In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore, there lay a place which marred the perfection of pristine forests and valleys. In this disillusioned, modern village, which had slowly grown into a bustling city, and then found itself to be past its prime, the gutter was often just as inhabited as the surrounding edifices of crumbling stone. Some called this quaint little place Genesis City, as was the given name in years now long passed, but the starving housewives, (who more often than not were single mothers, and not wives at all) chose to call it Devil's Cove, because of the many evils that were thought to ensue in the dilapidated section of the city. Be that as it may, the place had its decent benefactors and citizens - not all of its residents were part of the mangy, complaining lower class…. Not far from the Main Square, there lies a large, sloping park with massive oaks and bubbling fountains, and if one ignores the occasional arrest of a drug dealer upon the premises, it gives the nice illusion of harmony to the naive eye. The sound of traffic was merely a murmur here, just loud enough to lull you to repose, and the occasional car horn or shouted curse word in traffic was almost the only sound that ever broke upon the uniform tranquility.
Perhaps if the peculiar inhabitants of the City were not so busy working, swallowing pills, smoking herbs, and drowning their troubles, they would've been able to notice the restless spirits that had also been so busy working, swallowing pills, and drowning their troubles. The premature death of many a poor soul caused fluctuations in time and space, allowing for the rather disturbing occurrence of randomly flying objects, acts of spontaneous combustion, and goose-bumps on the warmest of summer days. There were many tales of sorrow-laden folk who had leapt to their death from the dingy skyscrapers, or taken just a little too much alcohol, or popped a few too many pills. And of course there were the inevitable few who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and were forced to pay the price for watching someone else sin.
But these were merely restless souls that would occasionally scream from their grave – the dominant spirit that haunted this 'enchanted' region, and seemed to be the commander of all the other specters, is the apparition of a figure walking leisurely through the crumbling down town area … a figure who, at one point in history, had been chased down by merciless murderers and cut into pieces. The legends claimed it was all about some gang war, but those who knew about such things as ghosts claimed it simply wasn't possible… love must have been involved somehow for the creature to tear itself out of its grave so often. The wary traveler had only to remember this – if he saw this apparition, (who was claimed to be more ethereally beautiful than any of the gothic club-goers that frequented the area) he must make safe passage to the infamous Central Park, and pass through the gates, before the spirit will leave with a chilling scream and disappear into the air as if it were being ripped apart at the seams yet again.
Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the specter is known, at all the clubs, in all the alleyways, by the name of the Dead Doll of Devil's Cove.
It is remarkable, that the helpless rat-race syndrome I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the City, but is imperceptibly acquired by every one who resides there for a time. However mellow, however calm and content they may have been before they entered that accursed region, they were sure, in a little time, to imbibe the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow listless, edgy, and anxious. The call of the clubs was all that could ever fulfil such a race of perplexed mortals; endowed with the drugs, the liquor, the hypnotic music, and the other wild and crazy inhabitants of Devil's Cove.
In this by-place of nature there was a shy, pretty girl by the title of Kat; not Katrina, not Katherine..[but sometimes Kitty], and she was the jewel that shone brightly at all the clubs, the diamond among the rough at all the raves. All the boys wanted her, all the girls wanted to be her, (and, of course, there were the occasional few who wanted her regardless of their sex) and she was adored by all the owners, the bouncers.. and allowed entrance even though she was only at the ripe age of seventeen. She was a slender little sprite with amazingly long dancer's legs, which were often found grinding on the dance floor, and big violet eyes framed with ravenous raven lashes. A shock of pink hair was dreaded pencil-thin, and pulled back into two tiny pigtails, pinned, of course, by colorful baby barrettes. She was the perfect image of childlike innocence and naivete, who always wore baby doll dresses or cute furry pants and a pink tank top with the phrase, "The Sweetest Kittens Have the Sharpest Claws!" scrawled in an inky black across its front. Often found with a lollipop in her mouth, (it was easier to mumble "no" around its strawberry head than to simply spit out the word when someone asked her to dance), she'd sprawl prettily against the counter or a wall and wait for brazen young men to approach her with dance requests. Only the few whom she found remotely interesting were graced with her presence on the club's dance floor – usually, she'd refuse, wait a minute, and then go off and dance with herself – and the boys who were lucky enough to hear a murmured, "yeah, sure", became heady with the sweet scent of her perfume, the feeling of that ballerina body so close, and yet so far away… but they were never, ever, given a second try.
