Voodoo Burning

by N. M. Catalano

  I can hear the offering scream somewhere at the fringes of my quickly dissolving lucidity.

  This is the beginning of the ceremony, the first draw of blood. The Communion words flow from my mouth, “This is my blood…,” my voice is loud.

  Whack!

  “…It will be shed for you…” it’s getting gravelly.

  Whack!

  “…The new and the everlasting covenant.” My jaw is tense, my teeth grinding together.

  Whack!

  Drips splatter from the ends of the fronds and land on the sacrifice, speckling her body with the first drops of anointment. Lash after lash covers my back, each one delivers more of the Holy Communion, the blood of purification to the sacrifice on the altar.

  “It will be shed for you…”

  Whack!

  I gnash my teeth as the pain bursts into bliss. The words send another surge straight to my engorged phallus, a symbol of my devotion.

  “…So that sins may be forgiven.” I’m panting, my muscles tense as sweat pours from my naked body.

  Joy consumes me because the sacrifice is almost ready for deliverance. I can feel the spirits coming for her through me, their power guiding me.

  “Forgive them, Master,” I plead, the words echoing off the high walls. They bounce back to me as if the saints are pushing me on from where they watch from the stained-glass windows.

  Forgive them!

  The sacrifice’s eyes are wide and terrified.

  “Are you scared?” I ask her as I bring my face close to hers and press a tender kiss to her forehead. She looks beautiful like this, passionate and full of the fever, her steel blue eyes, the queen’s eyes, staring at me, petrified. She nods her head frantically. “Don’t be.” I stroke her hair splayed out on the altar dotted with the blood of the Eucharist. I ignore the fact it’s wrong, it’s not the queen’s. Soon. “You were chosen to serve a purpose. It’s an honor.” She screams again behind the gag.

  Fury threatens to break through the intoxicating blanket of euphoria the ceremonies always give me. I refuse to let this whore, this filthy creature, ruin the sanctity of the ceremony.

  My fist lands at the side of her head, snapping her head sideways and eliciting a sob from her.

  I throw my arms in the air, the whip swaying wildly, and tilt my head back. “This is my blood!” I bellow to the sky in the empty cavernous room. “It is shed for you!”

  The power of the spirits is pounding through me, so strong and so intense, they’re barely contained inside the confinement of my flesh, my mere mortal body is inferior to all that they are. They are the culmination of the power of God, the power of voodoo, and the dark magic of hoodoo. Because you cannot defeat darkness with light.

  The most powerful forces of darkness and light dwell within me. I have summoned them to do my bidding, to fulfill my purpose. To tamp out the wicked and eliminate the weak and the vile.

  I raise the arm holding the cat-o-nine-tails and bring it down very hard and very fast, leaving streaks of open flesh on the sacrifice. Her body jolts and her face goes beet red as she lets loose a muffled scream.

  “This is your body…” I bellow.

  WHACK.

  I whip her again.

  “It will be given up for you!”

  Over and over again, I raise my arm and bring it down, until her flesh is hanging in chunks from her frame, up and down her body, the only area I have not touched is her face.

  I drop the flogger on the floor and peer down at her face. Her tears have left puddles on either side of her head, they look so beautiful streaming down the sides of her face.

  “You are ready, sweet girl, you are now pure and ready to be sanctified.” I lower my face and drag my tongue up the tracks of her tears.

  Her body is racked with tremors, could be from shock, fear, the pain, or all of it. It doesn’t matter. The body was only a vessel, contaminated and filthy. I’ve cleansed her.

  Now I’ll give her the final anointment of the ceremony.

  I climb up on the altar, my hands and knees sliding in the pieces of her flesh and her blood coating the surface, my legs on either side of her body. My heart is beating furiously, I’m so enraptured. I always am, and I don’t know if I can make it through to the end. But I do, I always do.

  Lowering myself over her body, her wails have stopped and her eyes are fixed on me, I sigh when my staff touches the combined Eucharist, my blood and her flesh. Now it must be blessed.

