So real was it, that he was sure he felt fingers around his now throbbing erection as he was being stroked into submission. A gentle licking, a sucking, a flick of a tongue here and there, a gentle squeeze of his balls, a stray finger between his legs, searching for what lay deep within. He was duly excited by what was happening to him physically and mentally, what he saw there in the flames occurring between himself and Emmanuelle sometime in the past.
But then in both worlds, as his body gently rocked to the rhythm of their lovemaking, something changed. The dread that he had been feeling, that dark undercurrent, what he had been locking away in the recesses of his mind decided to present itself in all its glory. In all his glory.
The boy.
Though it was obvious now that he wasn’t a boy, he was something else, something worse.
Naked too save for the same black cloak and hood that the girl wore, hiding most of his features, but Bradley knew who it was all the same, could smell the corruption within.
Bradley had no choice but to only look on as the boy did things to Emmanuelle that he could only dream of. Things which were so outside of his character, his personality, his high morals. But whilst it sickened him, it was obvious the pleasure that Emmanuelle was experiencing. How she writhed, she groaned and moaned, her muscles tensing and relaxing, her sinews stretched with what he did.
Bradley couldn’t watch any more. He tried to get up from the chair, to stop looking (he was also angry with himself that he was still hard, wished that part could just crawl inside his body), but try as he might, hands held him down so hard that it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere.
As someone worked his penis, someone else grabbed his head, forced open his eyes. More of the drink poured down his throat; if they weren’t careful he would drown in the stuff, or perhaps that was their intention. Christ, his erection was being worked on so furiously, by so many, it would only be moments before it reached its natural conclusion.
Bradley began to scream.
That wasn’t right. That was not how it happened.
What he saw now was so far from the truth that it made him gag. He so wanted to vomit, but it was like driving past a car crash on the motorway; you just couldn’t stop looking. He tried to tear his eyes away from what was being played out, and yet he couldn’t.
There he was, with the boy.
They held weapons in their hands.
Bradley held a silver dagger, the boy a small scythe, both ready to do battle. Emmanuelle still on the bed, lost in her own ecstasy, unaware of the danger that awaited her.
The room too, the bed was now surrounded by black-cloaked acolytes. On their knees in reverence, each with a small wooden bowl in their hands, awaiting whatever offering their young god would bestow upon them.
A bell rung. This was the moment when Bradley and the boy pounced.
Literally tearing Emmanuelle apart. How she defiantly attempted to fight them off but they were simply too powerful. How she screamed and screamed but Bradley forced a hand over her mouth, not that that made much difference. She bit him, sunk her teeth into him. Pain rocketed through his body. She scratched, punched, pummelled at him – no wonder his body was covered in cuts and bruises. But eventually she succumbed; there was just no fight left in her.
And while Bradley started on her face, cutting out both her eyeballs, the boy (who had escaped her frenzied attack) worked on her stomach, cutting deep inside her, ripping in her until he found what he was looking for.
Somewhere during the melee Bradley ejaculated, not that he wanted to but because his body simply had no choice; he had lost control of himself.
Tears poured from his eyes.
“You bastards, she was pregnant...my child....she was fucking pregnant.”
Someone slapped him across the face, opening up the wound under his eye. Someone else punched him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He screamed as he felt two stabs of pain in his thighs, then in his hands, his feet, the breaking of a finger, a toe...something put around his neck and then pulled tight, threatening to cut off his air supply.
“Concentrate or you will die,” a voice said simply.
Bradley laughed. “I can’t....not any more....I welcome death.” He was beaten. He couldn’t see any more. The images had ceased, the flames were just that, flames in a dying fire. No more secrets for him.
In his mind’s eye though, he could see Emmanuelle’s mutilated corpse and now the blood all over his hands.
It must have been a trick. A clever trick yes, but still a trick. He knew he hadn’t killed his fiancée, he simply wasn’t capable of it, no matter what they said, no matter what he saw. These weren’t his memories. The wine was drugged.
