Dance For The Devil

by S. Kodejs

  Suzanne strode over. “No she’s not, it’s gas, dear. Newborns don’t smile.”

  “This one is. Please don’t hurt her, Dad. Please, Mom, don’t let him. I’ll keep her. I’ll take care of her. She can be my sister.”

  Gil laughed. “You want a bastard progeny for your sister? That’s absurd.” He removed the infant from Jason’s arms. “This baby is a gift, conceived specifically for this purpose. Giving her life to Satan is the greatest honor possible. We should all be so lucky.”

  “But it’s so cruel.”

  “Nonsense, Son. Babies don’t feel pain, at least not the way we do. They can’t distinguish the difference between coldness or hunger or having their arms chopped off.”

  “How do you know for sure?”

  Gil thought for a moment. “Circumcision is a prime example. When a doctor cuts off the foreskin, he doesn’t use anaesthetic, and that’s acceptable practise. Do you think doctors or parents would allow babies to feel pain? Everyone would be outraged. Sure, the brat will cry for a moment or two, but they’ll cry even harder if you give them a bath.”

  “Some doctors use anaesthetic.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because last time you told me that I phoned the hospital and asked.”

  “Proves my point. Only some doctors do, and probably just to assuage the parents concerns. If it truly hurt the baby it would be mandatory. Now, hurry up. Meeting starts in a half-hour and traffic might be heavy.” Gil turned and looked at Jason, still standing mutinously in the middle of the room, and sighed. “Jason, don’t make me punish you. I don’t like it, and you don’t like it. Remember the last time?” Gil nodded in satisfaction at his son’s involuntary shudder. “Good. Are we clear then?”

  Jason nodded mutely and left the room.

  **

  “What are these?” Jake asked in surprise.

  “Costumes,” Cari answered, holding up a cape. “The latest in cult fashion, where black and gloomy is always in style.”

  He slipped one over his head. “Costumes are an appropriate word. Dear God, do people really wear these? How can they see?”

  “Not easily, but that’s not the point. The idea is to have total anonymity. That’s in our favor, incidentally.”

  “True.” He moved across the room and bumped his shin on the coffee table. “Shit, that hurt.”

  Cari smiled. “Take it easy.”

  “I feel like a Grand Dragon in the Ku-Klux-Klan.”

  “I think that’s the general idea.”

  He studied himself in the mirror for a moment, then pulled the hood off. “Very gruesome. Where did you get these?”

  “I called around to some local bookstores, especially the ones specializing in cult material. Most of them were dead ends but the chap at The Devil’s Den on Yates was most accommodating, especially after I spent a hundred bucks on Satanic literature.”

  “You did? Why?”

  “Two reasons. Firstly to prove my sincerity – a girl’s gotta have street cred – and secondly we need convincing propaganda lying around in case we have guests.”

  Jake frowned. “We have to entertain these social miscreants? I hadn’t thought of that. Do you really think they’ll come here?”

  “Maybe. If I was running an illicit organization, I would be mighty cautious about who I let into play. I’d insist on checking them out first.”

  “So what do we do? Invite them over for fondue and animal sacrifices?”

  “Not a bad idea. At least we could cook the meat after we killed it.”

  “Temping, but I think I’ll pass.”

  “Chicken.”

  “No, chicken I’d eat.” He shifted the cape around, trying to get a better fit. “Did the bookstore guy have any information about cult meetings?”

  “He was as close-mouthed as a priest in confession and I didn’t want to press.”

  “My you have a saucy mouth for a non-Christian girl.”

  “What can I say? Twelve years of ‘Our Lady of Sorrows’ catholic school taught me more about being a heathen than Wicca has.”

  “Catholic school, eh? Did you wear a uniform?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, envisioning it. Cari Valentine, in knee socks and a plaid skirt... forbidden fantasy. He shook his head to clear the image. If he went down that road, they’d never get out of here. “Okay, ask me about my news.”

  “Ah, you’ve been holding out.”

  “There’s a meeting tonight, in Esquimalt. Google Search is a beautiful thing.”