  “Accept the sacrifice.” My hips start to move over her, our bodies rubbing together to bring forth the final culmination.

  She shudders beneath me.

  “Hear me. Lord, come to me!” My rod glides along the sacrifice, the first drops of anointment seeping from me.

  She begins to thrash into me.

  A dark growl seeps from me as my hips pound against her. “Take her soul, she is yours!” My teeth bite down on her chin. I bite deeper until I feel the skin break and her blood explode in my mouth. She begins to convulse frantically beneath me, shaking so hard, she almost knocks me from her.

  “Yes! Take her! She is my gift to you!” She’s shaking wildly, and it only succeeds to add furor to my euphoria. “Look favorably upon me!” I smash my hips against her, “So that I may,” harder, “fulfill my destiny!” My back arches, curving so far back, my face is level with the ceiling, as the final anointment shoots continuously from me. When it finally stops, and the sacrifices tremors have lessened, I lift slightly from her to gaze at the joining of the white seed and the red communion.

  I drag my tongue along the wound on her face to take one more sip from the communion chalice. Her body. “Thank you for accepting my gift.” I glide my length against her once again. “Bless me with your power.” The last divine tremors pass through me and I let out a long breath.

  The sacrifice’s eyes are open, but unfocused. She’s alive, but she’s in shock. It’s important for them to be alive for the last part.

  Dismounting from the altar, there’s still one more part that must be fulfilled. I walk to the pile of clothes, where the priest’s maniple and stole sit. I pick them up and the jug of water. Soaking the article of clothing, I wipe the blood from me, just enough for me to be able to exit the building. I get dressed, then look at the ax laying on the floor.

  This is the consecration of the sacrifice for the sin of sloth.

  I pick up the ax, walk to the altar, and swing. One of her hands falls to the ground. The sacrifice screams in her delirium, now harsh and rough, her throat must be raw. I walk to the other side and dismember the other one, and let it stay where it falls.

  I see her body is convulsing again, much like a snake’s tail would after it’s been cut off. I throw the stole and maniple over her body, a tool to further consecrate her, before I walk toward the rooms behind the sanctuary and altar.

  From the doorway, I turn, flick the match against the box and throw it. “May the fires of your powers grow stronger.”

  The trail of gasoline I left earlier lights and ignites the circle that surrounds the altar. I turn and walk toward the back the door as her screams begin once again for the final time.

  “Praise be,” I mumble. I smile, knowing the queen will be coming and will see what I left her, my body already craving the next sacrifice.

  Soon, I’m coming for you.

  Twelve

  There But For The Grace Of God

  The call came about four in the morning.

  Another fire. Another victim. This time we were almost expecting it. It seems there isn’t a moment I’m not expecting something, some reminder of the horror I’m surrounded by.

  Even though Ignatius is off duty, he was notified, and so was I. It didn’t matter, I won’t be able to get into the crime scene, most likely not until tomorrow when the embers have cooled down enough. Ignatius made good on his threat – or his promise, depending on how you looked at it – and took an indefinite leave of absence. Which means he’s still my watchdog.

 
Admittedly, I’m grateful.

  This incident came a lot closer to the one before than the others had, which is what I was afraid of. With the rapidly approaching Mardi Gras, and the very probable connection to The Seven Deadly Sins, the threat of things happening alarmingly fast is much too likely. The fact it took place in a church is almost poetic horror. It didn’t surprise me when we heard. Actually, it somehow made perfect sense, even before I’ve had a chance to investigate the location. I’m dreading the idea of going in, but at the same time I can’t wait to see if there is a more concrete link to The Seven Deadly Sins.

  But above everything, I have to stop telling myself it could have been me. I know I’m on his radar - he knows my name, he sought me out. He marked me. Even though he didn’t actually touch me, I feel him on my skin, I see him in my nightmares, and I hear his whispers in the dark. Honestly, it’s terrifying.

