Halloween is fast approaching, and here at TK'N'C we always get a little excited by the imminent arrival of the spookiest night of the year. So for your delectation, here is a special editor's story, penned for the occasion by Matt Hilton. Enjoy!
Suffering Succubi
‘I am “freedom”.’
The woman stood on the penultimate step
on the descent to the cellar. She had halted there, standing in silence,
waiting for my bloodied eyes to register her presence, for my concussed brain
to make sense of her.
Even with clots adhering to my lashes,
my eyelids swollen from the repeated beatings, she was a vision of beauty.
An emerald green dress fit as closely
as her musky scent to a body as perfect as any masterpiece designed by
Michelangelo. Blazing red hair hung about her shoulders, curls bunching on the
swellings of her breasts. Her dress was cut low and I watched the slow rise and
fall of the pale orbs that it strained to contain. On her feet were satin
slippers, as green as the dress, as green as her eyes as they surveyed me.
‘Have you come to let me go?’
‘I have come to set you free,’ she
corrected in a voice as mellifluous as distant birdsong.
‘Then undo these chains and I’ll be
gone from here.’ I was trussed to an upright beam, stripped naked as a baby.
‘You misunderstand me, Carter Bailey,’
she said, and this time her voice was every bit as sweet as before, but it was
the sweetness of decay and rot.
‘Worth a try,’ I said.
She took the final step down and halted
again. Her features appeared set in porcelain, her lips were the painted smile
of a creepy pot doll, eyes as solid as their emerald twins. A dim bulb
flickered in the stairwell above her, causing the shadows to jitter and shift.
The woman’s shadow did not move, because she had none.
‘Who are you?’
‘I am the one you came looking for.’
‘You are Saoirse?’ I gave her name the
modern Irish pronunciation: Sur-shuh.
‘Seer-sha,’ she corrected, in the singsong
original Celtic tongue. ‘As I said, my name means “freedom”.’
I rattled my chains, thinking of my
brother, Cassius, who regularly wore chains when I visited him in the deepest
dungeon of my psyche. I could almost feel pity for the depraved lunatic now
that I experienced a little of the discomfort he was eternally subjected to.
Almost, but not quite. Cash deserved his torment; he could never atone for the
suffering he put my wife and unborn child through, or the dozens of other women
he raped and slaughtered before I killed the bastard.
Sticks and stones, Carter. Cash’s taunting voice scratched its way through the
recesses of my mind. Just thinking of him was enough to wake him from slumber.
He’d been conspicuous by his absence during my beating, when I needed his
assistance most.
I ignored Cash and concentrated instead
on Saoirse.
She moved without seeming to move. She
didn’t walk, that was for sure, because I was eyeballing her long, long legs,
imagining them wrapped around my back and they never once put as much as a
ruffle in that form-hugging dress. The lustful thought clung on, even after I
realised that it was more akin to something that Cash would voice, and I had to
tear my attention back to her face. No, she hadn’t walked over, yet when I
tilted my head up to meet her gaze, she was directly in front of me, so close I
felt the exhalation of her breath on my skin.
‘Why did you seek me, Carter Bailey?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘You thought to kill me.’
‘Killing you was never an issue, I
hoped only to stop any further killing.’
‘Yet you brought with you a gun.’
Saoirse lifted her right hand and something cold and hard-edged settled under
my jaw. ‘And this.’
I couldn’t see what it was that she
held to my throat, but I didn’t have to. I knew it was the knife handed to me
by my friend and mentor, Paul Broom, Britain’s sixteenth bestselling horror
author, when he heard of my latest fool mission.
‘It just might come in handy, Bailey,’
he had said as he handed over the intricately carved silver blade. The handle
was bone and looked too much like the knobby end of a human fibular to be
coincidence.
‘There might be nothing in the
stories,’ I’d told him. ‘You know how urban legends grow out of folk tales and
take on a life of their own: do you really think a succubus is alive and
kicking and harvesting souls in bleakest Lancashire?’
‘I’ve heard crazier stories,’ he said
with a pointed squint at me.
Broom was one of the few people who
truly believed in my claim that the soul of my serial-killing sibling was
trapped within me, and that the shared near death experience we’d experienced
had made him my captive when the paramedics jump-started my heart again. Having
discovered what he’d done to my wife and unborn child, my brother had almost
murdered me too, but I’d turned the tables and took the fight back to him.
