Acclaim for the Work of Brett Williams
"Lucifer's Children combines the teens in trouble of classic John Saul with the no-holds-barred visceral intensity of Edward Lee and Jack Ketchum. This is hardcore horror with a heart. You'll want to look away from this smashing, page-turner, but you simply won't be able to." —David Bell, author of Somebody I Used to Know
"If you like hardcore, and I mean Hardcore with a capital 'H,' horror with purpose, and are able to find the value in movies like Hostel and can appreciate the tenor of stories like American Psycho, then you will absolutely love this book." —Cheryl Anne Gardner, POD People, on Family Business
"This was a fun book! Okay, so I know it was horror and I don't know if I'm supposed to think it was fun, but it was. It has some twists and turns that are expected, but the author takes these expectations and bends them into something else. Williams really owns them. He does such a wonderful job of allowing the characters to speak for themselves and by the end of the book, the suspension of disbelief is still gnawing at your brain. I would definitely rec it." —Saranna DeWylde, author of How to Lose a Demon in 10 Days, on Family Business
"If you liked Stephen King's Christine then you'll love the way this sexy Devil's ride burns up the road. Brett Williams is hell on wheels." —Randy Chandler, author of Hellz Bellz and Bad Juju, on High Octane Damnation
"Offensive, preposterous, blood-soaked and sex-fueled, High Octane Damnation is over-the-top, full-throttle, no-apologies grindhouse crammed with more action than this sentence has adjectives." —Alan Ryker, author of The Hoard, on High Octane Damnation
"What happens when you mash-up a Manson-style hippie commune, Lovecraftian otherworldly creatures of chaos, magic mushrooms, strippers and lots and lots of sex and blood? You get the crazy Helter Skelter ride of Third Eye High!" —John Everson, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The 13th and NightWhere
"From start to conclusion, Legend of Kill Creek Woods by Brett Williams is a pulse pounding, intense reading experience. Well written and at times insightful, this is some hellish fun fiction to stand up and howl for!" —Benjamin Kane Ethridge, Bram Stoker Award winning author of Black & Orange and Nomads
"You will love Brett Williams new book Club Nadir. It's hot and will keep you wanting more." —Jodi Olson, author of Cooper Stud Ranch
About the Author
Brett Williams is the author of Family Business, Lucifer's Children, and High Octane Damnation. This multi-genre author writes horror, crime, erotica, and anything else he damn well pleases. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association. His short stories have appeared in Long Distance Drunks: A Tribute to Charles Bukowski, Delirium Books' Horrorwired Vol. 1, and Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction, to name a few. He currently lives somewhere in the American Great Plains, where he frequents dog parks with his Jack Russell terrier, Eddie Blue.
Other Works by Brett Williams
Novels
Family Business
Lucifer's Whore (coming soon)
Novellas
Legend of Kill Creek Woods
High Octane Damnation
Club Nadir
Third Eye High
A Comet Press Book
First Comet Press Edition, June 2015
Lucifer's Children copyright © 2015 by Brett Williams
All Rights Reserved.
Book design and cover by Inkubus
www.inkubusdesign.com
Print edition ISBN: 978-1-936964-31-4
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Visit Comet Press on the web at:
www.cometpress.us
facebook.com/cometpress
twitter.com/cometpress
WARNING
Themes contained within this text may be offensive to some readers.
No apologies
PART I
Amanda
CEREMONY OF FLESH
Candles lining three walls and set on wrought-iron stands cast dancing light across blackened walls. This light, the only source of light within the cool, damp room, fought a losing battle to keep shadows at bay. An underlying odor of urine, feces, and the coppery tang of spent blood tickled the senses. Death. The beautiful stench of it provided the basis of the room’s scent. Cum, sex, and even a scent of menses perfumed the sweat-laden air.
This room experienced much use. And the Ceremonial Father, the enrobed figure standing behind the podium, oversaw much of it.
