“Thirty-one,” he said aloud. “Must be months. Thirty-one to be exact, that’s two years and seven months. I saw no calendars in this place, so this was the only way they had to keep track of how long they were prisoners here.”
“Well, we already knew that. Why didn’t you want me to see this?”
“It wasn’t this I didn’t want you to see.”
Al hesitated. Finally he said, “Show me.”
Without speaking, Steve turned his attention to the far corner. Al walked over, getting his eyes close to the wall. When his vision adjusted, Al gasped and backpedaled quickly.
Here were three other names—Macey, Teddy, and Ralph. And more hatch marks; too many to count. They covered the entire wall on this side of the attic, from floor to ceiling.
“This must be more than twenty years,” Al said softly, reverently.
“I’d say that’s a conservative estimate. To fill up the entire wall, I’d say that was much more than twenty years.”
“Should we count them?”
“Do we dare?” Steve asked hollowly. “Do we really want to know? I mean, really?”
Al lowered himself slowly to his knees and began to cry again. Silent tears that rolled fat and copiously down his cheeks. Steve joined his lover on the floor, cradling and rocking him.
“Fred, Linda and Gracie got out in two and a half years,” Steve said, a tremor in his voice that might have been hope or desperation. “We could get lucky. Someone could happen along tomorrow.”
Al’s eyes never left the hatch marks. “Yeah, tomorrow.”
They stayed in that position, kneeling on the floor in each other’s arms, for some time. Full dark had fallen outside before Steve noticed that Al had fallen asleep. Steve gently lifted his lover in his arms and carried him to the master bedroom on the second floor. He laid Al on the four-poster bed beneath the billowy canopy, kissing him softly on his sweaty brow.
Steve left the room, closing the door behind him. He stopped in the second-floor bathroom and washed his bloody knuckles, bandaging them with some gauze he found in the medicine cabinet. He made his way down the curving staircase to the foyer and stared at a world of which he was no longer a part.
The universe certainly had a sense of irony. He and Al had always wanted to live in a house like this.
He finally understood the old cliché, be careful what you wish for.
Steve glanced down at the front stoop, the welcome mat with the silly cat designs mocking him with its cheeriness. With a sigh that embodied all the weariness one could bear, Steve closed the door.
TRANSFORMATIONS
Jason first discovered a reference to Transformations on a message board dedicated to people like himself; those inflicted with the curse of homosexuality and seeking a way out.
A recovering lesbian from Utah fleetingly mentioned a book as being instrumental in her conversion. She’d gone into no further detail, but Jason was left with the impression of it being some kind of self-help book.
A Google search yielded only minimal results, but he’d learned enough to discover Transformations was no self-help book. Instead, it was a book of spells. Spells that could, reputedly, change a person into something they were not. Change a person’s appearance, attitudes, even gender. And yes, sexual orientation.
Normally, Jason would have laughed off such claims as ludicrous, but he’d already tried therapy, religion, even hypnotism. Nothing worked. He was desperate.
Tracking down a copy to purchase proved a difficult enough task. The book was rare, dating back to the early 1900s. It wasn’t the sort of thing one could pop into Borders and pick up. Jason found a few on eBay going for as much as one thousand dollars, much too steep for a social worker’s salary. Finally, he had contacted the recovering lesbian from the message board, the one from whom he had first heard of the book. She still had her copy and offered to part with it for the bargain price of four hundred dollars. This put quite a strain on Jason’s wallet, but his desperation had grown into an obsession.
The spell to change one’s sexual orientation proved to be surprisingly simple. Jason had expected something complicated, requiring ingredients such as ‘eye of newt’ while sitting in the center of a pentagram. Instead, all he needed to do was recite a short incantation to invoke an elemental demon with sway over the powers of identity and sexual desires, at the stroke of midnight during a full moon. Being an educated man, of course Jason did not believe in demons. However, he hoped performing the spell would act as some sort of psychosomatic panacea, and he would awaken in the morning craving female companionship, like a lifelong vegetarian who suddenly discovers he loves the taste of meat.
So as the witching hour approached at the next full moon, Jason turned out the lights in his apartment, took a seat on his bedroom floor, and lit a variety of black candles surrounding him. Not because the spell required it, but because he felt the circle of candlelight lent the proceedings a certain needed ambiance.
Then, at the moment when it was neither today nor tomorrow, Jason recited the invocation.
“I call on you, Lord of Desire. I call on you to come to me, to make me that which I am not, but that which I so long to be. Reveal yourself to me, my Lord. Wield your power like a mace. Reach your hands deep inside me, to my most secret inner place. Mold my soul as if it’s clay and you a potter at the wheel. Transform my desires, my very essence, change the way I think and feel. I call on you, Lord of Desire. I beseech you to bestow your help on this poor soul whose body is a traitor. Please make me into someone else.”
As his voice faded into silence, Jason tensed. His hands curled into tight fists in his lap, and waited for . . . he wasn’t exactly sure what he was waiting for. Perhaps a flash of fire and smoke? An elaborate light show? A phantom draft that would blow out the candles and plunge him into unrelenting darkness? There was nothing, though. The candles’ flames did not even flicker. Even though he had not actually expected anything otherworldly to occur, he had to admit his disappointment.
