Grieve

October 23, 2012May 1, 2013 ~ Joseph Pinto ~ 58 Comments

Enter.

Sit before the Tale Weaver.

Through this open sash wafts the spice of golden autumn, yet lulled into complacency dare be not. A harbinger, this essence, of sinister entities soon to stalk the sanctity of your threshold. Hastened your pulse, and so should it be. For in due time the graveyards beyond shall be born once more. My skeletal hand now take, and open your dormant senses to such truths as only the Tale Weaver can reveal. Yes. Yessss. One foot fore the other; step now from my tenebrous haunt.

Behold my playground! Behold the majesty of rot neath your apprehensive feet, these glorious, rusted arches serving as gateways for the dead. Across the chilled flesh of your cheek doth flit moonlight embers, or so your consciousness should have you believe. Tis the fingers of lost souls caressing your countenance, mourning the shell of humanity you now possess. This wayward wind aches under the weight of their listless repose; cease the shuddering of your limbs and heed their moans! As you are now so once were they; for what they are now so soon shall you be. Death, perhaps for you, is final, yet for these entities only in death do they flourish.

Cautious, ever cautious should you step tween the ever-sentient monuments and moss crusted sepulchers; their domain you tread. Respect these hallowed grounds, respect this kingdom of decay, for to the purveyors of putrefaction tis their crown jewel. The swirling mist; it jerks at your wrist, starving and desperate for your attention. Yes, ignorant one, tis the dead! They watch us…watch you…their doleful eyes shimmering tween the slender silvered cobwebs of the tombs. Their tendrils seek you, enamored with the stink of humanity, and in slow solitaire turns do they wish to dance at your side, their darkened cathedral of sorrow echoing with the strained chords of the damned.

The pathways, the hills, teeming with specters of eras long gone; this necropolis of the horrific busying itself for its grandest day — All Hallows Eve — so bear witness the blessings of death these hapless beings do perceive. In turn, treasure your own worthless existence and end your common grievances, lest you return, doomed and fated to roam deeper chasms of despair than you can possibly comprehend.

Your attention…drawn to the small clearing just yonder. Investigate you may; the ghouls I shall restrain whilst you stride tween the jagged teeth of plot and stone. Yet you turn to me, confusion etched deep into your brow. Aye, tis what you believe it to be…here the obscure sorrow more profound than anywhere else…here the cloying agony more suffocating than anywhere else…here the tiny monuments adorned with docile lambs, yet greater in stature than anywhere else…the final resting place for the young souls given no choice tween exemption and sin.

Dare not judge me, for your God I am not and do not wish to be. Even I cannot fathom the laws of what you call fate; aye, nor abide by its rules if I could. But these younglings I do watch from the distance, ever mindful of their misplaced light in this land so very lost.

You hear her, do you not? The long, drawn mewls of agony and torturous sobbings of a heart long since raped; tis the guardian of these younglings, there…there…tattered wings draped in black strands over the faceless, nameless tombstone upon which she perches. Yes…she…the dark angel for these beacons of light.

Gaze upon her grotesque beauty, this devourer of purity, yet your head turn from her tears. Her anguish respect. Protects these younglings at all costs and yet mourns her greatest loss, this dark angel does. I speak of a soul abandoned by its Maker; a soul denied entry by equal parts Heaven and Hell. A soul delivered from the abyss, cast back to the abyss. For eternity has the dark angel brooded upon her cold throne of shattered dreams, compassionately embracing the young that seek comfort at her thorn laced feet whilst inconsolable her own charred essence bleeds dry. For eternity agonizing over the light left unclaimed as her own.

The dark angel seethes – such is the price of unsatiated grief. Mouth jagged, a twisted hole of silent fury; swarthy locks entombing stricken face. Yearning, yearning for the sunbeam she may never hold. Beautiful, wondrous and macabrely awful…the dark angel bemoans what is beyond even my capacity.

Leave now. I command – leave now! Across unholy crypts do run with tail tween legs, and pray your ragged breath not be stolen by the ghouls at your heels. No longer I offer protection; no longer your welcome honored in our sanctuary of desolation. For on this Stygian night the abomination I am becomes something wholly else; only on this Stygian night do I ignore my own sentence of perpetual condemnation and become something other than the insidious being you loathe. Into these debased arms do I lift the dark angel and remove her from her watch. On this endless night of Stygian nights, protector I become. Upon my lap I lay her wicked head down, my sweet angel of depravity, and so she will mourn. And hold her evermore, until all that remains of us is the rot tween our bones.

Until next I summon you, be gone.

So the Tale Weaver speaks.

~ Joseph A. Pinto as the Tale Weaver

As a proud participant in this years Coffin Hop 2012 blog tour, I’m giving away an e-copy of my novel Flowers for Evelene, plus a print copy of Twisted Realities: Of Myth and Monstrosity featuring my story Memorial.

If you’d like to be one of the winners of my give away, please leave a comment on this post, and on November 1st, two random recipients will be chosen.

Don’t forget to visit the rest of the Coffin Hoppers at coffinhop.wordpress.com!

Mercy – Chapter 2

October 9, 2012February 8, 2013 ~ Hunter Shea ~ 24 Comments

(continuation of ‘Mercy‘ chapter 1 s2iKoL-mercy )

Jessamine slept often, those first few days after her return. I was allowed to take her to the garden for one hour each day, where I read poetry to her and piled dozens of fresh picked flowers on her lap. The hail storm had laid waste to our vegetable garden, but the heartier flowers that lined the old house were spared its wrath.

“Do you remember how it felt when…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the question. Father had told me to never mention the word exorcism again, especially in front of Jessamine.

She shook her head. “I don’t remember a thing. It just felt as if I’d disappeared, like sleeping without dreaming.”

“Please don’t go away again.”

“I promise, I won’t. Big sisters are supposed to take care of their little sisters, not the other way around. Thank heavens you had Lucy to watch over you while I was…gone.” She cradled Lucy in her hands, smoothing her thumb over the tiny fracture.

I had to say something that had puzzled me ever since her possession. “You’d think living in the Reverend’s house would have prevented something like this from happening. I mean, this is sacred ground of sorts. ”

Jessamine stares at the old stone manse, at its tall windows and gabled roof. Her eyes glazed over as if with fever. Her lips were dry and cracked and her voice was soft and distant when she replied, “Yes, you would think so.”

Despite father’s insistence that we put Jessamine’s episode behind us, lest we give the evil the power to creep back into our lives, it was hard for me to stay silent. I had so many questions.

