Rithwraith
TMF Novice
- Joined
- Jul 7, 2005
- Messages
- 60
- Points
- 0
Despite some readers telling me otherwise, I must point out that this story contains such themes as fanciful satanism, murder (sort of) and some rather gristly language and should thus not be viewed by the easily offended or en-disturberised.
Confessions of a Succubus’ Ghost Writer
By Richard Paul
I dipped the quill into the ink pot and spent a good thirty seconds scratching the nib against the end of the tray to get the excess ink off. It had taken me three months to finally master the art of writing with the damn thing without leaving blots all over the parchments, the only trouble was that doing so often meant it took a good three hours to write every A5 contract, as well as wrist cramp the likes of which I’d have thought impossible.
I scribbled out the final sentence and set the quill down. From what Sabrina had told me, it was a feather from a three-headed griffin that had, in ages past, murdered his son. I’d never heard of a griffin with black feathers, nor one with three heads, but then what did I know?
The ink and parchment were easier sells. The former being fashioned from the blood of sinners who happened to have scurvy. The latter was sown together, rather predictably I’ll admit, from the flesh of any damned souls who had the ill fortune to be selected for Satan’s infernal paper mill. The crackly, flexible material felt nothing like flesh, but it smelled of hewn meat and on one occasion I wound up drawing blood from it while in mid sentence.
I spared my latest contract a glance.
Let this contract state, once and for all and beyond any
hint of doubt that I, John Johann Walker do promise my
love, my life and indeed my very soul to Sabrina Hallows.
By my signature, inscribed in my own blood, let this pact
be eternal.
That was it, that’s what takes me hours to write. Suffice to say though, there’s plenty of incentive to get things exactly right when doing jobs for Sabrina. If someone ever tells you the cautionary tale of Francisco Csatlos, or if you ever find the missing half of his penis, you’ll understand why.
There was a gentle knock at the door. I bolted upright so fast that my legs smashed into the table. I managed to keep the parchment in place but most of my writing implements, went flying, only to land neatly on the floor, face up with no mess whatsoever. Unbidden, everything then returned to its previous place.
My job comes with many a peculiar quirk such as that. Mine is hardly an important task, but apparently it’s important enough to be protected from flying ink, or that car door last week, or the bread knife incident of the 31st.
Whoever it was at the door knocked again.
“Simon,” Sabrina’s voice said through the wood, “it’s me. Open up.”
I sighed, half relieved, half nervous. A somewhat paradoxical combination I’ll grant you, but then my life is full of conflicting emotions these days.
I moved to the door, opened it slowly and found the almost familiar sight of a smiling blonde in a tight fitting tank top and leather trousers standing outside. I’d seen this form, or something along the same lines, twice before. Last time she’d been a good five inches taller, had dark brown hair in a bun and was sporting an undersized business suit and a pair of glasses that betrayed her victim as having a librarian fetish. The time before that she’d been a raven haired policewoman with one arm.
Every so often I found myself face to face with some truly horrific embodiments of perverted sexual fantasies. On two occasions I’d handed the soul binding contracts to the forms of twelve year old girls. The souls of the sickening gits that dreamt them up are safely locked away in my office desk. I refuse to eat them. Souls which stay disembodied on Earth pass over to heaven or hell after a year and a day anyway, so don’t think I’m cheating them of their fiery fate which, coincidently, is quite impossible.
“Hey there.” Sabrina said, her voice warm and friendly. She flashed me a smile that for an instant made me feel like a man who’d stepped out of the snow into a room with fifty lit fireplaces and complimentary Moscow mules. I shook the feeling away, it was simple demonic trickery.
The truth of things could be seen plain as day in her eyes where there was that unmistakable ‘cat in front of the birdcage’ look that I’d gotten so use to seeing. Whenever she took a form that I found appealing, which was more often than not, her predator’s eyes were the only constant warning about the perils of temptation.
Needless to say, if I didn’t already know what she was then my soul would have been hers long ago.
“Hi.” I finally returned. It then occurred to me to step aside and let her in. “You’re a bit earlier than I expected. I’m not quite finished yet, just the stamp and a few odds and sods to sort out.”