Except, perhaps, for a muscular man of twenty-two that everyone warily called Ash. (It was rumored that he was the ruffian who had set fire to the dilapidated church on the corner of Ophelia Drive and West Haven, hence the crowning title that served as his name.) He was a strapping lad of six foot three, with deep black hair he kept pulled back at the nape of his neck with an elastic band. Piercing gray eyes gave him the resemblance of a wolf, although his face was always clean-shaven. Fond of leather pants and tight black T-shirts, he was quite the formidable looking young man. As were his groupies; Draven, a tall, lanky male with chin-length white hair and unnerving black eyes, Morgan, a short, stocky sort of fellow with green spiked hair and multiple piercings who seemed to like adorning his clothes and skin with chains, and finally Vlad, the vampire-junkie of the group, (who, at an average height and build still managed to rouse a scream from unsuspecting passersby in the shadows of dark alleyways) flaunted waist-length black hair and permanent fangs (which had only cost him two hundred dollars in New York City). Their favorite activity other than wreaking havoc about the city streets was to frequent clubs and raves to pick out the cutest, most naive girls they could, and try to break them in.
Kat, however, was a stubborn little thing and had infuriated Ash for nearly four months now. No other man dare approach the little coquette when Ash was present – they'd be asking for a sure beating and swift removal from the premises. It wasn't until the arrival of a rather odd little character that anyone dare to compete with the King of Chaos.
He wasn't much to look at… he was tall, but rather plain… with short, dyed-black hair and contacts that liked to dislodge themselves from his muddy-brown eyes. He didn't have the money to dress as most club-goers, so he was often found wearing old black dress pants and a rumpled black button-up shirt. He tried, really he did… but it seemed he was cursed with the "loser" gene. A struggling WebPage designer, he spent most of his time staring at a computer screen, or instructing others to create their own. He called himself Ichabod – but others seemed to wind up calling him "Icky". Lucky for him, (and perhaps everyone else) he was a good-natured fellow, and tried not to take offense to all the teasing he received. Any time that wasn't spent staring intently at a glowing computer screen was spent pouring over ancient texts of haunts and witchcraft. He had become an expert of sorts on the paranormal, and had even dabbled in some innocent spell-work. His most recent obsession was to discover the story behind the Dead Doll that haunted the loneliest part of downtown Devil's Cove, and, after having made that discovery, to possibly aide the spirit back into its grave, to ease its suffering somehow. Some might say he was simply too kind-hearted for his own good.
After a tarot-reading session at a New Age bookstore that he made sure to visit at least twice a week, Ichabod discovered a muddy pamphlet on the crumbling sidewalk outside the entrance. Squinting through wire-rimmed glasses that irritatingly slipped down his nose as he bent forward, he made out the phrase, "The night summons like a long-lost lover, beckoning with the promise of dark desire." A black rose curled delicately around a rather Egyptian-looking cat at the top corner, with the creature poised as if it would jump down onto the poetic words at any moment, and scatter the letters to and fro. Those dark brown eyebrows rose, as he bent down fully to retrieve the paper from the muddy cement and brought it up close to his face to examine it. It was an advertisement for a club only a few blocks away, "The Temple of Bastet". The name, at least, held some sort of interest for the fellow, as he was an avid follower of the sagas of many pantheons of gods, (and Bastet happened to be one of his favorite Egyptian heroines). Perhaps it was possible to find someone with like interests at such a place…? Not too many of his generation frequented the New Age bookstore, and he was hard up for friendship, as he had only moved in a year before. Set and determined to make an appearance and impress somebody, he scampered on home and tried to come up with some image that was anything but him.