I lay in my bed letting the questions twist round my brain. The moon was full and brilliant and cast silvery shafts of diaphaneity across our small bedroom.

How did the evil worm its way into Jessamine?

Why her?

Where did it go?

How did it go? Was it simply a matter of saying the right words by the Reverend, or was it something more, something that couldn’t be seen or heard?

“I’m sure it’s in hell, where it belongs,” my sister blurted from her sleep. It was if she had read my thoughts!

It gave me a terrible fright. I touched her lightly on the shoulder but her heavy exhalation told me she was in a deep state of sleep.

The house took on a preternatural silence and the radiance of the moon no longer seemed so gay. Sleep did not come easily.

I was awakened by Esther’s piercing scream. Jessamine and I threw off our blankets and rushed down the stairs.

Esther was still in her nightclothes. A wide, dark streak of blood marked the trail of her pained walk from her room by the kitchen to the dining room.

She reached out to us with shaking hands. “Help…me!”

It was awful. Her round face was red with strain and rivers of tears flowed from the corners of her eyes. Our charwoman had always been a source of invincibility in our home. She lay upon the floor like a helpless rabbit caught in a trap. Her leg was a mass of gore. With trembling hands she tried to stanch the flow of blood.

My father brushed past us and knelt by her side. He asked her how she had come to be hurt but poor Esther could only babble. The house was awash with our cries.

Mother had been given a prescription of laudanum to help her frayed nerves, so she remained oblivious to the commotion.

“Jessamine, fetch me that cloth over there,” he said.

When he turned to ask for her help, I saw the red, pulpy swath that had been carved into Esther’s leg. The edges of the wound were ragged, as if…

As if something had gnawed the flesh from her leg.

Esther’s moans died in her throat when she passed out, and I ran to the well to fill a basin with water.

The doctor arrived an hour later. He took Esther with him to the hospital. She awoke when Father and he lifted her from the floor and screamed like a madwoman all the way to the doctor’s carriage.

None of us ate that day. We couldn’t get the image of her gnawed-upon leg out of our brains.

“Father, what could do such a thing to Esther?” I asked. “Could it have been a wolf?”

He shook his head and smoothed the sides of his great, bushy mustache. “I’m not sure dear. Esther was in no state to tell us. Perhaps when she settles down at hospital, she’ll recall. I’d say it had to have been some animal she encountered in the yard. I want you girls to pray for her recovery and that it wasn’t…rabid.”

When mother awoke in the early afternoon, she shuffled throughout the house, calling for Esther, wondering about supper.

It seemed we couldn’t escape the madness.

~ Hunter Shea

Chapter 3 will be available on Halloween Day on Hunter’s blog, www.huntershea.com. To be concluded on Pen of the Damned in December!

She Watches

October 2, 2012November 17, 2014 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 20 Comments

My watcher gazes upon me, great despair and longing seeping through her gently fluttering lashes. She lives a life of torment, a life filled with a depth of pain and depravity that rivals my own. Closer she wishes to draw, trying – always trying, but the measure of her success is a cruel and harsh one that denies, not grants, the wants of those like us. Unable to do more, she watches.

She watches as I sink ever further into the squalor that is my self-imposed exile, my place of preciously preserved pains, the darkest recesses of my mind where even I cannot find respite from my own deranged ramblings. Gasping for a breath that will never come, hope a thing lost to a moment that can never be regained, I will forever dwell in this chasm of nowhere. Capable of infusing life into me once more, yet unable to wade such a distance, she must simply watch as I succumb.

She watches as I prance about in this tattered garb, seeming to most a thing so giddy; a toy bright and shiny – all the while, inside… nothing but a fool. She sees my cracks, my flaws, all that makes me unworthy. She is witness to the tarnish that dulls my plating, the rust that flakes my surface, the debris that hinders my step. She gropes at the pile of destroyed dreams, hoping in vain to free me; the more she digs, the deeper the rubble becomes. She must watch as I succumb to what others have done, and what has become of me.

She watches as I shatter into innumerable shards, only to suffer my tears as I collect each delicate fragment to me; insistent upon rebuilding my ruined castle once more. Tears of acid crawl down my cheeks, the madness that accompanies them the crumbling of the world – my world – should they ever truly be unleashed. A steady stream of tangible harm inflicted by so many, each droplet a testament to the life I bear. Her desperate plea for me to hush heard only as an echo in my ear. Her arm stretched towards me, wanting so much to offer reprieve, is hindered by obstacles both beloved and unfair. She must watch as I succumb to what others have undone within me.

She watches as I flay open my own flesh for allowing moments of weakness, glimpses of joy, lies of happiness that happen in an instant, gone all too quickly. Brief encounters, an hour, perhaps two. Touching, loving, seeing, hearing; feeling – breathing; for the first time in so long, breathing. A small step that leads to a brighter existence, a false step placed upon undulating ground. A promise of the sweetest forever, but no promise ever made, a faith always held – a mourning that shall never end, my forever, my reality. This she must watch as I succumb not to what others have undone, but what I have done to destroy me.

Would I give so much more for even a lie of something less, if that lie was not this? With all the wasted remains of me, I would… But my watcher stands as guard. She will not allow one to crumble, for the other would fall, no longer even the loathsome wreckage that now exists. Scalding tears pour in a cascade of deafening silence from her eyes. She must always watch me from behind a glass wall that cannot be allowed to shatter for all that would be lost.

A pile of forever swept to the side so that the tendrils of this now never break for what should have been.

~ Nina D’Arcangela

A Fouling Wind

September 18, 2012January 14, 2014 ~ Daemonwulf ~ 42 Comments

Papa’s gone. And I’m alone. Again.

As dusk is swallowed by night, I peer through the glass of the front door at a world that carries on without me. In the dirty, etched glass that serves as my window into the world I rarely enter, the reflection I’ve grown use to stares back at me. As the years have passed, I’ve come to realize the face is mine. But I know it’s not the one I was born with.

There’s a smell in the air. It frightens me…

Outside, tall oak trees cast long shadows across the road that snakes past our home — sharp fingers scraping the pavement, desperate to crawl away from the setting sun. Their branches are engaged in an ages old battle, pummeled by the invisible fists of a foul-smelling wind. Between the rustle of leaves, I hear the roar of the metropolis that lives around me. It must now stretch for miles beyond our neighborhood – a secluded enclave reserved for the city’s elite. We were once the families of the ruling class – the wealthy, the industrialists, and ‘the ones with the most to lose,’ as Papa would often say.

