Symbols.
Sacrifices.
Tokens.
The tokens we use to bribe the darkness so it will pass us by—even if we call these tokens something else. Celebrations. Homages. To fertility. To the harvest. To blessings eternal, or victory in war.
It took a long time for the bodies to arrive, infinite of suffering… but they’d slowly been wending their way to this spot since the first sacrifices of maidenhood. The maidenhood of girls, yes, but boys, too. Every man and every woman has male and female principles within them, genetic and spiritual components donated by a mother and father. Their virginity—the female part of them—is what is sacrificed to the darkness.
That virgin sacrifice of the ages—from very young to fanatically religious vestalhood, from the actual ritual performed in groves and on beaches. To present day, where the reincarnations of frustrated slaughter-trained priests wander as serial killers and incurable pedophiles, and society displays its submerged racial memory of such atrocities, of being a party to them, by laughing as comedians tell jokes about statutory rape.
The bodies, coming.
Somehow not turned to dust, for dust is forgiveness and they had none.
A mound of them lifted Shedu about ten feet in the air. He screamed as the beastmen now pulled his flesh back across his hips. Tiny hands groped from the soil to grab the edges of his rent skin, holding him fast. The mound rumbled as it expanded into a hill, a hecatomb of tortured bodies. Face down, Shedu’s eyes bulged as he gibbered all manner of prayers (stifled) and arcane protections (useless).
The sky responded, the horizons rolling inward toward this meadow. Like the equidistant expansion of a nuclear bomb’s firestorm—only in reverse, straight into the epicenter.
Renae chanted and danced, swirling to the rhythm of bodies grinding together like rock formations in tectonic plates. The hill became a mountain of wasted lives and souls, scattered as if they’d been no more than seeds. She inhaled its stench, the stench of the millennia which surrendered the treasure of their deaths, a stench harsh enough to stop the lungs and hearts of mortals. Renae found the smell to be as rich as it was disturbing, and she wondered, why am I a creature of such vengeance?
The beastmen climbed down the hill, away from Shedu as he soared miles upon the twitching limbs and faces of these gifts of life to death. He was so far up, the clouds hid sight of him, and even his sobs failed to echo down to where Renae could hear them.
Still the earth rumbled, bodies swimming through the world’s weight from Stonehenge, Thebes, Titicaca, Auschwitz, Troy, Carthage, Ur, Benin, Calcutta—all over the globe.
How high would it be?
How high before it kissed the heavenless sky?
Shedu eyeballed straight down this waste of spiritual purity. He struggled to free himself, and Renae knew he did, even as she could neither see nor hear him. She thought upon his guilt, his sin, his unwanted gropes of her body. Oh, he was held fast.
Then Renae heard THEM. They, guilty of nothing, wailed backward, downward, through unknown cemeteries and nameless ashes of years. They wailed their own theory of retribution, a payback as twisted as the fractures in altars that caught and fossilized their blood. They howled for her help, her intervention for a hundred thousand seasons or more.
And she’d given them her help, her final act of retribution.
But was it enough? Could it ever be enough? No, it wouldn’t. None understood this better than she. (If she could remember.)
The beastmen approached her.
No.
They were faceless little girls.
Renae’s jaw dropped, an unknown question caught in her throat.
They told her through the air (as they had no mouths with which to speak), “We are the blank spaces no one ever wants to recall, the memories that horribly surface when an angel paints our nightmare portraits.”
Renae found her question. “Who are we to each other?”
They replied, “You are our angel.”
««—»»
“Miss, are you okay?”
A middle-aged man peered anxiously into her face. She managed to nod. Behind him, going down the stairs, she saw a nun. Actually she only saw a ridiculously broad wimple, as if the nun would seek a window and fly away.
“I only ask because, well, I’ve been jogging between meetings on the second and fourth floors. Literally jogging, good for my heart. You’ve been here every time. I thought perhaps you were ill,” he said apologetically.
Renae glanced at her watch. She’d been sitting there on the stairs, dreaming her psychotic dream, for over an hour.
