by Graeme Hurry
“I’ll be careful.” He looked out into the forest. It was thick and black and the ground was buried in its shadows. The slightest tinge of fear crept up his spine, quickly radiating throughout his entire body.
Then this fear became an unexpected warmth, calming him.
As they reached the front door to the Chateau, Tim looked down to its door handle; it was a goat horn, cracked and smeared with burn marks.
“Rene was very pleased that you decided to contact him.” They entered the Chateau; a woman crawled about the floor, licking it clean. “We are in desperate need of a chef.”
“To be honest,” Tim interrupted, drawing Gloria back a step. He chucked the cigarette outside, letting it glow in the gloom. “I’ve never really worked as a personal chef before. Rene’s offer is great, but am I really what he’s looking for?”
“You are exactly what he is looking for. The others do not understand.”
Tim subdued his want to shiver to the notion of understanding.
“You mean, they can’t smell like I do?”
“Very few people can, myself included. But to further answer your question, no, the others have not responded.”
Tim hesitated in asking to know more. He thought back on the phone call, as short as it was, and how calling at all had been in a moment when he felt little control of himself. One singular desire had overridden all of his fear.
Find Rene and—
“What is the smell?”
“Mmm,” she groaned in pleasure. “It would be better to show you.”
She walked him throughout the estate; several more men and women were on the ground, crawling about with gags and constraints. One of them had been bound by chains and nuzzled Gloria’s heel as she passed by his face, mewling for her touch. She kicked him and dug her foot into his stomach. With a loud cry, he thanked her and curled up in a ball. The chain unraveled around him.
“Such worms, though I do find a joy in caring for their needs.”
“Yes, their needs…” He glanced behind, feeling as if he were being followed. Nothing but his shadow remained, standing short and creeping up his feet.
They passed through a large dining hall and continued towards a set of French doors that led to a courtyard. Gloria stopped by the door, turning to Tim.
“We’re in luck that you arrived when you did. They’re about to prepare tomorrow night’s dinner.”
“Lucky me.” Already he could smell what lay behind the doors. His hand crept for his cigarettes.
“No.” She pressed a hand over his. “You must watch. And smell.”
The French doors opened. In the middle of the courtyard was a large oak tree, its top limbs skeletal and its trunk embedded with deep scars and the black soot of old fire. A lamb was chained to it by the neck, standing passively. Several men stood around it, adorned in long dark robes that shrouded their features.
“What are—
“Shhhh.” She lifted a finger to his lips. A brooding sensation filled him as he smelled her skin and the flash of a praying mantis flickered in his mind.
Standing beside the goat, one of them men sharpened his blade. Right of this was another man holding a small bolt pistol. The third approached the two, carrying a small burlap sack. Something within it rummaged wildly.
Gloria’s grip tightened over his arm and she grinned.
The man with the burlap sack stepped closer to the lamb, tightening his grip over one end of the sack and sliding it down, isolating the thing within that moved so violently. He held it over the lamb; it glanced upward and returned to its blank stare.
The man with the blade and the man with the bolt pistol positioned themselves on opposite sides. With little warning, the man with the blade gripped the pulsating bulge in the burlap sack and slid his knife from one end to the other, smearing the blade with thick streaks of dark blood. A single drop of it, black and syrupy, fell upon the lamb’s head.
It froze. Then it began to scream wildly and pull at its chains.
“Christ,” Tim gasped, stepping back from the courtyard.
It continued writhing pointlessly in its chains, biting the empty air around it. The burlap sack seeped more of the black fluid; its drippings burned spots of barren dirt on the ground. The man with the bolt pistol remained stationary with the barrel positioned at the lamb’s head.
Its head twisted about and several cracks emanated from the lamb’s body as its bones broke from the spasms. At one point it froze and stared directly at Tim and Gloria, its eyes blood shot red and its mouth gaping wide. Tim shivered.
“It’s quite alright,” Gloria spoke sweetly. “The chains are titanium. Far stronger than what is typically used with the house slaves and our guests.”
Tim continued shaking. “But what did they do?”
Her grin was serrated. She leaned next to his ear and spewed with glee, “They have infected it with demons.”
As the man with the bolt pistol took aim, she closed the door. All the while the lamb continued staring at them, its eyes nearly black with blood and its mouth opening so wide that a loud click sounded as its jaw dislocated.
After the French doors had closed, there was a dull thud of flesh hitting earth.
***
She walked him back through the dining hall.
“Tonight, and tomorrow we would like you to enjoy your stay here at the Chateau. Indulge yourself with our many slaves or interact with the other guests if you prefer. We can often be found in the basement’s dungeon enjoying a variety of fetishes.” She paused and spit at the male slave whom she had kicked earlier.
“After you have settled in, Master Rene will contact you in order to discuss future arrangements.”
Tim wiped sweat from his forehead. He pointed to the courtyard. “Will I have to do that?”
