Damned Words 23

September 5, 2017March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 11 Comments

Ghosts of Judgement Bridge
Brian Moreland

Every October we relive the nightmare. The townsfolk march my three sisters and I to Judgment Bridge. Our hands bound behind our backs, we stand facing the fates of sinners. The angry mob chants, “Suffer the wicked!” Jabbing pitchforks force us to climb onto the rusted railing. Looking down, my sisters and I teeter over roaring river rapids. The hangman places nooses around our necks. Before he reaches Charlotte, she jumps and plunges into the rushing waters. Beside me, Gwen and Sylvie cry. We hold hands as we leap. The ropes snap our necks. We hang forever beside our parents.

Departing Obstruction
Lee A. Forman

Legends spoken in elder tongues told of the barrier. The forbidden land existed beyond. Kell desired secrets, discoveries, things unknown. To touch, feel, see…he’d return a hero. They’d sing of his journey for ages. Knowledge of the world gone would be his to tell. Whatever horrors lied ahead, he’d conquer. He inched with fear over rushing water. But his legs weakened as he reached the midpoint; body thinned, skin withered. The air smelled of death. He tried to withdraw but the barrier obstructed return. A throaty howl escaped unheard, as ravenous beasts of ebon flesh appeared from behind the trees…

Honor
Mark Steinwachs

I place my hands on the bridge and lay down, nestling my head into the rounded gap of steel.

There’s only one of us in the family each generation and as is tradition, I don’t know who follows me. My time is over and only they choose whether to reveal themselves. I will be their first hit as my uncle was mine.

“Thank you,” says a sweet female voice, one I’ve known since she was born. “Your place of honor awaits.”

In the silent morning the click of the safety sounds as loud as the gunshot that will soon follow.

Safe
Christopher A. Liccardi

Rusted girders ached under her weight. Centuries passed since anyone ventured out on that bridge. The deepest spot was nearly the length across to the other side; the free side.

She struggled, just a few hundred feet from where she could be safe from all the torment and ridicule. It wouldn’t be long before she could get away from the prying eyes always staring, the disdain she’d had to endure for years.

As she reached that spot, the one you couldn’t see from the deck, she dropped his mostly dead body in without so much as a single glance down.

Crossing
Veronica Magenta Nero

Each time I cross cold shivers overcome me. Here you leapt into the brown waters below, your body never found. With toes curling the edge I imagine the impact, the smack against the rippling surface, hard and sharp like plunging into glass. Water is a cruel and hungry force, capable of painfully wringing the very last gasp of air from tired lungs. I strain my ears against the rush and gurgle of the river, listening, waiting, sometimes your voice rises like a dark bubble from the muddy depths. It breaks before I can make out what you want to say.

Where will you go, Josie May?
John Potts Jr

Back in ’63 the widow Josie May lost her two boys to napalm. Her grief was persistent, heavy. One evening Josie plunged head-first to the shallow creek below Mason Bridge. She suffered a death worse than her sons and the locals coined that spot Widow’s Sorrow ever since.

Those who shared Josie’s pain found a similar fate; some took the dive, some didn’t. But the town never mentioned that when they shut the bridge down for good. Old Josie though, she’s clinging on, and the kids nowadays say Widow’s Sorrow isn’t half as scary as it was made to be.

Just Cut Deep
Jon Olson

You’re holding that razor, comforting and warm. Everything will be better on the other side. Trust me. The pain and anguish you feel now will be but a memory. Don’t you see? Your life’s journey has brought you here. All that is left now is to cross over, the final hurdle represented by this bridge. There is but a simple toll. Just cut deep. That’s all you have to do. Don’t be alarmed by what’s on the other side. It will look bleak only if you want it to. There’s much more so embrace the razor’s cold bite and cross…

Awakened
Joseph A. Pinto

From beneath the bridge, I hear the breaths; a horrid rasping, laden with congestion and rage. Warned I was not to cross this way for what awaits, the rumors told, was of no natural origin. The sun slowly withdraws from the land as the breaths rise and fall, everywhere and nowhere at once.

Turtle-like, my head withdraws deep into the hollow of my overcoat, bones rattling within my shell. I should have taken heed, but like all else in my life, it is too late.

Yes, I hear the breaths from a beast awakened, rising and falling with my own.

Ghost Train
A.F. Stewart

The deputy stared at the human-shaped soot stain indelibly smeared into the surface of the rusted bridge. Nearby lay a ratty wallet. “Another one, Clem?”

