THE END
VOW OF OBEDIENCE
By Gerri R. Gray
“Kill her!” it demanded in a voice that sounded very much like Sister Benedicta’s; only it possessed a disturbing tone of cruelty – an insatiable bloodlust driven by pure evil, if you will. “I need blood, and she needs to die. Tonight. There’s plenty of room in the vineyard for one more girl. Don’t turn away from me, bitch, when I’m speaking to you!”
Sister Benedicta’s instincts told her not to look. She felt the urge to flee, to keep on running, and to never look back. But she knew it would follow her. It always did. She recalled the day when it first made its evil presence known to her. It was when she took her Vow of Obedience – the same day that her sister died in a house fire. Naturally, she had feared for her sanity in the beginning, and even considered consulting a psychiatrist or having herself committed, but she soon came to realize that the voice that sounded like hers came not from within her own mind.
It came from the deepest, darkest bowels of Hell.
She reluctantly turned her head back to look at it, as it had instructed her to do. She felt compelled to obey its commands, no matter how diabolical they were. Her stomach swam with queasiness as she made eye contact with it… a face she had come to fear. A face that was but her own reflection in the old mirror that hung on the wall in her cold and sparsely furnished sleeping quarters.
“But, I can’t do it,” the dark-haired nun whimpered softly to her reflected image. Tears welled up in her dark brown eyes. “Please. Not anymore. I just can’t.”
“You must!” the voice that sounded like hers insisted. Its tone had become even more vicious than before. It reverberated inside the nun’s head, instilling within her a sensation of vertigo.
“But, that girl, she’s like a daughter to me. So young... so very innocent,” the disconcerted nun pleaded, while trying to maintain her balance. Her hands and lower lip trembled. She knew that her words were futile, her begging in vain, as it had always been. But, nevertheless, she clung to a shred of hope that her reflection in the mirror would be merciful this time.
It was not.
“I don’t care one bit about that!” the voice that sounded like hers hissed. “If you choose to disobey me, I’ll burn down this convent. And everyone in it, including you, will die. You know I can make it happen, and there’s not a God damn thing you can do to stop me.”
Sister Benedicta picked up the large wooden crucifix that sat atop her small, beat-up chest-of-drawers beneath the mirror and tenderly caressed it, hoping to garner some comfort from it. “I realize that,” she said, tearfully. “I won’t disobey you. I swear.”
“Good,” commended the voice that sounded like hers. “Then you must carry out your dark deed tonight… and you must kill that girl in the same way that you exterminated the other three. Did I ever tell you how delicious they were? Oh, stop your sobbing, Benedicta. You should be used to killing by now.”
“I’m not,” declared Sister Benedicta. “I will never get used to ending innocent lives and draining their blood for you. It’s wrong. It’s sinful! You’ve made me break one of God’s Ten Commandments: Thou shalt not kill. You’ve corrupted my soul.”
“Enough of that bullshit!” angrily barked the voice that sounded like hers. “I don’t want to hear anymore of this! I need human blood to sustain me. Warm, sweet, fresh human blood. And, like it or not, you are the chosen one to do my bidding.”
The nun’s mirrored image displayed a look of hunger. The pupils of her eyes dilated, turning the irises almost completely black. Her lips grew a deep shade of scarlet-red and stretched into a frightening, demonic grin.
Sister Benedicta shut her eyes. She could no longer bear to gaze upon her own reflection in the mirror. She gripped the crucifix and then began to pray out loud. “Almighty God, I have sinned against you, through my own fault, in thought, and word, and deed.”
“Stop that praying!” the voice that sounded like hers screamed inside her head. It then growled like a dog. Vicious. Rabid. And then it snorted like a sow. “I’m warning you!”
The mirror began to rattle and soon the lower half of its wooden frame pulled away from the wall, as if by invisible hands, and then violently slammed back against it. It pulled away and slammed again and again; each time, causing a grenade of excruciating pain to detonate inside the praying nun’s head.