Lies. Just lies.
“I didn’t do that. Any of it. You may have, but it wasn’t me....not me at all...”
Bradley’s eyelids felt heavy and his eyes closed. He could have sworn he fell asleep but he wasn’t sure. When he did open them, it could have been moments later or even hours, he had lost all sense of time. But it must have been a few hours because the fire had burnt down to only embers. That must have been an indication, surely?
He was also positive he was alone.
He sniffed. There was that aroma again. Incense. And that bell – ringing somewhere in the distance. Hardly audible, perhaps just his imagination?
Weirder still: his attention was diverted, he moved in the chair and saw the boy and girl entwined in a lover’s embrace on one of the tables. They were really going for it. Bradley turned away, his fragile mind deciding not to question that little episode; he simply didn’t want to know. He groaned as he went to stretch his limbs. The pain was almost too much to bear.
“Ah, you’re awake. Good,” the boy stated as he climbed off the girl and re-adjusted his cloak.
Bradley wiped his face. He was still naked, nothing he could do to cover his embarrassment, he tried pulling down his T-shirt but what difference did that make?
“I want my clothes,” Bradley said. His body was racked with pain, his soul with guilt and shame. He wanted his trousers and shoes, he wanted to get the hell out of there. The wounds in his legs and hands still bleeding. Many of his fingers and toes bent into shapes he didn’t believe possible. The hospital would have a field day; he wondered how he was going to explain it all.
“After everything, is that all that concerns you?” the girl enquired.
Bradley breathed deep. “You know I didn’t do those things. It was fun but I want to leave now.”
The boy knelt down, ran a hand up Bradley’s thigh, a finger circled one of his wounds and then with such force, he stuck it into the bloody hole. Bradley screamed in agony but fought back the tears; he wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction.
“My father has been very impressed with you,” the boy explained. “He so wants to meet you.” He slowly withdrew his finger, put it to his lips, licked off the blood.
Bradley wanted to reply but he choked as the noose was pulled tighter around his neck, cutting off his air supply. The girl appeared before him, the rope in her hand. She smiled.
“It’s time,” a voice behind them announced. She dropped the rope. Bradley breathed again.
“What’s happening?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
She leant forward, put a finger to his lips, motioned for him to be quiet.
The boy tipped the goblet towards Bradley’s mouth. At first he refused it, but the boy grabbed his chin, then when that didn’t work – his throat. Bradley’s mouth opened and the dark wine was poured into his mouth. Bradley still had some fight left in him and spat some of it to the floor but a small hand went over his mouth and he no choice but to swallow it down.
The effects were instantaneous. More potent than before. His body relaxed completely, he slumped back into the chair, a dazed expression on his face.
He slipped in and out of consciousness, was lifted from the chair and laid out on some kind of stretcher.
Bradley’s T-shirt wa
s removed. He was powerless to stop them. He even started to laugh. He suddenly felt so drunk--that drink had gone straight to his head. A dark liquid was sprinkled upon his naked body, a reverent oil. The bell, ringing louder and louder, the air more pungent, more smoky. Every sense was on fire. He was learning to love the pain.
Travelling. They must have picked him up, he was being carried along. All around him the black cloak and hooded acolytes. Their heads down, lost within the folds of the coarse material, quietly chanting.
Bradley had no idea where he was or where he was heading. Tunnels? The temperature suddenly dropped. Positive too he had gone down some steps as there was some difficulty carrying him and more than once he had threatened to roll off. Would they have caught him?
“Please,” he whispered, but with the bells and the chanting, his pleas only fell upon deaf ears.
His eyes closed.
*
“Where are we?” he asked.
The walls had now become stone. An oily sheen covered them. They had paused briefly, some words whispered between the girl and boy, but as the journey resumed, Bradley saw he was being taken through a stone arch.
There were some words scratched deep into the stone.
