“I really don’t think it’s best for you to be at home alone, Monica.” the voice on her cell sounded genuinely concerned, but Monica Taft shook her head, dark brown hair flopping free as she let loose her ponytail. Ice-blue eyes focused on closing down the remaining few computer programs that were still open on her system.
“Vic, look, it's been almost nine months since all of that happened. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“You’ve got a baby on the way, and the guy was never caught. Five other women were attacked, Mon, and there’s no telling whether this guy’s going to come back for-”
“For his baby?”
“You know that’s not what I mean, there’s no way to tell if our son is his or not. Keeping the child was your decision, one I still support, but there’s still a chance. You were raped Monica, and things line up.” Monica’s lip curled, she hated that word, hated the way he looked at her like a victim. She wanted her life back, and part of that seizure involved claiming her unborn son. It didn’t matter to her who it belonged to, it could have been Victor’s or it could have belonged to the man who attacked her. She didn’t care, the baby belonged to her. She would be the child’s mother, she would take care of him, and she would love him no matter who he belonged to. Vic made that promise, too, but she could see the doubt in his face when he went with her to those appointments. She remembered the look on his face when she told him she didn’t care who the baby’s father was, and the way his shoulders sagged when she told him she wasn’t getting any sort of DNA test to prove paternity.
“You’re the baby’s father, Victor. Not some whack job in a mask who attacked me. You. It doesn’t matter what any test says, fatherhood isn’t proven by DNA. If you love the baby and you treat him with kindness and compassion, then he’s yours, but I’ve seen the way you look at me. The way you looked at the ultrasounds. I need time, alright. I need a chance to clear my head, and that’s why I’m staying at my apartment tonight.”
“Monica, I-”
“I know, Victor. I still love you with all of my heart, but there're some things I really need to think about, things I need to think about away from you.”
“Can you at least have Shirley pop by, maybe stay over? I-, I don’t want you to be alone.”
Monica rolled her eyes as she looked at her phone. “Fine. I’ll give her a call when I get home if it’ll help you feel a bit better.”
She could hear Victor breathe a sigh of relief, “It will, and Monica? I love you.”
She managed a smile, even if she was pissed at him, she knew his heart was in the right place. “I love you, too, Victor. Now I’ve gotta go.” she ended the call, gathered her things and headed to her car.
The drive home was a long one, and it had started to rain, on the plus side her talk with Shirley went well. She’d swing by in an hour or so and they’d have a bit of a girl’s night. Maybe she could talk with her about all of this, about how Victor made her feel, and how she didn’t want to be seen as just some victim anymore.
It was dark when she finally got home, probably around seven or eight, and as she pulled up to her building, she closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair as a smile creased her lips. The townhome was in a decent part of town, and it was in a fairly well lit area. She always felt safe there, even after her attack she went straight home, and something about it just made her feel more at ease. She breathed an easy sigh as she pulled in to her parking spot and cut the engine, leaning back into her seat and slowly closing her eyes. God, she was tired, all of this was just so exhausting. Work, the attack, Victor, the baby, she just wanted to go to bed, to rest.
Getting out of the car was a chore, hell, getting into the car was just as irritating. She shuffled to the door and fumbled with the keys, cursing the lack of organization on her ring. Finally, she found the right key and let herself in to her building. She dropped her purse on the counter, grabbed a jar of pickles from the fridge and turned on her TV.
“Folks if you’re just joining us we’re following a story about the man papers dubbed ‘The Heretic.’ Now, as some of you may recall, six women were raped in a span of six weeks, each woman left with a hexagram carved into their thighs. Police were never able to find any more information about the man, even after a statewide manhunt. The reason we’re reporting on this again now is because those victims, those women who were attacked nearly nine months ago, have started disappearing-”
Almost immediately the TV was shut off, leaving Monica to stare at her reflection in the screen. She was pale, even more so than usual, and absently rubbing at a scar beneath her pants. He was back. Fucking Vic was right, he was back, and he was rounding up his old victims. Her hand shot to her phone and before she knew what she was doing, she was dialing his number.
