Blood Magik- A Cold Day In Hell

by Corwyn Matthew

  A breath of wind amassed from nowhere and blew through her hair. With her eyes closed, her words swirling inside the gusts bouncing between the walls, she brought Smoke’s head to her lips and softly kissed his pale, bloodied forehead—

  Her kiss was an electric hammer pounding against his skull. His eyes saucered and his jaw gaped. A rush of images flooded his brain that were so depraved he wished he could turn away, but there was nothing he could do but allow this transference of thought to run its course and hope his mind didn’t catch fire in the process…

  There was a story behind the images, but it was hard to pick through the barrage of pure violence to discover its plot. Some of the images didn’t make sense at all, as if they were misplaced in time and didn’t belong – ancient and savage flashes of memory spanning an ancestry untold – but others felt more familiar, as though they might’ve been directly related to him.

  The first scenes he could make sense of were of a young girl, Imala, at the age of five or six, poking a stick at a dead cat on the roadside. Its stomach split open and guts collecting maggots, the young Imala removed the eyes to replace them with stones, then refrigerated the stolen organs as the first set of a larger collection to come. Another girl, her older sister, was in the background, pleading futilely for her to stop tormenting their dead and already defiled pet.

  The next images were of the girls’ parents: A Native-American mother and father verbally and physically abusing one another in the house where the girls were raised. Their father had a handful of the mother’s hair and smacked her with his free hand hard enough to drop her to the living room floor, blood pouring from her face to the carpet. Again, Imala’s older sister was there, this time crying in a corner of the room as one would expect, but Imala never shed a tear, her latent stare unknowingly fueling the anger and distrust between her parents that should’ve been less than trivial. Later, Imala collected a patch of the blood-soaked fibers from the floor and added them to the assortment of other tissues and soiled cloths she’d kept that’d captured her mother’s pain.

  As the images progressed and became more graphic, like a dramatic documentary in his mind, Imala and her sister aged accordingly. Imala grew more apathetic with every flash of violence while her sister continued struggling to cope, being noticeably affected by the wrong doings fate forced her to live among, unable to shift the tide.

  Soon, a brutal feud between their father and uncle barged its way into his mind, and he witnessed it happen as the girls did years before, except with an insider’s view of how Imala had somehow been the inappropriate cause of the brawl. The uncle bore a similar resemblance to Smoke: tall, thin, and had short, dark hair. But the father was clearly the more boorish of the two. He was beating his own blood out of his brother in the presence of his wife and daughters without a thought of restraint. He’d grab anything within reach – a lamp or a glass – and smash it over his brother’s head. His blood poured heavily into the floorboards, and while the mother screamed and the sister cried, curled under a table, Imala just stared at the violence like a child watching TV, entertained and stimulated by the onset of drama leading to her uncle’s brutal passing.

  The girls were now teens: Imala thirteen, and her sister seventeen. There was a young man involved with her sister who was Caucasian and exuberant in his youth with the fashionable look of a “bad seed”. Imala was intrigued with the young man and would stare provocatively at him when he and her sister would kiss. Through her memories, Smoke could see the lust the man had for the younger Imala when his eyes would advert from her sister to look at her. She’d taunt him with her lips and her body’s curves whenever she could, conniving in her attempts to strengthen the want between them.

  When no one could see, Imala would secretly hide the eyes of dead things in her sister’s room and fantasize that she could stare through them. She’d watch her sister and the young man mess around, pretending she was hiding in the closet or behind a dresser, touching herself while consumed by dark. Sometimes her sister would think she’d see Imala in the shade, watching…but when she’d look closer, she was never really there.

