Satanic Panic- A Homage to 1980's B-Movie Horror

by Daniel P Coughlin

  Grady, Lance, and Brock shared Advanced Algebra. They thought the new guy was cool and they invited him to their party.

  The skateboard popped in the air. The wheels spun before stopping abruptly when Grady stuffed the board beneath his arm. He stood for a moment before setting the board against the bench. He wrapped his arms around Brianna who darted an annoyed glance at Brock and then rolled her eyes.

  Brock smiled.

  Pouting her bottom lip and slouching her shoulders, Brianna blinked rapidly, “I missed you, sweetie.”

  “Way cool. Me too. I thought about you in that tight little swim suit you wore to the School Sucks party in August.” Grady said and winked in Brock’s direction.

  Brock returned the wink.

  Brianna caught the reciprocal winks and smiled sarcastically. Her regard for the male-appreciation-gesture-wink was that of annoyance and it disgusted her.

  “Say, you want to grab a drink at the Quarter later?” Grady repeated.

  “Sure, what time?” Brianna tucked Grady’s long blonde hair behind his small ear.

  “Eight?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You gonna come, Brock?” Grady asked, lifting his fist and bumping Brock’s knuckles.

  “I never turn down drinks.”

  “Way cool.” Grady finished, kissed Brianna, and then sped off on his board.

  Brock and Brianna stood shoulder to shoulder and watched a group of girls dressed in sweats jump to avoid Grady when he swerved along the embankment dangerously close to them. Even though it was December in Wisconsin Grady wore a tee shirt and jeans without a coat.

  “He’s not afraid of freezing,” Brock stated and then chuckled. “Is he cold in bed?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “I certainly would.”

  She laughed, punching Brock’s arm and asked, “You would sleep with me ... totally disregarding our friendship ... wouldn’t you?”

  “I would experiment. No strings attached.” His head tilted up. His eye contact was intense, serious and deep. As deep as the gaze he extended her now. “Look, you’re hot. We’re comfortable with each other. Why shouldn’t we touch fleshy parts and not have it turn into an emotional deal?”

  “You’re a sociopath. That is not how relationships and friendships and sex work.” She slowly swiveled her head side-to-side.

  “Says who?” Brock asked.

  Brianna was caught for a moment and thought he might have had a point.

  Why should it matter?

  But she knew why it mattered: she was in love with Brock.

  If she and Brock experimented, her feelings and attraction for him would intensify. She wouldn’t be able to turn those feelings off. It was best to leave fantasies just that, a fantasy.

  She responded, “Because we’re friends ... because we’re practically family ... because you shouldn’t think about me like that. You’re making me feel uncomfortable.”

  “Well, excuse me. I thought honesty was our best attribute. We made pacts not to give in to the bullshit. We’re supposed to be honest with each other. That’s our strength.” His posture straightened. His smile spilled from full lips. “That ... and I’m kidding. We shouldn’t sleep with each other. It would ruin our friendship. But don’t say you don’t think about it.”

  Brock’s head games were awful. He knew what he was doing when he tapped into these topics of discussion. And it wasn’t fair. Human beings thought about sex. She knew that just as everyone knew that. Brock enjoyed pushing her into choppy water. He knew everything about her—how to pull her strings, how to toy with her emotions. Most of all, she hated that he was right and she hated exposing her vulnerability to him.

  Taking a step forward, away from Brock, she made the mature decision to remain silent. But that wasn’t good enough for Brock. He continued prying at her sensitivities, “You can’t bow out of this conversation, Brianna.”

  “I can and I am. Plus, you said you were kidding.” She stopped, turned and darted a stiff finger into his chest. Damn, he was strong. His pectorals were rock solid. She stubbed her index finger into the meat of his chest. Hiding the quick pain shuttering through her finger, she was determined not to show weakness. But Brock saw the pain and smiled.

  Asshole.

  “Admit it,” Brock said, not acknowledging the finger still placed between his pectoral muscles.

