Frostitute: A Twisted Tale of Extreme Horror

by Glen Frost

  "I'm Lydia. Pleased to fucking meet you." Although the Russian girl couldn't place it, the accent was pure Brooklyn. She extended a hand to Anya, who shook it hesitantly. Lydia's skin felt ice cold to the touch, but also soft and supple. She took out a pack of cigarettes from the side pocket of her duster, fished out a cheap disposable lighter, then shook out one of the cigarettes and lit it. While Lydia sucked in a long drag, Emily looked on in apparent revulsion.

  "Filthy habit," was all the English girl had to say about that.

  "Oh, hey, where the fuck are my manners...you want one?" She waved the pack at Anya, who shook her head dismissively. Lydia grinned, stuffing the pack back into her pocket."Suit yourself, honey. All the more for the rest of us."

  Anya had already noticed that Lydia wasn't leaving tracks in the snow either. "Why would a...well, a ghost smoke?" she wanted to know, curiosity getting the better of her.

  "Well, why the fuck would a ghost not? There aren't a lot of pleasures in the afterlife, honey. Take what you can, while you can, is my advice."

  "Thank you for that sage piece of wisdom, O insightful one." Emily rolled her eyes.

  Lydia rounded on her, bringing her fists up into a fighting stance. "You'd better shut the fuck up, bitch, or I'm going to pop you one right in the mouth."

  "Oh, really?" Folding her arms, Emily stood her ground and didn't appear even the slightest bit threatened. "I hardly think so. Not after what happened last time."

  The Goth girl seemed to visibly deflate at that.

  "What happened last time?" Anya asked, suddenly interested despite herself. She glanced across the clearing, peering through the curtain of falling snow. Marko looked to be just about finished, and was tamping down the soil as evenly as he could manage.

  "We...can't talk about it," Lydia finished weakly. She managed to come across as being guilty, somehow.

  "She got in trouble..." Emily put in, unable to keep an edge of gleeful smugness from creeping into her tone.

  "We both got in trouble," corrected Lydia, taking another drag on the cigarette. The tip flashed bright orange in the darkness, yet neither of the Russian men seemed to notice it at all.

  "The rules are the rules, after all. If we're going to spar like this, my dearest Lydia, then we shall have to do so with words. Violence is no longer permitted. You know how they get." As Emily said the word they, Anya noticed that she looked upward toward the branches of the trees and the gunmetal grey clouds, whereas Lydia looked down toward her feet.

  Ah. So that is what this is about...

  Perhaps she had dismissed the possibility of there being a Heaven and a Hell a little too easily. She was starting to put the pieces together in her mind already. Two spirits, one light, one apparently dark. One who seemed to come from above, the other from below. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see where this was all going.

  "You spoke of a 'big decision' that I must make," Anya said, addressing Emily directly but really speaking to both of them. "I assume that you are referring to my final destination?"

  "That is correct," Emily nodded. "Although there is really only one right path to choose. The other, well..." She eyed Lydia with obvious disdain. "Best not to talk about that, really."

  "Oh, puh-lease," the Goth girl sighed theatrically, folding her arms in exasperation. She tossed her head skyward. "Little Miss Goody fucking two-shoes here is making out that it's all, 'my way or the highway.' Let me tell you, sweetie, it's not all sweetness and light up there."

  Anya blinked. "It is...Heaven, is it not? How could it be anything less?"

  "It is Heaven," Emily agreed, "and filled with love, kindness, and goodness—"

  "Boring, boring, fucking boring!" Lydia cut her off, shaking the hand which held the cigarette for emphasis. Little orange sparks flew away from the tip, drifting groundward to disappear into the snow. Then Anya noticed that they didn't seem to make contact with it, but just sank beneath the surface. "Who wants to dick around all day, talking philosophy and never getting into any kind of trouble? What kind of bullshit is that?"

  "Spiritual growth," Emily pleaded, plainly trying to win Anya over to her point of view. "Which is the entire point of life! Improve yourself. Help others. Be compassionate."

