by Tristan Vick
Stripped bare and humiliated, her hands were tied above her head, and she was strung up just high enough so her toes could just barely the ground, but not enough to alleviate her entire body weight. She’d hang for hours, and like being hung upon a crucifix, eventually she could no longer support her own body weight and she’d slowly asphyxiate. A few minutes later she’d wake up lying on the cold dirt floor, naked and shivering. On the walls all around her she could make out cans of food and jars of pickled items. Everything from preserved pig toes to pickled onions. A few minutes after regaining consciousness, there’d be a flash of light and Hank or the reverend would enter the cellar and, like a sadistic ritual, repeat the whole damned routine.
Each time she died though, she resurrected again. But the constant deaths and rebirths were wreaking havoc with her memory, and she wasn’t exactly sure how long she’d been in the pit. A week maybe? She knew their goal was to humble her, break her, and make her submit to their fear tactics. But she wouldn’t. They could keep her locked up in their cheap little facsimile of hell forever and a day and she still wouldn’t give in. What kept her going was the thought of being re-united with her son, Hector.
Behind her, the door slowly creaked open, and she heard two sets of footsteps enter. Soon Reverend Campbell’s smiling face was crouched down beside her. His jackal-like appearance and snake-oil salesman grin sickened her.
“My child, your cleansing is nearly complete. But before you can join us there’s just one more thing you must do.” Before she had time to respond he grabbed her cheeks and pinched hard as he pulled her face to his. “All you have to do is ask for forgiveness.”
Rachael mustered up a laugh, and then said, “Screw you, asshole.”
The reverend’s face grew livid, and he grabbed Rachael by the back of her hair and pulled her to his face. “Hear me now and heed my words. If you insist on this sinful rebellion against God, I am afraid we will have to find other ways to make you repent of your corrupting infidel behavior.”
Rachael spat in Perry Campbell’s face. Taking out a white and purple embroidered handkerchief from out of his inside breast pocket, he merely smiled and wiped himself off. Then he turned to Hank and placed his hand on his shoulder, and said, “By the authority vested in me by God, I pronounce you man and wife.”
“What?!” Rachael gasped, kicking her legs and trying to spin herself around so she could look them in the eyes. “You have no right. You can’t do this!”
“I have the power,” insisted Campbell. His words dripped with chauvinism as he dismissed her worth as easily as he’d dismissed pleas for mercy. Perry Campbell was not a man of mercy. This much was made perfectly clear to her. “Now you’d be wise to accept our hospitality. I wouldn’t want to have to repeat the ceremony for others. Am I being clear?”
“Go fuck yourself, you God-sized-dick-bag,” Rachael spat in disgust. Hank abruptly laughed, but caught himself short as Campbell shot him a disdainful look.
“Sorry, Reverend,” Hank apologized, lowering his eyes in embarrassment. Campbell merely scowled and then said a terse, “You’re forgiven,” and stormed off.
Looking back at Rachael with lustful intent, Hank eyed her up and down and smiled with that nauseating grin that Rachael had come to loath.
“We’re not actually married, you know? Not legally anyway.” Rachael went on. “He doesn’t actually have any legal precedent to make this a binding contract. Anything you do to me will be considered rape by a court of law. Did you hear me, Hank? Rape.”
“Ain’t no matter. A man has needs. At least this way I can attend those needs without spending an eternity in the cooker.” As he stood there admiring her like a combine acquired in the spoils of war, he licked his lips, and then with his grimy hands he reached up and squeezed and massaged her buttocks. Rachael tensed at his touch, but she knew that she could still reason with him. Hank wasn’t evil like the reverend and his bat-shit-insane whore of a wife. Hank was just simple minded.
“Wait. Listen to me. You don’t want to do this, Hank. Deep down inside I know you’re a decent guy. This is beneath you.”
“You don’t get it. The reverend just gone married us. You’re mine now. Besides, can’t rape my own wife, now, can I?”
