It took a deep, rasping breath then, breathing freely for the first time. A female voice called out from the bedroom, and It grunted with feverish expectancy. Glancing into the mirror, It was pleased with the reflection staring back. It flashed a savage smile, tearing away the final strips of Jonathan’s flesh with Its prehensile tail.
Entering the darkened bedroom, It saw a nude silhouette standing motionless – watching It from the shadows. It heard a squish and looked down to see the fleshy remnants of Margaret Bailey lying under Its feet: a lacerated ear, a mangled breast, and chunks of indistinguishable meat spread across the crimson-soaked carpet.
The thing that was once Margaret slithered out of the darkness with welcoming arms and a blood-soaked smile.
Green Man
Jeff Gardiner
Harry couldn’t help feeling it all seemed like a load of mumbo-jumbo. He began to wish he hadn’t bothered to visit his grandparents in their stupid rural village. If he’d stayed at home he could have gone to the pub with Kev, Trev and Bev.
The picture above the fireplace depicted a satyr with leaves growing out of his mouth and winding around his head. His beard was made of oak leaves and from his mouth protruded a long green grotesque leaf-tongue.
‘I have no interest in bowing down to some pagan green man or being a sacrifice for an ancient god,’ he replied dismissively.
‘You think us witches, Harry? His grandma put an affectionate hand on his face. ‘Your grandfather and I just love nature and wish to celebrate creation. This world is a mystery and we want to say thanks for that mystery. Mother Nature is wild and savage, but also life-affirming.’ She kissed him on one cheek. ‘She represents the chaotic part of us which needs to be tamed.’ She stared at him intently then smiled. ‘Perhaps we all share the same soul that is also in trees and rocks and water and beasts and flowers.’
Harry felt unable to respond to such arcane ambiguity. He felt he now understood why his parents had refused to see them for over thirteen years, before their untimely deaths.
‘We have a surprise for you tomorrow morning. It’s an early start. Sunrise is at 6.04. Our conjunction will occur beneath the pole star and the bear, united in the three lights of the infinite. Don’t forget your berries of the moon,’ grandma added playfully, picking up a little sprig of mistletoe from the sideboard and pressing it into his hand. She turned and skipped off.
Harry looked at the twig which had no berries on it. He fetched a glass of water and went to bed.
* * *
As the open hay cart, pulled by seven strong lads, trundled slowly through the village the next morning, folk left their homes to amble slowly behind it. Soon a horde of followers jostled amicably in the wake of the meandering cart, which contained a startling spectacle.
Harry nearly choked when he realized one of the figures in the cart was his grandma, scantily covered in a sparse mantle of green foliage. But just as disquieting was the sight of a young man standing with her, completely naked except for a mask of leaves and a pair of antlers on his head. Then Harry saw his grandpa at the front of their little crowd, calling out encouragement and watching on proudly. Harry struggled to work out which part of this disturbed him the most.
As soon as the cart found its way to the middle of the village green it came to a halt. His grandma stood up in all her splendour and finery with a hand raised to silence the still muttering crowd.
‘We call upon Mother Nature to bring us the blessings of productivity and plenty and invoke our benefactress Frigg to renew the life force which flows through our fields, our crops, our streams, our forests and our bodies.’
At this, naked masked man gave a blood-curdling scream like a rutting stag, scraped one foot on the ground as if it were a hoof and then pressed Harry’s grandma assertively down in the cart below the level of the decorated sides. Naked buttocks appeared intermittently as their thrusts caused the cart to rock and squeak rhythmically, just as the rosy beams of a new sun gently caressed the hilltops and snaked through the trees.
Harry felt torn between turning away in horror and watching in voyeuristic disbelief.
The crowd pressed forward, with a few cheeky boys at the front climbing up to sneak a peek over the side. Eventually the couple struggled to their feet with grandma patting down her now crumpled costume looking rosy-cheeked, and the young man seemed unaware that some boys were pointing to and laughing at his deflated member dangling pathetically between his hairy legs.
