Main Menu
Front Page
News and Announcements
Ask the Elder
Administration
From the Associates
Night's Beat
Art Gallery
Articles of Interest
Short Story
Interview with a Vampire
Reviews and more
The Vampire's Vestibule
Polls
Letters to the Editor
Comments from the Website
Cartoon Corner
From the Staff
Advertising
Credits
Link To Us
Past Issues
The Vampire Church
The Darkfear Network
Guestbook
Have a Comment?
Contact
VC Magazine
VCMagazine_Staff@ yahoogroups.com
Magazine Staff
Damien Daville, Producer
LA Judge, Editor
Tell a Friend
Click HERE to tell a friend about the VC Magazine.
Top Site Listings
Vote for us in the
|
Soul Sacrifice
I awoke to the sensation of a thousand cold, wet,
fat, writhing earthworms sliding across my skin.
Pulling and pulsing, pinching and digging in to my
flesh from head to toe. I wanted to scream, to cry out
in utter disgust but did not dare lest I break the
spell I had paid for so dearly. Besides hadn't the Old
Crone warned me of such things the day I went to her
for help?
My request was of no mundane matter and the spell she
help me cast was no casual love charm or talisman,
what I had asked for required deep old Magick for
which consequences and repercussions could be dire. I
had asked to find someone who could not be found, to
heal that which could not be healed, to retrieve that
which was lost beyond retrieval. The Crone in her
wisdom had bade me not to follow through, but I in my
great need refused to be swayed, and seeing this she
agreed to help. She said that someone needed to close
the gates of Hell if I did not return.
So it was she mixed her wares, a noxious paste of toad
poison, cobra venom, bat shit and komodo saliva. She
rendered it down through the filling of the moon then
added honey the eve of the new moon. The night of
total blackness when spells are trickiest if you
misinterpret the old ways. The night of negatives, of
reverse polarity. I had fasted of seven days, wore
only natural fiber, touched no metals and slept only
on Earth. I bathed in the heavy mineral laden waters
of the Dead Sea and besmeared my flesh with eucalyptus
oil for my presentation before the Crone.
She began the chant as soon as I broke the threshold,
she opened a door in the protective ring and sealed it
quickly behind. Invisible hands guided me a the stone
platform encouraged me upon the pressed me down to lay
flat on the cold, hard unforgiving surface. The glow
of a hundred blue candles shone the madness in her
eyes, the power and the strength of the Goddess. I
closed my eyes and my mouth, and opened my mind and
soul to the incantations and entities reverberating
through the sealed chamber.
The Crone took up her blade, a Wicked thing, a black
bladed thing that seemed to humm in her hand as she
dipped its lethal edge into the black concoction
waiting in ivory skullcap of a bastard Priest. At the
first touch of the blade chill cold filled my bones
and a rush of frosty breath escaped my lips. My
muscles went rigoured as the pain rolled through me,
the toxins stripping my nerves and firing my synapses
in agony as the autonomic powers of my mind failed, and failed, and failed.
So now, I awake to the worms. Very few of the candles
burn and despite this I can see very well. The room is
death cold but I hardly notice as my skin is on fire, and
my mind burns hotter yet. I feel strong, I feel
purposeful, I feel as a hound feels when on scent.
Allowing the drive to push me I, sniff the air, turn,
and bound of the platform and land inches from a
Mirror. It is eight foot tall and five foot wide, the
border is a mass of surging writhing things that don’t
remain still enough to get a decent look at. Their
quivering doesn't dissuade me and I feel a surge of
satisfaction as I know that this could be the only path
from here. The path to the things below.
My reflection reveals a myriad of patterns, so much
like the henna with which middle eastern women stain their olive skin.
The designs here do not bode happiness but
death, disillusionment, and suffering. Like the
Mirror frame they move, swell, and twist never staying
in one place or form at a time and as I approach the
Glass they become more volatile. They burn and eat
into my skin until almost unbearable, almost.
I touch the smooth surface and as I do my tissues peel
away, I might have drawn away at this point had I the
chance. I might have drawn away except that I found
myself siphoned though that great gateway to Hell and
found I had absolutely no recourse, the deal was done,
the blood spilt, the bread broke.
I look back and see a husk of myself lying on the
floor in front of the Mirror, white skinned and blue
lipped with nary a breath left to give to the world.
No matter I am not for myself anymore I am only for
him, this I decided long ago. I move away into the
backward world of the Mirror and a moonless night
where all is reverse, where EVIL is to LIVE and to
LIVE is to be EVIL. I am but a writhing mass of
incantation and scribe looking for a place to light so
my purpose may be fulfilled.
