After seeing upstairs, I was dreading what was down here. If the Devil's bride stood upstairs then who was down here? Satan himself? I was bewildered then when I watched him light even more candles until my nostrils were filled with the stench of beeswax and saw that where I stood was wholly unremarkable. It was a kitchen. Just a kitchen.
Or at least it was some kind of kitchen that would be in the home of some primitive and ancient family. There was a burnt hole in the ground where a spitroast hovered above a metal tray. There was a small stove at the back of the room and my first though was to wonder how it was brought down the narrow stairwell. On the wall, hooks lined the broken bricks, each one being home to rusted knives of varying sizes.
"What the actual fuck?" I said, knowing how crude I sounded.
But I couldn't help it. It didn't make sense.
"Ah, so this is where the Great British Bake-Off is filmed,” I tried to joke although I was pretty sure I was going to piss myself any second.
Marcel did not look in any way amused by my crap and just shook his head with disapproval.
"I don't know what this... Bake-Off is you talk about but there have been no British down here. And have some respect, will you?"
"Sorry," I mumbled.
My hand was sweaty as it clutched the candle. I couldn't take my eyes off the knives. It was easy to see that they had been covered in layers and layers of older and older blood. They were almost black with the stuff. They hadn't been used to kill or dismember just the once. They were ceremonial weapons that had been down here as long as the building. With a shaky hand, I touched the handle of a large filleting knife. It was made of bone and the blade was old and corroded but I was surprised to see the blade was freshly sharpened. This was still in use.
"No touching!" yelled Marcel and hit my hand away.
"Sorry," I mumbled again.
The cat jumped up on the stove looking quite happy.
"I wanna get outta here," I said, more to myself than to Marcel. "This is not... normal."
Marcel sniffed with derision.
"Oh, so now you're a coward," he laughed. "There is nothing to fear down here. Nothing you haven't already encountered."
But he was wrong. I had encountered death. Seen the very worst humanity had to offer but I had never seen this. Or more to the point, I had never felt this. It was old, too old to even put to words as though the room belonged to spirits that existed long before humans. It was dark, so dark it made the Black Virgin upstairs seem friendly and inviting. There was an atmosphere that humbled me, made me feel small and stupid for once. It made me feel as though I should drop to my knees and worship whatever it was that lived here.
"Why is there a kitchen down here?" I gasped, almost close to tears. "Why! Who is down here? Who is it for?"
My stomach was almost inside out now. My clothes were drenched with sweat. The eyes seemed closer to me know until I was sure I felt the icy sensation of breath on the back of my neck.
"Baba," said Marcel. "Old Baba Galara."
"What?"
"This was her home. I told you I had a story."
He sat cross-legged on the floor beside the spit roast and patted the ground for me to join him. The candles were placed between us so they only lit our faces. Behind him, the cat's eyes reflected the light and I looked away, scared.
"Baba Galara lived here a long time ago. Such a long time ago.Centuries ago when this town was nothing more than a couple houses and some animals. Back then there were plants and grass. Back then, things weren't so tough. Galara was a beautiful woman. Men for miles around wanted to just be in her company. Women wanted to kill her."
I could kinda see where this was going but I was still in denial. Didn't want to think that some ancient form of magick resided in the room I sat it.
"She was so beautiful she was nothing but trouble. Eight men in total killed themselves because she sent them packing. Eight!"
I was starting to wonder just how beautiful she was to send men to their deaths. She could only have been as beautiful as Etta.
"So of course it was a surprise," Marcel continued. "When the man she chose over everyone else was a simple farmer. All he owned were a few pigs and the clothes on his back but he was genuine and he loved her. And there was something else. He was blind. He loved her no matter what she looked like because he would never truly know how beautiful she was. He could run his hands over her face but he would never really know just how perfect her lips were or how brightly her eyes shone. He could feel the silkiness of her hair but never in his life could he glimpse the deep shade of black that reflected the sun. The two of them married and their life was wonderful. She had never been happier, had never felt so loved. In their ten years of marriage, never was a vexatious word shared between them. Their marriage was a rare and blissful one. But things were not meant to be. God had other plans."
The cats eyes reflected brighter as it watched its owner tell the story that I was starting to think they'd heard before. The room felt darker, so much darker until it was though the darkness was a blanket around me. Marcel bent down low so the candles glinted off his gold teeth.
"The farmer became sick. The legend says it was smallpox. Incurable.Painful.Messy.Deadly. He had days to live and Galara knew he was going to die. But she couldn't bear the thought of losing the only man who had seen her for what she was worth. She couldn't lose him. She would rather die than bury him. So she turned to her grandmother. Another ancient beauty full of stories of myth and madness. She took Galara to a priest that lived way up in the mountains and he told her she could save her husband, but at a price."
