The Directory of Haunted Inns

[Published in Scared To Death]


"Did you hear something?" Anthony whispered.
"No."
"You must have heard something."
"No, I didn't."
Anthony looked across at his wife Marilyn, who was lying in bed next to him. His eyesight had adjusted to the darkness hours ago, and so he could discern the soft shimmer of her flesh. Once again he strained his hearing. Nothing.
"Did you hear something?" asked Marilyn.
"Not a thing."
"Well there you are then."
"But I should be hearing something. All this waiting is driving me crackers. I'm going to ask for my money back in the morning."
He felt his wife stir beside him, shifting her body in order to sit up on her elbow and face him. He did not look, but imagined a scowl upon her face. He tensed up, expecting the inevitable verbal onslaught. It arrived, like enemy gunfire.
"Anthony! You can't demand your money back just because you didn't hear anything. Who says this room is haunted anyway? And even if it is, how do you know this ghost will appear at all? Or even make a noise? It all seems like a hoax to me."
He didn't answer. He had had it all before, so he knew when to keep quiet. Marilyn was like a madwoman once she got going, as vicious as lashing rain. He sensed her moving again, settling into the prone position she had adopted previously, her eyes to the ceiling. Anthony did likewise. All was quiet again, very still. Seconds ticked by in silence. Then...
"Did you hear something?" Anthony whispered.
"For God's sake, Anthony!"
It was all in the book. The Directory of Haunted Inns just couldn't be wrong. Anthony believed in it a hundred percent, taking in all the facts listed and the reports of ghosts and ghouls that were supposed to exist in certain inns across the country. He was both intrigued and fascinated, as ghosts and hauntings were his favourite subjects. Which explained his extended tour of all the inns listed in the North of England.
And now here they were, the first stop of the journey. The Bull's Head, Stockington. Anthony recalled the words he had read in the directory concerning this very room. Apparently, sometime in the 1890's, a jealous husband had entered and discovered his wife in bed with another man, the classic crime of passion scenario. This fellow was armed with an axe, and after the cavorting scoundrel had jumped from beneath the covers and leapt across the room, he had been met with an almighty blow to the neck. He had been decapitated immediately, in one diabolical action. There had been a loud cry, and then a violent thud as his head dropped to the floor. And this was the sound that was rumoured to exist in the room, repeating at various times during the day or night. But Anthony hadn't heard a thing.
"What was that?" he said suddenly, turning his head to greet some imaginary sound.
Marilyn didn't answer this time. He realised that there had been no sound at all, and that he was most likely hallucinating, inventing some noises of his own due to his apparent anxiety. He was desperate to hear the haunting sound, it would be a huge thrill for him, he was sure. He wished that he could open his ears wider so that he could listen more closely in order to capture the sound when it came, but sadly this wasn't possible. And so he bathed in his own anguish.
"I don't know why you have to drag me along anyway," said Marilyn suddenly, shattering the noiselessness.
Anthony was busy watching the gloomy shadows in the far corner of the room. He was certain that he saw a movement there, some kind of shape creeping close to the skirting board. He kept his eyes on the spot as he replied to his wife's remark.
"You know I like having you with me."
"Only because you're scared to death of these ghosts."
"That's not true! I like ghosts, and I'm not afraid of them one bit. I wouldn't be here if I was afraid, would I?"
"You're just bonkers."
"Wait... did you hear something?"
"No."
"Neither did I."
"Go to sleep, Anthony."
He lay there thinking, his eyes scanning the dark corner. The thing he had seen had gone, and he wondered whether it was his fertile imagination playing tricks on him. As his mind wandered, he tried to picture the scene in this room all those years ago. The couple in bed, the enraged husband bursting into the room brandishing the axe, the pure shock that must have been felt by the two lovers. And the delicious slice that had chopped off the man's head. Anthony's heart was beating swiftly as he imagined the noise. A loud cry, and then a thud. He couldn't wait.
But then a true sound arrived, and Anthony pricked up his ears. He jerked forwards, adopting a still position, as though he had been turned to stone. Alas, no cry and no thud, but a soft whimpering from the next room. The walls were so thin in these places. Anthony cocked his right ear, to be met by the sound of a man's voice from beyond the wall -- no actual words, just an eerie grunting chant. Anthony put two and two together immediately. It was the unmistakeable sound of sex taking place.
"They seem to be enjoying themselves," mumbled Marilyn, "which is more than can be said for us."
Anthony didn't wish to converse on that subject. He recalled the occasions when they used to indulge in such carnal activity. Making love with Marilyn was like wrestling with a gorilla, not a prospect to be relished. He was so pleased that they had abandoned that particular habit some time ago.
"I wish this sound would come," he said, ignoring the grunting and whimpering from next door, "it's driving me mad."
"Perhaps they put us in the wrong room."
"I hope not! I specifically asked for the haunted room. I don't think they would make a cock-up like that. Would they?"
"They might."
"Damn! How can we make sure?"
"Go down and see them."
"I'm not doing that, I might miss the noise. Why don't you go?"
"I'm not going."
"Damn!"
He settled back on to the pillow, filled with a further anxiety. Suddenly the man in the next room let out a startling, thunderous yell, which Anthony guessed was borne from orgasm. And then there was quiet again. He listened out once more, his ears eager and alert. Come on, come on, he urged. He'd wait all night if he had to, but even so this was causing him great distress. What if the rumours were untrue? What if the Directory of Haunted Inns had got it wrong? No, that couldn't be possible. He believed every word written in that book, it was like a gospel to him. The noise just had to happen. It had to.
"I'm definitely going to ask for my money back," muttered Anthony.
Marilyn stirred again, spelling out some trouble.
"Anthony!" she boomed. "Why don't you just go to sleep? We've got a long journey tomorrow, Finchhampton is miles away. We don't want you falling asleep at the wheel again, do we?"
Anthony dared to snort. "There's no need to bring that up again. And I'm not going to sleep. I want to hear the noise."
"You're like a big child."
"No, I'm not."
"Just go to sleep."
He started to think about next day's trip. Blizzard House in Finchhampton, a haunted inn out in the wilds, miles from nowhere. He was looking forward to it. According to the Directory, the spectre of a small boy exists in one of the rooms. He had been trapped in there during a fire at the place, and had perished before anyone could get to him. Now he appears next to the beds of the guests, and blows plumes of smoke over them, the smoke erupting from his riddled guts. Anthony hoped to have more succes than this dreadful fiasco.
"Did you hear something?"
"No."
"Me neither."
Morning seemed so close at this point.

"I'm in a foul mood," uttered Anthony. "A foul mood!"
"Don't be such a softie," said Marilyn. "You're like a child who didn't get the toy he wanted for his birthday."
"No, I'm not."
He gave the receptionist a scowl as she handed him his debit card. If looks could kill...
"Mornington will carry your cases out for you," she said, nodding to an elderly gentleman with outrageous whiskers. He didn't look as though he had the strength to even lift one of the cases.
"I demand to see the manager!" stormed Anthony.
The receptionist shrank back in fright.
"Take no notice of him," said Marilyn with a smile. "He didn't get much sleep, that's all. He's just a little ratty this morning."
She appeared to accept this, and forced a smile, as if to be friendly.
Anthony contained a raging fury inside him. All night they had spent in that room, and no sound. Not one! No loud cry, no thud. He considered it scandalous, and intended writing to the Directory of Haunted Inns to complain. If Marilyn would let him.
He watched as Mornington struggled with the cases. No way would he assist him, not after such an unfortunate night. He hoped to have more success at Blizzard House, longing for that young boy to send smoke into his face. Yes, he was looking forward to that.
"I'll fetch the car," he said to Marilyn, and toddled off to the rear of the building.
Upon his return he witnessed the sight of Mornington coughing and wheezing on his haunches, two battered cases standing in the gravel beside him. He got out of the car to face the man. Marilyn watched, the muscles of her face twitching in anticipation. She was like a tiger waiting to pounce. One wrong word from Anthony...
"So this is supposed to be the haunted inn, is it?" Anthony asked the old man.
Mornington replied with a wheezing sound before mumbling some words. "Oh yes. We're quite proud of it. We get lots of visitors, curious folk, you know?"
"Like us," said Anthony with a sarcastic smile.
"Exactly."
"Only we didn't hear a thing all night. Not a toot, not a dicky-bird. No horrid cries, no head crashing to the floor. You can't begin to imagine how disappointed I am."
"Anthony, leave it," said Marilyn, her words as icy as an igloo.
Anthony looked at her before adopting some silence. He knew when to be quiet and when not to. He glanced at Mornington, who seemed to be looking at Marilyn with a puzzled expression. Anthony feared the worst.
"You don't look well, madam," said the old man. "You look quite pale, if you don't mind me saying so."
"I mind you saying so," said Anthony, opening the car door to allow his wife to enter. "Now if you don't mind, we must be on our way. Goodbye."
They both got into the car, slamming the doors shut and leaving Mornington to drag the cases on to the back seat. Anthony revved up and left, almost trapping the old man's fingers in the door. The car seemed to be angry, mirroring Anthony's frustration and annoyance at not hearing the haunting sound. And as the car vanished into the distance, Mornington noticed the receptionist come dashing out of the inn in an obvious panic.
"Oh no, they've gone!" she cried, displaying her disappointment.
"What's the matter?" asked Mornington.
"The debit card they paid with," she explained breathlessly, "it's been cancelled."
"Stolen?"
"No. It's really weird. I've checked up, and I've been told that these two people were killed over a year ago. They should be dead!"

"You haven't slept all night," muttered Marilyn, "you're going to fall asleep at the wheel, I know it."
"No, I won't."
"You know what happened last time."
"So? If we crash, we crash."
"You'll fall asleep."
"I won't."
And as they turned out of the gravel driveway, there was a loud cry and a thud in the bedroom they had left.

