The demon was in my home? Samael?
Shit!
I made it home in record time. And there he was, furious.
He didn’t say a word. His red face and black eyes bore into me.
“Samael! What a wonderful surprise,” I said. I attempted a smile, even gave a little laugh.
He said nothing, just advanced toward me. Somehow I’d forgotten how large the man was.
“Are you hungry? Can I fix you something to eat?” I tried. You have to give me points for trying.
He relented, finally. “No, thank you. I’m hungry only for you.”
Shit, shit, and triple shit. Not this again! He was here to have another child, and I so did not want to give him one. I gave him my sauciest smile, doing some quick thinking. “It has been a while, hasn’t it? But before we do that, I have something for you.” What did I have? I thought quickly, my eyes straying around my home.
They alighted on a bottle of wine. Yes! I spun around grabbing the bottle. “Wine! Fine wine. Have you tried it?”
He raised his eyebrows, but shook his head, so I poured him a very full cup. As I thought, he did like it. He drank the entire bottle, and then a second one. Surely, he had to get drunk, right? Surely, he’d fall flat on his face as I’d seen other men do.
He didn’t.
Amon, ruler of wrath, was born the following morning. Samael didn’t say a word as I glared at him. He did give me a little smile, though, just before he disappeared.
What was I, a brood mare? Dammit, I was not going to be treated this way. Yes, I’d said this before, I know, but this time I meant it. Really!
To prove it, and to assuage my anger at his high–handed behavior, I destroyed my home before leaving it. Taking only what I wanted and could carry, I left—for good.
Years passed as I explored the world. Walking toward a village one day, I was hot, thirsty and wanting to stop and rest. There was a small house not too far off the road, so I thought I’d pop in for some water.
The dead man I came across as I approached the house wasn’t a good sign. That he had been cleaved almost in two made me stop and wonder whether I actually wanted to go any further. I wasn’t worried that the murderer was still nearby—the corpse was old, smelling beyond awful and buzzing with flies. But why had he not been moved? Buried? Where was the man’s family?
I soon found them, strewn around the house—an arm here, a leg there, heads in a separate pile. Humans were mixed with animals. Women, children, sheep, not even the chickens had been spared. Needless to say, I left quickly.
The occupants of the house just down the road were in the same state, as were the ones in the house after that. As I travelled closer and closer to the next town, the deaths became more and more recent. I nearly turned back, for I knew, with a sickening in my stomach, just what I would find.
The town seemed deserted as I walked the empty streets. But as I passed one house, a shadow alerted me to the fact that there were actually people inside—alive. I didn’t dare knock. Instead, I called quietly through the window.
“Please, I’m a traveler. Tell me what terrible thing’s going on so I can save myself,” I called out in my most tremulous voice, hoping my fear would elicit a response.
It did. A hand reached out from a barely opened door, grabbed my skirt and pulled me inside. I nearly screamed, but managed to stifle it into a squeak.
“Are they close by? The soldiers?” a terrified looking woman asked.
“I haven’t seen any,” I told her.
“Still, we cannot be too careful. They have killed hundreds as they search for her.”
“For whom?”
“Rebekah. Caleb hired soldiers to find her and bring her back to him, but Joab wouldn’t let her go. They’ve been searching for her for days. When they search a home, they kill everyone who cannot tell them where to find her.”
“Why does Caleb want her so badly?” I asked.
The woman shrugged. “She is very beautiful and her family owns a lot of land with many heads of cattle.”
“That’s it?” I asked, astounded that so many would be killed so brutally for such a paltry reason.
“What else?” the woman asked, clearly confused.
Indeed, what else? Why else would a man want a woman aside from her beauty and any wealth she would bring him through marriage? “She could have been powerful,” I suggested hopefully.
The woman looked at me like I was crazy.
“So two men are fighting over a woman,” I summarized. The woman crouching next to me nodded. “And hundreds of people are being killed?”
