Grasping the spider's thread
They beat me badly this time. I can feel it: I will not be able to bear many more like that. Mine is not a strong body. They slammed my head into the edge of that marble table—or altar, or whatever it is, a number of times and since then my eyes...I cannot make them work together any longer, cannot get them to see a single image. Nor will my head stop pounding.
I suppose I'll never get a good look at the thing that's been watching us now—Well actually, I think it's just been watching me.
Not that I could see it before, but at least with two working eyes I stood a chance of catching a glimpse at some point. I could at the least focus on the spot that rustled and sighed in the silence when all the other sounds ceased, when the other children had finally drifted off to sleep, slipped into unconsciousness or died of their hunger and wounds. There would be just this tiniest of sighs and movement, and sometimes a breath of air against my ear, or on the back of my neck, making the hair there rise up in warning, or sometimes the phantom feel of a touch against my cheek, or fingers up my thigh or down the length of my body when nothing was there... well now I think on it, my eyes weren't so important. I felt and heard it more than anything else.
Sometimes there would even be words.
Words I was sure no one heard but me—which is why I said I thought it was watching me particularly—though I don't know why I should interest it. I'm not the only child of a titled family being held here and there's nothing else special about me. Still, the words seem to echo in my head alone, muttering of the injustice of such torments and the sweet taste of revenge. For a while I ignored it because I thought I must simply be going mad. But after thinking about it, I don't feel particularly deranged. And something about the voice seemed quite real to me...
Anyhow, whatever it is, it retreats into the darkness again when the occultists return. They keep re-appearing, prancing about, slashing themselves, sloshing blood and alcohol everywhere whilst reading aloud from these mouldy old tomes they bring with them, rending and torturing, buggering and murdering children on that altar thing.
Actually, I think perhaps they are trying to raise a devil for themselves.
Actually, I think they already have done.
Perhaps that's what it is that's moving around in the dark when things get quiet. I don't quite know how to express this, but it feels... infernal. It just doesn't seem to like the look of them any better than I do for some reason. I wouldn't know what appeals to a devil, but they certainly don't do much for me. Laughing raucously and behaving lewdly amongst themselves, rutting on their altar and on the floor, mussing up their carefully painted symbols...honestly, they don't seem very serious about it, whatever it is they're trying to do. Perhaps this is why he is rejecting them. Or perhaps I'm wrong and this just how you appeal to a devil.
They are back again now which only means one thing: they're giving devil raising another go and another of our number will die, at least one, and he or she will be the lucky one. We in the cages fall silent, hoping to turn invisible as they come to gloat over us, taking their time, poking, twisting, making their selection.
One of them laughs and says "And who shall it be today, my ducklings?" They were coming close to my cage so without hesitation I reached out and did the most painful thing I could think of to the boy in the cage with me: I reached between his legs and twisted, giving him a kick for good measure. His howl immediately drew the vultures to us.
"What ails this one all of a sudden?"
"Cramp, probably. It's tight in these cages."
"Or terror at our approach. He's been here long enough to know what it signifies." They laugh at that. One reaches a coarse, red hand through the bars and tries to lay hold of his leg while another works the complicated lock. The one with the thick red paws latches onto my cage mate and his cries escalate to blubbering howls for his 'mummy'. The smell of terror and fresh-spilled urine fills the air around me as I cling to the furthest corner of the tiny space, my arms locked onto the bars, trying to be invisible. I take care to turn my face away: I have learnt to my cost they fancy my eyes.
"Come forth little one, the devil will surely be pleased with your pretty form and yellow hair," a fat one at the back croons, clearly wanting those things for himself, devil be damned.
"What of the other one with the beautiful eyes?" says a new voice, a familiar one. I look back to see an exceedingly tall man dressed like a gentleman, all in black, a leather mask on his face that resembles curling black flames, or maybe curving feathers. I cannot see his eyes properly-there is something odd there but my blurred vision defeats me.
"Perhaps," the tall one drawls in a voice like treacle that suddenly recalls to me the one that whispers in my head when all is dark and quiet: "perhaps his little cage mate with the pretty eyes gave him a kick to turn attention away from himself?"
Bastard.
"Have him out as well then. We should teach him not to touch what does not belong to him." Another great meaty hand closes over the chain attached to my leg and I am jerked across the cage as well. I vow I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing my tears or hearing me cry.
Nor do I.
And all the while the tall one holds himself aloof, simply watching the proceedings. Smug bastard.
And that is what led to this latest beating. But as bad as it was it was, it was nothing to what was done to the other boy. His body violated, prodded, invaded in scores of ways, he bleeds and seeps and dribbles now in an unappealing heap of unconscious flesh on the other end of our shared cage. In the end they called him a failure and tossed him back in: the devil did not come for him, either. The masked gaggle filtered out of the room, disappointed once again.
"Who knew a devil could be so choosy, eh?" the tall one chuckles in a sweetly inflected whisper, melting back into the shadows as the others leave. So it was him, the thing who watches.
They beat me hard, thanks to his smart mouth, and it has made me short of breath and short of temper.
"Show yourself or fuck off, bastard wight!" I ordered into the silence. The two children in the next cage and the one who shares mine jerk at my loud voice, groaning and instinctively throwing their hands up to protect themselves—raised voices and raised fists go together in this new world of ours.
I heard another chuckle, dark and somehow seductive— I know little of such things but that is how I would describe it: seductive. Because it made me want to hear more of it, in spite of everything.
