by Ray Garton
"Why was he waiting for you at work?"
"To catch me doing something wrong. Anything at all." She pushed a blood-caked strand of her hair from her eyes. "He was afraid you'd try to see me because...well, he's been worried about you."
"About me? Why?"
She looked away from him. "I want to wash."
Roger let it pass. He handed her the washcloth, pulled back the curtain and removed her torn, bloody clothes from the tub. He tossed them into the hamper, then turned on the tub's faucet. He said, "I'll leave you alone. Is there anything I can—"
"Don't leave me alone," she whispered, standing and pressing herself against him, crying softly. "Please don't."
Roger helped her into the tub, sat on the edge, and began passing the cloth over her back.
"Why is Bill so concerned about me?" he asked.
"He has been ever since you came."
"I didn't tell anyone I was coming. How did he know?"
She shrugged, then reclined in the tub, wetting her hair. The water quickly turned an ugly brown from all the blood.
The same way somebody always managed to learn my phone number even when it was unlisted, Roger thought, and the same way they always knew where I lived no matter where I went.
He handed her a clean washcloth and she dipped it in the water, rubbed it with a bar of soap from the dish beside the tub and lathered it up. She ran the soapy washcloth over her body slowly, wincing at times.
Roger looked at the cuts and scratches on Sondra's arms and shoulders. "How did you get those?" he asked.
"In the woods. I think. It happens."
His eyes settled on her breasts as her nipples broke the surface of the water. The marijuana had made him just loose enough for the sight of Sondra's wet and soapy body to make him forget all his problems. He felt himself becoming erect. He took a bottle of shampoo from the shelf on the wall and began to wash her hair.
"I'm not going back," she whispered. "I won't live with them anymore. With him."
"Where will you go? What will you do?"
"I don't know, but I can't live like that anymore." After a long silence, she said, "Can I...could I stay with you?"
He wanted to say yes immediately, without a second thought. But he could not."
"How about if we go see Bill together and I'll talk with him."
"Oh, God, no," she gasped. "No, he'd...he'd...no, you can't do that. You can't." She turned to face him, head crowned with bloody suds. "They've been talking about you. A lot. Bill and some of the men from the church. Elders and deacons. Especially lately."
"Why lately?"
"Marjie's been coming over."
"Who?"
"Marjie Shore. She told him...she said you had some books."
He remembered Marjie's reaction to his research books. That was when things had changed between them, when she found those books on Satanism. He silently cursed his stupidity.
"She said you had some bloody clothes, too, and...well...they all figured you were...you know...doing it again."
"Doing what again?"
"The rituals. Worshiping Satan."
"Jesus H. Christ, Sondra, I've never worshipped—"
"I know that. But they're convinced. That's why Bill was so upset with me for being with you. See, my whole family...all of them...have always thought there was something wrong with me, that I was evil, 'cause I've always been such a...a..." She bowed her head, shrugged once. "Such a black sheep. Then, when this started...you know, this...change in me...they figured I was possessed, like I told you before." She laughed bitterly. "And now they figure you and I are gonna get together, y'know? Have demon parties and maybe give birth to the antichrist, or something." Another laugh.
Roger found it difficult to follow what she was saying. He was still shocked about Marjie. If she really thought he was serious about Satanism, why didn't she say so? Why didn't she confront him with it directly so he could defend himself instead of going to Bill—especially after talking about Bill as if he were crazy and she had written him off—and stirring up more ridiculous stories that weren't true?
You asshole, Roger thought, you knew the risks, you knew what might happen if you got involved with her again, you knew, goddammit!
"Do you love her?" Sondra asked.
Roger blinked rapidly, shaking off his thoughts. "Marjie? Uh, no. We used to be...close. But..." He did not finish. He kept thinking, How could she? How could she when things were going so well?
He stood and said, "I'll get you a towel."
* * * *
Roger put her in his bed.
"Do they know where you are?" he asked, pulling the covers up around her.
