The priest knew William was in no danger. The historical profile indicated that Tiffani Cerastes had probably chosen William as her cover. She lived with him to preserve an illusion of normalcy. His mundanity helped her disassociate herself from her crimes. Matthew figured Tiffani would dump William shortly before the ritual and move in with the Cock to raise the newborn cockatrice.
Matthew looked over at his rooster. It stirred, scratching its feet in the sandy floor of its cage. Matthew tossed it a piece of left-over crust from his toast and watched as the animal eyed the offering. The rooster didn’t wait long before snatching up the bread. It ate with a ruffle of red-orange feathers. Matthew turned back to the table. He closed William’s file and set it aside. Then, he picked up his Bible and opened it to “Psalms.”
The light coming in the window turned from golden twilight to cold streetlight, and Matthew read aloud the words that most comforted him, “Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side …” So many had died at Matthew’s side. So many had given their lives in the Holy War that all mortal wars emulated. He knew that someday he too would die in the Lord’s service.
“… And ten thousand at thy right hand.” Matthew had killed in the name of the Lord. He had lost count, long ago, of the minions he had sent to Hell. Sometimes innocents got in the way, and that may have been a shame, but it was also a necessary price to pay.
“… But it shall not come nigh thee.”
Taking a deep breath, Matthew closed the Good Book and said a short, silent prayer, finishing aloud with, “Lord, give me strength and wisdom to overcome Basilisk and his cockatrice. Amen.”
In the candlelit room, the orgiastic pile of bodies writhed. The cockatrice had one in its mouth and one in its sex. It moaned its pleasure and lifted its eyes to gaze up the body of its future husband. When in its true form, as it was then, the change in its eyes gave everything a fire-shimmer, as if it were looking through an amber lens. It preferred this demon’s form to the soft, weak femininity it hid in most of the time, but it had too many enemies to show its unvarnished visage to the mortal world.
The cockatrice sucked and licked as its lover ejaculated into its throat. So succulent, he was. His musky-sweet seed tantalized the cockatrice’s bloodlust. The taste thrilled the monster, but it wasn’t beast enough to kill this one. No, this one had a purpose. The cockatrice growled as its own orgasm rippled through its body.
Back at home, I tossed my coat aside and paced, waiting. I barely noticed the shadows shifting across my apartment as night’s darkness menaced the day away. All I could see was that genital-faced rooster and my Tiffani. In my mind, it pecked at her, and she laughed. She laughed again and again. Eventually, she was laughing at me, and then he joined her, crowing at the gullible boyfriend. I cursed them both, and I cursed my own stupidity. I was ready for her when she finally came in the door. By then, I had settled onto the couch like a crucified saint, ankles crossed and arms spread along its back. That’s how I felt, me and my martyrdom.
I hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights and I took some satisfaction in her startlement when I spoke to her out of the darkness, “Get enough?”
“Jesus, William. You scared me.” She turned on the lights and must have seen the accusation in my face, or perhaps in my eyes. She did a double-take, then began to explain without having to be asked, “Debora and I went shopping.”
“Where’s your bags?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your bags. You went shopping, but you didn’t buy anything?” I liked the taste of self-righteousness.
“Oh. I must have left them at Debora’s place. We stopped there afterward for coffee.”
“Does Debora live in a three-story brownstone?”
Tiffani muttered something unintelligible and walked into the bedroom. I arose and followed. She had thrown her coat on the bed and was sitting beside it, removing a boot. I leaned against the doorjamb.
“Excuse me?” I said, cool as a snake. “I didn’t hear what you said.”
“I said yes, she does.” Tiffani paused, then asked, “How do you know that?”
I ignored her question. I had to ask, despite or maybe because of the cliché, “Was he good?”
“What? Who?”
“The guy in number 12. The Cock.” My mouth opened obscenely around the last word.
“You followed me?”
I responded with a crooked, drunken grin, even though I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. It fit.
