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

by Daniel P Coughlin

  He was happy.

  Leaving rocks with painted Smiley Devil’s on them was an antagonistic, self-serving, magnificent signature. Worshiping one’s self was righteous. It heightened the experience and added to its orgasmic effect. Leaving the signature was necessary. It bound the group and it was simple. They left a simple painted smiley face similar to the “Have a Nice Day” tee shirts found at hobby shops. The only difference was that the Smiley Devil’s drew red devil horns on theirs.

  The Killer recalled his first encounter with others like him. The Dark Net had chat rooms that allowed for like-minded discussions without worry of legal issues. Still, he never entered a chat room using his own computer. He would use unattended computers at the library or college parties. That or he’d break into a fellow student’s dorm room while they were out. When he joined the group on murderous discussions it was enthralling. It was therapeutic to speak freely. The group shared snuff films and talked about specific emotions and feelings felt before, during, and after a human sacrifice. It became inevitable that the members would need to meet at some point. The Killer had become overly excited and couldn’t wait to meet his peers. They organized a meet, quickly.

  The private rendezvous had taken place in a small Arizona town, a completely neutral zone. Sure, The Killer would have to drive a great distance, but he found long drives to be enjoyable. The Killer appreciated the scenery of this great country. And The Killer was cautious. Parking over a mile away from the hollowed and rotting abandoned motel—that had been agreed upon—he’d ended up performing a reconnaissance. This happened a few days prior to the meet. He’d camped out in the blaring desert with only a camouflaged blanket, binoculars, water, and canned food. He’d dug a hole three feet into the sand and camouflaged it with tumbleweed and brush. The day prior to the meet, he watched as a rust trodden pick-up truck parked near the motel. His heart had been beating out of his chest. His hands shook. Looking through his binoculars, he saw two men and a woman in the cab of the truck. They parked near the motel and then covered their vehicle with a camouflage tarp and tumbleweed. They removed bags of bulky items from the truck bed and then loaded them into the motel. The Killer thought that the bulk was bedding, but he also saw an altar.

  How appropriate.

  He crawled forward for a closer look.

  Close to the ground, The Killer dug his elbows and knees into the earth and dragged himself forward to the abandoned motel. Over the course of the thirty-six hours since he’d arrived he hadn’t seen any vehicles accept for the pick-up truck. He needed clarification that the driver wasn’t law enforcement. Once he was within fifty feet of the burned structure he lifted his binoculars and surveyed the site. Luckily, the moonlight illuminated their faces. Enough that he knew they were young, probably early twenties. Long silky brown hair flowed from the woman’s shoulders. Slivers of moonlight stabbed through the burnt and rotting windows and highlighted her figure. It was clear that she had a sharp facial structure judging by the slanted contours. It was dark, but when the sun rose in the morning he hoped for an attractive display. For the moment, he allowed his imagination to take control. He envisioned her as perfect—a gorgeous, smart, murderous girl that shared his methodology and darkness.

  The two men were large. They weren’t slim like fashion models with molded contours. Even in the dark, The Killer knew that they held real mass. Both were tall and wide, not fat. They could inflict damage. Judging by their presence at this meet, The Killer assumed that these men had conducted violent crimes.

  The men laid out three Army style cots, lit a small bonfire, and then cracked open a bottle of liquor. The Killer thought to join them, but knew better. He decided to continue with his reconnaissance.

  “You worried about tomorrow?” A woman’s voice drifted into the night.

  “Lisa, if it don’t turn out ... we’ll leave. No worries,” One of the men replied.

  “And what if the police show up? Don’t they monitor the web?” Lisa asked.

  The second man spoke up with an anxiousness shake to his voice, “We know this area. We know the website and we know the people showing up. If they don’t provide their videos then we cut ‘em to pieces, fuck their corpses and bury ‘em.”

  “I second that, Rudy,” The first man said.