The sound of someone rather pointedly clearing his throat caused Jason to jump, knocking over one of the candles and singeing the carpet before he was able to douse the flame. His eyes darted about the room, seeking out the source of the sound. His gaze finally trained on a man standing in the doorway of the open closet, leaning casually against the jamb with his arms folded across his chest. His expression, mild interest bordering on all-out boredom, seemed out of place in Jason’s bedroom.
Jason opened his mouth to speak but found his voice locked away inside.
A smile curled one corner of the stranger’s lips and he said in a deep baritone voice, “In the immortal words of Lurch . . . you rang?”
Jason tried to speak again but couldn’t get past the blockage in his throat. He swallowed hard and made another attempt, squeaking out the words, “Who are you?” in a breathless rush.
“I’m the one you called for, of course.” The stranger stepped farther into the room, moving with a lithe grace. He was tall with a muscular physique, black wavy hair and a neat mustache and goatee. Jason felt himself stiffening in his pants, which made him cry.
“Dry your tears, mortal,” the stranger said, squatting down in front of Jason. “I’m here to end your suffering.”
A few sniffles and a swipe of his arm across his eyes later, and Jason had himself back under control. “So you’re the Lord of Desire?”
“I am, but you may call me Andros.”
“I didn’t really believe you existed.”
“Luckily, belief isn’t needed in order to summon me, only desperation. And you seem to have that in spades.”
“Can you help me?” Jason asked, reaching out to touch the man but pulled back before making contact. “Can you take away these wicked desires and make me normal?”
Andros’ smile was easy and inviting. Funny, he didn’t look or act like a demon at all. “I can. For a price.”
Jason frowned; Transformations hadn’t mentioned anything about a price. “
I don’t have much money, I’m afraid. I paid what little savings I had for the book I used to summon you.”
“Demons have no need for mortal currency,” Andros said with a booming laugh. “We trade in souls.”
“You want a soul?”
“Don’t sell me short, my friend. I am much greedier than that. I don’t want a soul. I want thirteen.”
Jason’s mouth fell open. “Thirteen souls? How am I supposed to provide you with thirteen souls?”
“That I do not know,” Andros said with a shrug of his shoulders. “But that is the payment I require to grant your request. Specifically, the souls of thirteen homosexual men, sacrificed to me.”
“I have to . . . kill them?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Just bring them here and get them into the closet. I will do the rest.”
“The closet?”
That half-smile touched Andros’s lips once more, a look of wry amusement. “Rather appropriate irony, wouldn’t you say? Just get them inside the closet and close the door. I will take them.”
“Will I have to . . . will there be any clean-up involved?”
“There will be nothing left. I will devour their flesh as well as their souls. No fuss, no muss.”
Jason stared into Andros’s handsome face for a moment then glanced at the closet. The space was cramped with no light inside. He didn’t like the idea of committing murder, let alone multiple murders, but as Andros said, Jason wouldn’t have to kill anyone. Not directly, at least. He knew he was arguing semantics with himself, but it was the price Andros demanded. “I suppose if it’s the only way.”
“It is. But you must act quickly, mortal. You have only until the next full moon to fulfill the terms of this pact. If you fail, you will never receive what you desire.”
Jason waffled for only a moment, before he made up his mind. “I’ll do it,” he said and held out his hand. Andros’s grip when he shook was firm and warm.
“It is a deal then,” Andros said, backing up until he was inside the closet, surrounded by sweatshirts and jeans. “The souls of thirteen homosexual men, and then I will grant your request.”
With that, the closet door slammed shut of its own accord, and the candles blew out.
***
Jason delivered the first soul the very next night. He found the man—he refused to think of him as a victim—at the town’s only gay club, a place called Liaisons. Jason had always secretly wanted to visit the establishment, but this was the first time he had ever actually stepped foot inside. It looked like any other bar. No naked men, no leather, no sex in shadowy corners. There were a few drag queens walking around and couples of the same sex swayed in one another’s arms on the dance floor, but those were the only signs of the bar being a haven for homosexuals.
He took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer, and scanned the crowd. He wasn’t sure what to do next. Having fought his homosexuality his entire life, he was clueless as to the ins and outs of gay courtship, so to speak. Should he pick someone and offer to buy him a drink, engage in a little chitchat? Or should he just cut right to the chase and invite someone back to his apartment?
While Jason debated the best way to snag a man, he himself got snagged.
He was older, mid-forties at least, with a receding hairline and a paunch that poked out the front of his shirt. His eyes were bleary with drink and his smile somewhat predatory. Although there were several empty stools nearby, he took the one right next to Jason, leaning close until their thighs rubbed together.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” the man said, his words only slightly slurred.
Jason forced a smile. “This is my first time.”
“Oh! A virgin, how delightful.”
A blush spread up from Jason’s collar and swallowed his entire face. He stared down at his drink and began peeling the label away from the bottle. “So, you come here a lot?”
“Every weekend,” the man said, leaning even closer so that his alcohol-laced breath washed over Jason’s face. “Some weeknights, too. I guess you could say I’m always on the prowl.”
