The Nightmare Girl

by Jonathan Janz

  “More than fifty years had passed,” the man said, his voice almost gentle. “Had your daughter not undertaken the rite, our sect might have died out.”

  “That’s a lie,” Sharon said. “Someone would have done it.”

  “Who?” the man asked.

  “It doesn’t matter, does it?” Sharon answered, her voice rising hysterically. “Because this bastard—” pointing the carving knife at Joe’s face “—decided to make the decision for us. He decided my baby would be the one to die.”

  The man nodded. “And he will suffer for it.”

  “Not enough,” she said. “It won’t be enough.”

  Sharon spun toward Joe, jabbed the knife into his shoulder. Joe jerked away, but not before the tip punctured his flesh.

  “Don’t like that, do you?” Sharon said, eyes gleaming. She jabbed the knife again, this time nicking him just under the jaw.

  “That’s enough,” someone said.

  But Sharon loomed closer, the bloody knife hovering nearer and nearer Joe’s throat.

  “SHARON!” a voice thundered from behind them.

  Her eyes narrowed to slits, her mouth twisted momentarily into a snarl. Then the look went away and she bowed her head like some obsequious cur. Somehow, this expression was more ghastly than her previous one had been, because at least the hatred in her face had been authentic. This…this expression was practiced and calculating. The look of a cunning monster biding its time until the best opportunity for the kill presented itself.

  Sharon receded, and in her place Grayman appeared. To Sharon, he said, “We will not do it here. We must maximize its power.”

  “He doesn’t deserve to live another second,” she answered in a low, quavering voice.

  “That isn’t for you to decide,” Grayman said. “The Mother has spoken, and we must obey her wishes.”

  Joe again caught that look of naked loathing on Sharon’s face, but this time it was even more fleeting. Apparently remembering her place, she bowed her head and said no more.

  “We have much to do,” Grayman said, circling Joe to stand between him and Sharon. “The chief’s car must be taken far away. His body must be hidden.”

  Joe couldn’t resist a glance down at Copeland’s motionless body.

  Grayman was looking at Joe, but Joe knew it was the entire congregation the man was addressing. “Tonight will be the greatest St. John’s Eve since Antonia’s passing. Our restoration will be complete.”

  Enthusiastic voices echoed their assent. Joe realized the whole chapel was now clogged with lunatics. The temperature in here, muggy to begin with, was now sweltering.

  Grayman continued, “Kevin will ensure the site is ready. Won’t you, Kevin?”

  Joe heard his former employee, though he couldn’t see him with the cult members so tightly massed, answer, “Yes.” Joe couldn’t tell if Gentry was just being respectful or if he was sick to his stomach; either way, the enthusiasm in his voice was several ticks below that of the other ghouls.

  If Grayman noticed or was bothered by this, he didn’t let on. He smiled down at Joe. “Have you figured it out yet, Mr. Crawford?”

  Joe grasped his bleeding hand. “I’ve figured out that you all are sick sons of bitches who are a blight on humanity.”

  “But don’t you see?” Grayman said in a wondering voice. “Don’t you see how close you came to reaping the delights of our way of life?”

  “You mean chopping off heads? Cutting people’s hearts out?”

  “Our people have been awaiting the sacrifice,” Grayman said. He favored Joe with a mordant smile. “After three centuries, one becomes rather fond of living.”

  Joe glanced from face to face. The twin sisters. The distinguished older man. Scarface. Baldy. “You’re saying all these assholes have been alive that long?”

  Grayman laughed softly. “Not everyone, no. Sharon is new to our family. But she is a member of one of the oldest bloodlines in—”

  “I know all about Antonia Baxter,” Joe interrupted. “The crazy bitch who burned up her own children.”

  Grayman’s face went tight with fury. “Don’t you dare speak of her that way. She was a goddess. An ethereal being who purchased the lives of her followers with her love.”

  “Ethereal being, huh? Then why’d she murder her kids?”

