanded in an infernal voice.

Troy sat in the chair and grabbed the crucifix under his shirt. Mary flinched and looked worriedly at her sons. Scott chuckled before he spoke to his father. “That artifact only works for those with faith. Let me show you something easier to believe in.”

The priests began to chant again. “Veni, omnipotens aeternae diabolus.”

Troy’s wife stepped closer and spoke softly. “Don’t fight it, Troy.”

“Agios o Satanas,” chanted the priests.

Carson stepped closer to his dad. His voice returned to normal as he pleaded. “Please, dad, join us.”

Troy was sweating, but his crucifix felt cold in his tight grip. He watched as his little Scott held out his hands. The priests around the room started to chant more quietly. Doubts festered in his mind. He should be with his family. Scott’s eyes turned completely black as he spoke in a loud, demonic voice.

“Dies irae, sovlet saeclum in favilla.”

Carson stood next to his father and translated. “The Day of Wrath, will desolve the world in ashes.”

Troy felt conflicted as he listened to his sons.

“Teste cecidurent, quantos tremor est futures, quando Vindex est venturus.”

Carson translated again. “As foretold by the Fallen, how many tremors will there be when the Defender will come?”

Scott’s voice became thunderous and deep. “Tui sunt caeli et terra.”

“Yours are the heavens and the earth.”

Troy was in a daze. His mind had grown cloudy. He needed a sign to tell him what to do.

“Oriens splendor lucis aeternae, Lucifer veni, illumine sedentes in tenebris!” screamed Scott.

Carson took out a knife and cut his palm, then spread the blood on his father’s face as he translated again. “East of eternal light, come Lucifer, illuminate the dark!”

Unlit candles that had been placed all over the room burst to life, their flames a deep purple. Scott put his hands down and looked at his father. His voice echoed across the room and the walls shook again. “Is that enough of a sign?”

Most of Troy was ready to give in, ready for peace, ready to do what needed to be done to have his family back. But a small part of him stood relatively firm. He couldn’t do it while he had even of a sliver of faith. Troy shook his head wearily.

Carson and Scott began to speak in unison, the demonic and false cherubic voices sounded like a choir of the damned. Troy closed his eyes and began to squeeze his crucifix as he heard and felt what his boys were saying.

“Open to us, accept what we offer.”

Troy squeezed harder, unsure of what he wanted, but aware that he had made up his mind. He pushed his fury into his trembling hand. The boy’s voices filled the house. “As this emblem is changed…”

Silence filled the room. There was no movement. If felt like he was falling through a dark hole. A single voice spoke clearly.

“… etiam muta cor meum.”

It had been his voice. He spoke those words. He knew those words, and he translated them himself with a hoarse whisper. “… so change my heart.”

Troy lifted his head and looked at his wife and children. They had never looked so perfect. Troy stood up, pulled the broken cross off his neck and embraced his new family.

~ Zack Kullis

The Manipulator

November 19, 2013November 19, 2013 ~ zkullis ~ 25 Comments

Nothingness, absolute and pure, was broken by a suggestion.

~Rise~

Slumber torn asunder. Twinges of tissue and cognition, and then he WAS.

~ ~

Tired. So tired… Confusion and disorientation numbed his mind like cotton wrapped hands. Thoughts felt like a jumble of dusty moths bumped plaintively against a dim light bulb. He couldn’t grasp where he was – what he was doing. His limbs felt stiff and unused.

The stony grip of anxiety seized his mind and burned in his lungs. A deep breath was impossible. Thin air pulled slowly through his nose, bringing with it the smell of fresh clothing and an acrid smell that reminded him of a dissected frog. His anxiety doubled when he realized his mouth wouldn’t open. A hand finally responded to his slow mind. It moved sluggishly, fumbled around haphazardly until it found his lips. Glue. Somebody had glued his lips shut while he slept. Anger and the inability to get a full breath drove his fingers to tear at his lips with a horrible frenzy.

Dry tissue tore without pain or blood. Thin air cascaded over his teeth and dry tongue. His lungs responded mechanically, filling, expelling. Fingers that slowly gained dexterity and feeling touched what should have been painful tears in his lips. He was grateful it didn’t hurt and started to relax slightly.

Another strange sensation penetrated the musky fog of his lethargic mind. His eyes felt like they had something in them. The total absence of light wouldn’t let him see what he was doing, so his hands touched their way past his torn lips, his cold nose, and found his eyes. Tufts of cotton had been stuffed between his eyelids and his eyes. ‘What the hell,’ he tried to scream, but it came out in a hoarse growl. “Wwuu du hehh!”

His hand shot out in an effort to throw away the cotton when it struck something solid. The loud ‘thunk’ reverberated around him as if he were in a closed space. The frantic movement of the severely claustrophobic possessed him as his legs kicked and struck out all around him. A cacophony of quick echoes filled the tight space. His fists pummeled the surface above him, to the side, underneath, and beyond his head. Wordless screams bounced off the smooth walls.