– | – | –
Chapter 23
Renae hid in her apartment the whole next day. And the day after. Without turning on the television, fully expecting news of her impending arrest for assaulting Shedu.
She stayed in bed, curled up, and alternately crying and sleeping. The dreams she had were hideous, snapping her awake to cry more.
Was she losing her mind? Over an hour in that stairwell, playing in her head what seemed to be many days and nights of some bizarre ritual involving Shedu’s torture and…sacrifice.
Renae didn’t used to dream (only a dream, right?) like this. It used to be minor, average, normal, petty revenges, like the daydreams and nightmares of most people. Nothing inhuman or unspeakable. Man cheats on wife—she cuts all his suits up. Girl cheats on boy—he spreads the lie that ten million Frenchmen can’t be wrong.
Not even in the ward had she dreamed like this. The horrific actions she’d then imagined were never outrages she herself committed. That’s what catatonics did: went flat and didn’t do anything. Stuff happened to them. Drugs. Shock treatments. Rough orderlies. Sledgehammer memories coming down whwhwhwhwhwhuuuuuummmmmmpppppp!!! on their fragile psyches as they curled up, round, eggs afraid to crack.
Eddie hadn’t been home in three days. Nor had he called, usually to at least tell her he was on a stakeout. She remembered him on the phone with Claire, the X-IS-THE-DARK operator, about sticking a hot wire up Renae’s ass, stuffing a gunpowder rocket into her pussy, biting off her tongue, and carrying parts of her genitalia in his pockets to fondle. He’d been dazed, not even knowing what he’d said after she terminated the connection. Were they both losing their minds?
Some games children shouldn’t play…
He must really be pissed off. And why shouldn’t he be? The game had been her idea. What was the difference in his fantasy of torturing Renae—which she was positive he’d never do—and her fantasy of mutilating Lenora—which she’d never do?
Both had suffered sick lapses.
What was that theory about the violence germ? Nobody save a saint had antibodies against this kind of contagion. She didn’t believe that anyway.
Then what did she believe?
Nothing. I believe nothing.
««—»»
After a day in bed, Renae got up.
She got dressed… and considered looking for another job. Should she hire a lawyer over the business with Shedu? He’d have proof. The camera had been rolling. And witnesses. Hundreds, perhaps thousands in the city, watched it on television. And what about the student killing herself, cutting out her own baby? Was Renae liable, since—technically—the talk show was hers?
God, what am I THINKING?
How could she dare be more concerned about herself? Compared to the deaths of Shana Fugelman and the infant, her problems seemed minor. They didn’t involve life and death, just mere fantasy getting out of hand, driving her apart from Eddie.
Minor? Had she hallucinated Shana’s film being about her mother’s murder and her own subsequent breakdown? Even the female lead resembled her. The father in stained boxers, nearly an identical Rorschach of bodily fluids on their backside from where he’d shit himself and sat in blood and brains. And the feathers. The bird feet. Some literary and horrific license meant to grab the viewer on a higher level than the killing floor feast?
Had this been another of Renae’s dream ep
isodes?
Or had the young director deliberately used tragic incidents from Renae’s life? Why? Just because they made a real horror story and lead-in for her on-camera seppuku?
As she got ready, Renae turned on the TV. An evangelist with an immaculate silver coif and the whitest, straightest teeth she’d ever seen was preaching.
“The Whore of Babylon has contracted AIDS and, like other harlots, doesn’t care she’s passing it around,” he said passionately. “She must ply her trade for that is her fate. But perhaps she wants to pass it on, her revenge for the way the world has treated her. Or because being an angel of death is such a fucky trip.”
It startled Renae to hear the F-word come out of a minister’s mouth. She watched him closer. He was agitated, his eyes bulged.
“And how could she infect Babylon when she’s no normal streetwalking escort-service twat? She gets into our heads. A succubus, of arcanely dangerous wraithlike beauty who steals into our cerebral genitals through our dreams, poisoning our seminal souls, coming as the dyke incubus to fertilize—deformed—our waiting eggs!” Tears streamed through his dense pancake makeup. There was surprised mumbling from the studio off-camera.
