Evil in Me, page 9
It didn’t budge.
She let out a whimper and tugged harder, twisting. Still, it wouldn’t come off, and the harder she pulled the harder it clamped down, biting into her skin. “Ouch!”
“Hm?” Mr. Rosenfeld mumbled.
Ruby knew if Josh saw her now, it would look like she was stealing from him. She couldn’t bear the thought of that. She tossed the case into the cigar box and shoved it back under the couch.
“Who’s there?” Mr. Rosenfeld asked.
Ruby got to her feet, slipped away and out the door as quietly as she could, closing it gently behind her. She glanced back through the window. Mr. Rosenfeld had rolled over and appeared to be sleeping again.
Ruby headed for the street, tugging and twisting at the ring as she stumbled along. The night seemed alive, not just the bugs and toads, but … but what? Whispers, she heard whispers coming from all around her.
Ruby took off in a run.
LORD SHEELBETH
The eye on the ring, the one on Ruby’s hand, slowly opened. Lord Sheelbeth blinked and the eye on the ring blinked as well. All was blurry; she blinked again and the room came into focus. The lord found she was seeing both Ruby’s room and her own hellish refuge, so she closed the eye in her head, as to better concentrate on the woman.
Ruby lay on her bed, appeared to be asleep, but barely, mumbling and tossing fitfully. Lord Sheelbeth waited for her breathing to slow as it was always easier to take them in deep slumber, when their minds were most vulnerable.
The crimson-colored eye on the ring flittered this way and that as the lord took in the many posters, records, the bass guitar, the stuffed animals, finally halting on the lava lamp, hating how its red glow mimicked her own fiery prison.
Ruby’s headphones hung about her wrist, and the lord could hear music drifting from the small speakers. She found the sound annoying, like a bug needing to be squashed. Still, she couldn’t help but marvel at the wonders of this era. She’d seen much of it while that man, Adam, wore the ring, enough to realize that there was a new kind of magic in this age—a magic that even the most common fool could conjure with the flip of a switch, that mankind had learned to harvest lightning, could show you the world through a glass box, could propel metal carriages along the roads without horses. When she’d last walked the earth, men were still fighting with swords and spears. Yet still, in spite of all their progress, they seem to have little awareness of the deeper magics around them, had forgotten much since her age, and it was this loss of knowledge that Lord Sheelbeth was counting on.
They will have no idea what I am, she told herself. It will be easy to hide amongst them, to feed unnoticed. “Easy,” she whispered, but even as she said it, she shook her head. “No … nothing has ever been easy … not for me.” She let her thoughts drift, marveling that she even survived her own mother. Her mother had been a lilith and her father an angel in high standing with God, but a fool, seduced by carnal charms, a fool who risked everything to be with the lilith. God had struck them both down before her eyes.
“Hope that bitch was worth it, Father.” She grimaced. At least I was spared from the lilith. An orphan, yes, but my mother would have eaten my soul.
I survived it all. Survived because I am a fighter, because I am clever. Because I am generous and kind to those who serve me, but mostly I survived because I can be savage, ever so savage, when I need be. She knew it was more than that. That the world had been a wilder place when she was young, that there’d been gods, spirits, monsters, and demons of all sorts roaming the good earth, more than God and his bloodthirsty angels could tend to. That the humans, God’s special children, made for especially delectable treats. That it was an easy time for a daughter of a lilith to grow fat.
She fed and her power grew and soon she lorded over her own small kingdom, Lord Sheelbeth of Khushet, an isolated region in the Caucasus Mountains. Some called her a god, others a demon, it mattered not to her so long as she had worshippers—men and women willing to sacrifice their blood, even the blood of their children, to her. And they did, they kept her well satiated, because under her rule, her protection, the land and the people prospered. Soon there were no more giants, dragons, or other monsters to plague them, and neighboring kingdoms, clans and tribes, bandits and marauders, dared not trespass or bring harm to any of her people, all knowing too well the price of her wrath. And though her reputation as a slayer was well earned, she thought of herself as a healer, for she gave back to the devoted, using her potency, her knowledge of the magic arts, to heal them of disease and illness, to heal her warriors of their wounds.
