Horror Discussion Thread - Page 18

In 1983, a team of deeply pious scientists conducted a radical experiment in an undisclosed facility. The scientists had theorized that a human without access to any senses or ways to perceive stimuli would be able to perceive the presence of God. They believed that the five senses clouded our awareness of eternity, and without them, a human could actually establish contact with God by thought. An elderly man who claimed to have “nothing to left to live for” was the only test subject to volunteer. To purge him of all his senses, the scientists performed a complex operation in which every sensory nerve connection to the brain was surgically severed. Although the test subject retained full muscular function, he could not see, hear, taste, smell, or feel. With no possible way to communicate with or even sense the outside world, he was alone with his thoughts.

Scientists monitored him as he spoke aloud about his state of mind in jumbled, slurred sentences that he couldn’t even hear. After four days, the man claimed to be hearing hushed, unintelligible voices in his head. Assuming it was an onset of psychosis, the scientists paid little attention to the man’s concerns.

Two days later, the man cried that he could hear his dead wife speaking with him, and even more, he could communicate back. The scientists were intrigued, but were not convinced until the subject started naming dead relatives of the scientists. He repeated personal information to the scientists that only their dead spouses and parents would have known. At this point, a sizable portion of scientists left the study.

After a week of conversing with the deceased through his thoughts, the subject became distressed, saying the voices were overwhelming. In every waking moment, his consciousness was bombarded by hundreds of voices that refused to leave him alone. He frequently threw himself against the wall, trying to elicit a pain response. He begged the scientists for sedatives, so he could escape the voices by sleeping. This tactic worked for three days, until he started having severe night terrors. The subject repeatedly said that he could see and hear the deceased in his dreams.

Only a day later, the subject began to scream and claw at his nonfunctional eyes, hoping to sense something in the physical world. The hysterical subject now said the voices of the dead were deafening and hostile, speaking of hell and the end of the world. At one point, he yelled “No heaven, no forgiveness” for five hours straight. He continually begged to be killed, but the scientists were convinced that he was close to establishing contact with God.

After another day, the subject could no longer form coherent sentences. Seemingly mad, he started to bite off chunks of flesh from his arm. The scientists rushed into the test chamber and restrained him to a table so he could not kill himself. After a few hours of being tied down, the subject halted his struggling and screaming. He stared blankly at the ceiling as teardrops silently streaked across his face. For two weeks, the subject had to be manually rehydrated due to the constant crying. Eventually, he turned his head and, despite his blindness, made focused eye contact with a scientist for the first time in the study. He whispered “I have spoken with God, and he has abandoned us” and his vital signs stopped. There was no apparent cause of death.

The native villagers around these parts say that there’s a stretch of tundra just north of here that is occupied by benevolent spirits. These spirits grant insight and warning, they say, to whoever visits them at night, once the sun has disappeared entirely and left the world in jet darkness.

I drove out to the middle of the frozen expanse of ice and waited, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever commanded these people’s reverence. They send their children out, bundled in furs to keep from freezing, on the eve of their 15th birthday to seek an audience with these spirits. Once they have achieved this, the children run home to their parents to share the news. From then on these children are considered adults in the village. Engaged couples visit this tundra on the night before their wedding. The entire village stays up all night awaiting their return, as it is upon their return that the couple either decides to proceed with their marriage, or to abandon it. The elderly visit the tundra whenever they are sick or ailing, and often make their condition worse by staying all night in the cold. When they return, however, it is most often with an air of sheer serenity.

So I waited, curious to see what phenomenon might inspire people so powerfully. I waited for hours, bundled in my parka and sitting on the hood of my pickup. I waited until I felt that I was going to freeze to death, even in my thick clothing.

I heard the spirit before I saw it.