  In the next memory-flash, her father was drunk, as he often would be, and she could hear her mother crying through the paper-thin walls. Imala would crack open the door to her parents’ room and watch while her father sexually abused his spouse. She would act like she didn’t mean to get caught, but in truth, would purposely provoke her father to punish her in the same way. She’d struggle against his grip, but only because she liked for the torment to appear real. Smoke got the impression she enjoyed the sickening feeling her own mother felt when she knew what her husband was doing to her daughter in another room. Imala played her part well and would sometimes pretend to cry, and other times would just let her mind leave her body to enjoy the dramatic show through the dead eyes she’d hide in her home. She could see her sister covering her ears, bundled under the covers in her room, not wanting to hear Imala’s screams, and her mother pathetically sobbing, being helpless to do little else but weep.

  The thought churned in his mind, thinking he might be the degenerate product of his own grandfather, but then the images switched again to that of her sister’s youthful boyfriend. Smoke saw in the eyes of the young man that he was indeed his father, and witnessed that consummation briefly through flashes of sadistic passion.

  Imala had a silent grip on the young man’s mind, tainting him with her eyes day after day as she’d done to her father, until he became exactly what she wanted him to be. He was her sister’s boyfriend…but Imala’s pawn. He saw that almost as much as Imala wanted her sister’s man, she wanted him because he was her man. He even witnessed the thoughts that trickled through her mind while they sexed in her sister’s bed, and they were maliciously that of her sister; those thoughts peaking her climax that much more…

  Murder rained down in Smoke’s mind as he witnessed Imala’s long awaited conquest over her parents; their throats and wrists cut as they lay in bed, wet with their daughter’s triumph. The specifics weren’t there. It was more like a spasm, or frenzy of joyous emotions as she caroused in their blood, surrounded by the décor of dead eyes haunting the murder scene like an audience enjoying her performance

  It was somewhat clear to him that her parents had conspired against her, being vaguely aware that a kind of dark influence secreted from her very being, so she drugged them just enough to keep them docile before draining their lives from the cuts in their flesh. She filled a wine glass to its brim with their blood and facetiously toasted to her triumph, swallowing the essence of her parents’ souls, streams from the runoff trickling down her throat. She didn’t know it then, but it was that ritualistic murder that opened a doorway for her that led to gaining a power greater than she ever thought existed. A power she was destined to consume, but at the time had no idea for what it was meant. That power is what summoned the demon Tessura to obey her will, and what eventually brought her murdered son back from beyond the veil.

  For a moment, he thought the story was over and that he’d be released from the grip Imala had on his mind, but another image began to shape:

  It was a scene set in a hospital where her older sister, Aiyana, was pregnant and giving birth to a baby girl. Aiyana’s boyfriend, who’d still visited Imala in secret, was in the hospital after the baby Alex was born, along with a young, eight-year-old boy named Marty beside him. Smoke saw the hidden anger and backward agenda in his father’s eyes as if he’d known something that hadn’t been said on the surface. Aiyana too was uncomfortable with her boyfriend’s distant gaze, but tried her best not to rouse suspicion.

  Later, when she slept, he laced the drip hydrating her body with the poisoned syringe given to him by her own sister. And Imala indulged in the invigorating rush as her sister’s life was taken essentially by her conniving hand.

  With every life she took that shared her bloodline, she became more powerful and irreversibly treacherous
. Smoke was the latest dismal addition to her quest for dominion over the dormant power in the blood of her ancestor. A power that now boiled inside her with a sinister and sickening zeal.

  Imala’s lips pulled away from his forehead and his expression was one of exhaustion – that is, however more exhausted you could imagine a corpse to look. Only seconds had passed, but Imala’s dark magic forced hours of twisted and chaotic memories into his mind. There were thoughts in the back of his conscience; questions he wanted answered. But any sort of curiosity or confusion was second to a rousing hunger in the pit of his soul.

  Imala looked deep into his lifeless eyes, curious to what could be going through her son’s mind.

  “Hmmmmm.” She was teasing in her tone. “I wonder what you’d have to say for yourself.” She looked over her shoulder, Smoke’s face still cupped in her hands, and called out to her demon wolf sitting idly by. “Tessura.” She ordered the beast to comply. “The body.”

