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November 2008

Comet Press open for submissions

Our print division, Comet Press, is currently accepting submissions for horror, suspense, and dark crime novels and novellas. Visit www.cometpress.us for details.

Available for order from Comet Press

DEADLINES: AN ANTHOLOGY OF HORROR AND DARK FICTION, will be released in November of 2008! Visit www.cometpress.us

Damnation Cell
by Ronald Polizzi

Charles Masten lay trembling on the metal bunk, the large rivets beneath the thin mattress pressing excruciatingly against his spine. Ignoring the pain, he drew in a single measured breath of stagnant, urine-scented air. She was watching. Even with his eyes closed, he sensed her presence, radiating outward in waves of cold fire. Gripping the mattress, fighting the urge to fall on his knees, to pray for mercy, to scream, he sucked in more putrid oxygen, struggling to slow his rapid breathing and racing pulse. After a moment, the torrential pounding in his chest subsided a little. Only then did he open his eyes just enough to glimpse the shadows. The shadows were her signature. They flowed behind her like the train of a long black gown, crowding his tiny cell.

Turning his gaze to the opposite wall, he searched fearfully until he found her. She was where she’d first appeared, where the scratches had been, marking her entranceway into this world. Surrounded by murky darkness, captured in the glow of the cell’s florescent bulb, only her face was visible. It seemed to float like a beautiful oval moon.

Now, from his sweat soaked bunk, he watched her emerge from the black pool like a swimmer stepping from the sea – her head first, then her shoulders, finally each leg, until she stood before him, complete. Wearing the same red dress as the night he’d killed her, the one that set off the blond of her hair like gold fire; he was reminded again of just how beautiful she’d been. Bits of leaf and dirt clung to the fabric of her dress and tangled in the yellow strands of her locks. It was as if she’d just clawed her way from the shallow grave, where he’d hid the body long ago.

***

It was a stupid thing to do, having the affair. But sitting in his history class, she seemed older, more mature than sixteen. They flirted, then she began coming around after class, during his planning period. Finally, he gave into temptation and found himself in a sexual relationship with a girl half his age. When he decided to break off with her, she’d threaten to tell her father. Afraid of facing jail time, he panicked. Under the pretense of one last date, he drove them to a wooded area he marked earlier. He promised her a surprise, a make-up gift when they arrived. She chatted excitedly the entire way, thinking they had resolved things.

“Turn your back to me, don’t look until I say so,” he instructed, when they left the car. Oh, how she fidgeted, hardly able to stand still, giddy with anticipation of what the surprise might be. It was a simple thing to do, to slip the rope around her neck, with her looking the other way. He hid her body under a pile of trash someone had dumped, and drove away.

Afterward, he tried to look past the empty desk, feigning surprise when he took the daily attendance to discover she was absent, yet again. He even questioned several students – had they talked to her –was she perhaps ill? All the while, in his minds eye, he saw her body lying in its shallow grave, worms burrowing into its soft flesh, a life cut short by his own hand.

The pretending became too much. He could only keep up the façade so long before he began to crack. After a month of self-condemnation, her ghost haunting his mind, he led the police to her body. Ironically, if he had not turned himself in, they would never have discovered the murder. The girl had few friends, and her father never reported her missing. Later, he learned the man was glad to be rid of her. Masten was the only one to mourn her death.

The dreams began shortly after his sentencing. In them, the murdered girl called to him in soft whispers, her ethereal body writhing like a succubus. She promised delights he had not dared imagine during the time they were together. Afterward, he felt soiled and afraid. What he had done to her weighed on him like an enormous cross. Even the priest had not been able to absolve him. But, it was the fear of her return that haunted the caverns of his subconscious. He told himself there was a gulf between them she could not cross. Though, he was confined to his damnation cell, she lay imprisoned in her grave, her body crumbling into dust. The dreams, he reasoned, were simply guilt, nothing more. Then, three days ago, the dreams stopped, and she began to come through.

They had moved him under the cover of darkness, to an area known only as deathwatch. Placed in a tiny cell, where he would spend his last days before his execution, a part of him rejoiced. Masten prayed for death. Riddled with guilt by day, tortured by dreams at night, death meant escape.

He noticed the scratches while making his bunk. Someone had carved a vulgar limerick about death, in the gray enamel paint that covered the walls. When his eyes chanced across the spot a second time, the crude epitaph was gone, replaced by meaningless scribble. Masten rubbed his eyes, then gave the spot a hard look. The scratches had re-formed again -- this time depicting a face, her face, rendered in thin sketchy lines. The recognition caused his blood to run cold. The next morning, the face was gone, only a vulgar limerick, same as before, occupied the space. He dismissed the whole thing as fantasy; putting it out of his mind.

The following night, he awoke to find a detailed portrait replaced the thin sketchy lines. The rendering was amazingly photogenic. He staggered out of bed for a closer look to discover it was not a drawing, but formed of shadow, cold to the touch. Then, like the morning before, he awoke to only the vulgarity on the wall. There was no face, not hers, not anyone’s.