The sheriff snorted. “Of course, Willie. Full moon last night. Another fool got an eternal ticket on our Ghost Train. It’s a spectral menace. Even ripping up the tracks in ’56 didn’t help.” He bent and examined the wallet. “Shit. It’s Darren’s. You’d think he’d know better.”

“Poor Darren.” Willie shook his head, but inwardly smiled.

He got what he deserved. Best sound in the world listening to him scream over that phantom train whistle.

Mother’s Rage
Nina D’Arcangela

Mother’s milk spills upon all. The transformation– beautiful; horrifically brutal. As she nourishes, she destroys. Silvering, drying, cupping with the wick of her dew. Molecular bonds shift as she bathes all with rage and gentle tears from above. She corrodes, taints; amends. The surface awash in pained agony transforms to a visage her eye finds most appealing. Underneath, sweet symphony of destruction plays to a finely tuned ear. Warping, twisting, undulating; becoming. Corrosion, chaos, lack of conformity brings justice to the wracked and malformed. Her torrent soothes the hardest with passage of time; her gentle stroke cripples that unnaturally wrought.

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent. © Copyright 2017
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.

Damned Words 22

June 20, 2017March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 13 Comments

The Forever Burden
Lee A. Forman

Only at night could the tower be seen—a spectral fortress alive in darkness. Under the sun the site was an open field, but when the moon rose from its resting place, the stone went up as far as any lantern could illuminate. It seemed to touch the stars. They gathered there each midnight to offer their sorrows to the Lord. He who would cast vengeful death upon them from above. One living soul for one living day. The bargain had been set for as long as any could remember. An unending deal with an unseen God. Their forever burden…

Torches
Veronica Magenta Nero

I silence my jagged breath and press myself flat against the cold stones. They chant my name as they jostle flaming torches in the night, boots stomping, their malicious song churns in my stomach. When I close my eyes I see your throat, split open and seeping black red, your fingers trembling at the wound as your life leaked away and soaked into the earth.

They are close, they will soon capture me, a mad woman unwed, a murderous whore. I will gladly confess my crime, without guilt or regret, and for that they will torture me all the more.

A Letter from Captain William Brumley, 47th Border Guard
Brian Moreland

General McHenry,

A new enemy has invaded our territory. Each night campfires appear outside our post. Growls echo from the woods. Twelve of my recon soldiers failed to return. During the day, all we’ve found is an abandoned camp with bloody bones, skulls on pikes. Last night, I ventured close enough to see our tormentors are feral savages cloaked in fur. Formidable beasts with snouts and tusks, archaic weapons. They greatly outnumber us. We are down to four men. We fear for our lives. Please send an army to Fort Danebury, before the Boar People eat the rest of us.

Awoken Me
Jon Olson

Something has changed. It is not time. My metamorphosis is not yet complete. So what has awoken me? My dark world is no longer silent or still. Echoes bounce off the ancient walls as the sounds of the living harass the dead. My joints are stiff as I emerge from my cocoon, creeping along brick foundations built by those from long ago. Up ahead I see a tiny flicker of flame dancing seductively within the confines of a lantern. Pausing, I lick the air and immediately become ravenous for the sweet yet bitter taste of humans. Let the feast begin…

The Mob Laments
John Potts Jr

“What have we done?”

The farmer collapsed. His splintered pitchfork drops and he whimpered a dull, throaty wallop. The priest lowered with lantern and blood-stained cross. “It needed to be done, for it was the will of the—”

“Damn you,” a gargantuan sort of man reached down and snatched the priest off the ground with ease. “No God would demand the death of children.”

A wiry woman pressed forward. Her eyes burned like the woeful flames set before.

“The only monster here is you,” she spat.

Her dagger glistened by moonlight above and the mob circled, still hungry for more.

Penance
Mark Steinwachs

Chained against the wall, the moonlight bathed me. I watched them set up camp then closed my eyes. There was nothing I could have done for my son. His neck was ripped open before I could knock the beast from him. My silver combat knife sunk in, but its teeth and claws inflicted irreversible damage to me. We all knew my final outcome. My eyes popped open and I cried out. It had begun. Vomit spewed from me as I watched my body begin to change. They’re going to sacrifice me for my meat and fur. Penance for my failure.