A crunching of snow in the silence made me jump off my truck and spin around. A hunched, gray-skinned man stood a few meters away. Sad, yellowed eyes stared back at me, set inside a skull from which sprouted only a few greasy hairs. He breathed heavily, with a rattle that shook his fragile ribcage, and one of his arms looked as if it had been messily broken and then neglected, allowing it to knit back together imperfectly. Badly scarred flesh marred his splayed legs. The man stared at me for perhaps ten seconds, breathing in the frigid air and exhaling a sickly dribble of steam, before disappearing when I blinked my eyes.

I spun around, looking for the man, but he was truly gone. Approaching where he had stood, I found a pair of bloody footprints in the snow. Frantic with fear, I got into my pickup and headed for the village as fast as the ice would allow. A few villagers were waiting for me when I arrived, knowing that I had gone out and curious as to what might happen.

I hastily got out of my truck and, approaching the nearest villager, I demanded, "What is so benevolent about these spirits? What is so insightful? How do these spirits help you?"

"What did you see?" he asked, the look on his face now mirroring the fear in mine.

"I saw a man, horribly disfigured and desperately sick!" I screamed into his face, and the rest of the villagers around us backed away a step. "Why? What does that mean?" I begged him.

"The spirits show only one thing," the man explained. "They show their visitors, a year in the future."

I don't know what to do anymore. I’m so scared and I can't trust anyone. I went camping about 3 weekends ago in the Huntsville national forest in Texas. Me and 3 friends that came home for the weekend, they are all in college and usually we all get together at least once a year, old friends from high school. For the camping trip we planned to go backpacking deep in the forest, live off of fish that we catch and animals that we can trap. We have been doing this for awhile in Texas and in numerous places, Arizona, Colorado (if anyone is familiar with the Spanish peaks there), New Mexico, so we‘re pretty much used to anything you‘d encounter out there. It was my turn to pick where we went camping, so I chose Huntsville (more accurately it’s Huntsville/New Waverly). So we drive up there park our car in a camping park spot and start walking off into the forest. We had some laughs along the way, everyone catching up with each other's lives. We walked until it started to get dark and set up camp where we stopped. Everyone gathered wood to make a fire and we set our tent up. And we do what we always do: try and scare each other with weird stories.

Around this time we started to smell something very faint. It was noticeable, but not overbearing. We couldn't put our finger on what it was, so we just carried on. Mike had to go piss and he walked off in the forest. A second later he come running back, piss all down his jeans like he’d missed really bad. Immediately we all crack up and throw some jokes at him. Then we noticed that he was white as snow and trying to catch his breath. He starts screaming for us to follow him, and runs off.

We all get serious and go follow him, not knowing what the problem was. We start to hear a faint scream and crying in the distance, in the direction we were running. It was pitch black away from the camp and Mike had the only flash light (we left ours at the camp, he had his from his trip taking a piss), so at this stage we didn’t have much choice but to follow the light, which was frantically pointing here and there in front of him.

The scream gets closer and Mike starts to slow down. We then notice a ratty old cabin that looked like it was abandoned, except for a faint light that we could see from one of the old mildew covered windows. The crying was intense: whoever it was couldn't breathe enough to let out a full yell. We all followed Mike up to the front door and we could all hear the crying from inside. As soon as he knocked on the door it stopped. We all waited and heard really heavy footsteps walking fast to the door. There was a giant slam against the door and the sound of a bolt unlocking. Then nothing. We waited for a bit, knocked a few more times, but still nothing happened. We walked around the house (there was no fucking way any of us were leaving each other’s side) and noticed a window, which was a good way up. Alex took a deep breath and said asked us to give him a boost so he could see inside. Me and Mike lifted him up to the window. We watched him brush away dirt and webs from the window and place his face close to the window to try and see something.

There was a quick beat. Then suddenly he breathed in fast and let out a loud scream. Then he fell back from the window, screaming bloody murder the whole way. We all tried to calm him down but he was hysterical. We went to him but he started to shake, punch, kick, you name it, and then took off towards the camp.

