Throughout my skin.
Was I drugged? Did one of the guests slip me something?
Someone rushes to me, a blurred form that grabs my arm. Their worried words are indecipherable, only their tone make it through.
Impulse breaks free at their touch. I’m vaguely aware of my lips pulling back, almost as if . . .
As if I’m growling at the person like some sort of animal.
My dream from the night before flashes in my head. The fur bursting along my skin. That howl I’ll never forget.
A small voice tells me to get away from the person. Get away from them all. If I don’t, something bad is about to happen here. These people are in danger. Every single one of them.
In danger from me?
Darkness comes next, the urge to pass out too strong. I jerk away from whoever was touching me, only to bump into others.
More inquiries. Everyone circling, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
No chance to escape.
No way to save them, my inner voice cries.
Save them? From wh—the question has barely begun to form when I succumb to the call of that darkness.
The call of what I will later learn is the change.
Vision is gone, yet some hearing remains.
That animal growling, followed by the howl from my dreams.
Shouts.
Gasps.
Shrieks of agony.
Someone is pleading. A woman, perhaps? Sounds like she’s begging for her life.
She isn’t the only one.
The audible nightmare continues, horrific moments that are like small bursts in time.
Something crunches between my teeth, but my teeth aren’t the same. They feel too different.
I’m fighting this with all I’ve got, trying to understand . . .
The metallic tang in my mouth is familiar.
Darkness is a heavy fog over my mind, and I’m well acquainted with that, too.
Shit. Did I get into another fight on the streets tonight? Would explain the blood I’m gagging on. How many times have I awoken in a drunken, blitzed daze, with the remnants of another brawl over me?
Too many to count.
Way too many.
Then again, what other outlet do I have? I don’t remember most of the altercations I get into, yet that doesn’t change the strange satisfaction in my soul every time I awake from one. That amazing relief of releasing the fury in me.
Groaning, I turn my head, expecting to feel the grind of a sidewalk against my cheek—
There’s a cushion beneath my head. Or what feels like one, at least.
The hell?
Opening my eyes is a mission in and of itself. My lids seem glued together with cement. As I struggle to get them to rise, sensation spikes throughout my entire body. Aches, the likes of which I’ve never felt in my life, blossom through every limb.
God, it feels like I’ve been put through the workout of my life.
Or through a torture rack. Either works.
There also seems to be some kind of liquid over every inch of my body. It’s cold, and when I flex my fingers, the thickness of it leaves me perplexed.
Ugh. That taste of blood in my mouth is at an all-time high, too. Like I’ve gargled it.
Wonder if I’m missing any teeth.
Memories tickle. A penthouse. People, so many people. They were celebrating . . . me.
But they were in danger. I was trying to get away from them because they were in serious peril.
Dread is like a steady drumbeat in my chest. Or is that my panicking heart? Grinding my teeth, I make a last effort to drag myself from this black fog. My body shifts and it’s a matter of seconds before I realize the position I’m in.
Sitting.
I’m sitting on a couch.
In the penthouse?
Oh, holy shit. That’s where I was. The Ritz-Carlton. The celebration for my recent win. Surrounded by people. Not ten years ago, when I was homeless, broken, and out to punish anyone I could.
The facts jolt me and my eyes slam open.
Blood.
An ocean of it splattered everywhere I can see. The white ceiling is drenched in it.
Terrified, I blank out, unable to move. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something dangling from one of the chandeliers and I’m afraid to look.
So fucking afraid.
Eventually, the temptation proves too great, and I turn my head slowly—
Intestines.
Oh Jesus, are those someone’s God damned intestines?!
Crying out, I scramble on the couch, only to be met by the sight of the horror surrounding me.
Mutilation on an unimaginable scale.
More blood.
Body parts.
People torn to shreds.
Death. So much death.
And I’m naked—buck fucking naked—covered in as much blood as the room itself, with what I suspect is chunks of human meat scattered over me.
A scream lodges in my throat, my mind threatening to cave in. A strangled sound makes it through, perhaps a whimper, as I drag myself backward along the couch, eyes bouncing over the slaughter.
This has to be a dream. It has to be.
Please, God, let it be a nightmare!
I’m not only covered in a good portion of the bloodshed, but I’m also the only one unscathed. I remember what I felt within the void, between my teeth—
“H—help . . . me,” I whisper, clueless who I’m invoking. God, as mentioned? Anyone? I just need someone, something, to make this stop.
Please, please make it stop.
There’s a twitching leg on the floor in front of the couch.
Another strangled groan leaves me.
What happened here?
A twisted whisper in my mind answers, You. You happened here.
Impossible. I wouldn’t be capable of something like this. How would I?
I’m about to get my answer in a way I’ll never forget. Not as long as I live.
Which might only be a few more minutes, as it turns out.
My teeth chatter with fear—possible shock settling in—as I stare at the remnants of the life I’d managed to build for myself. A life I’m pretty sure I’ve destroyed.
It was everything I’d ever wanted. What society teaches us is supreme validation of our existence—prestige, money . . . and there it lies, ruined beneath my feet, reduced to nothing but torn body parts and blood.