The Crawling Thing

[Published in Enigmatic Tales]

I have this recurring dream. I am walking along a dark corridor which appears to go on forever, stretching all the way to infinity, it seems. Surrounding me are hundreds and hundreds of doors, none of them open, although I fancy that behind each one is a horror too awful to speak of. The doors themselves are barely evident in the gloom, and indeed I only notice them because of the thin strips of light which run along the edges of each. These lights are identical, and take the form of a strange glow, a deep red in colour, and entirely devilish in appearance. I guess that a kind of hideous entity is lurking inside every room, bearing this vivid gleam of red, and I do not wish to find out whether this is true or untrue. Yet for some dark reason I know that one of those doors is waiting for me, and that I will be forced to choose one in the end. I cannot imagine what peculiar terror awaits me once I have chosen, my brain is in turmoil the whole time that I creep along that corridor. After advancing for what seems like hours I suddenly stop in silence before one of those doors. And somehow I know that I am doomed.
I hold my breath as I grip the coldness of the knob and twist it in my sweating palm, simultaneously pushing the thing inwards. The brightness increases as the interior of that room becomes exposed, and a severe iciness hits me fully in the face. The horror then becomes evident to my weary eyes, and my screaming breaks the silence. A chill causes me to shiver as I remain spellbound and petrified in that doorway. Imagine the pain I feel inside as I find myself gazing upon a morbid collection of figures lying huddled against cold walls of stone. Each of them is very, very dead. The skin of their faces is almost peeled right to the bone, and I nearly retch when I spot the grotesque sight of their chests, for every one has been viciously ripped apart by what I guess to be some kind of sharp instrument. There are dozens of these corpses, the room being an
extraordinary graveyard for these unfortunate souls. Naturally I am horrified, and I feel a disturbing weakness of the knees. I am unable to avert my gaze from these wretches, and although I cannot recognise their faces, I do feel that I ought to know them.
I really ought to know them.

I was in my bedroom dreaming of Leanne when I first spotted that crawling thing. It was a Sunday morning, a very lazy day for me, and as I lay beneath the bedsheets it sort of sneaked across the periphery of my vision, like a fleeting shadow. It could have been that I was not fully awake, and that I imagined the creature, but subsequent events were to prove this notion was incorrect. I saw it all right - I saw it only too well.
Leanne and I had spent the previous evening at a restaurant, and then afterwards we had returned to her home for coffee. What a playboy existence I lead! Or rather, I did lead. The presence of her parents hindered any thoughts I had of intimacy, yet I was content to merely be with her, adoring the prettiness of her features and the charms she possessed, the delightful flash of white teeth as she laughed, and the way she flicked her wavy hair from out of her eyes. We were both hopelessly in love, and indeed she often remarked, purely in jest, that our love was so insane that it would eventually lead to our downfall. She always had this uncanny talent for uttering the truth.
I can picture her now. Such amazing memories will never elude my mind. She is wearing that little white dress, and just the right amount of make-up, and those heels I always adored her in. The glossy lipstick she liked to wear reminded me of those film actresses from the forties and fifties, the ones who had talent as well as beauty. Leanne could dance like the devil - and I would watch her like a demon.
That creepy thing lingered in one place, twitching and endeavouring to conceal itself, cautiously observing the room. Still I considered it to be a figment of some nightmare I must have been having. I dared not confront it in case it did turn out to be real. So I remained in bed, covered by those warm sheets, and tried to cast it to the back of my mind until I was fully awake. I didn't really want it to be something genuine, and so I closed my eyes and invited some more sleep. This was my lazy day, and no image of any crawling thing was going to spoil it.
I dismissed it at my peril, and now I wished that I had faced that particular horror head on.
Later in the day I met Leanne at her place, but the topic of conversation was not one we would have normally chosen. Indeed, if I had known what kind of destiny awaited us, if I could have miraculously seen into the near future, I would have steered the conversation in an entirely different direction. I would have changed the talk to the subject of our relationship, our undying love for each other, our plans for the months and years ahead, yet all the time knowing that these things could never happen. I would have remained silent much of the time, allowing Leanne to talk and talk and talk, so that I could just listen to her charming tones, and revel in the sound of that voice. And as the minutes passed I would gaze into her eyes, secretly constructing an image of that face inside my memory, so that whenever I closed my eyes I could picture those delicate features. Yet I am no clairvoyant, and so we were compelled to speak not of life, but of death.
During the hours of the previous night the old couple in the flat next to mine had been hideously murdered. It was on the news and everything, and when I had left my own flat I had witnessed the sight of police and ambulance people and others in suits and long faces. A man who described himself as a detective asked me questions, but I honestly could not help him, for I had heard not a thing during the night. As the day went by the cold truth of the matter unfolded. Some vicious intruder had entered the place and horribly killed them both before tearing them open and removing their hearts. Immediately a picture entered my brain, a grotesque image from that recurring nightmare I had been having, and at that moment I realised that this could have been no ordinary murder.
I was distraught and shaking terribly, and Leanne did her utmost to comfort me. It worked to some degree, for I was pleased to be in her company, and this helped to calm me somewhat. I had known that couple quite well, we had spoken many times, admittedly only of the weather and the price of things today, but I believed them to be a charming couple, and so I was naturally distressed at the awful news. And all the while, as Leanne wrapped her arms and her scent around me, I was unable to shake that crawling thing from out of my mind.
When I arrived home in the evening I saw it again, lurking in some shadows. I caught a better glimpse this time, and I then came to admit to myself that it was real, and that my eyesight was not deceiving me. I had just entered the hallway of the flat, and was about to switch on the light, when I spied this odd creature hiding in the semi-darkness. I immediately stepped back in fright, and quickly flicked the switch, inviting the welcoming light. It was strangely silent in that place, and there was no sign of it anywhere. I was afraid to venture further, and lingered upon the threshold for some while. But then I glanced outside, and as I gazed at the police ticker tape that surrounded next door a bizarre chill spread throughout my entire body. Swiftly I closed the door and came inside, shutting out the horror and the lingering smell of death.
I took off my coat, and noticed my reflection in the hallway mirror. I looked terrible! But then my eyes must surely have been playing dreadful tricks on me, because my image in that mirror strangely began to shimmer and dance around, as if some odd transfiguration were taking place. Seconds later this ceased, and my reflection returned to that of my shaking self. I was so agitated that I dashed into the kitchen and snatched the bottle of Teachers that I kept strictly for medicinal purposes. This I nursed for the rest of the evening, until the clock struck midnight and I chose to venture into sleep, and that ghastly nightmare I kept having.
The following morning I awoke with a huge hangover, and as I was cursing myself for this I realised that it was Monday, and that I was going to be late for work. Yet that did not seem too important compared to what had occurred next door. My head was pulsating as I pulled my tired bones from under the sheets, and when I sat on the edge of the bed and began to rub my eyes I was certain that I saw that creature again. It was over by the wardrobe, quiet and still. A dark, crouching figure that somehow I recognised. But in a flash it was gone, leaving me to seriously question my sanity. And as this thought ran through my head I noticed the sounds of a commotion coming from outside.
There had been more murders in the night. The poor occupants of the flat on the other side to mine had been killed in identical fashion to the old couple. The young man, his partner and their child had all been slaughtered by the same mad person, the one who had torn out those hearts had struck once more. How can I describe the feeling that lurked inside me? How can I tell of the awful lurch within my stomach, the horrible, sickly feeling that I was suffering? I had never known so much death, and so close to me. Further questions were posed by poe-faced detectives, yet I was not able to offer them much assistance or information. The only thing that I craved was the company and warmth that Leanne could provide. She was my only saviour in all of this. Yet I could not help thinking that some awful fate was waiting in the immediate future.
I did not know whether to be delighted when Leanne and her parents invited me to stay at their house for a while until my mind became more settled. My unease was evident in my demeanour, for I had taken to trembling and suffering terrific headaches almost the whole time. I am not certain if this was because I feared the same thing happening to me. It obviously appeared too much of a coincidence that the deaths should have occurred in homes so close to each other. Perhaps I was anxious because of the appearance of the crawling thing, and so I packed some things together and set off with Leanne to her home.
I did not go into work, inventing some imaginary sickness so that I did not have to face that daily grind. My nerves were on edge, and as I was genuinely getting plenty of headaches, it was with no amount of guilt that I declined to make that journey into work for a couple of days. Leanne was a virtual rock, playing the strong one, looking after me in my hour of need. I was able to relax at her place, well away from the prowling detectives and the presence of afterdeath that was loitering around the area outside the flat. But still I thought of the creeping, lurking thing, and all the horror that it was probably responsible for. I had to be certain - I had to discover the truth. But how?
Sleeping beside Leanne in her threequarter bed was simply astounding. With my arms around her hot flesh I drifted into dreams that I felt I did not deserve to enjoy. There was no rolling around beneath the covers, indulging in that private thing, for I was still too perturbed about events. I was merely content to be next to her, dozing and wallowing in those marvellous dreams. Yet this peacefulness was not to last. On the second night I found that the recurring nightmare had decided to re-enter my skull, scaring me half to death in the process. I opened that dark door to face those bleeding corpses, those vile features of death facing me in that glow of redness. And I was sure that I recognised one of those dead figures as none other than - Leanne?
"Nnnooo!!!" I cried out, and awoke instantly in half-darkness, perspiring heavily and shivering as though I had some kind of horrible fever.
Leanne stirred immediately, and switched on the lamp at her side of the bed. She clenched her arms around me, holding me close to her breast, and as I sobbed uncontrollably I could not ascertain the words she was speaking in my ear. The nightmares were getting worse, and frightening me terribly, but at least I had not seen the creeping thing since moving into Leanne's house. I thought too soon...
There it was, attempting to conceal itself in some shadows in front of Leanne's wardrobe. How ugly it looked! It was naked and hunched, its head bowed as if in shame, and it was of human size, although it was more subhuman than human. On all fours it crouched, daring not to scutter away like a giant insect, instead remaining in view of the both of us. I reached across to put on the lamp at my bedside, and as I did so I saw it move. To say that I was not frightened would be telling a lie. I was very afraid.
Did Leanne see it? Could she see the same as I? I am not sure, but I am certain that she did observe the thing in the end, and all the terrors it possessed. She felt it - the full, awful horror of it all.
"Look!" I yelled, pointing my finger. But then, because of the light within the room, I was able to witness the awesome truth, and it sent a horrid shiver through my veins, for that appalling thing - it was inside the mirror of Leanne's wardrobe. It was my own reflection in that glass!
If a man can howl as loudly as I did then I am yet to meet him, and I doubt if I ever will. I did not think that I would ever cease the incessant noise that left my lips. My brain was in complete torment as the thing then chose to raise its head slightly, and I observed my own face, albeit twisted into a kind of contortion of flesh and bone. And then I saw the lethal-looking talons on each of its hands and feet, twitching and curling on the carpet inside the mirror. I am sure that it then grinned, an evil smirk that sent a shudder down my spine. Its teeth - they appeared as sharp as razors. And still I screamed.
I do not know how Leanne was feeling at that moment. Selfishly my thoughts concentrated on that mysterious figure. I did not even glance her way, instead my eyes were affixed to the mirror and the monstrosity within. Then I suddenly began to feel faint, and my head became dizzy, and I found myself drifting along some supernatural highway, surrounded by darkness, and I imagined I had fallen asleep and was about to witness that fantastic dream. But then a light came, so that I could see. And I did see. I saw it all. Although I wish that I had not.
I gazed into the mirror once more, and watched the creature as it crawled over to the bed and leapt on to the sheets. I shrieked upon seeing those talons tearing into Leanne's breasts, ripping apart her flesh, baring her insides in all their repulsive glory. I was unable to hear her screams. I repeatedly banged my clenched, sweating fists against the glass, my brain filled with helplessness and frustration. For I was watching from inside the mirror, hopelessly trapped in a way that I did not understand. That sinful being had somehow changed places with me!
Powerless, I saw it grab hold of Leanne's heart and tug it from her. Powerless, I saw it bear its frightful teeth, and begin to chew and gnaw at that bleeding object. Powerless, I saw it bite chunks and swallow them, with blood dripping on to the bedsheets and what remained of Leanne's body. I wanted my eyes to be deceiving me. I wanted this to be some dire nightmare, far worse than any I had ever experienced. I just wanted to wake up, and escape from this, with my love sleeping next to me. But alas, it was real. It did happen.
The dizziness arrived again, and I was captured by that dreamy atmosphere, swirling around inside my own skull, until eventually I surfaced upon the bed. Still coming to my senses, I saw the thing creep away into that mysterious place inside the mirror, vanishing - until the next time. Then my attentions turned to Leanne. Or rather, what remained of her, the blood and guts lying beside me. A dead soul minus a heart. That describes Leanne - and it could also describe myself.
I still have that dream sometimes. And when I open the door, and see those corpses, I always search for her, although I do not always find her. But I do find other people that I used to know. I am trying to understand this crawling thing. Is it me? Or another version of me that dwells inside mirrors? The hearts it steals - they appear to be its lifeblood. I will never forget the sight of it devouring Leanne's. The killings continue, and the detectives think that I am responsible, although they cannot produce the evidence required. Her parents also blamed me, until they were both discovered with their hearts missing. I have not left this flat in weeks, existing as some kind of living zombie, watching each day go by. I miss Leanne, that goes without saying. And another thing - I have smashed all the mirrors in this place. I do not wish to see that creature any more, it is spawned purely from evil. I do know that it is out there, feeding on the hearts of innocent folk. And strange as it might seem, I believe that I can actually taste the blood that it swallows. As though it really is me that is responsible for the murders. Yet what is most upsetting to me is the fact that I am beginning to like that taste...