“Hello?” his voice was so faint, it was like he was in another world. She stared at the phone, trying to piece everything together, and nothing made sense. Nothing seemed right. This wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real. Why? Why after nine months was he back? Why was he targeting the same women? “Monica? Monica! I saw the report and I’m on my way, just hang tight, please.”
He came in clear, and she brought the phone to her ear. “Vic… hurry…” it was all she could choke out. Her face was wet with tears, and her words were catching in her throat. For the first time since it happened she felt fear, real fear. She could feel the bile choking the speech away. The knock was jarring, jarring enough to spur a startled scream from the woman.
“Mon!? Monica are you alright? It’s me, It’s Shirley! Jesus, I heard about what’s going on, open the door!” the knocking wasn’t knocking anymore. It was an insistent beating, Shirley was calling through the door, and Monica was just staring. Then she stopped calling out to her, but the knocking continued.
Everything in Monica told her to stay away from that door, to wait until she heard Shirley again, or she heard Vic, but she was moving. She was heading to the door as the incessant banging continued. “Sh-Shirley?” she whispered as her hand curled over the knob. “Shirley is that you? Tell me you’re still out there…”
“Monica… please…” She breathed an elated sigh as she unlocked the door, swinging it open and expecting to find her best friend. Shirley was there, but there was someone else.
Standing behind her was a massive man, a monster of flesh and scars. His body was covered in strange religious carvings, blasphemous scars that seemed to crawl across his form. Dropping from his collarbone past his navel was a large inverted cross carved into his pale flesh. His face was hidden by what looked like some kind of a black mask with a white skull hand painted on the front of it. He held Shirley close to his body, her breathing was ragged and fearful. “Monica…” he hissed, voice like ice that froze her veins.
“Monica RUN! CLOSE THE DOOR AND RUN!” Shirley found her voice, and her courage, but it was cut short. Her eyes widened, and blood poured from the side of her mouth, there was a flash, the faintest glint of steel as blade was dragged across Shirley's throat. She could hear the flesh tearing and Shirley's last, pained gurgling breaths. She slammed the door shut and dead bolted it as fast as she could, then she ran. She ran as fast as she could for the sliding glass door, tears streaming from her face.
There was a thunderous crash at the front of the house, like a roar, and Monica could hear the splinters of wood tumbling to the floor. He was inside. Oh god, he was coming. The Heretic was coming for her again, and she knew she wouldn’t survive this time. She flung the sliding glass door open and bolted for the wall around her ground-floor porch, screaming for help, but it was cut short as pain rocked her shoulder, nearly flooring her. He hadn't caught up, not yet, but the sickening wet crack against the wall drew her eyes to her former best-friend's severed head. He had fucking thrown Shirley's head at her. There was no time to process or to mourn, she had to run, she had to escape this demon that was ambling toward her. With everything she could muster, she pulled herself over the wall and dropped to the concrete path below. She hit the ground on her back, which cost her precious seconds. Clambering back to her feet, she bolted. She ran as fast as she could toward her car, sparing only a moment’s glance over her shoulder. He was walking out of the house.
When her gaze returned forward, she saw her. The woman that seemed to be running up to help her, and she was going way too fast to stop. They collided with eachother, and Monica collapsed in the woman’s arms, blubbering. “Please…please he’s coming for me! Please! You have to call someone, help me! Please!” the woman had taken a step back after the collision she was trying to calm her down as she dug for her phone.
“Calm down, honey, calm down! You’re going to be alright, come on!” she didn’t bother to wait for Monica’s response, instead she took her hand and hauled her away, back toward a secluded part of the complex. When Monica looked over her shoulder again, she couldn’t see him.
She breathed a nervous sigh, looking toward her savior. “Thank you…” she rasped, still trying to catch her breath. The woman nodded, she was rifling through her purse. “My boyfriend, he should be coming soon. He called… said he was on his way.” The other woman nodded again.
“Good, good. Witnesses are important.” she murmured, still looking through her bag.
A wave of unease washed over Monica as she began to back away. “Witnesses? For, for what?”
The woman didn’t look up, “Why, you were attacked, hon. The more people who testify against that the better.”
She relaxed slightly as she watched the woman. “That’s a good point…” she murmured, inching closer. “What are you looking for?”