Arrête! C’est ici i’empire de la mort!
Even with his basic French, Bradley knew what it said.
He tried to get up but hands forced him down. Past the acolytes, he could see the rows and rows of bones, of skulls, empty eye sockets staring down at him, mouths opened in silent screams.
Bradley was in the Catacombs deep below the city. Even if he screamed and screamed he knew that there would be no one who would hear him. He was well and truly fucked.
That damn bell was ringing right above him. He could see it swinging there, hanging from a wooden support lodged deep into the stony canopy. Smoke filled the air and threatened to choke him to death. They laid him down on the ground, then backed away. The chanting reached a crescendo before it suddenly stopped.
Besides Bradley, only the boy, the girl and a third figure remained. He wondered if this was their father, the one they had been talking about? Bradley removed the rope from around his neck, threw it into the shadows.
“Look,” he implored. “I have money. Just let me go, please. I’ll leave the city, fuck, I’ll even leave the country if it saves my life. I won’t say anything about any of this...I’ll give you anything you want.” He cursed as he tried to stand up and fell back onto the stretcher.
“It’s too late for that,” the girl replied. She knelt down, kissed him on the forehead. She bowed, then retreated into the darkness.
Bradley tried again. “Listen, this is a mistake. We all know that. I didn’t do those things...”
The boy approached, knelt down and kissed Bradley on the lips.
“Of course you didn’t,” he added, following the girl.
Bradley looked up. The remaining acolyte removed his hood. It was an old man. Bradley remembered him as the priest from the museum, the one he and Emmanuelle had argued with.
“Look, I’m really sorry about before, you know, yesterday or whenever it was.”
The priest stood between two stone pillars. Before him was a large pedestal. It looked ancient. Behind him was an ocean of skulls, reaching out as far as the eye could see. Candles strategically placed gave the already unearthly place a dark, devilish glow. On the pedestal sat a small font. The Priest dipped a finger into it then touched points on his face, forming a pentacle.
“Far too late for apologies, my son,” he whispered.
Bradley rolled over, off the stretcher, hobbled towards the priest. Most of the short journey he had to carry out on bended knees. Physically exhausted by the time he got there, he grabbed the priest’s leg.
“I beg you, I beg you, forgive me and let me free...there’s been a terrible mistake...please God....”
The priest slapped Bradley’s arm away. Such venom on his face, such anger in his eyes. “This is the Crypt of the Sepulchral Lamp – your God means nothing here, he is absent from this place, haven’t you learnt anything?”
“Please, I can give you anything.” Bradley was rambling, his mind starting to unravel.
The priest hit him across the face. “Foolish man, I have everything I could possibly want right here. Your temptations mean nothing to me.”
Bradley cowered on the ground. The priest reached inside his cloak and pulled out a small silver knife. It looked familiar. The priest grabbed him, but instead of stabbing him), the priest handed it over.
“What....what do you want me to do with this?”
“You may decide to hurry death along. Don’t be ashamed, stronger men than you have acquiesced.”
The priest leant down to kiss him, whispered into his ear. “You’re going to get what’s coming to you, you fucking cunt...you and your fucking whore of a bitch....did you enjoy eating your own child, I hope you found it tasty.” He spat on Bradley before retreating, disappearing into the smoke.
Something inside Bradley snapped. He didn’t know whether to believe what the priest had said or not...not that it mattered....nothing mattered anymore, he was a gibbering wreck.
The priest’s voice filled the crypt. “You’re dead, whatever happens, whatever you see, whatever you hear, convince yourself that you are dead and everything will be fine, you’re dead and that’s all that matters.”
Bradley didn’t bother to reply.
He felt alone, for the first time in his life, really alone. Devoid of humanity, devoid of God. He wiped the spittle, the snot, the tears from his face. He shivered in the coldness, the darkness. All he had was his self, his pain, his guilt.
And in his hand, the knife. He gripped on hard to that.
Using the pedestal for support, he managed to get to his feet.
