Chapter Fifteen: Helpless Little Sinner
Matthew, sun-hot and sweaty, wipes his forehead with a dirty forearm, smearing dirt and ash along his face. An ax hangs loose and swinging palm as the man stares into the bonfire.
Jonah admires him from the back porch, some old hero of legend toiling away to please. He comes when Jonah calls, barefoot through grass. He sips the hot coffee Jonah has brought him, his dark doe-eyes, so prettily ringed in thick lashes, meet the medium's own over the steaming cup. Jonah takes it from him, sets it down on the porch along with his own.
"You didn't pay the toll," and the damning, devilish smirk that slinks onto Matt's face makes the witch think he might've said the magic words. Matthew's hands are hot and sticky on the back of Jonah's neck, bracing the bottom rounded-edge of the teen's skull, his mustache scraping rough against Jonah's face as he kisses him hard, all teeth and tongue and an unfathomable depth of want. It feels like it lasts forever, and Jonah wishes it would, licking the roof of Matt's mouth. The man moans, a low, heady sound, pushing Jonah up against the back screen door.
They break away for air eventually, breathing harshly. A feeling of elation and intrigue, then, as Jonah's hands find the swell of Matthew's erection through his sweatpants, warm even through the fabric, he traces the outline and curve of it through the fabric before he dips a hand inside, finding him easily and surely, bolder than he could ever be in life. Jonah leans forward to mouth at Matt's adam's apple, a bobbing, nervous thing as the man's head tosses back, groaning into the hot summer morning.
"Let me repay your hard work, Matthew, my dearest," he whispers, reveling in the shocked lust written all over Matthew's handsome, blushing face, as Jonah goes to his knees right there on the back porch. He pulls the occultist's sweatpants carelessly down, thumbing the hallows of knees as he goes. Matt startles and pants, a low growl rumbling from him as Jonah's hands find the thick, lean-muscled flesh of his ass, gripping each cheek in hand, spreading and kneading, an absolute fucking marvel. The man groans and stumbles slightly, unsteady as Jonah uses his grip on him as leverage to pull him closer, nuzzling along Matthew's cock, bobbing suspended and wanting between two furred, scarred thighs. Jonah presses his nose to the crease where thigh meets groin, inhaling deeply, lapping salt and musk from the tender spot, and Matt makes one hell of a sound, something high pitched and needy. His dirty hands, still caked in ash, find their way to Jonah's hair, twining through it, messing it up as he grips the medium's skull in his hands.
Jonah takes his time to worship Matthew properly, to pay him back for everything, everything from the chopped up table, to the chopped up walls, all those discarded and burned bodies, the very breath in Jonah's lungs, their heartbeat, one and the same. He starts off slow, working his mouth and tongue along the sides, the underside, mouthing at the root of it, burying his nose in curly, damp pubic hair. Gods be damned, Matthew smells so fucking good, smells like him, so thick and heavy here. It turns Jonah's brain to mush, that smell, as he loses his own patience, taking the weeping head into his mouth, salty, before seeing just how much of Matthew he can swallow down all at once. It takes a few tries, but Jonah only gags once before he settles completely, nose to pubic bone, throat slack, drooling heavily from the corners of his mouth.
"Oh God, Jonah—" Matthew's voice is strangled and high, his hands shaking as he ruffles fine black hair, rubs his cheekbones with a questing thumb, the other prodding gently at the corners of Jonah's mouth, feeling the tautness there, the stretch, trying his best to poke the finger in alongside his own dick. It's too much though, and Jonah closes his eyes, embarrassed, squirming and rocking on his knees, gripping Matthew's cheeks hard as he finds some semblance of a rhythm, bobbing his head sloppily, feeling Matthew hit the back of his throat with each push.
"Oh God, oh—fuck, Jonah, I—I can't—gonna, come, soon, honey, s-stop—"
Jonah looks up then, catches Matt's eyes with his own, wanting nothing so badly in his lives than to see the look in Matthew's eyes when he finishes, watch his aura shift so vibrantly with quick-moving colors. The main one is green, the richest, deepest of forest greens, brightly screaming love, so much love, matching the look in Matthew's eyes as he comes, hunched tightly over Jonah's head and panting, his whole body shaking. Jonah drinks it all down, so horribly grateful, singing praises to his love in his head as he feels Matthew shake to pieces and fill his mouth, down his throat, keeping the poor man up with his grip alone. Matthew eventually pulls free of him, a wild look in his eyes, staggering back. He knocks over their coffees almost instantly, spilling them down the porch steps, but Jonah just laughs, and laughs, and laughs, poor baby—
Jonah wakes from this dream with a startled groan, beet red and trembling. He stares down the length of himself, staring at his own erection, proud and standing tall, mildly disgusted at the fact that he's still caked in the leftover traces of his orgasm last night. Jesus fucking Christ, I'm a helpless little sinner, head-first into damnation, so sick. A horrid little pervert for sure, he self-admonishes, even as he takes himself in hand again. He does his best to recall Matthew's smell, that damned smell, and his taste, the way he'd trembled, the sounds he'd made.