What am I going to do? How am I going to deal with this?
The doors to the penthouse’s foyer burst open. A black-heeled foot with flames licking up the sides touches down on the marble first, and despite my state of shock, it takes a mere second for me to recognize what I’m seeing.
For my heart to scream the truth of what’s happening.
It’s her.
The woman from my dreams.
The goddess surrounded by fire with death written in her stare.
The obsession I didn’t even admit I had until now.
She’s real—she’s fucking real—and that can only mean one thing:
It was all real.
All of it.
I did sell my soul.
And now she’s come to collect her due.
CHAPTER 2
Ten Years Ago
- St. Claude Avenue, Lower Ninth Ward, New Orleans, LA (USA)
The street signs are blurry. The few ones still remaining, that is. I squint at the faded one on the next corner, willing the words to magically sharpen.
No luck. It’s either because that’s an old, piece of shit sign—in this old, piece of shit part of the city—or due to the fentanyl in my veins. The blood dripping into my eye doesn’t help, either.
The ground tries to rush up to meet me on my next step. I stumble, but I don’t fall, and that’s a good thing.
Got enough injuries for the night. No need to add more.
But seriously. What the fuck does that sign say? You’d think I’d know
where I am by memory alone.
Hahhhhhh. Funny. As if I don’t refuse to pay attention to my surroundings half the time.
This side of town still lacks most of its streetlights, but the cops are big on their “No Loitering” bullshit law. Especially after the chaos of the post-Katrina days. Last thing I need is to be spotted by them in this state. I might be high as fuck—or probably in a universe well beyond that—but I ain’t stupid.
I’m fixin’ to get my ass to shelter and away from any chance of being caught by the cops. Not the actual shelter I’m staying at, of course. Don’t need Ms. Demie’s disapproving gaze or hear her telling me I’ve been kicked from the program for good.
Eh. They were going to kick me out anyway. I just made it easier for them. Saved us all the time.
I cross the street aimlessly, avoiding another of the potholes, and onto a street with only two of its homes remaining, spaced apart from each other by what seems to be an acre of empty land.
Another remnant of Katrina. A lot of the houses in the Lower 9th Ward were destroyed for good. We’re mostly too piss-poor around these parts to rebuild entire homes, especially when the government proved to not give a rat’s ass about us in the end.
Like it was a newsflash, am I right?
I remember our own rundown home, another colorful Creole cottage with its single story, two rooms, and more cracks on the wall than most of the streets around here.
Mom wasn’t the greatest; I’m a living testament to that. The outcome of her inability to be a functional human. Yet life with her was much better than anything that’s come since.
She did manage to get me on the roof before the waters took her. My last view of her is one I can’t erase. The only time I ever saw an expression of concern on her face. Then, she was gone, taken by a huge surge.
Believe me, she was the lucky one. Every day I wish the helicopters hadn’t rescued me off that roof. Should’ve just left me there. Put their efforts into saving someone worthwhile. Not the nine-year-old son of a lost heroin addict.
I mean, look at me now in all my fucked-up glory. Homeless, addicted to pills, covered in injuries and scars of fights past.
Maybe tonight will be the night I finally work up the balls to end it.
Maybe.
I look around, clueless where I’ve ended up now. It’s an even emptier spot, one I haven’t walked around in the past. There’s a single cottage down the road. The next home seems to be at least three blocks away.
It’s whatever. At least I’m in an isolated area. It’ll be easier to find a place for the night with even less people around.
I continue onward, the world lost in a fog around me. Makes finding a hiding spot to sleep difficult, but I did it to myself, right? The only clear area in this entire mess is that house and it becomes even sharper as I approach.
Man, it’s in great condition compared to most buildings in these parts. Like the Hurricane never touched it, nor the rampant poverty of the Lower 9th. The people who own it must have some serious money.
Yeah right. Why would anyone with money want to build or live around here?
The home appears to glow with its bright lights. A glossy, fresh-looking coat of aqua paint covers its facade, and the windows are highlighted in bright yellow. An assortment of lush, potted plants decorate the sidewalk just outside, and the entire aura of the place is homey.
Welcoming.
Not that I plan to waltz up there and knock. A shelter meant to take in lost souls like me didn’t want me around. Why would some stranger?
No one ever wants me. Until the end of my mother’s life, I never saw sign that she did. Only that one time she saved me before dying.
I blink, and the vision of the cottage warps for a second. Like something out of a gothic nightmare, I swear I see the exterior crumble, cracks forming, paint peeling . . .
Silently screaming faces bulge out of the walls.
Tripping on my next step, I right myself, but of course there’s nothing on those walls. It’s the drugs and liquor talking.
And the lack of sleep.
Shaking my head at myself, I keep it moving, searching in vain for somewhere to take a break. Sit down for a few seconds.
The basic things most people take for granted, most of which are denied to scumbags like me.
I’m so high that each step I take begins reverberating in my head somehow, the ground appearing to shake. It’s perplexing, nauseating. How the fuck am I supposed to handle the world tilting like I’m on a boat at sea?