Yes, I know I'm young, but I knnow about carnal acts now. I've seen that rude, laughably awkward struggle to relieve the itch numerous times now. Crude, unadorned fucking, frottage and forced fornication, yes, yes, far more than I ever wanted to know, thanks to these masked monsters who hold us captive. They've taught both by example and hands-on. But this voice...this voice is something else again. Its words beguile, slip one over the other the way melting chocolate slips over the tongue, at once bitter and sweet, decadent and...desirable. The tone of it causes heat to gather in my gut in a way I don't really understand but it makes me think of those other acts, though I don't see the connexion. In spite of the beating it cost me, I want to hear more of that voice.
"I said show yourself!"
"Oh? And what will you give me if I do as you demand, little lordling?" it whispers, the wind of the words somehow stirs the hair lying against my neck sending a chill down my body. My anger makes me brave...or reckless.
"Well, what is your pleasure, devil? My resources are rather limited at the moment. I have piss-soaked trousers, a pot full of shit in the corner here—oh! and a few bloody, dripping wounds, thanks to your interference a while ago. Or perhaps you'd like to have my cage mate over there. You're welcome to him, though he hasn't long to live, I think. I suppose it depends on what you want with him whether he's of any use to you. Mind you, he's not really mine to give, but somehow, after crouching in this cage in the dark for Christ knows how long, I find myself pretty cavalier about rights and propriety. I suspect they mean very little to you, as well."
"Mmm. Quite so." The voice approves and I can hear both laughter and surprise in equal measure. An eerie silence descends. After a few moments I suddenly hear my cage mate's muffled voice moaning weak objections to something. He is suddenly struggling as though he can't breathe, or struggling with something. He thrashes and kicks—kicks me because of course these iron gaols were never made for comfort. They are neither wide nor high enough for me to escape his thrashing legs. In the end I guess he has his revenge for what I did to him earlier. Soon enough his kicking tails off into a long, shuddering spasm that straightens his limbs and holds them there, quivering. Then there is an odd, drawn out, rattling breath that turns my stomach, and after that he goes lax. I listen carefully for him to breathe in again but it doesn't happen.
The thing has taken him. At my word, the thing that watches has taken him! I must not lower my guard—not that I could fight off a thing of shadows, or whatever it is. My condition is so laughably pathetic I could not fight off a forward maggot. I should double my guard –
...but wouldn't death be a way to escape this hell?
What comes next makes my stomach heave. It is a sensation of wet heat, of what can only be a hot mouth on my arm where my captives caned and battered me to the point of blood and breaking bones. Pain blossoms anew and my stomach lurches and strains to eject its contents—only of course there are no contents, so there is only that sickening sensation of dry heaves and burning of acid climbing my throat which I struggle to stop.
"Get off me! Nng OFF me!" I cry, striking out with my good arm only to realise my invisible molester has progressed to lapping up the spilled blood from the rusty, filthy cage bottom. The thing has taken me at my word again, taken what I flippantly offered. I cringe away, realising it is beside me, right inside the cage with me.
"How did you get in here?!" I demand.
Laughter.
"Physical barriers do not hinder me. I go where I please. Even through you if I care to." I can see a tall form now, nothing more than a darker shadow in the ubiquitous darkness. A silhouette, but with eyes like a cat's in the dark: redly catching and reflecting the small amount of light cast by the distant torch burning fitfully in a bracket near the exit. The silhouette is slowly straightening up over me, standing erect as though the iron bars that trap me do not exist for it—for him: it is definitely a man's voice I am hearing, as well as a male form I am seeing. Its steps scrape and ring like iron-striking-iron on the cage bottom. I look up with envy despite my fear.
"I wish I had your talent, devil. I cannot recall when last I got to stand and stretch. I doubt my legs would hold me." Hopelessness lends me daring; I am speaking to some shade of hell as though it were my equal.
It is impossibly tall and thin,sleek and black. "I thank you for the refreshment, little lordling, you are a most generous host."
"There's still the shit pot over there if you're peckish."
"I thank you, but I must decline for now."
"You have nice manners for a devil."
"The devil is a fine gentleman. Have you not heard?"
"I've heard of the milk of human kindness too. Didn't make it real, did it." More soft dark laughter echoes and bounces eerily off the walls and arches overhead. I marvel that no one else seems to hear it, or hear me speaking to it for that matter.
"What a tart little tongue. You are a most amusing little morsel. I must definitely save you for last."
"Oh? Well, lucky me..." This makes the fiend laugh fit to burst.
"You should examine your little companion over there. He has many things you could make use of, and no further use for them himself: a stout pair of socks, for instance, a heavier jacket than your own and also a bit of blanket. If nothing else you could sleep on them. This stone floor must surely suck the heat from that fragile little body of yours when you lie on it. But don't wait too long. He will stiffen up soon enough and then you'll never get them off him."
"How thoughtful of you." I sneer, but do exactly as he suggests—dead bodies have long since lost their terror for me.
I lay down on the things I have scavenged. They still smell of the other boy and I don't like the reminder. In a few days, if I'm still alive, perhaps then I'll think about putting them on. Pain is all I can think about now. I ache terribly from the beating I was given and the pain is quickly growing. So to take my mind from my throbbing, swelling arm I try to draw out the fiend a little longer in conversation.
"These cultists, will you give them what they seek?"
More sputtering laughter. "Whatever for? They have nothing I want."
"And yet you're here."
No answer, only the ringing footfalls fading away.
"Are deals all you're interested in?"
A subdued chuckle. "Why, little one, did you have something in mind?"
"No," I sigh, squirming to find a comfortable way of laying down. "Not really. Only passing the time, trying to take my mind off the hurt and hunger."
"There's always the shit pot," he suggests, offering me what I offered him, and I can hear the laughter in his voice and can't help a little snort of my own. He has a clever tongue, I'll give him that.
"Not really to my taste either, though who knows ... if I'm down here long enough it might start to look better to me." More laughter. It seems to recede and echo and then the place feels empty again. I look about me as I am able. The reflective eyes and tall form are no longer anywhere to be seen.