  “Admit what?” She rolled her eyes when he flexed his pecks, first the left then the right. This male machismo act was stupid, childish and, revolting. And yet she was about to start laughing. That stupid, insecure little bitch that lived inside of her mind wanted him to feel impressive. She bit the side of her cheek, hard, and drew blood.

  Good.

  She should be punished for allowing him to feel impressive for flexing his muscles like a total moron.

  Primitive prick.

  “Admit that you think about sleeping with me.” Slowly, his arms rose, his hands cupped around her shoulders, and he pressed down firmly while squaring off in front of her.

  His eyes were beautiful, piercing.

  Stop thinking like this, bitch!

  Her lungs froze and her heart hammered. For a quick moment, she thought she would hyperventilate.

  “I’m not going to admit…” She found it hard to breathe.

  “Honesty,” Brock insisted.

  “I’m not saying anything.” She let out a sigh.

  “You’re better than that.” Brock shook his head looking disappointed.

  She looked to the sky and shook her head. She wanted to kill him while fresh snowflakes drifted down onto her cheeks and dissolved. “What the hell?”

  “Our friendship is stronger than silence. Admit that you’ve thought about sleeping with me.” That teenage boy begging for sex look he seemed so good at had faded. “I’ve thought about sleeping with you. Many times. Mostly when I’m in the shower ... if you want to know the truth.” Brock’s full bottom lip curled and Brianna could feel her cheeks flush.

  “You suck.” She couldn’t contain her adolescent smile.

  Brock returned a charming grin. The grin was part of a pattern he displayed before speaking vulgar. “I do suck. On labial folds, and clitorises, and I could suck on yours if you like.”

  Her discomfort broke with laughter brought on by Brock’s disgusting ridiculousness.

  “Oh, so now I’m funny?” he asked inching closer to her face. “But you wouldn’t sleep with me.”

  He had to realize how much he was bothering her.

  “No, I wouldn’t sleep with you,” she paused. “But, yes, I have thought about it.”

  Brock lifted his hands from her shoulders and stepped backward. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

  “Fine.” She punched him in the chest. “You’re an asshole.”

  He winced mockingly grabbing at his chest. “Everyone knows I’m an asshole.” He pulled her close.

  She was confused by his ability to make her feel so uncomfortable, yet turned on, and then comforted like family the next moment.

  Within this thought, she solidified, again, that she loved him more than a friend or brother and she knew they would someday explore each other.

  “I don’t want to know what you two were talking about, do I?” Lance strolled, cool and collected, down the iced-over sidewalk. He stopped a few feet before them.

  “Lance, thank God you’re here. Brock is sexually assaulting my sanity.” Brianna lunged forward and hugged her other best friend, the sensible one. Lance was real comfort, a friend without threat. She confided in him and didn’t feel like he would attempt to seduce her. His body heat and tight grip paralleled a warm Christmas fire.

  “Brock, the sanity-rapist. That sounds like a bad horror film.” Lance shook his friend’s hand while Brock wiggled his fingers around his grip.

  “If I told you where that hand was last night ... ”

  Lance’s lips quivered and he asked, “Anal or vaginal?”

  “Both, a
nd I’ve not washed or showered,” Brock returned.

  Brianna pulled a bottle of anti-bacterial from her coat pocket and squirted a dollop of alcohol-based cleanser into her left palm and then rubbed her hands together.

  Brock grinned at Brianna and asked, “You ever do that with cum?”

  Brianna stopped rubbing her hands together. “You’re a sick bastard, Brock.”

  Brock turned back to Lance. “Are you coming to the Quarter tonight?”

  Brianna chimed in, “You have to come. And I don’t mean cum in a sense that sicko here ... ” she kicked Brock in the ass. “... means.”

  “Well, that too, but I’m talking about the party.”

  She frowned, “What party?”

  “The boxed wine and porn party,” Brock enlightened.

  “We told Grady we’d meet him at The Quarter.” Brianna held up a finger.

  “You gonna put that finger in my butt?”

  She frowned again, “I hate you so, so, so, so much.”

