Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  “Are you taunting me?” She stabbed at him again with the squared heel. He caught the heel and pushed back with a little more force than he intended. She fell flat on the desktop, giggling even though the sharp edge of the black magic tattoo book dug into her side.

  “You jerk,” she said, her giggles transforming into guffaws. She propped herself up on her elbows and noticed the bandage on his bicep. “New ink?”

  William straightened his spine and peeled away one side of the gauze. “Sure is. What do you think?”

  He watched her eyes widen in appreciation even though a glaze of antibacterial ointment smeared the raw tissue. The hooded Virgin started at the lower half of his deltoid and progressed downward through his triceps.

  “Impressive. I never took you for the religious type.”

  “Just covering all bases from the profane to the holy.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Hey. Your night terrors story just reminded me of something.” He stood and lifted the back of his shirt, exposing skin all the way to his neck. “You see the tat between my shoulder blades?”

  “Yeah, you’ve showed it to me before.”

  He felt her fingers trace the outline of the ink. Of all the tats decorating his skin, she claimed a particular fondness for this one. It portrayed a woman whose perfection rivaled Eve’s. Her flawless skin, long flowing corn silk hair and penetrating blue eyes mesmerized all who looked upon it.

  Kelly continued rubbing the female portrait, the woman’s femininity as compelling as a Siren’s fatal song. “What’s her name again?”

  The soft tips of her fingers on his back felt good, comforting. “Mara. That’s not really her name. That’s what she is; a Mara.”

  “Mara.” Kelly whispered the word as if it deserved hushed reverence.

  William heard her slide off the desk, her body pressing against his back. Her steamy breath washed over his neck. He felt her lips press on the tattoo. For a second her lips did nothing but rest there. Then he felt her tongue slide out, felt the hoop and stud piercing dig into his skin.

  The sensation bordered on delirium. He closed his eyes, wanting to reach back and bring her hand around to his front. However, he snapped back to his senses. He leaned forward, allowing his shirt to drop back in place.

  Seventeen, for god’s sake. Jail bait.

  When he turned around she had her bottom lip pushed under her upper lip, fretting. “I don’t know what that was.” She fidgeted and pulled on her nose ring.

  “No worries. Funny thing is that a Mara is supposed to do just that.”

  “What? Seduce young girls?”

  “That’s why I showed you it again; not to seduce you, gods no, but to tell you about the similarities between your night terror experience and the legend of the Mara.”

  She regarded him with amused suspicion. “Sure, try to worm your way out of this one.”

  “Whatever.” He moved to the office chair behind the maple desk. He felt a little defensive, having come so close to giving into the night’s seductive charms.

  “I’m kidding, Willy,” Kelly said, placing both palms face down on the maple wood to drive home her point. “Tell me about the Mara. I’m interested.”

  “Okay. You see, the Mara is a temptress in Scandinavian folklore. She’s more or less a wraith that can enter your room through a keyhole or the crack under the door. She then sits on your chest and feeds off your fears. Some report a sexual response to the Mara. Either way, all who experience the Mara feel her dead weight on their chests.”

  “So they can’t move, can’t breathe?”

  “Strange coincidence, right?”

  “Definitely interesting. So you think I was raped by a Mara?”

  “Not really. A lot of cultures have their own versions. You’ve probably heard of the well known Succubi or Incubi. The Irish call it Ag Rog. The Germans; Hexendrucken. I like to call it the Sleep Crusher.”

  “So you’re saying lots of people have suffered an experience like mine and have blamed it on make-believe spirits? I don’t know, Willy. It seemed all too real to me.”

  “Free society, free thoughts,” William said. He started thinking about her steamy response to the Mara tat; a sign, perhaps, that the black magic ink actually works.

  Kelly flopped into the leather chair, running a hand across the bamboo arms. “I’m done thinking about it for now. Hey, by the way, did I tell you about my run-in with Lorenzo?”

  “Don’t believe so.” He marveled at how her mental gears could shift from one topic to the next without warning. Typical mind of a seventeen year old.

