Lucifer's Children

by Brett Williams

  Amanda longed to return to her bedroom but didn’t dare. She sat listening to the radio which did little but provide white noise to her racing, sickened mind, and wait. Various grunts and moans alerted her to a climactic finish to the filthy activities upstairs. A few minutes later, the guys came downstairs and left the house. A few minutes after that, flushed and glowing, Mrs. Henning entered the kitchen. She gave Amanda a knowing look and said, “Everything appears to be in order. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. Dinner is on schedule.”

  Her foster mother’s gaze narrowed.

  “There isn’t a problem, is there?”

  “No, Mrs. Henning. No problem at all.”

  “Because, should any problem arise, we are fully prepared to deal with it.” Her gaze dropped to the floor. To the basement.

  Amanda’s chin quivered. “No problem, ma’am. I just want to do as I’m told, to be left alone, and … and …”

  “And what? Spit it out.”

  “I just want to turn eighteen.” The words tasted bad (like vomit) spewing from her mouth. But she spoke the truth. And to Mrs. Henning the implication must have rang clear, for she smiled a lipstick-smeared toothy grin.

  “Perfect,” Mrs. Henning said, and reached out to clutch one of Amanda’s breasts.

  What the hell?

  With a painful squeeze, Amanda’s guardian continued, “Do as you’re told and you’ll be eighteen before you know it.”

  Tears burst from Amanda’s eyes and raced down her face. “Yes, ma’am. I w-will.”

  “Good. Now, finish dinner, I have errands to run.”

  Amanda nodded and Mrs. Henning left the house. Her hands were shaking, her legs unsteady and she forced herself to sit down at the breakfast nook.

  Soon, Amy came strolling into the kitchen. She wore the same tight tee but didn’t wear the sweatpants. Instead, pink panties clung to her body. She opened the refrigerator and removed a bottle of organic juice.

  “Don’t spoil your dinner,” Amanda said as instructed by Mrs. Henning weeks ago.

  “Shut your trap,” Amy said.

  “Whatever.”

  A cigarette sprang out of nowhere to appear between Amy’s fingers. She placed the tip against a stove burner that was set on low.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Amanda asked.

  “Lighting a smoke. What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “You’ll never light it that way, it’s not hot enough. Besides, you shouldn’t be smoking anyhow. What if your mother saw you?”

  “She went to buy me a lighter, like it’s any of your fucking business.”

  “Language, Amy. Language.”

  “How’s this for fucking language. Fuck, shit, bitch, cunt …”

  “Okay, okay. You took sailor English 101. I don’t really care.”

  Amy cranked another burner to high.

  “Did your mother really go to buy you a lighter?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Where did you get the cigarette?”

  “I swiped a pack off that old fuck I fucked.”

  Amanda gagged, and after watching Amy pick at her ridden-up shorts, had to ask, “What’s gotten into you lately?”

  “John, Steve, Daddy.”

  Amanda’s stomach threatened to flip. “No. I mean you. What changed? You’re … You have become …”

  “A piece of shit? Yeah, I know. I like it.”

  “What?” Amanda said, taken aback. She listened in horror as the girl said:

  “I just am.” To emphasize her point, she pressed the tip of the cigarette to the hot burner and watch its tip catch fire. Then she brought the filter to her lips and sucked in the flame. The tip glowed orange and Amy blew a plume of smoke. She twisted the burner to off before adding “I’m supposed to be a nasty slut. I fuck my own daddy, you know that. I’ve ate out my mother’s pussy and licked my best friend Tara’s cunt. I’m a piece of trash and I don’t fucking care.”

  “W-why?”

  Tears welled in the little girl’s eyes. “Because I’m worthless.”

  “Worthless? Worthless? What in the world would ever make you believe you are worthless?”

  “Because,” she said, wiping away a tear and then taking a deep drag off the cigarette.

  “Because isn’t a reason.”

  “Because,” Amy said, “my baby was born dead.”

  “Baby? You’re too young to have a baby.” Amanda’s mind spun. Had this little girl gotten pregnant by her own father? Vomit surged into her mouth and she unfortunately had to swallow it down.