"No."
"Should I call them? Let them know you're all right?"
She gave him a worried look. "You're not very smart, are you?"
He blinked.
"That would be a really bad idea," she said.
"Okay, okay. We'll wait until morning." He went to the door and turned out the light. "If you need anything, just call.
"Roger?"
"Hm?"
She threw the covers back. "Please...come stay with me."
He sighed at the temptation, turned it over in his mind. He decided he had already made too many mistakes.
"Get some sleep," he whispered, pulling the door closed.
33.
Roger made himself a drink, sat down in front of the television, and chewed on what Sondra had told him about Marjie until his feeling of betrayal had become a smoldering anger.
Two drinks later, the doorbell rang and Roger somehow knew that it was Marjie.
"Is she here?" she asked when he opened the door.
"Who?"
"Please, Roger, don't play with me. If she's here, let me take her home. If you know where she is, tell me. Please."
"I don't understand why it's any of your business, Marjie."
"I'm doing this for your own good, Roger."
"Oh? Running to Bill and telling him I'm worshiping Satan, for Christ's sake? Was that for my own good, too?"
With a frustrated sigh, Marjie bowed her head and said, "Bill told me what happened today, and I thought—" Her words caught in her throat and she gasped, "Oh, my God!"
There were blood stains on the cream-colored carpet.
"What have you done?" she breathed.
"Nothing. It was—it's just—she—"
"Sondra?" she called, scared now.
"She's fine, Marjie, she's sleeping."
"Get her." She was trembling, apparently from anger as well as fear.
"I'm going to take her home in the morning, don't worry. I'm going to talk to Bill about—"
"You can't take her home in the morning, Roger, dammit, will you listen! Right now, Bill is getting some men together to come over here looking for Sondra and if they find her with you...please, won't you just let me take her home. It'll save a lot of trouble."
Roger was livid. "They're coming over here? Jesus, like some kind of fucking holy posse? And what will they do, lynch me? Stone me to death, maybe?" His voice was raising to the level of a shout. "Very Christian of them, and certainly in keeping with everything else they've been doing, like the goat's head on my porch and the brick through DiMarco's window. Were you in on that, too, Marjie? Did you play along, huh? Maybe the goat's head was your idea. Inspired by the books you found, were you?"
"I had nothing to do with that. I didn't even know about it."
"Uh-huh. Sure." He stepped toward her and she moved back flinchingly, frightened. "I don't suppose you mentioned to Bill that you've been fucking the neighborhood Satanist, did you? Because if you did, the son of a bitch'd probably be throwing things through your window, too, you ever think of that? Huh? Did it occur to you that you're dealing with a very sick person?"
"Roger, h-he's a f-friend," she said, trying to hold in her tears. "We...all of us used to be f-friends."
"And wh
at brought that to a screeching halt? I never had any friends, Marjie. For the first twenty years of my life, I never had any friends. Jesus, and to think I trusted you and...and...it's happened all over again, I let you..." Anger constricted his throat and he could say no more. He kicked the ottoman and it slid over the carpet and slammed into the coffee table, knocking off a full ash tray. "Get out of here."
Moving back toward the door, Marjie shook her head and said, "No, Roger, I'm not going to—"
"Get the fuck out of here!"
Wringing her hands, she tried to sound calm and reasonable. "I am not leaving without—" She looked past him. "Sondra!"
Roger spun around to see Sondra standing in the hall holding his robe before her.
"Sondra," Marjie pleaded, "please come with me. Bill is furious."
She stepped backward into the shadows, shaking her head.
"Sondra, please!" She turned to Roger, her face red with anger. "She's only seventeen, for crying out loud, how could you—how could you?"
"How could I what? You think I'm fucking her? Well, I'm not. I'm trying to help her. No one else will. Maybe you've heard of it, it's called decency. You could use some." He turned toward the hall. "Go back to bed, Sondra." Stepping past Marjie to open the door, he said, "And you. Go."
