by Paul Sating
“We need a man like you,” Love giggled again, twirling a loose strand of hair around a finger before shooting a quick glance at Dodi. The other woman returned it with a stoic glare.
Kelvin backed away a step. Stress made moving his shaking joints difficult. His throat constricted. Tightened. Itched. Could he take on George? The monstrosity blocked the door, but his size meant he would be slow. If Kelvin could get George to move into open space he would be able to evade those gargantuan hands and give himself a fighting chance.
But then what? How far could he run? There was nothing but mile after mile of winter horror land separating him from the civilized world. Plus, they had at least two vehicles, one of which could make it through the snow with ease. They could run him down before he got a couple hundred yards.
What other choice did he have?
“In time, sister,” Elsa turned to Love, responding to the woman’s salacious comment.
“I’m … not … staying,” Kelvin croaked. The scratching in his throat now burned. Without a thought, he reached for the small divot underneath his Adam’s apple but yanked his hand away when he became aware that the three women recognized what he was doing. Why were they watching him as if they were tracking his actions? Something was wrong. It hurt to swallow. “What … did … you …”
Love wrung her hands. Elsa stepped closer. Not a threatening gesture; a domineering one. The movements of someone in full control. “The mercury won’t take full effect for a little while,” Elsa smiled, clasping her hands in front of her.
Kelvin panicked. Was she saying what he thought she was?
Love closed the space between them, running a hand down his trembling arm. She examined him as she stroked him. “A fine man,” she said in a dreamy voice. “A fine, fine man. Even if he is a little nervous.”
It wasn’t nerves. He couldn’t control the tremors. His stomach knotted.
“He’ll serve,” Dodi said from the table.
“You … poisoned … me?” It was a struggle to voice such a simple sentence. He winced, his throat scorched from the contamination. The world lost focus as his eyes watered. Excruciating.
“What else were we to do?” Elsa asked. But she smirked, like a person who had gotten the better of a life-long adversary. “If we didn’t strip you of your voice you’d still have one. We can’t have that.”
The world swam. Kelvin reached out for something to sturdy himself on and missed, collapsing onto the floor. The impact stung but he couldn’t even move to ball himself up in comfort. A chair scraped as Dodi finally pushed away from the table and made her way to stand by her sisters. The three women hovered over him. Dodi’s expression was ice cold, uncaring. Love’s, one of infatuation and passion. And Elsa? Total control.
“He’ll serve nicely,” Dodi repeated in a voice so flat she could have been describing the meal she was planning for the evening.
“He will,” Elsa agreed.
Kelvin grabbed at his throat, tore at it. Breath refused to come. But Kelvin fought back, forcing out the single word. “Why?”
“George, we’ll need to sanitize his throat before the mercury wears off,” Dodi directed.
The giant nodded.
The three women looked down with pity as George closed in, hoisting Kelvin into the air. His arms and legs didn’t cooperate; he couldn’t fight back.
The poison. Had they done this to all the men in the village? Was that why none of them said a word to him? The men and the boys alike, each of them as silent as the other. It came together in a sudden flash. The silent men. The quiet boys. The thin-lipped one who took him to breakfast. All as silent as a cold winter day. In all his interactions, only the women and the girls vocalized anything. His mind went back to the boys playing, as silent as a cold, winter day.
How do they get away with it? Where were the other adults, the other mothers? Why hadn’t they intervened on behalf of the children, at least? Kelvin opened his mouth to take large gasps of breath.
Dodi shrugged. “This is paradise. Our utopia. You were always meant to serve us.”
“Eve’s Trinity,” Love bounced.
But Elsa took her time. She laid a hand on George’s arm just as she had to Kelvin only minutes before. Her other hand ran the course of Kelvin’s legs, up past his groin, over it, finally lingering on his chest. The heat in her eyes burned as much as his throat did from the poison they’d served him. Her eyes consumed his body as she spoke. “For 2,000 years men have silenced women. But it’s us who are the life givers. Without us, there would be no master race. And for 2,000 years men have demonized us. Blamed, for the fall of man.”
“Wicked men,” Dodi snapped.
Elsa continued on as if she didn’t hear the interruption. Her hands rubbed his stomach, went up under his shirt. “What you see out there is the way the world is meant to be run. We don’t have war. We don’t have strife. We don’t have violence.”
Dodi moved forward, rubbing Kelvin’s inner thigh. “Here we have peace that only a sisterhood can create.”
Love bounced by his head now, lightly tracing the lines of his face with the back of a single finger. “We three, Eve’s Trinity, have created this world so that all can rejoice.”
Kelvin tried to speak but his throat cracked, he gasped for air.
Love bent down and kissed his forehead. Elsa rested her hand in the middle of his chest. Dodi ran her hand over his cock, lightly at first, firmer as he grew erect against his own desires.
Love’s eyes wet even as Kelvin’s began to cry. “It will hurt for a while,” her mouth turned down as she ran a light thumb over his lips. “And it will pass in time like all things do.”