“No. Although not every animal reacts in kind. There are possessions of sorrow, of fear. Several demons have projected a mere sense of confusion within their new hosts, hoping to quickly acclimate. None the less, the ritual will not concern you. We merely need a chef that is capable of maintaining consistency. Rene hates it when the meat is not marinated to his liking.” She snapped her fingers, reminding Tim of the lamb’s cracking bones. A woman crawled forward, wearing nothing but a dog collar. He took the leash impassively as the shock of the courtyard continued to draw his attentions.
“She will lead you to your room and take care of any of your other needs with great discretion. Unfortunately dinner has already been served, but rest assured we will begin preparing your meals starting tomorrow morning. Breakfast at ten, lunch at one and dinner will be served promptly at nine, as we are typically night people. I do hope that you will forgive us if the food is below your standards.”
“It’s fine.” Tim felt flush. “Whatever you have to serve is fine.” The girl tugged her leash for him to follow. As she pulled him towards a spiral staircase near the Chateau’s vestibule, he asked her absentmindedly what dinner would be.
“Ah yes.” She began shouting as he was led away. “Tomorrow night we will be having lamb.”
He did very little at Chateau Douleur. At ten that morning his slave woke him up for a meal of scrambled eggs and toast, offering her own back as a plate and suggesting that he beat her following breakfast, or if he liked, he may verbally abuse her.
“I deserve it,” she cooed.
“That’s okay.” He placed his plate on his lap and sat at the end of his bed, waiting until she left in order to eat alone. She hesitated, expecting some other foreplay. When nothing came she departed, crestfallen at his refusal to abuse her.
At lunch there was a cheese plate with baguette and the offer of sensory deprivation; duct tape, rope, chains, plastic, and a syringe of Novocain.
“No thank you.”
She gave a polite reminder to their arrangement. “I am your slave Master Tim. Whatever we do is private.”
He shook his head and took a bite of brie. The slave walked away without a word, leaving her bondage pla
ythings on the floor.
He sat by the window and watched the forest. Night fell and by nine a dinner of lamb kebab was delivered. As he smelled the wafting aroma of the meat, a familiar coldness sank into his stomach again as if he were looking at a plate of his own flesh and blood.
You gotta eat this… or they’ll know. They’ll know that something is up.
“God damn it.” He spoke under his breath, watching his slave leave him. As an afterthought, he called her.
“Yes Master Tim?” She perked up, awaiting instructions.
“Eat this.” He slid the plate across the floor to her like one would to a dog.
“Is it not to your liking?”
“Just eat it.” He feigned a playful batting of the eyes. “I like to watch people eat.”
As she kneeled down and ate of the meat, he sat by the window, opening it a crack so he may smoke. He looked into the surrounding forests of the chateau, staring closely as the shadows on the ground grew into strange shapes and visions, like the bottomless throat of a great beast heaving its breath to scream. The longer he stared the thicker and more violent the blackness seemed to become.
Strange, but a familiar calm came over Tim as the writhing shadows grew in size and fervor. Dreamily, he turned back to the slave girl eating the lamb. His discomfort returned to him in a wave of bloody chains.
My own flesh and blood…
Without thought he requested that she stop.
“Yes Master Tim?” She lifted her face; it dripped of the lamb’s juices and fat clung to her teeth.
“Stop eating.”
Playfully, she leaned forward and took a nibble, goading him into disciplining her. A rage boiled inside of him from some unknown place.
“I said stop it.” He got up.
“I did something bad,” she spoke sensually, returning to the meat for another bite.
“I said don’t eat the fucking lamb!” He ripped her away from the plate. Opening the door, he shoved her outside and slammed it shut, sweating to his own inhuman actions. His shadow nuzzled his feet as he stood over the half eaten lamb, gnawed and bloody. A cold wind whinnied its sorrows.
***
The next day he was called upon by Master Rene.
They met in his study, him sitting upright in his chair while Gloria curled by his feet like a dog. He was grotesque, pale, and it was no secret that he was missing his left eye. In addition to this, a set of stubs stopped short of where his fingers should have been.
“How do you find the Chateau?”
A masked servant poured them both wine. Tim fidgeted in his chair.
“I find it fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes.” He smelled his wine and sipped at it in order to pass the awkward seconds. Rene shook his head to Tim’s response.
“You have not indulged yourself. Not with our slaves or our guests.”
Blushing, Tim set his wine glass down and shrugged. “I guess it’s just not my scene.”
“Your scene?” Rene leaned in closer, his empty eye socket black and endless.
“Well,” Tim paused and drank a large mouthful of wine. It warmed his stomach a touch and he continued. “Most people here seem to enjoy being hurt or abused.” He glanced at Gloria. “It’s their choice. But I guess it’s not something I’m really interested in. I don’t like pain.”
“Ahh … pain,” Rene spoke the word with great allure. “And its doppelganger pleasure. However, here at Chateau Douleur, I am sure that you have noticed that one is easily interchangeable with the other. I, however, have never felt either. Can you imagine such a thing?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Tim glanced at the mangled hand and the missing eye. Its blackness begged to swallow him whole, impossibly. The fear remained in his mind as they conversed.
“I was born with a rare condition.” He lifted his mangled hand over a lit candle, letting it singe. “I have no nervous system.” Gloria lifted her head up to the smoke of his flesh. He lowered his wounds for her to lick clean.
