Succubi Part 22

G: How many people did you kill, Erik?T: None.G: Why were you burying bodies?T: Bludcynn.G: Erik, were you part of a satanic cult?T: Dohtor.G: What?T: Dother fo Dother.G: Erik, tell me about the cult.T: Husl. Blood. Bludcynn. Dother fo Dother. I am peow. I am wreccan. We are all wreccan for the face in the mirror.G: What do you see in the mirror, Erik?T: h.e.l.l.G: You see h.e.l.l?T: Her.G: Who?

(patient begins to convulse. Awaves erratic.)

T: They make us wreccan for her. I am wreccan. I have no soul.G: What happened to your soul, Erik?T: They gave it to her. They f.u.c.k.

(Awaves still jumping. Heart rate 121.)

T: They f.u.c.k us and make us wreccan. For her.G: Erik, who is her?T: Dohtor.G: Erik, what is dohtor?T: Dother fo Dother. Liiiiii... Liiiiii... Liiiii

(Patient's eyes are open, lacrimation evident. Heart rate 148.)

T: I am brygorwreccan, I am digger. Scierors cut, c.o.kkers cook. We are huslpegns. We work for them. They eat, they f.u.c.k, they kill-for her.G: Who is her, Erik?T: Liiiiii... Liiiiii... Arrrrrrdaaaaa-

(Patient screams. Awaves cessate to REM levels, heart rate drops steadily, Narcoa.n.a.lysis suspended as patient no longer responds.)

Two weeks later they'd attempted hypnosynthesis: hypnotic vocal commands in conjunction with fluctuating doses of sodium amobarbital, which kept the patient's subconscious accessible without inducing high autonomic responses. The idea was to solicit the patient in the first or second stage of sleep, which weren't dream stages.

T: They practiced these rituals.G: What kind of rituals, Erik?T: They wors.h.i.+pped this...thing.G: Yes?T: This...demon.G: Tell me about the demon, Erik.T: They made me watch, they made us all watch.

(Patient's voice is regulated, monotonal. Heart rate 67.)

G: What did they make you watch, Erik?T: They cut people up alive. They hate all outsiders.G: Why do they hate outsiders, Erik?T: They hate anyone out of the bludcynn, especially men.G: Because of the demon? They hate men because of the demon?T: It lives on hate.G: What lives on hate, Erik? The demon?T: They like to cause pain, because it likes pain.G: Who, Erik? The cult? The demon?T: They like to cut c.o.c.ks off of guys.

(Interviewer pauses.)

G: What?T: They eat people after they're done torturing them. They cut off their heads and make us cook the heads. On feks they'd sacrifice kids. It was all part of the preparation.G: Preparation for what, Erik?T: The FulluhtLoc.G: What's that, Erik? I don't know what that is.T: They love to f.u.c.k. They love to f.u.c.k and kill people, torture people. That's their power-f.u.c.king. It's in their eyes. Their eyes are like the mirror. They make you look in their eyes while they're f.u.c.king you. Lots of times they made us f.u.c.k corpses, 'cause it gets them off.

(Interviewer pauses. Patient is trembling, perspiring.)