My love, my life , my soul, how else to describe him?
You want a physical description? That is harder than
you may think. He is a fade a shadow a ghost. His
mortal self can move and change to suit his needs. I
can tell you that he is six foot three, dark and
deadly. I can tell you that his voice is the sound of
glass ground into asphalt and that if you hear it in
the dead of night most assuredly it will be the last
thing that you will ever hear. I can tell you that his
eyes will take you to the depths of hell and if he
sees fit to leave you living those eyes will have
punched a hole in your mind that never allows for a
restful night of sleep for the rest of your pathetic existence. Oh yes I love him. He is not without suffering and he draws himself away from this plane of existence. So it is that I sacrifice everything to come to him, come to him below to remain below if need be.
I move silently through the inky darkness of this
place and not without some distress. The air here is
thick and seems to wrinkle and fold away from me as i
walk, it clings and drags at my form as a reluctant
lover might linger before a long and dreaded
separation. It fills the spaces between the runes and
make me feel almost solid again, lending an odd
semblance of comfort as I search this dreadful
place. As I become more accustomed to the texture of
this place I come to understand that I am not alone in
my wanderings. there are things here that cling to the
walls, slither on the floor and fumble in the darker
corners of the corridors. Tendrils of blackness snake
out and wrap around my ankles and legs as if to trip
me up, how disappointed it must be when the runes slip
right on by allowing no purchase. The blackness is
forever and as time has no place here I could not tell
you how long I meandered the paths, tiny silver traces
on the ground ahead. It is quite possible that I was
moving in circles as nothing changed until, until I
gleaned an amber glow that seemed to pull at my
senses. I pulsed, and the incantations began a
throbbing that excited me beyond belief. I could not
tell how far or close the source was as there were no
land marks to judge be it didn't matter really it was
my destination and I would spend eternity tracking it
down if that is what it took to complete my chosen
task.
As I approach the runes swell, so much so that they
begin to push against each out. They slide and roll
against themselves with increasing fervor. I spare a
moment to look down and marvel at their countenance.
I look almost to be standing in the flesh and I am
glowing throwing back the amber light I sought. Closer
now the light in the corridor and my own merge and as
I step through the gap in the pilings that is serving
as a door I feel myself combust. White light bursts
through the spaces between the swollen runes and bath
the walls of the room in a soft glow. My light rivals
with the candle glow already present as I seek the
center of the room.
I cast my eyes about and see that I am in the room of
the dead. Skulls are imbedded into the mud walls. Human
skulls, animal skulls and skulls of the Others are all
gathered here in an amphitheater of ancestors. They
whisper, there is a current that passes here that
flows over the skulls in such a way that gives them
their voices yet. As the gale moves across the holes
where eyes once were, and knars and ears once were it
gives cause to whispers, hollow eerie sounding
vestiges of speech and prose. Sometimes they talk in
harmony and sometimes in discord and in times of
heated dispute they howl and howl and howl.
The dirt floor is so packed and hard that even my
passage sounds like dried corn husks rubbing together.
At this there is a stirring, in the center of the room
there sits a man. The stool he sits upon is so low
that his long black coat spreads out around him in a
great circle giving the appearance that he is emerging
out of the soil itself. He sits with one knee nearly
touching the ground, foot poised behind him resting on
its ball. The other is brought up and he rests his
elbow upon it and with this hand he leans his head
heavily, his raven's black hair falling forward over
his facial features. I do not need to see his face to
know that he is the one I seek, I have long memorized
the strong line of he shoulders the lank of his back,
the smooth continuity of his limbs. Still he has
changed. The time below, the time in this room, has
taken its toll on him. He is leaner and as I move to
gaze upon his face I see a gauntness that was not
there the last time we has trespassed one another.
His eyes are fixed and staring and do not focus on me
as I move into his line of sight. I am not fooled, he
knows I'm here, I feel his mind shift within its
walls. His brow is furrowed and he has the look of
someone trying to catch a whisper on the wind, indeed,
that is what he has been doing all this time away.
Listening to voices. I do not inquire what is in his
mind or what the Skulls have been telling him. My
intent is to transfer Power, to sacrifice my
Life-force so that he may be whole again that, that ,
is my only desire and purpose.
