Slowly, she walked toward the church.
As she drew closer, she noticed the dim blue light glowing inside. There would be someone there to welcome her then. Her sense of fear was admonished by need for closure. Whatever waited for her inside, she had no doubt it was going to be some kind of ending, either the end of her or the end of Glowers Point and its ongoing pull.
Closer now, she noticed other details about the church. On either side of the doorway, hanging like porchlights, were her parents. Their hands and feet were bound. Their faces looked skyward, mouths bent and twisted. Their bodies were blackened, most of their clothes burnt away. This should have stopped her in her tracks, but it didn’t. For her, her parents had died a long time ago. It had been easier to get through the day if she told herself they were dead.
She stepped into the Church of the Earth.
Is this my something worse than death? she thought, looking around her.
The hanging, charred corpses lined the inside of the church, suspended precisely at the same level like Bible pictures. On either side of her, worn stone pews rose up out of the ground. People sat, here and there, on the uncomfortable looking things. They turned their sullen faces toward her as she approached the altar. Above the altar was the pulpit. Behind the pulpit were the choir risers. These were virtually filled, the same sullen faces as out in the pews, piously turned up from their stained white robes, except these were more plentiful and mostly female. All of them looked very young to Karen.
Softly, from the risers, a voice sang out. She looked up to meet the voice and saw that it was Jordan.
“Jordan!” she called.
More voices joined in the soft chant.
To her right, she heard footsteps. She looked to see a man, a boy, emerge from a small, wasted door. It was the boy with the scar over his eye, those crazy blazing eyes honing in on her and closing the distance.
“Karen,” he whispered.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Does that really matter? This is my church. You came here. I should ask, ‘Who are you?’ But I know who you are.”
“What do you want with me? What did you want with me?”
The boy laughed. “So much older and still so innocent.”
“Is that what you wanted? My innocence? My virginity? You’re way too late if that’s what you wanted.”
“Oh, I know that. The bar in Newport, where you got your first job? Remember that fat greasy man who didn’t bother taking the cigar out of his mouth when he fucked you in the ass?”
Karen looked at the boy, her fear slowly returning. Staring into his face, his expression somewhat bland, she saw it shift from his own handsome face into that other face she would never forget, although the name she had long since put out of her head, and then dissolve back into the boy’s original face.
The boy laughed and his face changed again, kaleidoscoping into a multitude of other faces. Some of them were men who had been nice to Karen, men she wanted. Others, a good many others, some of them forgotten, were men she had slept with just for a place to stay, maybe something to eat. Finally, it shifted into Dan’s and then Keith’s.
Holding out a hand, the boy braced himself on the pulpit. “My God,” he said. “I think I almost made you depraved.”
Karen felt as though something essential had been stolen. The fear had slowly welled throughout the boy’s demonstration and now pounded along like a train at full speed.
“So if you had me all those times, why now, why here?”
The boy moved closer to her, cradled her chin in his hand. “There’s more to it than just sex. You make everything too simple. In a way, this doesn’t even have anything to do with you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. Here’s what you need to understand: when I wanted you to come, you didn’t. You had your chance to get it over with and you chose to draw it out. But the conclusion is inevitable. Can’t you smell the death?”
She wanted to turn and run but the boy’s grip had dropped to her neck and tightened.
“Fuck you,” she said.
“When you pass through Glowers Point, you enter an agreement whether you want to or not. If you are young, then you belong to us. If you are older, then you mean nothing to us. You stand in direct opposition to us. Look around you.”
Karen looked at the people hanging from the walls. Some of them were people she recognized: teachers, shopkeepers who worked in town, random faces. None of them were teenagers.
“Why does it keep happening?”
“A long time ago, there were atrocities played out here. The town had to die. The young people had to be turned away from their parents’ way of life. They had to become something different. Somehow, you got away. You didn’t give us time to react. But I have you here now and you’re too old for the turning.”
Summoning all her strength, she attempted to bolt. The boy’s grip tightened, shutting off her wind, and he drove her to the floor of the church. Within seconds, two members of the congregation had risen and moved toward her and the boy. Each of them grabbed a hand. The boy moved in front of her and pulled a whiplike thing from the sleeve of his shirt. It had the diameter of a quarter and ran the length of his arm. At the end, it had a curved piece of metal, like a talon. She tried kicking but the boy held her legs down and put a foot on each ankle. He bent to raise up her shirt, exposing her tender back. With a quick gasp, he brought the whip down across her back. She shrieked out in pain, her fingernails biting into her palms. Unlike a clean cut from glass or a knife, a cut that somehow caused numbness, this cut burned with savage life. She could feel the wound hanging open, as though the very atmosphere irritated it.
The boy brought the whip down again and again. She couldn’t help but scream. The fear consumed her. And it wasn’t just the fear of death, it was the fear of living. In only a few minutes, the boy had told her the life she thought she had led wasn’t really her life at all. She was merely a pawn. Insignificant.
The other two members of the congregation moved away. Karen realized, somewhere, in the course of this, the choir’s chanting had risen in volume and intensity. The boy knelt down beside her, placed a hand just inside one of the gashes in her back. The pain disappeared.