Swallowing compulsively, I stop to wait for it to pass.
It doesn’t.
That isn’t my footsteps pounding, either.
Is someone drumming?
The rhythm sneaks through me, from the soles of my feet, up my quivering legs, to the top of my messed-up head. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly. Come on, man, you’re fucked up, but this is ridiculous. Get it together.
Bullshit, it’s getting worse. Now I’m hearing voices from every direction, chanting in indecipherable fragments.
I slap my hands over my ears. It does nothing. The noise grows, getting unbearably loud. I clench my teeth, curling into myself. What is this? Does it mean it’s finally happening?
Am I finally losing my mind for good?
“No, dear child. No. You’re finally finding it for the first time.”
I startle at that voice and see a small figure in front of me—an old woman, from what I can make out. She’s also blurry.
Blurry and colorful, like the house to my left.
Her hair is a frizzy, gray halo around her. Her features aren’t visible to me . . . until she smiles.
A black void stretches wide across her face, a grotesque display of missing teeth.
“Ah!” I let out a short shout, falling backward onto the sidewalk—
No. Not the sidewalk. I’ve crash-landed onto a brick floor of some kind. My hands scramble to make purchase, but there’s something slick beneath me. Thick and viscous.
I crab-walk into a wall, slipping at least two more times. Wherever I am, it’s lit by a myriad of candles, yet somehow their glow does nothing to ease the shadows that creep from every corner.
Lifting my hand, I squint at whatever is covering it.
Is . . . is that blood? What in the fuck—
A hiss rises, sharp and deadly. My eyes bounce up to search for the source of it. The shadows move, parting, reuniting, and I see the candles aligned on top of a surface. Figurines of some sort are also scattered throughout, and I might be high as a fucking kite but I grew up in this town. Its influences run deep in my veins, whether I like it or not.
I know what a freaking altar is.
How in the hell . . . I was just out on the street! How’d I get here?
Where am I?
That hiss sounds again and I see something slithering in the shade. My heart beats faster and faster, and my brain starts to suspect what it might be. Another thing I’ve learned from this city? I know a snake when I hear one.
But it isn’t just one. It’s silent partners slither into view, dark shapes gliding through the dark.
“Ah—ah Christ, what the—”
Chanting. Drums. The hisses increasing in volume behind it. Candle lights dancing in the air, a dizzying, confusing display.
I choke on my fear as my mind grapples with the question of whether this is real or not. It can’t be, right? It has to be the drugs. The stress. I’ve never hallucinated while high or drunk before, yet what else can it be?
“Desperation, my love.”
I jerk at that voice, head flying around to my left.
Out of the shadows of blackness and slithering snakes, that lady from outside glides toward me, her decrepit skirt sliding along the stone floor. My vision is crystal clear in here, unlike on the street, and her entire dismaying visage only adds to the sense of terror building in my chest.
Her white hair looks like it hasn’t seen a comb in centuries, knotted and covered in what appe
ars to be dirt. Likewise, eons of time seem to be etched across her ancient face, a walking mummy if I’ve ever seen one.
Remembering her toothless smile sends me skittering away from her, but there’s nowhere to go. I’m already with my back against the wall.
Black, soulless eyes crinkle, as if she’s about to smile again, and I want to close my eyes to avoid seeing the void of her mouth.
I can’t, though. No matter how much I try, it’s like my lids are glued open against my will.
For some reason—mercy, perhaps—her smile remains small. Gloating. The rows of beads around her neck are in pristine shape, a contrast to the rest of her.
She’s like a corpse come to life.
“Wh-who are you?” I stutter, as she heads to the altar.
As she passes me, her head turns, one black eye focused on me over her shoulder, and what has to be another illusion hits me; it’s only a second of time, but I swear I see the face of a young woman instead of an old crone. “Your salvation.”
“What?” My exclamation is met by another hiss from that snake, and I press my back to the wall, frozen in fear.
“Yes. You’ve been calling for me your whole life.” She stops before the altar, waving her hands in circles in the air above it, and all the candles flare brighter. Objects on its surface begin to move, switching positions, and some even appear to morph into different things all together.
“I-I—please, I don’t—” I’m shaking too hard to form a coherent sentence, teeth clashing against each other. Torn between eyeing her and the snakes that seem to be encroaching nearer, I choke on both my fear and confusion.
Either I was given the best, laced pills of my life . . . or this is real.
Very real.
I want to believe I’m going crazy more than anything, yet my intoxicated gut knows that’s not the—
She’s in front of me.
Moved fast enough that I didn’t see her, but I sure as hell make out the trails of color along her form, as if she zipped across the space at lightspeed.
“Fuck!” My head bangs into the wall as I twitch.
Her head tilts back with her laugh, displaying that lack of teeth again. “So afraid, like you know how this ends already.” Moving slowly, with a grace that belies her apparent age, she kneels to my level. A wrinkled, abnormally thin hand rises, followed by its twin, and a circle spirals to life between them.
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