“How dare you follow me!”
I used my doctor voice, the one she hated, logical and cold. “How dare you screw around on me.”
“I’m not.”
“No? Then who’s P.J.? Who’s the Cock?” I was beginning to like the vindictive, violent feeling that word had in my mouth.
“P.J.?”
“Yeah. P.J. Price. You know. The one you’re screwing?”
“P.J.? Oh. You mean Paul. He’s just a friend. I’m not sleeping with him!”
I should have expected it. How could I argue with that? I hadn’t seen her in bed with the guy. I’d only seen her go inside and heard her laugh. She had blown my case right out of the water. She knew it too. She came over to reinforce her words with kisses and caresses. It was my word against hers, and all I had was jealousy and conjecture in my corner.
My confidence was abandoning me, but I made one last feeble attempt to rally my side. “Then why did you lie and tell me you went shopping with Debora?”
“Because,” she pouted, “you’re so jealous. I didn’t think you’d understand if I said I’d spent the afternoon hanging out with a male friend. I’m sorry, honey.”
A man knows when a woman has him by the balls.
The morning sun cast a flaccid light down upon Father Matthew. He stood on the street across from William and Tiffani’s apartment building, rocking on his heels. He buried his hands in his pockets and tried to ignore the cold’s saturation into his bones. He watched. Heaven only knew what he expected to see or what great influence he hoped to have by being there, but some divine hint of instinct had sent him.
Eventually, the young intern emerged from the building. Matthew noted William looked tired and tense. Innocent, the priest thought. Innocent enough that he sensed the truth about his lover only on a subconscious level.
Their eyes met. Matthew stood firm, knowing that William had seen him. He gave the young man his most intense stare. ‘Listen to your gut, boy,’ the look sent. ‘Run. Run away as fast and as far as you can. Go. Go. Go.’ A city bus drove slowly past. Matthew watched as William ran to catch it.
The hospital buzzed, coughed, gurgled, cried, and blip-blip-blipped. I hated it. I intended to go into private practice where I could diagnose my patients, then refer them to a hospital or specialist for treatment. I liked solving puzzles, but hated doing the hands-on dirty-work. I had learned two important lessons as an intern: one, that the textbooks did a thoroughly cosmetic cover-up on the truth of human anatomy—bodies were actually disgusting, filthy things that oozed, stank, and housed parasites—and two, that people were unbelievably stupid. They all thought they were invulnerable, that they could stick anything they wanted in any orifice, play with dynamite, or leap tall buildings in a single bound, and walk away intact. They were usually wrong.
My dinner break came at seven p.m., and I took it promptly. Getting through the line at the cafeteria chewed up fifteen minutes; eating took another fifteen. To pass the rest of the time, I found a quiet phone cubicle and called home. It rang through, and I muttered to Tiffani to pick up. She didn’t. I hung up and redialed only to reach more emptiness. The hollow rings sounded like sonar pings searching for something solid off which to bounce, but they found only a growing void. I began to feel sick.
Father Matthew saw her through his peephole. Tiffani Cerastes knocked on the door a
cross the hall. Her delicate fingers brushed over the beak of the painted rooster. Matthew admired her beauty, as any man would. He had taken a vow of celibacy and dedicated his life to a higher purpose, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel the stirring in his loins at the sight of an attractive woman, especially a cockatrice. He briefly touched himself through his pants, drawing strength from the physical energy that fired at the sensation.
The door opened at number 12. Paul Jefferson Price stood there dressed only in a pair of blue jeans. His upper torso rippled with muscles—smooth, full and strong. The young man was handsome, of course. Basilisk would have it no other way. Matthew waited until Tiffany had entered, and the door had shut behind her, then he went back to the kitchen table.
