by Samie Sands
Leah screamed, “No!”
Zoe appeared to enjoy the control she had gained. She smiled and nodded her head in consideration.
Aiden reassured everyone, but mostly Leah. “It’s okay. Nobody is going to hurt me. Just like nobody is going to reveal the nature of our cult.”
“OUR cult?” Zoe strode in a tight circle. “The First Cut belongs to me. Not you. Or you.” She pointed at Aiden and then Leah. “I gave this beast breath and only I can take it away.”
Spencer turned to display his disagreement with Zoe’s will. In doing so, he let the knife blade drift away from Todd’s neck. Aiden saw his opportunity and he made his move. He swung his fist between Spencer’s legs, connecting with his friend’s scrotum. Spencer howled, crumbling to the floor and dropping the knife. Aiden grabbed at the knife. Just as his fingers wrapped around the hilt, Todd pounced on top of Aiden.
In all the chaos, Ryan released Leah so he could join the struggle to control the knife. Zoe backhanded Leah’s face, sending her crashing into the armoire.
A thunderous scream shocked the battle to a halt. Aiden crawled out from under Todd and Ryan. A dark pool of blood spread across the thick carpet. Ryan crab-walked away from the mess. His eyes wide with horror.
Todd moved his hands away from his wash-board abs. His stomach opened wide, a deluge of slimy organs and crimson gushed forward. Todd’s eyes searched the room for his killer.
Aiden looked down.
The knife remained in his hand. It was covered in Todd’s gore.
Everyone choked on tears and disbelief.
Except Zoe.
She clapped.
“I still need proof, Aiden. Killing Todd might have been a convenient accident.”
Aiden knew their high school sex club had gone far beyond the point of no return. Their innocence, if they had had any from the start, went up in smoke like all their futures. No more preparing for college. No more graduation parties or new cars from their rich parents.
For the first time in his life, Aiden looked forward to standing apart from his peers. He squeezed the knife and rushed forward.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story was a lot of fun for me. I had a blast re-imagining the cast of my Gushers Series. While this tale is related to the theme of the trilogy, and the characters are the same, it in no way spoils the larger arc. I think Aleister Crowley would be proud.
Chuck Buda
Chuck Buda is a horror author and podcast host from New Jersey. He is best known for his love of pizza and Black Metal. Chuck grew up a fan of the Universal Monster movies and Leonard Nimoy’s In Search Of... Smitten with all things monstrous and unexplained, Chuck began a lifelong journey of searching for new scares and thrills. Chuck Buda co-hosts The Mando Method Podcast on Project Entertainment Network with author, Armand Rosamilia. They talk about all aspects of writing.
The Visit
Danny Campbell
Part the First: Hope
The visit was supposed to be a chance to re-align my life. I mean, after suffering Sandy for two years, I was shot; my nerves were like tearing wrapping paper. Then I saw the ad on FB for ‘the retreat’. Now, usually, I wouldn’t have gone for that kind of thing, you know, cymbal clanging and whatnot, but something made me click on it. Alright, it was the smiling girl with the perfect teeth and curly hair, that and the picture of equally perfect sea, sand and sky, and an obligatory coconut tree bent at just the right angle to lie on and do nothing, just like the girl was. Except for smiling.
I’d saved up enough and had some leave from welcoming bemused visitors at the Guildhall Museum, and I could really do with a break from staring at that shitty statue of Margaret Thatcher all day. Did you know some guy walked in one day with a cricket bat underneath his coat and took her head off with it? I really wish I could have done that. Stupid, isn’t it, vandalism? I like art, but I’m sick of all those statues of people who were mostly bastards, yet some knuckle heads seem to love. Anyway, she’s encased in bullet proof glass now, the old harridan, and I digress.
No, the visit to the retreat was going to change my life for the better. I’d heard a lot about spirituality, but I can’t say that I ever felt any. In school they used to drone on about it, and I know what Jesus did and everything, but it always seemed like such a lot of bollocks. Sandy didn’t help. She, along with a load of ‘do gooder’ mates, was in church every Sunday when the night before she’d been drugged up to her eyeballs with a cock in each hand when we were supposed to be going steady. Of course, I was the last to find out, and boy, enough is enough.
