WARNING: Disturbing images and paranormal twistedness ahead. Read on at your own risk. This is an unedited excerpt from one of the novels that I am currently working on.
He approached from the back of the house. Climbing the steep hillside and working his way through the trees as his master had instructed, his muscular body moving like a cat. He strangled the white chicken before ripping its head off. Master wanted the blood localized, not spread all over the back yard and chickens had a tendency to run around with their heads cut off. The muscular chicken killer quietly chuckled to himself. Good thing the backyard was totally isolated from the neighbors’. The master said he wanted it to make an impact, the crimson against the snow white feathers. Hopefully none of the local wildlife would find it before she did. He filled a small paper cup with chicken blood, picked up the head, and proceeded to the house. He scaled the back of the house like a frog and slid open the kitchen window. As he guessed, it wasn’t locked because it was on the second floor with no access, or so most people thought. Most people didn’t think creatures like him really existed. It wasn’t his job to judge, it was his job to do. He made his way to the master bedroom. He carefully constructed what would look like an altar scene. He laid out a solid black silk scarf and arranged the head among some night-blooming jasmine. He added a used white candle to create the illusion that a ritual was performed here along with a dagger. The bowl of blood would also rest here when he was done with it. Now came the fun part, he took off his socks and shoes and began to carefully paint the bottoms of his feet with the blood and proceeded to wander out of the bedroom careful to start out facing the bed then turning and walking out of the room. He reapplied blood as needed until he reached the patio door, unlocked it being sure to leave a bloody handprint, and walked to the railing overlooking the dead chicken in the yard. He was practically giddy, but now he had to make sure he exited without a trace. Master had burned the prints off of his hands and feet years ago so he could use him for things such as this. His small hands and feet lent an eeriness to the scene because they were like a child’s. He carefully washed the blood off of his hand and feet with pre-wetted wipes. He was sad that he couldn’t keep it. He stuffed the wipes in his pack, went back in the house, locked the door, and leapt out of the kitchen window landing in the grass next to the chicken. He could see the blood was coagulating quite nicely in a pool around the stark white of the feathers as he smiled down at his work. Like a puddle of wet paint with a soft, dry skin over it. He was an artist after all and the Master had allowed him to take his talent to immeasurable new heights. He sensed the darkness before he saw it, it was twilight and the master was waiting in the trees. The chicken killer became frightened and terribly excited at the same time as he hurried to the Master.
The man known only as “the Master” to the creatures of this world who served him was known by many other names. He was evil incarnate, hell itself, the fallen angel, Satan, and he had fathered this child. She didn’t seem to be listening to the warning he had sent through Scortch. She didn’t know she was his daughter. It was better that way and it was only a son that most need worry about coming from his loins. Despite the fact that she continually wounded or destroyed his minions, he could not bring himself to destroy his own flesh and blood or try to turn her into something she wasn’t. He would not twist her, he loved her too much. It was a weakness. He was unclean from all his dealings over the millennia and she was pure. So he was resorting to scaring her. He knew if she took the job that the FBI offered, she might not survive and her soul would reside in a kind of purgatory for an eternity. He couldn’t have that, his blessings from God being so few and all since he ejected him from heaven forever and made him into the king of hell. Holy bastard. Regardless, he had to save Lucy from herself, which meant ensuring the job was done right by watching it first-hand.
I hope you enjoyed what you read here. For those of you who have been following me for a little while and decided to go ahead and read this, I realize this may be a vast departure from my usual blog content other than being in my writing wheelhouse. Don’t worry; the shock will wear off soon. 🙂