Twisted Sacrament

by Zoe Blake

  Samael continued to fight his captors as he was dragged ranting like a lunatic out of the church.

  His discarded Bible lay water-logged and ruined on the floor.

  Chapter 6

  Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow Asylum

  Everything was unrelenting white, from the painted walls to the bleached floor. A complete absence of color except for the large mahogany cross dominating the wall at the end of the hallway.

  There was a constant hum of noise. A strange cacophony which blended into a discordant rhythm. A squeak from the rubber soles on the nurses’ shoes. A beep from a monitor. Several low conversations of doctors and family members. The rattle of a loose wheel on a gurney.

  And the screams.

  Always the screams.

  Tortured patients locked in sterile rooms. Placed in restraints presumably for their own good but more likely to make them more manageable to the overworked staff.

  She hated this place. Hated coming here. Hated everything about it.

  There was no life. No color. No nature.

  Yet, still she came. Every week. It was her duty. Her responsibility. Placing a hand over her chest, she felt for the impression of the small silver cross she wore under her dress, tracing the thin outline with her fingertip through the fabric. With that small form of comfort, she took a deep breath and continued on with her task.

  Straightening the front of her silver-gray dress, she headed for the front desk attendant.

  “Dr. Shaw, please.”

  “Sign in,” commanded the attendant without even looking up.

  Picking up the pen which was chained to the counter, she looked over the mostly empty visitors log. Another victim of madness—abandonment. Signing her name in shaky script, she put the pen down with a rattle and then took a seat in the waiting area.

  There was no television or magazines. There was not even a comfortable sofa to sit on, only sterile metal chairs bolted to the floor. Each person waiting looked drained of energy, of life. Just staring blankly at the floor, they almost appeared to be no better than the inmates in the asylum.

  After several moments, a slight man with glasses approached her. He was unassuming, lacking the air of arrogant confidence you would expect in a doctor. Short, trim and balding, he nevertheless had a kind smile.

  It was the smile which always made her suspicious. It seemed to hint at compassion and understanding. Two things she was certain could never survive in a place like this, not for long at least, especially not with someone who had made a career of coming here day after day.

  She pulled on the collar of her dress. She couldn’t breathe. The circulated air was stifling. Desperately, she wished she was outside in the fresh air, surrounded by plants and… and life!

  Before the doctor could even greet her, she rose and asked. “How is he?”

  Dr. Shaw fidgeted with the pens in his pocket protector before responding. Matching up the red pens, then the black, making sure they all poked out at an equal length. She wondered if the doctor had caught the compulsive behavior from working in this place, like a disease or if it was already a condition of his mind which helped dictate his career choice. Like choosing like.

  Dr. Shaw motioned with his head for her to follow.

  “We have him on a regimen of Lithium. It has quieted the number and severity of the mania attacks. For now, he is calm but I’m afraid his condition has worsened since your last visit, Mrs. Robinson.”

  “The last time he was on Lithium the side effects were torturous. He was so miserable. Are you certain there isn’t another route we could take?”

  Dr. Shaw shook his head. Before he could respond, a nurse interrupted their conversation. As the doctor responded to the nurse’s questions, Mrs. Robinson looked through the little wire lattice window of the nearest door. Inside the small, narrow room there was only a bed and an undersized sink. A woman sat on the bed rocking back and forth as she played with the same few strands of hair. Over and over again, the ran her fingers down the short length. It was the only hair left on her head.

  At a slight touch on the small of her back, she turned to see Dr. Shaw motioning for her to proceed.

  “As I was saying, Mrs. Robinson. Your son’s mania has increased. His delusions have become progressively more complex and violent even. I’m afraid Lithium is our only option.” Dr. Shaw cleared his throat and glanced up at her. She was taller than him by several inches. “We may have to revisit my original recommendation of shock treatment.”

  Mrs. Robinson started to speak.

  Dr. Shaw raised his hand to stop her. “Mrs. Robinson, I understand your objections but soon we may have no choice.”

  Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a handkerchief, the knuckles of her hand brushing the jet-black beads of her rosary.

  Holding the small square of linen close to her mouth, as if it would hide the horror of her words, she asked. “Does he… does he still believe he is a priest fighting a demon sent by Satan?”

  “Yes, regrettably. Although as I said, his mania has increased. He now has violent delusions.”

  “Like what, Doctor?”

  “Mrs. Robinson, I’m not sure…” he faltered.

  She placed a hand on his arm. “Please, I want to know.”

  There was that look of compassion in his eyes again. Did he think she was vulnerable and weak enough to miss the flash of macabre fascination lurking behind his beady eyes? He was like a little boy pinning a butterfly to some velvet-covered board, watching it struggle and calling it science.

  “In his most recent attack, as far as we could tell… Samael… well… he was fantasizing about drowning an infant in a baptismal.”

  Gripping the handkerchief tighter, she tried to marshal her thoughts.

  “There is more. He injured himself. It wasn’t any negligence on part of the staff. He bit through the skin of his own wrist till he drew blood. He wrote on the wall of his cell. He won’t let the staff wash it off. I wanted to warn you, so you wouldn’t be unsettled at the sight of the blood.”

