It’s not difficult to summon a demon, though I’ve read all manner of ritual and mumbo jumbo that would suggest otherwise. Some books require blood sacrifices under certain phases of the moon.
Once a man in a tiny shop in New Orleans told me I had to slaughter my prized rooster with a bone knife over dishes of ground corn that had been laid out in offering three days prior. The store stank more of marijuana than the pungent incense that smoldered in every corner. I remarked that I had no rooster, and the man told me it was for the best.
I never tried the blood sacrifice approach. It’s not that I’m squeamish, it’s just that I wouldn’t be able to explain the mess if I were caught. I prefer to be careful. I prefer to be tidy. I’m not like other satanists who messily bathe in blood. I'm reasonably certain that this is a matter of caution.
I did try other things. I trekked into the mountains of Southern California on the night of the new moon. I made a circle of dried manzanita branches, and I placed offerings of nettle and foxglove within. I burned acacia and sage at the designated points outside of the circle, and I stood between the smoking bowls while chanting the requisite lines. The reward for my trouble was little more than a tick near the outside of my elbow and socks full of burrs.
I tried pentagrams in circles, chants that satanist acquaintances assured me would work, and discovered just as little. An internet forum suggested reversing the “banishment of troubled spirits” ritual as performed, but that was just as worthless an effort. Some resources cite chalk, others charcoal, and a few even require trails of various minerals or pigments be laid just so.
In reality, anything that will make a mark will work. I suspect that some materials help to supplement a weakness on the part of the summoner. For instance, if one were particularly weak-willed, one would need blood offerings and the discipline of elaborate symbols to hone one’s desire.
Wanting itself is not enough. Blood itself is not enough. There is no incantation required, though the summoning enclosure must be precisely drawn. I would illustrate it here, but there are already enough demons loose in this world. I’ve gone so far as to burn the battered book that provided me the answer, and perhaps I will share its secrets with someone one day. It is, however, far more likely that those secrets will die with me.
In any case, my preferred tool is chalk. The same slender, yellow-white stems of chalk that are sold inexpensively to professors in supply stores. It is easy to sweep away, and stows well within the pocket. Unassuming chalk is a convenient weapon, without appearing to be a weapon at all.
The first demon I summoned was small. It was scarcely a demon at all in appearance, so much as it was a lump of clay with the texture of curdled milk and a single, pale pink eye that rolled about within a bulging, inflamed socket. It tested the bounds of its enclosure by rolling over itself, and spoke no words when addressed. The smell of the thing was so pungent that it set my eyes to watering, my nose to running, and my stomach to churning within seconds and even more sickening was the fact that I could not banish the creature.
Still, putrid though it was, I was filled with a sense of exultation. No matter what the thing had been, I had summoned it. It had come to my call. It had been detained by my will. It had existed in this world, it had been a supernatural extension of myself.
I had no other place to hide the wretched thing, so I settled for the back of my refrigerator. The smell lingered in the kitchen, and I found myself compelled to move in the days that followed. I lost my cleaning deposit, which was irksome, but not enough to stay my ventures.
The pock-faced slob who rented the apartment room under mine had threatened to report me for being a terrorist, saying that the smell had to come from building explosives. In a moment of profound humanity, I told him where he could stick his thousand dollars.
Lesson learned, I moved to a small house with a basement. It was further than I cared to commute to university, but still near enough as not to be unbearable. The basement was worth every extra minute in traffic. The tiny windows set just above ground level were easy enough to paper. There was a drain set in the floor in case the washer should flood. Furthermore, the floor itself was cement slab, which is most ideal for chalk.
I still had that putrid little blob following me in my new home. I would catch a glace at it every now and again, but just as I would lay eyes on it, it would vanish. I had then found out, with the help of my book, that it was an unnamed demon infamous for causing bad luck, which probably explains why I had chased the stinking thing around my house for ages but never had the luck of catching it.
Every now and again it would set off an eye watering stench that would give me incredible headaches. As I continued my search for a well respected demon I tried to ignore it as much as possible.