  The Killer contemplated the cumulated intelligence of these three. They hadn’t spotted him. He was more intelligent than they were. Also, he didn’t want to be involved with moronic killers. They would only get him caught. The Dark Lord wouldn’t properly reward these fools. In fact, more than likely they didn’t understand what they were worshiping. They certainly didn’t understand the importance of their actions. Maybe it would be best to stake these people out and kill them, leave them as a sacrifice.

  What would the chat room folks think of that?

  He knew how anxious the community was to find out about this meeting. They were all checking in online—probably—waiting to hear the gory or not-so-gory details of what transpired.

  “Do you think we’ll be rewarded?” Lisa whispered.

  “Lisa, listen to me. How good does it feel when you take a person’s life? The sex we have afterwards. You don’t think that the explosive orgasmic feelings that last for days aren’t the work of Him? Come on. We’re rewarded every time we commit an act of heinous evil.”

  “You’re right,” Lisa said.

  The Killer watched Lisa’s mouth form into a smile. The Killer liked this smile. It was sinister and it attracted him—so did watching three beautiful young people have sex in the abandoned motel.

  Standing, The Killer took a deep breath and whispered, “What the hell.” Logic and reason were important. These were qualities that he needed in order to execute the Dark Lord’s will. But then he remembered that to have faith meant believing in acting on faith. This situation was not in his control. He believed in this idea one hundred percent. With faith in his black heart he stepped forward and made his way into the abandoned motel.

  He entered through an opening that was once a doorway, but now a vacated hole in the wall. “Look at you, Smiley Devils.” The metallic click of a gun being cocked rang crisp in the darkness. His heart raced. After a few brief seconds The Killer realized that his racing heart was exhausted. Any fear had diminished. The Dark Lord was going to reward him for his faith. He gave thanks.

  The icy eyes of another killer illuminated the dark. This man held a shotgun trained in The Killer’s direction. “I come in peace to rip bodies into pieces,” the Killer said with charmed conviction. This phrase was the secret password agreed on to admit entrance. He felt confident now. The Dark Lord was rewarding him.

  The shotgun lowered. The girl, who was exponentially more attractive up close, didn’t attempt to cover her nakedness. She remained on all fours, staring at The Killer from behind. “Want a ride, Smiley Devil?”

  The Killer looked to the man holding the shotgun.

  The man nodded.

  The Killer removed his clothes and mounted the female Smiley Devil.

  “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, fuck yeah.” The Killer quickly climaxed.

  They were silent for a few moments as he finished and caught his breath.

  “Have a seat. Tell us about yourself,” a second man said as he sat on a burnt, blackened wooden chair.

  The Killer pulled his jeans on and said, “Well, I’m satan@666die.” He knew these men would be easily controlled. He also knew that they were nothing to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord demanded loyalty and worship. These idiots were only in this for the shallow thrill of killing and hedonism.

  Such fools.

  “Wow, man. I dig your videos. That one where you cut that old woman’s tongue out ... that was my favorite,” the Smiley Devil holding the shotgun announced.

  “She was a worthy sacrifice.” The Killer looked down at the Smiley Devil. “She offered me a butterscotch not to cut her tongue out.”

  Laughter soaked into the walls of the burned
motel lobby. The Killer knew that the silly bond of humanity had been established. He would control these fools and offer them as a sacrifice before this visit concluded.

  Lisa inched closer to The Killer and asked, “The Dark Lord rewarded you for that sacrifice?” Her eye contact was intense. Even in the dark The Killer knew that she was sincere in her faith. Maybe he’d been wrong about her devotion.

  She looked to all three men and said, “I’m really fucking turned on. You guys want to run a train on me?”

  The Smiley Devil’s looked to each other and then swarmed her. She was triple penetrated at one point, but the sex didn’t last long. The men took turns coming on her face. She begged to be degraded and she thanked the men for it.

  Once they were cleaned up, the Smiley Devil that had praised The Killer’s elderly video pulled out his glass pipe, filled it with crystal meth, placed the lighter beneath the glass bulb and inhaled the potent clarity.