Offerings in the Dark
A.F. Stewart

A scattering of flower petals covered the ground outside the entrance and etched symbols of protection decorated its stone archway. The people of the town considered the edifice a shrine.
A place of the dead.
Others considered it a pilgrimage.
A few steps inside, tucked in an alcove, the lanterns burned, their flickering light a monument. The faithful came each year; the fortunate said prayers and left. The rest, well…
A few more feet into the shadows and you’d find their bones. The strewn remnants of pilgrims sacrificed to the dark.
You’d also find the creature that ate those fools.

Vivisepulture
Joseph A. Pinto

Spade kisses earth; it begins.

No rites, no rituals. That privilege is lost, stripped like the clothes from your back. No box, no shroud. Nothing but a crude, dank hole.

The melody of cloven earth lulls you; your muscles grow slack against your binds. The chasm claims you; dirt now cast, one with your skin. No use in struggling, you retreat within your mind; you are a master at escape. Ignorant, they are, to the knowledge you have buried yourself within yourself so many, many times before.

How little they know you were born only to die, to rise again.

Cortege
Hunter Shea

I stood beside the crypt, quivering. The crisp autumn air numbed my toes.
“See, I told you,” Rebecca hissed.
I clamped a hand over her mouth.
The procession of glowing orbs marched in front of us, making nary a sound. These were not fairies. Fairies didn’t smell of fruiting bodies. Pain and rancor emanated from the flickering lights, not magic and wonder.
I wanted to run home, but I daren’t alert them to our presence.
The burning dead went on and on, seemingly without end.
Rebecca sniffled heavily against my wet palm.
The cortege stopped.
Turned our way.
God, no!

Twelve Chalices
Nina D’Arcangela

Light flickers in darkest woods, twelve flames do bob and weave. Silent as bare breath trees stand, necropolis whispers her fury. Hidden thou must remain, dangers warned ye did not heed. Voices lift on autumn breeze, and to vain ears do carry. They sing of love, they sing of life, they croon of lust and need. A rustle sounds behind squirreled niche, flesh quivers with fear profound. Claws rasp along age’ed stone, all stills on stroke of three. Ritual fulfilled as hot blood flows, twelve chalices drench in greed. Of this night I do profess, birthed to no other deed.

Custom
Christopher A. Liccardi

The merlin radiated the heat with spite. It was this place, these people it resented. The land passed that hatred on to the stone. It wanted nothing more than to drink, soak up the liquid that would flow like wine.

The revelers were dancing around the fire, as was their custom. The guests were tied to the ground by the necks, as was theirs. The axes sharpened with the bones of the previous gathering.

It was time to do what they came here for. Feed the land on the blood of the unwilling, unwitting and refresh the spirit once again.

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent. © Copyright 2017
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.

Damned Words 21

April 4, 2017March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 12 Comments

Three
Hunter Shea

An unfettered caress. A sigh against your breast. I burn inside when I’m in your presence, the flame of my lust pressed against your cold indifference. Does it bother you when I touch you there? Oh no, you always liked that. Ah, but the sweet, supple beauty entangled in your arms, that is where our joined path diverged.

I still hear your pained refusals, wild jealousy and bleating about love lost. You never understood my love had grown twofold. If only you had said yes, you would feel my hardness. Now who is harder? Are you quivering in your encasement?

Wrath
Brian Moreland

For thousands of years, the lovers had stood frozen in their last embrace. A resting post for countless birds. An enigma to Greeks and tourists who passed through Athens’s ruins. When the Gorgon’s curse finally lifted, the statues’ stone flesh cracked and crumbled, freeing the punished immortals. Euryale and Belen hugged tighter and kissed. The longing in their hearts burned hotter, turned to fury. Euryale’s head erupted into a mane of writhing snakes. Belen’s eyes filled with fire. Seeking vengeance, the Gorgon and demon left the ruins in search of Euryale’s sister, Stheno. The bitch would suffer for cursing them.

Marble
Joseph A. Pinto

Lover yearns, yet the passion remains frozen. Lover craves, yet the need goes unfulfilled. Blind for so long, lover ignores the fragments of self left abandoned atop the floor. It serves lover right.

Now lover searches for truth where all flows smooth and cold. And the eyes that hold lover gaze like still, distant moons. How slick the irony under lover’s needy fingers. For all lover has sought now captured by the deft hand of another. An ache left to harden as lover grows old with time. A masterpiece by love’s standard, yet for all appearances left to stand unwhole.