None of us wanted to be separated so we all ran close behind him. We caught up to him and grabbed him and set him down. The fire was dying out so I grabbed some nearby wood that we collected added it to the fire. My hands were shaking and I had to do something. I went back to Alex and we all tried to calm him down. He wouldn't he kept screaming and was breathing so hard that he eventually fainted.

All of us are terrified now, and we all kept the fire high until sunrise. Periodically Alex kept waking up, screaming just like before. By sunrise he was up and looked catatonic, just mumbling to himself and whimpering. Me and Mike decide to go look at the cabin now it was daylight. We searched where we thought it was, except there was nothing there. Nothing at all. The indistinct smell from last night had now grown into a very strong smell of something dead, something stale. We headed back to the camping site. When we got there we found Alex had chewed into the sides of his face and swallowed so much blood that he was throwing up. John was at his back, and he looked like he was about to die from exhaustion. I guess we all looked that way, I just didn't notice until I saw his face. Alex said quietly that we need to leave. Now.

We all started to pack up the tent. It started to rain really heavily (it was about noon) and the sky started to grow really dark. Alex started to go into a panic. He went and grabbed a big stick and yelled at us to leave it and leave, now, or he‘d knock us out and drag us out of there himself. Mike started to yell at him, and they started to fight. We broke it up and finished packing, and then started to make our way back. After a little while we arrived at a creek we had crossed the previous day, only it was flooded over, and the water was moving to fast for us to cross it. Alex started to scream again, yelling at Mike for taking his time packing up the tent when we could have gotten out of here. This went on for a while until we finally convinced Alex to calm down and tell us what happened. He said as soon as he put his face to the glass, a face on the other side did the same thing, and started to smile really big. It had dark eyes and a dark mouth which was much bigger then Alex's, as the smile got as large as it could. A giant shadow behind it swung something down and sliced it‘s face off. The face was stuck to the window, and he said it started to laugh quietly as it slid down. Mike, still pissed off (and though he wouldn‘t admit it, beginning to get freaked out), started to argue with him again. We eventually started to follow the creek for a way to cross.

We then started to see toys floating in the creek. Really old toys, old Barbie dolls and baby dolls. This wasn't like any old trash floating in the creek, though… this was a lot of barbies, a lot of baby dolls. One washed towards the side and Mike picked it up. It had some kind of voice chip that was dying and started to say some gurgling words we couldn't understand, followed by it’s sad excuse for laughter. Then it sounded like it was whispering. We thought the batteries must be dying, he threw it down.

We kept going, and the sun was starting to set. Alex was freaking out more now, and was whimpering and breathing heavily. We all started to see shadows move behind trees, something we all called BS on until we all were seeing it. It was barely light out and we stop as we see the cabin right in front of us. None of us knows what to think. Mike says “This is bull, I’m going in there.” Alex tries to stop him. We all do, all of us just wanted to go home. Mike says to all of us to fuck off, do our own thing, he doesn't care anymore, this is all bull. We start to hear hundreds of the same sort baby doll as before, laughing, whispering and trying to sing. We start to move forward past the cabin, all of us, and kept pushing forward. We smelled something dead in the air, something stale. The same something as before. We started to hear something crying, and something screaming. We kept on going. We eventually crossed the creek and left the woods. We get back to our vehicle and got in. Its pitch black, and we drive. We are about to get on the 45 to Houston but the road is under construction and can't be accessed. It points to a detour. As we head towards the detour it seems to be small, bumpy dirt road going into the woods.