“Heavenly Father,” Sister Benedicta continued, ignoring the pain and defying the demonic voice and the contorted face that glared at her from the reflective surface of the mirror. “I ask that you hear my prayer and grant me forgiveness of all my sins. I ask that you grant me the grace and comfort of the Holy Spirit.” She then opened her eyes and swung the crucifix at the mirror with all of her might as she cried out, “Amen!”
With a loud smashing sound, the mirror’s glass shattered into thirteen jagged pieces, some of which landed on top of the chest-of-drawers, and some of which landed on the floor. A sudden cold wind rushed through the room and then it was gone.
Sister Benedicta smiled and felt enraptured. She was sure that the demon that willed her to kill had been cast out and no longer exerted any control over her body, mind and soul. She felt in her heart that God had truly answered her prayer and delivered her from evil. She was free, at last.
All at once, she experienced a great tightness in her chest, similar to a fist clenching. She dropped the crucifix, which broke in two upon hitting the floor, and clutched at the left side of her chest with both hands in a feeble attempt to quell the intense pain. She began to stagger like a drunk, knocking into the chest-of-drawers and stepping upon some of the pieces of shattered glass. Her eyes filled with panic. She struggled to call out to God, but her mouth was unable to form words. As a cold sweat poured out of her skin and a feeling of impending doom overpowered her, she let out a loud, horrible gasp and then collapsed onto the floor – dead from cardiac arrest.
The gruesome discovery of Sister Benedicta’s discolored and bloated corpse was made the following morning. Sister Maria and Sister Agnes had been sent to check up on the nun when she failed to appear for breakfast, and were horrified to find her lifeless body on the floor when they entered her room.
From the thirteen pieces of the broken mirror, Sister Maria’s reflection peered up at her, wearing a strange grin that unsettled her. Goosebumps sprung up along her arms. Without knowing why, she was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to pick up one of the shards of glass and slash Sister Agnes’ throat with it. And then a voice that sounded very much like her own, only cruel and bloodthirsty, whispered inside her head, “Kill her!”
THE END
FROM THE MOUTHS OF SNAKES
By Cardigan Broadmoor
In the beginning, Jim Adiney knew that he was God. Not a god or some god, no, no. He was the only god. The people of the valley nowadays had forgotten that fact. Actually, they had done something much worse. They had found some other, obviously inferior, deity to replace him: a snot-nosed little brat named Joshua.
Jim could see Joshua’s smug cherubic face when he closed his eyes. He thought about how obsessed the people of the valley had become with him. He thought about how they clapped and cheered when the little brat danced at congregation meetings instead of listening to what was being preached. He thought about all the undeserved attention he was given. Then, Jim felt a sudden static shock of disgust and uncertainty. A human’s lifetime of knowing everything and now, finally, he was confused. How dare they do this? How could they worship such a petulant little thing when Jim Adiney existed? It was blasphemous! There was space enough for only one god in the valley. Perhaps these ungrateful snakes expected him to die soon.
Ha! Him, Jim Adiney, dead. He grunted. It was a ridiculous idea. Even before all the wealth, the power, and the following, he knew he would live forever. And he did not need the consoling words of medical frauds to know that. He was the universe as much as he was himself and the people of the valley all at once. So it was in their best int
erest that he lived, really, because when Jim Adiney died, everyone died. The world died.
Still for some deep subterranean reason he worried. What if he really were only human and that was all he ever had been? The thought made him stop rocking in his chair on the porch. It was an early, gray hour in the middle of April and he was trying to will the sun to rise. He knew it could not unless he willed it to. Who did the people expect to do this if he were not around? That cretin, Joshua? Impossible.
But could it be possible, Jim wondered, that somewhere in his eternal life he had done something wrong? Made some cataclysmic mistake that revoked his divinity and immortality? He could not remember now. He knew that he had never told a lie. Yes, he knew that much for sure. In order to tell a lie, you had to lack the willpower to make it true. Jim Adiney had all the willpower in the world. But damn it today he was distracted. The sun idled just below the horizon, smoldering; a dying red ember beneath a pile of ashes.