At least until the Baalei Shem came. She sneered, exposing her small pointy teeth. “No, I will not play that out again, I have tortured myself enough.” Yet even as she said this, she saw them, those men in their ridiculous pointy hats, bowing before her, paying homage with gifts of wine and honey. They defeated me … not through my vanity, nor my greed, but by playing to my kindness, my charity. It was my benevolence that failed me. Both the eye in her head and the eye on the ring flared.
They’d come begging her to drive away a sour spirit that was plaguing their caravan. But all was a guise, a trap, these were crusaders of God and had angels waiting to ambush her. She studied the stump of her missing finger. And when all was done, I had lost my ring, my finger, my eye, and … my freedom. She looked around at the sooty, molten walls. Left to rot here amongst the devils and demons and lost gods. I was a fool … but never again, never again shall I expose my belly to their knives.
She rubbed the stump of her finger, forced herself to smile. Enough wallowing in past mistakes and betrayals. What is done … is done. I will be free of this hell soon, free of this sordid land of feuding demons, all crawling about on their stomachs to appease Lucifer. This time I will be a creature of shadows. I will feed on God’s children unnoticed, growing ever stronger, biding my time until the day when these people have given up on God, and God has given up on them. Then, then I shall arise and satiate myself on their rotting souls.
Ruby’s breath grew shallow and Lord Sheelbeth returned her attention to her pit, to Beel. He sat upon a stone, staring at the dirt. She took a moment to study him. On earth, Beel would’ve been a spirit, a shadowy thing of small substance, but he, like most spirits and souls, became physical here in the underworld, taking on his true shape. What she was seeing now was how God had left him, a gray spindly form with no distinguishing features—a sculpture in mid process. His eyes were pale slits sheltered within deep sockets. He had a lipless mouth, small round holes for ears, ten fingers and ten toes, but no hair, no sign of genitalia. Yet, his voice and mannerism were undeniably masculine. It was apparent that God intended him to be some kind of humanlike creature, beyond that it was hard to say.
What was God’s purpose with you? She wondered for the thousandth time. A replacement for his beloved mankind? Could it be that God was dissatisfied with his human children even then?
The shedim had never been plentiful, yet when the earth was very young, they could be found. But between the angels, the demons, the Baalei Shem, and other magic folk hunting them down, Lord Sheelbeth wondered if there were any others left. She was sure if she’d not hidden Beel, that Beel too would’ve been destroyed.
How does it feel, Beel? she wondered, to have your God throw you away because he believes you not worth finishing? That even the lowly grub is more worthy in his eyes than you?
Lord Sheelbeth floated over to Beel; the sheid cringed.
“Your fear is misplaced. I am your savior. You know this. Was it not I who saved you from the demons?”
She waited; nothing from him.
“But more, our destinies are linked. What is good for you is good for me. You know this to be true.”
Beel turned from her.
“Why hold a grudge like some petulant child? We have been round this … the fire … it was necessary. It has purified your soul, cleansed you of your weakness. Given you the strength to overcome your confusion, your madness. This time, there will be no dalliances, you will have the promise of flame to keep you on course.”
Still Beel wouldn’t look at her.
“Do you not wish to be free? You cannot be free without me, no more than I can without you.”
And this was a painful truth for Lord Sheelbeth. She could hypnotize the girl, compel her to do a few small acts, such as touching the ring, but Sheelbeth lacked the power to make a soul do something against their will, especially something like murder. For that, she needed to be in full possession, and to be in full possession, she needed the sheid.
“Beel … enough of this. We must work together if we are to escape. Now, come with me.”
Lord Sheelbeth headed away, stopping in an archway, waiting for the sheid. For a moment she wondered if she would need to bring back the fire. She hated the thought, hated having to torture this poor soul any further. But this was no time to be soft. This could be their very last chance. If the sheid was incapable of doing what had to be done, then she must be strong for the both of them. He will be grateful one day.