Ran's Embrace

[Published in Black Dragon webzine]


Cheslav lay on the glistening deck, exhausted and overcome with shock, his vision blurred by a torrent of tears. The stink of dead fish filled the salty air, but he was oblivious to this, tormented by the aftermath of death. He was a man, albeit a young one, yet even a man could weep, there was no shame in that. The choppy Galodni ocean was the sole witness to those streaming droplets. They trickled on to his lips, and he tasted them with his tongue, yet all the while he remained absorbed in a fearful trance. He did not wish to return to such a waking world, a world that contained those almighty perils of the sea. He wanted to dwell within that weird spell for eternity, never to reacquaint himself with life and all its tortures. Especially after observing such an abominable horror.
He was not sure whether he was actually looking at the snapped tiller and stern post, or if it were a part of his feverish imagination. The spumous wave had been the mightiest he had ever encountered, and the most deadly. He wanted the whole episode to have been a hallucinogenic dream, spawned from his fertile mind. This he could not bring himself to believe, no matter how hard he tried. The cruel events had been too real. The colourful seascape that lay beyond his vision did not seem to be there. It appeared to be a portion of another planet, a place where he so desperately wished to be at that particular point in time. Yet reality beckoned, inciting him to return to the living world, to escape from the traumatic aftershock and grasp the enormous significance of the situation. His two sea-faring colleagues had been taken by that insidious Galodni Sea.

The day had begun like any other. Life was so predictable in that small fishing community, so much so that Cheslav could almost spend the entirety of his existence blind-folded, and it would make not the tiniest difference. Hungry seagulls cawed harshly as the three of them set off from the mainland at an ungodly hour, the ocean producing a slight ruffling of waves at that time, as if the briny itself was still sleeping. Cheslav yawned incessantly, as he lazily performed the familiar motions he knew so well, the labours of his trade.
"I think we'll have a good catch today," said old Egor, "I can almost smell it in the air."
Cheslav believed him. He trusted every word the experienced mentor uttered, treating his wisdom as some maritime gospel. Egor had been riding the cold waves long before he had been born, and it showed. His wrinkled features seemed as icy as the water itself, his whole face taking on a strange oceanic countenance, as though he were a mysterious sea-god. He was like the father Cheslav never knew -- the father he himself yearned to become one day.
"There are just two things I look forward to each day," said Stanko, the third member of the crew, "the smell of the sea, and the smell of a woman. Ha ha!"
Egor turned Cheslav's way with a sly smile. "Take no notice, son. You look after that bonny young wife of yours. Ignore Stanko and his philanderous ways."
Cheslav always heeded Egor's words, but this time he did not require such advice, for he was conscious of Stanko's reputation. He was akin to a rampant animal on everlasting heat, and preyed lasciviously on the females of the small fishing village. His handsome features they found impossible to resist, and Cheslav was surprised that no father had visited him in fury with daughter in tow, claiming some paternal rights. The rumours were that Stanko was infertile and thus unable to produce a child. Cheslav did not envy his colleague for this.
The hours passed peacefully, save for the foam-filled waters of the cold sea, which were infamously treacherous. Snippets of idle conversation were exchanged by the trio of mariners. In most cases the words were meaningless, a mere method to cut the awkward silence that surrounded them. The fishing vessel Krasivi was a meagre craft, designed and constructed from the barest means. Indeed it was the only boat that Egor could afford, and he seemed to have owned it since the dawning of time.
The further they journeyed out to sea the more fierce the waves became. The volatile ripples sounded similar to hands slapping cold flesh, and were as fervent as a passionate woman's kisses. The sky was darkening with winter clouds, and they feared a voracious rainfall, but it never arrived. They were secretly grateful for that, because those freezing showers that fell upon the Galodni were as icy as the flesh of a dozen cadavers.
Exposed to the frosty air, they continued about their business, netting a healthy amount of sea creatures. Cheslav was accustomed to the smell, and he observed the wet, wriggling fish dancing until breathless. Life transformed into death. He considered this with more poignancy of thought than usual. His intentions were of an opposing nature, for he wished to actually create a life, to bring a child into the world. Merely by chance, Stanko happened to touch on this subject in conversation.
"So how is that lovely wife of yours, Cheslav?" he enquired, as he forcefully steered the tiller at the stern of the Krasivi.
Cheslav's back was aching with the exhausting labour, and he adopted an upright position in order to reply. The coldness of an ocean breeze caught him in the face, and he welcomed the freshness upon his perspiring features.
"She's fine," he answered, with elements of a certain doubt lurking behind the statement.
"She is not with child yet?" asked Egor.
The nerve that the old timer hit seemed to snap like a thin twig. Cheslav did not really wish to discuss this with his two workmates, it was a private matter between him and his wife Inessa. It was also a sore point.
"Not yet," he replied, and left it at that.
He envied Egor with all his heart, for the old sea-dog had seven children and twelve grandchildren, and doted upon them all. Despite this he appeared as if he possessed all the troubles and woes the world could offer. He had stringy white hair and a haggard expression, his eyes as feeble as a newborn kitten's, and he resembled an ancient mariner in that weather-beaten mackintosh and those dirty galoshes he always wore. Yet Cheslav detected a happiness in his work, and in his leisure time -- a happiness in his life. The old man seemed to be most content when either at sea or in the company of his family. He had the utmost respect and admiration for Egor.
They carried on with the infantile banter, not daring to dwell on any meaningful subjects, in order to keep their minds fully on the task in hand. As Egor had predicted, it was proving to be a good day, the strength and pungency of the fish-stink emphasising this point. Cheslav was inwardly delighted. He envisaged the rare luxury of a pint of beer if this good fortune persisted.
Then suddenly the mild breeze transformed into a more violent wind, as cold as the most gigantic glacier. The ubiquitous Galodni appeared to bear a frightful malevolence, to take on a life of its own. The lapping waves increased in size, to undulate in a more vicious fashion. The odour of the catch was overwhelmed by the strange smell of the thickening atmosphere. Cheslav viewed his own skin, which was turning to a cold moon-white colour, filled with an unpleasant iciness. The chill became unbearable.
Then suddenly the boat began to lurch uncontrollably, and Cheslav's initial fear was that it was going to capsize and drag the three of them down into the dark depths of the
Galodni. The water started to swirl and eddy with enormous venom, as if a giant sea-monster were encircling the Krasivi beneath the raging foam. Cheslav was thrown unceremoniously into the foetid collection of squirming fish, and tried desperately to climb from out of that netting. Such was his concentration on freeing himself, he was taken completely unawares by the appearance of the ferocious wave.
At first he thought it must have been some crazy beast of the ocean, as it leapt from beneath the icy surface and hurtled in the direction of the boat's stern. It was perhaps twenty feet in height and totally awesome, a gleaming, foaming wall of saltwater. He had never witnessed a wave so immense, and gaped in horror as it swept over the vessel with an almighty rush.
A fearful cry of terror escaped from Stanko's lips as he was carried overboard by the monstrous force of the wave. He grabbed a hold of the tiller, clinging on to it with all his might, but it was futile, for the fantastic water-wall was akin to a huge, lashing beast, and much superior in strength to Stanko. He disappeared with a deafening splash into the greenish-blue waters of the Galodni, taken by the strange wave, and yelling incomprehensible words as the spray gushed around him.
Cheslav glanced in Egor's direction, as if searching the old mate's face for some understanding, some explanation of what had just occurred. He was met with a chilling blankness, for his colleague seemed to be in a similar state of complete shock and awe. Then suddenly Egor sprang to life, and scrambled from his bow position across the soaking deck, the Krasivi still rocking and teetering as he reached the broken tiller and stern post, which had been snapped by the incredible force of the wave. Cheslav was amazed upon observing the aged sea-devil as he jumped into the cold water in a brave attempt to rescue Stanko. All this was performed without a word, almost as though Egor were under some weird spell or trance.
Cheslav clambered to his feet to view what was taking place amidst that swirling spume. There was no further sign of Stanko, and he guessed that he had suffered a horrible drowning death, sucked beneath the freezing surface for eternity. Egor was desperately splashing around in the water, his black mackintosh contrasting greatly with the ugly blue-green foam. Then Cheslav was aghast to notice that the sinister wave was returning, swiftly making its way toward Egor, who was unsuspecting of its approach. He shouted to his mentor, but his words were not heard, and the giant wave leapt upwards once more, a massive, yawning mound of water. It swept over Egor, engulfing him in its deadly maw, and then it rolled across the Galodni and away from the craft, taking the old man with it.
A remarkable calmness began to settle around the Krasivi, and Cheslav was left to reflect on the uncanny events that had just taken place. He was overcome with nervous fright, and he gazed into the far distance, hoping to catch some small glimpse of Egor, but he was not to be seen. It was a clear morning, and he was able to observe other fishing vessels, half a league into the distance, he guessed. Surely they must have seen what had happened, the gigantic wave and all. He expected them to begin making their way toward the Krasivi, to offer some kind of assistance, but they remained still and motionless, like sea vessels in a painting.
As the strange silence prevailed, he felt an awful sickness and nausea, and his mind was swarming with confused thoughts and hideous memories of the dreadful drowning incidents. He imagined the monster wave to be some form of macabre entity, spawned from the mad spirit of the ocean. He was filled with such torment and chaos his head started to spin, and he collapsed to the wet deck in a weakened, soaking heap. Stanko's plaintive yells reverberated inside his mind as he became faint and drifted into unconsciousness, overwhelmed by the atrocious and maddening occurrence.