The plane ride to Thailand took twelve hours and Bangkok is a shit hole. Sure, I spent several nights there banging two girls at a time like all the blokes there do—you should really see how disgusting some of the really fat, old men are there, it made me ashamed and really sorry for the girls—at least I was young and not at all that ugly, just, well, gullible, I supposed I’d call it now.
Anyhow, I took the overnight bus to Surat Thani hung over and feeling rotten and ashamed. Unable to sleep because of the sniffling and sneezing, coughing old Thais, and the guy and girl doing some heavy-duty fingering in the seats just opposite, that took twelve hours, but eventually, I was there.
Baan NokKhun Tong was a revelation. I mean, I’d never seen anything like it in my life, I mean, not even in pictures. When the funny bus/taxi thing with bored looking middle-aged Thai women on it deposited me outside the gates, I, and, judging by the look of the taxi driver, thought there must have been some mistake. All that here was a sign which read: Baan NokKhun Tong/Talking Man Bird House; home of nice, happy people. Shit, who wouldn’t go in, right? I could do with nice, happy people.
To get into the damn place you had to pull yourself across a short stretch of ocean on a barge with a rope. Not easy if you’ve spent the last five years saying hello to people and dreaming of pussy. To be honest, I was blinded by the scenery; it was just like the ad. Kept waiting for that pretty girl to come running up and fall in love with me.
The sun burned, and the sweat of my brow mixed in with the sun block and burned my eyes. The sea was shallow and blue and the aroma so briny. On the other side of the strait I tied the raft to a post next to another sign, but this one just had that squiggly Thai writing and I had no idea what it said. There was, though, an arrow, which pointed in the direct of a steep path which was surrounded by jungle which seemed to shake and flit with animals and birds. I felt some trepidation.
There wasn’t a gate—you could just wander in—just a big, wooden house with a traditional Thai roof. There didn’t seem to be anybody about, until I walked into what I presumed was the kitchen area where an old Thai woman with betel nut stained teeth sat cutting up vegetables and throwing them into a pan of water. There was an old dog at her feet, it looked up at me and growled before realizing it couldn’t be bothered and sank its head back to the floor. I tried to explain myself to the old woman.
‘Hi, retreat, ree-treeeet,’ I said. ‘Reeeeee-treeeeeeeet!’
‘Oh, you’re here for the retreat,’ she said, looking at me as if I was mentally defective.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought...’
‘Yes, of course you thought. Don’t try it too often it might make your head hurt. They’re over in the big house, over there, across that bridge over the swamp.’ I ‘retreated’ with my tail between my legs
At the big house there was a hall where what must have been the bulk of the commune were sitting on the floor, their eyes closed, while a Caucasian man who, though he didn’t really look like a monk apart from the bald head, was making monk chanting noises. Though it all seemed very pacific, I noticed that the people sitting on the floor were a) all very young and b) seemingly emaciated with strained looking faces, as if they were trying very hard to take a shit.
I sat watching them from a distance until the leader said some gibberish which seemed to indicate that the session was over, then they all got their feet. The leader, quick as a flash, spied me first and cut through
the group who seemed eager to engage him in conversation as he made a b-line for me.
‘Ah, hallo!’ he said, towering over me as he drew close, and fixing me with I can only describe as ‘magic eyes’, eyes that held you under their spell.
‘Hello,’ I said tentatively, while he boomed:
‘Welcome to The Retreat, your life changes here and now.’ Several of the rest of the devotees began to gather around me, some of them placing their hands on my shoulders and back. It’s like they were sniffing me, like animals in a troupe. I noticed that some of the others held back, observing from a distance, and one of them, I swear—her face was thinner, and the smile wasn’t there—was the girl I’d seen on the FB advert. ‘Please follow me to the induction room so I can take you through your initiation phase. I followed his broad shoulders and the back of that big, bald head, as he led me into a small office at the side of the main hall. He told me to sit down on a bamboo chair and as I began,
‘I’d like to...’ he stopped me mid-sentence with,
‘You must hand over your passport, your phone, your money, indeed, all association with the outside world. It is imperative in order that you get the most out of your stay here, there must be no distractions from ‘The Learning’.’