  “He pissed me off real good so I threw a paperweight through his window. Totally shattered it into a billion pieces.”

  “No you didn’t”

  “Oh yeah. That idiot had it coming.”

  William drummed his fingers on the maple wood. “I had a run-in with him too, outside Old Town Pizza. Blamed me for an article in the Willamette Weekly about how his tattooing empire is tainting the subculture. Great article, but I had nothing to do with it. Take a look. Page eleven.”

  She picked up the copy he tossed her way, skimming over the newsprint. Her eyes lit up. “Hey, check it out. I saw this extreme performance group on YouTube and they’re doing a show here in Portland. Tonight. Look here.”

  William sensed her enthusiasm. He grabbed the paper, reading the ad aloud. “Sodom’s Sideshow. Your perception of reality will change forever.” He set the paper down. “A tad over-dramatic, don’t you think?”

  Kelly was already on her feet fastening the chains on her jacket. “Let’s go. It’ll be a blast. I heard they even do free meat hook suspensions if you’re brave enough.”

  “Not me. Not my style.”

  “What’s the difference between that and tattoo pain?”

  “Tattoos, for me anyway, are about more than pain. I’m into the art. I love the idea of turning the empty canvas of flesh into a living exhibit. That’s what does it for me. I’m no masochist.”

  She pretended a big yawn, implying she had heard this argument before. “So you say. However, you’re no illustrated man, that’s for sure. Your desk is more decked out than you. So level with me. What’s your real interest in tattooing? For someone who’s supposedly obsessed with the art side of it, your dermagraphics are somewhat sparse.”

  Dermagraphics referred to the art on one’s skin and her use of the tat slang amused him. “You already know my true motives. You see me reading the darn book every time you visit.”

  “Black magic? I see no evidence of that. What are you hiding Silly Willy?”

  It relieved him to hear her deny his admission. He had never told her about the Chinese herb dealer, never told her that every tattoo he owned had been created using a mixture of blood and ink. He felt possessive of that secret.

  “Enough badgering already. Let’s just go to your twisted little show. I can hardly wait.”

  “That’s the spirit,” she said, shaking her spiked cuff in his face. “Believe me. This show being here is no coincidence. I’m sure it’s a sign.”

  William knocked her hand away. Sometimes she came across too boisterous; a typical teenager. He couldn’t blame her though. Five years ago he had acted the same. Even at his current twenty-two years of age he did not view himself as being all that mature.

  Putting on his Inkenstein denim jacket, William grimaced, wondering what this spontaneous adventure would cost him. He again looked at her beaming face and knew he could not refuse. Taking her arm he escorted her out into the early a.m. hours.

  Chapter 8: Dormant Ink

  The club, tucked away in the heart of Chinatown, always hosted a slew of underground performances, mostly aspiring local bands. It wasn’t a place William would choose to hang out in. He preferred a jazz lounge or blues bar.

  As they neared the club, the air buzzed, serving as a conduit for the energy originating inside. The charged air resonated with yelps of excitement and the sounds of a grindcore band that seemed
to light Kelly up. The overly distorted guitars, the blast beats and guttural growls from the lead vocalist already had her pumped.

  She turned to William, grinning. His return smile looked halfhearted and she jumped all over it. “Changing your mind?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  Not convinced, she gave him a frisky punch in the ribs.

  “Hey!”

  “Got to toughen you up or you won’t survive one minute in there.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  Portland’s subculture was well represented tonight. Kids from all cliques milled about; Skinheads, Goths, Grungers, Juggalo’s, Skate Punks and Ravers.

  Being near the end of the performance, the burly security guard stationed at the entrance waved them in for free. William cringed as soon as they rounded a hallway plastered with hundreds of colorful fliers and entered the main floor. With no more barriers to buffer the sound, the blast beats and screaming vocals penetrated his skull like a rusty railroad spike. He looked at Kelly. She grinned ear to ear, shaking her head in synch with the upbeat tempo. He had never seen her so enthusiastic.