We then see a young girl come up to us. She looks like she was in trouble, young and pretty. She approaches the passenger side door and she looks like she‘s really drugged up, or beaten up. Alex doesn't roll down the windows, nor does he open the door. She reaches for the handle and he immediately locks it. She puts her face on the window and starts to smile really big. We floor it, Alex starts to cry and scream and we are all breathing heavy. We finally cut on a street that takes us to the 45 and we take it the whole way. When we get back to my apartment everyone doesn't know what to say and we all break apart and go our separate ways. Mike messages me later and says he is going to go back. I try to convince him not to and all he does is say it was our own minds that were screwing with us. I think he just went to prove to himself he wasn’t scared. I can smell that stench everywhere now. I don't go out anymore, I just stay in and don't answer the door. Last week everyone I met was acting really strange, people that I knew for a long time and total strangers. My own dad, when I went to his place to eat supper with him he just watched me, strangely, when I was sitting down. He didn't say a word the whole time. I kept asking him “What’s wrong?” He just slowly shook his head.

When I was leaving to go home I turned to wave. He had black eyes and an open mouth like he was in pain. When I started to walk back he shut the door and bolted it. I stayed there knocking and knocking. Nothing. I called him, his phone was disconnected. I even called the police. Halfway through the questions they were asking me the connection started to fade into static. I could hear a faint mumbling, singing and laughing.

Mike has completely vanished. There is not even a record of him being alive. When I call Alex’s house they talk to me like I’m some salesman. They say they don't know any Alex and to please stop calling. The person who tells me that is Alex‘s mother. I can’t get ahold of John. Someone knocked on my door and when I went to look I saw a face completely covering the peephole and a giant smile started to form. I called the cops again and instead of it turning into static they got really strange. “Sir, are you affected by any drugs at the moment?” “No.” “Are you coming home anytime soon?” “Excuse me?” “Come home.” and the phone call ended. My mail slot swings every now and then. Someone is sliding pieces of baby dolls through it. I try to call people now and all I can hear is static and bad baby doll noises and this crying and screaming. My TV is busted but when I go to piss I can hear it on. I might be going insane.

This one took place many years ago, before I was born. My family was gathered at our family cabin in to celebrate midsummer. The cabin lies in the county of Bindalen, which is basically the most remote place you can think of that you still can drive to. The cabin itself is hidden away from the road, through dense forest. Next to the cabin is a small lake. This lake has a couple of interesting things about it. The west side is pretty flat, with forest covered moorlands stretching all the way out to the sea. The east side, however, is a series of vertical, 10 meter cliffs that plunge directly down to the bottom of the lake. The water is dark brown, and never really heats up, not even in the midst of summer.

Right below one of the cliffs is a huge rock. Rumor has it that back in the 19th century, a newlywed couple were taking a rowing trip on the lake (because apparently all norwegian newlyweds did that back in the day) when the rock loosened from the cliff and fell down on them. The groom managed to swim to the shore. But the bride was hit by the rock and taken to the bottom. Local lore says she still lingers around that lake and the surrounding woodlands.

Back to the story. So my family was gathered at the cabin to celebrate midsummer. They had lit a huge fire down by the water, and were drinking, eating and having a good time. At around 2 am, my mom went inside to get some more snacks. The only entrance to the cabin is at the side away from the lake.

The door was locked from the inside.

This door is not easy to lock. It could not have been slammed shut by the wind. On the inside, there is a metal bolt and a cabin hook that must be forced into the ring in order to stay shut. They had both been locked. As mentioned, there is only one entrance to the cabin. All the windows are on the south side, which is where my family was celebrating. No one could have snuck in, locked the door and then snuck out another way.

After working on the door for about an hour, my grandpa finally got tired the whole mess. He grabbed his drill and saw and made a hole in the door so that one could get his hand inside and open the locks. Inside the cabin they found nothing. Not even a trace of people. Nothing was missing.

But that night, noone in my family slept.

This occured a few years before the cabin incident. My grandpa was off into the mountains to hunt lagopus, like he always did. Back in the 50's, my family lived in a small village surrounded by mountains. It can't even really be called a village, it was just a small strip of road with 5-6 houses side by side. At the time, hunting and fishing was like a part time job for my grandpa. He could earn 50 000 kr (~9-10 000 $) in one year by hunting lagopus alone, which was not bad in pre-oil Norway.