“That’s ok,” she said, brushing past me and heading for the couch. “What’s-his-face said he’d be late, he has to have dinner with his wife first apparently.”
Making my way back to the desk, I turned to her and raised my eyebrows in surprise. The kind of men who Sabrina snared normally forsook their wives in favour of her company, not the other way around.
“What’s he thinking?” I asked, half a second before walking into the edge of the desk. My leg stung, but considering the height of the desk I’m lucky it wasn’t a crotch hit. Sabrina sniggered at the sight and abruptly my leg stopped hurting.
“Oh, but he hasn’t seen her in months.” She muttered airily, “He’s been away on business in America or Aberdeen or somewhere doing… something. But I shouldn’t worry apparently, because he’s going to leave her for me.”
I had to laugh at that. I decided to forgo the contract writing for a few minutes. It’s hard to hold the quill steady when guffawing.
“He is, is he? That’s very nice of him. Did you put him up to it? Or does he somehow think that the very attractive woman who’s, currently, half his age is looking for a lifetime commitment with some dodgy cradle snatcher?”
“He wants an excuse to change his will.” Sabrina laid herself back on the couch, grabbed the nearby TV remote and suddenly the 7 O’clock news could be heard. “His wife’s been cheating you know. He’s certain of it. He can feel it. Of course that’s why he’s spending his time with someone like this;” she gestured downwards at her current breasts, which looked fake if I’m honest. “she drove him away. It’s all her fault. He wants someone more devoted.”
I shook my head. It’s pitiful specimens like that which make me relish my job sometimes. Perhaps that’s unfair though. Sabrina, by her very nature, is a master of seduction and with anyone else Mr. Walker might have been more objective and sane in his reasoning. I wouldn’t bank on it though.
“Oh, before I forget.” She stood up, walked over to the desk and took a small vial from her left trouser pocket. Setting it before me with one hand, she absently started scraping the nails of the other along the back of my neck.
I focused on the vial. The smoky liquid within was a muddy orange colour. Condemned souls are always orange or red. I’ve never seen what colour the other stock are.
“Vincent Gorbachov,” she said lightly, “remember him? He’s just a gulp or two away from the fifth circle of hell.”
I stood up and took a deep breath. Sabrina stepped back to give me room.
“I put some Jack Daniels in it for you.”
“Thank you.” I said slowly. No matter how many times I do this I always get the jitters.
I took the vial, unscrewed the small bronze lid and held the alcohol laced soul to my lips. Two more deep breaths and I poured it all into my mouth. Every last drop of the ethereal mesh clung tightly together, I could feel Gorbachov’s essence slithering around behind my teeth as the alcohol detached itself and added a burning sensation to complement the creepy one.
I’m hopeless at downing shots. I normally have to hold it for a good ten or fifteen seconds before I can swallow it. With souls it takes even longer. Finally, and after much protest from my stomach, I managed to ingest the slippery bastard.
I collapsed to the floor, my throat twitching and my innards presumably suing for divorce. Sabrina knelt down beside me and ran her nails through the length of my abruptly silver, shoulder length hair. A few minutes ago I’d had an untidy mound of auburn fuzz atop my head, now I looked decidedly emo. I don’t know how I knew this while face down on the carpet, but know I did.
Every swallowed soul comes with some manner of fortuitous mutation. The first one had completely obliterated my previously tenacious acne. The second made me a good six inches taller. The third gave me a measure of limited telekinesis. Each one had twisted my body from the short, pimply faced husk of a man I’d once been to the pseudo-pretty, ¾ husk of a man that I am today.
The souls themselves don’t linger in my gut for long. If they are destroyed in this world they simply zip to the next. There’s no escaping the afterlife, not for the dead at least.
“You okay baby?” She asked, rolling me onto my back and putting her face needlessly close to check my wellbeing. I half expected the motion to make me throw up, but the sight of her chased all queasiness away, and I abruptly found myself lying on my back beneath a beautiful woman who was, as a rule, trying all the while to kill me.