  Grayman looked amazed. “What an absurd idea, Mr. Crawford. She didn’t murder them. They sacrificed themselves willingly.”

  Joe only stared at him.

  “That’s right, Mr. Crawford. Those kids were special. They climbed into the fireplace on their own. They doused themselves with gasoline. And the oldest child struck the match.”

  “Why the holes in the fireplace wall then?” Joe demanded. “Why were they cuffed?”

  Grayman spread his hands as though the answer were self-evident. “Because they knew they’d be tempted to extinguish the flames.”

  “That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Grayman shook his head. “It’s simple, really. There are two requirements for renewal. The willing sacrifice and the culling of the heathens.”

  “Culling,” Joe said, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. “You mean slaughtering.”

  Grayman’s face remained serene. “Ask your questions, Mr. Crawford.”

  “Who are the heathens? Fifty years ago it was the city council members and their families. Who’s it gonna be this time? The Morrisons? Harold and Sadie Hawkins? Me and Copeland?

  Grayman merely watched him.

  Joe’s breath caught in his throat.

  Grayman nodded. “You’re right to be frightened, Mr. Crawford. Because tonight, you, young Steven…perhaps even your wife and daughter will be sacrificed to ensure we live on.”

  Joe fought back the surge of panic. “You can’t touch Lily.”

  “She’s been prepared, Joe.”

  “What the hell are you—”

  “We had to use ashes from someone related to Lily. We probably should have burned you then, but that wouldn’t have been as enjoyable.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “It was easy, Mr. Crawford. We visited the cemetery. Where your son’s ashes were stored?”

  Joe remembered the columbarium then, the small building in which loved ones stored their urns. He realized why the urn Sharon Waltz had carried that day looked so familiar. And then it all came crashing back on him. Michelle’s miscarriage. Their baby boy only six weeks away from birth. And then the blood and the horror, and eventually the cremation. His son—Ben, they were going to name him—would have been five years old had he lived. But he hadn’t. And these ghouls…these monsters had…

  “You son of a bitch,” Joe said.

  “But it was necessary, Mr. Crawford. Someday your daughter will take her own life. If, of course, she lives that long.”

  Joe was screaming then, tearing at Grayman, but there were a multitude of hands on him. Battering him, bashing his head on the floor. Joe resisted for as long as he could, swearing to Grayman he’d kill them all. But soon his resistance waned.

  The last thing Joe saw before losing consciousness was Copeland’s face staring sightlessly at him, the chief’s mouth open like a dark red cave.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Joe awoke slowly, and as he did he realized several facts in rapid succession. One, he was moving, albeit gradually. It must be vertigo, he thought, dizziness brought on by the beating he’d sustained from the mob of cult members. Secondly, he became aware of several terrible pains. His left hand. His right. The cruciform gashes on his torso. The puncture wound in his shoulder. But his head ached worst of all. He wondered how many knocks he’d endured before he’d finally gone under. Had they disfigured him in their assault? Did it matter?

  The third revelation that Joe experienced was even more disconcerting. H
e’d been stripped of clothing.

  Joe opened his eyes and blinked at the faint amber glow. He didn’t know where he was, but the ornate trim girdling the ceiling looked familiar. There were chains hanging down around him, all of them fastened to something directly above his navel. He had no idea where they’d taken him, but it sure as hell wasn’t the black chapel. Joe’s hearing was muzzy, but he distinguished several voices, people engaged in casual conversation.

  No, he thought, that wasn’t quite right. People were talking, but their voices were louder than normal. As if they were excited about something or nervous or both.

  Groggily, Joe raised his head and saw people seated around a large room. Joe saw, beyond a middle-aged couple in black robes, an immense stone fireplace. Joe realized where he was.

  The Baxter house.

  Unbelievable, Joe thought. They’d driven him all the way from that accursed chapel in the woods and deposited him in the house next door to his, the place he’d been renovating for the past two months.