My grandpa was meeting some friends far into the mountain, and they were gonna go hunting together. His friends would return home that day (friday), and he would stay until sunday in a small turf hut next to the mountain. The turf hut was more than six miles from the closest road.

After going several hours without finding as much as a feather, the guys were ready to go home. The wind was starting to pick up, and night would be setting in in a few hours. But before they could pick out the course back home, they became aware of a man approaching them from further up in the mountain. The man turned out to be a Lapp, of the kind who still herded reindeer in these mountains.

His appearance was strange to say the least. He had a coat and thick pants on, but no headwear and no gloves. Neither did he have any sort of bag or backpack with him. The man looked old, probably in his late sixties or seventies.

"How's the hunting going?" He asked.
"Badly. Not a goddamn bird." My grandpa replied.
"So I see." He answered.

Noone said a word for a few seconds. These mountain Lapps were never known for being very talkative. My grandpa and the others were about to leave when he told them to wait.

"I know where the birds are." He said quietly. The guys looked at eachother. It was getting late. After a brief discussion they decided to follow the man. He took them behind the next hill to where they were going. As soon as they came over the hill, my grandpa shot a pair of lagopus. An hour later, everybody had at least a handful of birds hanging from their backpacks. They decided to call it a day, as the sun now was starting to set, and darkness would come very quickly. It was then that they noticed that the old Lapp was gone. Noone had seen him go, neither did he say anything. The area was rather flat and wide, so they should have been able to see him. Darkness was setting in, though, so they didn't have time to look for him. Since he apparently had come from the other side of the mountain, they assumed he had a cabin there or something.

All the guys got to their cars and got home safely. My grandpa went down into the valley and found the turf hut. In case you haven't seen a turf hut before, it's basically a bunch of longs logs that rest against one another to form sort of a tent formation. The formation is then covered with peat and earth to make it water tight. This also makes it next to invisible, especially when it lays in the forest next to a hill, like this one does. It would be impossible for a stranger to see it if he didn't know it was there. It would be the last place one would expect visitors in the middle of the night. That night, though, that's exactly what happened.

My grandpa was sleeping on a bunk by the wall, with his dog Flint next to him on the floor. Suddenly, he woke up from Flint snarling at something. He got up and saw that the dog was looking at the wall on the other side of the room. He then heard footsteps going towards the door. "Hello?" He yell. No answer. The footsteps continued. "Who's there?". Nothing. The footsteps reached the door. Flint had now gotten up and started barking. A moment of silence. Then there was a knock on the door. "Who's there?" Still no answer. The stranger now tried to open the door, but grandpa had locked it. The door started shaking and slamming. Grandpa got his shotgun, loaded it and pointed towards the door. "Who's there? Answer or I'll shoot!". The shaking stopped.

Grandpa sat and listened for a few minutes, but he didn't hear any footsteps going away from the door. He finally snuck over and opened the door, shotgun in hand. There was nobody there.

The rest of the trip went by without further incidents. Come sunday, he went home with a backpack full of lagopus. The next morning, the newspapers were headlined with a story of a tragic accident in the mountains. An old man of Sami descent had been found far into the mountain, frozen to death. The man had apparently fallen down a small cliff and broken his leg, and then frozen to death.

The coroner said he had been dead since Thursday.

He was the greatest player to play the game. Period. I don’t want any of what I’m about to tell you to color that. I’m only telling you because this time next week, I’ll be gone, and it’s important that someone knows. You can tell whoever you want; just don’t expect them to believe you. In fact, they’ll likely hate you for it. You’d be pissing on a legend. It’s the truth, though, and that’s enough for me.

He had a phenomenal arm. He earned his way into the bigs pitching. Son of a bitch had a curve that shook worse’n my hands do now. The hitting is another thing. He could drop a single into the slot with the best of them, but back then, he couldn’t clear that fence but once or twice a season. It’s a fact.