  “I’m aware that we’re supposed to meet Grady. It’ll be funny to ditch him,” Brock responded.

  “You’re such a jerk. I’m meeting Grady at The Quarter. If you guys are there we can talk about going to the party,” Brianna continued.

  “Boxed wine and porn. Intriguing. We’ll convene at The Quarter.”

  Part 3: The Transformation

  Chapter 3

  Boxed Wine and Porn

  1

  F rom down a long residential street, the hollow cough of a rusted muffler rattled. The night sky faded into daylight and Brock sat upright from a much-needed nap on his ratty orange couch. All the furniture had come with the house. Each piece was ugly, but comfortable in the most charming way. The cushions were fluffy and coaxed tired minds into relaxation.

  Rolling to the side, Brock took a whiff of the armrest and thought that it smelled like nacho cheese. Not good for a living room couch. Standing, he went to the bathroom, grabbed a can of Axe body spray and doused the fabric. A cloud of potent perfume wafted upward until Brock needed to take a step back. Finally, he nodded his approval before going upstairs to pick out his clothes and take a shower. Thoughts of Brianna consumed him. He’d been attracted to her his entire life, but he’d never acted on his desires. Still, he contemplated whether having sex would kill the meaningfulness of their friendship. The sexual tension between he and Brianna was thick and needed to be cut. The fruit of lust needed to be tasted.

  Brock zipped his pants, checked out his appearance in the vanity mirror above his dresser drawer and tilted his gaze to a picture of the three of them at a Halloween party when they were only twelve. Back when they were unaware of sex and its complexities. The photo and their joy rang innocent. In the picture they were dressed as soldiers. Through the camouflaged grease paint smeared across their faces they appeared happy.

  Somewhere in the subconscious, Brock’s oversexed mind maintained the ability to recall innocent memories, times when friendship was everything, life was beautiful and thoughts were pure. The memories of he and Lance chasing Brianna down their street, running through their neighborhood collecting candy, house-by-house, filled him with nostalgic satisfaction. These thoughts angered him, almost as if the innocence of youth was a slap in the face to the harsh realities of now. True happiness fled Brock Hill’s life long ago. The sad truth was that sex was his God now. Aware of this fact, he’d never admit it because to do so would be accepting the situation was hopeless. He’d not kill hope, not yet. Hope still lived within his being. He continued to ponder on those early days. Their fun had been so innocent. Sexual corruption hadn’t struck until just before his high school years. Brock began to think about Brianna with lust, at thirteen.

  What did she look like naked?

  Was her nakedness as attractive as clothed?

  The heart shaped ass hidden behind her tight clothing had to be perfect. He’d bet an extremity.

  Brock couldn’t shake these thoughts. Each time he attempted to shed his lustful thoughts he was disappointed to learn that he was unable. For the longest time he believed he was in control of such things. He was wrong. Suppression was the closest he could manage. He’d been doing this for seven years, but the itch to taste the forbidden fruit was unquenchable now. Even when he was with other girls he would think about Brianna. Her smell, her smile, and the way her perfect blue eyes squinted when she laughed. Even the way she touched him. When they watched scary movies and she became startled she would grab him. She wouldn’t squeeze until a full second after she’d placed her hand on his arm. Just the way she touched him as simple as this sent his sexual sensory into overdrive. He knew she could feel it too. She couldn’t ignore it, no way. He saw that in the way she stole glances.

  There was hope in the idea that Brianna wouldn’t be able to suppress her attraction for him forever. And he intended to guide her lustful desires toward his own, and then into bed. These thoughts generated more thoughts. He loved Lance like a brother and wouldn’t intentionally do anything to harm him or hurt his feelings. He guessed brotherhood was the label that he would connect to their relationship—there was no other word for it other than brotherly. They’d shared times and experiences, more so than he’d actually experienced with his blood sibling. Sure, he loved his own brother, but not the way he loved Lance. His brother was twelve years older than he. He was more of an uncle than anything. Brock went to Lance with his problems and successes. He confided in Lance. He could open up to him like no one else. He loved women, but did not trust them. And maybe love wasn’t the right word. He lusted for women. There was something magical and attractive about each and every female figure. The sight of a woman’s hips, breasts, ass, even the soft slant of their facial features and eyes would drive his lust to maniacal heights. His hunger for flesh was unquenchable, always. Almost shamefully, his obsession with Brianna was sexual. That little girl that had once tasted his tears and cared for him like the mother he never knew. But he didn’t love Brianna in a romantic way. He loved her like a sister, yet he wanted to have meaningless sex with her.