“That’s not how it works, Hank. Real men don’t rape girls.” Rachael deliberately chose to use the term girl instead of woman. She knew that if you wanted to hit the emotional heartstrings you plucked them delicately. This meant softening language to invoke a greater sense of empathy. Men responded more to the idea of a little girl being raped than a woman. Especially fathers. Using the term ‘girl’ implied an innocence of youth. Unless you were a pedophile, your natural reaction would be to feel disgust and immediately recoil from the very notion. It worked in court all the time. She anticipated it could work now.
Hank slid his hands up her hourglass shaped sides and stroked the arch of her hips. He then reached up and groped her breasts from behind. Rachael remained quiet. She knew that even the slightest bit of protest, a grunt or a moan, even if in disgust, might trigger a reaction of excitement. “Look, Hank, they’re just using you for their dirty work. Listen to me. You need to stop and think about this. What you’re about to do is wrong. Just ask yourself, what will they think? What will they say when they find out you raped me?”
The fact that she couldn’t see his face only made her feel that much more uncomfortable. She braced herself for the worse, but before anything could happen the cellar door flew open and a small army of maids rushed in.
Rachael recognized at least two of them immediately. They were the ladies who had bathed and washed her earlier. Like bulldozers, they used their numbers to plow Hank into the corner of the cellar. They weren’t nice about it either. He slammed up against the shelves with a harsh thud and grunted as the air was knocked out of him.
“What’s the meaning of this?!” and angry voice rang out. Sister Mary Campbell glided into the crowded cellar and looked scornfully down at Hank, who due to unlikely circumstances, was caught with his pants down. “Did she give you her consent?”
Scrambling to zip himself back up in the presence of the Queen of the castle, Hank hemmed and hawed, “Well…”
“Yes or no, Hank. It’s a simple question.”
“No, ma’am.”
Throwing out her arm with dramatic flair, Mary Campbell shouted her orders to her maids. “Take her to my chambers and prepare her for tonight’s ceremony.”
As the large burley women pulled Rachael down, she looked back at the pastor’s wife. In a weak voice she managed to whisper, “Thanks.” Still, it felt like a betrayal to herself to thank the woman who had recently shot her through the heart.
“You can thank me later, after the ceremony.”
“What ceremony?” Rachael asked.
“Holy Communion, of course.”
Soon enough, Rachael found herself back in the bath. A bucket of lukewarm water poured down onto her head as a gaggle of women scrubbed the dried blood and filth from her body. Once again she was being cleansed and made presentable for the congregation.
A stout woman whose name could only be Hilda, Rachael imagined, had the arms of a German discus thrower and breasts the size of cantaloupes. Hilda reached under Rachael’s arms, and with a mannish grunt, hoisted Rachael up and propped her onto her feet next to the side of the tub. This time the train of maids brought a black dress made of lace and fine layers of tulle. Worse than the frilly folds and playful short length, bordering on smutty, was the v-cut which ran all the way down to her navel. The entire dress was far too “Black Swan” for her tastes.
Mrs. Campbell had taken leave to attend to some business but Rachael could hear her chatting out in the hallway with a few of the younger girls who wanted to see what they referred to as the “Dark Angel.”
It was bad enough to be trapped as a doll in somebody’s mad dollhouse, but it was worse to be thought of as some kind of supernatural spook. Rachael was desperately hoping that Mrs. Campb
ell would let them in so they could see that she was just as plain and ordinary as they were. But when she heard Mrs. Campbell reprimand their worldly curiosity, she knew it was useless. They would either grow to fear her or worship her, simply for their lack of understanding.
Mrs. Campbell re-entered the room with long strides which made her look like she floated. She seemed to waft across the floor everywhere she went, but it was all part of the show. Indeed, everything about her was an obvious façade. How nobody else could see it was beyond her. But Rachael was certain that whatever was underneath the plasticine face of Mrs. Campbell’s was something dark and dangerous. Strip away the mask—and underneath you were bound to discover a hideous monster.
Unlike his duplicitous wife, the evil which wore a pretty face, the reverend merely lacked a conscience. He was a corrupt, power hungry, dictator who suffered from an immeasurable God complex. Rachael suspected he do anything to maintain his power, even if it meant killing. A true sociopath. Between the two of them, the Campbells totaled one Mr. and Mrs. Hyde.