Sweat trickled down the sides of Jason’s face and his hands shook, causing the beer bottle to tap a staccato against the bar.
“It’s okay, son.” The man placed a hand high on Jason’s thigh and squeezed firmly. “No need to be nervous. I ain’t gonna bite ya. Might nibble you a bit, but only if you ask me to.”
The man quested higher, closer to the crotch, and Jason felt his body respond. He fought to hold back the tears that threatened, managing another forced smile. The smile turned into a gasp of surprise and pleasure when the man’s fingers brushed the bulge between his legs, briefly stroking the hardness there before moving back down the thigh.
“So little virgin, what brings you out to Liaisons tonight?”
Jason took a fortifying drink of beer and said, “Looking for somebody.”
“That so? Anybody in particular?”
Jason met the man’s eyes with a boldness he didn’t really feel. “You.”
The man’s smile widened, becoming grotesque, almost as if his face were splitting in two. “Looks like it’s my lucky night. You wanna dance?”
“I’d rather just go back to my place and fuck,” Jason said, afraid he was being too forward.
His fear was unfounded. The man laughed and said, “Gotta love a man who cuts right through all the bullshit. By the way, I’m—”
“No names,” Jason said abruptly. It would be so much more difficult if he knew the man’s name. “I don’t want to exchange names.”
“Cool with me. I understand the need to be discreet; nobody knows about me either.”
Jason nodded and fumbled some bills out of his wallet to pay for his drink, but the man waved his hand and said, “I got it.”
After the man paid for their drinks, they went out to the gravel parking lot. Jason’s car was near the back of the lot, but the man stopped at a pickup two rows from the club. “I’ll follow you back to your place.”
“Why don’t I drive you over?” Jason asked. Since the man would never leave Jason’s apartment, he didn’t want the truck parked in front of the building. “You look like you may have had a bit more to drink than I have.”
“Friends don’t let friends drink and drive,” the man said and laughed loudly. “You sure you won’t mind driving me back to my truck after?”
“Not at all.” Jason led the man toward his car and opened the passenger’s side door for him. As he crossed to the driver’s side, hand on the door handle, he knew this was his last chance to turn back.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door, got inside the car, and crossed the point of no return.
***
Jason lived on Chestnut Street, in a rambling three-story house that had been converted into several apartments. Jason lived on the top story, accessible around back by a flight of thirty-five steps. By the time they reached the top, Jason’s companion was winded and a bit damp around the forehead.
“That’s quite a workout,” he said.
Jason fumbled his key into the lock. “Hope it didn’t wear you out.”
“Oh, I think I’m getting a second wind,” the man said, stepping up close and pressing his groin against Jason’s backside. Jason could feel the erection poking at him. For just a moment he leaned back into it, before he quickly opened the door and led the man into the small kitchen.
The kitchen opened into the small living room, which opened into the small bedroom, which opened into the even smaller bathroom. Four rooms, running straight back from the rear of the house to the front. It wasn’t much, but neither was the rent. Sure, it was quite a climb up those stairs, and it had been a bitch hauling his thrift store furniture up here when he’d first moved in, but other than that the place was perfect for Jason.
Wasting no time on pleasantries, Jason led the man straight to the bedroom. He’d left a lamp burning there, and it beckoned to them. The closet door stood open, waiting.
Jas
on turned and suddenly the man was on him, tongue questing into Jason’s mouth, hand sliding up under his shirt to pinch his nipple. It was all Jason could do to push the man off him long enough to gasp, “Wait, slow down.”
“Slow down? I believe you’re the one who invited me back here to fuck.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s just that . . . well, there’s something I want to show you.”
“There’s only one thing I’m interested in seeing,” the man said, tugging at Jason’s belt.
“No, wait, really. In the closet, I want you to see.”
The man paused in his efforts to de-pants Jason, glancing back toward the closet. “What you got in there? Toys?”
“Yeah, toys. Lots and lots of ‘em.”
“You think what I got won’t be enough?” the man asked, rubbing his own crotch. Jason could see the outline of the man’s erection through his pants, and it was indeed formidable.
“Nothing like that,” Jason stammered, forcing his eyes away from the man’s groin. “I just think you’ll like the stuff I got in there.”
“So the little virgin’s got a kinky side, huh? I like that. What kind of toys you got to show Daddy?”
“Take a look for yourself.”
With a smile that was part quizzical, part indulgent, the man turned and walked over to the closet. Squinting into the darkness, he said, “Can’t see shit in here.”
“There’s a light inside. Step in and pull the chain.”
The man walked slowly into the closet, reaching out blindly for the nonexistent chain. When he was over the threshold, Jason rushed forward to close the door. The man apparently heard Jason’s movement and turned, his smile replaced with a frown. He opened his mouth to say something as Jason slammed the door shut, leaning his body against it in case the man tried to get out.
Jason waited, expecting some kind of commotion, maybe a scream, but he heard nothing. At the very least, he expected the man to bang on the door, call to be let out, but there was only silence. Minutes ticked by on the wind-up clock next to Jason’s bed. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty minutes went by without so much as a sound.
Flowers in a Dumpster Page 4