Automobiles rumble by in the distance, their angry horns bleating dissatisfaction. A trio of motorcycles growl, carving their own paths down paved streets far beyond where my eyes can see. Overhead, gleaming airplanes leave white streaks in their wake as they crisscross the sky. The patterns remind me of Tic-Tac-Toe played on scraps of paper with Mama, so many years ago. The din of the sleepless city invades this home that Papa built, as he says, ‘to protect us from the evils that dwell beyond our granite walls.’

Inside, my guts churn. Something’s coming…

Papa is a good man — a proud man. But even though he doesn’t say it, I know he’s also a very sad man. There was a time when Papa feared nothing. Now, it seems, fear consumes him. Sometimes I imagine I can see the terror that hides behind his eyes — wicked shadows living just below their surface. I can’t help but feel that he wants to make sure his fears find a new home, somewhere deep inside of me.

Papa doesn’t want me to go outside alone anymore. He never explains exactly why, saying only that so many horrors ride on the back of every wind, and that they’re particularly dangerous for a ‘little boy like me’ — a phrase he’s very fond of using.

While I often ponder what Papa sees on the wind, something tells me I already know, without him having to speak the words.

When the wind blows, I believe I can sometimes sense Papa’s fears. I smell their rotten odors as they arrive on the slightest of breezes. And their stench grows stronger as frenzied gusts howl through the trees. I like to believe that what I smell is simply the decay of the city; but deep inside I know it’s actually something far, far worse.

Deathhhhhh…

The thought turns my skin to gooseflesh.

While known for his honesty, I don’t know if Papa’s been entirely truthful with me. If nothing else, I fear he’s keeping things from me, sharing only what he wants in order to protect me from what he’s sure exists outside – ‘evils too dangerous for a little boy like me.’

I can’t count the number of times Papa’s told me how much he can’t bear to see me hurt. I know he’s talking about something much different than scraped knees or broken wrists. And I can’t help but think it’s my ruined face that has him so concerned.

Rather than risk his pain, I now try to do as Papa asks. I stay inside as much as possible.

Here, locked behind the door, I stare through the window and wait, watching day bleed into night and then back again. It’s an endless procession of time that marches past in a world that has forgotten I ever existed.

The wind blows harder. And the stench grows stronger. Oh, Papa, where are you…?

Today had been the same as most. Papa was dressed in a meticulously appointed suit — the creases of his pant legs pressed so sharp they looked as though they could slice a finger. Like clockwork, he placed atop his head a matching black top hat. When he dressed this way it reminded me of the days when he used to work at the bank. That was when Mama was still around.

“Son, I’m off to pay a visit to the Goldbergs. You remember Samuel and Rita Goldberg, no?” Papa asked. I nodded, even though I didn’t.

“I’ll be lunching with the Rubensteins, and then need to check in on the Schultz sisters before returning. You know, they don’t have many callers these days, the poor, lonely dears.” I thought his last statement rather ironic.

This was almost verbatim what he said every day. Only the names changed from one to the next.

“And Robert, remember…stay inside. Don’t open the door for anyone but me,” he said, pausing. “You know how much I care for you, son. You’re all I have, and I don’t know what I’d do if anything happens to you…”

He stopped before uttering the final word, but I knew, even though unsaid, he meant to end his sentence with ‘again.’

Papa rubbed my head, mussing my hair.

“I’ll give Mrs. Rubenstein your best wishes,” he said, with a flash of a smile and a wink of his right eye behind which I was sure I could see the darkness that terrorized him. Then Papa was out the door.

He’s afraid. And so am I…

Hours had passed since Papa had left, and he was still not home yet. This was unusual, even for a man as busy as he.

Staring out into the dimming light, something felt strangely different about today.

That’s when I noticed the car approaching on the road. Anxiety chewed at my insides.

Oh Papa, Papa…you need to come home soon.

It was almost unheard of to have visitors these days. We never saw the friends or family who once streamed into our home for dinners, holidays, or simple chats. I suppose time takes its toll on everything, including the memories of those you once loved.

While not exactly out of the ordinary to see cars pass by on our private lane; it was a rare occasion when they actually stopped. Usually, they’d be filled with loud, drunken teenagers who’d roam across our lawn, not hesitating to relieve themselves behind hedges or at the base of our trees. This would continue until Papa grew weary of the cacophony and put an end to such escapades. He’d step through the doorway — voice booming — and send them scattering back to their cars where they were quickly on their way.

Taking special effort not to be seen, I hunkered down and peered through the bottom of the window in the front door. Through the security bars bolted to the outside, I watched the car creep into full view. It was one of the late-model sport coupes that interested me so; but it was badly in need of a wash. Beneath the grime I could tell it was probably a brilliant red.

I gagged on the decay…

I breathed a small sigh as the car continued past, sure it would be on its way. Then came the tell-tale flash of red that erupted from its back end as the driver brought it to a halt. My heart slipped into my throat. I slid to floor.

The car was still, its engine rumbling in the early evening. A fine mist of exhaust belched from the tailpipe.

Then it backed up to our concrete walkway.

It’s coming here…

The shadows of the oak trees threw the car’s internal compartment into darkness. Somehow I knew this vehicle carried no mischievous teenagers, but instead something far worse.

The air around me was heavy with the smell of rot. It squeezed my body in its tight grip, choking me and calling to attention the hairs on the nape of my neck. The last time I had this feeling was so many years ago it was barely memorable. But the reflection of the gruesome face staring at me in the glass broke the dam that held my memories in check.

Oh Papa, Papa…WHERE ARE YOU?!

The windows of the car were tinted. It almost impossible to see inside. I noticed movement behind the darkened glass. It was nothing more than a shadow turning to look at me. Inside the darkness, a set of green eyes stared out at door behind which I cowered.

Cold fingers scraped my spine as its gaze located me through the thin layer of glass. My reflexes slammed me backward, away from the window. I squeezed my body into the wall, willing myself flat, hoping to disappear and remain unseen.

Too late…

In the few minutes that my heart threatened to jump through my chest, an eternity seemed to pass. Then, from outside, came the distinct sound of fallen leaves crushed by heavy footfalls as something crossed the lawn.

Then came the sound of leather soles on concrete.

Click… Clack… Click-clack…

No matter how much I willed it, I couldn’t summon the courage to peel myself from the wall and race to safety far from the door.