Where that particular dream had come from, Jonah has no fucking clue. He'd only seen that act before once, by accident, witnessed as a glimpse between bushes at the fucking petting party of all things, that ill-fated best night of his previous life. He wouldn't have considered himself intrigued until that particular scenario reared its head in the dream. God, he really, really, really fucking wants to, would do anything to be able to go to his knees in front of the professor—
With a groan, he dirties himself again. In the afterglow, shaking and slightly ashamed, Jonah ponders the beginning of the dream instead, shyly replays the kiss in his head over and over again, so different from the fleeting, chaste little thing Matthew and he had exchanged on that horribly-fated night, that life changing, life ruining meeting of mouths. If I'm successful, he promises himself, dizzy with want, if my plan pays off, I'm going to kiss that man silly.
After a quick but thorough shower, scrubbing all of his shame from himself, leaving his skin pink and chafed, Jonah dresses and goes downstairs, feeding Rusty before putting on coffee. Jonah reads the comics section of the paper, snipping out his favorites and taping it into his comics book, as he eats a simple breakfast of biscuits and gravy. After, he goes to work chopping veggies and whips up a quick and easy stew, something he can eat on for the next few days as he finishes up his research. He throws together a quick dough and sets it aside to prove before sequestering himself in Matthew's study again, only emerging later to put the bread into the oven, and again even more hours later to eat and relieve himself. He falls into this pattern, eat, piss, and feed the cat, for the next few days, stealing short little naps here and there right there on the window seat, or snuggled safe and warm in Matthew's bed.
Sometime a little afternoon on Wednesday, Jonah's rough sketch of his plan, his spell, turns into a full-fledged one, detailed and solid. He's been over it so many times, considering it, turning it this way and that in his head, making sure he can't do any better, can't improve it, ensuring that the spell is as actionable and potentially effective as it could ever be. He's learned an insane amount about his own existence during the course of his research. His physical existence, while an extension of Matthew's life force, is also directly attached to his remains, the remains Matthew had used to reincarnate him in the first place. If Jonah strays too far from his remains, he'll cease to exist; so, essentially, he's been working out a way to make them portable, make it a possibility to be able to carry them with him, on his person at all times, so, in theory, he can not only leave the property, but go anywhere. That realization hadn't taken long into the research process. Most of Jonah's time had actually been spent trying to devise a method to do this, how to bind his remains and spirit to some object he can carry with him, and the incantations that would entail. He's basically making a talisman of sorts out of his own self. Choosing the object, however, hadn't been that difficult.
He'd fetched it, after writing up the final draft of his incantations and the necessary spellwork. Jonah sits now on the back porch step, smoking a cigarette, Rusty curled up between his feet, turning the pocket watch over and over in his hands, the one he had won off of Matt after a poker game. Matthew's grandfather's pocket watch. It's a beautiful piece, polished brass and hanging from a braided cord, the cord damn near crumbling with age. The outer casing is etched with a design of the sun and a full moon, hanging together in the sky over mountains and the sea, wavy little etched currents. The clock's face is brass as well, etched with large numbers, the clock hands tiny, pointed hands. Jonah's never seen anything quite like it. There's no glass covering the watch's face, and a tiny triangular cutout in the middle, the one that attaches the watch hands to the gears behind the clock face, is exposed, showcasing the gears turning inside. It still works somehow, blessed be, but it requires being wound by a specialized little key at least once every twelve hours. It could be potentially disastrous, tying his soul and lifespan to a literal ticking clock, but it seems fitting. Jonah thinks the symbolism of it might make it more persuasive, a vessel for a spirit the gods may deem worthy, especially considering the watch's ties to his maker—technically his master, a thought that initially made Jonah angry, that now gives him a sick little kick—Matthew, as Jonah is, after all, his poppet. His very own little voodoo doll.
With his plans finished, Jonah's first order of business is rather mundane—crafting a new cord for the watch, something long enough to allow Jonah to wear it around his neck. That's what Jonah's currently trying to figure out, puzzling over potential options as he chain smokes on the back porch, absentmindedly giving Rusty's little head scratches between the ears. It has to be sturdy, but it also has to be made of something meaningful to either Jonah, Matt, or both of them. He thinks he's settled on a solution, but it seems almost blasphemous. It's going to require the destruction of several things they both hold dear.
