What’s different however are the fresh screams making their way through the vortex, coming to land here in the realm where fear is created. Their terror is palpable and feeds the howls already in the air. Is this what hell sounds like? I don’t know what’s on the other side of the vortex that lures them here. Some safe little sanctuary, perhaps, that promises them shelter from the cold? Some warm arm of darkness that grants them a reprieve from their waking thoughts? Some seemingly harmless door that leads them down a hall into the unknown? Whatever it is it works very well.
Every haunting season, just as our coffers are running low we hear the vortex rip open and fresh
But me? Me and my kin collect organs to used for our voodoo works against the forces of the Illuminati – as well as for cooking in the months to come. Now is the only time fresh flesh will come to any of us. It’s harvesting time. When the vortex breaks through the whole world darkens and growls in unison - the eager rumbling of a hungry stomach. The screams of our prey fills the air of eternal midnight - the organic inhalations of minds in shock; the stunned grunts and moans of ones who have lost their way . . . it all sounds so sweet.
They fall through the tunnel and they land in the graveyard. The soil there is unstable due to all the bodies working their way up from their tombs below. These restless corpses are the leftovers from the hunts of previous years. Their equilibrium compromised the cattle stagger bewildered through the haze of a chemical fog, one that further stifles the scenes and blinds them to what’s coming. They usually hesitate on the path, until an unexpected thrash nearby lurches them forward.
Some of the corpses have managed to set themselves free and try desperately to warn the new comers to stay away. We have had to build fences to keep them back. Now the prey is driven forward down a ramp by the moans of the dead, directly into my hut in search of safety. Is this how a butcher feels?
I can’t see them through the haze, but I hear them - staggering over tombs and crying out to each other for help. My partners, two dark skinned men, are decorated already for the work of the day – their faces painted white with the symbolic skulls of our God who grants us such bounty and planted us so near the entrance of the vortex were we could get first pickings. We stand to the ready.
Master Shadow has a since of humor. He’s a tall man, made taller by the top hat he wears. He often goes out to guide the terrorized cattle safely past the mausoleum – there organs are no good to us if the zombies contaminate them. He greets them in on the shaky ground, lording over them with polite gestures and a charming smile, then kindly leads them to the bridge and on into the assumed safety of our hut just out reach of the fog. I greet them as they pass, searching for any weakness and sizing them up for the pot.
Once inside, the slaughter begins. Mr. Shadow leads them ever deeper down the passage, through the rooms where we hang our kills to dry, this when they start to get nervous. Master Crawl is usually lurking somewhere in a dark corner. He has an evil temper and at the sight of weakness he strikes. The man is so swift the party barely notices that it’s missing a member before he’s dragged it off to the growing pile of bodies. Master Shadow distracts the protectors so the group continues not to notice. Shadow has a power to project the illusion that a loved one is still present. It’s really a little shadow puppet, a doll. But they usually can’t tell the difference. And by the time they are out of his reach and the spell wears off . . . it is too late. Is this what an artist feels like?
Occasionally I help Shadow. I separate the young, and the frightened from their protectors and lead them on deeper into the darkness. Sometimes I stand as a distraction for Mr. Crawl to strike. But mostly I wait for the boys to make their selections and from what’s left I make mine. I wait for Master Shadow to lead them into my work room where my pot ever brews, cooking up vapors that create a since of willingness and courage so that they drop their guard. My pets, pythons and cobras, moccasins and rattlers and all manner of other serpents that I’ve collected, coil around the artifacts of my working room and slither across the floor. The cattle can’t focus now. The glyphs glowing on the wall assure my success but further disorient my guests.
You see for my form of voodoo magic I must collect the organs of willing participants, it takes their consent. With that I can create the most powerful spells to ward off my enemies. In this atmosphere – when the mortals feel trapped but hopeful it’s not hard to talk a woman out of her hair, or a child into a cage or even a man into killing his family and leaving them in the verse for me. The prizes I covet the most are those of vanity – a woman’s teeth or hair, a man’s muscles. Those are harder to capture which makes them all the more desirable. But it can be done.
The poor retches believe it is only a game. Their tones are sarcastic but the Dark Lord does not care of tones. He cares of words. And saying not words also confirms your consent those who refuse to answer are mine for the taking as well. They give it all up to me as I show them the way out. I lead them into the tunnel of darkness that leads back out into the forest away from the zombies so they feel safe. What they don’t understand is that in this universe a verbal contract is binding and one way or another my desires will come to fruition. Another, bigger monster may kill them later, but I’ll be there to collect the pieces of liver or the picked over skull or the soulless cadaver . . . . I set them free with a smile knowing it’s only a matter of time. Is this what a farmer feels like?
As one group leaves my home another tumbles through the vortex. I hear the commotion in the graveyard and the barking of the dead dog by the door. I step out onto the porch just as Master Shadow charges out to hastily greet our guests and guide them to our door. I breathe in a deep breath from the black air and watch the shaking movements of the green stares in the eternal midnight. I listen to the rumble of the Neither Verse’s hungry stomach. I smile, and bid my visitors welcome into my home. Is this what it feels like to be a monster? I’m sure it is.