He kept on. “What other gunshot or stabwound feels as good as Babylon passing on her wet dream contagion? We feel the gunshot. The stabwound. They are wet dreams, and it is wonderful! Even better when we deliver the blow to ourselves. Nice warm wet dream sensation. Running the gamut episode after episode, sustaining the disease with each trigger pull or cutting off of blind mice tails with a carving knife. Ah, sweet relief. An abatement of the endless torment that’s her special slow death!”
The camera pulled back. The evangelist leaped away from the pulpit and pursued the fleeing camera. The background chatter grew louder, confused, worried.
“No way to have safe sex here, children! For her disease to spread, there doesn’t even need to be an exchange of bodily fluids. Nothing physical involved past a crackle of static X! Babylon’s kisses and hugs are the saliva, fish oil, and sperm of Biblical damnation…”
The screen hit dead air as the station cut him off. Renae couldn’t stand the white noise and changed the channel to—
One of her movies! On the Sy-Fy Channel. Thrilled, she sat down as the commercial break ended and Parts was continued. It was early in the film.
Wait… Renae leaned toward the TV. This isn’t Parts…
Something was wrong.
Lenora comes out of the cabin, walks into the woods, and Renae swings an axe into her midsection. On a nearby tree is a flier with Shedu’s grainy photo on it, caption reading: Have You Seen This Child?
A knock on the door. Renae opens it.
A beautiful angel glitters on her threshold, telling her with starry sorrowful eyes, “I’ve tried so long but it seems I can no longer protect her.”
A knock on the door. Renae opens it.
Again, a beautiful angel glitters on her threshold, same starry sorrowful eyes, “I’ve tried so long but it seems I can no longer protect you.”
A knock on the door. Renae opens it.
There stands the real Edgar Allan Poe, brooding, and reminding her of the man she loves. His eyes are luminous under the famous brow as he says, “I’ve found Eldorado. There’s no gold, no sweet infinity. Only an alley, stinking at journey’s end.”
Renae comes out of the cabin, walks into the woods, and her father swings an axe into her midsection. On a nearby tree is a flier with a photo of a white egg with a black X painted on it.
The caption reads: Have You Seen This Child?
And: Did You Sacrifice Her?
Renae comes out of the cabin, walks into the woods, and finds every tree bearing a woman hanged by the neck. Only a single tree bears no such fruit. Yet it has a noose tied to it, waiting… for her.
Nauseous, she changed the channel.
This can’t be happening.
Now she’s on a commercial. It’s of a man, surrounded by three temptresses of the dark. Dracula’s vampire brides sizing up Jonathan Harker.
They coo at the camera. “We want to hear all the wickedness. All your most desired sins. Call us at X-IS-THE-DARK and let loose your restraints. Put your mouth to the phone… Renae… and let us feed your beast.”
Renae felt her pulse race, thunder in her ears. No, they hadn’t really said my name. She hit the OFF button on the remote.
The phone rang.
She jumped a foot. Backed off until her spine was against the bathroom door.
Fool, it isn’t THEM.
It rang again and Renae hurried to answer, praying it was Eddie.
“Hello?”
“Ren, are you okay?” It was Lenora.
Was she calling to say Shedu vowed revenge?
“Yeah, okay,” Renae whispered, nervous.
“I’ve called twenty times. I even came by twice. But nobody answered. I’ve been worried about you,” Lenora said. “Can you believe that crazy girl at the studio? First those freaks fighting on the set and now this!”
Renae chewed her thumbnail. “Are we in trouble?”
“Not yet. There’s been some public outcry blah blah blah but the ratings are higher than ever,” Lenora replied with a rueful laugh.
“Is Shedu—um… am I in trouble?”
Now Lenora really laughed. “Are you kidding? Who didn’t see him grope you! I mean, honestly, a woman kills herself a few feet away and he’s stealing a cheap feel? He’s got nothing to say. We’ve had calls from women cheering you on, baby.”