Locked in brutal combat we’d both taken a fall from the dilapidated windmill on
my property, and sank, still beating and tearing at each other into the
stagnant waters of the canal below. Our bodies drowned, but our spirits had
still been coiled together in battle when the intervention of well-meaning
paramedics had snatched us both back to my mortal coil. It was a difficult
claim to palate, but Broom took it even without the proverbial pinch of salt.
Broom also believed in my proclaimed ability to read people’s auras, and to
also feel the pull of dark energy, and he’d almost convinced me that I wasn’t
totally bat shit crazy after all. Limping about on a walking stick, throwing
back his mane of blond curls, he reminds me of an aging rock star or over the
hill pro-wrestler. On his knuckles he’d had the letters WWDAD tattooed as a
reminder of his constant fight against the supernatural denizens of his fevered
author’s mind. What would Derek Acorah do? I wondered. I was pretty sure that
the famed psychic medium wouldn’t have sought a soul-sucking succubus armed
only with a tarnished silver knife and a handgun: at the very least he’d have
had a camera crew and the backing of a major cable TV company behind him.
Foolishly I’d come to this backstreet of Blackpool alone. And now I’d paid the
price of my stupidity. I should have weighed in that knife at one of the many
skanky stores that lined the neighbourhood promising ‘We Buy Your Scrap Gold
and Silver’.
But I hadn’t been able to deny the
tugging in my chest, the feeling within me that drew me like metal filings to a
lodestone, whenever I sensed the presence of dark energy. Cash had to atone for
his crimes; I had to atone for my failings. In failing to protect my wife and
baby I had accepted my self-imposed punishment to root out and destroy evil
wherever it reared its ugly head. I tried to think of it as an extreme form of
community service, while Broom preferred that I was serving a higher court than
human law.
Saoirse removed the knife from my
throat. My relief was only momentary. She laid it between my legs.
Whoa! Hold on there, Red! Go ahead and cut Carter’s friggin’
throat but I’m going to need the old family jewels when I take claim of his
body!
It was nice of Cash to express his
concern for my well being. Yeah, right. In my head, I told him, “Cash, she’s
not interested in taking my bollocks. She’s after souls and guess what? Here
she gets the special BOGOF deal.”
Shit, Cash
said, I never thought about it that way.
“Now would be a good time to loan me a
few of those special skills you have in your arsenal, dear brother.”
When imprisoning Cash in the dungeon of
my mind I’d to devise the most intricate methods of containment, because in
life the son of a bitch had been as tricky as Harry Houdini, and simply locking
him down with handcuffs and gaffer tape had never been enough.
‘What are you mumbling about?’ asked
Saoirse.
‘Nothing important,’ I lied. ‘Just
wondering if you really look like that or if you’re a fan of old Maureen O’Hara
movies.’
‘You like the way I look?’
‘Of course. Who wouldn’t?’
Saoirse proved as vain as most other
supernatural beings I’d met who used the weapon of sexual desire to deceive and
enrapture before sucking your life force out of every orifice imaginable. To be
fair I hadn’t met many. Actually, she was my first, but she was vain all right.
She was at once before me then at the
bottom of the stairs again. She ran one hand through her fiery hair, the other
on her propped hip. Then she turned away, turning her head to give me a smoky
pout over one bared shoulder. The dress shimmered off her body as liquid as mercury,
puddling around her finely turned ankles, and I was given a view of her in all
her glory.
‘What about now?’ she teased.
“Yeah, now would be a good time,” I told Cash.
Scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, bro.
“How about a nice Perspex cell with a
view?”
How’s about you set me up on a barstool at Hooters?
“Take it or leave it, Cash. Agree, or
your next prison will be inside the lovely Seer-sha’s gut.”
‘Do you find me comely?’ Saoirse turned
with a dancer’s grace, and again was before me without any sign of apparent
volition. I’d have got an eyeful of her main assets if she hadn’t looped her
knife hand over her breasts. Her other hand, and my Glock, was artistically
placed over the juncture of her thighs.
‘”Comely” isn’t a word used very often
these days,’ I said. ‘Just how old are you?’
‘As old as Lilith’s children,’ she said
with a smile.