  “No,” Amy said snidely. “I don’t just fuck my daddy. I conceived a child with His Most Unholy.”

  “What in blue blazes are you talking about?”

  “I conceived a child with Lucifer himself.”

  “Are you flipping serious? What have you been smoking with Stacy?”

  Amy blew smoke in Amanda’s face. “Just cigarettes, so far.”

  Amanda noticed Amy’s hands shaking as violently as hers and said, “You must be high. Or effed up.”

  “No. Not me.” Amy’s body shuddered with despair. “Lucifer raped me so I could have His baby, but it was stillborn. I’m a fucking piece of trash, unworthy to bear His child. I’m a piece of shit, so now the only way I can give Him a child is to be a worse piece of fucking shit.”

  “Oh, no. That’s not true,” Amanda exclaimed. “You’re mixed up. Abused. Molested. I’m so sorry, Amy. You shouldn’t be going through any of this.” Amanda wrapped her arms around her foster sister, kissed the top of her head. Tears rained down from her face as she did so.

  At first Amy innocently hugged Amanda back. As they stood there, embraced in sadness, Amanda felt a hand cup a buttock while another slid along her side to rub a breast.

  “Amy.” Amanda pushed the girl to arms’ length. “What are you doing?”

  “I wanna touch you. I wanna taste you.”

  “Oh, my god, you’re sick.”

  First Mrs. Henning, and now her daughter. Amanda didn’t know if she could take any more.

  “Maybe you wanna taste me. Lucifer can watch. He’d like that,” Amy said slipping a hand into the front of her panties. The cigarette went to her lips.

  “Hell no. Get out of this kitchen—you’re making me ill.”

  “You can taste John and Steve’s cream filling …” Amy removed her hand from her panties and tasted her fingertips. “It’s yummy.”

  Amanda’s stomach churned and she latched onto Amy’s arm to drag her from the kitchen. Amanda moved quickly, wrestling free the cigarette before Amy could use it as a weapon. Amanda flicked it into the sink as Amy began to flail her with a fist.

  “Let me alone, you bitch. You goddamn bitch. You think you’re so special. You’re not. If you were, then you’d be pregnant.”

  “What the hell is going on in here?” Mr. Henning’s voice boomed from the foyer.

  “Daddy, Amanda is hurting me.”

  “Both of you stop right now.”

  They froze. Amanda let loose of Amy.

  “Amanda, why were you hurting your sister?”

  Because she’s turned into a tramp because you’ve been molesting her, Amanda wanted to say. Instead, she said, “She was smoking a cigarette.”

  “Downstairs? I told you to smoke outside or in your room. Nowhere else.”

  “She’s lying, Daddy.” Amanda sidled over to her father. “She’s upset because John and Steve were here.”

  “How did it go, sweetheart?”

  “It was loads of fun.”

  Amanda’s jaw dropped, hardly believing what she was hearing. She saw Amy reaching for her father’s crotch and screamed “No, no,” as she dashed for the sink, where she vomited painfully. Her knees felt weak, her head dizzy. She thought she might pass out.

  “Wait for me upstairs,” Mr. Henning told Amy.

  “But Daddy …”

  A loud crack of an open-handed slap rang out.

  “I told yo
u to wait for me upstairs, you twat. Now get your fucking ass up there while I deal with this.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  Bare feet thundered across the floor and up the stairs.

  Amanda, bent over the sink, felt Mr. Henning grab hold of her ponytail and yank her head back. His eyes bore into her soul as he spoke.

  “Your sister is a nasty little girl. You know that, don’t you Amanda?”

  “Y-yes, Mr. Henning.”

  A hand slipped down between her thighs.

  “Are you a naughty girl?”

  “N-no, sir.”

  “Are you sure? Because I like naughty girls.”

  “I’m sure. I’m not like that.”

  “Then I suggest you keep a blind eye to the goings on here. Do you know what will happen if you don’t?”

  “The basement?”