G: Tell me about the fulluht, Erik.T: I buried the bodies when the feks were over. That was my job. It was also my job to bring in the husls.G: What's a husl, Erik?T: They cooked heads.G: What?T: Girls they pretty much just sacrificed. They'd chain them up downstairs, save them for the important hustigs.G: What's a hustig, Erik?T: They did the worst s.h.i.+t to the guys. Guys were their fun. They hate men because it hates men.G: Erik, I want you to tell me about the terms you're using. Tell me about fulluht, wihan, husl. What do these words mean?T: f.u.c.king is their power. That's how they wors.h.i.+p her.G: The demon, you mean. What's the demon's name?T: I got a lot of husls picking up hitchhikers or drunks. Girls I got mainly hitchhiking.G: Erik, let's backtrack a little, okay?T: I'd bring these guys down, usually at gunpoint. Sometimes I'd have to knock them out. The munucs would take it from there.G: What's a munuc, Erik? Is a munuc someone in the cult?T: They'd f.u.c.k these guys, and sometimes they'd kill him while they were f.u.c.king him, they really got off on that. The wifmunuc loved it, she'd do it all the time.G: Is the wifmunuc the leader of the cult?T: This guy, the wreccans held him down and they cut the guy's c.o.c.k off just like that, and then the scierors skinned him right there on the slab, and I swear to G.o.d this poor guy was still alive when they tossed him in the fire. They did all kinds of awful s.h.i.+t like that, things you wouldn't believe, like sometimes the scierors'd cut a guy open while the munucs were f.u.c.king him, and a lot of times the wifford would sit on a guy's face so he couldn't see what was going on while the other munucs took turns blowing him, and then just like that they'd cut his c.o.c.k off, he'd never even know it was coming, and he's shooting blood all over the place running around screaming and then they'd throw the guy right into the fire, and I'll tell you something, it takes a while for a guy to die in a fire pit, I've seen them las.h.i.+ng around in there screaming their heads off while they're turning black, and a lot of times they'd try to crawl out and the munucs would just laugh it up and order the c.o.kkers to push him back in, it's a sight I'll tell you seeing some poor guy sizzling alive in the pit and screaming and screaming and the girls in the pens would be watching this and they'd be screaming too there was so much screaming man screaming and shrieking and the munucs laughing it was so bad you couldn't think it was so bad sometimes you'd just want to die...G: How often did this happen, Erik?T: Usually, a couple times a year they'd have a big hustig, but every hustig was like a preparation for the FulluhtLoc.G: Tell me more about the FulluhtLoc, Erik.T: And sometimes they'd punish us, the wreccans, I mean, if we didn't bring in enough husls, or they'd punish us just for kicks, 'cause they got off on that. I remember one time I was supposed to bring in a husl but I couldn't find any so the wifmunuc had all the wreccans f.u.c.k me, and other times they'd order us to f.u.c.k one of the corpses before they cooked-G: Tell me more about the demon, Erik.T: -all kinds of awful s.h.i.+t, stuff like you never heard, like you could never imagine, but they've been doing it for eons, man, for her. That's how they wors.h.i.+p her.G: The demon, you mean? That's how they wors.h.i.+pped theT: -and I can't tell you how many times I went down there and they're cutting some guy's head off and bleeding him into a chettle, a chettle's a big pot they cook in, and a lotta times they'd be sitting on some guy hammering nails into his head or sticking knitting needles in his ears-G: Erik, Erik-T: Yeah man the grossest s.h.i.+t you could imagine and it was all a big kick to them like hauling some guy's guts out while he's still alive or hanging some girl upside down and cutting off her head and bleeding her into a chettle for a hustig and all kinds of s.h.i.+t yeah man, that's what the dreams were like...G: Dreams Erik? These were dreams?T: No, no, I mean they were like dreams, they seemed like dreams but after a while you knew they weren't dreams at all. You knew they were real.

(Patient suddenly cessates. Heart rate 72. Hypnosynthesis suspended as patient no longer responds.)