To her relief, Beel finally stood and followed her into the adjoining chamber.
Lord Sheelbeth strolled in, pushing through a pack of squirmy beasts, creatures with rotting, long segmented bodies, and the cadaverous heads of monkeys and jackals. They hissed and slithered from her path as she mounted a large stone platform and took her seat upon a throne of rough-cut boulders, a sad imitation of her great throne in Khushet—that one had been made of gold and decorated with the skulls of her enemies.
“Drummers,” Lord Sheelbeth called. “Here, to me.”
Six hunched creatures scuttled out from the shadows. These were common demons, each about the size of a chimp, all looking as though Satan was making a mockery of God’s creations, a mishmash of earthly beasts put together in every hideous way possible. Some with fish heads on chicken bodies, others with goat heads on toad bodies, a couple with sad faces staring out from bellies and crotches, eyes on elbows and knees, cow tails and fish fins, horns and hair, scales and gooseflesh. They were escaped slaves—Lucifer’s dregs. Lord Sheelbeth had lured them into her lair, trapped them, and forced them to do her bidding. She found them to be simple, mean beasts who understood little other than brutality and pain, easy to control with her spells and fire snakes.
“To your drums,” she commanded, and all but one of the demons took up places behind a circle of charred drums. The last one, a lanky, lizard-legged creature with curling horns and a head full of fiery hair, held back, its tiny yellow eyes plaintive.
“Vutto,” Lord Sheelbeth snapped. “To your drum.”
“I am hungry,” he whimpered. “Starving.”
“You will eat after you play.”
“Might play better if I eat before.”
The other demons stared at him, horrified, their eyes begging him to be silent.
Lord Sheelbeth set her hands on her hips. “Vutto, did you know my pets are also hungry?”
Vutto cut his eyes, both the ones on his face and the ones on his chest, over toward the flaming serpents. He let out a huff and skulked up to his drum.
Lord Sheelbeth returned her attention to the sheid. “Beel, here, before me.” She gestured to a large cut stone at her feet.
The sheid shuffled over and sat.
Lord Sheelbeth nodded to the drummers and they began to pound out a slow, rhythmic beat. The lord leaned back, letting go, letting the rhythm soothe her. Slowly the beat built, the vibrations finding the worms, calling to them all, even the ones deep in slumber.
She felt them stirring, some in her flesh, others deep within her body, felt them writhing, crawling toward the sound. She pulled aside her gown, exposing the great wound in her abdomen, and was greeted by a squirming mass of red worms.
“Hello, children,” she said.
They responded to her voice, pushing their heads up to her, and upon each worm, a face, a tiny human face—that of men, women, and even children—crying out to be graced with her gaze.
Lord Sheelbeth began to chant along with the drums, then to sing, an angel’s voice, so like her father’s.
Her parents had left her many gifts. From her mother, the lilith, came dark magic and the art of drinking souls from the living. From her father, the angel, came pure magic. She wove their gifts into songs, songs into magic, magic into spells, because a spell was just words without magic.
The worms began to sing along with Lord Sheelbeth and she felt a tingling in her hands. Their voices rose, coming together, turning into a chorus. The tingling became a tremor that coursed through her arms, into her chest; her heart thrummed.
Their voices joined and their song grew, coming alive with fervor and vigor, with passion, and this passion, this heightened state, was key to bringing spells to fruition. Any kind of passion could work, it could be hate, or rage, or fear, but none was more powerful than love—a song sung from the heart would trump all others. So, she sung to them of love.
And the worms, they sang of their love for her.
Most of these souls had given themselves willingly, worshippers from a bygone era who had sacrificed themselves to her, their god, some begging for the honor, the chance to spend eternity serving her. And even those who were stolen, sucked from their bodies as she drained them of their life, even those sang to her, hoping to appease her, hoping to earn her grace. As she was now their only truth, their forever, their god, their heaven and their hell.
The song continued to build within her, to pulse and throb until it took all her effort to contain it. “Now, Beel!” she called as the song echoed off the craggy, sooty walls. “Give me your hand.”
