The figure was Sullivan.
Watch, Natter said in Phil’s head.
Druck, with his double-thumbed hand, raised Sullivan’s head by the hair. Then he chuckled.
Then he shoved Sullivan into the room’s darkest corner.
Phil couldn’t see anything; it was too dark. But he could hear sounds, and the sounds were familiar. A wet, slavering sound. A sickly, wet grinding like ravenous animals at a trough…
We give you this day, your daily flesh…
And next:
thump!
The dark corner seemed to eject what remained of Sullivan: a skinned, glistening-red corpse.
And only now did Natter himself surface from his own darkness, just a deformed face in a black robe and black hood. “My daughter,” he said. “Now you, too, must go on your way.”
Susan shed her clothes, then turned her succulent body to face Phil in the moonlight.
“You’re our saviour, Phil. You’re the one. You should feel honored to serve our god in such a way.”
Phil could only stand numb and look back at her.
“And someday, brother,” she finished, “I’ll see you again, in paradise.”
Then Susan, with no reluctance, stepped into the deadly dark corner and disappeared, where, within moments, the skin was eaten off her flawless body, and she was spat back out onto the floor.
“My son, my god.” Natter’s face seemed awed now in its deformity. “A few of us will remain, to tend to your needs. You will be the father of a new and holy race. A perfect race. The answer to our prayers for all these years. The answer to our call and to our duty.”
Druck and the few remaining Creekers left the room. Then Natter slowly backed away. His disjointed hands raised high. His great scarlet eyes closed, and then his malformed face lifted.
“Praise be to you, my son,” he said in the deepest piety. “Praise be to the Mannona…”
Then Natter, the Reverend, was gone.
Phil’s eyes fixed on the corner. He could just barely see it now, just a trace of what he’d seen more completely all those years ago.
He was looking at his heritage, at his predestination, at the real reason he’d been brought into the world.
To make a new world, he realized.
His entire life up to this point had all been a lie. Only now did the truth shine plain to him. It was here, his true reality, right there in the corner, just a few yards from where he now stood.
And from that same abyssal and holy corner, another voice seeped into his head. It was a beautiful voice—
A woman’s voice:
My lover, my husband, my son, it said.
There was a cosmic ringing in his ears, and unfathomable visions swimming behind his eyes. Visions from the lowest places of the earth…
I’ve waited so long, the voice wept to him. But now we will always be together.
More vague features formed. The corrupted, bent limbs, the demonic face and razor-toothed slit for a mouth. The petite nobs of its warped forehead, its high, full breasts, and the faintest glimmer of its sex.
My love! It’s our wedding night, it rejoiced.
Phil stared, agape.
Come to me now.
Behind him, Phil heard the tiny click as the door was finally locked.
THE END
— | — | —
Edward Lee has had over thirty books published in the horror and suspense field, including Flesh Gothic, Messenger and City Infernal. He is a Bram Stoker award nominee, and his short stories have appeared in over a dozen mass-market anthologies, including The Best American Mystery Stories of 2000, Pocket’s Hot Blood series, and the award-wining 999. Several of his novels have recently sold translation rights to Germany and Spain. His movie, Header, will be available on DVD in mid-2007. Meanwhile, City Infernal, Messenger, Ghouls, The Bighead, and Family Tradition have been optioned for film. Upcoming mass-market novels include House Infernal, Golemesque, and The Order of the Scarlet Nuns, while he is currently at work on a limited-edition hardcore horror novel entitled Minotauress. Lee lives on Florida’s St. Pete Beach. Visit him online at:
www.edwardleeonline.com