  What the hell did you call that?

  “Confused,” he said out loud.

  Styling his hair, another idea struck; he wanted Brianna, Lance and himself to take that final leap. The three of them had shared so many experiences. They’d not only shared, they’d dissected their life experience with honesty and vulgar regard. Tonight, he would confront Lance and Brianna with his ideas and revelations. What better place to seek counsel than at a party where lustful-images would be broadcast? Sure, his friends would think he was a pervert, they already did. Then again, maybe they wouldn’t. They were his closest friends—family, really—and they would try and understand what he was communicating so long as he was upfront about his serious intent. And he was serious. To share a sexual experience that slid beneath the surface of physical intimacy would be proving to themselves that they could remain close friends, like family, experience true sexual bliss, and then discuss and digest their experience as adults. This had to happen, Brock thought.

  He hadn’t realized that he was stabbing his favorite hunting knife into the top portion of his wooden dresser. Oddly, he often carried his knife when he thought about serious issues. It helped him think. Plunging the razor sharp dagger into inanimate objects wasn’t the best way to expend nervous energy, but he had to expel it somehow. The twelve-inch stainless steel blade was sharpened daily and maintained. The thing could slice through tin like it was butter. His grandfather had given it to him when he was five. The K-bar had been issued to him in the Marines and held the Corps emblem—eagle, globe and anchor—on the side. Unaware that he was doing so, he slammed the knife through the top surface of his dresser and into his sock drawer. And this was done with only a small amount of applied weight and pressure.

  “Whoops,” he said out loud and laughed as he opened the drawer and pulled out a shredded pair of black dress socks. He wondered if he’d ever lost his train of thought and stabbed anything other tha
n furniture.

  Maybe he’d accidentally killed something before? A cat or dog? Who knew?

  He often became lost staring at reflective light along the serrated blade. The solid carbon handle was inviting to squeeze with a tight fist. There was something off about the way he felt the need to stab things while lost in thought. Sometimes, he’d black out. Left the physical space of his mind for a while. Glancing up from the knife’s blade to his reflection in the mirror, he flexed his stomach muscles to reveal a tight six-pack. Then he lowered his shirt, smiled, and left his room while shaking his head and confessing, “I m such a narcissist.”

  2

  Lance couldn’t place his current feelings. A transformation was taking hold as of late. Maybe it was his brain chemistry, a mental growth spurt. Maybe it was his surroundings or his friends. Both Brianna and Brock were acting odd. Brock normally acted odd, but this was something else entirely. The word off was probably a better word. Well, actually, Lance didn’t think Brock was off so much as he was perverted. He needed a thinking cap for his penis. And his penis didn’t think intelligently too often, it could only think hard. He was into sick things, watched a lot of porn, and made crude jokes about women. Always carrying his stupid knife with him to inappropriate places, like class and parties. But he got away with his actions because he was good-looking and good-looking people got away with everything. History was an attestation to this.

  Lance ran his hand through his messy brown hair; then used a dollop of regular body lotion to style it. There was a silky quality to his hair, shiny. Plus—in his opinion—there was something silly about perfectly sculpted hair, especially on a male head. Sure, he understood why men attempted to look their best. Hell, they were in college, young, and wanted to get laid. Appearances were everything. That was normal.

  Lance’s current train of thought broke when he looked to the picture of he, Brianna and Brock at a Halloween party. The corners of the fading photo were stuck in the crook of his vanity mirror, which was badly in need of a good cleaning.