Jonah starts with the blanket first, the same beautiful crocheted one Matthew has wrapped them up in so many times. It smells like the both of them, its brown, purple, and blue yarn worn from years of love and care. He doesn't unravel the whole thing, just enough to have a length of each color about a foot long, carefully re-knotting the new edges of the blanket. Next is one of Matthew's t-shirts, the one Jonah has seen him wear most often. The shirt is, unfortunately, destroyed-ish once Jonah is done gently cutting enough strips of it to match the length of fabric he needs. It's still technically a shirt, just, uh…cropped, now? And lastly, comes Jonah's nightgown, the same one Matthew dressed him in less than an hour after his rebirth. His favorite one. He takes the top neckline, the double-sided cotton embroidered with tiny blue X's, and the bottomost hem of the garment.
Jonah's left then with nine lengths to be braided, all cotton and yarn, brown, purple, blue, white, and black. It's an unintentionally perfect combination of colors, Jonah muses, and he patiently and carefully braids them all together before stitching up the braid by hand, binding each strand to another with tiny little black-threaded stitches. After, Jonah soaks the whole thing in linseed oil, hanging the braided cord up above the kitchen sink to dry. While he waits for it to dry, Jonah gently cleans and polishes the entire watch, and removes and polishes the little brass caps from the original cord. The key, the one used to wind the watch, Jonah fixes to one of the aglet caps, along with a large lobster clasp. His intention is to be able to clasp the necklace from the caps, from one of which will dangle the key. This clasp will be hidden in the back, with the pocket watch resting smoothly at the front, just between his collarbones, secure on the length of braid. Jonah brings this design to life once the cord is dry, affixing the little brass caps to each end of the cord with super glue he found in the kitchen. The whole thing is very sturdy—Jonah clasps it around his neck and practices trying to rip or pull it off himself, getting rough with it, and feels reassured that the cord and clasps hold strong. Pulling the necklace off the medium without taking the time to undo the clasps entirely will be next to impossible.
With this prepared, all that's left is to gather the supplies and set up the altar. Firstly, Jonah makes an offering of food, a plate of fruits, carefully arranged—a pomegranate, symbolizing the fruit of the spirit and one's soul; plums, a traditional offering that symbolizes faith and devotion; an apple, representing the duality of good and evil, of innocence and sin; and finally, cherries. A symbol of love, the reason for this spell in the first place. Love, thankfulness, and devotion.
The rest of the supplies, he gathers from the old, rugged chest in Matthew's bedroom: the occultist's daith; chime candles in black, orange, and red; various crystals and stones, including onyx, an uncut garnet, a rough little piece of amber, with a spider trapped inside, how cute; and finally, an unassuming little river-rock, white and speckled with gray, it almost looks like an egg. This stone, Jonah took the time to locate himself, crouched down in the stream he and Matt had spent so much time in, searching efficiently in the fading light of the sun. It's nightfall by the time he returns to the house. Perfect.
The altar, he sets up in the mortuary, a little round table Matthew had kept a lamp and knick knacks on in the living room. Jonah takes the time to paint a pentacle on it it white paint, smooth, sure strokes of his brush, careful to encase the five-pointed star in a circle. North, for Earth, South, for fire, West for water, and East for the air. He works diligently by lamplight, his shadow flickering the unfinished mural on the mortuary wall. He arranges the stones, candles, and the offering of food inside the pentacle, along with the daith and the pocket watch, with its brand-new, waterproof cord.
He cleanses the room and all of the objects and offerings with sage, internally a little worried that the energy from his original reincarnation may taint the spell, or his intentions. He hasn't actually done a spell since his childhood—Father didn't truly believe in witchcraft, after all, only putting stock into black magic, which, Jonah guessess, this technically is, but Father only practiced necromancy. It was Jonah's mother who did the spellwork, at a flat, smooth rock in their backyard under a shade tree.
Lastly, Jonah fetches the little tin box containing his remains, which Matthew had carefully and cluelessly hidden under the bottomost basement stair, thinking Jonah would never find it. Jonah runs his fingers along his own little bit of skull, his exposed cheekbone, travels along the rims of his own eye socket. It's definitely an unnerving sensation, and Jonah imagines he can almost feel his own touch through his skin, feather-light and curious. The skull fragment is still painted in Matthew's own blood, rusty-black and flaking. Perfect, as Matthew won't be able to lend any fresh blood to the spell. Jonah places his own bit of skull in the center of the pentacle, along with a little pile of his own ashes, sifted from the bottom of the tin.