“Much better now,” I replied, smiling politely and trying to slither out from under her, “thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” She said before moving back to the couch. On reflection, I reflected, I guessed she wasn’t going to try too hard to ensnare me before I’d finished her contract.
To that end, after a moment’s fiddling with my new shiny mane, which was threatening to fall into the ink, I started the work again. All that remained was stamping the bottom right corner with the plastic ‘S’ stamp I’d bought from Canterbury Cathedral’s gift shop. Beneath the seal I wrote the words:
Simon of Aragon, solicitor of souls and part time scarecrow.
Infernal contracts draw power and thus validity from lies. Technically she doesn’t even need these things, she just needs to sleep with a bloke to get his soul. The contracts help ensure that no souls with the potential for redemption which she happens upon slip through her fingers. It’s rare, but it happens.
Anyway, with the task done. I set the fleshy parchment on the coffee table and bowed.
“And the rest I leave to you milady.”
She leaned forward and examined the item. Once she was happy with it, that smile of hers returned and she stood up. With a practiced stride that compelled me to stare at her arse, she stepped around the table and hugged me.
“Thanks Simon,” she said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Ensnare some other hapless loser and have him write your deeds. I thought distantly. That would have been a tactless and probably suicidal thing to say though, so instead I returned the hug.
What started as a friendly and rather loose embrace quickly escalated into a very tight one as she stepped in closer and pushed her breasts against my chest. The smell of her perfume, or testosterone-bewitching demonic musk, was enough on its own to send all manner of unwise thoughts through my head. Needless to say, trying to stave off the erection was as futile as arguing with the referee in a world cup quarter final against Argentina.
Coincidently, my penis was now five cubic millimetres larger.
Sabrina pulled back slightly and moved her head in front of mine. She was looking very pleased with herself.
“Mind if I come back round after work?” She asked with very convincing shyness in her voice, “We don’t spend as much time together as we used to.”
I couldn’t refuse her, it was forbidden for me to do so unless I had a genuinely good reason, which didn’t include self preservation.
“No, that’d be good.” I said, “I’ll head out in a little while and get some of that vodka you like.”
“Great, pick up something from Blockbusters as well, and maybe a pizza. No anchovies this time.”
“Sure.”
She lent forward and kissed me. I felt my heart go cold for the slightest of moments, but then the feeling vanished and its pace started escalating.
“I don’t deserve a friend like you.” She said, causing us both to chuckle. Finally pulling her arms away from my torso, she scooped the parchment from my coffee table and skulked to the door.
“See you tonight then.” She said, grinning again.
“See you.” I returned.
She stepped through the door and closed it gently behind her.
Thrice before I’d managed to resist her charms during a night in, but that didn’t stop me shivering in fear. Tonight I could find myself plummeting into the abyss along with Mr. Gorbachov if I wasn’t careful.
The obvious solution was to purge myself of all craven lusts with my right hand and a ‘Nuts’ magazine, but that too was forbidden. Ironically, Satan would not be pleased if I were to masturbate.
* * * * * * * * *
It was freezing outside, and because the only coat I owned was a paper thin leather thing which let the chill through without resistance, I found myself shivering all the way to Dominos.
I looked up into the starless sky simply because it seemed an appropriate thing to do on evenings where I feared for my very life. That said though, logically I had every reason to expect to see the sun tomorrow, or at least an overcast sky in the daylight hours. Sabrina still had a use for me, and hell maybe she really did consider me a friend, or maybe just amusing. Whatever the case, I doubted she was going to seriously try and rip my soul out through my penis.
So, as I walked onwards to the high street, I tried to focus instead on the latest change to my body. Along with the hair and incremental phallic stretching, my cheekbones had also straightened out a bit and my fillings were nowhere to be found. Only peripherals this time, which was all well and good. Some of the more noteworthy alterations were difficult things to get used to. One notable example comes from the after effects of consuming one Benjamin Simms’ soul. As a result my body no longer needs to defecate. At the time the revelation nearly reduced me to tears.
