by Amy Berg
The cloud descended and caked them with the atrocious scent and turned the night cold. It seemed like winter in a matter of seconds. He hugged his sheets to him, but that didn’t make it any warmer. In fact the trademarks of the KKK became caked with ice that was so cold it became a scorching agony. Everyone began ripping off his sheets in fits of unbearable pain.
For the leader, pulling off his hood was the most painful thing he’d ever done in his life. The cloth took some skin from his neck with it as he cried in pain. His cry, however, was nothing compared with the wailing he heard coming from some unfortunate soul. He stopped struggling long enough to find out who was screaming so badly. He could have gone the rest of his life and the whole of eternity without seeing what he saw.
One of his men, he couldn’t tell whom, was being attacked by what he saw as burnt black blobs. There were two of them, black as sin and checkered with small white spots. When the tears cleared from his eyes he saw that the blobs were actually two members of the congregation they’d just burned and that the checkered white spots were patches where bone jutted through. The bodies were charred so bad they were still smoking.
He spit out blood and got to his knees his mind racing with hate. What the hell was going on here? These people were supposed to be dead. Despite his fear he felt angry. They were defying him. Even in death they were defying him! His daddy had told him the only good nigger was a dead nigger and these people proved hard to put down. But their theatrics wouldn’t stop him. No sir. Alive or in death they would pay dearly for their trespasses. They were acting like the savages they were. No amount of cotton was worth having them here now. Here they were killing a white man, on ground they claimed was for the Lord. They were desecrating His land with their very presence. Anger and hatred ran through his body putting his fear aside.
He began wiping the dirt and sweat from his face. The cloud had mixed with the smoke and it crusted his skin.
“Here sir, take my handkerchief.”
Without thinking he snatched at the cloth and tried to wipe his face; it didn’t reach, however, and as he tugged he realized it wasn’t a handkerchief at all. It was the end of a dress. Through watery eyes he made out the trace of mud his boot left on her best Sunday dress.
He felt her fingernails a moment later, popping his eye clean out of its socket. He howled and dropped to his knees. There was a kick to his back, another to his ribs, chest, and multiple times to his head. He got a look at his death with one good diluted eye.
They were dead, but they were still alive. They were all alive and they were all angry.
Claws were in his skin now, as well as teeth. They were like lions with a gazelle. Pulling him apart bite by bite. He felt huge chunks of his body as they were severed. She got his other eye eventually. Only this time she stuck her claw through it to pull it out. Something pulled at his groin and after a moment, where his manhood used to be, there was nothing but a gaping, squirting fissure.
Screams filled the night air, but the cloud contained the sounds. If it hadn’t been there, a person in the next county would have heard the pandemonium of slaughter. But just as quickly as it had come it soon began dying down, and he knew the End had come. He was begging God for mercy but there was none to be found. God would never look down on this area again.
Arsandoulai smiled as it used the dead congregation as puppets. It had been hundreds of years since it had animated corpses, and it had forgotten how much fun it could be. It let out another laugh, humming along to the melody of screams in the night.
Mary’s father watched from his noose as the shadow of Death moved over them. It was a sight to see. The Dead had Risen. Just like the Good Book had prophesied. It wasn’t the Armageddon he’d expected it to be. This wasn’t peace, no lamb lying with the lion. This was only cold-blooded massacre. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew Mary had something to do with this. He should have let her burn to death in the Holy Water, or snapped her neck himself. Maybe she would have gone to Heaven from that, but he doubted it. She was Satan’s spawn. He’d known it and he’d let her live. He could only ask God for forgiveness in his mistake as a father.
As if on cue she emerged from the forest.
Her eyes glimmered in the moonlight. As soon as she started walking, the cloud’s base hovering around her head dissipated, allowing the light to show her the extent of her carnage.
“Damn you!” he shouted at her, the noose on his neck straining his words. She simply strolled toward him. Stepping over the bodies of Klan and congregation alike. It made no difference to her.
“Where was your Savior?” she asked, though it was not her voice. It was something different, something sinister. He imagined she was how the devil sounded when he tempted Jesus.
“Where was your Savior?” the Demon repeated stepping before him.
He gasped at the sight of his daughter. She was naked, and she held no shame for her condition. Her eyes were black orbs. Her skin was void of any bruises he’d inflicted earlier that evening. It was now dark and he could see her veins, as big as snakes and flowing with evil. They pulsed as she mocked him. When she spoke he saw that she had far too many teeth; it was almost impossible that she could have so many sharp objects clicking up and down. Her fingers had stretched into claws that wrapped themselves around her waist. She stood in front of him, hands on hips, as if scolding his faith. It made his heart ache to see what had come from his loins.
“As you see,” the Demon said, “I give results. You don’t have to wait until you die to see the fruit of your faith.”
He looked upon this thing with contempt. She spoke as if she were a god.
“You beat Mary for the last time old man. I have had enough of your preaching and politics. It’s time you learned. I am one of the First Named, birthed from Chaos far beyond your concept of time.” Her voice made his ears bleed. He felt the liquid as it moved down his neck.