Harry’s grandmother spoke out again: ‘Let us all be ready to join our own life-force with each other and with that of the earth beneath.’
This seemed to be a signal for others to follow, whereupon half a dozen couples stripped and began writhing together in the grass. Harry turned away embarrassed, unsure how to react. He was not fully prepared when approached by a group of young ladies who all held out their hands to him. He quickly signalled his unwillingness. This only led to a different proposition from a young man gaudily dressed in a green leotard and tutu. Harry broke into a quick sprint.
Away from the green he noticed a different group gathering on the road which led down to a farm. Then he realized the main crowd were now shifting towards the road and beginning to file slowly down to the fields. On the nearest fallow field another ceremony looked set to take place.
The cart pushed through the crowds with Harry’s grandma calling out, ‘He is here! He is come! Behold, the King of the Wood!’
Harry squinted slightly, managing to make out a character bedecked in a wickerwork body-frame woven with leaves and twigs, drunkenly skipping and cart wheeling, shrieking a manic laughter, as what looked like a giant wooden phallus attached to his groin, thrust out wobbling and vibrant. He stopped before a line of seven beautiful girls all garlanded in artificial flowers – daffodils, crocuses and bluebells. Their dresses were similarly made entirely of flowers. When three blasts sounded on a horn they began to dance in circles, becoming gradually more frenetic, causing flowers to shake and fall from their perfectly lithe bodies. During this dance the tree king sang a hearty folk-song.
In the old greenwood I found me a Rose
The most colourful garland ever.
Then I plucked her from her woodland home
And she became my lover.
She learnt to sing, to dance and play
I taught her all I knew-o
But then one day my rose had gone
I knew not where she flew-o.
Full twenty year were passed and gone;
Goodwives I had a plenty.
Sired sixty children fit and strong
When I espied my Rosey.
She spoke to me with loving eyes
‘Give unto me what you do best.’
I threw down hoe and ploughshare too
And filled her with my harvest.
The King of the Woods swayed and twitched as the maidens’ dance became yet more lascivious. Then he abruptly fell to the ground and lay still on the furrowed field, with his wooden phallus pointing irreverently upwards as his seven virgin brides finished dancing to line up patiently before him. The first girl was lifted by four strong lads and carried towards the prostrate Green Man with her legs astride. Harry found himself joining in with the cheer as they lowered her over her new master. They raised her and lowered her as she wrapped her legs around the wooden limb, simulating sexual passion until her final, slightly ridiculous scream caused her to fall melodramatically in a feigned collapse of exhaustion for the next virgin to enact her role. The next six all mimed a variety of obscene acts upon their tree husband until all seven lay motionless on the turf and sod. Harry allowed himself a snigger.
Once again his grandmother acted as guide and narrator from her cart. Her young lover had gone.
‘The time has arrived for the sewing of the seed,’ she raised her arms triumphantly and Harry groaned with a heavy heart. All the men hurriedly unzipped their flies as Harry wandered swiftly off to a place of his own away from the insanity.
/> Harry felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to face a smiling naked girl that he vaguely recognized. He realized she was one of the seven virgins from the earlier ceremony. She took his left hand and pressed into it some grains of corn that had been dyed green, red and yellow. Then she took his right hand and placed it over her warm firm bosom. Harry felt embarrassed, unsure whether to leave it there or not.
‘Beware good people. For there is a stranger among us!’
This made Harry jump and gave him an excuse to remove his hand and turn towards the voice. His grandmother had both hands raised aloft. The horn sounded an urgent blast. Harry wondered if she referred to him – an interloper ready for some horrific initiation into these pagan rites. Was he to be some kind of sacrifice?
‘The stranger is coming. I hear his footfall. Scatter! Flee for your lives! For the name of the stranger is Death!’