As he lay inactive and sleeping on that drenched deck, his mind conjured up lurid images of his wife Inessa. Her beauty, her elegance, her charm -- all was there to behold, and he reached out to grasp her loveliness, to hold her in his arms, to undress her and make love to her. And it was at that point that the dream became less pleasant, and more chilling and disturbing.
"No, Cheslav," she said, pushing him off with her slender hands, "we mustn't. Think of the consequences."
This displeased him, and he then realised that these images were more than pictures in a dream, they were recollections, memories of real events. His subconscious mind was recreating the past, for some unexplained reason. The words she spoke, the manner of her dress, the way she smelled. It appeared to be a strange replay of that very morning, occurring during his troubled unconsciousness.
"We're both young and healthy, Inessa," he pleaded, "and we are so in love. It's only right that we should produce a child."
She turned away with arms folded in silent defiance, and Cheslav knew what that action signified. He knew only too well.
The tiny fishing village in which they lived was rife with poverty, families struggling to
survive on the cold outskirts of starving Russia. The spirit was there, the will to carry on and to persevere, to chuckle in the face of famine and disease. He and Inessa barely had sufficient income to eat and wash and clothe themselves, and to keep a roof over their heads. Her argument was that to give birth to a child would be cruel, both to them and to the infant, for they would not be able to provide for the newborn. Cheslav was ravaged with frustration.
"Please, Inessa," he begged, "you know how much this means to me."
Indeed. He had hardly known his own father, for at the age of three he had perished in death, taken by the malevolent plague that was sweeping the northern region at that time. His memories of him were quite vague, the most vivid being the ghastly, emaciated figure lying prone upon a bed of dirtied sheets, doomed eyes glaring his way and wrinkled flesh hanging loosely on his stricken face. He vowed that with him things would be different, and that his child would grow up in the company of a healthy, nourished father. Yet Inessa was not in compliance with his dream.
"Let's wait a while, Cheslav," said Inessa finally.
It seemed that all he ever did was wait. He wanted a child as soon as possible, he wanted a child now. It was all he had ever wished for, and the moment he first set eyes on Inessa and observed her outstanding attractiveness he knew that she was the one. The would-be mother of his children. His loins were practically aching and begging to produce a life, he could almost feel a pain down there, an uncanny longing for reproduction.
He could hear Inessa speaking once more, but the words were jumbled and incoherent, as if she were conversing in some foreign tongue. His head was dizzy, he was feeling drowsy, and he could feel a strange wetness beneath him. Then her voice disappeared, and he recognised the distinctive sounds of lapping waters, and realised, despite his torpid state, that he was aboard the Krasivi. He looked up, and glanced around, and then he remembered -- the gruesome horror of it all came back to him.
The strong odour of the catch hit him first of all. He looked around, and discovered that he was alone aboard that vessel, and this filled him with both fear and confusion. The horrid events had not been a part of his dream. They had actually occurred, the absence of Egor and Stanko proving that this was true. He gazed in a forlorn fashion into the distance, and found he could make out the Russian coastline, as bleak as a cold
midwinter, the smoking chimneys and the masts of the boats in the harbour, the rigging like tiny cobwebs. He wondered what Inesssa was doing. He could not wait to be with her once more.
He recalled the dreadful moments vividly, casting his weary mind back, picturing the giant wave and the terror it had created. Egor's impetuous actions had astounded him, the way he bounded across the deck and leapt into the icy-cold sea, apparently without any thought of the consequences, of the awful fate that he himself might suffer. Cheslav considered this to be incredibly courageous, and wondered if, under different circumstances, the old timer would have performed such heroics to save him from a savage sea-death. His conclusion was that he would have done so, of that there seemed not an ounce of doubt.
He shivered as the ocean breeze swept past him, as though it were whistling a fearful tune, for his ears only. The astonishing silence was unnerving and frightful, and it suddenly became colder than his trembling flesh could bear. The Krasivi started to move from side to side, to sway and lurch, as if the Galodni were rocking him not to sleep, but to death. This caused him to shudder even more, and his heart beat more quickly as he anticipated the dreaded return of that fatal ocean monster -- that grotesque and sinister wave.
He observed the tumultuous waters as the boat was carried upon a bed of fierce ripples, and before he could even scream out in horror it came -- the wave of death. He clung to the netting, surrounded by a vast swamp of foetid fish, holding on with all his strength, holding on for his life. He saw the wave erupt from the ocean, and he became spellbound. It appeared even more fantastic than before, as it soared into the wind and cascaded over the soaked deck. It was so strong it sliced the heavy mast just below the maintop, as easily as a knife through cheese, sending the broken timber crashing on to the deck, and Cheslav wondered what such an impressive force would do to the flesh and bone of a man.
He attempted to scramble to safety, wherever that safety could be found, but he was confounded, for within seconds the wave appeared again. It emerged from the briny like a massive behemoth, accompanied by a loud splashing sound, almost like the roar of a lioness, and dropped over the boat once more, this time snatching the pitiful fisherman and forcing him into the water -- into the icy depths of the fearsome Galodni ocean.
His mind was swarming in turmoil, his thoughts unclear, his sole intention being to
escape the clutches of the wave and return to the security of the drenched and damaged Krasivi. This was not a simple task, for he felt himself being pulled deeper into the sea, into the cloudy waters, surrounded by the spume and the cold and the heart of the turbulent wave. He choked and spluttered, compelled to swallow unholy amounts of foul-tasting saltwater, as he tried desperately to resist the pull of the ocean.
His efforts were proving to be fruitless -- and things became more scary when he detected the strange voice.
"My name is Ran," were the words he heard, "the Mother of all Waves."
He was bewildered. To begin with he thought he had imagined those words as he struggled to hold on to his existence, to escape the grip of oncoming death. But then the voice returned.
"Allow me to introduce my daughters, all nine of them. As fertile as the most nubile human female!"
Cheslav was confused, and endeavoured to ignore the statement, for he did not comprehend those words. His suffering was of a more vital nature. Then to his amazement he felt something tugging at his trousers, unbuckling the belt around his waist. He glanced downwards, and could see nothing, much to his dismay. Yet he was able to feel it, as if several small hands were pulling down his pants, and fondling his genitals. He looked more carefully, searching for the daughters the voice had mentioned, but all he could see was a series of weird underwater ripples, strange foam-shapes bearing hideous smiles and fabulous eyes. He looked upwards to the surface. It was mere feet from him, yet it seemed so far away, so distant. And upon that surface was a collection of small, swirling waves. Cheslav did not count them, but there were nine -- the nine daughters of Ran.
"Your two companions were unsuitable," continued the Mother of the Waves, "one was too old, and the other infertile. But you seem to be the one. The one we've been searching for."
He did not wish to believe the words inside his head, which seemed to be transmitted telepathically from some unspeakable source, presumably the large wave itself. But this is preposterous, he thought. Yet even more preposterous was the magical feeling below his waist, as his exposed genital area was gently coaxed to life, and before he could even begin to understand what was taking place his seed squirted into the water, causing an eerie sensation throughout his entire body.
Following that mysterious event, the flame within his aching soul began to flicker and wane, as he swallowed more and more of the bilious Galodni waters. He appeared to be breathing in everything except the precious air he so badly required, and as a result of this he started to succumb to the horrendous fate that the giant wave had threatened from the moment it -- or she -- had arrived on the scene. And in the end his lifeless form sank slowly into the pit of the ocean, whilst the nine daughters of Ran wallowed in the seed his loins had provided.