His entrance was anything but impressive – he tripped coming in the door. His murky brown eyes darted quickly this way and that to check if anyone had seen his catastrophic klutz attack, but he saw no one… and the hastily-implanted contacts swam with the furtive movement, causing the entire scene before him to blur and swim until they settled down again. (He really did need to get ones fitted to the right curvature one of these days.) Clearing his throat and trying to hide his blush of embarrassment, he made his way into the slight throng of the crowd, and slumped against a wall to get his bearings. There were so many people around him, so many beautiful, exotic looking people. Hardly anyone in the place still had natural-looking hair. Most had more than half a dozen piercings, not even counting the ones that graced their curving earlobes, which throbbed with each intense beat of industrial-techno music. He glanced down at his own shabby apparel and, for a moment, felt completely and utterly ashamed of himself. And then she, she came into view. She couldn't have been human, it simply wasn't possible for anyone to be that… that stunningly beautiful. A crimson flush invaded the skin that stretched across his skull, and his lower lip was brought between two rows of pearly teeth in a gesture of nervous anxiety. He gawked for only a second before he felt the need to avert his eyes, lest he contaminate the perfection of her.
She saw him look, she saw the flush… and smiled, knowingly. But he didn't seem like the others… he seemed so innocent, so unsure of himself, of his surroundings. Very unlike the bold and the beautiful who flocked to her and felt the need to brandish their masculinity with the most mundane pick-up lines, he seemed as if he might actually be… honest.
Her curiosity having been piqued, she made sure to glance back at him every now and then between the everyday requests from the masses. She refused many of them flatly, as usual, but would, on occasion, begrudgingly accept an invitation on the account that she'd rather have them pay for a drink than delve her own dainty hands into her pocket. He watched her intensely at varying intervals, but would always interrupt himself with a rush of nervous embarrassment and found solace only by the bar, away from where she was dancing.
There seemed to be a brief period of silence, excluding the music, which never ceased in its constant thump-thump-thump of a bass, when a tall, black-haired man made his way into the room, followed by three rather odd looking fellows. It could've been Ichabod's imagination, but he thought he saw a few young men who had previously begged for Kat's attention slip quietly out the door upon the arrival of the small posse with a look of… fear, in their eyes. His adam's apple rose and fell in one swift motion as he watched the beast of a man saunter across the room towards him. His arms were enormous with muscle mass, and his chest was at least two and a half times the circumference of his own. (Although that wasn't saying much, as Ichabod was as thin as a bean pole.) He wasn't sure why he was so afraid, it's not as if he even knew the man, but a few beads of salty perspiration formed where his hair met his forehead. A relieved sigh escape drawn lips as he was passed by, and vaguely heard a gruff voice ask for a beer. It made sense, you go to the bar for a drink. Nothing at all to worry about…
He watched in boyish fascination as the larger man made his way back across the club, drink in hand, approaching his new-found fixation. She was simply ravishing in her short black dress and neon-pink fishnet tights. Tiny little sequins had been placed at the outer corner of each bewitching violet eye, and they caught the flashing lights like two tiny diamonds, or perhaps stars… and he swore that when she turned, they winked at him. The ominous man in black began speaking to her… her name was Kat. What a fitting name for such a feline face. He could imagine, with a smile, a tail twitching in irritation behind her as she was approached by her many suitors. And his was Ash. Another gulp made his adam's apple tremble. He had heard that name whispered in dark corners, had heard the rumors, the myths, the legends. No wonder he had felt a sense of foreboding when the man was near. A sort of weary sigh escaped him, as he watched the whole show of "boy meets girl", although the two had surely met before, and he wished, oh, how he wished, he could be in Ash's shoes. The heaven-sent angel of a pink-haired girl batted her thickly coated lashes at him in such a teasing fashion. If only he could demand such attention, from her, from anyone of the opposite sex. But as I had mentioned, in previous text, he had been cursed with the "loser gene". He had no hope. Or had he?
A look of pure indignation marred the pretty girl's porcelain face, and all suggestions of flirtation vanished into thin air. They seemed to be speaking more loudly, but the incessant heavy bass of the music kept him from hearing exactly what transferred from one mouth to the next. All he knew was that suddenly, the angel known as Kat had turned on her pretty little heel and now stood in front of him. A feeling more fearful than he had encountered when approached by the beastly presence of Ash washed over him and strangled his heart. He gasped for air, amazed that she was so close, so close….