When he heard screams and got caught up in a rush across the fields, Harry felt relief that his grandma did not seem to be referring to him. He looked over his shoulder as everyone fled as one group. Some people stumbled in the onrush, helped up again by those around. Harry began to enjoy the drama and feeling of togetherness.
Behind them, emerging from the trees strode a giant: dark disfigured, limping wildly and garbed in black tatters. Harry gasped in wonder. Everyone watched in awe. Why didn’t they run, thought Harry? Around him people chatted merrily and laughed. Were they not scared of this creature?
As he looked closely, Harry saw the giant was flanked by four or five smaller figures – perhaps the giant’s minions or keepers? These smaller figures moved strangely, flinging their arms outwards and upwards as if pulling on ropes. At first Harry assumed they had the giant tied up like a prisoner and were allowing him only a certain distance. Then the movements of the men reminded Harry of boys flying kites – pulling strings as if manipulating their toy and controlling its movements. That was when it hit him. The giant was an enormous puppet. The puppet masters worked as a team, lifting feet to make it shuffle forward; nodding its head to give an illusion of life. Its arms swung jerkily in time with its steps. The illusion was magnificent and Harry joined in with the spontaneous applause.
The nearer it got, the better Harry could see the entire puppet was a gigantic corn doll, burnt black and disfigured to represent death and a bad harvest. Harry guessed it stood about five meters high.
On the sound of the battle-horn there came a cheer as Harry – caught up in the rush – struggled to keep his feet on the floor. Everyone surged towards the figure of Death screaming and yelling, and upon reaching the beautifully made puppet attacked and ripped it to pieces in seconds. The ruthlessness took Harry’s breath away. He looked at the few wisps of black stalk he had managed to grasp. Then the villagers ceremoniously jumped on the windswept remnants left strewn on the floor. Harry willingly joined in the chants, songs, cheers and games that continued. Flagons of ale appeared, rolled out and quickly emptied into wooden beakers. Then a strong port and whisky concoction got passed round in a large communal flagon. In the middle of this revelry and wassail the remnants of death were gathered together on a large sheet as people began to chant: ‘Drive death out of the village. Let the harvest grow. Drive death out of the village. Let the harvest grow.’ Ladies distributed wine and mead as the crowds became even more chatty and excitable.
This time Harry’s grandpa had a role to play. Unashamedly naked, he held aloft a yellow woven crown.
‘Death has gone – let us rejoice!’ There followed an almighty cheer. ‘Now we shall witness the resurrection of new life.’ He placed the crown on grandma’s head. ‘Shout, sing and dance to our Corn Mother, for she brings us new life everlasting.’ The men who had been pulling the cart shrugged off their harnesses and placed grandma carefully onto a throne on a wagon. A smaller and more drunken crowd trailed behind as she touched barns and houses.
‘I bring fertility to the fields and fulfilment to each marriage.’ Grandma blew Harry a kiss and he felt himself becoming a part of the madness and spectacle.
‘And now I choose my king for the day – the Lord of Misrule.’
She stood up, looked to the sky and then slowly lowered an outstretched arm with a finger pointing straight at Harry.
Shaking with fear and excitement, he was drawn towards his grandmother: her heavy bosom and plump arms enticing him into her sanctuary-hold. Although a part of him still sought solitude and detachment, he gave up resisting and fell headlong into the revelry and chaos.
‘As King for the day we give you our gift.’
Harry stood transfixed as two of the most beautiful young ladies he’d ever seen danced slowly and nakedly towards him. They gently pulled him towards the cart where his own grandparents had earlier copulated.
‘Three become one; the eternal mystery,’ intoned the hypnotic voice of his grandmother. ‘Embrace the mystery, Harry. Give in to your senses. The three of you engaged in the physical union of nature will symbolize the three lights which guide us. Firstly sun and fire, which is truth; secondly, the light of understanding, which is wisdom; thirdly, inspiration of the soul which is love. New life will burgeon and teem within us and amongst us.’