He shouted to God in Heaven for forgiveness and to damn her to Hell. His cries were interrupted by the sound of singing. He pulled his head down one last time to see,
All of his people, all of them dead stood before him some still smoldering in the night air. They were behind her. Behind it. They had all been summoned, singing “Wade in the Water.” It was a sickening sound. His beliefs were being defiled, his people violated. He wanted it to end. But the horse stayed still. He realized it hadn’t moved throughout the whole incident.
She had kept it there.
As the congregation joined hands and their demonic voices grew he cried for death. He cried for God to take him. His daughter stood directly beneath him, leering up at him.
“If you are so eager to go,” she said, “I can send you to him.”
With that she released him. A hard smack to the horse and she delivered her father to his death, his body swinging lightly in the breeze.
Arsanduolai let the bodies drop. Silence cut through the night air and a soft wind began cleaning the stench of the dead. Though it felt the power of freedom from being called, it took one last breath of dead air and receded back into its hiding place within Mary.
Come morning local authorities would find the church in ashes and dust. The bodies were everywhere on the ground. Though seven victims would never be found, their bodies already carefully buried in a family plot. Gossip and conjecture would spread throughout the day. There had been some strange fruit hanging from the tree. Strange fruit indeed. Eight Ku Klux Klan members hung from the old oak tree with one lynched black man, who had an expression of relief on his face.
Mary wiped her calloused hands off. The family she loved had been taken care of. She wished she could be at the church to witness the discovery. But she had to leave. There would be too many unanswerable questions. Her legacy had receded back into its hiding place. Now was not the proper time to expose it. Tonight was just a demonstration. What had been broken had now been fixed. She would never again be beaten by that leather belt. This would be the last time she’d think of her fat
her. As she looked at his body in the tree, she’d spit on him one last time and uttered to herself that Holy word, whispered it through her razor-thin smile.
“Hallelujah.”
About The Author
Akela Cooper grew up loving horror movies so it’s no wonder she turned into the sick and twisted individual she is today, spinning her own macabre tales when she’s not working as a writer in television. Akela started her TV writing career as a staff writer on ABC’s remake of the ‘80s lizard alien invasion miniseries V, moving on to NBC’s fairytale cop show Grimm for two seasons. She currently works on the CW Network’s post-apocalyptic teen drama The 100, as well as working her magic on Lifetime’s Witches of East End. Akela’s parents are still very, very happy they no longer have to pay her rent.
Follow her on Twitter: @akelacooper
“Three Minutes”
by Liz Edwards
The motion sensor light turns on and shines into my room.
Someone is walking towards the house.
My pencil pauses on the second question of my take-home quiz. I wait for the sound of my mom’s key in the locked door. It’s only seven-twenty, too early to be back.
I run through the list of who it could be, mom—gone until at least nine, grandparents—fishing on the gulf, brother—visiting A&M, little brother—sleep over, dad—wouldn’t show up without talking to mom first.
Listen.
I hear the rattle and snap as the doorknob turns and latches back into place. I wait for a response to the locked door—a key in the lock, a knock, the doorbell. My hand instinctively moves four inches to the right searching for my phone. Then I remember I don’t get it back for three more days. Definitely not worth the lie about going to Megan’s. Still no sound. The skin behind my ears wakes up, sensitive that something is wrong.
Get up, move. This room is a dead end. Get out.
I’m out of my chair and inching into the hallway. I hear a slow deliberate rattle, snap echo up the stairwell. The knob being tried again. No key in the lock, nothing dropped through the mail slot.
Yell. Let them know someone is home. Make it deep, masculine, like a guy.
I move to the upstairs landing ready to shout when I hear the metal squeak of the mail slot opening. Nothing falls through. They’re having a look inside. Adrenaline kicks in. Pinpricks shoot down my arms, needling my skin from within.
I open my mouth but I can’t control the staccato chop of quick inhales that don’t reach my lungs. I’m mute, hyperventilating.
Run downstairs, go out the back, get out of the house.
I start down the stairs skipping the top step when a large, unrecognizable hand juts through the slot and searches for the knob. My eyes widen and dry out in an instant. I stumble on the top step forcing a loud creak from the wood. The sound should scare them away. The mail slot falls shut.
Run.
Left to the phone or right to the gun? Call for help. No, get the gun. Then get help. I run right to my brother’s room, staying on the balls of my feet. As I reach his door, I am stopped dead by one tiny sound, a key sliding into the deadbolt.
Whoever is out there found the spare key. Anger clenches my jaw. I knew that was a stupid, obvious place to hide a key and I said nothing. She let my little brother pick it. He always gets exactly what he—
Rattle, the sound of the knob turning.
This isn’t happening.
I hear the door break the threshold. I can’t move.
Don’t come in.
The door creaks open. A footstep on the floor. The weight of the air shifts. It’s not safe here anymore. He’s in my house. Standing on the glitter glue wedged between floorboards, the last mischief I shared with my little brother before we became enemies.
I hear the door close.
The knob releases in a tinny snap. In the silence the intruder is free. My mind is unable to tether him to any one physical place.