“There are some things worse than death,” the boy said, stroking the lip of the wound. “Join us,” he whispered. “Join us in death.”
She felt his hand probe deeper into the wound. And then another hand. She felt more and more hands on her and the chanting rolled through her head, dragging some inner part of her to some other place.
From behind her, she heard the sounds of celebration, the soft crackle of a fire. Karen realized her something worse than death was finally happening.
Cruel Women with Whiplike Smiles
Hutchens took up space in his customary seat in the back corner of the bar for quite a while before he saw the woman come in. Sitting in that particular spot allowed him to see everyone coming and going. A few moments before her entrance, Hutchens was about ready to call it a night. The smoke in the club seemed a little too thick. The alcohol had gone to his head, making him tired rather than exuberant. The house band’s rendition of “Kind of Blue” seemed to drone on endlessly and the trumpeter sounded like Miles Davis if Miles had chosen to play the trumpet with his ass.
When the woman came in the door, alone, there was one of those unique pauses in everything. Even the music seemed to stop for a few seconds. All the old cliches were resurrected, ringing with a new truth. Every man watched her because they wanted to be with her. Every woman watched her because they wanted to be her. What it came down to, he supposed, was rape and envy.
She took a seat, by herself, at the far end of the bar. What life it had rushed back into the club. Hushed conversations of girlfriends chastising their boyfriends inevitably blossomed even though the women knew perfectly well why their boyfriends were staring. But Hutchens didn’t have to hear any of that tonight. He didn’t
have to look into angry eyes, the anger only a thin coating over the jealousy—that wounded jealousy that was somehow worse than the anger. No, none of that tonight. Tonight he was alone.
He lit a cigarette and stared at the woman. She sat sideways on the barstool, her legs crossed beneath an above-the-knee jade dress. Nothing fancy. It didn’t have to be. She held her drink in her left hand and watched the band intently. He found himself admiring every touch—her jet black hair pulled back and swept off her neck, her red lips, her black choker and black fingernails and the pale white skin coming out of the dress like smoke. For once, he was glad this was one of the most well-lighted clubs in town.
The band finally finished its number and the woman put her glass down to clap quietly. As she clapped, her lips drew back into what she may have thought was a smile. But there was something about the smile, something insincere and mocking, something that demonstrated how an object of true beauty can never really appreciate what is beneath it. That’s when Hutchens realized he had to approach her.
These cruel women with whiplike smiles were exactly the type of women he went for. Actually, they were the only ones he could approach. There was apparently something weak and motherless about him, for these women said yes much more than he would ever have thought likely, undoubtedly realizing their sadistic control would be appreciated. And when they said no, well, it was to be expected and he didn’t feel any less about himself.
Hutchens teetered toward the woman and sat rather gracelessly on the empty stool beside her. It was enough to put him in the range of her scent, which was also flawless. It was somehow very dark and clean and exotic, if that were possible.
When he turned to look at her, he noticed that she was already looking at him and he almost lost his nerve.
He wasn’t a line kind of guy and all women, even cruel women with whiplike smiles, made him nervous. He said the first thing that popped into his head:
“I’m a chronic masturbator.”
She didn’t laugh, only smiled that enticing half-smile.
She looked at him for a long time, the way a man looks at a woman when he thinks she doesn’t see him, before speaking. “I’m not much of a conversationalist either. I think we both know why you came over. Would you like to see where I live? Maybe we can do something about your problem.”
Before he could answer, she noiselessly slid off the stool and headed for the front door. He followed, bathing in the scent unfurling behind her.
He followed her out into the welcome cool of the parking lot.
“Would you like to follow me?” she said.
“Sure,” he said and went to get in his own car.
As he slid into his car he saw her pull around in a small black Mercedes. All that and money, too, he thought.
Staying as close behind her as possible, he followed her out into the countryside. She managed to go ten to twenty miles over the speed limit the entire time. Within the confines of his small Chevrolet, its lawnmower engine wheezing and groaning, he felt like she had to be having a lot easier time than he was. They sped around twists and turns, up and down small hills, out into the low, flat country where the huge plantation houses were scattered sparsely, set back off the road. With one of these illuminated, monolithic structures looming in the distance, the woman slowed down and turned onto a blacktopped driveway.
I should just drive on, he thought. I have to be in way over my head. Suddenly, he felt like a mouse in the hands of a sadistic cat.
A large, luminescent fountain bubbled in front of the house, the moonlight sparkling over the black water. The woman pulled her car around the arch in the driveway and he pulled in after her.
The woman got out of her car and, without acknowledging him in the least, went straight to her front door. He followed her through the cavernous, darkened house and into her kitchen. She grabbed two wineglasses and a bottle and continued with her strident pace. He almost wanted to call, “Hey, wait up!”
The word “agenda” came to mind and he started to wonder what hers was. Maybe she had found out her husband was having an affair and this was her way of making up for it. Other things crossed his mind. Or maybe, he thought. Maybe she’s just like you and this is all she wants. Just one night that neither party will remember too well years in the future.