Click-clack. CLICK-CLACK!

The shoes grew louder as they neared the door. Tears streamed from my eyes.

CLICK… CLACK.

It stopped.

Then the crash came, reverberating the door and echoing through the house.

My body frozen, I watched the knob on the inside of the door turn slowly — first to the right, and then back again to the left, creaking with each movement.

Drums beat loudly inside my ears, and my thoughts were a chorus of screams.

Again, the doorknob moved — this time a complete turn.

And the door opened. A foot stepped inside. Followed by a leg.

The crease in the pant was as sharp as a knife.

I ran to Papa, grabbing him tightly around the waist — an act I’d normally think better suited for a child than for the full-grown 14-year-old boy I was.

Rivers of tears flooded from my eyes. They flowed over the rugged landscape of my scarred face, salting my gums and dripping onto my tongue through the hole where my right cheek had once been.

Cautiously, I peered around Papa. The car was gone.

It was my imagination after all… Papa’s fears HAD found a new home.

But in the distance, the flash of brake lights caught my eye in the night.

A new breeze blew across the threshold of the open doorway. I could taste the hint of rot as it dissipated into the cool, evening air.

It was then that I realized that Papa had been right. There are evil things in the world that are much too dangerous, especially for a little boy like me. And I knew it would be back.
(To be continued…)

~ Daemonwulf

Wolf Song

August 14, 2012February 18, 2013 ~ Thomas Brown ~ 22 Comments

The babies are coming. They’re coming and Friedrich is not there. After everything they have been through; the heartache, the treatments, he is not going to miss this moment. He puts his foot down on the accelerator. The sigh of warm air from the heater blows against his face. He drives fast through the snow-flecked night.

The road seems endless. A stretch of black tarmac and black ice and black night. Eventually he sees lights. Not the moon, which is full, swollen in the sky, but other lights. City lights. He navigates the icy side-streets as only an expectant father can. Two minutes now and he’ll be home and everything will be all right. He has waited for this day for so long. He has wept at the thought of this day coming, and at the thought of it not coming, when it seemed that way. Her blood, his tears. They said she was barren. But now the day is here. One minute, if that. He brings the car round the corner, faster than he should –

A figure lopes across the road, running towards him, beside him.

There is a dull thud as it hits the driver’s side of the car. He catches it with the front wheels. Then a bump; violent, horrible, to match the feeling in his stomach, as it vanishes beneath the chassis. It might have been a dog. He only half-glimpsed it, before it was drawn under the vehicle, flailing then gone. He knew dogs didn’t flail; that helpless, human gesture, but then he had not seen it properly and a car’s wheels could do terrible things to an animal’s shape. Broken apart by wheels, a dog could flail. A dog could die –

He takes the turn and pulls into his drive. The car grows quiet beneath him. He tumbles out into the cold night, which hits him with a force; stings his face and brings sharp tears to his eyes. He moves towards the house.

It doesn’t strike him as odd that the front door is open. It saves seconds in unlocking it himself. He steps into the hallway with its long, lavender walls and family pictures: their wedding, that holiday in Morocco, Christmas with her parents last year. The hallway is cold. It is filled with night air. Why was the door open? he wonders briefly. He calls out to his wife.

Screams reach his ears. Infantile and distressed, they are the most beautiful things he thinks he’s ever heard. Almost slipping, he follows them to the front room.

His steps falter. He is unsure quite what he’s seeing. Two figures roll on the sheepskin rug. They are baby-sized with four limbs each but malformed mouths, like battered snouts. Their eyes, thin, unseeing slits, are his wife’s pale blue and each is covered in a growths of matted hair, black and slick with birthing fluid. On hearing a presence they scream and mew and roll a little faster on their backs. Short, angular limbs peddle the air.

His stomach heaves and he turns from the things to vomit. His sick splashes the expensive curtains his wife and he bought when moving in together. He is wiping his eyes when he sees the spots of red across the carpet – a heavy flow, petering out as he pursues it through the hallway, a bloody breadcrumb trail leading back into the cold dark of outside. He follows the trail; the movements of his wife, he guesses, as she sought to reach him, to escape the wolfish things that have crawled out of her.

He reaches the street. The night seems vast, as though he could drown in its depths. Struggling for breath, he follows the blood spots to the misshapen figure in the road. He realises that they would always lead here. He studies the shape, which is heaving and moaning. It rolls over, hand-paws slapping the pavement, and he stares into the face of his wife.

Lights flicker on down the street. Figures appear in their doorways, drawn, he supposes, by the sounds. His wife is crying, her jowls quivering, a whimper slipping from her throat. He begins crying too. He kneels beside his lady, taking her matted fur in her hands. He thinks of the first time they met, in a queue at the bank. Their first date on the seafront, the salty breeze in their faces. The first time he cooked for her. He tells her their babies are beautiful, and that their curtains are ruined.

He smells salt now, but it is coppery and rank. A crowd is forming, shapes drawing closer. The vastness of the sky is replaced by a pressing constriction, formed by the figures around them.

He smells other things too. His wife’s blood, the stench of exhaust fumes, the hot wetness of animal breaths. He hears panting and the slop of tongues against teeth. Under the light of the moon he sees his neighbours, his friends, their snouts long, eyes shining in the moonlight.

Kneeling over his wife he takes her in his arms, to cover her, to protect her from the circling beasts, before realising his hands are also paws. His flesh is covered with hair, his teeth long and sharp in his mouth.

He hears a mewling again. His ears twitch, rising to attention. He turns, smelling blood and urine, and finds their neighbour walking towards them. She moves upright as a person and is fully clothed, but sloped eyes bridge her face, her muzzle glistening in the moonlight. In her arms she carries their two children, struggling in that way all new-born babies do, when first faced with the enormity of the world. As she approaches him, one of his neighbours howls. Another joins it, then another, until the city fills with the haunting sounds.

The pups are deposited against his flanks. Beneath him, his wolf-wife turns her face and smiles. Then she shudders and expires. The wolves continue to howl, their cry at once celebratory and mournful. They sing of life and death, blood and heat, the earth and the sky, and the night sings back at them.