No, no, there was nothing wrong with Jim Adiney. There was something wrong with Joshua, and what was wrong was that he existed. The little brat had to be dealt with. Of course he was no serious threat, Jim assured himself. But he could not allow this blasphemy of idol worship amongst his people to persist. It was simply becoming too much of a hassle.
* * *
The fuming god grumbled as he rose from his chair and lumbered over to the shed. He disappeared inside then reemerged a few minutes later with a burlap sack slung over his shoulder and a large knife dangling from his belt. He stomped down the hillside through his apple orchard, which, despite producing plenty of fruit, was off-limits to everyone but him. Down below he spied a sprinkling of yellow lights poking through the misty gray silk that shrouded the valley.
The people had grown fat on the milk and honey of this land. They prospered in the safety and comfort it provided them, but had forgotten who it was that saved them from their menial lives and who it was that showed them how to take what they deserved, how to burn the rest and kill whoever got in their way. They had forgotten who brought them from the fires of the hell outside into the coolness of the valley. Well, it was Jim Adiney damn it and no one else. He had the dried old burns on his wrinkled old hands and the scars on his weathered face to prove it. What scars did this imp Joshua have? What had he ever done to warrant adoration?
Jim skulked through the compound. All the buildings there were wooden longhouses. Light morning rain tickled the aluminum rooftops. Before these were built, the people lived out of tents, abandoned houses, and busted-up cars and trucks all along the jagged rusted edges of the country. They were run out of towns and hounded by police. They fought, they stole, and they killed. After all that, sure enough, he led them to this valley and built an earthly paradise. That was when they knew Jim Adiney was God.
Now, years later, they were at best placating a derelict god. They still took his weekly prophetic pamphlets faster than the scribes could produce handwritten copies, but these collected dust on their bedside tables while the pages remained crisp and the words unread. He knew. He saw this with his own eyes when he peered through their windows. And when Jim spoke to the people, reciting epic tales or giving profound advice, he made note of their practiced grins and watched their oblivious eyes fog over. They were merely humoring a foolish old man.
* * *
Jim came upon the longhouse where all the children slept and he opened the door. Inside he found the boy right away by his golden hair in the half-light. He looked down at the boy as he slept comfortably in his cot. The peaceful round face filled Jim with anger. He wondered if this was a grandson or great-grandson of his. He could not keep track anymore. All the people in the valley were his children.
“Child,” he whispered. “Come along with me.”
Joshua’s eyes opened up slowly and sparkled when he saw who was calling him. He giggled and did as he was told. The giggling was like nails scraping sandpaper to Jim’s ears. They tiptoed out into the mist. They disappeared up into the foothills. Then Jim got right to the point.
“You know that I am God, don’t you Joshua?” he asked.
Joshua shrugged
“What’s a god, Papa?” he asked.
Jim chuckled and shook his head. How this brat mocked him!
“I am God,” he declared. “I am the only god. There are no others. Some people outside the valley worship dusty magicians they read about in old books, some of them even worship trees like the ones all around us. But trees aren’t special. Old books can’t be trusted. The only thing you can trust in this whole world is me.”
“I don’t know what you’re sayin’, Papa…”
“You know exactly what I am saying!” Jim snarled.
Joshua looked confused, like he was about to cry. Jim enjoyed the thought of making him cry. It brought a smile to his stony face.
“It means that whatever I say is bad, is bad, and whatever I say is good, is good.”
Joshua still looked confused.
“Oh,” was all he said.
“Don’t you remember any of that from our weekly meetings? From the weekly revelations?”
“Uh-uh,” said Joshua.
Jim grunted. He expected as much.
“Look, Papa!” shouted Joshua, pointing to a white shape fluttering on the ground.
Joshua trotted over and scooped it up in his chubby hands.
“It’s a baby dove, Papa!” he said, excitedly. Then he looked concerned. “Is he hurt? Can we help it?”
There was a sparkle in Jim’s eyes.