Meanwhile, under the guidance of my tattered old book, I grew more and more bold with my experiments. I was soon summoning larger, and more diverse creatures. Though sometimes they were closer in appearance to plants. The demons were also things that resembled animals without being anything like an animal at all. Only once in those early days did I summon anything remotely humanoid.
It was hideous, and foul, and listening to the noises that rolled past its blackened tongue, jagged teeth, and slathering lips caused my ears to ring. It vanished quickly, but my body ached so badly that I was forced to stay home away from my classes.
I resolved, after that, to limit my summons to smaller and less consequential creatures. This required more information, but my trusted guidebook was less than forthcoming as to its origins, and was limited in its scope. I was looking for a demon that I could summon with ease. One that could kill and swiftly leave on it's own will on completion of the task. One that could end the life of the woman that had broken my heart. Other sources had proven ineffective and less than knowledgeable.
Still, I was determined to find something and learn what I could, and so set about reading ruminations on religious mythos as pertain to so-called “Western” civilizations. This is not to say that other histories would have been any less valid, but I opted to commence my research in a more familiar tradition.
In doing this, I came across a dissertation on the modern-day incubus as written in the year 1893. “The Unorthodox incubus,” it read, “is a misshapen creature no larger than a small dog. It prays upon the souls of young women by creeping into their rooms at night and haunting their dreams with all manner of sexual depravity. It may or may not actually copulate with its slumbering victim. As with all creatures of demonic origin it is infamous for hatred of any known deity and faith but is also known to detest femininity.”
I could not help but wonder if this was a story contrived by an oppressive masculine society to preserve the “sanctity and purity” of its ideologically chaste women by explaining away the female equivalent of “nocturnal emissions.” Still, as it was a woman I meant first and foremost to send from this world and into the next, I felt that it was worthy of an attempt.
The incubus was a lesser demon, but reportedly possessed moderate intelligence. It was also of a size I might easily subdue, a fact which weighed greatly in its favor so far as I was concerned. It had no information on how to banish the creature back, but no matter, If I was successful, I presumed I might train it as one would a dog.
I set about summoning my incubus with my customary determination to succeed. My chalk left clean lines on the cement, and my curves were all perfectly measured. My intent was clear, my guidance precise. Summoning had become as rote to me as writing the alphabet.
It came to pass that I was successful, but not in the way that I had hoped. Nor was M. Sigund particularly accurate in his portrayal of the incubus demon (even at that period of human history, I have since been informed). The reality was a far, far cry from Fuseli’s vision to say the least.
What arrived within the confines of the circle was far larger than the anticipated small dog size, though it was dog-like. It looked to be some awful cross between dog and horse. Monstrous in size, with wicked claws, sharp, gleaming teeth, and a whip of a tail. I am aware that it had eyes, though in the horrific instant for which the thing was there, I did not, and indeed could not, bring myself to meet them. A fact for which I remain grateful to this very day. Even the memory causes my mouth to run dry.
That thing, that horrific nightmare of a creature, vanished from my circle and was supplanted with another figure so quickly, and so smoothly, that I was made to question if it had even occurred at all. Just as one might question the flickering of a candle in an otherwise still room. But it had been there, and my subsequent reeling only grew more pronounced as I stared not at some grotesque monstrosity, but instead at a man.
Imagine my surprise at this, if you can. Years of research, trials, and successes. Dozens of demons had been called forth and subsequently banished by my hand, and never had one manifested itself as a person. And, while there was something strange about him, I might as well have passed him on the street as I would have any other man formed of mortal flesh. He was inconspicuous in all of the ways that mattered.
The demonic man was, I noted, a decidedly handsome creature. He was youthful in appearance, no more than his mid twenties, and dressed in the same convention as my students in the university. His hair was black, his skin a peachy pink, and his eyes a rich, woodsy brown— but then they were red; a dark deep rouge. How had I not noticed it before? How had I thought him so mundane?