Anyway, I was about half way there when, suddenly, from one of slanted alleyways in front of me along a road facing the train tracks, who should I see emerge onto the lamp lit pavement with the head of a hairless sixteen year old in one hand and a moistened skirt in the other, but my old mentor; Dennis. Well, truth to tell he goes by the name Valarince now, which apparently means ‘Vengeful’ in the language of the Beast Princes, whoever they are. I should probably read up on all this stuff at some point.
“Dare I ask?” I asked when I got close enough, my eyes focused on his trophies.
“You may.” He responded; his once croaky, fifty a day voice now was a shameless rip off of Alan Rickman’s.
“Very well then, first off, what’s with the head?”
He looked at the thing, then back up at me.
“I would have thought you’d have asked about the skirt first personally.”
“Well the head is the more salient feature.”
“Is it? You’ve seen me deal with more than a few heads, and more than a few have been adolescent. You know why that is?”
“Another of the ruffians from your high school?”
“Yessssss.” He hissed, forked tongue and all. Dennis used to be a high school physics teacher. The stress got to him a bit. It was having his car tyres slashed that finally pushed him over the edge. Then one day he became a demon of sorts and as a result, troublemaking students have been winding up headless for weeks now. The school has been closed down but that hasn’t stopped the problem.
“And the skirt then? How is that more interesting?”
He rolled his eyes to heaven and swatted me over the head with the thing.
“The thing is, me holding a skirt in one hand connotes that there is currently a woman who’s missing it. I thought that might possibly interest you. Would you like to see?”
“I’m afraid this isn’t a good night for me mate, Sabrina’s spending the night round mine. I need to get some things.”
His pale face looked abruptly horror stricken, and his hair, identical to my own, literally recoiled in fear.
“This was her idea,” I reassured him, “maybe she’s just bored.”
“She is a succubus Simon,” he said with something like unto paternal concern, “they are never ‘just bored’ nor do they get lonely, nor are they ever casually sociable. She is after your soul. It’s her nature, it’s what she does.”
“I’ve kept her at bay three times before.”
“Which will only serve to make you careless. Look at yourself, you sound almost eager to be off so you can gather items for this imposed romantic evening. Let’s see…” He paused and lent forward to smell my thoughts, “a garlic and onion laden pizza and a DVD of ‘The Shipping News’? Well, perhaps I’m worrying about nothing. Don’t let me keep you then Casanova, if you must be off.”
Rest assured I’m not that clueless.
“I wasn’t seriously considering those.” I said with a sigh, “You know it’s not that easy.”
“Quite. The master demands that in such situations as these, you provide a proper evening for his daughters. Minus the sex if you can keep your wits about you.”
“I am as you taught me, and you survived.”
“That doesn’t mean you will. Just remember, when your transformation is complete you’ll be safe. One of the Satair; suave, shiny and soulless. Then there’ll be ample compensation for all this accursed temptation. Give in too early and you’ll spend eternity with your todger in a Demon’s jaws.”
“I remember.”
“Good, now go and get this night over with. Then tomorrow come seek me out. I want you to see this.”
He waved the skirt under my nose again, and then turned on his heels and moved back down the alley whistling the theme tune from ‘The Archers’.
* * * * * * * * *
The woman who reappeared at my door at 11:15PM looked so very different from when I’d seen her four hours ago. Her straight blonde hair was now dark red and stretched a fair way down the length of her back. She was slightly taller, just marginally shorter than me. Her breasts were smaller and, if you’ll forgive my questionable personification, more dignified.
For a man like me I guess it’s an ironic thing to have good reason to be terrified at the sight of a beautiful woman.
“Got the bastard.” She said, rather anticlimactically, “Ghastly shit’s hard on nearly fizzled out on me. You don’t want to know what I had to do to keep his dick up.”
“No, I’m sure I don’t!” I said loudly, trying very hard not to imagine the scene, though in retrospect the image of a naked bloke with erectile dysfunction might have proved helpful that evening.
She stepped through the passage and emptied the pockets of a new, well worn looking leather coat onto my coffee table. One phone, one signed soul ownership transfer contract, one full soul vial and a half empty packet of polo mints.
