Sweet Little Lies

by J. T. Ellison

  Papillion could retire after this hit. But it was a delicate operation. He needed to wait for Sister Lucia to announce the hoax. Then the shooting could be blamed on one of the faithful on the ground, someone so overcome with the emotion of the appearance of their holy mother that a declaration of foolery would tip them over the edge.

  Fatima, this was not.

  ***

  Lucia stared at the face of the holy Mother. She waited, tuning out the noise, the heat, the fetid stench of the unwashed. Was she in the presence of a miracle? Had a great secret been revealed, a battle for good won? She waited, and felt nothing. Disappointment filled her. Another hoax. The last time she’d felt the presence of God was in a field, with no attendance other than a small rabbit. There was nothing holy here.

  She rose, shaking her head. The faithful moaned with hatred, denials were shouted. She simply ignored them, walked back to her Jeep. A flash caught her eye, high on the cliff rising to the heavens to her right. Papillion, she assumed. He’d been waiting for a chance to take her out for months now.

  Lucia stopped. She spread her legs, spread her arms, threw her head back. Presented herself to him, a target. Waited to feel the slam of the bullet in her chest. When it didn’t come, she smiled. An honest assassin, Papillion. Or smart enough to know that when she found the real miracle, she wouldn’t be able to hide her joy.

  She climbed into the Jeep, closed the door on another falsehood. One day, she prayed. One day.

  ***

  One day, Papillion prayed. One day she will find God, and I will help her meet him. His eyes were closed; he felt the flash, the burn from below instinctively. When he could finally pry his eyelids apart, the Jeep was gone. Lucia too. There was only a deep crater in the dirt, blackened and smoking. Pilgrims were scattered carelessly in the brush. Red and black mingled with the desert browns, painting the sands with raucous color.

  One day had arrived at last.

  CHIMERA

  Flashing in the Gutter 2006 (appeared in two parts – Chimera and Redux); Surreal South 09, edited by Pinckney Benedict and Laura Benedict, Press 53, 2009

  I do not sleep anymore.

  I can’t take the risk, not again. I won’t survive it again.

  “I’ll see you in hell.”

  These words are rooted in my brain. They aren’t even words, exactly. Not enunciated and pronounced, but hissed and lingering, seeping into my skin and settling into my bones, my heart, my mind.

  The room is dark, silent and reproachful. I’ve forgotten the nightlight again and the gloom is penetrating, the white walls lost in the abyss. There is no boundary to the room, it is infinite, black and salty. I can’t smell the sulfur, even though I’ve been told I would. It is more than the scent of the sea, slightly brackish, dead fish and seaweed making it offensive.

  The hissing begins again. “I’m here to take you. It is your time.”

  I realize this has happened before. I’ve been in this bed, this room, this murky gloom when the demon came to me. How many times have I fought him off?

  I turn to face him. He has come through the shuttered window. The night air blows behind him, sweet jasmine and bougainvillea overpowered by his rankness. He doesn’t resemble anything I’ve seen before, any depiction drawn or imagined. He is taupe, nearly translucent, skinny ferret like body supported by long boned feet, hands ending in claws that drip a viscous liquid. I assume it is the remnants of bitter souls from the night’s catch. I’m not sure how I know he is male, there are no external clues to his gender.

  “Tiiiiiimmmmeee.” That sibilant voice again. I feel a drop of slime hit my forehead. His hands are past my shoulder now, reaching around to scoop me in his arms. His mouth, crowded with sharp teeth, spit trails stringing between upper and lower jaws, grows wider, bigger, and I feel the claws rake across my back. He is pulling me in, consuming, sucking. I feel my soul depart from my heart and begin to leave my body.

  No. I will not let him take me.

  I take a breath so deep that pieces of his spittle fly into my mouth and scream. Louder, longer than I knew I could. My body convulses, tiny tears surface in my throat. And still I scream. I know, deep in my heart, that he will leave if I continue. They don’t like screams.