He raised his hand and she snatched it.
Both her eyes, here and on the ring, were wide open, both glowing fiery red. The one on the ring lighting up Ruby’s room.
“Take her!” the lord cried, releasing the spell into Beel. Beel let out his own cry and began to soften, his body melting into smoke, the spell and the smoke spinning together. The smoke swirled into the lord’s eye. She could feel Beel’s pain, hear him groaning, as he was funneled into the realm of the living, a final distant cry as he was pushed into the ring.
Lord Sheelbeth closed the eye in her head, concentrating all of herself to her other, the ring. The ring sprouted tiny fangs and sank them into Ruby’s flesh.
Ruby let out a moan, but didn’t wake.
It was all up to Beel now. Lord Sheelbeth couldn’t force the sheid into the woman; the spell was to push him into the earth realm, into the ring, not the woman. Only Beel could possess her, it was his little trick—the gift of being an unfinished soul, the ability to share any body with another living soul, to take their form.
“Now, Beel,” Lord Sheelbeth urged. “Hurry … before she wakes.”
Beel didn’t respond.
What is he doing? She wondered if he was lost again, his mind drifting like when he saw the bird? How she hated being so dependent on this unstable being.
A minute ticked by, another, and Lord Sheelbeth’s frustration mounted. The girl could wake at any moment and her hold on the girl was tenuous at best, anything could disrupt it. And then the girl could go back to the old man, not as her slave, but to beg the old man for help. All could be lost.
“What are you doing?” she cried. Lord Sheelbeth couldn’t read the sheid’s thoughts, no more than he could read hers, not unless he spoke directly to her, but she could feel them, get an impression of his mood and emotions, and sometimes his intentions. And she sensed it then, his bitterness, his spite.
“The fire, Beel,” she growled, sending the thought, driving it home to be sure he didn’t miss it. “Remember the fire.”
She sensed his anger, then his fear. He moved then, finally doing his little trick, flowing into Ruby like smoke into lungs, crawling through her, nestling deep within.
“Yes … yes, Beel,” she said, breathlessly. “You have done it!” She laughed. “She is ours.”
The drums stopped and the worms ceased their singing, the echoes of their song dying out as the lord collapsed exhausted to the ground.
“Now, kill him,” she cried. “Kill the old man … so we can both come home.”
* * *
It’s me, Richard.
I watched Alice, my daughter for that one night, sink beneath the dirty water, tried not to look at her face, too painful in the morning light.
The sun was breaking, setting the swamp fog aglow. I’d never been one for sunsets and sunrises, but goddang if it wasn’t beautiful that morning. I stood there basking in the golden light, sucking in the warmth, feeling as though I was the one glowing. Everything always seemed magical after the deed, like my senses had been awakened, like I could feel again, truly feel. And heck, if that night hadn’t been intense. I closed my eyes, reliving the whole thing, the horror, the revulsion, the tears. Lord, how I’d cried for her. I inhaled deeply, the sweet smell of pluff mud filling my head, the morning birdsongs touching my heart. “Alive … so alive.”
If only that feeling would last.
But it never did.
The glow would stay with me for about a month, maybe two if I was lucky. Then that weight, that dreadful dead feeling, would start creeping back into my chest.
I found a large rock and slid it atop of her, to weigh her down, at least long enough for the gators and turtles to do their work. I wasn’t too worried about it really, because like I said, I was lucky. I would’ve probably even said I had God on my side, if I believed in such gibberish. Too bad I didn’t, as faith might’ve saved me, saved those women—either my love of God, or my fear of the old bastard. The hard part about being an atheist was knowing there was nothing after. This was it. If my life sucked here, there was nothing else to look forward to. Nothing. The good part was nothing I did mattered. I was a speck of crud in a universe that does not care. Killing one soul, or a thousand, even a million, didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except how I felt. My reality was the only reality. So, I’m going to take a moment to thank the Good Lord Above that I was a devout atheist, otherwise I don’t think I could’ve done any of it.