And then she asked him to dance. Those oversized and virgin ears (meaning they were lacking in piercings) thought that perhaps they had misheard the girl. So she repeated herself, once… and offered a carefully manicured hand in his direction. His jaw dropped, snapped shut with the approaching Ash, and he quickly shook himself from his state of shock and took that saintly hand, so gingerly, afraid he might taint it with his lowly touch.
Giggling, she tugged him onto the dance floor and pulled him close, those generous hips gyrating back and forth as she began the languid movement of the dance. That skeletal form tried so hard to mimic the movements, but he made a poor mirror – more like a murky pool where a stone is dropped to ripple the crystalline surface and one must squint to see the resemblance of ones own face. She bit her lip as she watched his attempt, and took both of his hands in hers, placing them upon her hips. He was innocently… cute. She asked his name by stage whispering in his ear (as a real whisper could never have been heard under the current of high-pitched sirens and thundering bass lines), causing a shiver to roll down his spine like a raindrop down the curved stem of a disfigured weed.
He replied in the same fashion, after a clearing of his throat and a few strangled gasps for air, a simple, "Ichabod". Again, she let loose that faerie giggle, that hung and rang in the air around them like little silver bells, nearly breaking the constant annoyance of thump-thump-thump in the music. She decided to call him Icky. And for once, the sullen boy smiled at the abhorred nickname. From her lips, it was the sweetest pet name in all of the world.
A moment of bliss, and then it all froze, shattered, and disappeared as Ash approached, playfully pulling Kat away. Penciled eyebrows furrowed with his touch, and she wheeled to face him. Ichabod simply stood there, unsure of what to do. Was he to be defeated so quickly? Or should he have been glad to get a glimpse of such perfection, to touch, for a moment, that beautiful porcelain goddess of a girl? A few, "Come on, baby"s, a couple laughs, and a comment somewhere along the lines of, "this loser?" moved from Ash's lips. Any bit of joy that Ichabod had once contained released itself in one long, heavy sigh, as he turned and slumped those scrawny shoulders, preparing to leave. At the contact of cool flesh wrapping around his wrist, he paused, turned, afraid for a moment as to why he was being detained. A vulgar insult contaminated the holiness of Kat's cupid-bow mouth, and Ash's jaw dropped in shock, then clenched tight in furious rage. Ice-gray eyes bore down into muddy-brown, and Ichabod trembled with a fear he had but only once known – in the presence of a ghost; but this was flesh, this was bone, and this was more angry than he had ever seen in his entire life of 21 years.
Before he could keel over like a rag doll, Kat tugged him further into the depths of the dance floor so as to ignore the pursuit of her former suitor. Glancing over one bony shoulder, Ichabod saw that Ash had gathered his groupies and was slipping out the door. With another murmured sigh, Icky let loose his relief, and turned back to the calming beauty of the glorious, mysterious, and over-whelmingly sweet Kat.
They danced until it was nearly an hour before dawn, and Kitty-Kat, as Icky now called her, (much to her amusement) had introduced him to a few of her oddball friends who took much pleasure in sharing ghost stories and tales of their experiences with the paranormal. One woman, in particular, opened up the large book of her mind and pulled out all the information she had on the Dead Doll of Devil's Cove. She proposed that it was possible to conjure the spirit from her resting place, with the promise that you will provide some sort of sacrifice to sate her thirst for blood and revenge. With all of her attacks on mortal flesh, it seemed, she had never once harmed another woman…. Ichabod trembled with the thought of meeting such a dreadful ghoul with a passion for male flesh, but remembered, and calmed himself, with the knowledge that he knew how to speak to the dead… or at least, he had read up on it.
Exhausted and exhilarated, Ichabod paid his regards to his new acquaintances and kissed his fair maiden's hand. With a smile, she kissed his cheek, and slipped him a napkin from the bar that held her coveted phone number. Taking his hand in hers, she murmured that she'd walk him a few blocks home, a teasing smile curling up the corners of those glossy lips as she promised she would be safe on her own, as the Dead Doll only ate men.