  “If you are lucky, yes. Or Amy might pay you a visit one night while you are asleep. Or sneak up on you while you’re busy. All sorts of nasty things might happen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Much nastier and a lot less enjoyable, at least for you, than the things that go on in Amy’s bedroom.”

  Amanda’s head nodded as she sobbed. “I un-understand.”

  “Great. Now how long before dinner?”

  Amanda didn’t know if she could finish dinner or not. “Half an hour,” she guessed.

  “Plenty of time for that filthy kid to suck my cock.”

  Amanda slumped to the floor as Mr. Henning set her free. She heard him remove a bottle of beer from the refrigerator before retreating upstairs. She lay there weeping until the oven timer went off.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Over a week later the opportunity Amanda had been waiting for presented itself. Amy needed glue and glitter and a long list of things for a project at school. She had put it off for too long and now she needed everything tonight, so Mrs. Henning had taken her shopping after school.

  As soon as they left Amanda made a beeline down the stairs, directly to the basement door. She really didn’t want to do this but she needed to make some sense of the insanity going on in the house.

  With a deep breath, Amanda unlatched the door and swung it open. Darkness filled the void, black as night. She reached in and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. She tried one of the switches beside the basement door which cast weak illumination from deep down in the basement. Leaving the basement door open, she started down creaky steps hoping to find answers. Stone foundation, dark worn wooden steps, and what appeared to be a hard-packed dirt floor, all led her to realize that the Henning home had stood here for quite some time. Its exterior (as well as upstairs interior) hid its origin behind the facade of a recent remodeling job.

  At the foot of the stairs, mounted to the stone foundation, were a series of light switches, none of which worked. Amanda got the distinct impression that once trapped down in the musty nether reaches of the house, no light was allowed. None. Unless Mr. Henning wanted light.

  Although, on a counter lining an interior wall, set six black candles burned down to nubs. Amanda found it hard to focus on, let alone acknowledge, objects hanging on the wall:

  Goat’s head

  The name Baphomet entered her mind, yet she knew not why.

  A mockery of a savior’s crucifixion

  Fuck Jesus. Let him hang in shame.

  Ancient symbols

  Debasement, molestation, mockery, sacrilege, sacrifice … others

  Sepia photographs

  Robed figures, sacrificed bodies, blood orgies. With and without children.

  Other, modern photographs

  Some Polaroid, others developed

  Erotic poses, debased acts …

  Children sexually injured or mutilated …

  Gratified adults with the naked bodies of children, both alive and dead …

  Numerous photographs of pregnant teenage girls, some clothed, some not …

  Images flashed through Amanda’s mind, a kaleidoscope of horrors that refused to completely register in consciousness. Their lingering effect, though, caused wave after wave of nausea. She kept wanting to avert her eyes but found herself unable to.

  “What the fuck … ?” she said.

  She forced herself to look away, to prevent the nausea from becoming overwhelming. That is when she noticed other things deeper in the basement. Coffin-like boxes and cages. No, not cages, tanks. Row after row of tanks.

  Amanda approached for a closer look.

  Various snakes and spiders—tarantulas, Amanda recognized—along with a few scorpions. Amanda’s skin crawled as she watched the snakes basking on their heated stones. Lights, some black, some red, others white shone on the creatures, and Amanda wondered if one of the light switches at the door upstairs controlled them. She also noticed skittering, squeaking noises. Rats. She found them on the other side of a walled partition. The rodents, also caged, were separated by size, from pups up to full-grown adults. Some licked bottles of water while others clawed for escape.

  Amanda shivered. Snakes fed on rats. Spiders or scorpions might feed on the smaller ones. But she sensed more diabolical uses for such devious-looking mammals, the way they rubbed their hands together maniacally, swished their hairless, segmented tails, and gnawed on anything in their cage. One appeared to be trying to gnaw loose its hanging water bottle while another longed for purchase against the glass. It reminded her of the way a snake’s forked tongue will lick against the walls of its enclosure.

  None of it made sense to Amanda. She set her sights on the box set atop three sawhorses. Not just any box. A pine box. Painted black. A crude coffin. Child size.