"I will not."
He grabbed her elbow and steered her roughly to the door, but she pulled away, screaming, "Let go of me. What's wrong with you, Roger, don't you see I'm trying to help you? I'm thinking of you." Her face twisted and tears rolled from her eyes as she massaged her elbow. "You act like I hate you, or something, but I duh-don't." Her words garbled by sobs, she lowered her voice to a raspy whisper. "I've never for a second stopped loving you. And admiring you. You weren't afraid to do what you wanted to do even though everyone was telling you it was wrong. I...I never had that kind of strength. I'm a...conformist. That's me, Roger. A weak, spineless conformist. I've always admired your independence. I never believed all that Satanist stuff, not...not really. Not back then. But I was...concerned about you. I was different back then, I bought it all, the whole idea of going to heaven and...all that. And because you were breaking the rules...I wanted to save you. I'm not that way anymore. Well...not quite. But when I saw those books here...I looked through them and they're awful. I got scared. I thought maybe...maybe it was true. And those bloody clothes out in the garage...it made sense, sort of. I started to worry again and I talked to Bill. You say he's crazy...and he does have problems, I know...but he is a sincere Christian, a good Adventist, he means well, and...I thought he could help, could tell me what to do. I was worried about you, Roger, that's all."
"Worried? That I was committing some great sin? Breaking a few commandments? Not following all of good old Sister White's rules? Is that what you were worried about while you were sipping wine like a big girl?" He spit the words mockingly, hurtfully, and Marjie's pain bled from her eyes. He enjoyed it. "Were you worried about that while you were smoking pot? Or sucking my cock out of wedlock?"
She pressed a fist to her chest and tried to stifle a sob.
"You were worried about me, Marjie?"
"I was wrong," she cried. "I was truh-trying to, to fit, Roger, I told you, I'm spineless. I had the same upbringing as you, I didn't know anything else, and I've just been trying to fit into an environment that's still new to me. Wine, pot, all that—what do I know? But no, I don't...I don't really believe in that kind of life, I just didn't know how else to fit."
"What do you believe in?"
She tugged on her hair nervously as she sobbed again. "I don't know. I'm always trying so duh-desperately to fit. I-I don't know what I believe in!"
"You fucking hypocrite," Roger growled through clenched teeth just an instant before the pain tore through his guts. He doubled over, fell, tried to get up, but fell again, groaning as it wrenched his insides.
"Ruh-Roger?" Marjie sputtered.
He rolled over the floor, retching.
"Roger, what's wrong? Roger!"
"Go," he grunted. "Get out."
"Roger, what...what should I do? What's wrong?" Her tears were subsiding and the pain in her voice was replaced by urgency.
"Go...away." He tried to sit up but curled into a ball instead, releasing a high-pitched wail of misery.
It had never hit him so hard, had never been so intense. The pain exploded in his abdomen, sending shrapnel upward into his throat and downward into his testicles, down his arms to the very tips of his fingers. He screamed a shrill, jagged scream, opening his eyes to see Marjie and Sondra standing over him, their mouths working soundlessly, and he realized he could no longer hear them, could not even hear himself. Just a bone-deep throbbing in his ears, a powerful liquid rush that threatened to send his eyes shooting from their sockets.
He tried to speak, to plead for help, but he had no control over his tongue. It was a thick, numb chunk of meat and his teeth were gritty pieces of stone that sliced at his lips like razors and his hands—
Oh my God oh Jesus my haaaands, his mind screamed.
—were cracking open, the fingertips splitting to make way for deadly, hook-like claws.
When he looked up, Sondra was smiling as if she had found a long lost friend, smiling and crying at once, and Marjie was pressing her fists to her mouth, shaking her head as she stumbled backward.
As the pain reached a crescendo, Roger felt a hatred for Marjie, a hatred so heavy and thick that he felt he could vomit it up like a steaming lump of half digested food, and he swung his arm through the air, clutching at Marjie's leg.