She nodded again.
“Well, that’s just stupid,” I said, standing up. I walked out the door, the woman behind me grabbing at my skirt. “No, you will get killed,” she cried.
I shook her off, gave her my thanks for the information and left. Only one person could have orchestrated such senselessness. Walking down the street, I called out, “Samael! You’re here, I know you are! This could only be your work. Get your ass out here!”
“It is not my work, dear Lilith. It is the work of our sons,” he said, appearing from nowhere, with a big shit–eating grin on his face. Oh yes, he was clearly a proud father.
I put my hands on my hips and stood there, glaring at him. Inside I was shaking with fury and fear—I wasn’t stupid. But I also wasn’t going to get sucked into his deal again. “No!” I said, before he even had a chance to say anything more.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Stop this stupidity and then leave. It is your responsibility to see to your children.” I then turned and brazenly walked away.
And he let me!
I was so shocked that I almost glanced back at him. But I resisted. I walked away, and just kept on walking. As I did so, though, an idea was forming in my head.
My sons had done this. They’d used their power to create chaos. So why couldn’t I just as easily use the same power to make things better for women? Wouldn’t that be justice? And a great big fuck–you to Samael?
Fucking Samael. That luscious thought slithered into my mind again, distracting me for a moment. And it kept coming back to haunt me over the centuries, far more often than Samael came to visit. So I slipped into sleeping men’s beds across the world, gleefully taking my pleasures and letting them wake sated, soiled and confused.
But Samael did come to me four more times. And each time, he reminded me how much I loved him. And each time, he took his child and left me.
Now I’m finished. I’ve fulfilled my end of the deal. So that’s it, right? That’s the end. I’ll never have to deal with that monster ever again or kill another baby. I don’t care how hot he is, or how good a lover. I’ve had others. None could ever compare, but, no, I’m done.
I have to admit, though, I think about Samael sometimes. But I need to be someplace safe when I do so. Someplace where I can feel the presence of God—not because I need Him, but because it’s good to know He’s there. I go to churches, mosques, Hindu temples, Tibetan monasteries.
It being a Thursday, I didn’t think I would find anyone there, but when I walked into the sanctuary of a synagogue, there was a handsome young rabbi opening up the Torah, a girl by his side. Naturally, I knew that they allowed girls to become Bat Mitzvah nowadays. I’d just never actually seen a girl reading from the Torah.
The girl placed rod to sheepskin, her voice rang out strong and true—and sent chills right through me.
“Bereshit bara Elohim et hashamayim ve'et ha'arets.”
Shit! Did she have to read from there? From the very beginning?
“Good!” the rabbi complimented the girl. “And what does it mean?”
The girl gave a shrug. “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.”
“Not quite!” The rabbi smiled, practically giggling.
I looked sideways at him. What did he mean “not quite”?
“Literally translated, it means ‘in a beginning’,” he said.
The girl continued to look at him funny, but I was beginning to get it—and to smile. I liked this guy!
“In a beginning, as in there were others before this. In this beginning, God created the heavens and the earth, and so on. And what does it say about when God created people?” the rabbi asked.
The girl shrugged and looked back down at the Torah. “That they were made on the sixth day?”
“From the dust of the earth, God made in His own image man and woman; in His image He made them,” the rabbi corrected. “But what do we know about Eve?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “She was made from Adam’s rib!”
I began to laugh quietly to myself.
“That’s right, so who was this who was made of the dust of the earth with Adam?”
The girl shrugged, confused.
“Lilith,” the rabbi said.
The girl was now leaning toward him, engrossed.
The rabbi laughed. “I think you’ll like Lilith,” he said. “She was the first feminist.”
With a jolt, I stood up. Never in my life had I been referred to that way. As a whore? Yes. As a trouble–maker? Most definitely. I’d been accused of being so many things throughout my life, but the first feminist? Never.