Stepping up to Rachael’s naked body, Mrs. Campbell ran her fingers softly down Rachael’s shoulders and arm. Taking Rachael’s hands in hers, Mrs. Campbell smiled warmly. It was the first smile that Rachael felt was genuine. “My dear sister, you mustn’t be so glum. Today we celebrate your gift of eternal life to us!”
Rachael’s eyes narrowed. “Eternal life? My gift to you? I beg your pardon, but I don’t quite catch your meaning.”
“You shall see soon enough!”
One of the nannies came back into the room with a first-aid kit tucked under her arm. Mrs. Campbell pranced over, accepted it gracefully, and then set it on the dresser top and opened it. While she rummaged around inside, she hummed some kind of church hymn to herself. Finally, she pulled out some duct tape and looked over at Rachael with her big manic smile face. Rachael rolled her eyes as she guessed the next step. Sure enough, Mrs. Campbell tore off a piece of duct tape and twirled about as she made her way back toward Rachael.
“Seriously?” Rachael asked, unamused.
“It’s for your own good, dear.”
Mary Campbell slapped the tape onto Rachael’s lips and then gently rubbed it down. Then she leaned in and gave the lip cover a kiss. With that Mary Campbell kissed Rachael on the lips. The kiss lasted a few seconds longer than it probably should have, which gave it an incestuous feeling. Snapping her fingers she mobilized her troupe of nannies who, falling in line, awaited their orders. “Inform my husband we will join everyone shortly.”
After the women marched out the door to attend to their duties, Mrs. Campbell walked over to an antique dresser. It was made of oak and had a fancy wood tooling which depicted flowery patterns. She opened the top right hand drawer and drew out a gold handled dagger, which had even more elaborate engravings. Wiping the blade off with a soft cloth, she slowly turned around to reveal that eerie monomaniacal grin, presently pressed onto her face.
“Mmm-mmm! Mmmphffft!” Rachael protested, slowly backing away. But Mary Campbell took slow steps forward, grinning the whole time, eyes wide with a homicidal-like excitement.
Mrs. Campbell swiped the blade, coming within millimeters of cutting Rachael’s abdomen. If Rachael hadn't jumped back, her intestines would be all over the floor right about now. Mrs. Campbell leapt across the room and grabbed Rachael’s left arm. Rachael tried to tear her arm free, but Mary Campbell had the strength of a boa constrictor, and just tightened her hold. Holding Rachael securely, Mrs. Campbell sliced Rachael’s wrist open and quickly brought it to her lips. With a vampiric delight, she lapped the gushing blood up. Mrs. Campbell continued suckle from Rachael’s wrist until her mouth was stained with the sticky red syrup. It looked like she had just gorged herself on a juicy piece of cherry pie. With a blood soaked smile she wiped her face, which smeared the blood across her cheeks, and let out and orgasmic sigh.
Mrs. Campbell raised the knife ceremoniously high above her head and looked skyward. Raising her voice, she practically sang out toward the heavens, “Heavenly father, let His eternal life flow into my veins as it does hers! Let this blood transform this sinful body and refashion me as the undying vessel of your righteousness. I pray to thee, make me in your everlasting image! Amen.”
Rachael clutched her wrist, which was already beginning to heal, and watched the private display of ritualistic insanity. With her mouth sealed shut, all Rachael could do was stare with wide-eyed panic at the crazed Mary Campbell, who pranced about the room like a mental patient.
Stopping on a dime, Mrs. Mary Campbell ceased her twirling about and suddenly turned to face Rachael. Pointing the dagger at her, Mrs. Campbell wagged the blade in the direction of the door. “Come now, it’s time.”
22
Judgment Day
CHEERS OF RELIGIOUS MANIA SWEPT over the congregation. People in nearly every aisle flailed their arms in the air as Reverend Perry Campbell led them to a state of spiritual ecstasy. Women wept, grown men wrenched themselves to and fro while pulling out their own hair, children laughed hysterically and chased each other around the pews, and stepping into the central aisle, a large black woman began to flop around on the floor, twitching and spasming like an epileptic.
Off to the side, two ushers leapt up and took the quivering woman away as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Apparently this sort of enthusiasm drenched hysteria occurred quite frequently here in the house of insanity.