  “My faith keeps me strong, Dr. Shaw. After all these years, there is little about Samael which now shocks me,” she responded coolly.

  “You should also know,” continued Dr. Shaw with feigned reluctance. “The fantasies have taken on a sadistic sexual element.”

  The butterfly was slowly dying. Its struggles weakening.

  She raised her hand to stop him. “I’ve heard enough. May I see my son?”

  “Of course, but please keep it brief. I need to warn you, Mrs. Robinson…”

  Rubbing her temple, she covered her eyes for a moment. Finally, looking up, she smiled.

  “Please, call me Lilith.”

  “Very well then, Lilith,” said Dr. Shaw with a conciliatory nod of his head as he unlocked Samael’s cell. “You need to be careful. He may be your son in body but not in mind. In his mind, he is no longer yours.”

  “He will always be mine, Doctor,” responded Lilith before stepping past him to enter.

  Samael was huddled in a corner of the bare room. It was identical to all the rooms in the asylum, one bed and a single sink. His arms were restrained by the belts and buckles of a straightjacket. The moment he saw her, he began to shriek and kick his legs.

  “Vade retro Satana! Vade retro Satana!”

  Lilith placed her hands on her hips. Meeting his jade green gaze, a mirror image of her own, she admonished. “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Now is that any way to talk to your mother?”

  Samael instantly stilled, watching her with anger-filled eyes.

  Crouching low beside him, she began running her fingers into his thick, wavy black hair. Soothingly, she whispered into his ear, each word a soft lullaby.

  “You are mine and I will never let you go. I am you as you are me. We share the same flesh, my son.”

  Looking up, she saw the crimson smear of dried blood over his bed. It spelled out one simple word.

  MINE.

  The End

  Author’s No
te

  Is Samael a mad priest or a madman?

  Is the ending just another trick by the demon, Lilith?

  Why is she tormenting Samael?

  Who is Samael, really?

  Hint: The answer lies with their names.

  This is actually a love story.

  A twisted one of obsession and betrayal but still a love story.

  Think you guessed the Secret of Lilith’s Revenge?

  Join Zoe Blake’s Wantonly Wicked Readers

  Post #LilithsRevenge to get a PM from Zoe with the answers.

  (Be careful not to post any spoilers!)

  About Zoe Blake

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author in Dark Romance

  We are all attracted to the forbidden. Addicted to the rush we get from reading something naughty... something kinky. We love to lose ourselves in the fantasy. The powerful lord who sweeps the lady away to his remote estate to ravish her. The cowboy who takes the sassy city girl over his knee to teach her a lesson. The devilishly charming pirate who seduces his beautiful captive.

  I write those dark fantasies.

  Check out Zoe’s Website

  Also By Zoe

  Papa’s Prey

  Trapped in a world of dark decadence and bound

  to obey her new husband’s every depraved desire.

  Daddy’s Home

  He will make her pay for her past mistakes.

  Broken Doll

  I am his captive. There is no escape.

  For more of Zoe’s books, check out her website!

  Last Rites

  By Alta Hensley

  Because I am a sinner…

  I walked through the valley of death, and I feared his evil.

  Because I was a sinner about to receive last rites from a monster.

  Chapter 1

  Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil.

  For you are with me.

  Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

  It was too late to stop now. My mesh bag barely floated on the scummy surface of the water. As the city around me rotted, I just stayed steady, kicking my feet against the undercurrent of the dark waves. I took long and dry breaths, but the smell of something pungent—like that of decaying flesh—lingered in the back of my throat. A sodium-haze swept across the nearby shore. My friend, Lettie, flailed her arms with a flashlight in her left hand signaling her position to me.

  “Hannah! Over here!” she called out louder than I would have liked. Sometimes the girl was a complete idiot. She was not only getting my attention, but between the volume of her voice and the bobbing and weaving of the flashlight beam, she was most likely drawing attention from every damn shadow lurking in the distance.

  Lettie pulled free a shredded strip of rope off a rail as I swam closer to the dock that appeared as if it were drowning in the filthy water. The pier had long since been thrashed by The Itch. Apart from small juts of broken wood, almost nothing remained of the harbor. Lettie braided one end of the rope, like a wreath, and tossed it to me as I approached.

  “Don’t let go,” she called out.

  I yanked the rope and reeled myself in hand-over-hand through water that had more of a consistency of oil and sludge than what was once a raging river. Even with my slight weight, I grew weak with the effort required. I hadn’t had a morsel of food in days, and not much more in weeks. I was skin and bones, all angles, like a stick. No curves softened my hard edges. Hell, I thought as I hauled my sorry self out of the water, I might be emaciated, but at least I was symmetrical—no boobs above my waist and no hips below. My clothes sagged off of my body, and my pelvic bones stuck out beneath my skin. I couldn’t imagine how the fabric stayed on me when I was soaking wet on land. When I climbed the pier and stepped onto shore, neither Lettie nor I wasted time on reassuring welcomes.