  "You are such a fucking idiot!" Anya spat. "Haven't been keeping up with the script, have you, Missy Prissy? Homegirl here was just beaten halfway to death and shot in the head. If I was her, I wouldn't be feeling much in the way of compassion right now. Well, sweetie...am I right?"

  "I...well, now that you come to mention it..." She hadn't really given herself time to feel much of anything, but as she stood there in the middle of the snowfall and watched her murderer and his accomplice put the finishing touches to her pauper's grave, Anya finally allowed herself to begin feeling once more. She opened herself up emotionally, allowing the protective numbness which had enveloped her since the death of her body to dissipate.

  When that fog was gone, all that was left was hatred. Raw, unrefined hatred.

  "You are right," she spat tersely. "I have no compassion left."

  "Lucky for you that there's another option, then," Lydia beamed, clapping her hands together and rubbing them briskly in the manner of one who was about to get down to business. "Because if you choose this road, honey, then I promise you one thing...you'll get to string those pieces of shit up by their balls."

  "Really?" Anya's eyes narrowed.

  "Really."

  "No, wait!" Emily looked and sounded horrified. "She's telling you the truth, Anya, at least as far as it goes, but the price...the price is far too high!"

  Anya turned to look at the Goth girl again. "What price?"

  Lydia met her gaze without blinking. "Your soul..."

  CHAPTER NINE

  And there it was, laid out right there on the table just like that. "You want my soul...to do what with it?"

  "Not up to me," Lydia replied evasively. "That's above my pay grade, sweetie; way, way above my pay grade."

  "You wish me to burn for all eternity?" Anya asked, troubled. She remembered that much at least from her mother's Bible education, back when she was a young girl.

  "No, no, no. Those are the old ways, and you know what they say: Old ways for the old days." Taking a last drag on the cigarette, Lydia pitched the butt by flicking it with her thumb and forefinger. It vanished into the darkness without a trace. Extracting a second one and lighting it,she said, "The boss isn't all about that fire and brimstone shit any more."

  "Your boss is The Devil," Anya pointed out, "What else would he be all about?"

  "Well these days, it tends to be acquisition," she explained, taking a drag on the freshly lit cigarette. "It makes more sense to think of him like a corporate CEO. He wants souls to join his side. Like-minded souls. Souls like yours."

  Anya was still suspicious. "No torture for all eternity?"

  "Nah!" Lydia laughed. "The only things that go on for all eternity are the parties, sweetheart."

  "Sounds almost too good to be true..."

  "That's because it is," Emily interjected, trying desperately to reason with her. "You won't grow spiritually. You'll stagnate. Your soul will be stunted."

  "Party all the time," countered Lydia. "Eat, sleep, drink, fuck whoever and whatever you want, as much as you want. Right after you settle up with those two murdering fucks." She cocked a thumb over her shoulder at the pickup truck, which was slowly disappearing along the dirt track.

  "It's not too late to change your mind, Anya. Please...I'm begging you. Take the higher road. Violence won't solve anything."

  "Oh, but it will," Anya corrected her, biting off each word through clenched teeth. "It will make me feel a Hell of a lot better."

  Lydia smirked at her choice of words.

  "You're not the only one they killed, you know." All of a sudden, Emily became forlorn, her voice dropping to little more than a whisper.

  "What do you mean?"

  "They
murdered three more girls. You're the fourth."

  "And you know this how?" Anya demanded.

  Emily shot her a look that would have cut through a steel door at fifty feet. "I know this because I was one of them."

  "I..." For once, Anya was lost for words.

  "I came out to Denver from England as a tourist," she said, speaking more to herself than to Anya. "Then I met Piotr. He was a charming one, at least he was to start with. There were drinks, dinners. He was generous. Extravagant, even. You know how he can be."

  "Yes," Anya agreed quietly. "I know how he can be..."

  "He told me that I could work for him at his family business." Emily laughed. It was tinged with bitterness. "Family business. Of course, there was no such thing. When we started sleeping together, that was when everything started to change. I got drunk one night and he shot me up with heroin. Before I knew it, he had me hooked. I was an addict."