The clock struck eight, with soft, reminder chimes. Matthew picked up his notebook, opened it to a new page and began to write in his economical, masculine script:
8 p.m. Tiffani Cerastes arrives at no. 12 and enters. Price inside. I no longer have any doubt that Cerastes is the Mother for the unholy birthing. She now wears Basilisk’s mark upon her left hand. I saw it only moments ago while she waited for the Cock to let her inside the coven room. She will guide the ritual and tend to the Cock. Once the egg has hatched, assuming I fail in my attempt to stop the entire process, she will mother the infant cockatrice to maturity.
The ward remains on the door, making it impossible to enter, even when the apartment is empty. They’re careful. So much is at stake. Tonight, Basilisk will manifest, and once he is in this world I can banish him back to Hell. I pray for the innocent and ask that the Lord …
A knock on the door drew Matthew from his journal. He closed it, stood and crossed the room. Peering through the peephole, he spied a little devil with baby horns, rosy cheeks, and a pointed tail that bounced on its own. He unlocked and opened the door.
“Trick or treat!” the children cried in relative unison, holding up their bags.
Matthew smiled and reached for his plastic pumpkin of candy.
I called the apartment every fifteen minutes after that first time. My agitation grew with each unanswered ring. Finally, I made the hospital let me go home.
My stomach had knotted up a half an hour earlier. I knew what I had to do.
The 8:30 bus arrived five minutes late. I pushed through the waiting commuters to get to it, my pardons growing more urgent and less polite as the bus’s doors slowly closed without me.
“Wait!” I called, stepping up and pounding on the glass. The driver reopened the doors. I climbed in, paid my fare, found a seat near the middle and stared out the bus window. My hands clenched into fists over and over on my thighs, until I felt eyes upon me. I looked over to see a woman watching me. I caught her gaze, and she turned away. Irritated, I shifted my posture toward the window and stuffed my hands in my pockets. My fingers brushed the flyer. I thought of the strange man who had given it to me, and remembered seeing him outside my apartment that morning. I pulled it out and looked at it.
“Judas walks among us,” it said, superimposed over a dull reproduction of ‘The Last Supper,’ and I almost threw it away right then and there. I had little interest in sanctimonious propaganda. I opened it, however, curious about the man himself.
Even as upset as I was, the interior text made me laugh, albeit wryly. It talked about demons and their servants. In particular, it mentioned Basilisk, the Snake King, who impregnated roosters that then laid eggs out their bowels. From these eggs, the cockatrice hatched. According to the flyer, the cockatrice were monsters that served Basilisk and could change form to become beautiful women. They “seduced innocent men into sin.” The brochure went on to explain how they killed for fun, ate human flesh and had uncanny powers, including the ability to mesmerize their victims. I tossed the flyer on the floor of the bus.
When I got home, the apartment was dark.
“Tiff?” I called, on the one small hope that she had fallen asleep. No answer. No fucking answer. She wasn’t there. I knew what was there though: my gun.
Father Matthew’s evening dragged. He busied himself with scripture and prayer. He double-blessed his primary weapon: the rooster whose crow could return Basilisk to Hell. He also prepared his other weapon. The revolver felt good in his hand as he cleaned and then reloaded it.
Matthew had finished his last journal entry a few minutes earlier at 9 p.m. In it, he had documented the arrival of the other coven members, four of them, two men and two women. Finally, he had gathered up all his files and placed them, with the journal, in the Little Black Box. The clergy would look for that if anything happened to him. He locked the box and duct-taped it to the inner frame of the couch. As he replaced the piece of furniture, his scalp crawled and itched. He scratched it, turning slowly to stare at the locked door. The unholy rituals had begun across the hall. The rooster felt it too. It fretted, ruffling its feathers uneasily.
The priest sat at the table and prayed over his rosary, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …” A sharp pain lit up his calf. Matthew cringed and drew his leg up protectively. He raised his pant-leg and examined the source of the pain. Two puncture wounds sat side-by-side on his calf, already swelling and bleeding. Looking down to the floor, Matthew spotted his attacker.