His manner of speech, however, left much to be desired. Not that I sound nearly so eloquent as I would care to when I am speaking, but I doubt that his inner monologue was much more sophisticated than a See Spot Run book.
“Well,” the man — no, thing — said with a bored shift of its regard upon my person. “What the fuck do we have here?”
He was not hostile in demeanor, nor did he seem angered at having been called forth. Instead he appeared to be singularly unimpressed. It took me a moment to gather my composure enough to speak.
“I have summoned you forth to do my bidding, incubus, demon,” I declared with neither quaver nor flinch.
“Yeah?” The demon questioned. “Guess that makes you a goddamn idiot then. What do you want? What’s your name?”
It is a testament to my good Russian upbringing, though not to my common sense, that I replied. “Adonai Barkov.” I gave pause, determined to remain in control of the situation, and then presented my own question in turn. “What is your name?”
The man gave a thoughtful hum. He turned within the boundaries of my chalk circle, the toes of his sneakers just shy of brushing the boundary, and slipped his hands casually into his pockets.
“You can call me Kevin.”
I was again surprised. But then, it likely had a name I could neither understand, nor pronounce. Kevin would have to do. I was ready to give my command, but before I had even opened my lips to form words, I caught the shape of a little blob in the corner of my eye. Fuck.
"Hold for a moment Kevin!" I commanded as I rushed out to capture the thing.
I could sense his aggravation but I was too determined this time. There would be no bad luck here, oh no, not while I was this close. The thing squirmed forward like a slug on cocaine, whist tracking a trail of disgusting, black, bubbling ooze all the way up to the kitchen.
I had finally trapped it in between my stove and refrigerator when I grabbed an old, dull kitchen knife and proceeded to stab the awful thing. It let off a high whistle, near to the sound of a tea kettle and it transformed into bubbling, black, tar-like liquid that steamed and smelled of road kill. I threw the knife in the sink and marched back down to the basement with determination.
“I appreciate your patience, Kevin.” I called walking back down into the basement. I saw no reason to be impolite just because I was dealing with a hellspawn. “ Now, I have called you here so you might drive one Isabelle Santini to an early grave. Preferably while she sleeps. It is necessary that there appears to be nothing unnatural about her demise. Afterward, you should return to the underworld.”
“Why? She cut you off or somethin’?” Kevin asked the wall, not even bothering to face me as he spoke. “Wait, no. She stole your fuckin' virginity, yeah?”
“Something like that,” I replied.
I knew that it was in my best interests to show little emotion to this creature, to give way few thoughts and no secrets. Still, it was more difficult to train my expression than I’d anticipated. I could taste victory already.
“All right, then,” Kevin replied, punctuating his bored agreement with a smirk.
“Well, get to it,” I commanded as I forced the demon away.
That, then, was it. I had done it. I had summoned a proper demon. One powerful enough to be of use, but not so powerful that I couldn’t control it. Whether or not it would do as I asked remained to be seen. That fact paled beside how accomplished I felt at the moment.
A week later, that sense of accomplishment had grown. The chancellor pulled me aside to inform me that my former professor and close friend; Ms.Isabelle Santini had passed the night before. It was a gruesome scene. Her body had been torn in two at the horizontal line and there was evidence of rape but no DNA found. Even stranger, no weapon found. The detectives said it was as if her body was ripped in mid air by some unknown force. Her housekeeper had phoned the offices early that morning.
My heart swelled, my pulse quickened, and I had to fight not to smile at the man, not to sing to the heavens. Ding, dong, the bitch was dead. And I had done it! Unassuming me, armed with little more than a piece of yellow chalk.
I faked astonishment. I forced myself to be somber, even distraught where others might see me. "What a tragedy!" I agreed when appropriate. "And she was so young!", I sympathized over hours-old coffee in the teacher's lounge.
I decided to celebrate in private. I picked up a steak from the butcher that I passed during my too-long commute. A fine bottle of red was procured from the boutique alcohol shop neighboring the butcher’s, and a beautiful bunch of green asparagus from the stand out front.