~ Thomas James Brown

Eternal Incineration

July 17, 2012January 14, 2014 ~ Daemonwulf ~ 36 Comments

Everything I once had is gone. It wasn’t a lone thief who’d snuck in during the middle of a single night to clean me out. It was instead a series of small burglaries, committed by an efficient team over more years than I recall. Their robberies began when I was just a boy and when, like most children suffering from few friends and social isolation, I spent most of my time alone — hidden away in my room, surrounded by the few possessions that made life bearable. I didn’t realize it then, but it was this solitary life that offered the opportunity for the shadows to begin slipping into the world of walls that I’d built…

————

When I awoke this morning, my sheets were wet with sweat. It may have been due to the nightmares that had returned with renewed fervor, or maybe it was only my body signaling the return of the heat. The mercury in the thermometer was rapidly approaching the 90-degree mark; and it was only 9:00 am.

Outside, the Sun burned through a cloudless, blue sky. A single step onto the porch allowed the Michigan heat to wrap its humid fingers around my throat, squeezing the breath back into my lungs. Down the block, amid joyful screams and shouts much too raucous for early morning, a group of overheated kids cooled off in the gallons of water that gushed into the street from an open hydrant. Their shrieks turned urgent as a sad-eyed, pony-tailed lookout alerted her comrades to the approaching police cruiser. As the children scattered, I stepped back inside to begin what looked to be a long, hot and profitable day.

————

Even as a child I knew the shadows that haunted my nights were the manifestation of something very bad. They gained access to my room by flattening themselves as thin as pieces of paper and sliding silently beneath the door. As I cowered in my bed, with my sheets bundled tightly under my chin, I watched their darkness stream across my threshold. Once inside, they’d pick themselves up off the floor, some of them growing so tall that their jagged heads bounced off the ceiling. Then they’d creep slowly around the walls, slipping into the corners of my room where they’d wait, sitting quietly until my body was forced to accept the sleep that my will denied it. All the while, the shadows flashed gashes revealing stained teeth, and their yellow eyes glowed at me from the dark…

————

The years haven’t been kind to Detroit. The loss of jobs, home foreclosures and increased suicides as savings accounts vanished have made life hard and finances tight for those left behind in this dying city — myself included. While I rarely credit my painful experience growing up on the farm for much of anything, I do attribute that life to my enduring work ethic and the reliance on self that’s led to my having survived in the city all these years.

While I work hard when I have the work to do, my job itself is seasonal. As such, it’s important I take advantage of the warm months when fresh food is more plentiful and less expensive. Falling back on farm tradition, I still spend much of my time preparing foods to carry me through and earn extra money during this off-season, when I’ll sell some of the canned preserves, cured meats and pickled sundries I store in my pantry. It’s curious, but the demand for life’s basics never seems to dry up in the city.

————

Thinking back, I remember so many nights spent lying in bed in the farmhouse, the fear paralyzing my body, as I stared out at the monsters through squinted eyes. With my heart beating so fast I thought it would jump from my chest, I’d sometimes work up the nerve and risk a peek at the shadows that now shared my room. I’d look on as they tore themselves from the darkness, only to have some of them crawl onto my bed and stick sharp fingers in my ears or rub greasy palms across my skin, all while their slithering tongues dribbled hot spittle into my face. Others would go to work searching my room. They’d rifle through my belongings, snatching from me whatever they chose to make their own…

————

I can’t really complain about the work I do. Growing up without much of an education, I’m become quite satisfied with my how life has turned out. I’m my own boss. I control my destiny. I’m able to provide for myself well enough; and I still find the time to help so many.

While not very social, it’s rare that I get the chance to discuss my humanitarian passions with others. But when I do, people are rarely impressed. Nobody much cares about the needy anymore. So, when the topic is raised, I’ve learned to just say I work in heating and cooling. This keeps the pain of conversation short.

————

It wasn’t until sometime during my teenage years that I allowed my intruders to know I was aware of their break-ins. That’s when all Hell broke loose. Once the shadows realized I knew they were there, they began pilfering at an alarming rate. I suppose after so many years of my acceptance it was only logical their thefts would become more purposeful. And, unfortunately, I didn’t realize the extent of the damage being done…

————

Beyond the obvious wrinkles on my face, not a whole lot has changed in my life. I still spend most of my time alone, giving me plenty of time to think. I don’t much enjoy looking backwards. There are too many memories I’d rather forget. But I learned long ago that such is the way with life. It often has its own plans for us.

During spring and summer, I drive seven days a week, sometimes for up to 12 hours a day, and with only thoughts and music for company. The truck is old and the tunes play through bad speakers, often repeating the same few songs in what seems an endless loop. While not everyone’s cup of tea, my music has become the soundtrack for my repetitive life; and it does help drown out the many voices from the past that scream inside my head.

————

I realized several years ago that I had advanced well beyond any normal state of self-denial, choosing to believe I’d simply misplaced the things that, in reality, the shadows had stolen from me. With each incident of their private looting, I became more willing to overlook the evil taking place, choosing instead to leave them to their thievery in peace…

————

My best customers live among the idyllic, tree-lined avenues in places far outside the city. The streets here flow with enthusiasm as the residents embrace the hope that money and possessions instill. It’s in these bedroom communities where the financially fit make their lives meaningful, choosing to seclude themselves behind groomed hedgerows and manicured lawns where the darkest of life’s shadows often hide unseen.

I sometimes feel like a modern-day Pied Piper, stealing them away from the false pleasantries of pool parties, baseball games, family picnics and lives spent replacing nighttime fears with the daytime horrors of video games. They chase me down with sweat-soaked dollars gripped in eager fists and clamor at my window while the music explains how ‘Weasels’ sometimes go ‘Pop.’ Their voices bark orders, but instead I hear a cacophony of pain crying out for something they don’t realize exists. Sadly, my inventory of fudge bars, frozen treats and waffle cones offer only a momentary chill from the fires I know burn within them. But always among every group of smiling faces seeking sweet salvation from the ice cream man, there’s at least one child whose eyes melt from the heat of the same sadness I know all too well.

————

I suppose if I’d been a more capable person, I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be consumed by the shadows that have waged war on my world. Because of them I now live in a place of secrets filled with sorrow, lies and the searing pain they’ve brought. I no longer care that the darkness inside me has free reign. After all, it was I who allowed the shadows entrance in the first place. And it was I who let them rip me apart, slowly chewing me into pieces over the years, permitting them to ultimately take everything from me and leave only fire in their wake…

————

With the children long gone, their fires temporarily extinguished, I pull away from the curb as ‘It’s a Small World’ blares from the loudspeaker. Glancing into my rear view mirror, a pair of sad, fearful eyes stare back at me. The delicate gaze of the brown-eyed boy who’s wedged himself between the coolers in the back of the truck may fool some; but he doesn’t fool me. I’m all too familiar with the shadows that visit him as he lies paralyzed in his comfortable bed at night. I know how he yearns to be free of their thievery. And oh how he wants to beg me to extinguish the pain that burns inside him; but the bandana tied around his mouth doesn’t permit it.