The Black Virgin was starting to make sense. As was the bloodied knives.
"He told her she would have to make a sacrifice to save him but not to God, to something darker that was on the land before the mountains were. The idea repulsed her but she was crazy in her grief. She'd do anything to save her man. And so the killing began."
"She... murdered someone."
Marcel laughed.
"A sacrifice doesn't always mean ripping the head off a chicken. Sometimes that head belongs to a person. To a human that has been roasted, cooked to perfection for an ancient connoisseur to devour."
"So she killed someone to save her husband."
I could understand that depth of insanity. It was the one I lived with pining for Etta.
"Her husband was on the brink of death. He was in the midst of taking his last breath. He hadn't eaten in days, had erupted in pungent sores. She couldn't remember the last time he lifted his head or spoke a word. His family was gathered around him waiting for him to die. They'd watch the rise and fall of his chest waiting for the one time it was to fall and then never rise again. It was only a matter of minutes. Death was on route. But Galara managed to cause a traffic jam and death would have no choice but to turn around and go home."
"It worked?"
"It worked," nodded Marcel. "The very second the body was offered at the altar, the skin on his face cleared. He opened his eyes and took in a deep lungful of air. He even smiled. Four hours later he was working back on the farm as though nothing happened. He was saved."
"But at a price."
Again, he nodded.
"Who did she kill?"
"Some people who tell the story say it was a local peasant. Others say it was a priest. But it doesn't matter who she killed the first time because no one was immune to her murderous skill."
"She carried on?"
"When the story spread, people sought her out to save their dying husbands or children. More sacrifices were made at the altar, more lives saved and Galara became even richer."
"And even more beautiful."
Marcel chuckled and looked around the room as though he was waiting for the ghosts to join in.
"Here's where the story gets interesting. The more she killed the more her looks began to fade. Her face became twisted. She grew lesions and suffered mysterious accidents that saw scars weave their way across her
previously glorious complexion."
"But her husband never saw."
"No. He never knew what became of her."
We sat in silence for a second as the story sank in. I was here for a reason and Marcel knew it.
"You know about me," I said.
At this point, I was scared to ask how.
He said nothing. The cat jumped down and nestled onto his lap, purring in the darkness.
"When she died..." I thought out loud. "What happened? Is she still here?"
I was waiting for her to walk out of the shadows at any moment, her long flowing hair framing a once beautiful face.
"We carried on."
"Who's we?"
"Her family."
"You're..."
"I am one of her many, many grandsons who have continued the tradition."
I stared at the spit roast, the scorch marks on the floor and the bone-handled knives. I breathed in the scent of death and said, "You brought me here for a reason."
"My old lady. My sweet Baba Galara came to me and showed me your face. She told me you were suffering a great loss. That you loved someone so much you were losing yourself to your grief. She told me that person, the sweet girl of yours was to come back so she could be your wife. My beautiful Galara showed me the work you must do, all the tremendous achievements you will have once your darling girl comes back to you. You need her and she is waiting for you."
"She's.... waiting for me?"
"Gretta is waiting for you. She is in a place between the worlds just waiting for you to bring her back."
Did he just say Gretta?
My head was spinning. It was the wrong name but it was almost right and there was no way of him knowing who she was. It was too close for comfort.
"Her name is Etta," I said.
He blinked slowly and took my hand in his.
"Let me apologize," he said. "Please, forgive me. Sometimes the line to the afterlife is, how do I say it? Muffled. Sometimes I can't hear so well, you know."
This is fucking insane, I thought, my whole body reeling with the shock.
"She's waiting for me! She's really around somewhere. I'll see her again?"
"You will. You will see her and you will kiss her again I promise. But only if you do what I say."
"I'll do anything."
I grabbed hold of his shoulders and pulled him to me over the top of the candles so his hair was perilously close to the flames.
"Anything!" I cried. "Just tell me and I'll do it. There isn't a single thing I wouldn't do to hold her again and tell her I love her."
His lips spread into a wide smile until I could see the reflection of the candlelight in his teeth.
"You must make a sacrifice," he said. "You must please the Black Virgin."
About The Author
Brooke Kinsley has been in love with words since the day she took her first breath. She loves writing steamy, sexy stories with very strong guys who fall deeply in love with the women they flirt. Coffee and wine inspired her stories and she thinks every person should partake in! Brooke lives in Quebec, Canada with her boyfriend. When she's not crafting stories, she's probably playing with her two cats.
You can also like her facebook page https://www.facebook.com/BrookeKinsleybooks
Amazon Author Page : https://www.amazon.com/author/brookekinsley
Jewels and Panties (Book, Sixteen): The One Above All Page 5