Deadly Nightlusts

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Deadly Nightlusts Page 7

by John Everson


  What is she doing? I wondered, starting to become afraid for my blithely horny friend. The last time I'd been there, they had done it about where the circle was, but then there were no candles or knives involved.

  She walked over to the row of jars and pulled one down. I thought, from its place on the shelf, that it was the one I had seen her mix before. It looked the same, anyway, when she walked back to the circle and began spreading its dark, muddy contents with her finger on the floor. She traced the triangular patterns within the candle-lit circle, mumbling something to herself the whole time. Then she stood up and stared at the door.

  Just stared.

  Unmoving.

  What the hell? I thought. My legs were cramping up, but I didn't dare move. She was really creeping me out now, staring blankly at the door like the walking dead or something. Then she spoke in a language I could understand:

  "Hurry, my darling," she murmured.

  Marshall knocked on the door. Unnecessary civility, I thought, but the witch strode from her circle to answer it.

  "Trick or treat," I heard him say, and the witch laughed.

  "Both," she said, and a spike went through my stomach. I was becoming very afraid of her promised surprise.

  He stepped inside, and the breeze from the door told me how warm the cabin had quietly gotten. I shivered, and hugged the corner close as he walked into the room just a few yards away.

  "You won't need the mask tonight, Marshall," the witch laughed. I peered through the crack at that, and saw her pull a rubber Frankenstein face from his head. He really didn't get it. He called her a witch, but I realized then that he was only humoring her. He took the sex, but didn't believe she was anything more than a kinky teacher.

  I did. More than ever, at that moment.

  "Tonight we shall call up a real monster," she said, wrapping one long, slender arm around his shoulder.

  "Good spread for Halloween," Marshall observed, walking to the candle circle.

  "Yes. My book says it must be on Halloween. The other times were to get his attention, but the night of calling must be Halloween. If we are lucky, we have gotten his eye, and he will hear our call tonight."

  "What book?" Marshall asked, playing along. I could hear in his voice that he didn't care. He just wanted to get her undressed.

  "This one," she answered, picking up a small, dark-bound book from inside the canvas bag that had held the candles. "This is where I learned how to call him. I found it last year when I cleaned out my grandmother's attic, after she'd died."

  "So that's like your spell book?"

  "And more," she said. "Grandma had it hidden in a locked safe. I wouldn't have even found the safe if I hadn't needed to have the roof redone before I could sell the house. When the builders removed some rotted wood, they found it sealed up in a wall. And I found this," she held up the book, "in the safe."

  "Cool," Marshall said. "So are we gonna do it in the circle tonight?"

  "Yes. Take off your clothes and lie down."

  As Marshall tossed his jacket and flannel shirt to the side, Miss Carny also began to remove her clothes. Her own long coat hit the floor by Marshall's. She wore nothing, I soon saw, beneath a sheer black blouse. Her breasts were breathtaking, deliciously pendulous and darkly nippled. I could see the gooseflesh on her white skin in the dancing arcs of firelight. She kicked off her shoes and shimmied out of her jeans. Her naked thighs and buttocks created an uncomfortable stirring in my pants. They both stood naked in the circle now, and she ran a fingernail from his chin to his already pointed penis.

  "Hmmmm," she smiled. "Lay down now. I'm going to paint you before we begin."

  Marshall didn't even flinch. If he got sex out of it, she could probably tattoo him and it would be the same.

  He stretched out on the floor, and she straddled him, using her finger to trace circles and squiggles on his chest and belly, periodically dipping her finger in the same black mixture she'd used on the pentagram. When his body was a mess of black hieroglyphics, she placed the black book above his head.

  "Don't move," she cautioned. "Don't say a word."

  Marshall grinned, obviously thinking this another part of her kinkiness that he could take advantage of. So, spread-eagled and naked, in the center of a pentagram, Marshall was mounted by a witch. Her foreplay amounted to a brush of lips against his, and then she was slowly rocking atop his crotch. My pants suddenly seemed incredibly restrictive as I watched her breasts jiggling faster and faster above Marshall's muddied chest.