“When I was a child, or so I’m told, I had plucked my own eye out in curiosity. Then, in similar fashion, I had gnawed off four of my fingers.” He waved the stubs majestically. “They found me bleeding to death, smiling at my own wounds with childish glee. Afterwards I was forced to wear gloves and a mask was placed over my face so that I would not hurt myself.”
The stink of the burning flesh crept into Tim’s nose. He ignored the discomfort. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Rene waved it away. “My endurance for pain gives Gloria a great deal of happiness.” He smirked and lifted his robe. A section of his chest shown through, crudely quilted with scabs. “However, for every pain she inflicts upon me, I only feel so much as I know that she is feeling something herself.”
Tim’s stomach cringed to the noise of Gloria’s suckling, masking his questions in innocent curiosity. “Does she like that?”
“I can smell the pleasure between her legs.”
There was a spark, a brief connection, like a mirror flashing its signal between two lonely mountains. Rene grinned and sipped from his wine.
“You probably thought you were alone in your ability?”
“I guess I never really thought about it.”
“The guests here at Chateau Douleur are slaves to their bodies. However, without touch, I am left only to indulge in my sense of smell in order to know the pleasures of this world… and its pain.”
Tim pushed their conversation. “The stench…”
“Yes.” Rene grinned to the adage. “The terrible stench.”
After scrutinizing his own words, ensuring that they gave little evidence to his disgust, he asked, “And your guests carry the stench after eating your meat?”
“Not only do they carry the stench, but the horrors they project are of their own bodily interpretation. I am surrounded by a thousand nightmares. Gloria, for instance, projects a sense of sexual longing intertwined with a desire for cannibalism. However, she is not possessed mind you,” he paused and sniffed deeply, leaning in.
“And you are not possessed despite having eaten the lamb.”
Tim felt his shadow cringe beneath him.
“The lamb?”
“Yes…”
“So I have the stench?”
“You certainly do.”
Tim finished off his wine in a single drink. “And what does my horror smell like?”
Rene leaned forward, his empty socket without depth. He sniffed again, closing his eyes to contemplate it. “Ahh… your terror… is like a spider waiting for its prey.”
“And?”
“You fear that your life will go unfulfilled.”
Tim blinked, seeing a brief moment of this terror in his mind in the form of a tarantula’s teeth and its eight black eyes. With time its stare calmed him. He stood up and walked about Rene’s study. A voice whispered under his feet.
Kill him now.
He ignored the voice and approached Rene. While the voice had ceased, a foreign sensation crept throughout his limbs, controlling him as he stood three steps away from them. Several of his muscles constricted. He whispered in his own mind.
Wait.
No. Kill him. Kill them both.
He swallowed hard and lit a cigarette.
Wait. One more day.
“You want me to be your personal chef?”
Rene scowled at the smoke distastefully. He stroked Gloria’s head, and then shoved her aside, drawing a moan of pleasure. “I would like for there to be a chef whose olfactory sense is as good as mine, yes.”
“I can start tomorrow.”
Rene grinned from ear to ear.
“This calls for a celebration. Gloria,” he shouted. “Gather all our guests and our slaves into the dungeon. Tonight, we shall indulge our every whim.” He raised his glass, spilling wine in Tim’s direction. “Would you care to join us Chef Tim?”
“I don’t—
Rene shook his head. “I do insist.”
>
After a pause, Tim nodded, adding, “I just want to watch.”
“Then watch.”
They descended into the dungeon for the night.
***
There was no sleep in the dungeon. There were floggings and knife play, rope and chains. One slave begged to be bound in a box and roasted like a pig.
All the while, Tim watched and paced about the room.
All of the windows are barred shut.
“Yes…”
Upstairs in the kitchen, you’ll find a large oak cupboard with a padlock.
“And?”
Break into it… take one of the bags.
“Okay.”
And be careful.
He nodded to himself and snuck away. As he left, Rene was hung by hooks and his slaves lay beneath him, sweating, the stink of their nightmares rising to their master. Gloria lay below as well, awaiting the rain of Rene’s sweat and blood.
After procuring the bag (it fidgeted violently in his hands), he began nailing long boards over the dungeon’s door. The crack of their whips and cries down below drowned out his work and little took notice to his absence. When he returned nearly everyone had fallen asleep.
He walked over to Gloria, holding a syringe in his hand. She was lying naked on the ground, partially bound and half awake.
“Perhaps a little sensory deprivation?”
He quickly stabbed the needle, injecting her. When she came to, she looked around the dungeon, confused by the sudden pinch in her thigh. But nothing was amiss and her slaves surrounded her in flesh colored piles, sleeping soundly. Before the prickly numbness radiated throughout her body, she returned to her sleep without another thought.
When the air became still, he rose from the other slaves and quietly climbed the dungeon stairs, later returning with chains and his cigarettes.
***
Gloria awoke. She was exhausted, having spent the entire night pushing the boundaries of all those who came to the dungeon. It took several moments for her to remember that she had fallen asleep in its dank confines. As she came to, she smelled burning skin.