He rises in one smooth motion, even in his current
condition he is magnificent, Fluid darkness married
with the grace of a Ninja and the raw strength of a
Beast. The runes throb, even in this state I desire
him, love him, and am desperate for him . So moved am
I that I reach to touch his face. Quick as a striking
snake he grasps my wrist, something that I did not
think was possible, I would have gasped had I the
facility. He peered hard into my undulating features
with such intensity that I moved to turn away. He
reached up and grabbed my jaw , turned my face to him
and as he did I saw his eyes soften. He gazed deep
into the only recognizable part of my former self and
I saw recognition and realization clear the cold mists
that had previously clouded his _expression. Moisture
swelled there and a single perfect tear breached his
eye and slid silently down his sharp cheek. Again I
reached to touch his face, he closed his eyes and i
retrieved the glistening jewel as is slid closer to his
chin. I put the tear against the runes where my mouth
once was, a gesture only, or so I thought. At the
touch of the salty tribute my face grew warm then hot
and I found I had a face, a nose, a mouth. The scribe
had pulled together so that my former face was bared
to the one I had loved all of my existence. He opened
his eyes and found he was staring down at the face of
the only one who would dare the awful darkness for him
the only one who would transverse Hell to try and feel
him, heal him. He smiled down at me, a bittersweet
thing, but something I could have only dreamed of
seeing again before my task was done.
He had both of my wrists now pulling them down and
close to him, he leaned in and our lips touched..................
The runes leapt against each other cascading over one
another. they flowed up his arms from my hands and
across the floor and around his legs. I felt a great
surging as the incantations disarticulated from my
entity and engaged themselves first upon then into my
love. He roared as I bit into him with thousands and
thousands of tiny teeth digging into his flesh, a
flame with all of the passion and pain that comes with
such a sacrifice. I do not stop at his skin I push
and chew my way through his tissues into his viscera
and mind. Burning and etching the runes as i go. Each
one forever to be a scar, a testimony of my gift.
Every inch covered with the old Magick. I reach his
heart and lay my soul against it, caress it, binding myself
here forever, and ever and ever.
The last thing I am conscience of is a moan from my
beloved's lips, a croak, as his vocal cords tight from
disuse issue
" I love you, Laura".
I have not the properties or the sense of existence
to reply back but I hope that my actions have spoken
where words have failed me.
The Crone sits cross-legged on the floor before the
great mirror. It has been a full moon cycle since the
stubborn little Bitch came to see her about the
retrieval spell. She was against the casting from the
very first but something about the woman persuaded her
to do as she bid. Besides her money was good and it
was not likely that it would work anyway. All of the
others had either gone crazy or had died from the
concoction she cut into their flesh, either way she had
always come out ahead. So it was she was astonished
and a little terrified to find evidence that the spell
had actually worked the next afternoon. When she had
Opened the chamber she had found a pool of tarry
substance in front of the Mirror and Impressions of
the very runes she had cut into the woman on the
Glass. As much as she feared touching the Glass when
she tried to clean the markings off they skittered and refracted around and the frame seemed to mock her efforts. So her she sat day after day watching the Gate, fearful of what may come through to this plane. She should have left, she should have smashed the Damn thing, but instead she sat with the black blade lain cross her lap drinking a bottle of whisky the woman had left in her room, transfixed.
She promised herself she would leave on the marrow.... regardless.
As he moved through the darkness he noted a low glow
and made his way toward it. It appeared as a picture
hanging suspended in space of the black. He spied an
old woman sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes
half-mast with a great black blade across her lap.
Something stirred in his breast and it became his
desire to own that blade.
The Crone sensed movement on the other side of the
room, no, not the room! The other side of the Mirror!
The man, if it truly was a man and not a Demon,
flowed from the Mirrors surface. The Glass rippled
with his passing, the tiny bright runes rushed to
gather on his skin like tiny droplets of mercury
joining a larger pool of the same stuff. They ran over
his form then gathered filled his eyes until they
glowed unnatural.
A shout, a curse, almost made her lips but he was upon
her too quickly.
Tiny shocks hit his skin as the little worms of light
found their way to his skin, then his eyes began to
fill with extrapolated sight, he saw the Crone draw
the blade, saw her open her mouth. Before she could
incant and trap him here he grabbed the knife from her
hand and plunged it into her throat. The blade sang
its bloodlust and twisted itself from his hand to gain
deeper purchase in her neck on it own accord. The blood
splashed back upon him and his skin began to glow, the
runes shone phosphorescent against the night. They
opened and moved as tiny mouths might to drink up the
life flow of the Crone. He bent cleaned the Blade,
picked up the bottle of vodka and took a long pull.
Turning to see the label he laughed, Grey goose, now
they could all sate their thirsts.
Sabriel Barclay
|
|