  Suddenly, she dropped her hands to pin his wrists at the edge of the circle. Her hips never stopped bucking, but her face lost some of its look of pleasure. She began to read from the book above Marshall's head. Strange, tough-tongued stuff. It was no language I'd ever heard.

  "Gutta, hruth sreighvit ciccilis tor," she growled.

  Marshall eyed the breasts bouncing just out of reach of his mouth, and chased them unsuccessfully with his tongue.

  Her guttural reading continued, her voice gaining in volume as the motion of her hips grew wilder. As she read, I began to feel strange, almost dizzy. I thought it was the scent from the candles, or maybe just the combination of autumn cold and fire. But as her voice rose to a scream, her figure swam out of focus. I steadied myself on the floor with my hands, praying that I wouldn't fall into the boxes in a faint.

  Which is exactly when it happened.

  As I swayed, and she screamed, the witch suddenly reached above and ripped a blade from the floor.

  "I love you," she cried out, and then brought the blade down straight into Marshall's amazed and open mouth.

  His screams were horrible. He started thrashing, but the knife had gone all the way through the back of his throat. He was now pinned grotesquely to the floor, with blood spurting and bubbling down his cheeks. I was frozen by the horror of the scene. It was really too late to help, I realized. Marshall would be dead in minutes. There was no way out.

  She took another blade then, and again held it high above her head as she said, "I love you."

  She brought that one down on his chest, and then she was awash in his blood. His screams were already subsiding as she drove the third knife into his belly. As she raised the fourth knife over his groin, and again pledged her love, I realized that she wasn't proclaiming her love for Marshall. She was calling "him."

  As Marshall's movements died down to a few feeble twitches, the witch knelt at his side and dipped her hands into his opened belly. They came away dripping crimson, but instead of holding them away from her in disgust, she began methodically to paint herself. Her cheeks acquired geometric rouge, her neck crude stars. Around her left breast, she drew a circle, and then bisected it, sketching a bloody nail across that creamy flesh, across the wide nipple and back down. She repeated the process with her right breast, and then began to smear the blood without regard for form, until her belly and thighs were a bright, slow oozing paint of blood. Then she raised her arms above her head at the center of the circle and chanted some of the same things she had screamed moments before. Again I began to feel dizzy. But this time, as her chanting rose in volume to a scream, I didn't fall back. I found myself standing up.

  No! I railed against myself, but my limbs suddenly were not my own. She heard me rise, and stepped backwards. I saw the recognition in her eyes, the sudden fear that another of her students was about to ruin all of her plans.

  "You! What are you doing here?"

  "You called me," I said, but the voice was not my own. It was heavier, throatier. My hands began unbuttoning my jacket. Hands ignored my commands and flung it from me and then ripped off my shirt. They quickly dropped my pants and I stood cold and whitely nude before my bloody teacher. The witch.

  I could feel my erection stirring, though my stomach was aching in horrific complaint.

  "You have possessed the boy?" she asked, and squinted at me, looking deeply into my eyes. I felt a heat in them, and she seemed to see something about them that convinced her. For wi
thout another word spilling past my unwilling lips, she dropped to her knees. Her naked skin glistened with blood, and the body of my best friend lay gutted behind her, but the demon within me discounted that. I strode forward, pushed her shoulders with inhuman strength and was on top of her in an instant.

  "You have earned my love, woman. And now I will give it," my throat growled.

  Her mouth opened in rapture as I began to work my groin against her own.

  "Yes, master," she cried. "Take me, I am yours."

  I laughed. An evil thing. A sound I hope never to hear again. In it I heard barbed wire sawing through bone. The snap of a neck as the noose constricts. The scream of a man dropped into boiling acid. Its tone opened her eyes, and she, perhaps, had a few seconds of time more to realize her mistake than poor Marshall had. But the knife was already in my hand, dripping Marshall's lifeblood on her already crimsoned chest.