Move, move, move. Protect yourself. Get what you came for.
I close the bedroom door. Duct tape covers the absent deadlock. No way to lock it. I’m not the only one who has had things taken away. I scramble to the bed and drop to my knees. I reach. It’s not there. It has to be there, he snuck it out of the safe the day after he got it.
Keep searching.
My face pushes into the comforter smelling of teenage boy and greasy fast food.
Keep stretching.
I wedge my head between the floor and metal frame. I see the outline of a case and grab it. His prized birthday present from grandpa.
Suddenly, I’m resting on my heels with it in my hand. I unzip it. I can’t move fast enough. The magazine and gun slide to the carpet as I’m already searching for something to cut the cable lock. I lunge for the desk and pat the pile of debris on top. I find something solid, sharp. Scissors. I chomp the blades around the wire and saw back and forth, open and close. It’s working.
The moan of weight on the wood stairs.
Load the gun, find the phone. Stay focused.
I blink away the panic. This is taking too long. I need to find the key. An image of my friend Lucia crying with laughter as we read my brother’s love letters found in the false back of his bedside table. That’s where he’ll keep it.
I lunge for the table. My search begins and ends at the top of the table. The key is in plain sight.
I toss the scissors and grab the key. Unlike my still disabled voice, my hands are nimble, steady. I can do this. I push the key into the lock and pull the cable from the gun. I check the cartridge. It’s heavy. I see two bullets inside, maybe more below.
You’ve watched your brother do this. Seen it in movies. It’s not hard.
I push the cartridge into the handle. It slides out. I slam it into position. It clicks into place. I try not to touch the trigger as I get control of it. It’s heavy.
The phone is on the other side of the stairs. I have to run past him. Too risky. I kick the case and cable lock beneath the bed, hiding evidence of the gun. Better to hide me. Where? I still need to be able to see. Indecision rises like bile.
Focus on the gun.
Where will I get the best view, be able to take the best shot. In the center of the room, facing the door. I straighten the comforter over rumpled sheets, removing any visual that shortens the mental steps to rape. I’m thankful for the extra half second my leotard and tights beneath my clothes will give me.
Don’t think about that. You have a gun.
The footsteps are louder now, nearing the top of the stairs. In rapid succession, one, two. Three, four. There are two of them.
This changes nothing. Stay focused.
I back against the wall facing the door dead on. My feet are firmly on the ground. I lean against the wall for extra support but the gun pulls me to the side, stretching my arm down. My hand is getting sweaty. I almost drop it. My left hand joins my right, tight around the handle.
I look down, fully realizing that I am armed. This maims, kills.
Don’t get distracted.
He probably has a gun. He does have a gun. Everyone has a gun. Holding it is not enough. I will have to use it. Make sure it’s ready to fire. There are bullets in the cartridge. Get them into the chamber. I pull back the slide of the gun. It’s difficult and only moves an inch. I switch hands and grip the slide with my right hand. I pull with all of my strength. An audible click. It’s ready. Now what.
Maybe I should have gone for the phone. I could still hide under the bed. I won’t fit.
Don’t get distracted. Clear your mind.
I hear the buckle of the tops step, once, twice and then silence as feet move to the plush carpet of the landing. They are upstairs, less than eight feet from the door.
I glance at the bedside table, the twelve point buck on the cover of Field and Stream looks back at me, startled.
Don’t get distracted. Prepare for what’s coming.
I can, I will shoot. I could miss. What’s the worst thing that happens. I’m shot. I die. I
t will be over quickly. Rape. I can take it. I can handle pain. I performed with a twisted ankle last spring. But that was an ankle, what about down there. I haven’t even tried using a tampon yet. Sex is supposed to hurt, but this won’t be sex. Don’t fight it. It will make it worse. I can do this.
I had my period for the first time at my dad’s three weeks ago. He found me on the bathroom floor rocking from side to side as my insides clenched in agony. He was smiling, proud that I had such a high pain threshold, also some crap about being a woman, but my pain threshold is what impressed him. He should know. He’s a doctor. I can tolerate pain. Pain won’t kill me. But he didn’t have to say it in front of Mr. Neal. It was so embarrassing. God I wish my dad was here.
Focus. You are going to stop them before they do anything.
I try to hold onto the idea that I will win this. I am invincible. Even if it’s not true, I need to believe it. The gun makes it true. An image from the internet last year worms its way into my head. Marcela Ruiz, a girl my age discarded in a ditch across town, stab wounds all over. Sixty-two of them. The man who did it used zip ties to secure her then slowly sliced at her skin for an hour, cutting her all over. They found the guy, I think. They did. Yes, he’s locked up. He knew the girl. I don’t know anyone capable of doing that. I am a good judge of character. The darkness within someone like that would show itself. I’d see it. Wouldn’t I? Sixty-two times. I sliced my finger on a can, no stitches but it hurt. A lot. Imagine that deeper… all… over.
I can’t do this. I can’t survive someone else doing whatever they want to me, hurting me. Not being able to stop them.
But I’m strong, I’ll fight him. Does that ever work? When does the twelve year-old girl win against… anyone.