I aired the wine, blanched the asparagus, and cooked the steak to a perfect medium rare. I had just set myself down and made the first cut when the chime of the doorbell interrupted the sweet strains of Vissi d’arte. My mood was entirely too good to be displeased at the interruption. Warm from the wine I’d sipped while preparing dinner, I crossed the room to haul open the door.
By this point, my cheeks were aching from smiling, but that smile grew stiff when I came face to face with the gleam of a worn detective’s badge in a cheap leather case.
The good officers in their ill-fitting polyester suits made it clear that they did not want to take up too much of my time. They did so anyway.
Their questions were mundane and fruitless. Of course I’d known Ms. Santini. I was her close friend. No, I didn’t know why she’d had my card on the stand by her bed. No, I had received no calls from here the night before. No, I had not had relations with the woman in question for well over a year. Yes, I was at home by myself during the period in question, as I most often am.
Perhaps they would have more luck questioning her male students, I'm sure they would have much more information on her than I.
And then they were gone. My food was cold, and my soaring elation had been replaced by the steadily increasing weight of dread. Something awful was afoot. I then heard a sicking dripping noise. My eyes darted about the room and I noticed that my walls were oozing a disturbing liquid much in the like of my old bad luck charm.
Just as I was about to process the situation I had stumbled into, the slime vanished. Shakily, I sat down, ate half of my steak, none of my vegetables, and then packed the leftovers away into the fridge. I made a meal of my wine instead, as it was already opened, and sat in the living room to listen to the rest of my opera in peace.
The music had just died away when the doorbell chimed again. It was unreasonably late for visitors, and I had already managed to drink almost all of the wine. The visit from the police had left my nerves on edge despite my confidence, and the wine was not truly helping to ease them.
To say that I was surprised when I opened the door for my second unexpected arrival of the evening would be an understatement. I had expected it to be the police again, there to harass me more for some fictitious crime. Or perhaps they had received the coroner’s report and come to apologize to me in person. It was not the detectives with their bored faces and rote questions. Instead, it was a familiar incubus.
Fear shot through my throat and crashed down my insides as his hand found the panel of my door, and I turned through the slowing of time. Why didn't this demon go back to where it came? Why was it standing in front of me? What did it want? I didn't have time to wonder. I fled. Without shame. Without hesitation. I ran fast as I could through the interior of my home, which had turned foreign to me in those instants, as though it were a stranger’s house and not mine at all.
He was after me. I could hear his steps behind mine. His stride was long and powerful, but I had moved before he had. I had moved with determination.
The handle of my steak knife was cool in my hand, and I turned to swing it in a wide arch as he closed. The serrated blade caught his t-shirt sleeve, tearing through the tissue-thin fabric, and bit deep into his arm. It left a lurid red streak that was swiftly trickling into the gray of his sleeve.
The demon smiled. His eyes gleamed briefly like a cat’s. “That the best you can do?”
Panicked, I went at him again. This time I could see him. This time I could lash out with purpose. I aimed the blade for his throat, but he raised his arm faster than I could track. It tore his sleeve and sank past his skin. I wrenched the knife back after it struck the resistance of muscle, and a sleek streak of blood flew away from the blade.
He frowned "You summoned me. You commanded me. I've done my job. Now it's your job to send me back."
"I-I don't know how to send you back. You'll have to go yourself!" I shouted shakily.
"Oh."
He stared into me with such darkness in his eyes. It was so intense that all the rest of what happened escapes my mind for I had passed out right at the scene.
I woke up with pain lingering all through my body. The smell was the first indication that I was conscious again. It was also the first indication that something was very, very wrong.
It was the stink of roadkill made ripe by the sun, and maybe turned over with a pitchfork for good measure. It filled my sinuses, spilled into my throat, and set my eyes watering as I gagged. I rolled, clutching my side, and slowly opened my eyes.
I was still slightly drunk, but not enough. It was too easy to think, even with the electronic clicking of the lights amplified within my ears. There were too many colors. I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Weeell, well, well. Looks like sleeping beauty finally woke the fuck up. Was starting to think I’d have to find your ass a prince or something. Shit.”