After the commotion settled down a few degrees, the reverend raised his hands and, with the charismatic powers of a snake charmer, quickly had everyone’s undivided attention.
“My brethren. My faithful. Tonight we are about to partake in the most sacred ritual of our faith. Tonight we are going to be keepers of the consecrated tradition of the Sacrament of the Altar. The very same tradition the Apostles shared with Christ at the Last Supper. The Eucharist, ladies and gentlemen! Tonight we are going to honor our Lord and Savior by drinking his everlasting blood and eating his flesh as He himself commanded it!”
Mrs. Campbell shoved Rachael Ramirez out onto the alter. Raising the knife high into the air, Mrs. Campbell twirled about for all to see, and then handed the blade off to her husband. Perry Campbell made the same gesture and raised the knife up and paused dramatically for effect.
From out of nowhere, Hank grabbed Rachael from behind and got her in an arm lock. He bent her arms behind her back so she couldn’t move and held her roughly by the hair. Perry Campbell took his queue and stepped up to her. With zealot eyes burning hot, the reverend gazed upon her. There was an awkward pause, then, to her great horror, Perry Campbell slid the knife across her throat.
Blood spilled out of the gaping slit in Rachael’s jugular. Rachael turned toward the congregation of onlookers and, with one hand on her throat, her other hand reached out for someone, anyone, to come to her aid. But nobody moved a finger to help. In desperation she tried to speak out, but only gurgling noises spurted out of her mouth as it filled up with blood. The duct tape peeled away and an overflow of blood seeped out of her mouth and over her lips.
Rachael coughed and blood squirted from both her mouth and neck hole. The copper taste of her own blood caused her to fill with panic. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t swallow, she could only suffer through the bloody agony of this hellish nightmare.
Mary Campbell, with her frenzied eyes, quickly fetched a goblet and put it under the gushing crimson waterfall below Rachael’s chin. Collecting as much blood as possible, Mary Campbell held up the goblet high above her head and ceremoniously presented it to the crowd. Before her husband, Mrs. Campbell knelt down on her knees before her husband and extended the goblet to him as an offering.
Perry Campbell put his right hand on her head and raised his left hand high into the air. “Praise the Lord! We are reborn!”
Mary bowed her head as he took the cup in both hands and raised it heavenward. Bringing it to his lips he pronounced, with a jackal toothed grin, “Remember His words! This cup is t
he new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me. In the name of Je’zah’z'Christ, we pray, amen!” Campbell smiled and drank heartily from the cup. Tipping it back he consumed the whole amount of what was contained inside.
Rachael’s eyes fluttered then rolled back in her head, and her head fell limp. Hank caught her so she didn’t fall to the ground and, as if on cue, the audience grew deathly silent as they watched with bated breath.
Gasping for air, Rachael re-awoke to the frenetic sound of applause. It seemed the more she regenerated the faster and easier it became.
Reverend Campbell took the knife and reopened Rachael’s neck. He filled the cup up again, then he handed it to one of the ushers who took it to distribute among the congregation. Campbell and his wife repeated the ritual until practically the entire congregation has partaken of her blood.
Between each suffocating breath Rachael begged and pleaded for them to stop this insanity. But they merely ignored her. Tears streamed from Rachael’s eyes as she watched the parents force their small children to partake in the so-called “Holy Communion.” But there was nothing holy about drinking another human being’s blood. It was morbidly grotesque. Many of the parents lied outright and informed the small ones that it was just “juice.”
Rachael struggled to break free of Hank’s meaty arms, but she had lost too much blood. She couldn’t fight him off and suddenly fainted. Moments later Rachael rolled over on the floor. Groggy, she pushed herself to her hands and knees. She heard a loud pop. Then another. And another. Rachael could smell the scent of gun powder thick in the air.
Pop! Pop, pop!
Rachael’s head shot up and opened her eyes and looked around. It was total chaos. People ran in every which direction screaming, others held smoking guns, others sat in the pews bleeding out—caught in the crossfire. Zombies with bullet holes in their foreheads littered the aisles. The parishioners were all turning. Everyone who had consumed Rachael’s blood was transforming into the undead. All hell had broken loose in the chapel. It was Judgment Day.