“Thank fuck for that,” he said, then laughed. His voice echoed around the chamber. He was alive (whatever the priest said) and while he was alive, there was hope.
He didn’t kill Emmanuelle. His conscience was clear. It must have been them, whoever they were. They had done it, that boy, they had admitted as much. They must have drugged Bradley, he put up some kind of struggle, that was why he was covered in the cuts and bruises.
Not that he remembered but they must have kidnapped him and he’d tried to escape. That was why he was wandering the streets. The boy must have been searching for him.
If only his senses had been a little more active then he wouldn’t have gone with him, right back into the lion’s den. Whatever drug it was, it was powerful stuff. But, if he had managed to escape once the he could do so again.
Bradley was sure that the bell had stopped and the smoke, that too seemed not to be quite as thick as before.
He looked down into the font. Something white was swimming in the red liquid. Leaning up against the pedestal, at the third attempt he picked it up, soft between his broken fingers. As soon as he saw what it was, he dropped it back. An eyeball. He knew who it belonged to.
There was a severe change of atmosphere.
“Who’s there?” He looked up, then around him.
A scraping sound, something huge and heavy being dragged. A horrible stench, even stronger than the smoke and incense. It drowned his nostrils and throat, making him gag. Death personified. A deep groaning sound.
Bradley squinted; something seemed to be coming through the last wisps of smoke.
“If you’re trying to scare me, well congratulations, you’ve been successful,” he cried.
But Bradley fell silent. His eyes widened. He did his best to back away, he let go of the pedestal. He fell to the ground. “No…no…”he uttered.
“You were lost.” the thing cloaked in mystery said as it approached, its voice a mixture of gruff viciousness and dark velvety richness. There was no echo to it. It was dead. “Now I have found you.”
As both Bradley’s mind and bowels broke, and as he tried his damndest to crawl away, he couldn’t think of anything worthwhile to reply.
He wished he still had the knife, but he must have dropped that. He screamed in agony as he crawled away, but escape was pointless. The creature scooped Bradley up off the ground in one of its enormous clawed hands and hurled him against the closest wall of bones.
And he continued to do so until Bradley and Death became the very best of friends. He knew that nothing would be said as they both preferred the silence of the grave...
Suffer Well
I had to come to Paris to recuperate. My recent accident had knocked the shit out of me. I’d suffered some external injuries but truth be told they amounted to nothing more than cuts and bruises. The doctors though were concerned about what was happening to me internally. They wondered how it would affect me. Apparently they were concerned about my mental state. After all, I’d witnessed the death of both my parents. My mother had gone right through the window and my dad, well he’d been crushed when the truck hit the side of our SUV. They were both killed outright.
I’d been to Europe only once before, when I was a child. My father had worked in construction, for an international company. We’d spent a sunny summer touring various sites around France, Belgium, Germany and Italy.
I had remembered how there was something about Paris that I’d really liked back then, so I told the college Dean I needed some time off. He understood and deferred my credits until the following academic year.
So, as soon as I could get out of Michigan I did, booked myself a flight and a cheap fleapit of a hotel room slap bang in the centre of Montmartre.
As I was an only child, I was going to inherit all my parents’ worldly goods anyway but also had one helluva trust fund left to me by my grandparents – money wasn’t going to be a problem for a long time. Sure, I could have stayed somewhere more expensive, but there was something about Montmartre that I really dug.
I’d been sitting in the garden of my local bistro, Les Deus Moulins for a couple of hours. The food wasn’t bad at all and I’d had a couple of glasses of the house red (very potent stuff) before moving onto a bottle or two of beer.
My command of French wasn’t too bad either; I can definitely hold more than a basic conversation. I’d been reading a few of the local papers but there wasn’t much going on that interested me, but when I picked up a copy of the Herald Tribune and saw an article about the murder of that local teenage girl, I have to say my interest was piqued.
Through A Forest Dark Page 2