Even through the mirror, I can see the dark faces of the demons reflected in his tear-filled eyes. The monsters don’t yet know it, but they’ll soon be evicted from their new home. Won’t they be surprised when I pluck his eyes from his skull and secret them away with the others inside the pickling jars that line the shelves of my pantry. I smell the flesh on his bones. It’s laced with fear, making it by far the best cut of meat for curing. And most importantly, the innocent little heart beating in his chest needs protection from the evil that seeks to steal it from him. It’s this delicacy that I’ll remove with utmost precision and all the tenderness that such an important possession demands. It’ll be stored away safely inside my airtight freezer, where its virtue will be forever preserved from the shadows that seek to cook it on a spit over the flames of Hell.

It is I, alone, who must save these innocents from the demons that intend to steal their souls, leaving them hollowed out and eternally incinerated on the inside. I just can’t allow the shadows to turn another child into the monster like the one they made out of me.

~ Daemonwulf

Beast

June 19, 2012March 7, 2018 ~ Joseph Pinto ~ 23 Comments

Enter.

Sit before the Tale Weaver.

Be still; your incessant fidgeting only diminishes your concentration. Do you not hear it? There. There. Aah, stark terror glazes your eyes…but it should not be so. Relish instead, such a strange and horrid note, that awful baying from beyond the window sash. Silence yourself! I share with you now what knowledge I possess of the beast.

Yes, beast I say, but beast quite not. An unspeakably magnificent specimen of what should not be yet most certainly is. Born to walk this earth of two legs, but through the nether, hunts upon four. A most fascinating creature of wretched beauty, resigned in its existence of perpetual condemnation between its own genesis of dawn and gloam. Humanity its filthy cage. Bestiality its cherished home. Torn and ravaged by the tumult within its sorrowful soul.

You gaze upon me in naked incredulity, yet persistent your hands do wring; aye, even you cannot deny the awful splendor laced within the hoarseness of its throaty howls. Be attentive! Open not only ears but your narrow mind…listen beyond the ferocity of the echoes in the valley. Tis true, this abhorrence of nature will rend of you flesh and bone as a child strips wrappings from a gift if its disposition should see fit. The hunt it relishes, for only then does it truly live, the timbre of its environment razor-sharp, ally to its preternatural senses. You cannot outrun this thing, for how do you outrun that which already resides within you?

Swift, powerful, majestic…a wholly somber and evil thing. But I inquire of you – what is the gist of evil? The unnatural to your eyes; the obscene to your senses? Or is evil some broken yet unbowed pet, unwilling to yield to the shackles that seek it bound? If you should learn one thing from me this moonlit night, then heed this—true evil is the fiend that hides behind man’s mask, not the beast that allows its mask known.

Listen closely to that mourning song, that pitiful melody lamenting of deprived freedom from behind unseen bars, for tis the true conflict deep within its dark, fated core, and so it starves. Longing for the wild. Longing for the matte of fresh dew beneath its pads and the sparkle-slivered caress of Mother Moon across its rippled back. Longing…forever longing…this beast so much more than man.

Leave now then, but be mindful to keep a hastened pace along the timber’s fringe. Pull tight the collar to your neck, and do not afford yourself a moment to pause. For if the long howl of a doleful ballad plucks at your heartstrings, and the hapless allure of eye shine keeps measure with your gait, pray to your god that on this night the beast remains satiated.

And the man within it holds fast to its rein.

Until next I summon you, be gone.

So the Tale Weaver speaks.

~ Joseph A. Pinto as the Tale Weaver

Skeleton Key

June 12, 2012February 8, 2013 ~ Hunter Shea ~ 14 Comments

Hank was finding it difficult to keep his balance as he thrust his hips between Silvana’s long, parted legs. She moaned in delight as each drop of sweat splashed onto her taut belly. Normally, such erotic groans, coupled with the warm tug of her deliciously wet sex and the steady bounce of her perfect, soft breasts would have been enough to send him over the edge, but he was so busy trying to keep himself from falling onto his side that he ended up grinding away like a porn star, which, in this case, was not a bad thing.

Maybe there was an advantage to losing a leg.

It had been six months since his motorcycle had tipped over on that tight curve as he exited the highway to his house. Unlike the Gretchen Wilson song that they had played several times at the pig roast that night, he was not one Bud Wiser when he hopped on his Harley. By the time he and the bike had stopped their skid (with a bone rending crash against a tree that stopped him from going over a cliff), his left leg was nothing more than a few strips of flesh and a stump of exposed, splintered bone.

Every aspect of his life from that moment on had been pure hell, with one exception.

Silvana.

She’d been his nurse right from the moment he’d been brought unconscious into the ER. When he needed pain meds, she was there. When he woke up crying or freaking out, she was at his side, holding his hand.

Now here he was, two days out of the hospital with the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, his comforter and healer, Silvana. Amazing how he had managed to step up in his class of women exactly when taking any physical step up was a journey that usually led back to square one.

“Oh God, I’m gonna come,” Silvana squealed. She grabbed his ass and pulled him deeper inside, shaking with the wildest orgasm Hank had ever seen, heard or felt. It was like riding Space Mountain and Splash Mountain at the same time! And Jesus, did he love her mountains.

Before he could take a breath, she had managed to switch positions. Her breasts swayed across his face, her dark nipples brushing across his lips. “Now it’s your turn,” she whispered.

Between her full, tan breasts dangled a long white key held around her neck by a thin gold chain. If she moved down any closer the key was bound to smack into his nose or worse yet, poke one of his eyes.

Silvana shifted her weight and he winced.

“I’m sorry baby, did I hurt you?”

“It’s okay,” he stammered. Pain and pleasure were now conjoined twins and he didn’t know whether to come or scream. It only took seconds for the former while he did his best to hold back the latter. She remained straddled across his hips while he grew limp inside her.

“Wow,” she huffed, out of breath.

“That’s putting it mildly.”

Hank’s eyes roved up and down her flawless body, covered in a delicious sheen of sweat. “Pinch me, I must be dreaming,” he said.

To his surprise, she reached down and tweaked the flesh of the stump that was once his leg. He recoiled in pain.

“Hey, that fucking hurt!”