Animalistic fury filled his mind and fueled his raging muscles. His hand shot out in front of him, and struck the surface above his face. The welcome sound of a loud crack met his ears. Lungs pulled at the failing air in massive gulps, like a doomed fish flopping on the shore. A primal scream erupted from his bloodless lips as he struck out violently against his prison.

“Unnghh!” he screamed between breaths. The sounds of his attack morphed from groans and creaks to the splintering of broken wood. A fist erupted through the fissure; his dry flesh scratched, torn and shredded against the sharp edges of his prison. Small pieces of something cold fell onto his face. His hand and fingers vaguely recognized the material as he started to pull his hand back inside and tear at the prison. Realization of what was falling on him came along with the avalanche of freshly dug dirt.

Adrenaline, or its mystical counterpart, burst through his system. ‘Damn this place’ he thought as he struggled against the wood and dirt. ‘Damn whoever put me here’ he thought as he finally got to his knees. The weight of loose dirt above him pressed down on his shoulders and head. Arms tried to push through the soil and pull him up. Hands searched frantically for leverage, for anything. Nothing.

There was no point. Dirt pressed against his eyes, stuck against the dry orbs, preventing him from the tender mercy of a blink. Not even a blink. Small bits of soil worked into his nose. The smell of loam and old decay filled him. Gagged him. He thrashed his head. How long since he took a breath? Fighting to keep his mouth closed was in vain. The muscles in his jaw worked against him. ‘Don’t open’ he screamed in his head.

His head thrashed wildly when his mouth opened. Dirt, a few rocks, and who knows what else poured in. His movements slowed against his will. Hands stopped grasping. Arms stopped reaching. He was dead – or would be. The cold hand of eternity gripped him tightly. He would pass, and be finished with his awful fate. Soon. Please.

There was nothing. His mind still worked, toiled against being stuck in this cold between. Then there was something. From above. A presence. It waited, knowingly. It beckoned. Then it spoke in his head.

“Rise…”

‘Can’t move,’ he thought in reply. ‘Can’t breathe.’

Dark laughter filled his head. It remained silent long enough that he decided he had gone mad. ‘Yes,’ he thought. ‘I’m mad.’ The voice filled his head again.

“Mad like the Arab with his Kitab al-Azif? No. Forget who you were, that which was is no more. Stop struggling for air. You no longer need it. Rise!”

It seemed too much, but he couldn’t deny the voice. It knew. The voice was more than suggestive. It carried with it an air of command that left no room for questions or derision. As a marionette moves at the behest of the manipulator, so too was he compelled to move. He pushed deeper into the earthen barrier, inched upwards, and endured the agony of his impossible climb. He fought against the spasms of his lungs craving oxygen they no longer needed as he heeded the call.

Fingers clawed through dirt and grasped at moist air. Forearms broke through soon after, quickly pulling his head past charnel soil. His eyes worked to blink away the earthen mess they had gathered. He hung his head forward, disgorging a voluminous pile of graveyard dirt that had filled his mouth and esophagus. Once the dirt was gone, he pulled in air. Not for a breath, no, he cried out with a nightmarish mix of relief and malice.

He lifted his head up to find the voice. The manipulator. His eyes absorbed the tenebrous night with preternatural ability. A huge moon hung far overhead, shedding its gossamer rays over a small clearing. Spanish moss clung tenaciously to an old Cypress tree.

“Here,” rasped a gravelly voice. The voice spoke in his head as it sounded in his dirt-filled ears. He turned his head and saw the Manipulator standing underneath the Cypress tree. It was too dark under the ancient tree to see the owner of the voice, but he could see a figure of absolute darkness and haunting shape beneath the heavy limbs.

“You are reborn, freed from death’s hold through this necrotic birth. I have not given you life, but something utterly different and blasphemous. You have breached this unhallowed soil which is your second womb. You enter this world bloodless, severed from humanity and unbound by all law but mine.”

The Manipulator raised an arm, cloaked in dominion and despair. A withered hand moved in lesser shades of dark and prompted the reborn man to finish rising. Enthralled by his master, he pressed his now powerful hands against the ground he had crawled from. He pushed, struggled, and cried out with the effort. At long last he dragged himself from the loose soil and ambled towards the Manipulator with manic obsession. The filthy clothes, clean when the man had been buried two days ago, dropped clumps of dirt and soil as he made his way to the Stygian shadow under the Cypress tree.

He stood under the tree and shook with necrotic joy. Eyes bright with malicious zeal looked excitedly at the being that had given him all. “Come,” said the Manipulator. “You and I have work to do.”

~ Zack Kullis