Dreams, Dr. Harold reflected. Dr. Harold reflected. Demons. Demons. The court would not authorize further hypnosynthesis or narcoa.n.a.lysis. They were satisfied that Tharp was just a bipolar schizophrenic acting out a dream delusion. The case was closed. But that did not erase the discrepancies. No wonder Greene was never satisfied. Erik Tharp clearly suffered from a hallucinotic delusion, yet his tarsal plate reactivity, his psych test results, and his visual a.s.sessment scores did not indicate delusional behavior. These weren't things a person could fake. He put the transcripts up and dug back into the bag, extracting the notebooks. Tharp's only real recreation on the ward was drawing. Immediately, Dr. Harold noticed a rudimentary yet detailed artistic skill. The drawings were fascinating; there were hundreds of them. Many of the strange words from Tharp's monologues had been written between the scenes. The court would not authorize further hypnosynthesis or narcoa.n.a.lysis. They were satisfied that Tharp was just a bipolar schizophrenic acting out a dream delusion. The case was closed. But that did not erase the discrepancies. No wonder Greene was never satisfied. Erik Tharp clearly suffered from a hallucinotic delusion, yet his tarsal plate reactivity, his psych test results, and his visual a.s.sessment scores did not indicate delusional behavior. These weren't things a person could fake. He put the transcripts up and dug back into the bag, extracting the notebooks. Tharp's only real recreation on the ward was drawing. Immediately, Dr. Harold noticed a rudimentary yet detailed artistic skill. The drawings were fascinating; there were hundreds of them. Many of the strange words from Tharp's monologues had been written between the scenes. Husl. Husl. Peow. Wreccan. Peow. Wreccan. A sketch of a queue of naked women cutting up a man had been underscored with: A sketch of a queue of naked women cutting up a man had been underscored with: Wihan. Wihan. More women looked up to a full moon with arms outstretched: More women looked up to a full moon with arms outstretched: doefolmon. doefolmon. Many of the sketches depicted orgies, nude women drawn to great detail on top of blankfaced men. Many of the sketches depicted orgies, nude women drawn to great detail on top of blankfaced men. s.e.xespelle, s.e.xespelle, they read, and many had subordinate figures standing aside, similarly blankfaced. Yet one face in each was obviously Tharp's artistic rendition of himself: pallid, wideeyed, staring. And here was a fullpage sketch: he'd drawn himself holding a shovel in some dense forest dell. they read, and many had subordinate figures standing aside, similarly blankfaced. Yet one face in each was obviously Tharp's artistic rendition of himself: pallid, wideeyed, staring. And here was a fullpage sketch: he'd drawn himself holding a shovel in some dense forest dell. Byrgorwreccan, Byrgorwreccan, it read. Patients, particularly schizophrenics and hallucinotics, frequently created their own vocabularies for their personal dementias. The word it read. Patients, particularly schizophrenics and hallucinotics, frequently created their own vocabularies for their personal dementias. The word Fulluht-Loc Fulluht-Loc appeared frequently, and even more frequently: appeared frequently, and even more frequently: liloc. liloc.

It was all s.e.xual. Tharp's madness must have been a byproduct of gross s.e.xual fears. He didn't hate women, like temporal misogynists, he feared feared them. The male figures in the sketches had been a.s.signed crude facial ident.i.ties. But the women were different. Their bodies had been drawn to painstaking erotic detail, yet there was one thing they all lacked. them. The male figures in the sketches had been a.s.signed crude facial ident.i.ties. But the women were different. Their bodies had been drawn to painstaking erotic detail, yet there was one thing they all lacked.

Faces.

None of the women had faces, and that was another clear sign of a delusional s.e.xual phobia. He can't, He can't, Dr. Harold realized. Dr. Harold realized. He can't draw their faces because he's afraid to. He can't draw their faces because he's afraid to.

Dr. Harold turned a random page. He paused.

Here was a face.

G.o.d, he thought. Its clarity stunned him. He was looking at a fullpage drawing of a woman. The moon shone through brambles and streaks of trees; the woman was standing in a dell. Dr. Harold actually s.h.i.+vered. The sketch was more than a sketch-it was a dichotomy, a wedding of extremes. Revulsion clashed with erotic beauty. The perverse clashed with the reverent. he thought. Its clarity stunned him. He was looking at a fullpage drawing of a woman. The moon shone through brambles and streaks of trees; the woman was standing in a dell. Dr. Harold actually s.h.i.+vered. The sketch was more than a sketch-it was a dichotomy, a wedding of extremes. Revulsion clashed with erotic beauty. The perverse clashed with the reverent. What was going on in Tharp's mind when he penned this? What was going on in Tharp's mind when he penned this? Dr. Harold had seen quite a bit of patient artwork in his time. Art was a catharsis, and a demented person's catharsis logically reflected demented art. But this... Dr. Harold had seen quite a bit of patient artwork in his time. Art was a catharsis, and a demented person's catharsis logically reflected demented art. But this...