My tongue was too thick, and it was stuck to the roof of my mouth by a mixture of spit and bile. I worked it about slowly, dug my teeth into the side, and breathed out a groan.
“Yeah, yeah. That’s what all the bitches say,” Kevin giggled.
Something rope-like and wet smacked against the bottom of my foot. I opened my eyes again, but immediately regretted having done so. They clenched tightly as I mustered the most intelligent retort I could come up with at that moment.
“Go ‘way,” I grunted.
“Really? I been gone all this time and that’s the welcome I get? Go away? I would fucking love to, LaVey. But, as you should know, we can't just "go away." As he spoke, Kevin’s voice sank from its high tones of playful offense to something darker, something more lethal.
I opened my eyes. Two glowing, blood red, hellish ones stared back, drifting closer. They were wrapped in leathery darkness.
Experience and instinct both told me that I should keep my mouth shut. I didn’t. Something primal led me to abandon all of my dignity in that moment.
“I already said I don't know how! Now figure it out yourself, god dammit!”
Kevin drew to a halt, a burst of sound barking from his lips. It might have been a laugh if mocking and derision could make laughter.
The lights bled through the darkness to catch on the edges of something new about him. The demon’s horns curled from the dark coils of his hair. Splotches of color tickled across the now pale coloring of Kevin's arm, which had been thrown wide and was bonier than I remembered it being. Kevin’s long, claw-tipped fingers were extended in mockery of salesgirl display, gesturing to a horrific scene of a body mounted on a makeshift cross.
“And as you can see, I've been trying out sacrifices all night.” Kevin taunted.
I stared silent at the corpse. There was a head, and there were arms. There were shoulders, and a chest. All of it mutilated, but certainly present. Beneath the glistening protrusion of exposed rib, however, there was a long span of darkened support beam. The stumps of two feet were nailed in a foot or so from the ground, breaking the gap between bone and floor.
My stomach lurched. Had he done that? It was surely possible. My head hurt, and once again, I shut my eyes.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Kevin chastised.
The same wet, fleshy smack as before struck my bare feet. Again. Again. Incessant and steady until I opened my eyes.
Kevin’s face was in my own. The demon was gaunt, his skull frighteningly defined beneath skin and muscle. His teeth were pointed and yellow in his smile. I cringed away.
“I’m out in the middle of nowhere, aren't I?” I asked
Kevin’s two tails rasped against one another.
“Depends. You'll know where you are when I let you out, and I'll let you out, when you let me out.”
“I don't know how to get you out! It's very difficult!"
“I know.” Kevin smacked his hand to my cheek in mockery of a sympathetic pat. “I know. Guess what else is difficult. Go on, guess.”
I flinched backward. My bare hip stuck to a concrete floor, but peeled away as I went scooting. Every impulse sent the same signal: Run. Runrunrunrun.
“Aw. Not even one little guess, Just gonna squirm around when I ain’t even done anything to you?”
Kevin’s tail caught my ankle in a scaly slide. It was hot, nearly scalding. I grunted, but I was still just drunk enough that I didn’t care about the discomfort as much as I should. I was much more concerned with where I was than the pain.
“Get. That. Thing. Off. Me.”
“Hmmmmm. Nuh uh.”
One skeletal hand shot out and caught me by the forearm. It gripped tight, bruising so, and cut where Kevin’s claws caught at my skin.
“I don’t fucking know,” I screeched, my voice breaking in my throat.
“Watchin’ your ass sleep is fuckin’ difficult, having to deal with that bitch is fuckin' difficult. Do you wanna end up with your hand in a goddamn garbage disposal? Huh? Cuz I can make that real fuckin’ difficult real fuckin’ fast.”
I jerked, thrashing as the edges of my vision grew dim, and everything else turned fuzzy. Kevin’s touch was fire. My ears took to ringing. My skin was too tight. My insides were twisting and burning. I was coated with sweat, and not the healthy sort.