As they walked the few cold but now not-so-lonely blocks, Kat shared information about Ash with Ichabod, warning that he was certainly the jealous type and would, perhaps, try to take out his anger on her dear Icky. She knew he dabbled in the dark arts, and verified the rumor that yes, he had burnt down that old, dilapidated church. Feigning a nonchalant attitude, he laughed and patted her shoulder, reassuring her that he could take care of himself. A butterfly's caress of a kiss graced his lips, she smiled as he stood in shock, and then turned to dash back down the street towards the club so she could find a ride home. Over her shoulder, she called out these few simple words, "Call me when you get home, so I know the Dead Doll didn't get you!" Heavy eyelids fell to flushed cheeks, and he spun around in pure ecstasy, reminiscing in the sweet scent of her perfume that still lingered here and there where she had brushed against him. A kiss! One sweet, delectable, sugar-coated kiss! With a lazy, happy smile he turned on his heel to head back to his own dingy, diminutive apartment – and stopped dead in his tracks as a shadow leaned over him in a most menacing fashion. Alcohol-tinged breath washed over him in a nauseating wave, sour and stale, as the wrathful Ash threatened to cut off his hands for daring to touch his Kat, promised to cut out his tongue so he could never speak with her again, and vowed to rip his ears off so he could never hear her call for him.
And then? The most sinister of smiles curled those thin, masculine lips upwards at the corner, turning that face into something utterly demonic, as he finished his little speech. He claimed he didn't have to tear Ichabod apart – because he could get the Dead Doll to do it for him.
It took all of Ichabod's might to suppress a scream of absolute terror, his lower lip being drawn betwixt two rows of pearly teeth as he bit it back; he pressed just a little too hard, and quickly released his hold as a droplet of the deep crimson liquid rose like red teardrop from his rent lip, then ran lethargically down to the corner of his mouth where it lingered casually, becoming the only color on his now sheet-white face. If Ash hadn't been as tipsy as he was from all of the fury-driven alcohol consumption, he would've been able to let that hand fly out and grab at the precious bit of blood on Ichabod's lip – but, as the poor thing was so deathly frightened, he was as stiff as a board, and didn't dare move as Ash's hand lumbered out and smeared the rich ruby vitae across Ichabod's chin. There was a sudden cold wind, as Ash began to murmur in some long-dead tongue that somehow managed to register in Ichabod's mind; (he, of course, had only read about the black arts to protect himself). A low, plaintive cry echoed in the rising wind, invading the sanctity of poor Ichabod's stomach and focusing on the bottom of his spine, crawling its way upward to stab at his brain, to burn his eyes with tears of such a terror he felt as if he couldn't breathe.
Cold, hungry, invisible fingers pawed through his brain, clutching here and there at memories and energy patterns that brought back all of the old stories, the old superstitions, the old fears. The sorrowed, almost vicious song that hung in the air worked its way into his lungs, and he found himself beginning to match it, until his voice manipulated itself into a single, terrified scream. Ash simply laughed, and watched Ichabod turn on his heel, teetering back and forth for a moment as he caught his balance and ran off down to the street, blindly… to be anywhere but there. Anywhere but in the cold embrace of stifling fear.
Ash followed, however, to make sure the deed would be completed – and to watch Ichabod squirm and scream as the demonic ghost of a haunted woman tore him apart and took him for all he was worth. He had never had a reason, or the willpower, to call up such a creature – but under the influence of alcohol, of drugs, of pure and blinding jealousy, he found within himself the strength to open the doors to Hell.
He didn't even pause, as he lifted his evil mask of a face to the heavens and called out his incantation again, pounding down the street like a roll of thunder after the petrified Ichabod. It grew all the more colder, more cruel, and Ichabod stopped, stooping over to rest over-sized hands on his bony knees, wheezing and gasping for air. He had never exerted so much energy in all of his life – computer work didn't call for such trifles. The frigidness of the air nearly slapped him in the face, waking him up to 'reality' (as it was becoming all the more surreal each passing moment), and he thumbed through the reference section of his memories, scanning for anything he had heard about the Dead Doll of Devil's Cove. The park! Of course! A swift recollection of his surroundings and the whereabouts of the city streets made him turn, clockwise, and head down a narrow alleyway. If, in his frightened state of mind, he could remember correctly, sanctuary lay just four blocks away.