“Well, after we burn your vocal chords, of course,” Elsa corrected. “You’ll need to sleep.”
“Rest,” Dodi and Love recited in unison.
Elsa nodded. “Yes, rest. But then you’ll join us here, in our community, our homes and—”
“And our beds,” Love covered her giggle before bending down to steal another intimate moment.
Dodi rubbed him. “You’ll father a nice stock.”
Elsa was close now, her lips brushing his ears. “When the pain passes you’ll see that we can offer you something no one and nothing in the world can. A world of balance, peace, and harmony. Where you are rewarded for hard work, not penalized. Where women, the three of us, determine the course and fate of the people.”
“You and the children you’ll father will be part of correcting mankind’s transgressions ever since he poisoned the word of the Lord,” Dodi said with an acidic voice that contradicted the affectionate way she touched him.
That was why there were no other women. These three, this Eve’s Trinity, were the mothers of the village, the wives to all those men. One polyandric family. George’s hold never wavered. The man was not only a monster, he had the stamina of an ox. Kelvin wondered how many of those children playing in the courtyard were George’s.
“Imagine it,” Elsa’s tongue reached out, glancing his earlobe. “A life where you have everything you need. Women who will love you, children who will adore you, and men who will support you without envy. No greed or lust. No need for money, politics, or any of the ugliness the rest of the world demanded before God delivered you.”
“Just the love of the Lord and the enrichment of His bounty,” Love leaned over his face, lowering her mouth to his, kissing him. Her tongue thrust deep into him.
Kelvin’s body locked in protest and the ravages of the poison they fed him at breakfast. He couldn’t stop this violation of his body or his will. Here, in this village in the valley, he was the weaker gender. Here he would have no say. The poison, alone, didn’t suffocate him. The promise of lost autonomy was a harbinger of doom even as these three women hovered over him like insatiable carnivores. Elsa rubbed his chest roughly now, up and down, left and right, circular. Gripping. Pinching. Love’s tongue invaded the deepest reaches of his mouth, pressed into him again. Cold air assaulted him as Dodi had unz
ipped his pants and wrapped strong fingers around his throbbing penis.
“The valley is your home now. You’ll never leave,” Elsa bit his earlobe. For the first time since the poison began to take effect, Kelvin’s body reacted. He jerked, a shocked reaction at the sudden pain.
Love slapped him, hard.
Dodi gripped him, squeezing his testicles, threatening to crush them.
Kelvin opened his mouth to scream. Silence.
“He’s weak,” Dodi seemed disappointed. “We need to test him.”
Elsa backed away, examining him for a few seconds before nodding.
Love looked worried. “He won’t break, will he?”
“We will have to see,” Elsa’s firm voice had returned, all the heated intimacy she’d displayed was gone in a wisp. She looked at George. “Take him to the breeding bed. If he survives we’ll commence with purifying his throat.”
Dodi nodded.
Love bounced on her feet and clapped her hands.
George, for his part, turned in silent compliance and carried Kelvin away to father his fate.
END
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Also By Paul Sating
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Chasing the Demon
The Plant
Nonfiction
Novel Idea to Podcast, How to Sell Books Through Podcasting
About The Author
Paul Sating is an author and audio dramatist, and self-professed coolest dad on the planet, hailing from the Pacific Northwest of the United States. At the end of his military career, he decided to reconnect with his first love (that wouldn’t get him in trouble with his wife) and once again picked up the pen. Four years on, he has numerous novels release or in the works and hundreds of thousands of downloads of his fiction & nonfiction podcasts.
When he’s not working on stories, you can find him talking to himself in his backyard working on failed landscaping projects or hiking around the gorgeous Olympic Peninsula. He is married to the patient and wonderful, Madeline & has two daughters—thus the reason for his follicle challenges.
Acknowledgments
This book was an idea I came up with while decorating our Christmas tree during Thanksgiving weekend in 2017. It started as a game. We have a tradition of playing old Christmas carols while we decorate and, this night, we were being silly, seeing who could come up with the funniest alternative name for each song. Of course, I took the game down a dark avenue, naming the songs with the most horrific titles I could extemporaneously come up with. That was a moment of inspiration and this concept was born. I realized there were enough potential titles to make a horror anthology and I had a year to write one. So it was done. That night, I began outlining the potential titles and story ideas.
Funny how and where inspiration can strike, isn’t it?
12 Deaths of Christmas was written in a month and though some of the story titles do give away what is going to happen, for me it was such an enjoyable ride to jump into full-blown horror, complete with monsters of the human and supernatural variety. Honestly, it’s been a long time since I’ve played around in that type of arena and it felt good and helped, I believe, the concept I had for season three of my Subject: Found audio drama podcast, which is far more supernatural than the previous two seasons.
I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did (or more, honestly) writing it.