“Help yourself.” She said, flinging her coat over the couch. I wasn’t sure if she meant to the soul or the mints. I wasn’t really in the mood for either.
“I got a ham and pineapple thing from the place.” I muttered pitifully in a quiet, inferno-wary voice. “I tried to wait for you but in the end I couldn’t resist taking two slices.”
She grinned, I think more to herself than me. This news seemed to please her.
“I hope that’s all you started without me for.” She said, catching me completely off guard. It was a few seconds before I could respond.
“Of course.”
“Good,” she kicked off her shoes again, (someone more fiercely this time, almost shattering a nearby vase), and moved towards the bathroom. “be back in a sec. Pour me a glass of something please hon.”
“Sure.”
She vanished from sight, I poured the drinks and foolishly drank my own too quickly to try and stave off the panic. Bison Grass vodka is a superior brand, but the act of downing it as hastily as I did resulted in a rather embarrassing coughing fit. Trying to pour myself a refill whilst wheezing made for a lot of spillage.
When Sabrina reappeared she had shed her jumper to reveal a very tight fitting, almost transparent white T-shirt. She walked with the casual air of someone who’d just returned home from the night shift. She moved back to the couch, collapsed onto it and beckoned me over with one hand.
Like a good plaything, I brought her drink and the pizza box over to her. She downed the former with far greater ease than I’d managed and then started on the latter, managing somehow not to spill any of the toppings onto the furniture.
“You want him now?” She asked, pointing at John Walker’s gaseous form.
“No thanks.” I replied quickly, “One a day’s my limit.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, genuinely surprised.
“Yeah, I’ll leave it till the morning.”
Logically, consuming these souls as soon as I could and completing my transformation as soon as possible made sense. When I was fully transformed I’d be one of the Satair, a demon of sorts, free to serve the Devil’s cause on Earth until the apocalypse. Then afterwards I’d have an eternity of tormenting, (rather than torment), in sunny Hell to muddle through. Tis better to have a low pay job with terrible hours in Hell than to cling to a fool’s hope of heaven.
I couldn’t do it though; not yet. My body still felt bruised and creepy after the last one only four hours ago. Human frailty still endured in me and somehow it managed to gain precedence over common sense.
Anyway, the night started out easily enough. We drank some, talked some, demolished the pizza and then got to watching Over the Hedge. I’d hoped that humour might help dispel my craven lusts somewhat. The first time Sabrina stayed over I’d tried something similar with Silent Hill, hoping to cock block myself through fright. Instead Sabrina had simply imitated terror herself, followed by vulnerability, which led to her grabbing and my arm at lot and keeping her body close to mine as if I were some kind of shield against the fictitious demons on screen who, if anything, were questionable interpretations of her workmates. I of course found the whole scene rather appealing and had to resist the urge to play the manly comforter or whatever.
This time we laughed at the antics of a hyperactive squirrel and recidivist racoon as we got more and more drunk.
The sense of impending doom I felt at the sight of the cheery, colourful credits list was far stronger than I can adequately describe with a sentence like this. To my right I saw a hungry smile emerge on Sabrina’s face. With this flimsy shield now done with, I was all the more vulnerable.
“Do you know what I’d like to do?” She asked.
I parted with a pitiful sound halfway between a squeak and a sigh by way of response.
“Well?” she said.
“What?”
“Dance.”
I couldn’t help but feel a bit stupid at hearing my first assumption proved wrong. Little time to worry about that though. Sabrina quickly pushed herself up and stumbled towards the iPod platform thingamajig in the corner. Soon the sound of Alkaline Trio’s ‘Good Mourning’ album was resounding through the room at a volume that would probably have Mrs. Patterson complaining to the landlord in the morning.
Sabrina grabbed hold of my hands and pulled me to my feet. What followed was a ridiculous spectacle of drunken flailing and spinning that I could never bring myself to do while sober.
I calmed down a fair bit during this routine. Our foolish maelstrom left little chance for proper physical contact and despite the many violent collisions with the furniture, I actually wound up enjoying myself.