Baby.
“That poor baby,” Renae murmured.
“Would you believe the little one survived?” Lenora’s voice was high pitched. “Not a scratch on her. She hit the carpet with the extra cushion of Shana Fugelman’s insides. First televised self-C section in history. Mother’s dead, baby’s doing fine. I’m thinking of adopting her. How ’bout that?”
Renae smiled. “Sounds wonderful.”
“Shedu’s on leave of absence. I’m currently head producer. Is that a shriek? Come back when you’re ready. We’ll talk some serious programming, okay, sweetie?”
Renae agreed and hung up. Still shaken, but feeling better after Lenora’s call, she slipped downstairs to get the mail. The cable bill’d come in, along with a department store flier for freebies at the cosmetic counter. A promo for a newly opened funeral home. There was a sample of lettered cookies, alphabet animal crackers sort-of-thing. Hungry, Renae popped it open. Only two letters inside: X’s and O’s…? She shook it off, and checked out the month’s phone bill.
Four. Thousand. Dollars.
She saw the list of X-IS-THE-DARK charges. But we’d only called three times! Never on more than twenty minutes. At $6.00 for the first minute and $3.00 for each subsequent minute, that was—what?—about $58.00 per call. That’s only like a couple hundred bucks, damn.
She reread the list of 900 calls. Not three times to X-IS-THE-DARK.
Forty-six times.
Made during wee hours after Renae’d gone to bed.
Eddie.
He must’ve gone downstairs to make the calls, about one every night, except for weekends. Then it was two.
Renae sat to keep from passing out. She felt sick enough to die. (To make someone else die. Eddie, I’m going to KILL him.)
She noticed the date of the first call. It was before the first one they’d made together.
Eddie’d pretended it was her decision. Talking about crossing dangerous lines, as if she was the kinky one. She’d had no clue about him.
Wait… Did Eddie even know he was doing it?
He’d never been freak-obsessed. Never any dark and violent fantasies about sweet tender young virgins, pulling tissues from their stuffed training bras, making his dancing dreamgirl Renae jiggle the spastic blue light to his electro-shock love.
Not til we called that damn number!
She dialed the phone company. “I have a billing question.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the operator. She sound
ed prepped for a tirade. Like one of THEM! (Do you want to provoke shock or would you rather be encouraged?)
Renae explained, disputing the forty-six calls to their three.
“What was that number again?” asked the operator.
Renae read it back to her.
“Ma’am, that’s a 900 number,” the operator said.
“Duh,” Renae snapped. “I know that.”
“Ma’am, we stopped using 900 numbers.”
Renae’s heart pounded. “Bullshit. What are these on my bill? What number did we call?”
They’d even talked about it, Eddie and she. When they first saw the X-IS-THE-DARK commercial, how the phone company’d dropped 900 numbers. What the hell is going on?
“I’ll check,” said the operator. “Maybe it’s an area code…”
Dead space. Renae made a fist with her free hand, digging her nails into the palm. The operator returned and said, “Ma’am, there is no such number.”
“But my bill!” Renae snatched the paper up from the table.
It was a normal bill, barely $60.
No 900 numbers.
No four-thousand-dollar charge.
Renae hung up. But I SAW them. A long list of toll calls, X’s all the way down the page. She stared at the paper, trying to will what she’d seen to return. Not that she really wanted them there. They didn’t come back anyway.
What did this mean?
You know.
She felt cold, wanting to lie down on the floor and fold up.
There was a knock at the door. Please be Eddie. He could’ve lost his key on his way home to her. Overjoyed, she ran to the door, but why would he be here? Now? Had he seen the news about Shana Fugelman? Oh God… maybe he’d seen Renae trying to bite off another man’s lips.
She’d make him understand. She’d cry on his shoulder, telling him everything, and he’d promise to help her. And she’d manage to salvage the best thing—and only—thing in her life.
She knew who it was just before she answered, hearing the whistled tune through the door. Round Midnight. Transcendental Bop.
Season of the Witch Page 31