The woman jerked back, earning a flinch from the mother-to-be. She was holding a smartphone in her hand. “I had a feeling you didn’t get a chance to call anyone. I called the cops when I heard you scream, so I’m sure they’re on the way. Call your boyfriend. Tell him where to find you. I’m sure that man is still wandering about looking for you.”
Monica smiled, this woman was an absolute saint. An angel in disguise who had likely saved her life. She graciously took the woman’s phone and punched in Victor’s number. As she brought the phone to her ear, she felt a prick in her neck. Her eyes turned to discs as she spun to face the woman again. The world was starting to spin, and sounds were starting to blend, turning into a singular buzz. “What did you…” her world was spiraling, head felt like it was a thousand miles away, and the world was starting to meld together. She was falling, tumbling through a world of darkness as everything around her began to fade away. Then, it was black.
****
Dripping. It was faint, but it was there. She was upright, but she couldn’t move. The world was still black, and her head felt like it had been hit with a brick, but she was alive. Monica groaned, head lolling backward and striking…something.
“Good, good. Our guest of honor wakes.” it was that hissing whisper again, and it instantly turned her blood to ice.
As the world came to, Monica immediately began to sob. She was tied up, and she was naked. The dripping was coming from above, where a set of old pipes leaked into puddles on the floor. Glancing downward she saw some kind of trough with five channels that looked like they flowed into it. Then she heard the groaning. Jerking her head to each side she saw them. The other women, they were all nude and tied to what looked like large wood stakes; the channels were cut beneath them, and they were all gagged. This was it, these were the other five women. He had collected them all for some kind of ritual, and Monica was the centerpiece.
“Do you like it, Monica? This is years in the making. Each and every one of you was vetted and chosen specifically for this grand occasion.”
“P-please…” Monica managed, her voice hoarse and weak, whatever drug she had been stuck with still working its way out of her system “Let us go… let us go and we can all forget this happened.”
The masked man laughed, gesturing grandiosely to what he had created. “Let you go? Do you honestly believe that after all of this preparation, all of this work, I’d just release you? This is one of the most important nights in history, Monica, and you will be a part of it but don’t worry, we’ve brought a witness.”
From somewhere in the dark came the sound of an old wheelchair, and when it came into the light Monica saw Victor, battered and bloodied, tied up and barely conscious. “Victor? Oh my god, why? Why would you do this?”
The masked man said nothing more, instead he gestured again, and a figure cloaked in a black robe stepped out. It moved in behind one of the women. From somewhere within the folds of its robe, it withdrew a long dagger and cut into the victim’s throat. She didn’t have a chance to respond, her eyes simply widened, and she gurgled into the gag around her mouth, her life pouring from her throat and dripping down into the channel, flowing through it into the central trough.
Monica gasped, adrenaline suddenly surging through her veins, she struggled and thrashed violently against her restraints, much to the enjoyment of The Heretic. The massive man chuckled, drifting over to Victor, cocking back his massive fist, and bashing him in the face. The battered man’s head jerked violently to the side, blood spraying from his mouth before his head drooped against his chest. “Stop! Stop it, please!” she begged, drawing The Heretic’s attention. He focused his gaze on her, seizing Victor’s hair and raising his head to face her. Blood poured from his mouth and nose, his eyes were swollen shut. He looked like he had been through hell.
“The only way he lives is through your compliance.” The Heretic spoke matter-of-factly, releasing Victor’s head and letting it drop back into his chest.
“Fine, fine! Just… just don’t hurt him!” The Heretic turned back to the one in the robe and nodded. Another woman’s throat was cut, her blood flowing through the channel and into the trough. Monica wanted to scream. She wanted to curse this man and his pet in the robe. Most of all, she wanted this to be over. She kept quiet, she remained a silent audience to this slaughter taking place before her as the giant of a man stood silently, watching as the creature in the robe skulked behind each of the women, snuffing their candles with a single slice to the throat and watching as what remained of their life flowed into a pool beneath Monica’s feet. She couldn’t take it, she felt the rage boil over and explode, firing from her like a shot from a howitzer “You’re sick. You’re a fucking disgusting freak, you know that? You get off on watching these women die? You gonna jerk it in their blood you fucking pervert?” she hissed, the anger seizing her every pore. The Heretic’s hollow gaze fell upon her. The empty black eyes bored into her soul. Monica felt her stomach sink, the anger turned to bile, and she suddenly felt incredibly sick.