Maybe, he thought.
She led him through the house and out the back doors. Once outside they were in a huge garden, the like of which he had never seen before. Back there was another fountain, this one smaller, in the middle of the garden. There were also a number of statues—almost enough to be gaudy—arranged sporadically throughout the garden, a small underlight illuminating each one of them. There were men and women in various poses and they reminded him of the sculptures of Roman gods.
The woman split off the cobblestone walkway and, kicking off her shoes, sat down on a mat of depressed ornamental grass. She looked up at him before he sat down, her mouth twisting into that malicious little smirk and there was a look in her eyes that told him exactly what she wanted. Following her lead, he kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks, and took a seat next to her.
“Do you drink wine?” she asked.
“Yeah. You know, I’m not real picky.”
“If you were, you wouldn’t have a problem with this at all. I could tell you that it was Rollin 1946, but you wouldn’t know what that was, would you?”
“No. I definitely wouldn’t. Stuff’s a little out of my price range,” he said, immediately feeling kind of dumb.
“Well, then let it be a mystery to you.” She picked the bottle up and held it, her large eyes running up and down the length. “I need to go back in and get the corkscrew. I always forget the corkscrew.” It sounded filthy, the way she said “corkscrew.”
She stood up and moved back into the house. He picked up the bottle. It contained no label or anything hinting at its contents. Well, this is it, he thought. She’s brought me here to poison me. But he couldn’t see how that would benefit her at all. Then she would just have a dead body on her hands.
The woman came bouncing back out with her hands full. She sat back down across from him, childishly criss-crossing her legs. “Would you like to do the honors?” She handed him the corkscrew.
He went to work on opening the bottle.
“What’s your name, by the way?” she asked.
“Oh, Elliot. Yours?”
“Magdalena.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“That’s trite. But thanks.”
The cork came out with a small pop. He smelled the opening and was surprised at the sweetness of it. He had lied when he told her he would drink anything. He hated wine almost as much as he hated champagne. “This is a nice place you have here.”
“Thanks. You state the obvious really well.”
“Are you married?”
She laughed. “Of course. Why? Does it matter? Besides, why do you ask?”
He couldn’t really give an answer. He didn’t mind at all. As he approached middle age, he found married women to be the most abundant.
“Because you don’t know any rich women? A woman can’t have a nice house and drive a nice car if she’s not married?”
“No. I only asked because you seem pretty...”
“Forthright?”
“Yeah, I guess. Is he coming home soon?”
“Let me give you a quick lesson about the female psyche, Elliot. Women want fucked as much as men. Maybe more, sometimes. A man could probably get off by rubbing up against a tree but it’s not that easy for a woman. We ache. And the ache is way up inside and it has to be teased, coaxed, or simply beaten out. Only then do we get release. We may be a little pickier than men but the longing, believe me, is still there. The only difference is that a woman doesn’t have to work to get fucked. We can...”
“Just go to a bar and sit down?”
“Exactly. Unless she’s married. Then she gets to fuck when the husband wants to fuck.” Again, her mouth formed that de
risive smirk. “Here, hold this.” She handed him one of the wineglasses and filled it full.
“Shall we toast?” he asked.
“To... to...?”
“To fucking,” he said.
“And the night,” she finished. They clicked glasses and quickly polished off the first round.
Magdalena was right. She wasn’t much of a conversationalist. They sat in relative silence and drank a couple more glasses of wine. He found it quite agreeable. He sprawled out in the grass and looked up at the fat moon, listened to the night birds call out to each other from their separate cells of isolation, watched the slow flapping of the trees and the unmoving grandeur of those statues.
Startling him, Magdalena sprang to her feet and said, “Catch me if you can,” and took off running through the garden.
Hutchens, battling with his alcohol-soaked body, struggled to his feet and trudged in the direction she had gone although he could no longer see her. Slowly, he stepped his pace up to a slow trot and jogged around the flowers and shrubs, undoubtedly trampling some of them. Once he got about halfway around the perimeter of the garden, he stopped, winded.
“Magdalena!” he called.
Some feeling other than drunkenness settled into his bones. Now he thought for sure the wine had to be spiked or poisoned or adulterated in some fashion or the other. The whole garden brightened somewhat, became somehow richer, like all the green seemed to stand out, painting itself over a black, foggy canvas.
“Magdalena!” he called again. Shit, he thought, what the hell kind of game is she playing?
After thinking that, he saw something like a path open up—a green, liquid path. It wound around a series of small yew trees and disappeared behind a huge magnolia. Now he started to feel a duel sensation. His skin and viscera felt light, his hair stood up all over his body, shivers down the spine, like it was all trying to crawl away from him. But from the middle of his body—his lower stomach spreading down to his sex—he felt a heavy thickening. This animal desire combined with a revelatory high gave him renewed zeal in seeking out Magdalena. He was going to give her what they both came here for. Relishing in the intensity surrounding him, he slowly started down the path floating through the garden like an ethereal river.
Sunruined: Horror Stories Page 5