A Work of Endearment
Lee A. Forman

Her beauty embellishes all my eyes can witness; the world glimmers even in the dark of a moonless night. With a voice that put songbirds to shame, she’d captivated me with only words. I could never let her go. Not in life—or death. As I stare into her eyes, layer after layer crafts the perfection we’ll share once we depart. A tear rolls down her cheek and rests where the white plaster has already dried. Soon the artist I hired will finish his work, encasing us in eternity. We’ll be cast together, molded into forever, never to be apart.

A Toast to Finality
John Potts Jr.

“My sweet,” Elizabeth gazed to Lawrence, swooning with eyes pitted in aged decay. “This starry night witnessed our enemies anguish; to bathe in those screams fluttered my undead heart like our love’s first kiss so long, long ago. Blood rained from our horde, soaking earth with entrails so crimson that the Sun itself will only find jealousy on the coming morn. And the fires! We danced as one, consuming with restless hunger that rose to the hymn of our retribution.”

Life embraced death and chalice drained to the backdrop of scorched lands, warming from afar the finality of reaped vindication.

Eternal
A.F. Stewart

Without end, I gaze upon the face of my death. That perfect face of alabaster marble. How did she taint the spell? How did she curse me? It should have worked, I should have won my immortality. She tricked me. Locked us forever in this embrace of stone.

I tried to warn him. Tried to take back what he stole. The urn was never to be opened, never to leave the temple. Why did he betray me? Why? He destroyed everything. Now I must spend eternity staring at the man who condemned our world to the Fate of Living Stone.

Human
Jon Olson

What is this thing? This monstrosity latching onto my arm and shoulder. It is so vile, wretched, and pathetic. Eyes embedded in a completely formed face stare at me; full of life and emotion. The warm flesh against my skin makes me shudder. Whoever would have expected to come across such a creature? Surely not me or my forebears. Although, I recall something mentioned by the Old Ones. Once there was a creation… no, an abomination. Left to their own free will, they destroyed themselves. This thing gazing at me cannot be one of them. It cannot be a human…

Fire Stone
Nina D’Arcangela

In your eyes, I watch a universe ignite, I see the molten glow; I feel its blaze encompass all. I watch the birth of a new awareness, the awakening of cruel indulgence; one in which brutality, suffering, and eventual indifference will serve far better than kind gentility. Your veneer smooth, your tone unblemished; your surface nearly opalescent, yet I know the fierceness that rages below rends innumerable fractures that will reveal fissures of choice not circumstance. A tragedy that will split the world in two.

Guttering now, the light surrenders. I stare into a vast emptiness as your eyes cool.

Immortal Love
Mark Steinwachs

They wanted to be together, their love for the ages. Athanasios promised he could help. By the time the couple realized what was going on, it was too late. The elixir to help them relax rendered their limbs useless, allowing the artist to move them into position. “Gaze upon each other, this pose is for eternity,” Athanasios said as he painted them with his unique blend of alabaster, making sure to cover every inch of them.

***

“This statue is called Immortal Love, by master Greek sculptor Athanasios,” the museum guide said. “He is well known for his incredibly life-like carvings.”

Pact
Veronica Magenta Nero

She placed the intricate glass bottle in my hands, her cool fingers curling over my own. Her head tipped back, offering a mouth to kiss, seducing me into complacency. A kiss to seal the deal. That’s when I poured it in. The elixir slipped down her pearly throat, poisoning her with her own magic.

We had made a pact but I backed out. I never wanted to be like her – perfect in every visible way, of timeless beauty, immortal. I want to age and die. Each hard earned wrinkle building in number and depth, until my body resembles a nest.

A Whole New Meaning
Christopher A. Liccardi

The rule was simple; unbreakable. These two, the latest two, had broken that rule. Something else was simple, the punishment. Here, stoning had a whole new meaning. The couple was washed, cleaned of all their sins. They were posed for the village to see and they were cast in stone; alive. The offending parts were snapped or chiseled off, mechanical castration for both parties. Then, the crowd watched until the moaning stopped. Sometimes, that took days. Most of them thought death was caused by starvation. I know better; I swung the hammer.

They have one rule here and its unbreakable…

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent. © Copyright 2017
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.

