by Mark Henry
Nothing.
Grass fluttered and combed in the breeze, black hairs ruffling atop a gritty gray dandruffed scalp. Her eyes snapped toward the horizon, for signs of life in the distance, the fanatics' camp, a fire, something. All was darkness.
“Hilary?” She spun around to see Chantal walking breezily toward her. “You've overheard something, haven't you?”
Her face was placid, more welcoming than she'd ever seen it.
Relaxed.
“And you're scared, that's understandable. Let me assure you, that of everyone here at Balustrade, you have nothing of which to be frightened. In fact, it is you that will be feared. There will never be a moment when you won't be obeyed totally. You are to be their sentinel.”
“What are you talking about?” Hilary's eyes were wild with uncertainty. “And how is Jack involved? How the fuck is he involved, Chantal?”
“Jack has been with us for a few years now, recruited into our church and a devout supplicant.”
Hilary's mind reeled. Church. The gym. Jack’s little play on words was subterfuge. That part rang true. Hilary had caught him in lies before, many times. But this.
Chantal swept her hand out toward the building. “This is but one of many around the globe. These balustrades are built around the points where Hell pierces into our world. They are containment. But they are also just buildings, not prisons.”
“What are you talking about?” Hilary screamed, madness swimming in her head.
“Nothing can stop the spirits that rise from the balustrade. They'd leave directly if they weren't entertained, if they weren't controlled. Our world would be overrun. So we give them opportunities. We give them bodies. We give them temporary relief from their hell. And in return, they obey, they do not go further. There is but one stitch. They require willing shells.”
“Who here is willing? Who?” Hilary screamed. “Not me!”
“You've all signed contracts, I witnessed your agreement, myself. It is unreasonable to suggest that we could fill this place with willing puppets week after week, but the demons respect technicalities. And so...”
“Community service?” Hilary rubbed her forehead, so hard it felt as though she might be bruising.
“Yes. It's little more than a word play, but it suffices for our purposes.”
Hilary scowled. “That's disgusting. These people are being used!”
“But the end result is ultimately salvation, Hilary! The world is protected from them. That's what's important. I understand your hesitance. When I came, I was much like you. I felt tricked, horrified, bewildered. But over time, I assumed my role and did so with the kind of verve that the hellborn respect and fear. It is a saintly thing. You will agree. Maybe not right now, but in time. You will make a consummate sentinel.”
Hilary turned to run, her mind reeling.
She’d been right about the demons.
The devil.
Everything.
She made it a few yards before hearing a whistling in the air and a sharp pain in her side. Then she was falling.
Drifting. She was unconscious before she hit the ground.
Epilogue
Shadows crept up the walls of the passage and the couple gripped the other’s hand with a desperation so total, so nearly forgotten, only fear could have produced it. The woman ahead of them had been silent since greeting them at the door, and now the only sound she made came from the train of her dress shirring across the stone floor. They’d passed only one other in the massive courtyard, a man named Jack, who’d watched them intently, eyes drilling into them as though searching for meaning, or something else, a lack of it, the source of them, their pleasure. The woman couldn’t help but think he’d been undressing her with his eyes, imagining her prone, straddled, penetrated.
They were led into an office, where the woman sat behind a small writing desk, producing two packets of documents and beautiful pens for their signing.
“These are for your protection as much as ours, they imply your consent for both the retreat and your subsequent community service commitment. I assume Dr. Madrigal has gone over the details.
Nods from the couple. The woman watched over them as their pens scrolled and flicked. Signatures done, she withdrew the pads quickly and filed them.
“I’m certain you’d like to settle in,” she said and swept from the room, gesturing for the couple to follow.
They stood, keeping close to her stride. At his wife’s urging, the man asked, “Do you have a name?”
“Of course,” Hilary said, pressing the ornate glasses she wore further up the bridge of her nose. “But you can call me Chantal.”
Coming Soon
In October 2014, catch the next installment in the Carnal Staircase series…
SPINDLE
Books by Mark Henry
The Amanda Feral Series
Happy Hour of the Damned
Road Trip of the Living Dead
Battle of the Network Zombies
Beach Blanket Bloodbath
A Night to Dismember (Coming August 2014)
Ship of Ghouls (Coming December 2014)
OTHER BOOKS
Velveteen (as Daniel Marks)
Parts & Wreck
Carniepunk: The Sweeter the Juice (story)
Kiss Me Deadly: Vermillion (story, as Daniel Marks)
Erotica
Stocking Full of Coal (story, as Amanda Feral)
The Prosthetist (Coming Soon)
Acknowledgments
As always, first and foremost, I have to thank my lovely wife Caroline for putting up with the crazy that is me during the drafting and revision stages of any book, but particularly this one, which seemed to come so quickly (no pun intended).
I’m equally indebted to my good friends Renee George and Michele Bardsley who heave me up when I’m wallowing in the gutter. Michele provided me with some awesome editing on this book and I owe her. Renee is a graphics goddess. That I have marketing in place for this book at all, is a miracle from Missouri.
As always, to the Glamazombies, you guys never cease to amaze me. I appreciate all your hard work. May it never go flaccid.
::snerk::
Biography
Mark Henry traded a career in the helping profession to scar minds with his fiction. He attributes his ideas to premature exposure to horror movies, and/or witnessing adult cocktail parties in the '70s. His development has been further skewed by surviving earthquakes, typhoons, and two volcanic eruptions. Despite being disaster prone, he somehow continues to live and breathe. Residing in the oft maligned, yet not nearly as soggy as you'd think, Pacific Northwest, with his wife and two furry monsters that think they're children.
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