  Anya closed her eyes. That was Piotr's M.O., she knew, for the girls that he didn't actually bring across from overseas. He lured them in with charm and seduction, and then, when it was too late...

  "He made me start sleeping with men for money. I was walking the streets every night, trying to bring in enough money to get my next fix, and maybe keep a motel roof over my head. Then one day, I'd just had enough. My entry visa was long since expired. I told him that I was leaving, going home to England. He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all." From the faraway look in her eyes, Anya could tell that Emily was reliving all of that pain and trauma, both emotional and physical. She could take an educated guess at what had happened next, but she didn't have to: Emily was all too willing to spell it out for her. "I think that he was afraid, Anya; afraid that I would tell somebody about his sleazy little human trafficking ring. Maybe he was right, but I don't think so."

  "You would not have reported him to the authorities? To your family and friends?"

  "Probably not." Emily shook her head. "Who wants to admit that they've been prostituting themselves? I just wanted to escape, to put the whole thing behind me and hopefully forget about it one day. But he didn't give me that opportunity."

  "He killed you," said Anya. It was a statement of fact, not a question. Anya knew the way that Piotr's sick and twisted mind worked.

  "Yes. He beat me to death with a tire iron, then had Marko help him bury me." Emily pointed sadly to a spot that was about twenty feet away from where her own body lay. "Right there. My body has never been found. I don't think it ever will be."

  "That sick son of a bitch," Anya growled. Her anger was growing by the moment. "But it is all the more reason why he has to be stopped. They both have to be stopped."

  "But violence is never the answer! I've learned that since I crossed over to this side of things. Please, Anya, think of your daughter," begged Emily. "If not for yourself, think of little Darya."

  That hit home like a sledgehammer. "My little Darya...what will become of her, Lydia, if I listen to you? Will she be alright?"

  "Of course she will," Lydia lied smoothly. In reality, she had not the slightest idea of what would happen to the Russian woman's crotch spawn. Neither did she care. "She will be well taken care of. Besides, if a certain somebody had shown even a hint of backbone, you wouldn't be dead right now, Anya."

  "Huh?"

  "I made her the same offer," the Goth explained slyly, tilting her head toward Emily. "She didn't have the balls to take it. She took the easy way out instead. If she had, then those two twisted fucks would have been long dead. Which means that really, when you think about it for a minute, Miss Goody Two Shoes right here is the real reason you're dead..."

  "Her master is the Father of Lies." Emily was making a last ditch effort to get through to Anya, but it was no use. Her mind was almost made up.

  "He's the Father of Revenge too," the Goth girl jumped in, seeing Anya hovering on the edge of the precipice. She decided to push her right over that edge. "I'd say you're owed more than a little of that yourself. What do you say...are you in?" She held out a hand, bone white with black-painted fingernails.

  Anya took it and shook it. "Yes. I am in."

  Shaking her head sadly, Emily backed slowly into the darkness beneath the trees. She disappeared without another word.

  "Stuck up cunt," smirked Lydia, flipping off the empty air where Emily had just been standing. Anya laughed too, a little uneasily. She was starting to wonder just what exactly she had gotten herself into. "Now, you're probably wondering just what exactly you've gotten yourself into..."

  "Well—"

  "Well what?"

  "I was wondering how exactly am I supposed to harm Piotr and Marko when I cannot even touch them." She gestured down at her body. Snowflakes were still falling through it.

  "Don't worry about it. We can soon take care of that." Lydia was grinning from ear to ear. Anya didn't like that at all; it was suddenly predatory, the sort of grin that you saw on the sharks in those Animal Planet documentary shows. The Goth help up a hand. "Actually, I take it back. There is one thing that you should be worrying about."

  "And what is that?"

  "Pain. Because what happens next is going to hurt… A lot."

  CHAPTER TEN

  Lydia hadn't been kidding. The pain caused by the perverted pastor's assault and the beating she had taken from Piotr was nothing compared to the sheer agony that was coursing through her body now.

