by John Russo
The chanting stopped. An air of expectancy filled the church. Once again Morgan heard a girl’s voice, praying from somewhere: “. . . hallowed be Thy Name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done . . .”
It sounded like a young girl, praying energetically, perhaps being held prisoner. Instead of praying, Morgan thought, why didn’t she try to escape? Probably her situation was as utterly hopeless as his. Prayer was all she had left. Her voice rang out in the clear: “Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
An uneven trade, thought Morgan. What trespasses could the young girl have committed that could even begin to stack up against what these monsters were going to do to her?
CHAPTER 19
Bert Johnson entered his home by the front door and was greeted in the living room by his wife, Harriet. Bert hung his head, looking tired and defeated. By his demeanor, Harriet knew right away that he had had no luck in his search for Nancy, and the hope in her eyes faded.
Bert merely said, “I’m sorry, honey.”
“Oh, Bert!” Harriet wailed, throwing herself into his arms, burying her tears on his shoulder.
“I’m afraid she’s run away for good,” Bert offered. “If she isn’t with Terri out in California, or doesn’t show up there, I have no idea where to look next.”
Harriet clung to him, her face streaked with tears. If she was going to lose Nancy, she didn’t want to lose Bert, too. It would be unbearable.
Bert tried to be soothing, holding out hope. “Nancy will be all right, honey. She’s old enough to take care of herself, after all. You and I did our best to raise her properly. If she runs out of money or gets sick or lonely, she’ll come home some night with her tail between her legs, full of apologies, as if that could make up for how much she’s hurt us. Then it will be up to us to forgive her and start over.”
“Oh, Bert!” Harriet wailed, trembling against him.
CHAPTER 20
As if she had a subconscious awareness that something important was about to happen to her, Gwen suddenly came to, her eyes snapping open, her tear-streaked face contorting in agony as she once again knew where she was and felt the pain of her injuries. She moaned weakly, strapped in the chair. And her eyes flickered as she heard Nancy’s distant praying: “. . . and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil . . .”
Luke arose, taking from the altar a pair of crossed human bones and placing them in front of Gwen’s throat, as a priest uses crossed candles to bless the throats of Catholics on Ash Wednesday. Gwen screamed, her voice hoarse. Abraham took the silver dagger from the altar and moved in close so that he and Luke flanked Gwen on either side.
The congregation began chanting again, drowning out the distant sound of the Lord’s Prayer. Cynthia prayed: “Lucifer, we ask you to bless her, the source of our communion. May her blood give us strength to do your bidding.”
Luke replaced the human bones on the altar. Cynthia handed him the silver chalice. Abraham laid his dagger across Gwen’s throat, ready to slice the jugular vein so that Luke could use the chalice to collect her blood. Gwen emitted one last horrible scream, which was cut short by the slicing dagger as her life gurgled out of her . . . and her blood was collected.
For an instant the Lord’s Prayer rang out. “For Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory . . .” But it was drowned out by great moans of sadistic ecstasy that poured forth from the congregation. They looked on in lurid fascination, overwhelmed by the intensity of Cynthia’s services, anxious to see blood spilled again and again.
In her cage Nancy prayed, trying to make herself heard above the din: “May her soul and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. And may perpetual light shine upon her.”
At the altar, Gwen was dead and ghostly white, her life drained from her, trickles of blood dripping from her breasts to the floor. Most members of the congregation were sexually aroused. Stanford Slater, the old, obese mortician, had himself climaxed watching Gwen die. In the frenzy of it, many of the witches had stripped off their black robes and were naked in the pews, sweating and breathing hard, anxious to give themselves over to the orgy which would follow.
Unable to control his bladder, Morgan Drey lay in a puddle of urine which he was unable to feel.
Nancy shouted from the confines of her cage. “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do!”
Having collected Gwen’s blood, Luke handed the chalice to Cynthia, who took it in her hands and held it skyward.
“By this blood, grant our beloved mother eternal life, Lord Satan! So that she, your faithful servant, may dwell among us forever!”
Morgan Drey watched in horror, as Cynthia approached the embalmed corpse of Meredith Barnes and put the chalice to the corpse’s lips, making her “drink.” Blood ran down Meredith’s chin.
Morgan looked up at Cynthia as she came toward him, the bloody silver dagger in her hand. “Thank you,” he whispered as the dagger came downward, stabbing into him. He couldn’t feel it, only heard it punching into his groin, and he knew he must be bleeding, but he wasn’t dead. And he wanted to be. I thanked her prematurely, he thought. And then the blade came at him again, flashing from behind Cynthia’s demonic face, and still he didn’t die, not till the third time, when she thrust the dagger upward on an angle, through his solar plexus and into his heart.
Standing over him with the dagger, Cynthia sliced his jugular vein. An approving gasp came from the congregation. They watched the chalice being filled, Cynthia collecting the sacrificial blood. She drank.
Stanford Slater stepped up and took the chalice from her and raised it to his lips. And other witches clamored to drink, too, crowding around.
Cynthia took off her bloodspattered white robe, her nipples erect, her sex tingling with excitement. Her brothers ogled her sheer, wanton, voluptuous beauty. And then, with Morgan dead and Gwen dead, in the presence of their corpses the orgy commenced, building to a frenzy.
Locked in her wire cage, enveloped by cries and moans and insane laughter of the witches in the throes of their depraved passions, Nancy prayed from the depths of her soul: “I believe in God, the Father Almighty. Creator of heaven and earth. I will put no false gods before Him . . .”
Her voice rang-out clear and unafraid, imbued with holy conviction. She did not feel the confines of her cage. Death held no terror for her. Her spirit was exulted. Her palms and fingers were pressed tightly together, making a spire that pointed the way toward heaven.
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Compilation copyright 2013 by Kensington Publishing Corp.
“Escape of the Living Dead” copyright © 2013 by John A. Russo
“Midnight” copyright © 1980 by John A. Russo
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-8499-0
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8500-3
eISBN-10: 0-7582-8500-0
First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2013