  Joe made to sit up, but as he did he realized his hands were bound. No, not bound, he saw with a sidelong look—manacled. Each wrist, he saw, was restrained by a metal clasp. And the clasps, he realized as his chest began to tighten, were grafted to a metal platform, one that distended from the ceiling by the chains.

  What had Bridget Martin said? This is a specialty item.

  You gotta be kidding me, Joe thought.

  He was caged in the sex swing.

  He closed his eyes and forced himself to remain still. If anyone had noticed he was awake yet, they weren’t letting on. Which was fine by Joe. Despite the fact that he was naked, he didn’t expect they wanted to use the swing for anything erotic. Not if the way they’d treated him earlier was any indication.

  Okay, he thought, doing his best to control his breathing. Okay. They have you tied down on some specialized swing, and they’ve told you they plan to sacrifice you. They must be batshit crazy, but deep down you’re starting to believe Grayman’s story. Or, at the very least, you’re certain they believe it, which comes to the same thing.

  You’re in a world of trouble.

  Joe suppressed a terrified moan.

  I don’t want to die, he thought. It comes down to that. I don’t want to die. Of course, I don’t want Michelle or Lily or Little Stevie to die either, but the fact remains, I don’t want to die tonight.

  Joe clenched his aching fists. So do something!

  Incredible suggestion, he thought. Like what?

  As subtly as he could, Joe tested the manacles.

  The clasps held firm, the edges sharp enough to split his skin if he pulled any harder. He tried his legs, but the effect was the same. The steel only permitted him a centimeter or so of movement. There was no chance of slipping free of his fetters.

  Joe felt the onset of panic. He’d always been a trifle claustrophobic, which sometimes made his profession challenging. He hated wriggling into crawlspaces or even cramped attics. He’d always made Shaun or Gentry complete those tasks.

  At thought of Kevin Gentry a fresh wave of fury swept over him. Gentry had led them out to the commune like a Judas cow. Only Gentry was still living, and Copeland was dead. The memory of Baldy mutilating Darrell’s dying body came back to him, made him grit his teeth and tremble with rage.

  “He’s awake!” someone called.

  That’s right, Joe thought grimly. I’m awake. Now let me out of this cage so I can go down fighting.

  Joe opened his eyes and stared up at the eyehook he’d installed. He wished he’d done a sloppier job. But even if he could get the swing moving, there was no way it would tear free of its mooring.

  “Tell her it’s time,” someone said.

  “Should I get Grayman?” a male voice asked. This one was familiar. Joe craned his head around to identify the speaker and saw with a new surge of betrayal that it was Shaun Peterson.

  Shaun turned and saw Joe staring at him. Shaun flushed and looked away.

  “Why?” Joe croaked.

  “Don’t talk to me,” Shaun said. “We’ve got nothing to say to each other.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Joe said, his voice rasping like sandpaper. “I wanna know how long you’ve been with them.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Shaun said, sounding near tears now. “What matters is I figured out the way things were.”

  “You listened to that moron Gentry, in other words.”

  Gentry stalked forward and stood between Shaun and the swing. “This is gonna be a pleasure,” he said. “I hope she lets me do the honors.”

  “You know she can’t,” someone answered. “She has to be the one.”

  Gentry opened his mouth, shut it. Perhaps to save face he said, “I can’t wait,” before rejoining the milling people.

  Joe lifted his head to examine the Martins’ expansive living room and was struck by how normal it all looked. Other than the black tapestries now hung on the walls and, of course, the man lying suspended in the middle of the room on some souped-up sex swing, the event could have been a dinner party or some kid’s high school graduation open house.

  But then he saw Bridget Martin, and all thoughts of normalcy vanished. She was draped in a satiny black gown, the thing opaque but the material so malleable that every aching detail of her figure was outlined with breathtaking clarity. And though Joe had already seen the woman naked in the shower—a sight that remained emblazoned in his mind no matter how he tried to purge himself of it—she was somehow even more alluring now. In her stunning red hair was threaded a laurel wreath, giving her a look both youthful and ancient. It made Joe feel as though he’d time-traveled to an era when pagan rituals sustained entire communities, a time when people were held in thrall by superstition and magic.