“Fuck. Fuckfuck fucking fuck,” I hollered.
“Nnn. Eeheehee. That shit isn't good for you.,” Kevin exclaimed between giggles. “Stay off that alcohol, man. Lookit you, you're a fucking mess.”
I panted, my breath seemingly impossible to catch. I wanted to vomit, and I couldn’t stop trembling. Everything stank even more than it already had, and the lights had gone from soothing to annoying.
“Fuck,” I gasped.
My stomach gave another threatening twist. I pulled against Kevin’s hold, but the thing seemed to have grown even taller than he already had been, and in so doing he was stretching me further as he pulled on my lower half. Further, and well beyond the bounds of comfort. My spine popped. My head dangled and lolled. My joints ached. It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe, and my quickened pants had turned to shallow gasps.
“‘Beside's I need your help,” Kevin purred, “I did my crucifix all wrong.”
The world lurched again, and my heart jumped into my throat. The tails about my legs gripped, jerking my legs up. Kevin released the grip on my arms at the same time, so I was left flailing as I toppled backward, caught like a hare in a trap. My head struck the gore and gristle on the floor, and beyond that the cement of the floor itself.
I heard my head impact an instant before the pain set in. It was so intense that I found it again difficult to breathe. My arms dangled, heavy and limp. I wanted to catch my balance. I couldn’t see. A handful of simultaneous thoughts ran through my mind, but the blow had me unconscious before Kevin had raised me from the floor.
With a demon, a lack of consciousness is a blessing. I woke to find myself bound to the post, suspended upside down with my arms stretched wide. My hands and feet were nailed through much the same way Kevin nailed the other victim's, but more than that I was constricted. Tied into place with thick, smooth rope. My hands and feet were throbbing balls of pain, and my head felt fit to burst. I was cold and shivering, and whatever dampness clung to my skin had seeped into my eyes to leave them stinging for their irritation and had left my long hair dripping wet.
“Do you know who saint Peter is?” Kevin’s voice echoed about me, bouncing off of the high ceiling and distant walls.
The twinkling lights had been shut off and Kevin had opted to a flicked to a single bare bulb that dangled from a length of chain and wire at the far end of the room. It swayed slowly back and forth, though there was no breeze, and set the shadows to swaying with it.
I squinted at Kevin, peering up at the demon who was silhouetted one moment, and lit along the plane of cheek and curve of horn the next.
“Let me down.” I ordered. Or, I meant to. It was not as intimidating as I would’ve liked. I couldn’t breathe properly, and the words were more groan than growl. How I wished my head would burst as it seemed intent on convincing me it would.
“So, this fucker, he gets himself arrested for being Christian. Now, he’d been arrested before, and got outta that shit, but not this time. This time, Nero was in a bad fuckin’ mood over these fires that were goin’ ‘round, and he decided he was gonna blame the strange fuckin’ Christians for it. And as we all fuckin’ know, the Romans loved their goddamn crucifixions.”
Kevin stepped around me as he spoke, circling the cross so that the bouncing of his voice continued to shift and distort at different angles. Pain lanced up my left leg and into my gut, and I was left choking on a curse from something so simple as an idle flick of finger to toe.
“And,” Kevin paused to giggle uproariously, “And this motherfucker— This fucker, he goes ‘Wait!’ Like the Romans are gonna listen to his ass? He was such a fuckin’ little bitch the whole time that they went and nailed his ass in instead of just tyin’ him. So they get this old man all strung up, and he’s whining and bitching like you’d expect some motherfucker on a cross to do, and then this fucker. This fucker! He goes, ‘No! Wait!’” Kevin pitched his voice high in mockery. “I have an even better idea!” The demon paused his story, and his circling, to giggle anew.
He snorted and harked as he quelled the roil of sound. “Fuckin’ says he ain’t worthy to die like that illegitimate bastard. Says he wants them to raise his cross upside down.”