666 Words

August 6, 2013March 7, 2018 ~ demonauthor ~ 21 Comments

I’ve never had a pure thought in my life. At least none I can remember. I can live amongst the usual sinners, but I have a darkness that I can’t shed. It started when I was young, perhaps an infant, and long before any of you were born. The minister at our church was arrested for raping and murdering children when I was eleven. He was also my uncle, William. I often wonder if he is the root of my evil. He baptised me.

If one can bless water and make it holy…can one also curse water to make it wicked? If so, I think that may be what he did. A wise man, his death was a shame, and I do miss the times we spent together, at least those I haven’t forgotten.

There are bits and pieces of things I can remember. Now, I would call them rituals. At the time, I don’t think I had words for what they were. I can’t describe them thoroughly, but they involved blood, skulls, and the pitiful cries of animals. The room was always dark when things carried on the way they often did. The only light came from candles, black themselves aside from the flickering flames. Then they would extinguish, and the smell of hot wax and smoke from the wick would fill my nose. If my eyes adjusted quickly enough, I could watch that last faint ember go dead cold from its living, molten orange.

I still know right from wrong, but choose wrong more often than not. People will tell you that evil is the easy path, that it’s more difficult to be righteous in the eyes of God. I’ll tell you that is bullshit, and those people have never tried to cover up a triple homicide. They have never looked into the face of a loved one as the knife slid in and watched as betrayal became horror and then acceptance and then a lifeless hunk of meat. They’ve never tried to choke down a piece of undercooked human thigh. These are difficult things.

It is the meat I crave…the source is inconsequential.

I’ve been called a demon, an angel of death, a monster, a madman, a psychopath, and a murderer. All of those things are true. I deny none of it. I have solidified my position in hell, and I will be upset if anything less than a throne and full-time position are waiting for me upon my arrival.

And so here I sit, at what should be the end of my life, and instead look to the future. The past hundred years have been a learning experience, but my needs have waned. I wonder what violence might reinvigorate my soul, might bring me back again to my prime and excite the jagged things within me long ground smooth. I’ve sipped from war and famine, I have feasted on disease and I’ve starved myself of affection and affectation. Love is a made up emotion, a primal need based upon hormonal imbalance.

I do miss these things. A belief in love gave me many pleasures. Pleasures of the flesh, pleasures of disappointing others, watching them suffer, watching them die at my hand…there was a rush of adrenaline that used to come with each sin, the anxiety of being caught, the ironic disappointment when I wasn’t, when I realized that getting away with it was easy…it was corralling the nerve in the first place that most lack.

There is truly nothing left under the sun for me. You might wonder, even aloud, if under the sun is where I dwell, and it might shock you to know that I do indeed. That I live everywhere you are, in your home, next door and at your office and those places you shop and in the people you trust. It takes very little to bring me to the surface, but so much effort to put me back once I am there. Remember that above all else.

~ Dan Dillard

My Damned Pen

July 23, 2013March 7, 2018 ~ moondustwriter ~ 24 Comments

The black penumbra grows

rising, rising, rising

greying forms its shadow

pages turn unclear

misled me from the light

penetrating screams are near

begs a blood curdling plea

from where I do not know

“before I’m bound, free me”

***

Pensive were my thoughts

trudging, trudging, trudging

to the mire my shoes brought

it’s written “I was here”

the scribe of evil’s night

rending through night’s fear

I am searching for her life

was she calling out my doom?

innocent, I am now in doubt

blood merged before this moon

***

Pensive are the times

extra, extra, extra

read me between the lines

misled by moon’s eclipse

body slumps, I cannot stand

listless I wait for someone

her pendant in vacant hand

I’m judged and by dawn hung

seemingly torn and cursed

the last chimes have been rung

***

Pendulum cold doth sway

left ,right ,right, left

endless sound so fey

will it never stop

no end to futile strife

tickings mark life’s blot

pending seconds of my life

swing to rope’s end

a hanging part of speech

death’s letter’s do portend

***

Penitent begs to live

“father, father, father

my transgressions please forgive”

echoes in my pent up mind

reams cast a shudder

save this memory and bind

“unjust” will this history suffer

last thing that I heard

a gasp , then

steel sharp against the word

***

Pen away my life

scribble, scribble, scribble

black against parched white

penult is lead etched

no sensible jot or tiddle

telling of penury’s wretch

timeless life once seemed

inking just a fool’s dream

hark, someone else’s screams

~ Leslie Moon

Testing

February 12, 2013November 17, 2014 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 20 Comments

Tearing free of the straps binding it to the table, it slams its muscular body against the one-way mirror and snarls, “What have you done to me?” Its hideously deformed jaw and engorged tongue make the words nearly indecipherable. Saliva drips down the glass, its claws scratch angrily at the slick surface; the creature fights in vain to smash its way through three feet of impenetrable barrier.