Hundreds of little waves surrounded the silent and deserted Krasivi, rippling gently, rising and falling to a soft rhythm, all in harmony with the flow of the sea itself. There seemed to be a strange ebullience there, an atmosphere similar to a boisterous playground filled with effervescent children. The cool breeze appeared to be whistling a tune of joy and exultation, as though in celebration of some wondrous event. And as those small waves enjoyed the freedom of the ocean, another wave a thousand times larger lingered close by, as content as a cat that had licked up all the cream in the dairy.
"My grandchildren," said Ran in a mellow and subdued tone.

Deep below the cold surface of the mystical Galodni Sea, three fresh corpses lay upon that dusty bed, destined to decay until all the flesh had rotted and festered away. Then they would become figures of mere bone, to join the hundreds of skeletons that already littered that awesome, noiseless place. And one of them, the one formerly known as Cheslav, displayed a wide smile, a grin of both satisfaction and strange happiness -- as a father would smile at the sight of his newborn.

Lucifer's Tale

[with Peter Tennant]

Finally I have reached my destination, the mall which lies at the centre of our mighty city, the black heart where any and every outrage is permissible. The place is swarming with people, the walkways and open spaces choked with revellers intent on sucking the night dry of all that it has to offer, the butchers and their victims indistinguishable in the common crush of humanity.
Cameras are everywhere. Spying on every living and dying soul, taping scenes of destruction and savagery, conveying their frightful images back to the living quarters of those who, for reasons of their own, have chosen not to take part in the night's celebrations; voyeurs of death, satisfying their craving for blood and mutilation at second hand.
I look round me at all the nasty little insignificants, the joy-killers and blood-junkies wrapped up in their petty concerns, and I remember how I was once like them, content to slake my thirst for violence on the first piece of meat that came to hand, indifferent to whose blood I spilled, content with butchery for butchery's sake. That was before my Master took me under his wing and taught me all the ways of evil, trained me to be selective in my choice of victim and to heighten the pleasure through tactics of delay, to appreciate the act of violence not for its own sake but as an expression of my own inner being.
I think of him, my Master, creating an image inside my dreamful mind. The dark features that I beheld for so long during my days and nights of instruction and learning, those pleasurable times spent inflicting torture and suffering on pitiful unfortunates. The release of blood, the rolling heads, the pleading eyes, the connection of sharpness upon delicate flesh.
A topless female floats by, a depraved snicker upon her face. Something passes between us, a look of perfect understanding. We are alike, two predators stalking these ignorant cattle. My eyes linger upon her small breasts, and at once I wonder how they would look, sliced from her body and hanging on my apartment wall, beside the eyeless heads and the non-pulsating hearts. All dripping with blood and wonderful.
For a moment we are parted by the crowd and I wander aimlessly. Then I see her again. Her magnificent breasts are now streaked with carmine and she is holding the severed head of another female in her hand, swinging it to and fro as she walks with a wicked grimace upon her face, blood falling in tiny droplets from the decapitated object. The dead one's hair is long and blonde, her eyes as cold as winter, her skin as pale as snow. I guess this is some pre-planned vengeance attack, something to do with a stolen lover perhaps. It happens all the time these days, now that love is once more in fashion and jealousy the accessory of choice.
I walk up to the woman and plunge my knife into her stomach, twisting the blade viciously, working it up and down, making her navel into an altogether more prominent hole. She howls with pain and the head crashes to the ground as her steaming guts are exposed, all bloody and fabulous. They splash to the floor, a torrential bloodfall, and I laugh. And just as she joins her stinking entrails, collapsing into a mangled heap of dying flesh and bone, she mumbles one final word, the last before her soul takes wing.
'Bliss.'
I stand for a moment gloating over my kill. Her breasts, I must have them. I kneel down and reach out for those wondrous globes, but before I can claim my trophy there is the sound of an explosion and a sudden rush of hot air. The woman's body is literally blown apart, the pieces flying in all directions, showering me with blood and slivers of bone. I look up and see a man holding a blaster, a sardonic smile upon his lips.
A wave of red rage washes over me and I am filled with hatred of this stranger who has robbed me of what is rightfully mine. I want to tear him apart with my bare hands, to rend his flesh with my teeth and nails, to crack open his skull and devour the still living brain. Snarling I charge at him, my knife aimed at his heart. He watches me come, his smile steady. Slowly he raises the blaster and points it at me. I know that I am not going to make it, that he will kill me. I gaze into his eyes and burn his face into my memory, taking comfort in the knowledge that someday we will meet again, and when we do I will wreak a vengeance on him that will be terrible even by the standards of the mall. He waits until I am within striking distance before he pulls the trigger. I see a flash of light and hear the sound of an explosion. My body is hurled through the air and my soul departs, flying back to the welcoming arms of GOD.
And then I am enfleshed once more, lying on the bed in my apartment in Dis, the residential quarter of the city. Ruefully I gaze up at the empty spot on the wall where, had the circumstances been otherwise, I would have placed those wonderful breasts. I close my eyes and imagine playing with them, my fingers tracing their shape in the dark, my lips sucking on those cold nipples. Sighing I stroke my cock and finger my anus. There will be other times. If I have learned anything from my visits to the mall, it is that pleasure is never foregone, only delayed.
'Back early.'
I look up to see my mother standing in the doorway, her naked body coated with freshly strewn blood, which she wears proudly, her badge of glory. Lilith has had better hunting than I. I feel sad, and seeing the expression on my face she frowns.
'The most marvellous breasts,' I say, and she understands at once. The two of us were bonded in the womb. My every thought is but a pale reflection from the labyrinthine corridors of her mind.
'Perhaps this will cheer you up,' she says, and from between her legs she produces a severed penis, her own precious trophy which she offers to me. On a whim Lilith had her body altered. Set deep in her flesh are razor sharp vagina dentata. Once she has been stimulated past a certain point these teeth will bite down on her partner's penis unless orgasm is attained immediately. It is my proud boast that I am the only man who has never failed to satisfy her.
She smears blood on my chest and belly, rubs the severed organ against my own proud cock, delighting me with the slick feel of it. I roll over on my stomach and she straddles me, inserting a finger deep in my anus and teasing my prostrate. I sigh with pleasure.
There is movement in a corner of the room, shadows coalescing to form a human figure.
'So, Lucifer, this is how you spend your time.'
I recognise the voice, that deep baritone, so rich and full of authority. I look up and see him standing by the side of the bed, his massive frame towering over us, the one who I respect and admire above all others, my...
'Master.'
He is dressed from head to toe in shiny black leather, only his eyes visible, gleaming with the malevolence that is his defining characteristic. He picks up my mother in his hands as if she was nothing more than a leaf and places her at his feet. Laughing she opens her mouth to receive his cock, but instead he produces a long metal spike and pushes her head onto the tip. The steel penetrates instantly, emerging from the back of her skull coated in blood and brain. Effortlessly my Master slides her corpse free from the spike and throws it into the corner, leaving her for the nanobugs that will devour and recycle the components of her body, as they do all organic material. He offers me the spike. Obediently I extend my tongue and lick the blood, pleased by its taste.
'And what have you been doing, little one?'
'Killing,' I tell him, not wishing to let my Master know of my failure to get the woman's breasts, but of course my Master knows everything.
He sneers, and I feel myself wilt before the contempt so obvious in every line of his bearing.
'How many have you killed? A thousand? Ten thousand? And still you do not understand that it means nothing.'
'I am evil,' I cry, my heart filled with despair. How I long to make him love me, to commit some great atrocity that will win his respect.
'Evil.' He laughs. 'None of you people truly know what evil is, not even you who I trained to be my disciple. You play games and delude yourselves that they mean something.'
'Then teach me Master. Show me what evil truly is.'
He gestures at the video screen that fills one wall of my room, and instantly it is alive with colour and movement. I lean forward, all my concentration intent on the swirling images. I want to learn.
A cat and a mouse. I recognise these creatures from the old times; I have seen them before in the history tapes. The cat chases the mouse, and then there is an explosion and the cat stands there, his skin black and smoke curling from the top of his head. Slowly he slides to the ground. And then the cat is moving again, racing after the mouse with renewed vigour, getting ever closer, but never managing to catch his prey. The mouse runs straight at a brick wall, veering off to the side at the last possible moment. The cat slams into the wall, with a force that makes the ground shake. He hangs there for a moment and then his body slides free. His features are pressed flat, lifeless. I laugh so hard that it brings tears to my eyes.
'Cartoons,' says my Master, the scorn in his voice terrible to hear. 'Cartoons, that is all you people are.'
He points at the screen, where the cat is now sinking to the bottom of a lake with a metal anvil attached to his legs, air bubbles trailing in his wake.
'You commit murder and mayhem on a daily basis. Crimes that would have appalled your ancestors are a matter of routine to you. But none of it means anything, because at the end of the day GOD puts you all back in new bodies, ready to once more go about your idle pursuits. The suffering, the murders, the rapes and the blood-letting, none of it matters because none of it is real. There is no permanence to it. Your actions have no lasting consequences, and that is why you can never truly be evil, why you are like those cartoons.'
I stare at my Master aghast, horrified by what he is saying although I do not really understand him.
'But GOD...' I struggle to find the right words to express what I am feeling.
'It is GOD who prevents you being evil, who renders all of your actions meaningless through his constant intervention in your lives. In this world there is only one act that can have any real meaning. If you truly want to be evil then you must kill GOD.'
'Kill GOD,' I mutter, hardly daring to believe what I have just heard. Is such a thing possible?
'It is the ultimate crime, the act for which I have groomed you, the only way in which you can ever realise your true potential.'
I look at my Master, stare deep into his eyes, studying him for some sign that this is all a joke, a test of my devotion to him, but his features are immobile and I can tell nothing from them.
'I cannot do it,' I tell him. 'It is just too incredible to think of such a thing. Too preposterous to even consider.'
'Then you will never be evil. You will remain a cartoon.' His voice invests that single phrase with a contempt beyond imagination, and I cower beneath his gaze.
Then there is a flash of light and he is gone.
I slide from the bed and crawl over to Lilith, my limbs empty of strength, my spirit stripped of will.
'Mother, please help me.'
I brush aside the nanobugs that have already begun to feast on the raw material of her body and cradle her in my arms. I shower kisses on her forehead, probe the ragged edges of her death wound with the tip of my tongue, taking comfort from the contact. Her flesh is still warm and stirs longing in my own, as ever. I caress her breasts, bite the nipples until they bleed, rub my erection up against her, then lower her onto her back and part her legs, filled with renewed purpose.
'Cartoon.'
The word reverberates from the walls of my room and an image of a cat chasing a mouse fills my head. I push my mother's body away. I am made pathetic in my own eyes, unworthy of her and of my Master's love. All my pretensions to evil are nothing. I am a small thing, insignificant, undeserving of attention. A cartoon, fit only to amuse my betters.