He said the words: “The Learning”, as if he was summoning them from somewhere not of this earth, with the kind of relish you see priests utilizing in their sermons in those funny ‘speaking in tongues’ churches in the US. He could see that I was hesitant about surrendering my entire identity and said, ‘Do not worry; they will be kept here in the safe until your time with us is over.’
I looked at the solid iron safe and, feeling my shoulders relax a little, preparing myself to give in to going with the flow as asked of me, I pulled all those items out of my rucksack and handed them over to him. He paid a little more attention to the bundle of cash than I would have liked, but I suppose he had to make sure it ‘was all there’ and that these places must have overheads.
With that, I was in. I would spend the next three weeks ‘finding myself’ and, with any luck, getting to know that mysterious girl whose smile had initially brought me here. What could go wrong? There was sun, sand and sea, peace and most importantly of all, nice people. See you suckers on the other side. I’m living in the jungle, raaahhh!
Part the Second: Hell
Six months later and this place is a fucking hellhole. I was only meant to be coming for three weeks. It rains all the time and I’m fucking starving. Turns out that big, bald bastard is a tyrant and we’re all prisoners. Of our own minds no less! Turns out also that there’s three stages to ‘the learning’ that you need to undergo in order to become ‘enlightened’ .Enlightened my arse. If by being enlightened you mean you must give up all of your personality, free will, and subject yourself to the exploitation—both emotional, physical, and sexual—to the ravings of a bully dressed as a saint and his acolytes, then I guess it’s that. Get me out of here, please.
Why don’t I just run away? Well, there’s the matter of my passport, money, phone etc. I’m not sure I can mentally cope with another ‘talking to’. Reader, I never would have believed how much damage can be done to a man’s soul on account of words! Long ones, short ones, kind ones, brutal ones, concepts and paradigms, parables and litotes, all droning on in a monotone, draining, draining, drowning in them.
And then there’s the ‘free expression formula’, whereby we ‘have to demonstrate free will adherence to the long-established doctrine’. You try doing that, I dare you. I just want my old job back listening to wasp chewing, crusty old Tories at Guildhall. At least you could finish that at the end of the day and go home and get drunk. Here, even your thoughts are monitored. I read a book once called 1984, I didn’t believe it was possible, but it is, and I’m living it. And then there’s the ‘mindfulness meditation’. I mean, what is the point? I just don’t get it. You sit there on the floor, legs crossed, eyes closed, and deep breathing is supposed to take you somewhere, Nirvana, apparently. I’ve taken to opening my eyes when everyone’s are shut and staring at them angrily, fantasising about leaping up and punching them in their stupid, blissful faces, but Baldy caught me doing it a couple of times and destroyed me with the ‘talking’.
The only hope is to get to ‘stage three’, that’s the goal. When you get to stage three you can have your happy looking photo taken like the girl in the advert and then they let you off the island to go to the market or get supplies from the pharmacy. Maybe then I’ll find a way to get into that safe and get my stuff. But the thing is, I’m only at stage two, and Baldy threatened to knock me back to stage one if he caught me opening my eyes again. I’m so miserable. Nice people, shit! Nice people are the worst. Take it from me.
You hear that? It’s the gong. It means we must go over there and sit still for four hours. Four-fucking-hours! (Quietly sobs).
Baldy wants to talk at us before we start.
“People, you are on an individualistic journey, only you can understand your inner you, the inner peace and strength given to you by ‘The Learning’. Some of you are on your way. Some of you, however, are resisting! Are falling into indiscipline!’ Whether he didn’t look at me directly because he was playing one of his mind games I don’t know, but there were plenty of sideways glances, and the back of my head burned till my ears glowed red.