Jonah extinguishes the lantern and sits in the dark, cross-legged in front of the altar, a lighter clenched in his clammy, trembling fist. He takes great big deep breaths, taking his time to calm down, slow his heartbeat, to clear all intentions and thoughts from his mind other than his intentions and goals for the spell. Once he's finally satisfied, awash in a pure, meditative state, he lights the candles in the appropriate order. Jonah can feel his own energy and power like a living thing, writhing tendrils that seem to snake around his arms, twine around his fingers and down to his toes, wriggling behind his eyes. Jonah uses this power to reach out and touch each object and piece of offering on the altar, imbuing every single thing with his intention, his demands. The whole thing glows with a strange aura, a pulsating haze of orange and purple, the colors of his own spirit and self.
Jonah repeats his mantras and intentions constantly, without fault, as he ensures his magic is at its peak. The air around him shifts and trembles, the flames of the candles each splitting into three, oscillating and orange, like little summer tulips. Jonah's heart leaps—someone powerful is here. Someone is listening. He scans the room beyond, dimly lit in the glow of the candles, and catches glimpses of various faces, morphing and melting in the dark, smears of power and energy of various colors and textures.
One of them, a glowing white orb like the moon, hangs suspended above the altar. That particular entity, the One, Jonah himself has never been able to summon before. An old god, the God, the one Christians rather unknowingly and innocently pray to. The creator of all things. The other shifting faces in the room are other deities, other entities and spirits. One of them, the figure of the crone, her face obscured by a veil of purple, Jonah knows well. She is the Seer spirit, the patron deity of all prophets, mediums, and mystics. Another entity, one Jonah is embarrassed but absolutely honored and humbled to have heard his call, his intention, is a rather shapeless form of bodies twining, writhing and shifting with each other, a bloody red. The being of passion and romantic love. Another goddess, a naked, pale young woman, kneeling on the floor and offering her palms face-up, is the goddess of devotion.
Other beings are there too, witnessing. He addresses everyone he can by name and addresses the ones he doesn't know, gesturing to each one with his and Matthew's daith, reaching out to offer them his power. He's speaking in the Old Words, an unwritten language one can't necessarily be taught, only shown. Jonah hopes he's speaking correctly, coherently, doing his best to be clear and concise. He's never spoken it aloud. He addresses the One last, bowing his head in respect. Instead of offering his power, he spreads his arms and subjugates himself in worship, holding his breath and waiting to see if the One will stoop so low as to bless someone as damned as himself.
Eventually, like a whisper, or a soft summer breeze, the One's power washes over Jonah. It feels like being doused with ice-cold water, and Jonah gasps at the force of it. Accepted, the energy in the room turns warm and familiar. Various entities, gods, and goddesses approach the altar to receive the offering of fruits, though the One never partakes. He doesn't need to. Once everyone is settled, Jonah explains his intentions and asks for their blessings, power, and support for his goal of the spell. The One has already given his blessing and power. One by one, each of the other entities give their blessing, the altar and its dressings rattling, pulsating with the sheer force of all of their energy combined, a blinding light of orange and white.
This energy flashes, pulsing once before the candles go out, plunging the room into darkness for a few seconds before the energy and flames return. Jonah gasps, startled at the figure suddenly standing right in front of him, touching the edges of the altar with her pale, long fingers. Her long black hair veils her face, hides her naked form from him. She smells like sunflowers, and almond oil, and cinnamon and cloves. The smell brings tears to Jonah's eyes and they run, unbidden, down his face. The spirit reaches out and brushes the tears from his face. Her hands are cold, but they caress his face lovingly, knowingly as they trace his features. She tilts her head and smiles, her features revealed, though her yes are white, rolled into her head.
"Mama?" Jonah asks, a whisper, and she nods. She walks around the altar, coming to a stop to sit behind him, pressing her form to his back, running her arms along his, taking his hands in hers. She's cold, so cold it almost burns, it seeps through his clothes and clings to him, as if hugging a glacier. He trembles hard in her arms, and Jonah listens as soft little whispers escape her, are whispered into his ear, almost unintelligible.
Jonah, my sweet little one, my dearest baby boy. You've finally found love, I see. He's meant for you…you're meant to walk at each other's sides, in this life. This new life is not a curse, nor a sin, and neither is your love for each other. Both are a gift and a blessing, a chance to finally be happy.