“Yes, it is hurt,” said Jim. “Do you see that wing? It looks broken. And yes, we can help it.”
Jim picked up a rock and handed it to the child.
“It would be very good if you put that poor, sweet thing out of its misery.”
Joshua looked shocked. He shook his head.
“No, no! I don’t want to hurt him!” he said.
“But it’s hurting right now,” implored Jim. “Look at the thing; it’s in agony. And even if it lives, it might just get hurt again. Might as well spare it now.”
Joshua pouted. Jim tried a different approach.
“Well, think of it this way: when that cute little bird grows up, it might become a blazing white terror to cute little bunnies and mice. Why, it might even come and peck your eyes out! You can’t expect a wild animal to show mercy, child. You especially can’t expect it to remember the kindness you done feeling sorry towards it.”
Jim knew this fair-haired usurper lacked the will to do what had to be done. Jim knew he was afraid of a little blood, a little death. He was weak.
“I’ll do it then,” said Jim. He placed the limp bird at the base of a tree and lifted the rock above his head.
Jim was never afraid of death, be it a little or a lot. He used to drown small animals in the washtub when he was Joshua’s age. At first he would love them, love to pet them, love to cuddle them. But eventually they would do something he did not like. The puppy would nip his fingertip or the squirrel would scratch his cheek. Then Jim would strangle them, squeezing hard enough to make them squeal. Then he would hold them under water till they gasped their last breath. One day he tried the same thing on his younger brother, but their father stopped him before he could finish the job and beat him. His father screamed in his face and demanded an explanation. Jim promised never to do it again. And the rest of the day was lovely. There had even been a rainbow in the sky.
There was no rainbow when Jim smashed the rock on the dove’s head. He ground the small creature into even smaller bits and the sky remained gray. Joshua turned his head, crying. Jim Adiney grinned. Those tears were heavenly! This was no god that stood before him, blubbering. It was silly to have feared such a pathetic thing even for a moment. But wait. No. There was still a chance this was the kin of Jim Adiney. If so, he could still be trouble at some point. He had to be dealt with permanently. Jim held the burlap sack open in front of Joshua.
“I am sorry to see you cry, child. But death is a part
of this world. Now put that sweet angel in the bag. I know a beautiful place we can bury it. A place it would have liked.”
Joshua hesitated at first, sobbing, but did as he was told. Jim hated that. He wanted the boy to be defiant again. Jim made so many rules and commandments for a reason: he wanted his people to break them so he could break their fingers or carve up their flesh. He wanted to punish them like they deserved because it was his godly duty. In every building on the compound there was a wall from which hung a canvas sheet filled with his incalculable rules and severe punishments, as well as room to add more as he came up with them.
Jim had been the same way as a young boy. He always bullied his way into the lead in whatever games the children played, or made up his own new games, with his own very strict rules and harsh penalties. He wanted any toy that was not his; if he could not acquire them by commanding, he would gouge eyes and snap shins. He was too gigantic to be stopped.
* * *
Even now, in his hunched old age, he was gigantic. The ground shook as he trudged up the hill. At the very top there was a large flat stone, stained brown. Jim pulled a tinderbox from the burlap sack and started a fire. Then he threw what was left of the dove into the flames.
“What’re you doing?” whined Joshua. “You said you would bury it in a nice place it would like!”
“Oh, my poor child!” exclaimed Jim, pointing to the rising sparks. “See? His body, though taking other form, goes to the skies. What better place for a bird to be buried?”
Joshua looked up. He sniffled but seemed convinced. Jim wrapped his arm around his shoulders.
“You must learn to trust me. You must always trust me.”
“I do trust you, Papa,” said Joshua.
Jim looked at the dark gray sky.
“You do?”
“Mhm,” Joshua mumbled.
“Come then, child,” he said. “Come lay on the stone now.”
Joshua was hesitant. In the flickering light of the fire his angelic features were more apparent and defined. Jim sneered. The boy was more handsome than he had ever been in his eternal life. It was just one more reason to despise him.
Blood and Blasphemy Page 7