This first anthology couldn’t have happened without some very special people.
First and foremost, my incredible wife, Madeline, for constantly supporting me and being the best beta reader any writer can ask for. You sacrifice so that the rest of the world doesn’t have to slog through garbage stories. Everyone should be grateful, because my early stories are … an interesting read. Thank you for loving me so much that you read horror—a genre, I know, you wouldn’t be sad to see disappear into the annals of human history.
My daughters, Alex and Nikki. We don’t get to have Christmas together like we used to, and I miss the ‘task’ of decorating the tree together. Those nights were always special for me and I’ll cherish them forever. As you’ve aged, those nights are no longer the same. This was our last one with Alex, and it’s a curious thought to know that a book was born out of silly game during such a significant personal event. Maybe this could be a new tradition, no matter where we are in the world? Hmmmm.
Everyone needs a champion and Kevin Baker is that for me. Writers can be self-deprecating bastards, and I know I’m at the front of that line. But sometimes subtle comments and thoughts tip the balance and we do worse for ourselves than some not-so-good-natured ribbing. Kevin, you’ve always had impeccable timing with your uplifting comments, saying the right thing, at the right time, to pull my brain back into focus and simply believe in myself again.
Eric Thomas & Jason Evilive, for stepping up to help me adjust these stories well before anyone else saw them, and for helping me make sure that my inner-Clive wasn’t taking over. Reading the early versions of these stories couldn’t have been easy, especially when I dumped three of them on you in a week. True warriors, the both of you. Your feedback encouraged me to throw myself into this project with abandon.
To my Patrons. Without your constant support I couldn’t have done what I did. I wouldn’t have believed that people wanted to hear the stories I had to share had you not been there, month after month, sending encouraging messages, getting excited about what I was excited about, and providing the support I needed to be able to do this in the first place. To, Kevin Baker, Elsa Howarth, Sylvia Lynn, Alaina Malack, Dohai, PB Sebastien, James Hill, Ian Troman-Mason, Morgan Barber, Adam Burke, Shelley Perrin, Greg Bowman, Brent Moody, Dan Foytik, Cynthia Waddill, Sandy Smith, Jon Grilz, Genesis Murray, Zane Desjarlais, Glen Collins, Nate Bonilla-Warford, Brian James, Matteo Masiello, Philip Flynt, E. Kirkensgaard, Erin Karper, A. Dragon, Robert Chauncey, Anthony Dallape, Patrick Monroe, Sarah Rhea Werner, Ryan Beyer, Desdymona, Stacey Holbrook, Tim Niederriter, Cheyenne Bramwell, Raymond Camper, Roseann White, and George Greene. Thank you for your never-ceasing, always-awesome support!
To Mom. Life is a path best explored with the people we love. We may have stubbed our toes on a rock or tripped over a tree root, but we continued walking it together.
To all of the wonderful people who took time out of life to help me proofread the book. I’m never as good as I am until you give so much of your time. You are some of the kindest people on the planet. Thank you for everything you do! Adam Burke, Cheyenne Bramwell, Mel Baxter, Kevin Rowlands, Bob Tinsley, Pam Giltner, Stephanie Mikkelsen, Brent Moody, Ann Steward, and Natalie Aked.
And, of course, to the hundreds of thousands of you who have listened to one of my audio dramas. To date, I’ve released over 100 episodes of fiction podcasts. You’ve been a part of the growth my author career, encouraging me to continue forward even during the bleakest times.
Thank you to each and every one of you, for what you’ve done, in your o
wn way, to help me find the self-belief I needed to get past the monster of doubt. These holiday horror stories might not exist if it weren’t for you and what you’ve done for me.
Thank you, one and all!
Published by Paul Sating Productions
P.O. Box 15166
Tumwater, WA 98511
[email protected]
Chasing the Demon
Chapter 1
The stench of old wood and unwashed people didn’t surprise Jared Strong.
Stale beer, peanuts, and people. A lot of the hole-in-the-wall type bars in this western corner of the Olympic Peninsula, his home, smelled like this. His current drinking hole of choice was no different, no better. He smothered a handful of nuts between his palm and fingers, squeezing until he heard the satisfying crack of the shells. Picking out the nuts, he tossed them into his mouth, discarding the shells on the floor. It wasn’t something he would do at home, especially not when he and Maria were still together. But, in fairness, this place didn’t look like anyone had loved it for at least a generation.
That observation made him wonder how much time had passed since Maria had loved him.
Maria.
Best not to think about her right now. There were other problems he needed to face first. Like the reason for the stack of papers sitting in front of him on the sticky bar top.
This was Olympia, the capital of the state. The gem, right? He laughed to himself, glancing down at the shell-covered floor underneath him. What a dump. He shook his head at how quickly his life had gone off track.
“Great place to start chasing a demon,” he mumbled to the stack of papers. They didn’t answer.
The drunk seated next to him sneered. “Whatch’da say?”