He turned pages in a tome that dated as old as written word itself. Words he could read, write, and speak precisely. Words few others could understand, let alone use to provoke power. Speaking these words rarely failed to divert blood to his manhood, as did the sight of each ceremony (or the thought of an impending event).
Adept fingers turned to the page of the upcoming ceremony. The Ceremonial Father, hardly needing to follow the words of the memorized ceremony, glanced across the room to an arched entryway. No candles lined its wall; however, a guard with a blade on his belt stood, arms crossed, a sour look on his face. When the Ceremonial Father began to intone the words of the ceremony, six robed figures entered, single-file. Two of those stood shorter in stature and possessed womanly shapes. One carried an infant who, head buried in folds of her black robe, suckled a breast.
The six, while unable to understand the meaning of the words the Ceremonial Father spoke, undoubtedly understood their intent. Each had participated in ceremonies many times before, including this specific ceremony. As words rose and fell in volume, trilled in astute diabolic enunciation, and echoed on the cold, hard surfaces of this windowless room, the six figures took their places in a row before the podium. An altar stood between the Ceremonial Father and them.
His eyes fell to the tome as he finished intoning the introductory section of the ceremony. Then, switching to English, boomed, “Lay back your hoods. Show yourself to the Dark Prince, our most unholy savior. Show yourselves to Lucifer.”
“Yes, Father,” the procession said in unison as they revealed their faces. Two men separated the women while two others flanked them. The Ceremonial Father smiled at tonight’s participants. Two of his favorites stood in attendance, including the woman holding the infant, a brunette of nearly thirty years. The man, a bald, musclebound titan standing nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, possessed incredible stamina and a debauched mean streak.
“Lucifer demands penance. We shall gladly heed His request!”
“Yes, Father.”
“Bring forth the offering,” he commanded.
The brunette stepped forward. When she removed her nipple from its mouth it began to cry. “The offering, as instructed,” the woman said without emotion.
The infant, born just days earlier, appeared fat and healthy. “What a fine specimen. For Lucifer! In the Ceremony of Flesh!”
The followers cheered.
“Present the offering, in the basin, as it entered this world.”
The woman removed the black, rune-embroidered blanket swaddling it to lay it wailing in a shallow metal basin set atop the altar. Its male genitalia, responding to the chill, began to spout a fountain of urine across its naked body. The stream, missing candles dripping wax on the altar, sprayed a ceremonial dagger, in addition to a small gavel, both laid out beside the basin. The infant’s pale flesh turned blue in
the flickering light. Its cheeks turned a rosy red as complaining vocalization increased in decibel. Nobody responded to the infant’s cries. In fact, as the infant’s chin began to quiver, the woman, his would-be guardian, stepped back into line. Within a moment the infant’s breath hitched and then it fell into a shocked silence.
“The Ceremony of Flesh,” the Ceremonial Father continued, “dictates pain and suffering. So pleases Lucifer.”
“Praise Lucifer!”
The Ceremonial Father, after intoning a string of text from the tome before him, said, “Commence with the ceremony.”
The procession approached the altar, single-file. The first man, the titan, took the gavel, and, saying “Praise Lucifer!” struck the infant on the head, thus reigniting the infant’s cries.
“Praise Lucifer!” said the other woman, a young, heavy-breasted blonde, with her blow.
“Praise Lucifer!” each said in turn as they struck the infant, whose cries went from those of shock to pain to anger.
Each follower went to the altar, where they used the gavel to strike the infant’s body. Each hit brought about cries of pain, shrieks of anger. Tears of suffering filled the infant’s eyes. Untrained muscles flexed, hoping—trying—to crawl free from this madness. It lay writhing in pain as one strike cracked its skull. Another broke its collarbone. Fractured a leg; busted an arm; broke and bloodied its nose. Each attendee returned to the altar twice more. A final blow caved the offering’s skull, leaving it mewling in agony, blood trailing from nostrils, mouth, ears, and anus.