  Amanda could not help but peer inside. All she found, besides a spiderweb and what appeared to be dark stains (although it was hard to tell in the dim light and shadows played tricks), were some dead bugs. A few were caught in the spiderweb (the spider awaited patiently in a corner), meanwhile others had dried up in other corners. There was one, however, flatted and pressed onto the floor of the coffin, a tarantula-sized mass in the middle, where a person’s back would rest.

  Amanda inspected the entire basement area. She found little else of interest. A section of foundation repaired with brick, a walled off area with shelves of paint cans, brushes, hammer, nails, a box of candles, various supplies such as spare bulbs and bedding for the caged critters, and an old Polaroid camera. She also found a pair of tarnished handcuffs, plenty of rope, and a hot-water heater pinging in a far corner. The area was spacious and offered endless diabolical uses, or so it seemed to Amanda.

  Amanda took her time inspecting every nook and cranny, even dropping to her hands and knees to inspect dark stains on the floor. Something had obviously been splattered and pooled in various areas of the floor, mostly near the coffin and the counter.

  An altar

  She didn’t quite know what to make of any of it, but she did know that it frightened her greatly. She never wanted to be locked down here again.

  Nor in the box

  A coffin!

  And the fact that her mind refused to consciously register the artifacts on the wall increased her fear. This place proved to her that Mr. and Mrs. Henning were monsters. Abusive, torturous, molesting monsters. She feared living in this home but feared running away even more. She knew teens who ran away from home sometimes resorted to prostitution to survive, or were raped, taken advantage of, even abducted.

  Of course she could contact social services. They would find her a new home, press charges against the Hennings. Everything would be fine. Or would it? If somehow Mr. Henning escaped charges, Amanda would pay dearly, maybe even killed. Amanda wiped tears from her eyes. She had seen enough down here. More than enough, and she wanted to investigate Mr. Henning’s office before Amy and Mrs. Henning returned.

  Amanda hurried up the stairs. She had just switched off the lights and was closing the door behind her when the front door burst open. The sudden noise caused her to jump. Amy, bounding through the door carrying a
large sack of supplies, noticed Amanda.

  “What are you doing?” Amy asked.

  “Nothing. Chores. Mind your own business.”

  “Were not. You went down there, didn’t you?”

  “No, I did not. The door was ajar, I was just shutting it. Did you go down there?”

  “No.”

  “You mind your business or I will tell Mrs. Henning. By the way, where is she?”

  “Parking the car.”

  Amanda felt a little disoriented. How long was I downstairs? Amanda wondered. Maybe she had spaced out while looking at the objects on the wall. It didn’t make sense but somehow that seemed like the answer.

  She said, “I’m going upstairs.”

  Amy followed her. “What’s for dinner?”

  The question irked Amanda.

  “I asked what’s for dinner.”

  “Spaghetti.”

  “I like spaghetti.”

  “You like anything you don’t have to cook.”

  “True.” Amanda went into her room and shut the door to reflect on what she had seen. A minute later, Amy barged in.

  “Hey,” Amanda said, “knock.”

  “I don’t have to knock, this is my house.”

  “Well, this is my room.”

  Amy, shrugging, produced a cigarette and lighter, and lit up the smoke.

  Amanda’s hands shook as she sat on her bed. She didn’t like Amy being in her room, but at the moment didn’t want to be alone either. Amanda said, “A little respect would be nice.”

  “If I got a little, I’d give a little.”

  “Yeah, right. Don’t you have a project to work on?”

  “I’ll do it after dinner. Right now I need a smoke.”

  “You’re going to get addicted to those things.”

  “So? I don’t care. They help me relax.”

  Amanda desperately wanted to relax. And she found that she didn’t care, either. Watching Amy smoke actually made Amanda crave a cigarette.

  “Let me have a puff,” she said.

  Amy passed her the cigarette and Amanda inhaled the smoke. Amazingly, she didn’t cough or sputter. She blew out a thick plume of smoke.

  “Now pass it back.”

  “Just a sec. Tell me what you know about the basement.”

  “Ah-ha! You were down there.”