Last night, he was jerked awake by a screeching, tearing sound. The image had returned. It bulged and twisted as if she was forcing her features through the cell wall, stretching the metal, attempting to burst through. This time, his resolve broke. He screamed for the guards, banging the tin cup he’d been issued against the steel plates of the door. But no one heard, or if they did, no one came. He was alone.

***

He watched her cross the cell to where he lay. The shadows, pooling together, followed like trained pets. Her fingers brushed his hair, their touch, cold as sticks of ice.

“Hello Charles” she said, her voice rattling in his ears like dried leaves. “It’s taken a long time to find my way back. You ended things so suddenly. I was left confused …lost for a time.”

“You’re dead,” Masten croaked, barely finding his voice; “I killed you.”

“You can’t destroy love that easily, Charles.” Her tone, tempered with patience, she was now the teacher and he the student. ”I want to take you back with me. It’s important that we mend things.”

“Mend things?” He laughed a bitter, scornful sound. ”I’ll be dead in three days. I waived my final appeal.”

“You don’t have to die, Charlie -- I know a way. You can live forever and never know death.”

Masten jerked upright, throwing off the thin prison blanket. “Demon!” He shouted. “Don’t you understand? I want to die, to put an end to this.”

“It’s the shadows, isn’t it,” she said, indicating the gloom around her. “They’ve put you off. “

He scoffed at the remark. Still, he turned away from the girl and the murkiness surrounding her.

“I want you back,” she continued, “I’ll do whatever’s necessary to make that happen.” Rummaging around she picked up the tin cup. Catching a small amount of water from the toilet, she placed it beside him. Positioning her wrist, she jabbed a sharp thumbnail into a protruding vein. A dark discharge dripped into the cup, mixing with the water, tinting the liquid gray. “Drink it all” she said, offering him the cup.

“And if I do what?”

“You’ll find forgiveness,” she smiled. “Isn’t that what you want?”

Masten hesitated for a moment before taking it from her hand, detecting a faint odor of moldy earth. He watched as she retreated back into the shadows, then lifted the cup to his lips, empting it in quick gulps. Her shape now barely discernable in the blackness, he was conscious of an aftertaste of decay in his mouth.

Suddenly, images of rotted corpses flashed around him shrieking demented cries. Alarmed and confused, Masten staggered to his feet. The cup fell from his hand with a clatter.

Something was happening, something bad.

The fluorescent’s soft glow began to swell. Burning like a raging sun, its wicked brilliance threatened to blind him. Heat from the bulb scorched his skin, raising minute blisters. In a panic, he raced to the only place promising refuge, the seat of his fear, where she hid, the shadows. The gray walls of the cell vanished, as he stepped inside, where she greeted him with a welcome kiss. They passed through black nothingness for a moment, with only the gentle touch of her hand to guide him. Emerging under a sky the color of unbleached bone, he found himself surrounded by surreal landscape. A colorless sea stretched toward a faded horizon, the incoming tide frozen. Waves poised to break, were held immobile by some unseen force.

“Where is this place? “ Masten asked, as they trudged across a beach of gray sand, covered with spider like creatures. The creatures scurried away at their approach, to plunge into the motionless surf.

“Shhhh”…She cautioned…”Not yet.”

The beach ended at the base of a rocky cliff. A worn footpath snaked upward, between tall boulders. As they began their climb, he glanced back at the sea. Now, long strings of foam jutted from a frothy base of crashed breakers, defying gravity.

Before long, they reached level ground, peppered with dreary trees and brush of nondescript color. The bit of day was fading. Gray sky matched his prison garb. In the failing light, an “X” shape, affixed to a tall post, loomed ahead. As he neared the object, he saw it was a railroad crossing. Train track stretched into the distance, like twin ribbons of blood, its rails reflecting the glow of a rising crimson moon.

I know this place. I hid her body there-- across the track.

As Masten gazed at the specter of his crime, his ears detected faint voices calling from the lonely stand of trees. The voices, growing stronger, sang in an unholy chorus of unrequited victims, some slain in anger or jealously, others for the shear joy of extracting another’s life. All of them left to rot, under the somber branches of the great oaks. He realized it was no accident he had brought her here. This was a place of death.

“They also seek redemption,” Masten thought, remembering the voices, as the two continued down the track. “I should be at home here.”

Further on, a great fire was burning. Figures danced in corybantic silhouette around the inferno, while an androgynous figure of colossal size looked on. Without warning, it snatched up one of the dancers with a quick swipe of its hand, tossing them into the fire. The result was a soaring column of flame. The monster clapped its hands with delight. Turning its horned head, it looked for another to feed the fire when it paused, distracted. Grabbing his hand, the girl pulled Masten off the track into the cover of deep shadow, just as the beast swung its gaze toward where they’d stood moments before. Cautioning silence, she led him away, keeping to the deeper pools of dark until they were well past the thing.