  The crowd moved away from Bridget as though she were a goddess.

  “All bow,” Grayman said.

  And to Joe’s amazement, everyone in the room genuflected before her, even Shaun and Gentry.

  Good Lord, he thought. They’ve been converted. Converted utterly.

  Joe’s neck ached from lifting it for so long, but the spectacle around him was so captivating that he forced himself to keep watching a few moments longer.

  Bridget stood before the great fireplace now, the four-foot-high blaze seeming to surround her and dance around her sinuous form. She spread her arms, taking in the entire assembly, and smiled a sphinxlike smile.

  “We serve only you, Holy Mother,” Grayman said.

  Looking pleased, Bridget nodded. Then she approached the swing and gazed down at Joe. Her green eyes seemed to shine in the firelight. “Hello, Mr. Crawford.”

  “You’re the one,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “The one they’ve been talking about,” he explained. “The one they worship, the new Antonia Baxter.”

  “She was more eccentric than I am,” Bridget said, looking flattered but a little abashed. “I don’t have the same taste for blood.”

  “That mean you’re gonna let me go?”

  Something somber and perhaps even regretful flitted through her face. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “So you’re gonna kill me,” Joe said. “That about the size of it?”

  She opened her mouth, seemed about to speak, then let out a soft sigh instead. “Joe…”

  “How will you do it? With a knife? Or maybe a machete, like those psychos in the chapel?”

  She looked away. The faces of the onlookers stared stonily back at her. Her gaze returned to Joe. “Will you complete the rites of coalescence with me?”

  Joe didn’t like the sound of that, but he said, “Depends on what you mean.”

  She smiled, looking less like an ageless goddess and more like a coy young maiden. “It means we make love.”

  Joe opened his mouth to tell her to go
to hell, but he paused, his mind racing. He looked around at the clasps shackling his wrists, the chains surrounding the metal platform. “You propose to use this device as something other than a prison?”

  She smiled. “Not on that, Joe. A bed has been prepared upstairs.”

  Beyond Bridget, Joe spotted Mitch Martin. He looked supremely uncomfortable in his starched dress shirt and navy blue sports coat, like he’d just arrived home from the office to find his wife the center of some satanic ceremony, one that culminated in her copulating with another man.

  Bridget leaned her elbows on the swing, interlaced her fingers, and supported her chin on them. She smiled, awaiting his answer.

  “I’m not saying I agree to it,” Joe said cautiously, “but if I did fulfill my…well, duties, I guess, what would happen afterwards?”

  Bridget shrugged. “We would still kill you.”

  “I see.”

  She leaned forward, the swing rocking a little with the weight of her elbows.

  “Will you do it?” she asked.

  Joe looked around at the cult members. They’d never let him escape this place alive. Dying upstairs was the same as dying in this cage. “Thanks for asking, Bridget, but I’d rather my last act on earth not be adultery.”

  Her grin evaporated. In its place came a look forged of cold steel, of agonized screams and pitiless laughter. Gazing into that face, he could understand why the maniacs here regarded her as something supernatural. She looked very much like a goddess with her flaming red hair and her supple, pearlescent flesh. The curves, the firm muscles of her thighs…most of all that unnerving emerald stare. Yes, Bridget Martin played the role of goddess exceedingly well. He couldn’t imagine anyone—not even Antonia Baxter—playing it any better.

  Bridget reached back, untied the strings holding up her gown. The black garment pooled around her feet, leaving her completely nude. Around them the crowd seemed to crackle with energy and what might have been adoration.

  “You won’t make love to me?” she said. “Not even now?”

  He swallowed. “I’m a married man.”

  Her green eyes flared, then narrowed. Her lips twitched together, her jaw flexing. She said, “Mr. Grayman?”