  Flashing a look full of hatred, of lust and regret, the demon is sucked back through the shutters. They bang close, startling me with their vehemence. My scream trails off. I am safe.

  I sit up and turn on the light. My fears are realized.

  The Chimera has come again.

  He sits in the chair, feet tucked under him like a pleasant cat. He raises an inky eyebrow, strokes two fingers through the obsidian silk of his goatee. He flashes a smile at me, teeth so pearly against the darkness that they’re nearly blue. He doesn’t say a word. Stroke, smile. Stroke, smile.

  “Bastard,” I whisper.

  He laughs silently, deep in his chest, the sound reverberating around the room like thunder.

  We made a deal, he and I. It was a long time ago. I was too young to know any better, he was hunting the night for victims. A match better suited to novels and nightmares. But he likes me. Enough that the deal we struck benefits us both.

  I murdered. I sinned. He took. It was that simple.

  Fetial declarations aside, he takes from everyone. Good, bad or indifferent. The indifferent, mostly. He signs for their souls without them ever knowing. It’s that last glimpse, when they assume they’ll see the light, that shocks the living hell right into them. And the Chimera laughs as he greets them, down below.

  But the lost souls aren’t my problem. The Chimera is my problem. We’re friends in a strange, make a deal with the devil kind of way. Like I said before, he likes me. He’s a fallen angel like the rest of them, still wanton in his desires. I guess I fit with his image of a partner.

  He’s here to collect. Anytime, anywhere. That’s our deal. I don’t have to go straight to hell. He possesses my body. Gives a whole new meaning to burning desire.

  He knows that you’re most vulnerable when you’re frightened. That’s why he sends in the demon first, to soften you up. Like I said, he’s a true sadist.

  I do have a choice in the matter. God gave us free will, the ability to choose which path to follow. My path is forked, two roads less traveled. I can accept the demon’s proposal. Go with him the next time he comes to me. It’s a toss up, sometimes, which is worse. The Chimera or the demon. Love, or death?

  I could just never sleep again. It’s not like I get any rest. Every time I close my eyes, start toward that REM stage, they appear. Never sleeping again is a comforting idea.

  I wish I could take back that night. The Chimera was there; I didn’t know that at the time. I thought it was just the two of us, alone in the alley. That no one heard my screams. That I was abandoned. That I wrestled the knife away at the last minute with my own strength. That my fingers grasped the hilt. That my muscles forced the tip of the knife into the man’s gut. That the blood spilling onto my arm, my torn dress, my shoes was untainted.

  He could have let me die. It might have been easier.

  It was ten years ago.

  The yin and yang of his world is too complex for me to comprehend. Suffice it to say that while I was being raped and strangled, he stood and watched. Waited. Knew that he could give me the strength to overcome the man and stop the attack, which he did, just not until after the man finished grunting and scraping at me. When the knife appeared, the Chimera stepped in, silent, transparent. He grasped my hand, grappled with the knife. Using my strength, he stabbed the stranger in the stomach, driving the blade in so deep that the warm spill of his intestines gathered in my hand.

  He turned with that luminescent smile and said, “You owe me.”

  As we were driving our deal, he had the audacity to point out I should thank him for saving my life. What kind of life is this? Labyrinth assassin, fevered dreams, the warm copper spice of lifeblood pouring through my hands. The Chimera, possessing me night by night, the length of him
buried deep between my thighs, his scorching desire blazing inside me.

  He comes to me, insatiable, unfulfilled. Takes me, over and over. Drives me onward. Over the brink, where the madness of climax allows me glimpses into the raging inferno that awaits.

  He is the cause of my reckless journeys, my wasted relationships, my never-ending string of dead end jobs. He is in the drugs, the alcohol, the cigarettes. The lush, provocative nights and the solitary days. He never leaves my side, but only appears when I sleep. He and his demon familiars.

  I’m a lucky girl. I’ll never be alone again.

  BITS AND PIECES

  Blog Short Story Project 3, March 5, 2007. Sponsors: Dave White and Bryon Quertermous. Theme: The required theme was something to do with blogging. What better than to start one?