Dr. Harold had never seen anything like it. It was atrocious... and lovely. Eloquent, and harrowing. He'd never looked at a work of art so beautiful and yet so obscene.

The woman stood beseechingly. Her hands were out, as if to invite embrace, yet the fingers were exceedingly long, and nails protracted like sleek, fine talons. Long legs rose to form a perfect hourgla.s.s figure. The b.r.e.a.s.t.s had been drawn so scrupulously they seemed threedimensional upon the page. They were high, large, with large dark circles for nipples. The pubis had been drawn similarly: a s.h.i.+ning, downy thatch against pure white skin. The woman's hair was a great dark mane. Twin diminutive nubs seemed to protrude from the forehead, almost like- Like horns, Dr. Harold realized. Dr. Harold realized.

And the face...

The face was nothing more than two slitlike eyes above a black opened maw full of needle teeth.

Chapter 18.

Something bothered Martin all day. The dream, of course. The naked girls queerly painting trees in the middle of the night. The parcels he'd buried, and then Melanie... And Maedeen...

He tried all day to forget about it. Even Ann, with her own dream traumas, had noticed he wasn't himself. They'd had lunch and taken a drive. He'd hoped a nice scenic drive would get his thoughts away, but anywhere he looked he saw the woods, and when he saw the woods he saw the dream. They'd driven by the general store and he'd seen Maedeen outside sweeping the walk. She'd turned and waved as if she'd sensed them driving by. Martin subtly shuddered. The momentary glimpse gave him an erection.

All right, I'm attracted to her, he realized. he realized. So what? That's why G.o.d made women goodlooking, isn't it? So what? That's why G.o.d made women goodlooking, isn't it?

But it was more than that. He knew it was.

That morning, he and Ann had made love. Lately, it seemed something wasn't right between them, that she wasn't enjoying it. Male paranoia, Male paranoia, he'd always concluded. Was he rationalizing? It was a fact he didn't want to face: this time, when they'd made love, he hadn't been thinking of Ann at all. He had been thinking of Maedeen. he'd always concluded. Was he rationalizing? It was a fact he didn't want to face: this time, when they'd made love, he hadn't been thinking of Ann at all. He had been thinking of Maedeen.

Suddenly, Ann s.h.i.+vered.

"What's wrong?"

She looked distractedly past the winds.h.i.+eld, just as Martin pulled the Mustang around the town square, past the church. "I don't know," she said. "I just feel fidgety." But it seemed that she'd s.h.i.+vered just as they'd pa.s.sed the church.

"You didn't sleep well last night. You had the nightmare again, didn't you?"

Ann nodded. "It keeps getting worse, and there's more to it now, more details. And lately..." Her words trailed off.

"And?"

"I don't know," she said. She seemed confused. "Lately, I've been having some kind of vertigo. Like just now. I'll be wide awake, and all of a sudden I'll see something."

Martin slowed through the crossing lights. "What did you see?"

Ann s.h.i.+vered again. "Nothing."

Martin knew when to lay off. "You're not getting enough sleep," he ventured. "This nightmare's turning you inside out. Maybe you should call Dr. Harold, see what he thinks."

"No, that would be silly. I will not let my whole life shake apart because of a stupid nightmare."

"Don't feel bad," Martin said. "I had a nightmare last night too."

Ann looked at him abruptly. "Melanie's also having nightmares."

"It must run in the family," Martin attempted to laugh it off. "Relax, will you? You worry way too much about her."