‘It’s surprising what the odd nip and
tuck can do for you these days, isn’t it?’ Despite myself I could feel the
ardor rising in me. Ardor’s another word you don’t hear much and has kind of
fallen out of usage except in poorly written bonk buster novels or the latest
Paul Broom chiller. I’d learned a lot of old words since Broom had taken it
upon himself to be my Professor X. I’d learned quite a few archaic names too,
and understood that Lilith in some religious texts was recognised as the first
woman, even before Eve. If Saoirse wasn’t exaggerating it meant she’d been
around a loooong time.
‘That can’t possibly be your own hair
colour?’ I sneaked a peek down and the hand clutching the gun couldn’t cover
everything. ‘You dye down there too?’
For the first time Saoirse frowned.
Unlike highly emotional humans this
woman did not radiate the auric colours that I was used to. All that outlined
her form was a hazy grey smoke. But I didn’t need the firework displays that
emanated from my usual quarries to tell me she was growing angry.
‘You do not appreciate this form?’ she
said. ‘Perhaps you would prefer I was an incubus instead?’
‘Strictly heterosexual,’ I reassured
her. ‘It’s just that I don’t fancy every strumpet that drops her knickers in
front of me.’
‘Strumpet?’
Another old word, but it was one she’d
understand. Before leaving Broom’s place for Blackpool, my knowledgeable buddy
had told me that the etymology of the name succubus came from the Late Latin succubare, or “to lie under”, later
shortened to succuba and literally “strumpet”.
‘Old whore, if you’d prefer?’ I said.
Saoirse made a sound that should never
have come from her enchantress form. She bubbled out a growl like a drunken
hobo clearing his throat after a night on methylated spirits.
She raised Broom’s silver knife.
Go on, Red, cut his throat.
“Shut it, Cash. Concentrate on what
you’re good at.”
Maybe you should let me take over, bro. I’ll show the hot
little bitch a good time, all right.
“Just get us the fuck out of these
chains!”
Saoirse said, ‘I can take your essence
whether you wish to mate with me or not.’
‘Honestly, I’d rather you slit my
throat. I hear that sexually penetrating a succubus is akin to entering a
cavern of ice. Where’s the pleasure in that? And anyway, what’s this about you
taking a man’s semen then passing it onto one of your incubus brothers so he
can impregnate women with his demonic little offspring? What do you call them:
Cambions aren’t they?’
‘You’ve researched well,’ Saoirse said,
and my taunting had worked because she’d forgotten about sticking the blade in
my neck and again moved away from me.
‘Everything I know you can find on
Wikipedia,’ I told her. ‘Is that what you’re up to here? Breeding your own
little crop of Cambions. Don’t bother, from the number of ugly inbred trolls
I’ve seen out on the Golden Mile someone already beat you to it.’
‘You know little of my kind after all.
And this know-it-all Wikipedia is as
ill informed as the fools that write it. Too much faith has been placed in the Malleus Maleficarum as a source
document, and your modern “Witches’ Hammer” – your Wikipedia – holds as many
misinterpretations of the truth. My kind has no interest in your dishwater
semen: it is your life essence that we desire. I’m coming now to set it free!’
Suddenly Saoirse wasn’t the enchanting
vision of beauty of before.
Her looks fell from her in the
shimmering river of mercury that had earlier shed her dress.
Her fiery mane shrivelled into a keeled
skull, her almost translucent skin metamorphosing into warty grey hide. Her
breasts shrivelled like dried out teabags left on the side of a saucer at one
of those backstreet cafes. Her pubis went bare, and her labia hung like soiled
rags. Horrible enough before I looked up again at her face and saw that her
green eyes had sunk back into the skull and were now snot-coloured currants
deep beneath a thick brow, and her mouth…Oh, Jesus. Think anus, puckered,
hemorrhoid-ridden, with needle teeth.
I take back what I said before, Cash said. I
wouldn’t even touch her with yours, bro.
Saoirse let out a keening hiss.
Expelled urine and other foul liquids dripped down her upper thighs, but the
sound had come from her awful mouth. Kind of a mating call, I guessed. Then she
came for me.
‘Now would be a good time to do your
thing, Cash!’
In my urgency I’d shouted out loud.
My odd words were enough to halt
Saoirse in her tracks.
Her arms hung by her sides, my weapons
still clutched in mitts that were boney and ended in ragged claws. Maybe she
still thought she could get me up by threat of a bullet or knife slash: such
foreplay never did it for me. But now she paused to contemplate just whom the
hell I was shouting at.