She turned to run but her foot struck the ottoman and she fell, arms and legs splayed as she hit the floor.
A thin veil of red covered Roger's vision as he crawled on all fours toward Marjie, the throbbing growing louder in his skull, the pain in his center turning into a deep, engulfing hunger. The red darkened to a rust...
...then to a brown...
...then black.
34.
Laughter.
High, musical, crystal-clear laughter.
Roger's vision returned slowly, rising from a dark sludge to a soft glow, from blurred light and colors to a slowly growing clarity. The drumming pain in his head began to subside as physical sensations returned.
The floor beneath his back...
The carpet strangely wet and warm...
And something else...something wonderful.
Roger moaned and slowly lifted his hips from the floor—
What's happened?
—sliding his cock deeper into the warm sucking mouth that held it.
Hands on his body, nails scratching, clutching...too hard...cutting ...
Why am I here? On the floor? Doing this?
The sensation stopped, the laughter rang out again, then the sucking continued, the mouth panting, grunting. The mouth pulled away briefly, breath hot against him as a voice said, "You're like me. We're the same."
He tried to lift his head but was too weak, drained, empty.
"We're alike, Roger."
It was Sondra.
Her nails scraped over his chest and stomach, digging as she crawled up his body and moaned, still panting. Her hand clutched his cock, then she slid down on it, moaning again.
He tried to speak but only made a hoarse, clogged sound in his throat—
—and tasted blood.
It slicked the inside of his mouth like oil and he coughed, retched, turned his head and spit as she moved on him, continued clawing him, scratching him.
"Aaahhh, just like meeee," she panted.
She leaned forward and lay on top of him, their naked bodies rubbing together, slick with something warm and wet. She put her mouth over his and sucked.
He opened his eyes wider. There were spots on the ceiling, dark red spots that had not been there before, but he noticed them only peripherally because of the powerful warmth growing between his legs, throbbing.
Must be drunk, he
thought, because he remembered nothing and did not know how this had started. But he did not care.
She sat up again, reached behind her and cupped his testicles as she moved on him, faster now.
He found the strength to lift his head just enough to see her towering over him, grinding herself against him, her body covered with dark red smears...blood...and scratches...and cuts ...
One hand stroked her breast. A left hand...on her right arm. It made no sense.
Roger squeezed his eyes shut tightly, opened them, blinked several times.
Sondra held a left arm in her right hand. It had been torn off at the elbow, the skin pale, the fingers splayed and slightly bent just enough to cup her breast, lift it, press it hard against her ribs.
Roger croaked, "What...what's...what're you..."
"We're the same," she breathed through a dreamy smile, eyes half-closed, hair draped over her shoulders.
Roger turned his head to the right, groaning when he saw the splash of blood on the side of the recliner.
The other arm was beneath the coffee table. The leg not far from that, a lump of bone protruding from the tattered gob of black-red meat above the thigh.
And the head...
Marjie's head rested on its side, mouth open in a scream, tongue hanging from the corner.
Roger screamed as he came, but it was not a scream of pleasure.
35.
Sondra slid off of him and curled up on the bloody carpet, nuzzling his neck, purring like a kitten.
The scratches her nails had left on his bloody skin burned.
"No, no, no," Roger hissed, rolling over and getting on his knees, looking around at the scattered, gory mess that used to be Marjie Shore, his first kiss, his first date, his first girlfriend. "I...I...did this?" he cried. "Did I do this?"
Sondra embraced him from behind, her breasts pressing hard against his back. "Mmm-hmmm. You're like me, Roger. I'm like you."
"No," he croaked, stumbling to his feet. "No, I couldn't have." But he knew he had. Marjie's blood was in his mouth, bits of skin and hair were stuck beneath his fingernails. If he thought about it, if he were to close his eyes and concentrate on it, he knew he would remember doing it in the same murky way he might remember a bad dream.