“Can you forgive me?” she cooed. She massaged her breasts together, smothering the strange white key between her cleavage. As much as he hated to admit it, because the woman had just intentionally hurt him, he was helplessly hypnotized.

When the key reemerged, he said, “That’s an interesting necklace. Where’d you get it?”

Tracing her finger across its ivory edges, she said, “Someplace very special. It’s a real working key, you know.”

It was about two times the size of a normal house key with a considerably sharp point.

“Must open a pretty big door.”

“The biggest,” she replied with a husky giggle.

It suddenly dawned on Hank that even though they had spent a ton of time together during his recovery in the hospital, he really didn’t know much about her. In the hospital, she was a competent, caring nurse. In her apartment, she was a barely contained erotic hurricane. And now she was giggling over this strange key like a little child who knew a secret that no adult could ever understand.

“You know, you’re not my first,” she said, inching up to rest on his stomach. At least she was further away from his wounded leg.

“I kind of got that feeling.”

Again with the giggling. “Not that. My first, you know…” She tilted her head to look down at the spot where his leg should be.

“You mean amputee?” he said, a cold prickle of doubt inching up his spine.

“I guess you could say it’s like a fetish of mine. You’d think they’d be grateful, but they never are. I mean, look at me!”

She removed the necklace and held the key in her hand.

A bilious swarm of dread made Hank’s flesh grow cold. He tried to move out from under Silvana but was as weak and defenseless as a baby.

“When they brought you in that night, no one told you that your leg came in thirty minutes later, or what was left of it.”

“What are you saying? They could have reattached my leg?”

She shook her head. “But I saved it. The thing about a leg is there’s so much bone to work with.”

She brought the alabaster key to her cherry lips and kissed it.

“It helped me make the key to your heart, baby.”

“No, no, no!” Hank struggled to move out from under her.

“And now that I have the key, I’m going to lock you up nice and tight.”

Silvana raised the key above her head and plunged it into his chest, expertly finding the gap between his ribs and puncturing his heart. It beat wildly for a moment and the world spun.

“Silvana,” he whispered.

His heart slowed, and the pain that had been his constant companion ebbed into the ether.

Her face slipped out of focus. The sound of her labored breathing grew distant, fading as he hurtled into the unknown.

Hank felt the blood grow still in his body and his life seep into the musky sheets.

“Now you’re mine forever,” she whispered, and twisted the key.

~ Hunter Shea

Wretched Harvest

May 22, 2012January 14, 2014 ~ Daemonwulf ~ 28 Comments

A stale wind blew through the Appalachian woods, sending the branches of the trees into a frenzied dance and driving a flock of birds from their nighttime perch.

As they took flight, she coughed. And when she did, she coughed up blood.

Bitter warmth streamed into her mouth, pooling thick at the back of her throat, choking her struggling breath.

Behind teeth that ached with the pain from gums swollen by repeated blows to the skull, her bloated tongue tried desperately to form a sound. Willing her vocal cords to act — to speak, to scream, to do anything — all she could muster was a small whimper as her body ignored her pleas.

She was naked, bathed in fear. The threads of rope that secured her hands over her head burned, turning her wrists to pulp. A fallen tree branch stabbed into her side as the humid tongue of autumn licked at her exposed flesh and wet, blood-soaked soil sucked her backside and buttocks into its hungry mouth.

Amid the renewed hammering of her heart and the gurgle of blood and saliva bubbling over her lips, she thought about how her pathetic existence had brought her to this moment. She had despised her life in this small, North Georgia town. It had been one consumed with brutal drudgery and unbearable insignificance. But, somehow, it never seemed more precious to her than now as she lay on the ground dying.

Her body ached; bruises welling up on her legs. On her back. And on her arms. A swollen cheek squeezed closed her right eye, and a broken jawbone obscured what little view she had left of the world from which she’d spent so much time planning escape.

Through dwindling sight, she looked up into the face of her killer.

And he stared back.

His striking features no longer embodied the big-city charm and grace that had drawn her to him in the bar and later successfully encouraged her to his side as they left arm-in-arm. This man that she, for a moment, had thought could be her savior from small-town agony was now little more than a fluid silhouette fumbling in the shadows above, the faint glow of moonlight creating a shimmering halo around his dark frame.

His eyes gleamed from deep sockets, and gore-smeared lips smiled at her as he did little more than grunt, assessing her with as much significance as would a butcher to a hog.

Repulsed by the sight of her own fluids coating his face, she looked helplessly into the night sky. As a child she’d been fascinated by the stars – always a source of hope and the promise of far-off places. And there as usual, the bears – major and minor — glimmered in the dark expanse. Crouching nearby was Orion the Hunter, leading his rag-tag band of gods into battle with lesser creatures.

Her murderer breathed into her face, stealing away any thought of rescue from above. His was little more than a cruel wheeze, accompanied by the falling leaves that glided silently through the air, intermittently obscuring her view of the heavens. Several of them clung to his bare torso; her own blood serving as the glue that kept them in place.

Through tear-filled eyes, she noticed pieces of her self clinging to his chin. She thought he must have bathed in her, smearing her essence in great swathes across his body. Bloody handprints, like those of a child artist with bedroom wall as canvas, crisscrossed his chest and shoulders.

Squatting over her, his weight was immense. His powerful thighs rested on her own. He said nothing. Oddly observing. Burning menacing holes into her brain. Her would-be knight, was no longer the man he had appeared to be. He was, instead, an animal wearing the skin of her Lancelot.

Perhaps it was shock, or impending death playing a dirty trick on her mind, but behind him the darkness seemed to part; as the curtain of night was silently drawn back. A void appeared where there had once been only shadows, and through it stepped a small boy. His skin was smooth with youth, surely no more than 10 years old, and dark, unruly hair poked playfully from beneath the brim of a ragged baseball cap. The child’s shocking blue eyes glimmered from behind his caramel-colored features.

She felt an odd sense of calm in the young boy’s face.

In his right hand he carried a large coin, flipping it over and over, its silver guilding glinting in the moonlight.

First heads, then tails.

He let the coin fall to the ground. It landed with a dull thud that silenced the voices of the forest.

Tails.

Once again his eyes met her’s, and he calmly said, “Last call… Looks like this time you’ve won.”

With the boy’s words, her killer plunged his hands into her body. The horror in her midsection was like a brush fire through dead wood. Flames of pain spread through her as his sharpness sunk deep inside her bowels. His was a penetration that was never deeper, a violation never more extreme. Oily pieces of her slipped through his fingers, and she shuddered as his rough hands snapped a rib.