“Praise you all,” the Ceremonial Father stated. “Praise Lucifer.”
“Praise Lucifer!”
The Father, smiling, rounded the podium to the altar. He took the ceremonial dagger in hand, and intoned, “May others’ flesh be controlled by Lucifer’s selfish servants.” He raised the dagger with both hands, high above the infant. “May Lucifer control our own flesh for His own selfish needs!” The Ceremonial Father buried the blade into the offering’s throat, effectively silencing it in a gurgle of crimson.
The followers rejoiced at the sacrifice. “May it please Lucifer!” they chanted.
Then the Father vivisected the infant from throat to groin and pulled open the carcass like a macabre purse. Reaching into the cavity he took hold of the still-warm heart and tore it free. He held it high for everyone to see. The followers sighed in awe as he placed the small organ on his tongue and sucked it into his mouth. He burst it with a bite, savoring the salty flavor, before swallowing it whole.
“May all partake of the flesh and share in the power Lucifer has provided.” He cut free strips of flesh for each follower. In turn, they knelt down before him to accept the taste of flesh. Each thanked Lucifer before returning to their place in line.
Once the final flesh offering had been accepted, he said, “This Ceremony of Flesh shall please Lucifer. The ceremony shall be completed with the enjoying and plundering of flesh. Hail Lucifer!”
“Hail Lucifer!”
“Disrobe,” he commanded them.
All six of the followers slipped free of their robes to stand naked before the Ceremonial Father. The men, in varying states of arousal, eyed their female counterparts. The younger of the women dropped to the hard, blood-stained floor and took the musclebound man’s cock in hand and started to stroke it. The man to her left, a middle-aged man with nicely-trimmed dark hair, offered his penis to her lips, which she hungrily accepted.
The dead infant’s would-be guardian, kneeling, wrapped her blood-coated lips around the fat man’s dick. He took hold of her head and started to thrust past her lips. As her saliva dribbled down to his scrotum, a man behind her slapped her with his slowly blood-engorging member.
The Ceremonial Father watched with pleasure as the debauchery and debasement began. He enjoyed watching the milk-laden breasts of one of his favorites as they swayed with her endeavor. And the titan, with his massive member, brought music to his ears the way he made the woman cry out in ecstasy when he first penetrated her. All would perform to please themselves as much as they would perform to please Lucifer and each other. They pleasured each other’s flesh, praising Lucifer with each new act. Pleasure beget pain, pain beget pleasure, and it all would please Lucifer, just as it pleased the Ceremonial Father, who never tired of overseeing the Ceremony of Flesh. He watched with penis in hand.
CHAPTER TWO
The house, a two-story colonial, towered over her. It was set on the edge of a well-manicured park-like campus, with massive oak trees, beautiful flower gardens, people, mostly young children and teenage girls, walking or playing games outside, enjoying a lovely summer morning. This eastern section of campus consisted primarily of residential homes, all large, all intimidating to Amanda, none so much as this home, though, with its ivy-covered columns and its implications.
“What do you think, Amanda?” her social worker, Mrs. Durant, asked. “It’s such a nice home. The Hennings are a wonderful family. Wouldn’t you like to live here?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Amanda lied. She had recently turned seventeen, and the last thing she wanted to do was start all over with a new family. A temporary family.
“Go on, ring the bell.”
Amanda stepped up to the front door and pressed the button. From inside she could hear musical chimes playing. Butterflies fluttered in her belly to the sound, and she forced a smile as the front door swung open. A young girl stood before them, beaming.
“Hi,” the girl said, waving her hand. “I’m Amy. You must be my new sister.”
“Are your parents home?” the social worker asked.
A couple stepped into view, smiles on their faces.
“Welcome. Please, come in,” the man said. He was a handsome man, in his thirties, wearing slacks and a polo shirt. He had an arm around a woman dressed conservatively in a flower-print dress.