From above filtered the clumping of
footsteps. Saoirse had her lackeys on stand by; they were the same sons of
bitches who’d grabbed me, kicked the shit out of me and then hung me here in
the bitch’s cellar like a side of tenderized beef. They were an ugly bunch, and
pitiless, so maybe there was something in the Cambion myth that Saoirse wasn’t
letting on. Any second now and those brutes would come downstairs and hold me
down while Saoirse had her wicked way with me.
‘Cash!’
Allez, hop!
cried my demented brother, like he was some old time circus performer. Let’s go, bro.
For the last minute or so I’d been
working my fingers and wrists, manipulating them without any conscious sense,
really Cash working his wizardry through my hands without any assistance from
me.
The chains fell from my wrists just as
Saoirse puckered up for a kiss. I struggled to free my arms from the clinging
links, and Saoirse just put my energetic thrashings down to one playing hard to
get. Her needle teeth nipped into my lips and she clamped on tight. A slick,
wriggling tongue invaded my mouth and I coughed in revulsion. It was colder
than three days old polar bear shit, and tasted just as bad.
Earlier I’d imagined Saoirse’s long
legs wrapped around my middle. Well, the dream became reality, and it was a
nightmare. I felt the icy clamminess of her vagina as she tried to clamp on,
her second puckered opening chewing its path up my left thigh towards my
genitals. The only saving grace was that at least this one didn’t come with
teeth. Let alone her trying to latch onto my penis, the invasion of my mouth
was bad enough, and then the extraction of souls began.
Fuckin’ hell, Carter, she’s starting with me!
It wasn’t often my brother panicked. He
was generally too sociopathic to care about anything, except when it was his
own immortal soul. In all honesty I contemplated waiting for a while, allowing
the soul-sucking demoness to gulp down Cash’s spirit – shit, I’d been looking
for a way to expel his soul from mine for good, and now an unconventional
opportunity had presented itself – but as much as I hated the murderous piece
of shit, I hated Saoirse’s violation of my body more.
I wrenched loose from the chains and
gripped hold of her right hand. A trick I’d learned during a self-defence class
stripped the knife from her grip. More likely it was desperation that made the
technique work than any skill but the knife was now in my hand and I reversed
it just as Saoirse realised she’d been fooled. She snapped her tongue from my
mouth and reared back, and the curve of her fangs almost tore my lips off
before she’d fully disengaged.
I stood before her.
She looked down at my empty hands.
Then dawning realisation struck and she
peered down at the only boner she’d get from me: the erect handle of the silver
knife jutted from between her shrivelled breasts.
She was dead; she just didn’t know it
yet.
I reached out, braced my palm against
the knife handle and gave her a shove.
She fell flat on her back and didn’t
move.
Broom would be happy to hear that the
supposed magical knife had worked better than even he’d imagined. He swore that
the blade had been forged by some vizier of the Zoharistic Kabbalah persuasion
and was based upon a much earlier design. The first knife was made for none
other than the Archangel Samael after he had a bit of a fling with Lilith and
realised that he’d made a major faux pas when
she wouldn’t return to Adam in the Garden of Eden. Samael’s way of getting rid
of the bunny boiling temptress was to have a knife forged by Tubal Cain, the
first metal worker, that could do Lilith and her kind in for good. I didn’t
have the heart to tell my friend that you couldn’t rely on EBay as a source for
genuine angelic weapons, but now I wouldn’t have to.
I left the knife jammed in the
succubus’s breastbone. Maybe by extracting it she would rise up again like a
vampire in a Hammer movie. I reached instead for the gun. It would be more
effective than a blade against the group of Cambions now thumping down the
stairs.
Naked, my mushy lips a match for my
mushed up face, I greeted the fuckers as they stomped down and stood in a
semi-circle behind their late mistress. Blazing auric colours sparked all
around them. They were pissed. But then so was I.
‘Cash,’ I said. ‘Time for your special
skills again.’
With pleasure, bro.
My gun hand came up. Truthfully, Cash,
my murderous brother wasn’t the only one in control of my fingers this time.
BIO:
Matt Hilton is the bestselling author
of the Joe Hunter thriller series, but also enjoys writing in other genres, one
of which is horror. Matt has had seven Joe Hunter thrillers published to date,
plus an ebook of Hunter short tales, with more to come. He has self-published
two horror novels (Dominion and Darkest Hour) as eBooks and also edited and
collected the terrific Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Vol 1 anthology, and a
number of his short stories have appeared in various collections and
anthologies.