She fought the urge to look down at her abdomen. Instinct told her to grab at the coils that now burst from her stomach like meat from an over-ripe melon and shove them back into her vented cavity. But the rope held her instincts in check.

An audible smack accompanied her intestines as they sloshed onto the soggy ground beside her. From the exposed mass, he retrieved an unrecognizable piece of her, something that vaguely resembled a photo she’d once seen in a schoolbook.

Vomit urged her throat open while the bears looked down from the sky. They snarled, ravenously. All of nature, it seemed, had turned against her.

He shoved the bile-coated organ into his mouth. And just before her eyes closed forever, she saw him flash a set of perilous razors as he bit off a section of raw meat, her juices spilling over his lips and dripping onto his chest as he chewed.

The boy standing beside her looked on quietly as the Liberator completed his task.

And somewhere in the distance, from the grainy speaker of a jukebox in a roadside bar, Charlie Daniels played a vicious, dueling fiddle.

~ Daemonwulf

Judge

April 17, 2012February 10, 2013 ~ Joseph Pinto ~ 2 Comments

Steady hand. Fluid wrist.

He commences, conducting an orchestra of pain across flesh. Razor twinkles. Nary a wince.

Slash Slash Slash

Rinse. Repeat.

Torrid water singes skin. Crimson rivulets streak throat. Razor kisses flesh again; long unhurried strokes abuse corporeal canvas. Pauses. Countenance he measures within warped polished metal anchored into wall. Glimpses little. Save distorted haze of ruined reflection. He smiles.

Good.

Slash Slash Slash

Rinse. Repeat.

Water murky within stainless steel sink. Chunky with gore. He has no business dipping fingers into scorching bath. No business doing anything at all. Beyond unforgiving bars of his cell swells heinous cacophony. Thunder low and throaty upon hollows of the valley. But this is not thunder. This is anguish. This is hopelessness. So delectable.

This is hell.

Swirls razor into steaming mess. Watches idly frothy, bloody rings cling to sides. Ruined tissue. Barely audible, a squeak from behind. “Are you afraid?” he deadpans. Interest seized by serumy whirlpool churning within sink’s bowel.

Scampering. Feet seeking purchase. Harried breaths.

“You shouldn’t be afraid.” Razor to flesh. Skin yields in neat flaps. Fine meat under honed slicing blade. “Not yet, anyway. Didn’t I tell you this would happen? I did tell you, didn’t I?”

Outside the bars, wails. Chaos. Lunacy. Choked voices plead mercy. Invoke God.

“Yes, I’m pretty sure I told you.” Air trembles. Ripples with disorder. Sniffs air, he does. As canine, no. No. Inhales as predator. Bite of sulfur. Copper. Sickly sweet in throat. Delicious these nuances of suffering. “Yes, thinking about it now, I’m absolutely positive that I told you.”

Pops from beyond. Another, deafening, just down the hall. Again, a whimper from behind. “It’s rare when one holds steadfast about something. Very rare. Take personal belief, for example.” Razor to jaw. So steady, hand. So fluid, wrist.

Plop. Plop. Plop. Chunks plummet to sink.

Slash Slash Slash

“I believed this day would come for a long, long time. I’d have bet my life on it.” Long strokes. Graceful. Measured mutilation. Rinse goes the razor. Plunk goes the flesh. “No, no. I stand corrected. Can I do that? Can I correct something already said? Why, I suppose so, if I’m the one doing the saying. So no, I would not have bet my life on it. But I would have bet my soul.” Chuckles. “Can I share something with you? You won’t judge me, will you?”

Gunshots once more. Outside bars. Just down the hall. From here. From there. From here and there. Each extracts a strangled sob. Behind him. Closer to the floor. “I don’t like to be judged. Really, who does? Did you enjoy it when you were? In the literal sense of the word, you were judged. You received, what, nine years? Already had a few strikes against you, a few prior convictions. What did you expect? I’ll tell you what you expected—you expected not to be judged. Your life was hard. No proper upbringing. You expected them to understand. You expected someone to give a damn. But instead, you were damned.”

Outside bars, screams for a child. A boy. His name rips from father’s mouth. Wishes to hear it, perhaps, before he dies.

“Yes, I’ve been judged as well. A long, long time ago.” Blade to forehead, above brow. Steady hand. Fluid wrist. Left to right. Left to right.

Slash Slash Slash

Rinse. Repeat.

Splashes scalding water into eyes. Rinses free the gore.

“I didn’t like being judged then. All because I simply saw things…differently. All because I held firm, positive in my sentiment.” Teeth clinch. Snare vicious drawl. “Judge not lest ye be judged.”

Outside bars, prayer in wild howls. Fades. Cloth tears. Rending fills the void. Then an awful sound. Pigs to trough. Jackal to meat. Wet. Slobbery.

“So, yes, I did tell you this day would come. Yes. I’m positive now.” Din deafens. Maelstrom of degeneration. Yet one voice heard above all. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you, by the way. Enjoyed your company these past few years. You’ve been a good egg.”

Body slams into bars. Mangled. Glistening. Chewed.

He stares into distorted mirror. Hand hovers inches from face. An artist, he applies the finishing touches. Long, fluid strokes. Graceful, sweeping curves. Not much longer. Not much longer at all.

“Listen, you’ve got nothing to worry from me. Not a thing. I will not hurt you. It’s those animals. Out there.” Jerks head in direction of bars. Ploop ploop ploop the crimson splatters shoulder. Prison garment soaks. “Those things, they’re you. What you see is only yourself. So look, this will go in one of two ways. Release your inner self, become them and serve. Or simply become part of them. I’ll give you a minute to decide.”

Putrid decay seeps into cowering shadows. Madness reverberates against walls. Tang of suffering clots the air.

“Time is up. Sorry, but I haven’t all day. Places to go, people to see. Lots planned. Bet no one thought the end would ever start here. I mean, it is a penitentiary, after all. The monsters are supposed to be on the inside. But not anymore.”

Razor drops into sink. “I blame all this on your judge. He thought he had all the answers. Problem was that he never asked the questions. Now it’s too late for that.”

He pirouettes. “He tried to make you into his image. Aren’t you tired of wearing his mask? I certainly am.”

And last of face oozes down chest.

“So what’s it going to be, hmm? A brand new world awaits.”

~ Joseph A. Pinto