The monster’s head drifted away, turning to Victor. Monica thought he was going to strike him again, but he didn’t he held up a hand to his robed compatriot and they stopped. There were two girls left, they were screaming into their gags, pleading for release. Something had called for a pause in whatever proceedings were going on, and with the way that man was eyeing her boyfriend, she knew she was about to witness something terrible.
The Heretic drifted somewhere into the darkness, beyond where she could make out a shape. She could hear metal clanging against the floor, striking other metal, and then she heard the sound of something being sharpened. She began struggling anew, the fibers of the rope tearing and burning into her flesh, but the fire was nothing compared to the terror she was feeling. He was coming back, and he was going to do something to Victor, and she had to watch. The sharpening sounds stopped, and she could hear that beast’s heavy footsteps again. When he emerged from the shadows, he was carrying what she could only describe as hell’s machete. The blade was massive, the edge glinted with freshly sharpened steel, but the rest of it was still corroded and rusty.
Monica swallowed the lump in her throat and stared in horror as he grabbed Victor by the hair again, forcing his face to hers. The massive blade drifted toward his neck as The Heretic’s gaze locked on to her. “Please… please don’t do this… please, just let him go. You want me. You want me, not him.” The fiend’s head cocked, but the blade slowly fell away.
“He lives through your compliance, Monica. You must be punished.” Monica’s eyes must have consumed the whole of her face as she watched that demon of a man raise his weapon high into the air and bring it violently down into Victor’s leg. The blade drove itself deep into his flesh until a soft ringing of the steel signaled it had struck something hard, and he screamed. Blood flew from his mouth as he jerked and spasmed in the chair, but The Heretic was not done. He yanked the rusted blade free and hacked into Victor again. She heard the bone snap, she watched Victor’s head jerk back as he screamed in absolute anguish. Then came the final swing, and Victor’s leg was severed. He continued to scream and thrash in the wheelchair, sobbing heavily. The heretic was not done. He stepped away from Victor's convulsing, pathetic form and slowly dropped the blade into the coals of a small burning brazier. Moments of tense silence were cut when the blade was pulled from the hot coals and slapped against Victor's gushing wound, he screamed again and the Heretic inhaled, relishing the anguished cries of the broken man before him. For whatever it was worth, Victor somehow managed to maintain consciousness, albeit barely.
Monica couldn’t see anymore, everything was blurred, she was dizzy, the scent of cooked flesh- Victor's cooked flesh stung her nostrils. She knew she was bawling, but all she could hear was the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above and the crackling of the small fire. Finally, her head dropped in defeat, tears falling into the pool of blood beneath her. “Fine…” she murmured meekly. “Just…just don’t hurt him anymore, please.”
There was no reply, instead whatever twisted procession that was taking place resumed. The next victim’s throat was cut, just like the other three. Her blood added to the pool beneath Monica. Then the final outlying victim was executed, leaving only Monica in the center of the death. Her eyes burned from tears as she looked at The Heretic. He was walking now, stepping closer to her and beckoning the hooded figure forward.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and the shuffling stopped. “Bear witness.” came the monster’s voice, but her eyes wouldn’t open, she couldn’t open them. She couldn’t watch all this death, she couldn’t look at Victor, see what they were doing to him. “BEAR WITNESS!” the fiend’s voice boomed, she could swear it rattled the pipes above. Monica’s eyes opened slowly, The Heretic held Victor’s head up, forcing his broken visage to gaze onto her. “Bear. Witness.” he repeated, looking between the pair. Monica’s eyes were desperate, pleading with the monster to stop.
“Mon…ica…” Victor choked weakly, coughing out a mixture of phlegm and blood. She gazed at him with a broken mixture of sorrow and longing. “I lo-” he was stopped, the Heretic had shoved his hand into Victor’s mouth, his eyes never leaving the woman tied in the center of the room.