The rabbi heard my movement and looked out at me. “May I help you?” he asked.
“You just have. Thank you,” I answered. To the girl I said, “You read beautifully and you’ve got an excellent teacher. Learn from him.”
I walked out of the door of the sanctuary.
Samael was standing there, waiting for me.
About Meredith
Meredith Bond is an award–winning author of four traditionally published Regency romances and one indie–published paranormal Regency. Merry has been teaching writing for the past five years and has published a book so that others can “take” her classes as well. Chapter One is available at your favorite e–retailer. For more information, visit Merry at her website, www.meredithbond.com, on Facebook, and on Twitter.
HASTE
By Catie Rhodes
Meg drove the knife one last time into Ted’s unmoving chest and then stabbed Brittany again. She flung the knife at the wall of the storage building. It connected with a metallic clang and thumped to the dirt floor.
“This is what you think of me?” Meg screamed into her husband’s bloody face. “You bring your trashy whore into my house?”
Technically Ted had brought Brittany into their storage building. To hell with technical.
Meg sucked in a breath to continue her rant but gagged. The stench coming off the dead lovers reminded her of an outhouse in summer. She swiped a hand over her mouth and willed the contents of her stomach into submission.
“You ain’t so pretty now, are you?” She sneered into Brittany’s mutilated face. “Bet you wish you’d kept that tight little ass at home today.”
Killing her husband had been easy. His back had been to her as he rummaged through the storage building shelves. He never saw her coming. Meg struck the back of his head with the machete, and Ted hit the dirt floor of the storage shed like a sack of shit. She loved the sound the machete made when it connected with his skull.
Brittany didn’t even fight for her life. She just stood there with her hands on her cheeks and screamed. Enraged, Meg hit her with the machete until she could no longer lift it. There wasn’t much left of Ted’s lover.
Now that Meg’s rage had ebbed away, she knew she’d fucked up. She had lost her temper and acted without thinking. Again.
Act in haste, repent at leisure. All her life, people had said that to Meg after she’d done something rash. She always swore to do better. And she did. Until the next time she flew off the handle.
Now she’d gone and killed her husband of nearly twenty-five years and his trashy girlfriend. Ted had been a good man for the most part, but nobody played Meg Baker for a fool. It set her off every time.
The unsavory incidents that dotted her forty-plus years were trivial compared to this screw-up, however. Murder didn’t just go away.
She had to fix this. But how?
She watched shows about this kind of thing all the time. True crime documentaries, detective shows, prison reality shows. She loved them all. She combed her memory of them, searching for a solution. Her mind darted from idea to idea, but none of them were any good. It was no use.
Blood, bits of gore, and dirt covered her skin. She scratched at it and studied her fingernails. Half-moons of black gunk lodged underneath them. Blood stained the cuticles. A shudder rippled through her body, bubbling in her stomach.
She had to shower. She would know what to do after she cleaned up.
∼ ∼ ∼
The shower’s hot stream splashed blood over the pristine white tile. It beaded, faded, and swirled down the drain. Meg scrubbed her skin raw as her mind scrambled for a solution. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life in prison. Yes, she had committed a crime. But Ted and Brittany had driven her to it.
She couldn’t explain the blood-fest in a way that made sense, not in a way that would make a judge let her go. She’d just watched a true crime documentary on Betty Broderick. That poor woman was still languishing in prison out in California for killing her husband and his lover. The legal system would give Meg the same treatment.
By the time Ted’s mother, his brother, his employees at the golf pro shop, and their pastor all spoke about what a good guy her late husband had been, Meg might even get the death penalty. Texas was, after all, a death penalty state. The true crime channel had featured Karla Faye Tucker not too long ago. Look what happened to her.
Life in prison would suck. Despite the violence of her crime, Meg wasn’t a tough girl. She’d never been in a fistfight; she didn’t consider herself a violent person. What she’d done was a crime of passion. There had to be a way to keep her freedom. She just needed to put her mind to figuring it out.