  Tessura, in her elegant canine form, snapped into action when Imala loosed her command. The demon was already resting beside the body – the smell of his corpse invigorated her – so she lowered her snout and grabbed it in her teeth by the jeans at his ankles. She tugged at the weight of his decaying carcass and dragged it toward her master. Tessura was intelligent enough, however, to know her services would be more beneficial if she took advantage of her ulterior, monstrous embodiment. So, when she placed the body beside Imala’s feet, she backed away to give herself room to shape-shift into her more demonic and sizeable self.

  Bones splintered under the strain as her metamorphosis began, her muscles reshaping making a sound like cloth ripping under her pelt. She groaned in discomfort, but with a hint of masochistic thrill to it. Smoke tried watching through the corners of his eyes, and even upon seeing the beast that killed him, still felt no fear stir within.

  Imala smirked at the sight of the beast as it straightened its posture, standing over eight feet tall.

  “You really are an impressive sight, my pet.”

  Tessura growled at that, not happy with being called anyone’s pet. It was clear her loyalty to Imala was not out of a bond of kinship. Imala indeed had her ensnaring grips on the frightful beast, but Tessura was not one to be tamed. If her master ever let slip her hold, she may indeed find herself at its mercy.

  Imala was subsequently not impressed by its displeasure or display thereof. The look on her face flattened out as she gestured for the beast to put the body on her altar.

  The altar’s wooden surface had symbols and sigils scribed into its blood-stained face. There were scratches on either side that looked as if they may’ve been gouged out by human fingernails, and a miniature furrow outlined the edge of the platform several inches deep. The base was concrete, and the channel around the wooden top was chiseled into the brim of the cement foundation.

  Tessura lifted Smoke’s headless body by the shirt around its neck and flopped it onto the top of the altar, and Imala gave the beast an annoyed glance as if expecting it to be more graceful. It didn’t take notice to her glare and simply huffed over the body in a primal show of dominance.

  Imala placed Smoke’s head into position above his tattered neck. He couldn’t do much else but shift his eyes to examine his surroundings and wait to see what kind of twisted magics she had in store.

  In the furrow around the altar rested a level of dirt fresh from the cemetery above, moist with Imala’s blood. She clutched a handful and patted it onto Smoke’s severed throat like a mason uses mortar to cement bricks in a wall. The moist and bloodied sludge absorbed into his dead skin and repaired the ligaments and muscles connecting his head to his body. He was soon able to pivot his neck, but still couldn’t speak or get his limbs to do as he told them.

  “Slowly, my son. Your body is still deceased. You need to rejuvenate your mind and soul with human flesh and blood.”

  She placed her forearm over his mouth and dripped her life into his. He opened wide to receive her charity, lips peeled back exposing teeth and tongue eager to taste flesh. She smiled at his eagerness and teased him with the smell of her body.

  “My arm might smell appealing, but if you were to forcibly bite into me, my blood would burn through your throat like fire through cloth. I’m protected from any harmful doing you or this beast might have in mind for me.” She felt it only fair to warn her son before he made a crippling mistake.

  Smoke continued indulging in her majestic secretions until he unexpectedly choked at his lungs regained strength, attempting to inhale the stale air around him. He swallowed the fluid in his mouth then enveloped a chest full of air but found no satisfaction in it. It would seem oxygen wasn’t a necessity – or at least not one that couldn’t be substituted by human blood.

  His body began twitching, convulsing involuntarily, and the muscles in his arms evidently became functional when he instinctively reached his hand up for his mother’s wrist. It wouldn’t be long before he realized his palm was burning at the slightest touch of her. His eyes lit up and lungs pushed out a wale as he jerked away from her acidic flesh.