Kevin's silhouette stopped in front of me. It tucked in on itself as he laughed. It wasn’t the good, jocular sort of laughter that meant that I got to share in. It was laughter that was dark in its mirth, and unpredictable in its promise. It set me to whimpering, my bindings flexing for how my chest heaved.
“Course you know, they fuckin’ did it, cus that shit’s hilarious. Best fuckin’ part is now all you little "satanists" are running 'round with these ‘I-ain’t-worthy’ crosses 'round your necks. And isn't that just what you are?"
He pointed to the reverse cross barely hanging off my neck.
“Yes, well,” I croaked thickly, “I'm not a saint.”
Kevin tittered and leaned down to smack my cheek. It was a mockery of affection, too hard to be comfortable.
“No,” Kevin agreed. “No, you're not.”
Kevin stepped back, then turned away from me entirely.
“How long you think it’ll take you to die that way? I needa sacrifice to get back, I'm sure. Since no one else worked, I'm guessin' i'll have to sacrifice the summoner.” Kevin went rifling through a misshapen pile that I could not see clearly in the hard, but limited light of the single bare bulb.
I could hear the thump of plastic, a slosh of something wet. The clatter of metal against metal was dull and then high, and something gave a wet, flashy slap to the cement flooring. “Maybe you won’t die so soon though. You ARE a mighty Satanist after all.” Footsteps thumped closer.
“Maybe you’ll just hang there for fucking ever,” Kevin taunted. A small, limp, and cold hand flopped against my face. The stink of the room had me choking as I caught a trace a black liquid dripping from the walls in the limited light, a now familiar sight. It was a sign. It all ended here. “Keep your ass outta trouble, huh? Summoning demons. It's not a very safe thing to do.”
Kevin's teeth caught the light when he turned, all sharp, glistening edges past the wicked curl of his lips. I coughed and wheezed. My face was starting to tingle.
Kevin laughed. I did not. My stomach twisted. But then.. then I felt it. That distant dulling of sensation. I let the painful irony wash over me. A failed sacrifice. Failure in life as in death. I passed out again.
Though, it was not to last. I woke again to a cold splash of water over my face. Kevin had flipped on the dying florescent tubes recessed into the drop panel ceiling. I sputtered as the water ran from my chin to my chest, sluicing toward my feet for I had been turned upright while I was out.
The demon was all grins, and he dropped the bucket he’d been holding with a loud clatter. The basement stank, and it seemed there was blood everywhere. The liquid still pouring from the walls. Even Kevin’s bare torso and grungy jeans were mottled with it, that or blood. It was difficult to tell between the two at this point.
“Again? That has to be the third time, fuckin pussy."
Kevin’s fingers pinched a fresh bruise to my cheek. I worked what paltry bit of spit through my mouth that I could sum up, then sent it flying with all of the force I could muster. The result was a pathetic trail of drool that hurled itself down along my chin and dribbled cool onto my chest.
I grunted against the pain that continued to run through me in waves of hot and cold.
“Fuck you. Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou. Let me the fucking fuck down from here you fucking cocksucking mother fucker.”
“Nahnahnah. We're having a history lesson here!” Kevin stepped wide around me. “Now this. This is closer to how that so-called fuckin’ son of the Almighty was crucified, yeah? ‘Least in your pretty little stories. Now, I ain’t got a lance…”
Kevin raised a paint stick with a cheap kitchen knife strapped to it, the same one I had used to stab my small, bad luck charm upon our first meeting. I stared at the wads of gray tape that circled the handle rather than at the blade. I suppose it made things easier that way. It still didn’t stop me from thinking about how dull the blade was. If karma was real, this would be the moment she thoroughly fucked me.
“… but I figure this’ll do,” Kevin continued. “So this guy, he wants to see if this fucker is dead before they break his legs to hurry him along, cus he sure is taking his sweet fucking time. And he takes his lance like this, and he sticks good ol’ Jesus right here like this.”
The knife caught me in the ribs, right through my bindings. I hollered, my head dropping as I reflexively sought the wound to gauge its severity. It was impossible to see past the coils of rope that wrapped me. I pulled my head up again, gasping eagerly for air as I did so.