  "I love you," I laughed and brought the blade down.

  She didn't struggle nearly as much as Marshall had.

  As her last moans gurgled to a hush, I stepped outside the cabin. The cold air whipped my body with lashes of ice, and I cried out inside for clothes, for warmth. The demon the witch had called didn't seem to notice. My mouth opened again without my permission.

  "I love this night," I yelled to the stars and began walking away from the shack and into the forest.

  I couldn't have disagreed more.

  I couldn't wait for this night to end. My best friend was dead. I had killed my teacher (at least, my arm had). What if they locked me away for the murders?

  And then a thought colder than the Halloween wind struck me. What if the possession didn't end with this night?

  Inside my stolen body, I began to cry.

  Sacrificing Virgins

  The last thing I want to do tonight is to have sex with a beautiful virgin.

  Tony stopped walking from the stage to the dressing room and scratched a lock from his head at that uncharacteristic thought. He slumped with a sigh against the dingy black hallway wall.

  How had it come to this? He actually was dreading the idea of fondling the virgin he knew awaited him just a few steps and a door away.

  When you put it on demonically notarized legal paper with a schedule, sex just didn't end up being as much fun as it used to be. The contract had sounded unbeatable at the time - fame and fortune for him and his band. And what he paid in return was a reward in itself.

  The price?

  Deflower one virgin after each performance.

  By midnight.

  Not a problem!

  The contract stipulated that to meet the terms, the virgins thus deflowered must be those delivered by "The Messenger" to his dressing room. It also guaranteed that they would be "pleasing to behold."

  Tony had always liked 'em young, so this worked out well. Since they had to be good-looking virgins, the girls The Messenger brought almost always were young - you didn't stay a virgin for long if you were hot! And the whole virgin thing saved Tony from worrying too much about STDs with the girls. He hated condoms.

  What could be a sweeter deal? There were always hot, tight babes willing to do whatever he wanted after every show when he was pumped full of hype and adrenaline. It was just what he needed. And he did his best to ignore the suspicion that the girls provided were somehow drugged. They seemed alert, but no girls were that pliable. Hell, there'd been one he'd tied to the chair, gagged, poured a pitcher of beer over her and then invited in a couple members of the crew for a gang bang on (after he'd given her a Miller douche and deflowered her himself, of course). When he'd taken off her gag and handed her over to The Messenger at midnight, she had smiled dumbly at him and said, "Thanks."

  He'd had every female model there was at this point, it seemed - except for the dumpy sack of potatoes kind. The band was selling millions of CDs and spent half the year touring all parts of the world, so he'd fucked virgins from France, Melbourne, Rio, Moscow, New York and everywhere in between. Redheads, blondes, platinums, goth chicks with cropped raven hair, and farm girls with sunny smiles and big tits. And every one a tight, ready-to-be-popped virgin.

  Each night after a show, it was the same. He returned to the dressing room to find a naked bit of tail just waiting for him to nail. He'd have an hour or so usually before the twelve o'clock chimes struck and his business had to be over. Then the nasty looking dwarf Messenger appeared at the door to lead his latest sacrifice away.

  It sounded like an awesome life. But Tony was tired.

  Or bored.

  Maybe both. He considered asking the band to cancel the next few months of its tour to take some time off, but he knew it was a foolish dream. If they quit now, it was only cuz they were breaking up. They were booked on an arena tour for the next six months straight. It was worth millions in the hand and untold millions in future sales.

  A splash of light fell across the hall and a gnome-like head poked out of his dressing room.

  "Better unstrap that instrument and get to performing," said the growling little Rumplestiltskin. Tony had never asked its name, but that's how he referred to the wee man in his own mind.

  "Boss sent you something special tonight - says you're acting bored and ungrateful. Says you been performing like a geriatric sprinter against the Olympic team - no staying power."