From the other side of the glass, the doctor stands dead still, staring at the monstrosity thrashing against the window mere feet away. After an elongated pause, he orders, “Open Room Two.”

Without hesitation the operator does so.

As the door slides smoothly upwards into the wall, the staff can see a young woman crouching in the corner shielding two small children. Filth and vomit stain her T-shirt and jeans; their terror is palpable.

The monstrosity slowly swivels its head toward the open doorway leaving clumps of gelatinous flesh sticking to the glass; lips peel from its gums, a chunk of cheek clings to the surface, one eyelid ripped cleanly from its face. Sniffing the air, it abandons its attack on the window and drops to all fours, senses focusing on the three new beings invading its territory. After judging them no threat, it rises slowly to its full grotesque height.

“Excellent instinctual response. Specimen eighty-seven has locked onto the victims without provocation,” the doctor recites into the digital recorder he is holding. Folding his arms across his chest, he waits with the others in the control room – watching silently.

Still a good ten feet from the open doorway, the young woman clutches the children as she tries to push further back into the wall. Shaking uncontrollably, she can do nothing but shield the children’s eyes and wait.

The creature in the main chamber strides menacingly toward them. One clawed talon on the doorway, it ducks beneath the opening to Room Two.

“Switch to video feed.” Monitors in the control room light up and display varying angles from within the multiple small chambers.

Pausing just inside the doorway, it sniffs again, fuller, stronger this time. Its vicious watery gaze assesses the three huddled forms before it. A slight distraction – pounding on the wall to the right. The young woman glances; the goliath never wavers in its stare. The pounding is frantic; another woman’s voice howling in desperation from what must be a room next door. ‘God, is there another of these things?’ The thought flicks through the young woman’s mind.

Encouraged by her fear, it moves forward quickly, plucking a screeching child from her grasp. The woman in the other room seems to go mad; scratching, shrieking, thrashing beyond the wall.

Dangling the boy before it, the thing draws a long breath from the child’s mouth. It smells the boy’s blood, his vomit; it smells his fear. With one hand still holding the head, the other clawed fist shreds the boy’s body from its neck.

Snorting at the young woman clutching the girl, the monstrosity dangles the boy’s head above its mouth. Still looking her in the eye, it pops the child’s head like an overripe melon with its clenching maw. It chews; it swallows. It then consumes the remainder of the head.

Lowering its own head in challenge, it flicks out a claw and rips the young woman’s T-shirt, sniffing at the putrescence staining it. Frozen in shock and fear, she does nothing. It grins. Reaching down slowly, almost gently, it lifts the remaining child from her numb limbs. The little girl struggles and begs; she tries to grab onto her would-be protector. There is nothing the young woman can do. She watches as it sinks its teeth into the squirming child’s midsection, splattering offal across the entire chamber, covering her in the little girl’s drippings. Chewing with slow delight, it continues to stare at the young woman cowering against the wall. It smells her rank terror; it sees her eyes dim as her mind slips to a distant place. It watches as her body goes limp then spasms uncontrollably.

All the while, the wailing from the room next door grows more incessant.

Awareness dawning, it recognizes the ability to reason, not simply act on impulse. It likes this feeling. Malformed knees bent backwards, it leans down and flicks the young woman’s head to the side.

It has a thought: useless.

It has a feeling: mild agitation.

It hears a sound.

Turning its head, it recognizes the scent that accompanies the untamed agony coming from the other room. Smiling, it abandons the useless mass of jittering flesh on the floor, and draws a gore smeared talon across the wall. The sound calms for a moment… only a moment… before the maniacal pounding and ear-splitting shrieks begin again.

It leaves Room Two, returns to the table in the center of the main chamber and stares with smug satisfaction at the one-way mirror. It believes it has won.

“Seal the chamber. Gas it.” The doctor orders. He then speaks into his digital recorder.

“Eighty-seven has shown marked improvement with cognitive awareness, careless brutality, and its ability to identify its own DNA. But it still does not choose to kill the stranger. Is it showing a degree of compassion?” He clicks off the recorder, tapping it against his chin while glancing up at the monitor showing him a single view of Room One.