“Or was it here?” Kevin muttered lightly.
The knife struck carelessly to the other side. The blade nicked. It tore a ragged path through my skin and pierced into muscle in a burning shot. I roared at Kevin and made to thrash, but that set me to stilling and shrieking as I encountered the resistance of the nails embedded in my hands and feet.
“Naaaaah,” Kevin mused right through the volume of my agony. “What about.. heeere?” The knife drew a fine slit through soft tissue before plunging past and into the heat of my belly.
I choked. I shuddered and broke into sobs, tears rolling hot and fast along my cheeks. It was too much. Why did I do this? Was this worth my revenge? The pain went beyond agonizing. Every time I started to adjust to it, Kevin would find a way to bring it screaming back again. I couldn’t even die to get away from it.
“Wait, no. I think I had it right the first time.” Kevin leaned close with a smirk. “Ohohoh! I almost forgot. Good ol’ Jesus had himself a crown of thorns or some shit, yeah?”
Kevin dropped the knife to the floor as he turned away, adding to the collection of blood around the beam. He stepped around me, but returned in short order with string of barbed wire shaped into a circle with nails poked into the openings where the wire intertwined with itself.
“Now, I ain’t got any thorns, but I pulled some real rigged up shit here.” Kevin hooked the contraption onto my head. It prickled and poked in a tight ring, the points of inlaid nails digging at my skin. The demon’s grin was full of glee and teeth. “It’s amazin’ whatchu can do with nails, ‘ey?”
Kevin’s too-large hands pressed along the base of the wire, securing the circle of nails into my skin. The discomfort escalated to join the hymn of pain resounding through my body, turning briefly blinding. I blinked rapidly against the rivulets of blood that ran into my eyes.
Kevin stood back to admire his work, hand propped to chin. Just when it seemed his grin could go no wider, it inhumanly did so anyway. The abomination stepped nearer to me, then leaned to press himself close, chest crushing against chest past the malleable loops of rope.
A long, hot trail of spittle eased the passage of Kevin’s tongue along my cheek. He bumped the tip of his nose under the ridge of my cheekbone, his breath rolling over skin and saliva both.
“It's hard to get into hell, kid.”
Kevin’s teeth needled and tugged at my bottom lip. My heart raced for the bursts of silvery pain that shot into my cheeks and sinuses for it. My heart raced, and my eyes watered anew, but I didn’t dare move. Even moving to sob had hurt.
A soft, strange grunting filled my ears. It reminded me of the noise sacrificial rabbits make in their death throes, but I was distantly aware of the fact that I was not the one making the sound. I looked up. The goo was pouring from the ceiling like from a faucet now. Kevin didn't seem to notice it.
Kevin released my mouth and turned away. The demon’s tails twisted and dragged behind him, jutting from the skin above his waistband. One long finger hooked over the switch near the base of the stairs, but just before he flicked it down something caught my aching eyes. Something in the shape of a small circle. A small circle with a pale pink eye.
As I gaped in shock at the bouncing sphere through weary eyes it began to transform, shifting into something massive, far more than the demon in front of it. It was shadow-like, but had depth.
Kevin glanced up at the monstrosity. The room vibrated. The shadow vibrated. All of my senses began to fail and in an instant I was on the floor.
All of the gore and gristle of the seconds before had vanished. I was relived of my wounds and bindings, but the pain still made itself known to my bones. I had realized I was in my basement after all.
I stared at the ceiling for what must have been a solid fifteen minutes until I had realized absence of the black liquid. I felt something wet. I used the last bit of my strength to lurch my upper half up with my hands and elbows.
I brought my eyes down to stare intently at the little ball now sitting in my lap. An eye was staring intently back and liquid coated my torso. I shifted weight onto my left forearm to pat it's gooey flesh.
"I'm sorry."
It squeaked in response.
Submitted June 10, 2015 at 04:45PM by cruleings http://ift.tt/1L16ZSp nosleep
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