  Lisa inhaled deeply and exhaled a large plume of smoke. “I love this group because we stay hidden. It’s true. To do the devil’s work you have to make it appear that the devil had nothing to do with the act. The drown victims are the best.”

  “It makes sense and it makes people wonder whether or not the deaths are the result of a killer or substance abuse,” The Killer stated.

  “It’s a little of both, if you think about it.” Lisa eagerly grabbed the pipe.

  “That’s the model.”

  The Killer moved to the edge of his seat and asked, “Why is that the model, anyway? Does anyone know or is it just something that works?”

  “Only the Dark Lord knows,” the Smiley Devil with the shotgun stated.

  The bearded Smiley Devil began laughing as if the last statement was funny and for that The Killer slammed the shotgun into the side of his face. Blood and teeth erupted from his mouth.

  “Hey fuck you, man! You don’t believe in that Satan shit. Not for real, do you?” Blood pulsated from his mouth and ran down his face. The crimson fluid clumped to his thick beard.

  Lisa stood, removed a hatchet from her duffel bag and then slammed it into the bearded Devil’s forearm. The Smiley Devil screamed gutturally.

  The Smiley Devil holding the shotgun laughed. “Now that’s funny, you stupid prick. And yes, I believe in the devil, I believe in Jesus and I believe in God. And if you don’t ... then I must convince you.” He looked to Lisa as she retracted the ax from the man’s nearly severed forearm. She raised the hatchet high above her head.

  “Please don’t. I believe, I believe, I believe ... ” he continued until the hatchet blade slammed into the top of his head. Even in the dark, The Killer saw a heavy expulsion of blood-drenched mist.

  “Let’s rip him apart,” The naked woman suggested. “I want you to fuck me while we rip him to pieces.”

  The blood orgy lifted illicit sickness and twisted pleasure. The experience was new and orgasmic and he experienced extraordinary sensations that he appreciated. He truly believed this to be the work of God or Satan, which to The Killer had been both. Now, as their religious awakening developed, they desecrated the deceased and fucked in his blood. The Killer’s belief was heightened by this act, consummated into darkness. His destiny to serve the Dark Lord had been fulfilled. His destiny, loyalty, and pursuit of pleasure now belonged to Lucifer and with devotion he would earn his rank in the sensational demonic realm of Hell. He was glad that he’d met these new people and that they’d shared the sacrifice—insulted the flesh of a less devoted follower.

  Afterward, The Killer and his spiritual mates received pleasure in dismembering the unbeliever. They removed his head with the small hatchet and experienced camaraderie when insulting the dead with panache. They used the severed head in similar fashion to a ventriloquist—opening and closing his mouth—having him speak nonsense. Then they gifted each other via a hands-on anatomy lesson. Removing the top portion of his skull, they examined his brain. The grey matter was interesting up close and freshly dead. The Smiley Devil’s contemplated their shared thoughts, pains, emotions, and memories as they prodded at the jelly-like brain. Upon completion, they burned the corpse and inhaled the sweet smoke and imagined they were reserving his twisted soul. With excitement, they spoke of the torment they would impress upon the souls that the Dark Lord would permit them in Hell. The night would soon conclude, but their renewal and strengthened faith would last. The meth aided in their experiences and heightened their enjoyment. The amphetamine allowed for the escalation of thought as it widened the intricate canals of the brain and sparked electric impulse.