Flicking the recorder on once more, he continues, “The reason for the test subject’s failure is still unknown. She should have been able to breach containment by now, saving her offspring. End session eighty-seven.”

Rubbing his exhausted eyes, the doctor turns to the others in the control room. “Let’s clean this up, and get her sedated as quickly as possible. She’s already gestating two new fetuses from number eighty-eight. We don’t want to endanger them anymore than we have to.”

~ Nina D’Arcangela

The Devil Inside

January 8, 2013July 22, 2020 ~ jlwallen ~ 14 Comments

The vestments were always a bit tight, heavy. With each attack upon my faith, they burned my skin and made bitter my memory. They were, however, my duty. The Vatican, my employer. No matter how many times I’d been spit at, violated, and broken, my goal was to cleanse the colors of evil from man’s palette.

“Father, oh Father. Thank God you have arrived. The boy, he’s grown worse.”

“Your name?” I had little time for pleasantries, but knowing the names of those that would serve as my assistants made the rites and rituals far easier.

“I am terribly sorry. My name is Isobelle. I am the Abbess of St. Belle’s Orphanage.”

“Do you know the Rite of Exorcism?”

The sister gave pause, looked at the cracked and aged hardwood floor at her feet. “I must apologize, Father, I do not.”

“Ignorance of the Rite was one of the hurdles of having such a secretive arm of the Holy See. It is not a problem, Sister, I will guide you.”

As I was taking off my rain-soaked jacket, a low, creaking moan filled the air. The ambient temperature noticeably dropped.

“We have carefully examined the files and recordings you sent. Have there been any changes?”

Sister Isobelle stopped. The look on her face was drawn and hollow. “Yes.”

I stared, waiting for the thought to be completed. The Sister remained silent. The low moan was joined by a chorus of hideous screams. As the retched sounds reached a fevered pitch, Sister Isobelle slapped her hands to her ears. Tears flooded her mottled cheeks.

“Sister, you must be strong. Now, take me to the boy.”

Isobelle pulled out a handkerchief, blotted her eyes, and blew her nose. The simple act was an island of genuine humility.

“This way.”

Sister Isobelle placed one nervous foot in front of another. At the end of the candlelit hall, Isobelle opened a flimsy wooden door. The creak of the hinges only served to add another layer of macabre to the horrific scene I was about to witness.

Halfway down the cellar steps, I could feel the change. It wasn’t just another drop in temperature; the air felt heavy, corrupt.

“He’s in this room.” Isobelle’s shaky hand reached out and unlocked the door. For some odd reason, I expected the heavy wood to be blown to bits as the demon-infected child sensed the presence of a holy champion.

Instead, there was only low, arrogant laughter. The laugh insisted itself upon me, made sure I knew whatever unclean spirit existed within the room had no fear of the Cloth of God.

“Please, won’t you come in Father.”

The voice was simple – but not that of a child. When I glanced at the boy bound to the bed, the laughter stopped. His oil-black eyes addressed me.

“Did you expect me to speak in tongues? Latin? Something older? I can see the disappointment in your eyes Father. This isn’t the movies. My head will not spin ’round, nor will I spew pea soup. But if it so please you, I can begin afresh the theatrics.”

I sat my bag down and began to pull out the tools of my trade.

“Ahh yes, the weapons of holy war. Sprinkle me with God’s water Father. Speak your clean words into the ears of this infested child. Fight me. Force me to begone. By the power of Christ, compel me! By the power of Christ, compel me!” The boy writhed on the bed as he mocked me and my position.

“Father… ” Isobella started to speak. I held up a hand to stop her.

“Sister, you should know better than to interrupt a man of the cloth when he is near a young boy.” When the last of the demon’s vile words spat from his mouth, the door to the room slammed shut, nearly splintering the wood.

“I can smell it on you Father. Delicious corruption. It was only a matter of time – ”

“From all evil, deliver us, O Lord. From all sin, your wrath.” I began the chant. The sister recited back the words.

The beast roared me to silence and, with little more than a glance, flung the sister across the room. The woman’s head roughly smacked the floor; she lay motionless.

“Sorry, Father. She was weak, and I wanted to have you to myself.” A vile smile slithered its way across the monster’s lips. “It was only a matter of time before the blinded Holy See would send to me a man with such a tenuous grasp on his faith.”