  Still clutching his hand, she led him through the more passive fans who lounged with their cigarettes and drinks at the rear of the club. She moved towards a thrashing mass of bodies in front of the stage. People randomly hurled themselves into others in loosely constrained enactments of violence. The controlled aggression did result in casualties. Some left the mosh pit trying to staunch a bleeding lip or nose. Others clasped bruised arms or ribs but somehow the majority navigated the flailing limbs and hurtling bodies suffering little consequences.

  Kids and their strange ideas of fun. Feeling much older than his twenty-two years he pulled on her arm and leaned into her ear to make his voice heard over the satanic rumbles belching forth from the lead vocalist.

  “I’m not entering that death pit!”

  She gave him a quick kiss like a bird peck and said, “Fine. See you after the show.”

  He watched her swing her arms in wide circles over her head as she edged near the thrashing pit. With dramatic flair, she twirled and hurled her body into the sea of angst-ridden youth.

  Shaking his head, he retreated to the bar and ordered a shot of the house bourbon. From the barstool he looked over the bouncing heads in the mosh pit. Showcased center stage a four man band created music that sounded as if it had been dredged up from the depths of Hell.

  Stage left highlighted audience members brave enough to try a meat hook suspension. A young adult male with a punk Mohawk took rapid deep breaths as a technician threaded a large hook through the exposed skin on his back.

  William turned away, obliging his inherent revulsion towards anything sadomasochistic. His nature could not grasp the ‘pain as a path to enlightenment’ theory. He tried not to be too judgmental. After all, he admitted a fondness for the endorphin rush that followed the repeated strikes of a tattooing needle into the subcutaneous layers of his skin. The resulting natural high outmatched the buzz from any shot of liquor.

  On the opposite side of the stage, he saw another extreme ritual in progress. Though it ranked on a level even more disturbing than the meat hooks, he couldn’t divert his attention.

  A Caucasian woman and an Asian male stood bathed in a spotlight. Despite the brashness of the grindcore band, the couple had entered a deep trance. Their eyes remained fixed ahead, focused on empty air. Stagehands attended the couple, inserting sharp objects that entered their outside cheeks and exited through their open mouths. These objects were by no means small, like pins and needles, but were along the order of twelve inch daggers and small machetes.

  It reminded him of photos he once saw in a book on tribal body modifications. The photos came from a vegetable festival practiced in Phuket, Thailand. Young initiates would enter a trance and pierce their cheeks with a variety of objects including long shafts, ladders, machine guns and even fire extinguishers. Even more miraculous was the fact that they never bled. Neither did the two performers on the stage.

  What kind of a freak circus is this?

  William downed the shot of bourbon in one gulp. A worm of worry worked its way into his gut. He couldn’t figure out why Kelly had insisted on attending this party for the sick and twisted.

  An average mind would buckle under the weight from the extreme intensity exhibited in the club. Although he didn’t view his mind as average, he could feel the frenetic vibes in the hall chipping away at his rationality. Several more shots of bourbon helped fortify his reeling mind.

  About a half hour passed before the festivities wound down. The band exited and the cessation of the grindcore gave relief to William’s tortured ears. The couple piercing themselves with daggers and knives pulled the weapons out of their cheeks. Even from his distant view, William could see huge gashes on the sides of their faces. The fact that they still didn’t bleed made his spine tingle.

  A grizzled emcee wearing an old white tuxedo and red bowtie took the stage and announced an end to the meat hook suspensions. The stage hands began lowering a girl who looked no more than fifteen. Her face grimaced in disappointment as the cables deposited her back on the stage. With a certainty that comes with practice, the attendants removed the large hooks from her back.

  Holding a microphone, the bearded emcee thanked everyone for coming. Something about the man bothered William, an oddity about his face he couldn’t quite grasp.

  “Remember, folks, pursuit of the alternative arts should be done with the strictest codes of responsibility in mind. Good night and again, thank you for coming.”