After a time, they began to encounter houses. Like the wood near the crossing, Masten could hear the murmurs of those souls trapped inside. They spoke of murder, deceit and depravity. In one dwelling, a man dug graves in the basement, the bodies of his family laid out, wrapped in shrouds made of bed sheets. The thin sound of a slow waltz, played on an antique Victrola, drifted from an open window. Next door a woman sat with a loaded shotgun, giggling and muttering nonsense, anxiously awaiting her husband to arrive home. Masten grabbed the girl by her shoulders, twisting her around roughly to face him.

“What the hell is going on?” he growled, anger coloring his voice. “There’s nothing here but death!”

“This is where we must begin.” She smiled, making no attempt to break free. “There’s magic between us Charlie,” she said slyly, “Enough magic to change this world.”

“I’m not getting it,” he said, his eyes narrowing, his voice suspicious. “I wanted a way out. To be rid of my sin, to find peace. You’ve cheated me by bringing me here!”

She touched his lips with a finger, quieting him, cooling his rage. Drawing him close, she rubbed her body against his, the contact between them warm, inviting. Masten felt a stirring of desire. He tried to resist, reminding himself he was a predator, a child killer. But the feel of her body chipped away his resistance like tiny hammers. His resolve melted. He found himself wanting her. Encircling her with his arms, he pulled her close.

“There IS magic here between us,” he thought, “as long as she’s beside me.”

She pushed away, avoiding his advances with surprising agility. “Not yet Charlie” She laughed at his confused expression. “Soon though my darling, I promise. Our little bungalow is not far at all now.”

Masten felt alive. She had awakened desire he thought had died. For the first time since his imprisonment, he wanted to live, to experience carnal love, raw and unbound. If he had to live in this strange land of the surreal and the dead, fine, as long as they were together. She was sensuous again. He wanted her so badly he burned.

They arrived at a cottage where she led him up the walk and across a little porch. Opening the door, he followed her inside into a pleasant room, furnished with a table and two straight-backed chairs. A teakettle sat heating on a tiny stove.

Slipping into a chair, he watched as she busied herself tending the kettle, that blowing a cheery plume of steam, whistled happily. Crossing to a cupboard, she removed two china cups and placed them on the table. The tea poured, she took the seat opposite him.

“A toast, “she said, lifting her cup, “To our union, our love renewed.”

Masten lifted his own cup in salute, then sipped a little of the liquid. The flavor, sweet and intoxicating; was unlike any tea he recognized. He drank the remaining contents of the cup greedily as he gazed across the table at his lover, anticipating what was to come. .

The room began to blur, hard edges softened, colors muted, bleeding one into another. His mind drifting, Masten sensed the gentlest tug on his hand. Woozy from the tea, he allowed her to lead him to where a large feather bed stood waiting. Removing his clothes, bit by bit, she tugged him into the big bed. The soft mattress embraced him like fine Turkish cushions as Masten snuggled against the warmth of her body. In moments, he floated, lost in a sea of pleasure. Drifting in a great ocean, waves of sensual delight washed over him, sweeping him into dreamless sleep.

Sometime later, he woke to find himself lying naked on a rotted mattress, alone. Struggling to his feet, he found his prison grab on the floor.

Masten tore though the house but the rooms were empty. Where they had shared tea, the table and chairs lay in shambles. Only a pile of worm-eaten rubbish marked where the furniture once stood. Even the walls of the place were failing from age. Crumbled mounds of plaster lined the floor like drifts of gray snow. Wall studs stood exposed, riddled with holes from burrowing insects. She was gone.

Throwing open the door, he found her trail. Tiny flowering blooms, like footprints made of rainbow, led away from the cottage-- bright colors contrasting sharply against the dullness.

Her path took him back past the murderous domiciles, along the train track, down the steep trail, ending at seashore where they’d entered this world. There on the edge of the colorless ocean, he spotted her. She’d taken the form of a lone white bird, winging her way toward the horizon. Masten screamed her name but his voice may as well been a whisper. She had vanished into the distance.

His dreams shattered, he sat immobile on the beach, staring at a sea frozen in a single moment. Time passed, the sun crossed the sky, giving way to a moon the color of her dress. The spider creatures swarmed around him, emitting tiny chirps as they scuttled about, sensing no threat in this strange being. The sun rose again, marking a second day, then a third, but time was meaningless. Without her, day and night were irrelevant.

At some point during the fourth day he rose to his feet. The spider creatures followed curiously behind until he reached the little footpath that edged the side of the cliff. Reaching the top, he stood for a moment at the train crossing, gazing at the wooded lot where he’d buried her long ago. The land lay silent. The dead now wrapped in peaceful slumber.

“There’s magic between us Charlie, enough to change this world,” her voice seemed to whisper. Now he understood.

Continuing on, he located the thing he sought, the great fire. Stepping off the tracks he made his way toward it, to join the others in their dance macabre.