  The drug insisted they stay awake for the following days, but the morning after was when they received rest. Twelve more Smiley Devils arrived. Each brought ingredients of hedonism. Powerful drugs. Acid with meth allowed them to enter the realm of existence between the material world and the spiritual world. They concocted strong drink—one part alcohol, one part mescal. An excommunicated Mormon from Utah had sprinkled meth with fresh fruit into this mix of mind enhancer. The elixir siphoned the demonic rage. The brain serum was blessed. The Dark Lord had cast his sick blessing. Once all had drunk from the Holy Water, they gathered near the warmth of the desert fire. With tears in their eyes and diminished inhibitions they confessed their true feelings about life and pain. The stars above shined red like blood in honor of the darkness. With each confession the Smiley Devils achieved power and control. A movement was born. There was much more to discuss. The rules were made to protect the tribe. The sacrifices wouldn’t be weak prostitutes that wouldn’t be missed, in a societal sense. The Smiley Devil’s would seek out strong athletic males that were capable of defending themselves. And they would find these young men at college bars where false safety and comfort came easy. They would wait for the victim near a body of water, a river or lake. An accidental phenomenon is what the authorities and media would reason. But in the back of their minds they would know that something sinister was spreading beneath the epidermis of their communities. The victims would leave of their own accord. Their friends would attest to this. Once the sacrifice was isolated, the Smiley Devil’s would stalk, capture, and torture these pathetic beings with water. Baptize them in the waters of death. They would execute this task in a separate location so that autopsy reports would be inconclusive and examiners would be baffled by inconsistencies found in the corpse. The water elements in the lungs would not match the elements found in the bodies of water where they’d be found. Most would think that the cause of death was drowning by drunken college kids. A drunk, young adult that had consumed too much had fallen into the river. The Smiley Devils would stamp the Dark Lord’s fingerprint into these small college towns. The Dark Lord would reward them by dooming the affected communities with dread, anxiety, and fear. These like-minded individuals would enjoy their craft. The only aspect of the sacrifice that would be difficult and considered mildly sloppy would be the recorded videos. These recordings would be necessary evils. They would share the joy of sacrifice with the church of the Smiley Devil. The Devils would not be an isolated group. It would be a nationwide and then a worldwide organization. The Smiley Devil’s would leave a signature—a painted rock placed near the water’s edge. An officer’s common sense would conclude that this was a signature of sorts, but the signature would be too mundane to use as evidence.

  Somewhere, there was a head to this organization. Whoever this was they had created the Dark Net chat room. This individual existed. The Smiley Devils knew this because when a recorded sacrifice was uploaded, the account that uploaded would receive monetary reward in the form of Bitcoins.

  4

  Two days passed and when all members of the Smiley Devils had finished their convention, of sorts, they piled into their vehicles and left. No phone numbers or email addresses were exchanged. This secret sect of society would remain that way. Their communication would remain on the Dark Net. That way they could not be connected and it would be harder to track them down, find one of the members and interrogate answers from
them.

  The Killer drove to Wisconsin where he began collecting possible victims. It was fun to stroll the campus and look at the athletic, handsome males that had no idea a killer was watching them, considering them as a sacrifice to the devil. The Killer smiled when he thought about what it would be like to know—to have the psychic ability to realize that you were an ordinary human attending college courses on a safe campus, but that you were being considered for sacrifice to Satan. The Killer vaguely remembered the Satanic Panic of the nineteen-eighties. Most of it had been bullshit, but hidden in deep wells of dark hearts some of the crimes that had been committed were real. Some were carried out.

  The Killer enjoyed watching his new victims: Brock and Lance. He had something very special in mind for them. His small movie was coming together well. The experimental threesome that they had planned and executed added a nice element of eroticism that hadn’t been explored before. The Smiley Devils would enjoy this film more than the others.

  Part 4: The Season of Giving

  Chapter 10

  Planning, Planning, Planning

  1

  B rianna thirsted for passion. Her excitement burned and it was unquenchable. The permanent smile embedded on her face wouldn’t diminish. Her cheek muscles cramped and the thin skin below her eye twitched when she thought of what her boys would do to her. In only a few days—together—they would experience sexual bliss. An ideal hotel in a nice part of downtown was the perfect setting. Saturday was only a few days away, but hours felt like months. Already, she’d called Grady and lied about her weekend plans. She, Brock, and Lance maintained the same lie. Grady was under the impression that a family Christmas party in their hometown took precedence and they wouldn’t return until Sunday evening. Oddly, she had hoped he wouldn’t be offended for not being invited. If he discovered the truth he’d be more than offended. He’d be devastated. She thought so anyway, assuming that he was into her as much as he professed.