  The Musings of a Serial Maniac

  Monday, March 5

  Welcome back, mes amis. I apologize for the long absence. I’ve been tied up.

  As those of you who have been reading from the beginning know, the melancholy has begun. It’s just not easy living inside a body that you cannot control. I didn’t choose this path. The life chose me.

  This was treasure number five. She was delectable, lithe and smooth, and over the next few weeks, we’ll get into all the details. She was the finest triumph thus far, I assure you.

  But mes amis, I must confess that I am restless already. According to plan, I stashed her body in the cardboard box, set it by the side of the road, and drove away, leaving her like a present under the Christmas tree of life. Who will find her? What will their reaction be? Will they feel reverence, pity, disgust? Dare I hope for a tingle of excitement? And why am I worried? I feel like I’ve passed some invisible mark, have entered new territory.

  I’m ashamed to admit that I drove through town on the way home. I’ve broken protocol. I’ve broken my own rules. It was careless, I know. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from your comments and encouragements is THE GOLDEN RULE—Never Break Any Rules. That’s how we get caught.

  Yet as I pulled away from that lonely little box, I couldn’t help myself. I drove through campus, my blood singing in my veins. I watched the innocents and felt myself stir. I don’t know how long I can wait. The raging of my soul will be my downfall, I fear. No, I know.

  I must tell you, this blog has become a most therapeutic exercise. Many thanks go out to TeddieB21 for the suggestion. As a community, we all learn from one another.

  I’ll join you again tomorrow, mes amis. Until then… Keep on Killin’. Over!

  Tuesday, March 6

  Mes amis,

  I find myself unable to concentrate. I’ve been watching the news, waiting for any word of my treasure’s discovery, and there has been nothing. NOTHING! I’m afraid. Something must have gone wrong. The treasure was left in plain sight. Maybe I should check, see if she’s still there.

  I can hear TeddieB21 now, screaming at me through his computer. No, you’re right, buddy. That would be bad. It would be breaking the RULES. Never come back to the scene. I know. I just have this longing building inside of me, and I can’t seem to decide the best thing to do. This happened the last time, with the fourth treasure. It took me three or four days to get over the high, to sate my desire. If I can just get through a couple more long nights, it will be fine, I’m sure.

  I drove through campus again this morning. There is another treasure waiting for me to loosen her from the glories of this life, I can feel her. The vibration is back. It’s too soon. I must make it go away.

  On a higher note, work went well today. I have been given a promotion. It means a bit more pay, so Donald, I’ll be able to get you your payment for the tapes. They were divine. I highly recommend you seek out Donald and browse through his extensive collection. Those videos have gotten me through many a bad night, I’ll tell you that. I wonder if I’d ever get over my shyness long enough to allow myself to be filmed with one of my treasures?

  I’ve rambled on long enough. There’s a movie on soon I’d like to watch. I won’t tell you what it is, because you’ll laugh at me. Suffice it to say I’ll rewrite my own endings.

  KOK. Over!

  Wednesday, March 7

  Mes amis,

  They’ve got her!

  The delay was my fault. I chose the site poorly. I didn’t realize that there was a short detour on the outside of town that rerouted incoming traffic to Route 41, dropping visitors to the city downtown instead. No matter. She is found now.

  The outrage has made my blood simmer with a yearning I’ve never felt before. The fifth treasure is certainly affording me new experiences, and that’s what Elvis54 always says is the most important aspect of our careers.

  I TiVo’d all three newscasts. (That second TiVo box certainly comes in handy—ha!) The investigation is in its beginning stages, but as you all know, this is my favorite moment, the second most exciting part of the process. Will they trace her back to me? NEVER! Long Live the Serial Maniac!

  KOK. Over!

  Monday, March 12

  Mes Amis,

  Just back from work and heard some very bad news. Smail466 has been taken.