Toweling off after the most refreshing shower in her life, Meg planned. She had managed a beauty salon most of her adult life. Problem-solving was problem-solving.
She needed to get rid of the evidence—Ted’s car, the bodies, and the blood.
After she put on clean clothes, Meg moved her late husband’s Porsche—his Midlife Crisis Mobile—into the garage. She would wait until the cover of night to drive it away.
Next, the bodies.
A couple of years ago, Ted got the notion he could butcher his deer-season kills himself. He purchased an expensive knife set to help him do the job. Turned out old soft-in-the-middle Ted didn’t have the balls to butcher deer. He only hunted so he’d fit in with the other men.
He put the three-hundred-dollar set of knives in the utility room, where they’d collected dust ever since. Meg found them, tested the sharpness of one on her arm hair. Impressive. Would Ted have seen the irony in this? Probably not.
Meg used muscles she’d forgotten she had to cut up Ted and trashy Brittany. Her stomach rocked and rolled at the sound the knife made as it bit into human skin and muscle. She stopped more than once to vomit.
Cutting the bodies into manageable pieces was hard work. Sweat glued Meg’s shirt to her back, and she panted and gasped with each plunge into flesh and bone and sinew and gristle. But the result was worth the effort. The chunks of flesh on Ted’s workbench didn’t look like anything or anybody. Her muscles screamed for a break, but she pushed on.
She tossed the pieces of her late husband and his lover into black trash bags and stowed the whole grisly mess in the deep freeze. TV had taught her about the necessity of careful corpse disposal. This part tripped up most murderers and got them caught. Disposal would have to wait for another day. Darkness had fallen. Getting rid of the ostentatious Porsche was the next right thing to do.
Meg took another shower. Afterward, she used all the tricks she’d learned during her twenty–seven years in the beauty industry to apply her makeup and style her hair. The outfit she’d bought to wear for her twenty–fifth wedding annivers
ary was perfect for this evening’s plans.
As she left the house, Meg felt good about herself, better than she had in years. Who wouldn’t feel good behind the wheel of a Porsche?
Several dents and dings later, Meg parked in front of a crowded bar. Country and western music spilled into the parking lot. Meg kept her head down and sneaked inside but wasn’t worried about being spotted. Middle age had made Meg almost invisible. Nobody paid her any attention as she scurried through the bar and found an empty booth. No waitress came to take her drink order.
Meg jammed Ted’s credit card between the vinyl seat cushions of the booth and walked out of the bar as invisible as when she came in.
Maybe someone less than honest would find the card and use it. Or maybe not. Either way, foul play at this bar would be suspected. The Porsche she left where it sat in the parking lot, unlocked with the keys in the ignition. Let some lucky soul take it for a joyride.
Meg teetered down the sidewalk, cursing her stylish heels with each step, until she found a bus stop. She rode the bus to the other side of town, walked into a fifty-dollar-a-plate restaurant, and asked for a table for two. Everyone within earshot heard her tell the waitress her husband would be joining her. She made sure of it. Then she waited two hours and left without ordering food, expressing her tearful bewilderment to the hostess on her way out.
∼ ∼ ∼
Meg flew high on elation all the way home. This was the biggest step she’d taken since she married Ted, and she was excited to embark on this new chapter of her life.
That is, until she got home and turned on the TV.
The true crime channel—her favorite—was airing a marathon of documentaries. Though she’d seen every one of them, Meg watched the re-runs into the night. Case after case unfolded. Criminal after criminal went to prison over some dumb mistake.
She snapped off the TV when the last show ended. Somehow the image she’d seen on TV had been her being led away in handcuffs while a forensic psychologist babbled about sociopathy. She sat in the darkness, her face cupped in her hands. There was no way to get away with murder. The police always figured it out.
Tales From The Mist: An Anthology of Horror and Paranormal Stories Page 13