  Rumpelstiltskin cackled while Tony pushed off from the wall and resignedly moved towards his dressing room.

  "I'm coming, I'm coming," he murmured.

  "Boss's hoping you'll be doing just that," the imp laughed again.

  Tony pushed past the little man and closed the door behind him, locking the creature out. Not that locks had any real impact on the little devil, but it made him feel better. He performed music for an audience, not sex.

  Tony looked at the couch, folded out into a bed, and grinned in spite of his reservations. The "Boss" had sent something special. She was lying stark-naked, head propped on a blue paisley throw pillow, left knee crooked, and leaning against the couch back to display the object of Tony's mission in all its raw, pink glory. She was built like a track star - lots of leg and a taut tummy, with small, but ample breasts (more than a mouthful's wasted, he thought). Her nipples were wide, just as he liked, and matched the auburn crop that crowned her head and arrowed down from her belly. Her features were elfin fine, but her lips were full, and Tony felt a thickening in his tight black leather pants.

  Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all, he thought and then stepped closer.

  "Hey," he said, not knowing what to call her. She didn't reply.

  "Stoned?" he asked in a louder voice.

  Still nothing. He reached out to shake her by the shoulder and drew back his hand in a flash. She was cold to the touch.

  Clammy. And stiff.

  She was quite dead.

  Tony yanked the dressing room door back open and looked for The Messenger.

  The little man was talking up a groupie near the stage door. Tony knew she was a groupie with one glance, since her boobs were falling out of one of his band's concert tee's, which had been ripped specially to show off her cleavage. But most telling was the fact that she didn't seem to mind the dwarf's face anchored in her crotch. Some chicks'd do anything to get backstage - including servicing perverted dwarfs.

  "Hey," Tony yelled again. Rumpelstiltskin looked around, a scowl on his face.

  "You've got yours," he snapped and turned away. But the groupie wasn't so easily distracted.

  "Tony DeBruno!" she screamed. "Oh... My... Gawd." She started to push past the dwarf, who gave a disgusted look, anchored his hand between her legs and shoved. The groupie and her three-inch black spike heels disappeared with a scream down the back stairs.

  "What do you need?" he asked, suddenly standing right in front of Tony. He pointed to a nonexistent wristwatch.

  "It's after 11:30 you know."

  "She's dead," Tony complained.

  "Well, when you've had all the rest, you've just got to do the best,
" the creature laughed. "Enjoy."

  "But how can I..." Tony began, but then shut up, since The Messenger had disappeared.

  Tony returned to the dressing room and looked the girl over again. He was definitely not into necrophilia, but she was attractive, no question about that. Milky white skin, full lips. He imagined in life that she had been quite the sucker with those pouty kissers.

  The clock on the wall read 11:39, and Tony paced the room, considering. The contract stipulated that he had to deflower the virgins sent to him by midnight, or he lost it all. The wording was vague on this point, but he could guess that "all" included life, as well as fame. You didn't fuck with the devil and not pay dearly at some point.

  So he had no choice here. He had to slide it in between the legs of a dead chick. Tony shook his long bleached hair and let out a low moan. Why had he gone in for this? He'd enjoyed playing in the band even before they were famous. And even if the money sucked and the fame was missing, he'd never had a problem getting some bar slut to go home with him. Why had he...?

  A hand slapped his face.

  His own.

  "No time for what ifs and whys," he told himself out loud, and began to unbuckle his pants.

  "You won't mind if I don't waste time on foreplay, will you, hon?" he asked, stroking himself erect - which turned out not to be difficult when he just looked at her and omitted the minor unappetizing detail that she was dead. Then he crawled onto the bed with her.

  As he climbed closer, he realized that she smelled. It was faint, but the cloying scent of something like rotting hamburger clung to the air about her. Tony began to breathe through his mouth and with one hand levered himself into the groove between her thighs.

  He pushed himself at her, and felt a much tighter resistance than most virgins. Death didn't exactly make you ready and willing, he supposed.

 

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