We were two years in the minors, then he was traded, and I didn’t run into him again until we were both wearing pinstripes. By then he was slugging them into the parking lot twice a night. I wish you could have seen it. Three years on, I asked him about it. We were roommates, and during a particularly awful stretch in the middle of August, we got drinking, and then we got talking.

“What in hell happened to you, anyway?” I asked. “Back on the farm, you’d get one out the back a handful of times at best.”

He looked at me a long time then. His eyes cleared right up, like we hadn’t touched a drop. This next thing, I’m not proud of, but it’s part of the story, so I’ve got to tell it. All I’ll say in my defense was that times were tough, and I was weak.

“Okay, Pete,” he started in that booming voice he had, even when he whispered. “I know for a fact you took dough to shave some points during this trip, so if I tell you this, it all stays you and me, correct?”

I had, and I said it did.

He took a deep breath, lifted his shirt up, and I had to stifle a shout. On his gut was a spider web of thin white scars. “This game needed something. You know that as well as I do. It was good, but it needed to be great. I knew I could be the one to do it. But I needed help.”

“What kind of help?” I knew then that I didn’t want the answer.

“I sold my soul, Pete. There was a shady character I used to know–Mr. Jesse. He got me this book, and with the book I talked to this thing.

“I was specific. I wanted to hit the long ball. The demon agreed; the little bastard drove a hard bargain too. He said he didn’t want no ‘deathbed welsher.’ Instead, each time I bang one out, he takes his cut. Feels like something’s raking my gut with a dull fork each time I connect. But it worked. Look at the game, Pete. It’s never been better. Baseball is what it should be.”

I could only stare. “It ain’t so. That stuff, magic… demons… it’s not real.”

“Real enough, Pete. Take a look. It’s not just the scratches either. It’s making me different. I’m meaner now than I used to be, colder.”

I thought of the grim look he always got at bat, face screwed up in determination, or pain. I was terrified for him. “So one day, you’ll hit one out, and that’ll be it?”

“I thought so. But remember back to the ’26 series, that thing with the kid? Well, after that game, I felt better. I realized then that being selfless, maybe, maybe there’s hope for me. I’m tired now, Pete. There ain’t no more to tell.”

I watched the rest of his career on tenterhooks. Every homer, I felt it. Every good thing he did, I wondered, “Is it enough?”

For his sake, I hoped so.

Rather my mother had not borne me than that this grim remembrance be the price of life! I blame myself for horrors seen, my friend–for horrors merely endured. Such endurance was a sin itself. Had I had the courage of my brother Yves to end it, the first time at Smolensk, I ought. I recall the very musket shot that rang out in the woods. I see his tear-stained and beloved face beg for the mercy I could bestow, and I did, and stripped him there on the field and took his clothing for my sorry rags. His feet came away in his boots. I thought I would bring up my very lungs, so great was the stench. My heart I left there with him in the mud and blood and promised I would tell our mother only that he loved her.

We were an army of the living dead. Our glorious songs, long silenced in our parched throats, had been choked in heat and dust. Our eyes, painful and encrusted, saw only death, not battle. Columns before us foraged all they could take. Cattle behind us died of stroke and dearth. Then came the rains and wagons of supplies were swallowed, horses-whole in claggy mud.

Our enemy led us on a-dance. They stood to fight one day, then disappeared like spirits into the night, deeper beyond Smolensk, until we stood depleted in the midst of ruin in Moscow. Nothing of value was there. Great works of art, silver and fine goods there were a-plenty but what are those to hunger? I saw many a wagon laden with suchlike trinkets, abandoned soon upon the road. I took a Russian coat and some good cloth to wrap my feet against the coming cold. I ate a dog that was half starved like me–remembered how we’d thought ourselves so poor, back in my mother’s house where there was bread and beer. Now I wished only to see her face once more and feel her gentle hand upon my head and the warmth of her tears for my brother. That would have been sustenance enough.