  Strangely enough, the emcee’s closing statement caused the tiny worm of worry in his gut to grow to the size of a snake. He fought the urge to vomit.

  Like William, the crowd did not respond favorably to the emcee’s remarks. Boos filled the air. Empty and half-filled plastic beer cups sailed onto the stage. Some of the amber fluid splashed on the old man’s white tuxedo. He wiped at the moisture as he bowed and left.

  Kelly emerged from the dispersing mosh pit and headed straight for William. She stopped halfway.

  He wondered again about her motives in dragging him to this festival of depravity. The snake coiled in his gut sank its fangs into his innards and he clutched his stomach in pain and premonition.

  “Willy, my man,” she hollered, sweat running down her face. “You see the host? The guy who just left the stage? I know him. I need to go talk to him. Wait for me.”

  How could she possibly know an old emcee from Chicago?

  William jumped off the barstool, stumbled a little and caught his balance. His head furiously spun and his intestines ached. “I’ll go with you.”

  All he really wanted was to rest his drunken head on a soft pillow and sleep off the booze. However, he couldn’t abandon her. Left to her own antics, she could get into deep trouble.

  He spotted the back of her jacket as she fought the flow of exiting patrons. He jostled his way through and tapped her shoulder.

  “Kelly. What are you doing?”

  She turned, her face ecstatic. “I saw that man in a YouTube video. I want to pick his brain a little.”

  He grabbed her hand, his eyes pleading. “Look, if this is about the Sleep Crusher I don’t think he can help. It’s a natural occurrence, sort of a sleep malfunction.”

  She shook her finger in front of his face as if she were scolding a child. “No, silly Willy. It’s more than that. Much more!”

  “Okay. Still…” he trailed off. She had already dismissed him as she skirted the stage and into the hallway beyond. He hurried to catch her. “Kelly, listen. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  The burly security guard stationed earlier at the entrance now blocked the path to the back room. William took note of the man’s bulging boulder biceps and hoped Kelly did not plan on aggravating him.

  She sauntered up to the guard. By the swing in her hips he could tell she planned on utilizing her femininity. She placed a hand on the man’s barrel chest
and whispered into his ear. The guard smiled and watched her sashay on by.

  William imagined the outcome should he employ the same tactics; a delicate touch and whispers containing seductive promises. It might work. After all, this was Portland, the most liberal city north of San Francisco. More than likely, though, the beefy guard would twist his head off his shoulders.

  “I’m with her,” William said, confidently stepping around the guard.

  A hand shot out and spun him around. The guard grabbed onto the front of his jean jacket and lifted. William’s feet left the floor and then he hurtled backwards, landing on his ass a few feet away. His glasses dislodged, hanging off one side of his nose. He adjusted them and leaped to his feet.

  The security guard charged, his head lowered like a raging bull, his fists clenching and unclenching.

  Steroid rage, William guessed.

  He waited until the last second and stepped aside as the guard launched his imposing frame. The guard’s clutching hands closed on empty air as he crashed to the ground.

  All that testosterone leaves you dumb as rocks.

  William grinned and took the opportunity to pursue Kelly. Down the ill lit hall, on the left, he spotted her framed in a doorway.

  Before he could reach her, he heard an enraged roar as the security bull gathered up steam for another charge.

  William lifted both hands, palms facing outwards. “Wait a second. I can explain.”

  Kelly spotted William, but turned back to the door.

  Was she ignoring him even though he was about to get his head torn off?

  William backpedaled, not taking his eyes off the snorting security guard.

  Thankfully, the salt and peppered head of the emcee poked out. He barked an order, his voice carrying a remarkable authority for someone so old.

  “Stand down, Rooster. That gentleman you’re harassing is this young lady’s escort. Let him be.”

  Rooster? The muscled monstrosity was named Rooster? William stifled his laughter, not wanting to taunt the hormonally charged guard.

  Rooster huffed and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. He sulked back to his station.