A sudden, blood-curdling scream caused him to stop so quickly he nearly fell forward with the left-over momentum. With eyes as wide as saucers, he turned in an agonizingly slow fashion to face whatever had called in such a horrific manner. And there she stood. The Dead Doll of Devil's Cove. The blood that had pounded so furiously through his body just moments before seemed to freeze, curdle, and marbleize into stone, falling from him bit by bit as he fought for the ability to breathe. A sinister smile curled her mouth into a pale crescent moon, and she walked, slowly, mesmerizingly, towards him… one dainty white foot in front of the other. She was white all over, a pale, softly glowing blue that became transparent in cadence with her movements. His tongue felt as if it had swollen up and then been swallowed, and was now writhing this way and that in his stomach. Unable to make a sound, he tore his gaze away from her as she began to bleed transparent blood and fall apart, reaching out for him imploringly as if she needed his help to put herself back together again. Ash watched all, hidden behind a corner, out of the phantom's sight, his eyes growing wide as she fell to pieces and then put herself back together again, moving as she did so to catch up with the fleeing Ichabod.
The streets stretched on forever, until it seemed he had no strength left to run from the horror that followed behind him. Lifting his gaze in an attempt to pierce the darkness, he nearly cried for joy as the huge gate of Central Park came into sight. He could feel her breath, dark and cold, against the back of his neck, and spurred himself towards the beckoning gateway all the more quickly. He heard physical footsteps behind him, and in an instant, knew that Ash had followed to watch the ghastly ghoul do her dirty work. Icy fingers coiled about his right arm and jerked him backwards; with the built-up momentum he toppled forward and hit the pavement, that oddly-shapen skull crashing into the thick cement below. He cried out upon impact, but, groaning, managed to pick himself up and stumble, purely from the adrenaline, towards the gate. Just ten feet away… he knew he could make it. He knew!
The abhorrent shade lifted watery eyes, watching her supposed prey make his way toward safety. Anything to be brought back so painfully to her grave – she hurled herself forward, wrapping skeletal arms about the wounded knave and tackling him to the now grass below. Screaming, he tried to dislodge himself from her cruel embrace, kicking and flailing his arms as best he could under her grasp. With great effort, she brought him round to look down into his face, as if she would consume his entire being beginning with the head. His head rolled back and forth on the ground, blood flying from the would he had been inflicted with upon contact with the street just moments before, mouth held wide in screams that would wake the dead. A sudden silence overcame the night, as those murky brown eyes caught sight of her pitiful pale blue gaze. "Release me, release me, release me," echoed in his mind, in such a tone it made him want to cry. Waves of emotional pain rode over him with her touch, and he managed to wrench himself free, and turned to point an accusing finger towards the approaching Ash. Now-decaying translucent flesh turned, slowly, to catch sight of the man who had summoned her so rudely from her grave. Masculinity stripped, Ash froze in a terror he had never known, as the hungry eyes of a rotting spirit made contact with his. A sinister smile replaced the pathetic look of pain upon her face, and with renewed hope, she turned all attentions to the brute of a man who was reduced to a child, turning to flee down the same streets Ichabod had just run from. Ichabod saw her leave, he saw the stars, and the mood faded into an inky blackness as he fell backwards and allow his tiredness, his pain, to lull him into a deep, tormented sleep in the park.
They never saw Ash again… his face never appeared at his usual haunts, and his groupies scattered with no commanding leader to boss them around. Kat brought Ichabod more deeply into the club scene, exposing him to the "wild side of life", and then he pulled her from its grasp – showing her that she needn't be adored by everyone to feel complete. He, instead, could fill that unsatisfied bit of her heart that craved so much attention. It was rumored that Ash, out of jealousy, had beaten Ichabod and left him to die in the Park, then, on the account that it was in violation of his parole, had fled the City to escape prosecution. No one but Ichabod and the Dead Doll knew the truth – and even Ichabod questioned the events of that night long past, and the pitiful expression of helplessness on such a beautiful phantom's face.