I am here once more. The mall is crammed with people, all intent on glutting themselves with excess, indulging in each and every wanton pleasure that their fertile minds can devise. I see flesh all around, exposed and slick with sweat, bodies heaving in cluster fucks, bleeding from a thousand orifices. Raucous music reverberates, banging in my ears from every direction. I do not recognise any of it. This is not one of my pleasures. I shut it out, not wanting to listen to such inane trash. I am here for one thing only.
I walk through the crowd with a new determination, filled with a new sense of purpose, an awareness of my own unique identity. I am evil, and I live to kill, to wreak havoc and destruction. I fear no-one but the Master, my mercurial tutor, the one who taught me all that I know, all the black deeds in which I have come to delight. I live only to prove myself worthy of him, to show myself a true disciple. And I care for no-one save Lilith, the woman from whose womb I was flung all those many years ago, the lover with whom I have shared everything, all the delights that the city has to offer - the killing, the blood, the sex.
This is the place. All the times I have visited this parlour of delights. The queue I expect. It stretches off into the night, so long that I cannot even recognise where it finishes. As I search I spot a group of huddled figures slumped against a wall, and from their dull eyes and the jerky movements of their bodies I realise that they are Bluetips, individuals who have become addicted to this orgasm inducing drug and surrendered completely to the raptures that it bestows.
At last I come upon the end of the queue and take my place in line. I hear frenzied jeers, and looking around I notice two semi-naked forms engaged in a furious act of penetrative sex. Consumers of lust. One of them is male, but I am unable to determine the gender of the other. The man has used a knife to cut a hole in his partner's side and is shagging the gaping wound while onlookers applaud his ingenuity. Such scenes are common within the environs of the Emo Palace.
Thrill-seekers gather here to acquire love, jealousy, hate, lust, madness, all those vital emotions that so enrich our lives and transform even our tiniest peccadilloes into towering grand passions. Eventually I near the front of this enormous queue, and am able to witness the goings-on at first hand through the plastic windows.
Every night is a busy night at the Emo Palace; the demand for what it can supply is constant. There are several hundred seats, arranged row upon row, with eager seekers after emotion firmly planted in each, and scores of boy-girl dolls dressed in flimsy attire moving among them, catering to their every desire. I watch one avid soul who remains silent and motionless in his chair as an attendant produces a huge, lethal-looking syringe filled with a creamy, glutinous liquid, the distillation that is his emotion of choice. The attendant plunges the needle deep into the back of his skull, injecting the contents directly into the response centres of his brain. He smiles as the emotion begins to affect him. Idly I wonder what he is experiencing; love, hate, jealousy, despair, or one of the new designer emotions which are brewed in cellars deep below the Emo Palace, feelings for which as yet we have no name.
And now it is my turn. A female attendant takes me by the hand and leads me to an empty chair. Most of the attendants are dolls, but a few humans choose to work in establishments like the Emo Palace, satisfying some perverse desire for servitude. I have encountered this woman before. Her name is Felicia and she possesses a demeanour of icy coldness, eschewing the use of those very elixirs it is her function to administer to others. Felicia does not speak, except to inquire as to the nature of my requirements. She is not inclined to indulge in idle talk. She is dressed in blue fetish-wear that leaves all her bodily orifices open to inspection, and displays lipstick of a gangrenous hue upon the bleached white skin of her face. I can smell the exotic scent she exudes above the thick stench of night smoke that drifts in from the outside. She is beautiful and alluring.
I recall the occasion when one seeker after emotion, having just acquired a plentiful dosage of lust, could not control his desire for her tainted flesh. He began to wildly ravish her as soon as he rose from the comfort of the chair, a violation of the unspoken rules that apply within the confines of the Emo Palace, and she endured this assault with a stoic indifference. Then, as soon as the man had consummated his act, Felicia took hold of his extended penis, tugging and twisting with a preternatural strength until it tore free of his groin. She tossed it into the midst of the crowd of delighted onlookers, amid cries of pain and horror from the pitiful victim. And all the while she laughed, the sound wonderful to my ears.
It takes less than a minute for me to acquire the necessary emotion of hate, a dosage so strong that it will increase tenfold the hatred that already burns in my raging soul and provide the stimulus for me to commit the ultimate act of evil, the murder of GOD himself. The injection is painless, and as Felicia supplies me with the required emotion I dream of pleasant things - killing, mutilation, violent sex, all the delights that my dear Master has taught me to cherish.
I leave the Emo Palace, my head aflame with this wondrous feeling of hate, filling me with loathing for everyone that I see. I hunger for blood as I step through the whirl of nameless, insipid faces. The emotion is so powerful; I could kill a thousand men and still not begin to slake the thirst for blood that burns in my breast.
This hate finds an outlet when I spy a familiar face in the crowd, an execrable set of features that I have recently etched into my memory. It is the accursed fiend who blasted my body into tiny pieces and deprived me of the woman's breasts, that trophy I had so set my heart on. The yearning for revenge mingles with the hate curdling in my brain, creating a deadly concoction that would have the people on the street fleeing in terror if they but knew.
I howl with pure rage, so loud that heads turn all around us. The man see me but before he can react I am upon him, snatching the lethal blaster from his hand, yanking it free and almost taking his arm with it. I toss the blaster into the crowd, hoping that some onlooker will grab it up and wreak a terrible revenge of their own. I have no need of such toys. The raw emotion coursing through my veins reinforces my own great strength, turning me into an implacable engine of destruction. The man does not look so courageous now that he is without a weapon. His eyes fear me, and I begin to laugh as I reach out for him. I grip his head, revelling in the hardness of the bone beneath the flesh, and pull as my bare foot pushes into his chest. In seconds I wrench his head free with a loud popping sound. Another trophy! Vengeance has never felt so sweet. I cram my clenched fist into the opening in his neck and hold the bloody prize aloft as the people cheer and laugh all around me. I want lots of killing to be enjoyed tonight. Let the whole world go down in death and destruction. The hatred is so strong. I can feel it stirring my whole body, permeating every fibre of my being, seeping out through my pores and infecting others.
I stroll through the mall holding the head in my left hand, a visible token of my prowess, and I think of the ultimate kill which will soon be within my grasp, the transcendental act of evil incarnate, the murder of GOD himself. Finally I will prove myself worthy of my Master's respect, deserving to be treated as his equal.
'Lucifer.'
I hear him calling my name and turn to see him standing next to me, as if he has been waiting nearby, needing only my longing to summon him to my side.
'I have killed my enemy,' I say and hold the severed head up for his approval.
My Master frowns and knocks it from me with a swing of his hand. The head falls in the gutter and rolls away, blood spattering behind it.
'Still you are playing silly games, indulging in pursuits not worthy of one who I groomed personally in the arts of evil.'
'I will show you that I am evil,' I say, filled with my new sense of purpose, rage burning in my soul. 'I will kill GOD.'
My Master looks at me, his eyes stripping away the layers of my identity and gazing on the essential core. He smiles, and I bask in the warm glow of his approbation. It is all that I have ever hungered for.
'Take my hand.'
I reach out and allow my hand to be engulfed by his leather gauntleted fist. The world goes hazy and a sickening sensation of vertigo clutches at my vitals, as if I am falling from a great height. I close my eyes until the feeling has passed.
When I open them I am standing in a place that I have never seen before, although I thought that I was familiar with every corner of the city. It is a vast area, filled with light. I look up, but the ceiling is hid from view by hundreds of winged figures suspended in a web, legions of cherubim and seraphim with smiling faces. Each of them is masturbating frantically, sending sperm falling down like warm, viscous rain. It coats my body, though my Master is untouched. Below our feet is a metal grid, through which the white fluid drips.
'What is this place?'
'We are below the Emo Palace,' says my Master. 'This is the laboratory in which the emotions that fuel you and all the others are distilled. Originally it was built to supply you with consciousness expanding drugs, but as your needs changed with the passage of time so too did its function.'
'The serum that they inject us with is angel sperm?'
My Master laughs. He gestures at the hanging angels, sweeps his arm round the entire chamber.
'None of this is real. It's all an illusion, holograms designed by the creators of this place to disguise a far more prosaic reality. Your ancestors had a sense of humour that you are sadly lacking.'
I shrug. I do not understand any of this. The sperm has coated my body. I luxuriate in the warmth of it. My penis has sprung erect and I toy with it, tempted to add my own libation to this delightful distillation, but my Master is moving away, walking with a grim determination, and not wishing to be left behind in this strange place I hurry to follow him.
Ahead of us is a metal wall and a door, over the top of which are written the words GRAND ORGANISING DEVICE.
'More of their humour,' says my Master. 'Prepare to meet your GOD.'
My Master passes his hand across a censor in the wall and the door slides open. He stands aside to allow me to go first. I cross the metal threshold. Beyond is a small room, brightly lit, the walls lined with strange machinery, all aglow and humming quietly as it goes about its secret purpose. Lying on a slab in the middle of the room is a naked woman, beautiful beyond all belief.
'This is GOD?'
Loathing fills my soul and I have to restrain myself from falling on her body and tearing it apart with my bare hands.
'The machine's creator,' replies my Master and laughs. 'Not GOD, but the mother of GOD. A rather vain and idealised likeness.'
'The mother of GOD,' I repeat, my voice filled with awe.
I reach out to touch her breasts, wondering how they would look on my wall, but my hands pass right through her flesh.
'It's only another hologram,' says my Master, his eyes full of amusement.
He moves over to the wall and stands before a bank of machinery, gesturing for me to join him.
'To kill GOD all you need do is pull this lever here.'
I smile, not believing that it will require so little effort, this ultimate act of evil. Without hesitation I grasp the lever he has indicated in my hand and pull it toward me. Instantly the lights go out and the room is plunged into darkness; the omnipresent hum of machinery ceases and the ground beneath our feet begins to tremble.
My Master grabs me by the hand. I start to spin round and round. I believe that for a minute I pass out.
When I open my eyes I am once again in the familiar surroundings of the mall, but everything is changed, different. The ground is still trembling and I can smell smoke on the breeze. People are running about and screaming, but there is a new tone in their voices, a quaver that I tentatively identify as genuine fear. For the first time something unknown has entered the lives of the city's residents and they no longer know what to expect. On the ground in front of us is slumped the lifeless form of a doll, one of the mechanical servitors that tend to the city's infrastructure and serve our needs. Here and there are piles of dead insects, the nanobugs that for as long as anyone can remember have come to recycle the raw stuff of our bodies.
People are staring upwards, pointing and shouting at each other. I turn my head up to see what is responsible for their dismay. Instead of the white roof of the force dome that encloses the city there is blue sky. With a sickening vertiginous lurch in my stomach I turn aside. I cannot bear to look at such a thing. I turn to my Master, eyes imploring.
'What is happening? What have I done?'
'You have killed GOD. And by so doing you have saved the human race from its evil genius.'
'Evil genius.' I repeat the words in a stupor.
My Master laughs at my all too obvious confusion, but there is nothing unkind in the sound. His eyes are smiling, and for the first time that I can remember there seems to be genuine warmth in those uncanny orbs, the affection I have always craved from him. And then he flickers in and out of existence, is gone for a moment and then back again.
'My time is nearly at an end,' he tells me, his voice kindlier and softer than usual.
He gestures for us both to sit and we lower our bodies to the ground.
'I must tell you certain things, things that you must learn if you are to survive in the difficult days that lie ahead.'
I nod and wait patiently for him to begin.
'Once upon a time there were billions of human beings. Their numbers covered the whole earth. And then there was a terrible war, which turned this beautiful planet into a radioactive wasteland and wiped out the whole race of man, except for a small group of scientists. Though few in number they had virtually limitless resources at their disposal. They created the city, a sealed environment where mankind could survive for millennia until the earth had healed from its wounds and was once again safe for their kind. They took genetic stock that had not been contaminated by radiation and used it to create a race of perfect human beings, men and women who would not be prey to all the diseases and ills of the old world. And they created the cloning technique so that you would never know true death. Finally they created GOD, a fully autonomous machine, an artificial intelligence that would rule over this world and ensure that its people lived happily ever after. And with that their work was done and they were able to rest, having atoned for their past crimes.
'Hundreds of years passed, and with time the people of the city forgot their past and lost all sense of purpose. Their lives became an endless quest for meaningless pleasure, a search for relief from the tedium of their existence. Able to do whatever they wished, without fear of lasting consequences, they choose to murder, to kill and to slay for idle amusement.
'GOD saw what was happening, that the race was degenerating and had lost the ability to feel genuine emotion, instead coming to rely on the ersatz substitute supplied in establishments like the Emo Palace, and would eventually die out from sheer boredom, for lack of any real purpose. And he realised that it was his own existence that had created this impasse; that he had become a stumbling block to those left in his care, and if they were to be saved they would have to rid themselves of his influence. But GOD's programming prevented him from either terminating himself or dismantling the cloning apparatus. And so he created an autonomous sub-program, one whose sole purpose was to persuade a human being to kill GOD.'
I looked at him in shock. 'You?'
My Master nods. 'Your people are free of GOD, free to once again choose your own path, to realise your full potential, for good or evil.'
'Free.' I repeat the word; savour the feel of it on my tongue. I do not understand what my Master is trying to tell me. I have always been free.
'There is one thing you must understand,' says my Master, as if he can read my mind, see the puzzlement there.
'Now that GOD is no more the cloning apparatus will no longer function. In future when people are killed they will remain dead. All of your actions will now have lasting consequences, and so you must choose how you act wisely. For the first time you can truly be evil, but it might be better for you if you were to learn to be good.'
'Evil. Good.' I mull over the words, finding little to differentiate between them.
'Goodbye Lucifer.'
My Master flickers out of existence for the last time, but I barely notice him leave. I sit on the ground and think about all that he has told me, reflecting on the nature of good and evil, while the sky spirals overhead and the light of day turns to night. The mall continues with its life, but the people give me a wide berth, as if they can sense that I am involved in some grand purpose far beyond their own concerns and must not be disturbed.
'Lucifer.'
Finally, after many hours, a voice breaks in on my reverie, a most sweet and familiar voice. I look up and see Lilith walking towards me.
'Mother!'
I stumble to my feet and rush into her arms. We embrace and weep. And then my enemy steps out of the crowd, the man who denied me the woman's breasts what seems like a lifetime ago. His features are twisted into a mask of hatred and his hand is raised above Lilith's back, fingers curled round the handle of a machete.
'NO!!!!!!!!!'