Find out more about Matt at http://www.matthiltonbooks.com
Matt is also the founder of Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers and the current thriller editor.
I was really getting to enjoy the company of these characters when the story ended. A great horror/action piece full of quotable lines. Don't think I'll be able to shake the image of the shrivelled breasts, like dried out tea bags resting on a saucer in a back street cafe, for a while.
ReplyDeleteReally enjoyed this.
Great story, Matt! You managed to get pretty deep inside these characters in so short a time- amazing!
ReplyDeleteYou don't see a lot of succubi stories around - so this was an excellent treat.
great story, Matt, yes please to the novel, any time you like!!!!! hard hitting gutsy writing (as expected after reading your thriller) which fits the story perfectly.
ReplyDeleteAnthony, Chris, Antonia, thanks for the nice comments. I had fun writing this short, and it was really good to revisit characters I'd written about a few years ago, only to find that they jumped straight out at me and I found their voices instinctively. It has kind of encouraged me to maybe revisit their world again, and perhaps get the novel up to speed.
ReplyDeleteWow, Matt. That was one helluva ride, mate! Profound and spellbinding with lingering, nauseating imagery.
ReplyDeleteTop job.
Nice to see 'good' old Tubal getting a mention too! ;-)
Best,
Col
That was a great read, and the descriptions throughout were done so well. There were many many images that stuck with me, but this one: "The woman’s shadow did not move, because she had none" was what really hooked me on this story. Thanks of the entertainment, just what I needed!
ReplyDeleteHi Matt,
ReplyDeleteDeep stuff! I really liked the idea of The Bailey Brothers. We definitely need to hear more about these two.
Some brill descriptions too.
Cheers
Col, Sean, Keith, cheers you guys. Glad to hear you enjoyed my story. There's something definitely creepy and otherworldly about something that doesn't cast a shadow, and it has always intrigued me too.
ReplyDelete"If there's any interest?" Any interest? Any? Interest? Holy rivers of wild mountain blueberries, Matt! Write that son of a bitch now! Right now! Please. Absolutely, please. Um . . . yeah . . I did love this tale a whole lot.
ReplyDeleteThanks AJ. Actually, the novel is written. I wrote it about six years ago but it got put aside when my Joe Hunter thrillers were picked up by the publishers. Just needs a little updating to be good to go, but I might just do the work and see if I can get it out there. Fingers crossed.
ReplyDeleteI think you should, Matt. You'd have Kadrey and Jim Butcher blinking and saying, "Where'd the hell did he come from?"
ReplyDeleteCool idea!
ReplyDeleteMatt, apologies for my lateness to the party. Work, family life and writing have taken their toll. Add to that the fact that bad weather up here have taken phone and broadband out for a couple of days then I'm sure I don't need a letter from my mum. :-)
ReplyDeleteRight, a great tale with some fantastic characters that, as has been said earlier, a few of whom could be carried on into a novel. Well written throughout BUT should I have expected anything different from a great writer - NO! Top stuff, Matt.
Thanks David, very much appreciated. Really enjoyed writing this one. A nice break from my other thriller stuff.
ReplyDeleteI loved the way you made these characters pop out in front of me and hold my attention.
ReplyDeleteJeanette
Thanks Jeanette. I've kind of fallen back in love with Carter and Cash bailey. Methinks there'll be more from the warring brothers before too long.
ReplyDeleteBut, could they write this?
ReplyDeleteHer fiery mane shrivelled into a keeled skull, her almost translucent skin metamorphosing into warty grey hide. Her breasts shrivelled like dried out teabags left on the side of a saucer at one of those backstreet cafes. Her pubis went bare, and her labia hung like soiled rags. Horrible enough before I looked up again at her face and saw that her green eyes had sunk back into the skull and were now snot-coloured currants deep beneath a thick brow, and her mouth…Oh, Jesus. Think anus, puckered, hemorrhoid-ridden, with needle teeth.
I'd possibly have to rein in the descriptions in full novel form. Not sure it would find a conventional publisher if it was as grandiose as this.
ReplyDeleteNovel coming soon called PRETERNATURAL - keep your eyes peeled for it.
ReplyDeleteNovel out now!
ReplyDeletehttp://www.amazon.com/dp/B00IR9XS4G/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_dp_9hcjtb0VV3B60 available only on Amazon at this time.
ReplyDelete