  She frowned. “They just post that information for anyone to see? Really?”

  “You have to know where to dig. The chat room I entered earlier was very enlightening. They said it’s going down tonight. Something about a blue moon?”

  She stilled. “The second full moon in a calendar month? Of course, the blue moon! It’s rare enough we don’t see it every year, it’s bound to be spiritually significant to cult groups.” She ran to the calendar and calculated. “Yes, that’s tonight. I’ve been so preoccupied with everything I didn’t even think to consult the moon phases.” Her subconscious reacted to an unseen swirl of darkness and she shivered, suddenly chilled.

  “No time like the present.” Jake said, blithely unaware of the danger.

  “What about Skeeter?” Cari said, stalling.

  “He called to say he was staying at Darren’s house again.”

  Cari nodded. The darkness intensified until it became a palpable force and she watched Jake carefully to see if he noticed it. Nope, completely unaware, striding around the living room like he was the Phantom of the Opera, swirling the cape to great theatrics. When she spoke again, she kept her voice light. “That’s great, I’m glad Skeeter has a friend to rely on. He really needs one right now.”

  **

  “How long can you stay?” Rat asked.

  “All night. I told my dad I was sleeping at my friend’s house.”

  Rat flicked his greasy hair back and high-fived him. “Awesome, dude.” He eyed Skeeter critically. “First thing we do is ditch your clothes.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with them?”

  “You look like a nerd, man, no offence. Here, I brought you a t-shirt.”

  Skeeter slipped it on. Black, and somewhat dirty, it featured a skull and dragon.

  “Not bad,” Rat said critically, “but the effect isn’t quite right. You need to get some body-piercing, man.”

  “What? Like my ear?”

  “Nah, that’s for fags and pussies, unless you get a dozen or so. I know a guy with over thirty studs. Now that’s cool. Ear plugs are where it’s at, one big hole.” He was studying Skeeter like a science experiment. “I was thinkin’ more along the lines of piercing your nose. See, like mine.”

  “My dad would flip.” Skeeter said.

  Rat smiled, showing yellow teeth that hadn’t seen a toothbrush in recent memory. “That’s the whole point, man.”

  **

  Jason Vandercamp had witnessed ritual abuse on a regular basis for his entire life. As a toddler he watched other children being sexually assaulted, mutilated, and ultimately, killed. Even at the earliest age he was wise enough to understand this was not a mainstream lifestyle, and he was savvy enough to protect himself by not making a fuss. It was as if the young boy realized by remaining unobtrusive he might escape the hideous fate executed on those around him.

  By nature, Jason was a moral being, but the corruption around him anaesthetized him to the atrocities, much as an emergency room doctor numbs to the bloody carnage he witnesses day by day. He did what he could to deflect punishment on those he cared for, mostly by keeping at arm’s length. The dominant force of his father would cruelly stamp out any friendship that bloomed for Jason. Even from his enemies, Jason stayed clear. To be the cause of another’s death, however indirectly, led to many nightmares.

  As he grew older, Jason befriended children of his father’s selection, always cult members li
ke himself. Most of these children were safe, under the protection of their parents, unless of course, they fell out of favor with the elders. Then nothing could save them, regardless of whether Jason befriended them or not.

  Jason knew from a very early age he was special. His father, despite his permissiveness towards ritual beatings, insisted his son be exempt. The only one to lay a hand on the Vandercamp boy would be Gil himself, and then only sparingly, when Jason truly deserved a thorough thrashing. Usually his punishments were worse than physical beatings. When Jason misbehaved, Gil sought another to pay for the crime. With Jason restrained and forced to watch, Gil would methodically torture someone, usually another child, of similar age, culled from the street. So, although he carried no signs of physical abuse, Jason wore the guilt of favoritism like a heavy cross.

  By the age of four, Jason was smart enough to carefully obey his father and elders. By the age of twelve, his cult education took a new turn, the sin – and the pleasure – of fornication. Under strict tutelage from his elders, Jason joined in ritual orgies. But even in this his father protected him. It was understood that Jason would not partake of violent sex, nor in any acts containing homosexuality or bestiality. When he heard the inevitable stories from his friends, he was once again guiltily grateful.