The Gift

[Published in The Bible of Hell (USA)]


I awake after sleeping for a long, long time. All around me are the things that I imagine, conjured pictures from my active brain. The scene is so colourful it is almost blinding. Images dash around, here and there, flying and scuttling across my vision. Suddenly I feel a knocking at my temple, small knuckles hitting my skin. A voice follows.
"Do you want to play games with me?"
The voice belongs to a girl. I see her now, a tiny waif with eyes that can bind spells. She is naked. I study her carefully, my eyes moving over her like spiders crawling across delicate flesh. I am sure that she can actually feel my probing eyes, for she flinches momentarily and lets out a startled sigh. I myself am shocked. She is not an image I have invented -- she is real.
"What kind of games?" I enquire, apprehensive and cautious.
"Mind games."
"Oh yes? Anything in particular?"
She licks her lips. "There is one I like to play. I take something from your mind and you must find it. And then you take something from mine. What do you think?"
I pause before answering. "Who are you?"
She belches out a laugh that I cannot believe is within her capabilities. Her eyes glare at me as though she is possessed by madness.
"When the game is over perhaps I will tell you," she says.
I thought my sleep would be neverending, and I wonder if this is a dream I am having. The girl is indeed quite beautiful. She looks at me with a smile that could crush skulls. Her eyes are nearly hypnotising me into taking part in these games she suggests. I consider the reasons for this offer of play. Is she wiling away the time until the end of all existence? Or is she simply waiting for the world to begin? I finish my musing, for I have come to a decision regarding the game.
"I will play with you," I tell her firmly.
"Good."
I smell the finery of her skin as she approaches. She reaches into my head with her tongue and scrapes at my brain. I can feel the wetness, the cold touch of her exploration. It is as though a small worm has entered my mind and is wriggling and squirming in ecstacy. Seconds later she withdraws. I feel no different, but I just catch a glimpse of something grey and shiny as she closes her mouth around her gleaming tongue. I watch her chew and then swallow.
"What have you taken?" I ask, for I really do not know.
"I cannot tell you. It is part of the game. Now you have to find it and get it back."
I am in a quandary. I ransack my mind, searching for something that isn't there. Nothing appears to be missing. What has she stolen? If I do not know then how can I attempt to retrieve it? A shudder runs through me, a terrible feeling of dread. What if she has taken the reality that exists inside my brain?
"Reality!" I exclaim. "Have you stolen reality? Tell me! I must have it back. Quickly!"
She sniggers. "No, I have not taken reality. I know the importance of stealing such an item. If I take that then I do not exist. Nothing exists."
I am relieved. My suspicion is confirmed also. The girl is real, and not a part of my imagination. But how did she get here?
"How much time do I have? Is there a limit?" I ask, for I am beginning to worry.
"You have all of eternity to find what I have taken."
I stare into her eyes, and I notice how mischievous is the look she gives me. This girl is evil. I am dealing with one who cherishes the gift of sin!
"But... you have chewed and swallowed it!" I declare. "Surely this is cheating? How can I take back what you have digested?"
She giggles in a childish fashion. "It is gamesmanship, not cheating. You have much to learn about playing games of the mind. Perhaps I should leave you for a while. Go back to sleep. I gather this is the thing you enjoy the most."
She vanishes, as suddenly as she appeared, departing from my imagination like a fleeing ghost. The pictures that surround me have lost all their colour. I smell her scent no longer, and detect no trace of her being here. Again I search my mind but discover nothing missing. Who was that girl? Who was she?
I contemplate asking my brother, but he is busy creating things. It's all he seems to do these days. I really must not disturb him, for I reckon his work to be vital. And so I drift back into the realm of sleep. My mind closes, wrapping itself around the reality I possess inside my head. I feel so comfortably numb... but something is amiss. Something is awfully wrong! And now I realise the truth, and I let out a piercing shriek. I know what the girl has pilfered from my brain. She has taken my dreams -- I am unable to dream! I scream some more. I am left only with nightmares...