“People, you are chosen for The Learning, it chose you, you who responded to the call, the sound of your inner-I, the voice of your soul. Who would dare to waste such a chance? Who would take a flower in their hand and brutally crush it? Who would take their nurturing mother by the hand, and then throw her down the stairs? People, we must work harder to save the weak among us. We must concentrate on their weakness. We must fill them with our special love. More breathing, then, today, it will be eight hours.’
Can you see? Can you see what they’ve done to me, to each other? Is there no getting out of here? The rope to cross the strait has gone and the raft is on the other side! Is there no way to freedom? I can’t concentrate; it only fills me with hate. For all I know there’s been a war out there, or a pandemic, or been taken over by zombies, while all I have is to listen to these sanctimonious shits torture themselves (and me) for no good reason.
ITS NIGHT-TIME NOW and they’re all asleep. The moon’s full and the cicadas are drowning out the noise of the snoring chorus. I’m out and I’m going. I’m like Captain Willard looking for Colonel Kurtz, and I’m going to find him and bash his brains in. This is the end, beautiful friend.
Can you hear the music? Call me delusional, but that was the problem in the first place. Greed, hatred and delusion. There’s no overcoming them. Don’t even try. Can you picture what will be? So limitless and free. I’m not desperately in need of anything. I got this. There, that rock. It’s heavy, and this is some heavy shit.
What was that? Nothing. Looks like Baldy’s sleeping. His window’s open. Quietly. Like a mouse .Look at him sleeping. Even a monster looks pacific while asleep. Enjoy it buddy, this going to be your last one.
I have second thoughts as the rock is in my hands above his head, I mean, who wouldn’t, this shit’s going to get me into loads of trouble. But at the same time, I finally understand what all those shrinks in the serial killer documentaries meant when they said that the murderer wants to feel like God. It’s true, at this moment, I do. Not only that, I consider it an act of liberation, like those domestic abuse women who finally snap and whack their husbands in the head with an axe.
Urgh, I think I’m going to be sick. I am. He urgh. Bweurgh. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. The sound that it made, like stepping on a dry branch. And his face, it’s gone. His fucking face is gone. God my hands are shaking. The safe! The keys! Look at all these passports, the phones, the money! Fuck it, I’m having them too, what do these dumb bastards need them for.
‘WHAT? What are you doing? What have you done? Help!’
‘Shut up you idiot or I’ll brain you as well.’ It’s ‘that’ girl. Sh
e seems to be hyperventilating. ‘Look, keep quiet, come with me, we’ll share the cash and get out of here, only kept quiet, or else! Understand.’ Jumping Jesus Mary and Joseph would you look at her, she’s nodding her head and doing as I say. Whoever knew that life could be this easy. ‘Come on, follow me.’
With all the stuff in the bag we make it down to the beach, and just in time, because I can hear them waking up over there. That’s funny, where’s all the water gone, oh boy is my luck in, it’s like the parting of the Red Sea. I keep turning my head to look at her, thinking that any minute now she’ll be off and screaming, but she just keeps looking at me and following, she must be in shock or something.
This is a damn sight easier than that raft, but what’s going on, it doesn’t seem natural. There is fish flapping in the wet sand and it’s as if the water was a carpet pulled from underneath their feet, or fins, I should say. And what’s that rumbling? What’s that sound? Is that, is that, Oh no!
Danny Campbell
Danny Campbell is the author of numerous novellas, essays and articles about Thailand and South East Asia, many of which are held in university libraries worldwide. Since moving to France in 2006, Danny has concentrated on work which reveals the hidden corners of his home city, Bordeaux, and its multifaceted cultural influences. He is working at present on a forthcoming novel entitled Lala's Nonstop Erotic Caberet.
Who Did It
Katie Jaarsveld
Cults, a group of people, from a few in numbers to many.
Some cults were accused of witchcraft, which we’d all known was incorrect since witches were a coven.
The thing about cults was that they were not always as you suspected. For example, leaders of countries and their respective underlings creating viruses or diseases, who sometimes made a cure, sometimes not.