Amanda and Mrs. Durant followed her new family into the living room. Amanda removed a backpack containing two changes of clothes and sat down on an offered sofa and placed the backpack by her feet. Mr. Henning made introductions and Mrs. Henning served everyone something cold to drink while they discussed what to Amanda amounted to a transaction. The conversation made her feel uncomfortable and so she sipped her mineral water and tuned them out. Amy, who sat beside her, preoccupied her by making faces and occasionally whispering jokes. The adults’ conversation, a mere formality, really, didn’t last long. Apparently all the details had already been taken care of. Soon, Mrs. Durant stood up from her chair, went to Amanda, and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Amanda is a wonderful young lady,” she told the Hennings. “She won’t give you a moment of trouble.” To Amanda she said, “Take care, dear.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Durant. I will.”
After her new foster parents saw the social worker out the front door, Mr. Henning said, “How about a tour of your new home?”
“Yes, sir. I’d like that.”
In addition to the foyer and large living area she had already seen, she was shown to a dining room and a huge kitchen with a breakfast nook. A small restroom lay hidden off the foyer, across from a door leading down to the basement. At a closed door off the living area Mr. Henning instructed Amanda, “Behind this door is my office. You are never to enter, unless specifically instructed. Do you understand, Amanda?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well.” Mr. Henning patted her on the back. “Let’s go upstairs. We’ve prepared a bedroom especially for you.”
“I have my own room,” Amy said proudly. “Your room is just down the hall from mine. We can be best friends.”
“Better yet,” Mr. Henning said, “you two are sisters.”
“Super!”
The little girl’s enthusiasm helped put Amanda at ease. Although not quite sure about this new arrangement, Amanda felt determined to make the best of it all. She expected her senior year of high school to occupy a lot of her time. When not at school she would undoubtedly have plenty of chores to do, as
well as school work to keep her busy. She planned to discuss the possibility of a part-time job with her new parents later, after everyone had grown accustomed to one another. After all, she would turn eighteen in a year, making herself an adult in the eyes of society. High school would be over and she could exit the foster care program. She would need money, though, and she planned to be prepared. She didn’t see that she had any other choice.
Upstairs, Mr. Henning gestured in various directions. “Our bedroom is that way. There is also a guest room at the end of the hall. Here is the bathroom you will be sharing with Amy; we have our own.”
“My bedroom is that way,” Amy interjected, pointing the opposite direction. “Want to see it?”
“In a moment, child,” Mrs. Henning said.
“Yes,” Mr. Henning stated. “Amy occupies the bedroom at the far end of the hall, next to a study. You’ll find the study makes a great place to do homework or read a book. Do you like to read, Amanda?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I like to color in there,” Amy said. The statement struck Amanda as a little odd. Her new sister, with her childish hand waving and mentioning coloring books didn’t exactly correspond with the witty jokes she had whispered downstairs, and Amanda, despite Amy’s stylish and more grown-up exercise outfit of Pink brand jogging pants, top, and matching hoodie, could not quite pinpoint the girl’s age. She appeared nine or ten, dressed fourteen or fifteen, and acted intermittently all ages between.
“Right here,” almost directly across from the bathroom, “is your bedroom. I hope you like it,” Mr. Henning said.
Amanda peered into the room. The blinds had been left open, presumably by Mrs. Henning, in anticipation of their new family member’s arrival. The bedroom was decorated in a yellow theme, with frilly laced pillows, a near dozen of them arranged on a full-size bed. Framed posters of chicks, teddy bears, and plump, frolicking puppies adorned the walls. A small desk and chair stood in a corner, a chest of drawers sat against the wall, under the chicks. A small bookshelf hung on a wall. A couple of book titles caught Amanda’s eye: Charlotte’s Web and several books in The Wizard of Oz series. The room seemed wholly too juvenile to her, but Amanda didn’t allow it to get her down. She needed a place to live, and the Henning family didn’t seem so bad. She could do her chores, keep to herself, and perhaps she might even get along with Amy. In no time she would be out on her own.
Lucifer's Children Page 1