Her voice is multilayered, different realms and times in space, rustling overtop of each other like piles of dead leaves. Her dead hands, blue at the fingertips, nails black, guide Jonah's hands as they perform the spell together. They take the back off of the pocket watch, pinching and sprinkling Jonah's ashes—his remains—into the watch with careful hands, sweeping what they couldn't gather off the table and into the watch. Next, they take his skull in hand. Mother seems to hesitate then, turning it over in their hands, caressing it fondly before breaking it, snapping it into pieces. Jonah gasps loudly as pain rings through his head, suddenly feeling like he's floating, unsteady, disembodied. Mother guides him back to her with gentle hands, putting him back into his own head with a simple pet of his glossy black hair, the same texture as hers. They put the pieces into the watch as well. Mother plucks a strand of hair from her baby, and then herself, winding the strands together before coiling them inside the watch.
Lastly, they lift the daith and slice Jonah's wrist, dark blood dripping sluggishly into the mass of gears, ashes, and bone. The room jolts, hard, and the entire house groans, a shuddering, anguished sound of loss. Mother does the same, though rather than blood, she scoops congealed black fluid from her veins, depositing it into the watch. They replace the watch backing and snap it shut, a sound that rings with finality. Jonah gasps, and his heart skips a beat, and then another. He's choking suddenly, gasping for air. Mother stands, and Jonah watches as she takes his watch in hand, examining it with unseeing eyes. The clock has seemingly stopped. She takes the key from the altar and winds the watch, the nostalgia of the motion making Jonah's memories reel. It's wound, but still unmoving. She frowns, before hitting the watch against one hand, flicking it hard on the face with two fingers of her other hand. The watch suddenly starts again, ticks to life again, and Mother simply smiles, that same beautiful smile that haunts Jonah's dreams and his memories.
Jonah's mother takes his hands in hers again, wrapping all four of their hands together around the watch. It glows red, then orange, as hot as a burning coal. Jonah holds tight though, bearing through the pain, before it finally settles. The watch is ticking steadily, the time accurate. Through the little triangular cutout in its face, an orange light pours through, so bright it produces its own beam, like a flashlight. The beam shifts and moves, partially obscured by the gears moving within. Mother places the watch around Jonah's neck, clasping it for him.
It is done, my dear. Your soul is now bound to this watch, instead of to the house and property itself. Be forewarned, though, as this new existence comes with pros and cons. While you can now move freely through the world, wherever you wish, if the watch is jeopardized, your existence will end. Your soul will cease to be, and your physical form will crumble to ash. If you are separated from this object, or the object is damaged and stops, you have exactly one minute to get the clock back within ten feet of yourself, or, if broken, to get the clock ticking again within one minute. Inside the house itself, you may roam freely, as your soul can connect to the structure, but the second your feet touch grass outside? You need to be wearing this. Do you understand?
"Yes, Mother, I do. I'm so, so terribly grateful—thank you for this blessing, this second chance, I—I love you so much—"
I love you too, my little dove. Good luck, and go forth with my blessing. Go out there and find your love, dear boy. Bring him back home.
Mother gives him a smile and a sad little wave as she disappears. The other entities in the room leave one by one, leaving with little nods of their heads or gestures of their hands. Some of them take more offering before they go, the food blipping out of existence along with them. The One is the last to leave, as still and enigmatic as the moon. Jonah is washed in that same feeling again as he blips out of existence, and the candles go out, plunging the room once again into darkness. Jonah sits in the dark and just cries, and cries, and cries, recalling the touch of his Mother's hands, the sound of her voice, the features of her face. All of these details, different than in life, changed and altered by death, though still inherently her. The watch lays heavy and pulsing on his sternum, between his collarbones, a warm, living thing. He wraps a hand around it, feels its smooth round edges, and feels a deep sense of comfort and completeness. He feels more like himself and less like a poppet, less like he is the possession of someone else—rather, he feels like he is in possession of himself.
Jonah eventually goes back upstairs, blinking and disoriented in the bright, artificial lights. A feeling of worry and fear coiling in his gut, Jonah opens the front door of Hell House and walks across the porch and down the stairs, stopping on the last one.
Well, only one way to find out.
With one hand around the watch, Jonah steps off into the grass, cringing, anticipating the worst. But nothing happens, his heartbeat steady and strong, and endorphins rush through Jonah's nervous system, an intense feeling of elation as he takes off running, a dead sprint at full speed. He revels in the feeling of the wind in his hair, of his feet pounding the pavement, of his breath burning in his lungs, his elevated heartbeat. He runs all the way to the end of Green Street before stopping, bent forward and gasping for air with his hands on his knees. He laughs and he cries, overwhelmed. He turns his face to the sky, reaching his palms to the heavens. He stares into the cold face of the moon with tears pouring down his cheeks, uttering a long, unending prayer to the universe:
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.