  It would behoove all of you to delve deep into your operating systems and remove his correspondence. I’ll be deleting any trace of him from this site immediately. I know it is difficult to do; Smail466 has been the harbinger of many excellent tips and stories since the inception of this blog. But it cannot be helped. He must be exorcised. Such a shame. That moniker, THE BUTCHER OF MONS, was just so lovely. I doubt the Belgian authorities ever realized the double entendre when they bestowed the name.

  But let that be a lesson to all you newcomers. Smail466 made a tactical error and broke one of the RULES. He left that print behind in New York fifteen years ago. Always wear gloves, on your hands and on your pricks, mes amis. Why does something so simple become the downfall for so many of us?

  Keep On Killin’, and be careful! Over!

  KILLING CAROL ANN

  Spinetingler Magazine Fall 2006; First Thrills: High-Octane Stories from the Hottest Thriller Authors, edited by Lee Child, Forge Books 2010

  I’ve just killed Carol Ann. Sweet, innocent Carol Ann. Her blond hair flows down her back and trails in the spreading pool of blood. What have I done?

  ***

  I’ve known Carol Ann for nearly my whole life. Every memory from my childhood is permeated by the blond angel who moved in across the street when I was five or so. Skipping up the street after the ice cream truck, getting lost in the shadows during a game of hide and seek, watching her sit in the window of her pink room, brushing that glorious hair. We were two peas in a pod, two sides of the same coin. Best friends forever. Forever just turned out to be an awful long time.

  Our relationship started as benignly as you’d expect. I’d seen the moving truck leave, knew that a family had taken the Estes’ house. Mrs. Estes died, left her son with bills and a dozen cats. I missed the cats. I’d wondered about the family, then went back to my own world.

  Carol Ann spied me sitting on our front step, twirling my fingers through the dandelions in the flowerbeds. Mama had sent me out to pluck the poor, insignificant weeds from the ground, worried they’d ruin her prized flowers. Mama’s flowerbeds were local legend. The best in three states. At least that’s what the members of the garden club said about them. Full to the brim with the heady blooms of gardenias, azaleas, jasmine, roses, sweet peas, hydrangea, daylilies, iris, rhododendrons, ferns, fertile clumps of monkey grass, a smattering of black-eyed Susans… the list went on and on. A green thumb, Mama had. She could make any flower grow and peak under her watchful gaze. All but me, that is. Her Lily.

  I was crying about something that day, I don’t remember what. It was past 90 degrees, a sweltering summer afternoon. A shadow cast darkness across my right foot. The sudden shade caused a momentary cooling, so I looked up to see what had caused it. A strange girl stood on the sidewalk in front of the A-frame house I grew up in. A yellow haired goddess. When she spoke
, I felt a rush of love.

  “Hey girl,” she said. “Would you like to play?”

  “Do I wanna play?” I answered, suddenly numb with fright. I’d never had a playmate before. Most folks’ kids steered clear of me. Mama’s garden club friends didn’t bring their spawn to visit with me while they played canasta under the billowing tent in the backyard. The nearest child my age was a bed-ridden boy who smelled funny and coughed constantly. Mama made me go over there once, but after I screamed as loud as I could and pulled his hair, she didn’t make me go back. There was no one else.

  “Are you simple or something?” the girl asked.

  “Simple?”

  “Oh, never mind.” She turned her back and started away toward the river, skipping every third step. She wore a white dress with a pink ribbon tied in the back in a big bow—the kind I’d only ever wear on Easter, to go to church with Mama. Even from behind, she was perfect.

  “Wait!”

  My voice rang as true and strong as it ever had, deep as a church bell. She stopped, dead in her tracks, and turned to me slowly. Her eyes were wide, bluer than Mama’s china teapot. Then she smiled.

  “Well. Who knew you’d sound like that? I’m Carol Ann. It’s nice to meet you.”

  She strode to me, her hand raised. I’d never shaken hands with a girl my age before. It struck me as awfully romantic. She grasped my hand in hers.

  “How do,” I mumbled.

  “Now, is that any way to greet your dearest friend?” Her voice had a lilt to it, southern definitely, but something foreign too. She squeezed my hand a little harder, her little fingers pinching mine.