“Bear witness.” the beast hissed, his hand flying violently from Victor’s mouth, along with several teeth. Victor coughed and gasped, his head dropped once again, hanging weakly against his chest. The Heretic seized Vic’s head and forced it to stare at Monica again. “Bear witness,” he growled, fingers digging into Victor’s eye. Even as injured as he was, he screamed, and it broke her.
“I’m witnessing! I’m witnessing! Please! Please, for the love of god… just… just fucking stop!” The Heretic spun, and with a speed she had yet to see he was on her. She gasped, and as she did, Victor’s eye was shoved into her mouth. She gagged and coughed, trying to spit the organ free, but the Monster’s thumb remained lodged in her mouth. She had no choice but to choke it down.
“Now he will forever be a part of you…” the Heretic hissed. Then, there was pain. A white-hot flash in her gut. Her eyes shot to the source of the pain and she saw the blade deep in her belly. The weapon tore downward, splitting her flesh and leaving a deep crimson canyon behind. Monica screamed, she screamed as loud and pathetically as she could, but there was no god to answer. There were no sirens to abate her anguish, there was only pain, a pain that magnified as the monster plunged both of his hands into her wounded gut.
“Salvation comes for us all…” came the whisper, it was feminine and familiar. She had heard it before, and weakly her head lolled toward the sound. The cloaked figure stood by her shoulder, but the hood had been removed. It was the woman from before, the one who had saved her, or at least she thought the woman was her rescuer.
“You…?” she murmured weakly.
Her question was met with a gentle hand upon her cheek. “Father is brutal, but his actions are necessary, and measured. He knows how much blood must be shed to usher in our savior. Mother is precise, for her death is art, each stroke of the blade like a paintbrush. Together they create, and together the prophecy is fulfilled. Together they witness.” the woman whispered. “Soon the savior will come…” The heretic’s hands were still inside of her, rifling around as if searching for something. The pain was excruciating, but the adrenaline for the night kept her from the solace that unconsciousness would provide.
Then came the sound, one that destroyed Monica’s very soul the moment she heard it. The sound of an infant crying. Her gaze shot to the monster, to the fiend that had now violated her not once, but twice. It had stolen her child, and she had no idea what he was going to do with it.
“Leave him alone you heartless fu-” her words were cut short, as the Heretic’s hand shot into her mouth. It jerked free, only to stop and curl around her lower jaw. The crying child was held close to the monster’s chest as his cold, dark gaze rested on Monica, unwavering.
“Silence your tongue, heretic.” he hissed, his grip on her jaw tightening. Monica tried to close her mouth, to bite down on the monstrosity’s fingers, but his grip was incredible. She could feel her bones begin to crack beneath the Heretic’s hellish grip, but then, she felt tearing. Muscle being pulled free from flesh, the heat and metallic taste of blood began to flood her mouth. The fire from her bones splintering, then, like paper her jaw was ripped free from her skull.
She wanted to scream, but all that she could manage was a pained gurgle. The Heretic kept his gaze on her, tossing the torn half of her skull into the darkness where it landed with a wet slap. Monica only saw lights, flitting through the darkness as she danced at the edge of consciousness. The beast seized her head, slamming it against the pole and the spots fired brightly. Again, and again, and again. It was starting to sound wet, her hair was getting sticky. Again. Again. Then, nothing. Monica was dead.
The Heretic released his grip from the woman’s head, returning to the baby. His gaze drifted to the woman, and he nodded. Stooping down, she picked up the offering bowl beneath the brutalized woman and slowly poured it over the crying child. The bestial man in white began chanting, and the child’s sobbing turned to coos. The abomination’s chanting continued, and the baby stared up at him in awe, now covered in the blood of six women.
Then, the miracle occurred. The baby’s eyes, once a beautiful blue turned an intense shade of silver, and the whites darkened to an inky black.
The heretic reached up and tore the black mask from his face, revealing a pale, gaunt face with eyes similar to those of the child. He smiled, brushing blood away from the boy’s lips. “Welcome, our savior. Welcome, the angel of suffering. Welcome, Cade.”