  By his strong emotional nature and inherent will to survive, Jason shut out the images from years of witnessed atrocities. He understood intrinsically these horrors weren’t his fault, and knew he could do little to stop them. And through it all, his love for his parents twisted with despair and hate.

  Jason had long ago made the decision to leave the cult, and his family, as soon as he was able. Since the age of seven, he’d been squirreling away money for his escape. He knew, that to evade the long reaches of Gil Vandercamp and the powerful resources of the Temple, he must save a great deal of money and bide his time. This was not an easy decision. The cult encompassed his entire life: family, friends, his entire social matrix. Away from the cult’s protection he would be free, but he would also be vulnerable and totally alone. It was a frightening thought.

  Jason thought of all this as he changed into his ritual garb, dawdling to prolong the inevitable. Gil had already rapped twice on the door – Jason knew further stalling would not be tolerated.

  **

  “Hey, this isn’t the way to Marvelworks,” Skeeter proclaimed.

  Rat smiled his pointy smile. “Got something more important to show you.”

  “What?”

  “A surprise.” He glanced at Skeeter, noting the wideness of Skeeter’s eyes. “Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

  It occurred to Skeeter that absolutely no one knew where he was.

  **

  The luminescent blue moon hung pregnantly in the sky. There was no doubt of its fullness. The ceremony tonight held extra promise. Had Gina not begun labor naturally, Gil would have been forced to perform a caesarean section, of which Gina would not have survived. It appeared his dark Lord’s wish to spare the breeder; to leave her able to bear further sacrifices.

  Gil handed the newborn to Jason and instructed him to put it in the car seat.

  “What’s the point?” asked Jason. “You’re only going to kill it anyway. Who cares if it’s safe or not.”

  “I do. Dead sacrifices do not have the same impact, and if we should happen to get stopped by a policeman, we won’t be ticketed for having an unrestrained infant.” Gil tapped Jason’s head. “Use your noggin, Son. Examine every angle and never leave loose ends. It’s the little things in life that get you in the end.”

  Jason placed the baby in the car seat and buckled her in. She looked up at him and cooed. She is smiling, Jason decided. I don’t care what they say, I can recognize a smile when I see one. He resisted the urge to smile back – Gil was watching in the rear-view mirror.

  **

  “I think we’ve made a mistake,” Jake whispered, surveying the room. “These people aren’t Satanists... they’re just plain weird.”

  “I don’t know,” Cari whispered back. “The guy with the swastika tattoo on his skull is pretty cute.”

  “Should I arrange for an introduction?”

  “Only if I can introduce you to that biker-chick, although she looks like she’d eat you for breakfast. Scary.”

  Jake followed her gaze. “Um, I don’t think she’s my type. Maybe not anyone’s type, unless you’re a praying mantis.”

  Cari swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Jake was right: this wasn’t the place. The energy was all wrong: while undeniably dark, there was more a sense of desperation rather than power. “If this isn’t the place, where does that leave us?”

  “Screwed.”

  She nodded. “Back to square one, surrounded by cult-wannabe’s. I knew this was a mistake the moment we walked in, the atmosphere is all wrong.”

  Jake’s mouth quirked under his hood. “On so many levels. I feel like I need to scrub my eyeballs. With bleach.” A man walked by with a mesh shirt and pierced nipples.

  “This place is nothing more than an underground nightclub. You know, a Rave.”

  “Ah, so this is a Rave.” He looked at the leather-clad, scantily-dressed, pulsating throng of humanity. “Good God, Amy was at one of these?” He shuddered and caught himself. “At least we don’t look out of place. Quite a few people are wearing hoods... hey, where are you going?”

  “To talk to the bartender. Maybe he can give us some leads.”

  “The bartender’s male? How can you tell?”

  “Can’t. Just guessing.”

  “God, he doesn’t even look human.”

  They had reached the bar. The music started suddenly, with deafening intensity, and a crush of bodies instantly began swaying and jumping and flailing about.