"Martin, let's not get into that again."

"Okay, okay." He headed back to the house. But he knew he was right. Ann's difficulties were compounding. Her father dying, her mother's adversity, the canceled vacation. Now she had this "vertigo" in conjunction with the nightmare. Too many things were building up at once, weighing her down.

Martin wondered how close she was to breaking.

Ann didn't know what to tell him. Sooner or later he's going to think I'm going nuts. Sooner or later he's going to think I'm going nuts. Yes, her nightmare just kept getting worse, and now this Yes, her nightmare just kept getting worse, and now this vertigo. vertigo. She couldn't think of any other way to describe it. Was it part of the dream she wasn't remembering? It was like a gory daydream. Wide awake she'd suddenly s.h.i.+ver- She couldn't think of any other way to describe it. Was it part of the dream she wasn't remembering? It was like a gory daydream. Wide awake she'd suddenly s.h.i.+ver- -and see red.

She'd see hands plunging a knife into someone, a wide silver blade sinking repeatedly into naked flesh. The deadsilent backdrop made it even worse; in this vision all she could hear was the steady slupslupslup slupslupslup of the knife. And all she could see: blood flying everywhere, b.r.e.a.s.t.s and belly quivering as the blade continued to rise and fall, rise and fall... of the knife. And all she could see: blood flying everywhere, b.r.e.a.s.t.s and belly quivering as the blade continued to rise and fall, rise and fall...

Slupslupslup...slupslupslup...

The face of the victim couldn't be seen, but somehow she felt convinced that the person being butchered was herself.

Martin parked the Mustang on the street; several cars filled the driveway. In the foyer, Ann noticed her mother entertaining several guests in the dining room. Mrs. Gargan was there, and Constance, Dr. Heyd's wife, plus the widowed Mrs. Virasak, and a few of Lockwood's other elderwomen. They chatted softly, drinking tea. But when Ann's mother noticed her, she got up quickly from the table and drew closed the dining room doors.

"She knows how to make a person feel welcome," Martin joked. "What are they doing in there?"

"Who knows?" Ann said. "Who cares?"

"I'm going to sit out back, try to get some writing done."

"Okay," Ann said. Several times now she'd seen him grab his pad and disappear into the s.p.a.cious backyard. He seemed to find peace here, every poet's quest, which made Ann slightly jealous. Martin liked it here. At least if he hated it, she wouldn't feel so alone.

Upstairs she looked around for Melanie. Her room was empty, but she heard water running-the shower. Ann peered out the window and saw Martin sitting in a lawn chair at the edge of the woods. His pad lay in his lap, his hand poised. He seemed to be looking up at the sky with his eyes closed.

"Hi, Mom," Melanie greeted. She came in wearing her dark robe and had a towel around her head. "Where have you been?"

"Martin and I went for a drive. We were thinking of going to the inn for dinner. Want to come?"

"I won't be able to make it. I'm meeting some friends."

Ann sat down on the bed, perturbed. "You haven't mentioned much about these new friends of yours."

"Oh, Wendlyn, Rena? They're pretty cool."

Pretty cool. Ann smirked. "I saw you with a boy yesterday." Ann smirked. "I saw you with a boy yesterday."

Melanie smiled. "That's Zack. He's cool too."

"He looks like your friends back home, leather jacket and-"

"Come on, Mom," Melanie dismissed, drying her light brown hair with the towel. "He's really nice, and we have a lot in common."

"Like what?"

"Music. He listens to all the groups I like, even Killing Joke. And you should see his stereo, it's huge." huge."

"Melanie." Ann leaned forward as if concentrating. "Are you telling me you were in this boy's house? Alone?"

"He doesn't live in a house. He lives in the church bas.e.m.e.nt."

This didn't sound right. "He lives in the church? church? What about his parents?" What about his parents?"

"He doesn't have any; he's an orphan. Grandma gave him a job as a custodian or something."