I continued my chant. “From sudden and unprovided death, from the snares of the devil, from anger, hatred, and all ill will, from all lewdness, from lightning and tempest, from the scourge of earthquakes, from plague, famine, and war, from everlasting death.”

“From child-molesting priests, from bigotry, from young men gunning down innocent children, from mothers beating their babies, from hatred, from homophobia, from lust of the flesh and the coin… Shall I continue Father?”

The look on the vile demon’s face was painted with arrogance as he tore his hands free from his bonds and sat up.

“Father, it’s time the truth be set free. I am that truth. I am The Way.”

“Lord, have mercy!” I called out.

“Lord, have mercy!” The demon replied with a laugh. “How can the Lord hand you mercy when he’s none to give? The Lord is a lie. In the beginning was The Word and the The Word was a lie.”

A splash of holy water danced across the flesh of the beast’s face. The demon licked his tongue around his lips.

“The taste of your Lord’s tears is sweet.”

“Do not keep in mind, O Lord, our offenses or those of our parents, nor take vengeance on our sins.”

“Silence Priest!” The demon raised a hand. A gentle calm overcame me. “Please, have a seat. I want to tell you a story.”

From my pack came the written word – the holiest of holies, entrusted to me by my Cardinal.

“Hide that book of filth and shame from my sight or I will burn you Priest.”

Waves of heat rose from the skin of the boy. I assumed the threat honest and tucked my Bible back inside my case.

“Everything you know is a lie. The words in your tomes are little more than trickery to blind you to the greater truth – that some day your kind will be nothing more than fodder for God’s cannon. Once upon a long lost time, God and Lucifer stood side by side. It wasn’t until God realized that all within his dominion saw he and Lucifer as equals, that he decided to cast the loveliest of Angels aside. The Great Fall was tragic and God knew he’d made a grievous error. The Light of Perfection, however, could not admit to his wrong doing, else his power be lost. And so, since that great gaffe, your God has been amassing souls in preparation for Lucifer’s return to the heavenly dominion.”

The lilt and melody of the voice held me fast. I wanted to weep, to fall at the feet of the demon, and beg for some mercy I’d never receive.

“Had I not found you, Priest, your never-ending soul would have joined the Army of God. That is not to be now. Instead, you will fight for the truest truth. My God has been waiting for this chance since before you were nothing more than a shot of sperm from the prick of a self-righteous, ego-maniacal man of the soiled cloth.”

“I don’t understand. Why do you need me to fight your unholy war?”

A great puff of sulfuric smoke spilled from the nostrils of the boy.

“You are going to help me into the Vatican. From within the Holy See, I will gain access to a very special tome. The ‘Santus Bellum’ – or ‘Holy War’. Within that book is the very plan for God’s war to be waged against Lucifer and the dominion of Hell.”

I stood, a righteous fury fueling my voice. “You will never gain access to the Holiest of Holies.”

The demon released a moan, his eyes rolled to gaze within. As the temperature in the room dropped, the boy floated from the bed and into a crucifixion position. Wind howled through the room and ripped pages from the Bible I had stowed away. The gilded paper lashed about the air, slashing the tiniest of paper cuts over my exposed skin. With each slice I could feel my strength drain. I had never experienced such power, such raw emotion.

As an atonal chorus sang an unholy psalm, I felt the demon attempt to enter me, to take root within my spirit, give succor to a wanton soul. The blessed core of my conscience fought back, until a singular memory boiled up from the recesses of my mind.

I was young, innocent, lost in my ways. Until I was found by Father Stephenson, my life was little more than thievery and corruption. The Father took me in, cured me of my indecent ways, and taught me… Taught me love.

The simple memory shattered my trust, my faith. Stirring at the core of my being, my spirit was released from The Way. As the memory was released, a peace I hadn’t known for such a long time encompassed my heart.

“I welcome you demon. I embrace your light. I pledge my fealty to your cause.”

My proclamation brought stillness to the room. The boy’s body dropped back to the bed, his countenance returned to innocence. Isobella roused from the floor, rushed to the boy’s side, and held him in her frail arms.

“You did it Father. You’ve saved the child.”

As I placed my hand on the handle of the door, the wood fell to dust. I left the room and my holy relics behind. My cause was clear. I was to serve the true King of Kings. It was time to arm the Lord of Loss and tilt the scales of righteousness back to the side of truth.

~ Jack Wallen