Harry let go; he gave in to temptation and released himself from decades of guilt and repression. They held out to him a mask of a satyr with leaves growing out of his mouth and winding round his head, as if slowly possessing him. He allowed them to fix it over his face.
Sod the consequences, he told himself – it was just for one day. The girls coaxed and whispered for him to lie down beside them. ‘Bring it on’, muttered Harry as he ripped off his clothes. The crowd cheered and he saw his grandparents hold hands affectionately as they watched on proudly.
Our Love
Claude Lalumiere
That morning, when she roused herself from slumber, we were not touching. I had already been awake for close to an hour; I usually woke up before she did, and, if we weren’t already snuggling in our sleep, I would press my body next to hers, take her hand in mine, smell her intoxicating aromas, and wait for her to return from that mysterious place sleep takes us to.
Most mornings, when she awakened, we would take out our love and, together, play with it, caress it, enjoy it, nurture it. We kept our love on my side of the bed, in the top drawer of my night table, in a small golden box. The box had been my gift to her on our betrothal, but she insisted that I take care of it, that I be the designated caretaker of our love. The casing and clasp were both made of pure gold; inlaid on the top of the box was a pattern composed of finely cut pink-red rubies that evoked a sky full of stars. The inner casing was cushioned with red velvet, but I wanted to pamper our love, so I had made extra bedding for it with yet more red velvet, and there our love nestled when it waited for us to take it out and bask in the pleasures it afforded us.
That morning, she immediately sensed that something was amiss. She pulled the covers tightly around her, as if she needed to shield her nudity from me. She asked, “What’s wrong?” Her eyes strayed beyond me to my bedside table and the open top drawer. There was nothing inside.
Her eyes grew wider. She looked at me as though I were a stranger intruding on her intimacy. She pulled the sheets yet tighter against her.
I closed my eyes for a moment. I was so nervous; it took all my will to keep from trembling. But I had to stay strong. It would not be easy to say what I had to say next. I caught her gaze and finally blurted out, “Yes, our love is gone.”
I could see she was fighting the impulse to flee from our bed, to run away from me. Who was I to her without our love?
But she had always been a woman of exceptional inner strength and resolve; these were among the many qualities that had drawn me to her. She steeled herself and even reached to hold my hand. There was no warmth in her grasp, though, the flesh of her palm affectless against my skin. She said, with as much conviction as anyone can when love is gone, “We’ll find it again. Together. We must simply have misplaced it somewhere in
the house. In the aftermath of passion, forgot to put it back after we last took it out.”
I nodded, pretending to agree with her.
* * *
That day, my appointment calendar was full: mediating a jurisdiction conflict between two departments; welcoming new clients from China; lunch with my opposite number in the public sector; inspecting new facilities in the suburbs; firing three middle managers for three different reasons.
Most days, she stayed at home, composing or recording in her studio. Unless she were touring, in which case she might be absent for weeks. In such situations, we would alternate stewardship of our love: sometimes, she would take it on tour with her; sometimes, I would keep it safe at home. It always made me nervous when she took it along; life on the road was chaotic – what if she were to lose or damage our love? On the other hand, it reassured me when our love was close to her and to her heart. Not that she had ever given me any reason to doubt her fidelity, but flesh will be flesh and our love shielded her from the attentions of other men.
That day, the day she woke to find our love missing, she had no pressing deadlines. As I was getting ready to leave, she said: “I’ll look everywhere. I’ll comb this entire place thoroughly. Every nook and cranny. I’ll find it. Don’t worry. I’ll find our love. And tonight? Tonight we’ll celebrate the return of our love.”
She tried to sound seductive, but without our love her words and body language were forced. The effect was grotesque, although her intentions touched me.
She leaned in for a hug, and I obliged. Her body was limp against mine, a sack of anonymous organic matter.
She repeated, “I’ll find it.” But I knew she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
Of Devils & Deviants: An Anthology of Erotic Horror Page 7