  One minute, the two women were standing side by side over the shallow grave, and the next, Lydia had clapped a hand on each of her shoulders and had...pushed was one way to put it, but in truth Anya wasn't really sure exactly what had happened; all she knew was that once Lydia had made contact with her, something a lot like an electric shock had slammed into her. Hard.

  Suddenly she was blind, laying on her back in total darkness, and felt a great weight or pressure pushing down on top of her. Panicking, Anya began to struggle, and she was amazed to find out that she was somehow able to push away the dirt that had been holding her down. Like a dog scooping a hole but from the inside out, she was digging her way up and out of the ground. There was a loud rustling sound, made by the tarp that enclosed her body.

  A normal human being could never have fought their way free of almost six feet of earth, but Anya was no longer anything even approaching a normal human being. Her strength was supernaturally enhanced, and it didn't take long for her to work herself into first a squatting position, and then a hunched-over standing one.

  First one hand desperately clawed its way free of the ground, followed by the other. Shoving dirt away from her on either side, there was a sudden explosion of earth on all sides of her as she was finally able to pull herself up to her full height, hoisting herself with both hands on the lip of the fairly shallow grave. Still clad in only her knee-high boots, Anya's naked body broke free of its interment and out into the bitterly cold night air. She shook herself like a dog, raining down clods of soil along with the occasional worm and root on all sides.

  At least the pain was gone...the agony of her spirit, soul, essence, or whatever the hell else you wanted to call it, of being reunited with her old body seemed to have disappeared as soon as she was well and truly back inside herself once more.

  I really am back in my old body again, was her very first thought. Sure enough, when she brought her hands up to her face, the tips of all ten digits had been severed. Raising up the stump of her middle and index finger on her right hand, she was horrified to feel the dime-sized hole just above the bridge of her nose. That wasn't the worst of it, however:Further exploration revealed that the underlying structures of her face were still there, for the most part, but the soft, smooth skin which she had been so proud of was gone, hacked away by the lunatic wielding his fire axe. Her face was nothing more than a ruin, a wasteland; even the teeth were all gone, as she soon found out by curiously probing with her tongue.

  Then a second, more horrifying possibility struck her. Reaching around behind the b
ack of her head, she gingerly explored the mess at the back of her skull. The hole back there was mostly covered by her long, dark hair, but it was much, much bigger than the relatively small entry wound at the front. She could get three fingers inside the back of her own skull (maybe four, if she pushed a little harder) and soon felt the soft, squidgy sensation of brain matter slopping around inside her cranial vault.

  Pulling her fingers out, Anya held them up to what little ambient light there was for closer inspection. Small chunks of grey matter coated the snipped-off ends of her pointer and middle finger. She had no idea where it came from, but some sudden impulse caused her to slip them inside her mouth. She sucked languidly on the brains and their coating of blood and cerebral-spinal fluid. The sensation was pure bliss upon the surface of her tongue, like a thousands stars exploding inside her mouth, and she swallowed the brain matter hungrily before sucking the fingers dry.

  "Tastes good, don't it? Or so I hear, leastways."

  She looked up. Lydia was still here, and watching her with an expression of wry amusement plastered across her face that made Anya want to pop her one in the mouth.

  "So, how does it feel to be back in the land of the living?"

  "Is that what I am?" Anya shot back. "Living?"

  "Point. No, not exactly. You don't have a heartbeat. You're not breathing, and you'll never need to breathe ever again. But you can move and think. You can even feel, in some ways at least. Not nearly as much as you could when you were alive, but close enough for government work."

  "Can I feel pain?"

  "Not even a little. There are only two things you'll ever be able to feel again."

  "And those are?"

  Lydia checked them off on her fingers. "Hatred. Total and utter hatred. Which is kind of the point, don'tcha think? And cold."

  "Cold?" Anya's brow furrowed.

  "Yup. It'll kick in in a minute or two, don't you worry. You're going to be freezing cold for every minute of the rest of your unnatural life." The Goth waved it away with one hand. "Don't worry about it. It won't be forever."