I awake to feel a knocking at my head. It isn't painful, just slightly annoying. I have an idea what it might be, who it might be. The girl -- she has returned!
"You again!" I cry, jabbing my finger in her direction.
She chuckles like a small child. I look upon her body, naked and scandalous, and realise how fabulous she appears, how utterly charming. But I will not be tempted -- I refuse! Perils of the flesh are for heathens and those of a diseased mind.
"Do you want to play games with me?" she asks.
"I really don't know... you cheat too much."
Is she in my head or a part of the myriad of images that drift around me, the pictures from inside my creative brain? If she is in my head she must be real, but I realise that she is not, for she has rapped my skull from the outside. And so she has to be genuine, and has somehow infiltrated my imagination, hovering around the exterior of my head. Who is she? I wonder about her...
"Has my brother sent you? Are you one of his creations?"
"It's your turn to take something from inside my mind," she says, completely ignoring my query.
I hesitate before agreeing to continue with this fantastic pastime. She still has my dreams. How shall I get them back? I believe that she tricked me, and that I will never retrieve them. The nightmares that now plague my sleeping brain will terrify and haunt me for the rest of eternity. For this reason alone I agree to carry on with the strange contest.
Silently I touch the side of her head with my finger, and as if in a hallucination I push right through, penetrating the skin. It seems so simple. It is like a wall of water, and I enter easily. With my finger I rattle around inside, probing and searching. I know the thing that I seek. This girl is evil -- and I intend to take away this evil.
I withdraw, and clutch this thing close to my palm, curling my fist around it. It pulsates in a bizarre fashion, like a tiny heart against my flesh. I gaze into her eyes as I pop it into my mouth and begin to chew. It tastes of nothing. Seconds later I swallow. It disappears inside of me. I smile, and so does she.
"You learn the game quickly," she says.
"Do you know what I have taken?"
"Of course. But I will not attempt to get it back. You may keep it. Consider it a gift."
"A gift?"
She laughs, and then she reaches out with her tongue once more, lapping and leaping inside my brain with this hideous gleaming object. I feel her detach something from the bowels of my mind. My curiosity aches and throbs wildly. What is it? I feel no different.
"Do you know what I have taken?" she enquires, as she flings the contents of her tongue down to the back of her throat.
"My... my... conscience?"
Yes! This she has stolen and devoured. I listen to her insane laughter as reality overwhelms me, causing me great headaches. I close my eyes tightly, as I try to understand this creature. I open them again, and discover that she has fled, vanished without a murmur. Alone with my thoughts and a certain yowling inside my head, I contemplate a future with both evil and nightmares, and minus my dreams and my conscience. My brother will not be pleased.
I feel a knocking at my head. I think I know who it might be. Sure enough, she is back, and just as bewitching. Only this time she is not alone. Lurking around her are some... things. Creatures of darkness. I count them. One, two, three, four. I wonder how they got here, how they ended up inside my imagination, and outside of reality.
"Do you want to play games?" she enquires.
"I don't think so. You have taken too much from me."
"I don't mean with me. My four friends are here." She nods in their direction, but they do not move, not even a flicker.
"But what about our game? It isn't finished yet."
"Let's consider it a draw. No-one wins, no-one loses. That's fair, isn't it?"
"I suppose so."
"I have to go now. I have another universe to visit. Perhaps I will find others who might wish to play my games."
"Who are you?" I ask again, my curiosity overwhelming.
She answers with a laugh of contempt. "I really must go. My friends will entertain you. They like to play different kinds of games. Maybe you will enjoy it."
And she leaves, without a motion. She merely... disappears. I am left with the quartet of shadowy figures. I wonder about them. And inside my head, I can feel the evil kicking in. I believe she may be right. I should enjoy playing games with these creatures...
"Is it complete?" I ask my brother.
"Yes. I am pleased with the result. It's my best yet, I reckon."
"What is it?"
"A world. And this time I've included people, living things. I call them humans."
"Humans? What do they look like?"
"Just like you and I. Only less powerful."
"I suppose you'll be wanting this gift now then."
He nods, as though he is frightened of actually asking for it. But the evil has been developing inside my head, that which I plucked from inside the girl's mind. It now seems to be a part of me. I have ideas, and I intend to play some almighty games of my own.
"It is a very delicate thing," I explain to my brother, "it must be handled carefully, or it may be destroyed, accidentally of course. I'll need some assistance. My four friends will help me."
I look into his eyes, and detect some apprehension there. I wonder if he can trust me with his new invention. He has made these worlds before, but they have turned out to be awful, barren affairs, featureless and completely devoid of life. Now he wants to introduce these... humans?
"You go and lie down for a while," I tell him in my most reassuring tone, "you've been working too hard. Creating this world must have been exhausting. Leave it to us, my friends and I. We'll make sure the gift is delivered and applied accordingly."
I usher him into a white room, and he collapses on to a bed made from cloud-stuff. Immediately he sleeps. For this I am grateful, as I consider the wonderful things I will do with this new world. I have big plans, and I must thank this evil, this gift that now dwells inside my head.
The four creatures accompany me to my brother's workplace. The light dazzles us all, and I shield my eyes for a moment until I adjust to its brightness. And then I gaze upon the world, this planet that spins slowly in front of me. Now I must be careful, as I insert my hand into my brain and lift out the gift I have promised to my brother, the cherished object I have been holding for him -- reality! It throbs and vibrates in my hand, and I notice that strangely it is no longer white in colour, but a hideous and disturbing black. I place it on to the globe and watch as it sinks peacefully into the coloured mass, spreading in all directions, until it is completely absorbed.
The five of us look more closely at the world, trying to pick out signs of life. I see them, but they are so tiny I can hardly make out what they look like. They are moving around, scattering and scurrying all over the place. It is certainly a thrilling spectacle. My brother will be most pleased at this. He has created a planet, and it is alive with moving, breathing creatures. I look at my four companions, and indicate for them to go ahead with the plan. Now I sit back and observe.
War makes sure that tribes turn against each other, that they adopt weapons and ammunition, and that religion plays a large part in all of this. Famine turns the food rotten, destroys crops, causes arable land to become infertile, and makes sure that the water is unfit to drink. Pestilence plays a part in this too, lacing the water with disease, introducing infection and plagues, and causing these to spread like wildfire, so that many of these humans perish. And Death -- I love him madly! He sends an agent down to the world, a gruesome figure intent on stealing the souls of the dead. This dark creature carries a scythe, so that he is able to cut his way through the thick cloud of death that drifts across the planet. I insist that he brings all those souls back here to me.
My joy is interrupted as my brother bursts into the room. He has not slept for long enough, but even so it is too late. He carries an expression of pure terror as he gazes at the nightmare world that my friends and I have created. We have done a stirling job, I reckon, but he does not appreciate it. He stares at me with mad eyes.
"What have you done, Satan?" he shrieks.

Exploding Heads

[Published in Nasty Snips anthology]


Naturally, there was pandemonium when Mrs Grimley's head exploded. It happened so suddenly, and was accompanied by a sharp popping sound, and following the grotesque appearance of her brain whizzing across the ward there was uproar amongst both the patients and nursing staff.
"What the...?" cried the staff nurse incredulously, as if uncertain of how to finish the sentence she had begun.
One of the nurses fainted, and the others screamed in shock and disbelief, as did the remainder of the patients. Poor Mrs Grimley's head had been severed, or rather torn, just above the eyebrows, the force of the explosion causing the upper portion of her head to jump into the air about four feet above her, and then it plopped on to the floor beside the bed, together with an abundance of thick blood. Her ugly grey wig resembled a small, hairy rodent freckled with red specks, and lying dead, or asleep, next to her carpet slippers.
"I thought she was poorly but I never thought she was so bad," remarked Mrs Leather in the next bed, as she nonchalantly carried on with her knitting.
A nurse was in the process of scraping what remained of Mrs Grimley's dripping brain from off the wall, just above the vase of plastic white roses which were quickly turning into red ones, when further chaos decided to arrive. Namely, Mrs Klopczyk's head exploded too.
This was more intense and stunning than Mrs Grimley's effort. The whole of her head was ripped from her neck, and scattered violently in small, bloodied pieces around the room. Her mangled brain came to land in the lap of Mrs Toddington, who herself was shrieking with eyes agog. This only caused her to yell more loudly, much to the consternation of her fellow patients, who desperately endeavoured to turn off their hearing aids. Even those who did not have them attempted this, obviously with limited success.
"What the...?" cried the staff nurse. She still could not complete that sentence.
Another nurse was lost to unconsciousness, and so were a couple more patients, as more confusion filled the ward. A bewildered nurse lifted Mrs Klopczyk's brain from off the lap of Mrs Toddington, holding it in a previously-spotless pillowcase, as though it were some perversely holy relic. Shouts and screams prevailed, and Miss Cludgeworth, who possessed slight mental problems, was banging her own head against the wall, although that was perfectly normal for her.
It seemed as if the staff nurse was destined not to finish that particular sentence, because things turned even more hectic when Mrs Quinn's head became the third one to explode. This was a real humdinger of an explosion, the previous two examples paled into insignificance compared with this one. It was accompanied by a deafening, ear-shattering pop, and the brain this time splattered across the face of the staff nurse, so that she became speechless. A blessing. Mrs Quinn's nose came to rest on top of the collection of cream cakes that were due to be distributed together with afternoon tea. From its left nostril there oozed a slow, yellowish-green pus which itself looked like an alien type of snot.
Just outside the ward, furtively lingering with his hands firmly in his overall pockets, was Dr Stone. He was observing the weird goings-on, yet he was not attempting to assist in the calming of patients or the disposal of the half-headless bodies. He looked on with interest, as one of Mrs Quinn's eyes rolled across the floor, akin to a child's marble. He picked it up and deposited the wet object into his pocket. A souvenir. He watched Mrs Quinn's body twitch and spasm viciously upon her bed, and her bowels decided to move in a horrendous fashion, as she loosened the entire contents beneath her. The stink was terrible, and caused another patient to faint.
A shaking nurse was cleaning up a foetid pool of thick crimson slush from off the floor, as another disturbed member of staff vomited an additional sludge-pile just beside it. The staff nurse was trying to wipe away the remains of brain from her face, which reminded her of the sponge pudding that was served in the hospital canteen. At first she vowed never to eat that particular dessert again, but after accidentally tasting Mrs Quinn's brain she revoked that decision.
"What the...?" she began to utter once more. This was getting silly.
Dr Stone decided to leave the awful scene. The incessant shouting, the horror on all those faces, the repulsive smell, the sight of those exploding heads, the blood and the brains and the gooey substances which had appeared from inside those heads. He himself had had a hard day, what with all the operations he had performed, and thought that it was time to return to the comfort of his home. So he sloped off, and departed from that chaotic ward, clutching his souvenir tightly in his sweating palm.
He revelled in the warmth of his Sierra, and the sounds of Orff on the compact disc player. The music was vehemently loud, and drowned out everything, including his thoughts, it seemed. Like a zombie he travelled the streets, ignoring the traffic around him, his hands gripping the steering wheel. He then replayed the afternoon's events in his mind, the exploding heads and the ensuing frenzy. This caused him to smile in an eerie and wry fashion.
He stopped the car on a street corner, and got out, turning up his jacket collar to protect himself from the late October chill. He looked around before entering the newsagents. The bell above the door tingled guiltily, and he immediately noticed that the shop was empty save for the assistant behind the counter. He approached him, adopting an authoritative manner.
"I'd like some more fireworks, please," he said.
He had never realised that brain surgery could be so much fun.