  “The Church isn’t across the river,” I informed, relaxing my grime-streaked arms. “Not that I had much hope it would be. It’s just as dead over there as it is on this side of the river.”

  “Well, it was worth a try,” Lettie said with a shrug of her rail-thin shoulders. “Then it must be on this side somewhere. My guess is that it’s hidden deep within the city somewhere.” She glanced toward the skyline of crumbling structures and jagged metal. “It’s good that it’s narrowed down for us.”

  “Maybe for you.” I glared. “You didn’t have to swim across the contaminated sludge to find out.”

  “I can’t swim, Hannah. You know this.”

  I rolled my eyes as I knelt down in the sand to preserve what little strength I could. “Likely story.”

  Lettie kneeled down across from me, folding her arms as she watched me squeeze the filthy water from my bag. As soon as I unzipped it, the rotting smell of black mold jolted Lettie into a deep hacking cough.

  “Shit,” I whispered, wiping my clumped hair from my eyes. I had been a post-grad historian pre-The Itch, and I knew my once favorite book bag was now ruined. I remained silent for a long time, oddly mourning my bag. Suddenly, I ceased when I saw Lettie scratching her calf. Backing away fast, I pulled out an aerosol can and a Zippo lighter.

  She stared at me, stunned. My thumb twitched over the spark wheel.

  “I’ll do it. I mean it, Lettie.” It wouldn’t be the first person I had killed, and most certainly wouldn’t be the last. The world was ruthless. Kill or be killed—even if it was your friend.

  Lettie gawked at me, startled. “It’s just an itch.” Her eyes grew wider. “A real one! It’s not what you think. I’m not infected!”

  I didn’t believe a word. Trust equaled death, and I wasn’t about to die before I found The Church. “Show me.”

  After a moment’s pause, Lettie threw up her hands. I studied her cautiously as the woman dug out her penknife and made a small incision in her arm. Drops of red dribbled down to her wrist—not a single sign of froth to dilute the deep crimson color of the drips.

  “There. Satisfied? See any foam in my blood?”

  Without making any sound at all, I stood to my feet. I helped Lettie up, hoping the simple action would act as enough of an apology.

  “I might have overreacted, but I had to be sure you weren’t infected. How am I supposed to know what happened when I was across the river? One of the scratchers could have gotten to you.”

  Lettie silently swiped her filthy hair away from her eyes and pocketed her penknife.

  “Come on, we need to find someplace to hide before nightfall,” I said as I glanced down at the blood once more, double-checking.

  I knew exactly what I was looking for. The symptoms. It was the middle of 2018 when it happened. As William told it, before he fell ill, July 27th, 2018, was just an ordinary day. A handful of people had come down with something in a part of Phoenix, Arizona, which then doubled the next week and quadrupled the week after. Whatever the illness was, it spread. And spread fast.

  By the end of six months, a record number of cases—people showing up with the symptoms—surpassed any calculated estimates by the CDC. It had never become real for me until it hit William, my fiancé. We both lived in Monterey, California. I lay in bed one evening with a glass of wine set beside me on the bedside table. William awoke in the middle of the night complaining of an achy body followed by itching.

  I had pressed my hands against his sweaty cheeks as he couldn’t stop darting his eyes. William screamed how he wanted to scratch his skin off. He licked his lips, urinated on himself and exhaled hard through his nose—there was something about him. He had hit me in my face, shoving me off of the bed. I had shuffled to the nearest corner. William did nothing but scratch fiercely up and down his arms.

  I had gotten to my feet and tried to reason with the man raging before me.

  “Goddammit, don’t touch me! I’m burning,” he hollered as I moved toward him to somehow help.

  “What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting so crazy?” I had pleaded, cupping my palm against the searing pain his fist had caused w
hen it had connected with my face.

  William pointed at me, his arms seeping a foamy blood through gnarled skin.

  “Don’t you fucking talk back to me! I’ll fucking beat you. Fuck you, and beat you again!”

  He charged at me, bumping the table, sending my wine glass to the floor where it shattered into a million pieces.

  “Yes, that’s it,” he hissed. “I’ll feel better if I fuck you. If I can cum inside of you and release some of this… this energy and rage.”

  Pushing me onto the bed, I knew my night t-shirt and panties weren’t going to be enough to prevent him from doing exactly as he planned with ease. William yanked down my panties far enough so he could thrust his finger into my pussy. There was no ease, no caress, no William. This was not the man I knew. This was a man becoming a monster as he finger fucked me against my will. His eyes dilated more as he continued to force his finger, then a second, and finally a third inside of me. His aggressive attack was stretching me too far, and I worried that if he didn’t stop soon, he would tear me.

  “William, you’re hurting me. It’s too much.”

  Did he hear me? Did he care?

  As if he were in some sort of horrific trance, he continued to pump his digits in and out of my hole as his body convulsed on top of me.

  “William…”

  “Talk to me again and I’ll end y—”

  He closed his eyes, clutched his chest tight, and collapsed backwards on the bed. I fumbled with pulling up my panties before pressing two fingers to his neck. I felt only a faint pulse. Keeping my hand there, I dialed the police.