  “Two beers,” Jake yelled. The bartender glanced at them curiously. At close range, Jake still couldn’t tell whether the bartender was male or female. Regardless, he or she was the ugliest human Jake had ever laid eyes on.

  Cari accepted the beer. She took a few swigs, then leaned close, her lips almost touching the bartender’s ear. “A hundred-dollar-bill bets you know where some intense activity is.”

  “What kind of activity?”

  She licked her lips and flashed open the front of her cape. Underneath was a tight t-shirt proclaiming ‘Satan lives’.

  The bartender frowned. “Never seen you around here before.”

  “And you probably won’t again. This scene is too... tame”

  “How do I know you’re not undercover?”

  Cari motioned to Jake, then lifted the back of his cape. His naked skin glistened with multiple tattoos, all depicting imagery of a Satanic nature. “Would a cop sport these?” She stared into his eyes and enunciated: “He is not a cop.”

  “Not a cop.” The bartender repeated and blinked. He reached for the money but Cari held tight. “There’s a guy named T-Bone. He’ll know about any activity happening, and there’s bound to be, full moon and all. Give me your number and he’ll contact you.”

  Cari shook her head. “I’d prefer his number.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  “Two-hundred says you can.”

  The bartender licked heavily rouged lips. “Four.”

  “Two-fifty.”

  “Three, or you can go kiss your ass.”

  Cari nodded and he scribbled something on a cocktail napkin. She held three fingers up to Jake and he produced the money.

  “If T-Bone asks, you didn’t get it from me.”

  “Deal. Know anything about the big meeting?”

  “Nope, Satanism ain’t my bag. All I know is that it’s in the forest, up north, I think.”

  She nodded and they drifted off. “Did you catch any of that?” Cari asked Jake.

  “No, couldn’t hear a damn thing. Tried to lip-read but failed miserably.”

  She filled him in, then wondered, “Now what?”

  “Now we find this T-Bone. Nothing inspires more confidence than getting informati
on from someone named after a piece of meat.”

  **

  Hidden deep in the forest stood the remains of a century-old burned-out church, surrounded by a small, forgotten graveyard. The church, St. John’s, had once been beautiful, and in a macabre way, she still was, especially brought back to life by the hundreds of cloaked bodies milling around, crowding her clearing.

  Moonlight illuminated the ruined church. Blackened beams sagged heavily into the forest floor, creating homes for a plethora of creatures. Moss and lichens grew over the remaining rubble, softening the jagged effect, giving the illusion of serenity. Tonight this illusion was shattered; the tension of the participants was palatable. It was a blue moon: tonight there would be a worthy sacrifice to the Dark Lord.

  Jason recognized some of his peers and he veered clear of them. He didn’t want witnesses. He felt sick about what he was planning to do, and he didn’t trust anyone enough to ask for help. Like himself, they were all children of the cult. He saw Jamie Henderson coming his way and he ducked behind an evergreen.

  The purpose of the hooded capes was to guarantee anonymity, but the idiosyncrasies of the capes sometimes gave away its owner’s identity. For example, Jason’s own cape was frayed and stained badly on one edge, the result of his habit of dragging it behind him when not in use. His mother’s cape, opened to display her bare breasts, was made of a richer, darker fabric. Gil’s cape had a thin vein of satin piping circumventing the hood. A casual observer might not notice these slight variances, but for the long-time member, they were as obvious as a name tag.

  A hand on his shoulder detained him. “Jason,” Gil hissed. “We’re starting. I’m going to whip the crowd into a frenzy, and when I give the signal, retrieve the infant from the car and bring it to the altar. Understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Jason’s throat was bone-dry. As surreptitiously as possible, he walked back to the car, his heart pounding. He knew what he was doing was crazy, but he also knew, deep down, he had no choice.

  The baby was sleeping. Good, that would make his job easier. He unbuckled the car seat and wrapped the baby gently in the extra blanket he’d stowed under the passenger seat. It was a cold night and he hoped its meagre warmth would be adequate. To be safe, he covered the baby’s face, leaving only a small breathing hole.