  We’re still at Ignatius’ house and it’s early, very early. I wanted to watch the news. I could have gone into precinct, but there would have been too much going on to focus on what’s being reported.

  The woman on the television at the crime scene is attractive and, not surprisingly, well-put-together, especially for this God-awful hour. It always amazes me how they can look so good hours before the sun even comes up.

  “Authorities have not confirmed or denied this is another Voodoo Burning incident, however, all evidence points in that direction,” she’s saying as the first glimmers of sunlight shine behind her in the distance.

  Jesus Christ, they’ve given the crimes a name and now the public’s going to be talking about the Voodoo Burning Killer! That’s great, and the tabloids can commercialize him and cash in on the Voodoo Killer craze. I’d love to find out who’s giving them the information.

  We aren’t supposed to say anything, no information about any details are to be leaked to the press, or to anyone outside of the investigation. Ever. It could destroy any possible indictments.

  “We do know there is a victim inside the premises behind me.” She turns to look at the church, a macabre image with the golden embers of sunrise hinting at the horizon. The building is an abandoned Catholic church that was damaged during the hurricane. “Again, there is no confirmation it is a woman, we can only assume it is, given the previous crimes. No identifications have been made on any of the other victims so far.” The fact the women are being referred to as things makes me furious. “Authorities are asking women to be extremely cautious when going out. They suggest not venturing out alone, especially at night. Anyone with any information is urged to contact the local police department. Anonymity will be guaranteed.”

  Somebody should lock her up for damaging an investigation. That’s obviously impossible, but it infuriates me the press can get away with doing whatever the hell they want, despite the backlash, and the damages.

  “Be sure to stay tuned for updates. This is Savannah St. George reporting live from Almonaster Boulevard. Back to you in the station.” Her bleached pearly whites practically glow under the spotlight. I mash the button on the remote, as if the pressure makes any difference, and the television screen goes black. However, it does help me release some of my anger, even if it’s only a smidgen.

  Almonaster Boulevard, near the hood, a shit part of town. Of course. Whoever’s doing this is very good. There is a rhyme and reason to their choices of locations, and not a soul around at any of them. They’ve got to be a local, no one else would be sure of the areas and how New Orleans practices voodoo.

  Voodoo is not cut and dry, but more of a mish-mash of everything.

  Like using the Catholic church where this crime took place.

  I pace the floor beneath the original ceiling of the old Beauchamp plantation house. It has seen so much over its lifetime. Generation after generation of Beauchamp’s have lived and died here, have rejoiced and mourned here, have done things here still whispered in backrooms. Beneath the detailed paneled ceiling where the wealthy, and the not wealthy, of New Orleans have danced and drank, where secrets of indiscretions will forever be kept, this is a room where history is embedded into the walls, floors, and the ceiling, the secrets are as much a part of the home as the wood and paneling.

  The house is as much a Beauchamp as Ignatius is, and Bertrand was.

  I have not been able to get out of my head that the killer followed me here, assuming I’m the one he meant to target. In situations such as this, you take nothing for granted, or allow for any possibility of mistakes. The markings were on my car, therefore, they were meant for me. At the Beauchamp plantation. Is there a connection to the house?

  I wring my hands as I glance out the window. So many questions are swirling around in my mind.

  What are we going to find at the crime scene this time?

  What condition is she going to be in? (She’s a woman, I have no doubt.)

  Is there going to be any deviation in the symbols?

  These are only a few of the things preoccupying me, and frankly, things I don’t want to answer.

  If I could just leave, I would. This entire situation is a horror beyond anything imaginable.

  But I can’t leave. I owe it to those women. Someone has to stick up for them, fight for them, give them the respect they deserve, help identify them so they can at least have a proper burial, so their families can be notified, and the living can say goodbye to their loved ones.

  I drop to the sofa as my face falls into my hands.

  “Help me,” I murmur into my palms. “Please help me find something.”