The snake wasn’t large, only about two feet long and meaty. It looked like braided leather, its markings a series of diamonds all fit neatly together. The beast lifted its ovoid head and swayed. It delivered its second strike to the priest’s other ankle, sinking fangs deep into Matthew’s flesh.
Matthew threw himself to the floor, toppling the chair toward the snake in an attempt to escape another bite.
The viper struck again.
Matthew grabbed the chair with both hands. He beat the creature. Chair-legs splintered and the sound of cracking wood filled the apartment. With desperate satisfaction, he saw portions of the snake’s body split and smear, flatten and bleed. He hit it again and again. His arms and back ached with the effort, but Matthew didn’t stop until the snake ceased moving. The animal died as it had arrived: silently.
Matthew dragged himself toward the counter. He reached up to pull himself to his feet and his gaze landed on the rooster. It lay wrong, one foot twitching. Matthew’s legs denied him and he slumped back to the floor. He easily imagined, if not actually felt, the venom coursing through his blood-stream.
“Help!” he shouted, trying to reach anyone. “Help!” He called again and again. Eventually, he whimpered his pleas, “Oh … Lord … oh please, God …” A heavy, black shroud enfolded Matthew. His eyes froze in place, unblinking, and his throat constricted on the prayer, unheard. He had failed.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor of the brownstone. The gun felt heavy in my coat pocket; its solid presence bumped against my thigh with each step. I had lost all feeling and all reason. Draped in a veil of sanguine rage, I stood at the door to number 12. Someone had removed the rooster painting.
Without hesitation, I reached for the doorknob and turned it. I swung the door wide and stepped across the threshold. A giant bed stood in the middle of the room, draped with red and black, sheeted with satin. Candles cast a carnal glow. Two faces looked over at me. His, so handsome, so smug, had a smile. Hers, so beautiful, so familiar, showed surprise. They were naked. He rolled over and sat up. I saw his erection.
“William?” she murmured, moving to the edge of the bed. “What are you …?”
I pulled my gun.
“William!”
I didn’t think. I just pulled the trigger. The explosion rebounded off my nerves and hit the wall. My finger twitched again. The second bullet threw the Cock back onto the pillows. He was bleeding. His blood drained slowly, creating a scarlet river that meandered down his heaving chest to pool in the basin of his stomach. He hissed, deflated and died.
Someone closed the door behind me, and I felt two people, one on either side, take my arms, take my gun, and take my freedom. I didn’t struggle. It was too late for that.
> “What do we do now?” The others whispered among themselves. “The Cock is dead. We’re doomed.”
I began to shake.
Tiffani stood. She smiled that smile and tilted her head just so, “William. Will you never cease to surprise me?” She crossed toward me, her breasts swaying with each step. Dribbles of splattered blood, P.J.’s blood, ran down her hip. Her eyes looked strange. The whites slowly darkened to black crystal sparked with amber. Her pupils became discs of obsidian. As she approached, she changed. Like some walking special-effect, she transformed before my eyes into a snake woman with talons and rippling muscles where feminine curves had once made her so shapely. Her skin took on a snake-like texture, and her body swallowed her hair leaving her completely bald. The bones in her face elongated and her mouth widened into a slash with the hint of a cleft lip. When her tongue flickered out, it had a forked tip. I stared, trying to see through the hallucination to the Tiffani I knew, but she eluded me. Hot urine ran down my legs and soaked into my shoes.
Tiffani announced, “We have a new Cock. Basilisk has sent us a sign.” She touched her slim, cool fingers to my cheek. Her gaze mesmerized me. I relaxed.
Time and reality slipped away. They stripped me, the five of them. The two men held me in place while the three women bathed me thoroughly. Tiffani’s friend Debora was there, but I had never seen the others. They bent me over an armchair. The enema made me uncomfortable. I cried. I begged.
I shat soup into an iron bucket.
Vile Things: Extreme Deviations of Horror Page 12