  Imala smiled. “And so shall he be heard!” She tugged at her shirt and ripped away a piece of its fabric to wrap around her bleeding wrist. “And let that be a lesson to you.” Tessura, still towering close by, snorted a demonic chuckle at Smoke’s pain. “As the living dead, born by the essence of my strength, you will feel no pain save for that delivered unto you by way of me,” she explained with a cocky arrogance and a comedic tone. “So, my son… What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Smoke, still cradling his steaming right hand, took a long, strong look at his mother, allowing the entire situation and her bestowed memories to sink in. He picked through the images in his head to come upon the one that intrigued him most, then sat up on his own and perched, seated, on the edge of the altar.

  He took a breath before he spoke to exercise his lungs and addressed his newly discovered messiah with a growing sneer.

  “I…… I…have……a brother…”

  Imala smiled back at the delightful look of wickedness that began to take precedence in her son’s eyes. Then he continued to speak, slowly, still developing control over the muscles in his jaw.

  “When…do…I…get……to eat him?”

  Stiff Shots, Prescription Meds, and a Milf Magazine

  The G-spot; Los Angeles, CA; Late Afternoon:

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital?”

  Marty raised the bottom of his glass over its top and swallowed its contents like he had a bone to pick with the whisky. He wiped the scotch that missed his mouth off his lips and slammed the glass down hard on the bar.

  “I had a dream about you.” He addressed Tara as he would on any occasion, with confidence and amorous advance. Really, he was just looking to get his mind off the incidents haunting him from the night before. Flirting with a beautiful young woman, he figured, might serve as a much-needed distraction from his mind-consuming woes.

  “Mmmm…” She refilled his glass while he kept his eyes on her pink lips. “And what part did I play in this dream of yours? Was I your bartender,” she looked up from his drink to meet his eyes with hers, “or your girl?”

  He burped a sarcastic chuckle and spoke under his breath. “…more like a zombie…”

  “A what?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind.” He threw his head back and smothered his inner turmoil with eighty-something proof. “The point is, I missed you. So, I thought it’d be nice to stop by and say hi.” He set the glass down considerately this time, more focused on his distraction, and lightly tapped its brim, gesturing for a refill. “So,” he gave her a flirtatious glance and a teasing smirk, “when can we get out of here?”

  She smiled back at that, intrigued by his advance, and wiped the counter in front of him. “I just got on, Marty. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.” She grabbed the
glass from under his fingertips. “And it’s a little early for you to be drinking like this.”

  If his hopes were a wafting iridescent bubble dancing atop the breath of her words, her answer was an obnoxious finger that obtusely popped his expectations of a pleasantly distracting evening. She knew what he wanted to hear, but what he didn’t know was that she was already well aware of why he was drowning out what was left of the day with inexpensive booze. She spoke to his sister the day before, after Alex left the hospital, and heard the story from her. Tara wanted to be there for him, to help him get through this mucked up mess he’d gotten himself tangled up in, but knew he wouldn’t respond well to the proverbial “shoulder to cry on”. He wanted something to numb the pain. He didn’t want to have to deal with it, and honestly, neither did she. Alcohol and sex wouldn’t miraculously solve any of his problems, but it would sure as hell help him to cope.

  He reached out and grabbed her by the hand that held the glass and gently brought it back down to the counter. He did the same with her other hand that griped the caramel colored bottle of Johnnie Walker and playfully guided it to do his bidding, pouring himself another drink through her hold. He then spoke to her in a seductive tone while carefully refreshing his glass.

  “Why don’t you…talk to yur boss…” his eyes followed the pouring liquid, admiring the life it gave back to the bleak and barren glass, “and see if he really needs you here tonight. It’s a Monday, and I think, if you asked really nicely, like I know you can,” he lifted his stare to draw her in, “he’d be more than willing to handle the place on his own.”

  When the glass was full it spilt over the brim, and they both playfully smiled at the mishap. Tara leaned forward, putting her lips to his. “I think,” when she spoke, their lips touched, teasing each other terribly, her warm breath leaving the impression of her taste on his tongue, “that you…don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”