  There is honor in asking for guidance.

  Some may call it prayer, but what is prayer but asking for assistance? What is magic but asking for assistance?

  I know I need help, but I have not decided what kind of help I’m going to ask for.

  Ignatius walks into the room, and his presence seems to fill the large space. For all his laidback demeanor, there is an undercurrent within him, some looming thunderstorm inside just waiting to be unleashed, you can practically feel the crack of restrained energy beneath his skin. It’s unforgiving and demanding, it makes my entire body quiver, like the crack of lightning would burn me to the ground.

  He walks directly to me and boxes me in on the sofa, his hands on either side of me. “Don’t,” he says right up in my face.

  I stare into those intense eyes of his, on the verge of breaking down or losing my shit. “Don’t what? Be angry they’ve made all this out to be the latest fad, The Voodoo Burning crimes?”

  His gaze narrows to slits. “I get it. I’m angry too. They’re turning this into a goddamn three-ring circus. Those women don’t deserve that.”

  He’s so right, and I’m so angry. And, goddamn it, I’m scared. I’m absolutely terrified.

  “Don’t torture yourself like this. It’s a job, keep it that way.” His words are firm, but tender.

  I shove him away. He moves only because he allowed it to happen, not because of any of my effort. “Easy for you to say,” I snap as I shove myself to my feet.

  “It’s not easy. I fucking know that. I saw them too.” The victims. They’re a constant presence all around. He follows me as I move across the room, for nothing else than to expel this pent-up rage brewing inside me. “But you can’t let this sick bastard get inside your head, Dominique.” He grips my arm and spins me around. He’s got me by both arms, our bodies close as he peers down into my face. He’s angry too, I can see it in his expression, and that somehow comforts me. “You’re an incredibly intelligent, strong woman. Don’t forget that.”

  My eyes search his, and I don’t know if I’m searching for something, or maybe taking. If I’m absorbing his strength and his patience. I can feel him affecting me, grounding me, keeping me level.

  “You’re right, Ignatius. But I’m so angry, I can’t stand it.” I feel as if I could explode with the cauldron of emotions brewing inside me.

  He shakes me a little. “Good. Use it. Use that anger, let it fuel you to take this bastard down. You ar
e Dominique Chavelle, and you have magic in your blood.”

  In that moment, I can see the Beauchamp heritage flicker in his eyes, the blue-blood and pedigree. It stirs something within me, calls to my own heritage, all that I am responds to all that he is, that energy inside him igniting something inside me. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. Because I have to. Because that is what I’m meant to do.

  Because this is where I’m supposed to be, in the Beauchamp Plantation house, in the arms of the Beauchamp heir.

  ~

  We were able to get inside the building fifteen long hours later, and that was only because Ignatius was with me, and he insisted I wear protective gear.

  I was extremely grateful.

  But I was horrified.

  I was able to come in before the rest of the crime scene team arrived. And before the body was removed.

  Seeing the remains, and the mutilated way she was left, up-close and personal, shook me right to my core. I vomited. I had to run from the building, and heaved and wretched, the spasms kept coming even after there was nothing left. It was an automatic response to the gore, even though a lot of it had been burnt away.

  There is no way to describe how seeing this horror in person rather than in photographs impacts you, even though it’s the same thing. You are indelibly forever changed.

  And the killer came to see me yesterday.

  That knowledge haunts my every thought as I walk around the crime scene and photograph the symbols. I walk the area, take measured steps of the perimeter, around what’s left of the candles, and try not to look directly at the victim. I pretend I don’t see the dismembered hands sitting on the floor, or the stumps where they’d been attached to the burnt carcass. But it’s difficult to ignore what I’m feeling.

  There’s a negative energy in the air, it presses down on me, heavy and thick. It’s angry and afraid, furious and insane, and every single bad feeling, all of them pounding down like a hailstorm coming at you a hundred miles an hour. You want to scream and cry and run away.