We left Moscow burning and turned back along that desolated path whence we had come. Southern lands were full of plenteous harvest but our number was now small. We were forced to follow the Baltic Route west. The bloated corpses of those who had perished on the assault became pillows to bivouac. Discarded weapons littered the way. Men too weak to fight need no weapons. Many I saw drop and never rise again for lack of will. I saw them stripped naked before they’d exhaled their final breath, nor did they curse their looters. We did not smell or taste or feel or weep for we had no saliva or tears. Alas! I would cry yet if I could.

Smolensk the second time was execrable. I have not told you of the freezing cold; minus thirty on November 11th. My feet no longer hurt for want of feeling but remembering my dear brother, I did not remove my bindings; such was my fear. That night I wished to die but I chose to survive. I will never forget that night. I crawled towards a faint snorting noise in the dark and suddenly my body came upon the great bulk of a fallen horse. I felt its breath warm but uneven and knew neither of us might live out the night. So, I took my knife and slit its belly open and it screeched so that I cannot forget the sound. I put my mouth to its warm blood that oozed. I took its entrails in my hands and dragged them from it, living, and inside I crawled for warmth, curled up as it were my mother’s womb.

Ah, God forgive me! I cannot look her in the face again. After that date, I dined on human flesh. So tell me, of those 600,000 souls, can I truly say this soul survived?

The breeze off the ocean blew her long golden hair across her face and pressed the white shift against her skin, the invisible hands of a lover holding her up as she fought for balance at the edge of the cliff. In the background, the drums throbbed, pulsing through her body and weakening her knees.

She looked down at the massive gray rock, while waves crashed in darkness below. Her eyes traced the outline of the closest of the crude sarcophagi all ranged in a row, awaiting their charges. The beat of the drums changed. Her signal. She turned her back to the sea and watched as seven bearers lifted the body of her husband and approached the open tomb.

So young to be a widow, hot tears ran down her cheeks, whether for her… or for him, she was unsure. She had known it would be so ever since their wedding night. It seemed like yesterday. Lying naked under the bearskin she had caught a glimpse of gray in his hair, caught in the firelight, as her new husband slid aside the hide flap of the tent. She smiled, remembering; the drums were present even then. As he had come to her, with trembling hands, she had felt the deep creases in his skin as he caressed hers. The realization had hit her then, even as he entered her, that this day would come; she would not grow old with her husband. He had already spent his youth, and she must give him hers. But she was duty-bound. Traditions from time immemorial decreed that it should be so, the price of betrothal to a chief.

As their queen, she stood erect while seven young men, stripped to the waist, their oiled muscles glistening in the firelight, lowered the corpse into its eternal home, then wailed aloud as they strained and the heavy stone ground into place, sealing the tomb away.

She waited, impassive, as a long line of people filed by, placing flowers on the stone. Would they do the same for her? She watched, detached, as the final petals fell atop the pile, then stiffened as the rhythm of the drums changed once again. Her knees buckled, but rough, dirty hands caught her and lifted her in the air. Grasping, groping fingers soiled the pure white of her raiment as they laid her down.

Calmly, she took one last breath of cool sea air, one last look at the stars in the sky, then closed her eyes as the grinding sounded, locking her inside.

Akimi posed naked on the banqueting table. She thought of the money as caterers arranged copious amounts of fruit over and around her.

Halloween guests arrived, witches, vampires, ghouls–spectacular costumes. Akimi hid her embarrassment as the fruit was consumed, exposing her. A cardinal proffered a drink “against the chill.” The amber liquid burned in her veins.

He crushed grapes over her bare breast and roved his tongue around the nipple. Powerless, she could neither move nor cry out, even when he bit deeply and tore away a mouthful of her flesh. The feast began at midnight’s first chime.