Track 12 came about. It’s a quiet, slow paced song and at the sound of it, I suddenly found Sabrina pressed against me. Her hands clasped around the back of my neck and once again our chests were touching. She moved her lips to my ear and whispered;
“Do you know what I want to do now?”
“Rip my soul out?” I ventured. Somehow though my voice was more playful that accusatory.
She pulled her head back and stared at me. She looked hurt.
“What? No. Of course not. Do you honestly think I’d do that to you?” she said, her voice was pained but her grasp on me remained unchanged, “I like you Simon, I’d never hurt you.”
I suddenly felt like such an arsehole. What was I thinking? We were friends for fuck’s sake. I was her co-worker, her friend, confidant. Why in the Devil’s name would she try and kill me? How could I think that?
“I… I thought…”
Wait, no, come on Simon you know what she’s doing. This is clever Succubus talk. Dennis has told you over and over that she’ll be after your soul. She has no choice, it’s her nature. She pretty much told you that too when you first started writing contracts for her. Get a fucking grip.
Saying that was one thing, doing it was another.
“I’m sorry.” I said. “I… I don’t know what…”
“Shhhh.” She rested her forehead against mine. I could smell her mint-scented breath on my face. “You worry too much. Just let go. It’s ok.”
Her clothes quite literally vanished, so did mine. With each second I could feel my resolve crumbling. Everything except this temptress before me ceased to be. At that point I honestly thought I was in love.
We kissed, this time my heart didn’t go cold, it raced on with all the excitement of a man with a beautiful naked woman is his arms. One of my arms slithered down the length of her back while my other closed around her shoulders and pulled her closer.
I don’t know how long we stood there, and I only have a few vague snapshots of memory from the whole thing. My face in her breasts while… (Hang on, why am I telling you this?)
Anyway, at some point she pulled herself away and walked backwards to the bedroom, beckoning me forth with one hand.
I watched her until she vanished into the darkened room, then my legs started walking forward almost of their own volition. Their movements were slow and uncertain, I was stumbling forward like a drunken marionette, and whether or not I actually was one at the time is anyone’s guess.
Don’t do this the weedy remnant of sanity in my head pleaded, You’re doomed if you do. Literally fucking doomed.
I knew that, and it scared me. In that instant though there was just too much mess and testosterone and demonic ensnaring musk swimming about my cranium to make the fact matter.
Step back my brain screamed at me, close the door. Leave the flat, run onto the bloody street or get the kitchen scissors and slice your nuts off, just don’t fucking go in there!
“Simon”, Sabrina’s voice crooned from within, “aren’t you coming?”
I was almost at the door, if I was going to save myself, I thought distantly, it would have to be now.
A flash of inspiration brought me to what remained of my senses. With a force of will that was physically painful, I turned my legs around and started to edge back to the coffee table. The effort of resisting Sabrina’s supernatural charms as well as (I suppose) my own irrational urge to simply get laid, was more than a little difficult. As I walked, my legs suddenly gave out and I landed on the hard floor with a crash.
“Simon?” I could hear scuffling on the bed sheets, she was coming back out to see what I was doing.
I forced myself to kneel, then I crawled to the table as quickly as my survival instincts could propel me.
I reached out, grabbed John Walker’s soul, unscrewed the lid and downed the fucking thing with no caution whatsoever.
Now I really wish I could say that this soul completed my transformation utterly, that I stood up as a fully formed member of the Satair, that my soul was locked in an unbreakable pact with Satan and that with the threat of damnation gone, me and Sabrina celebrated in the bedroom for three solid days.
Instead the soul reacted so violently with my system that I threw it back up along with dinner and passed out in my vomit while the soul escaped out the window. Sabrina found me face down and stark-bollock naked in my own puke and took no less than twenty pictures on her phone which she made a point to show me the next time she came round with a new male target singled out.
She made no mention of what had happened, or what had almost happened. It was business as usual, she was just a flirtatious friend who stole souls for a living. I was her nerdish servitor, waiting in terror for the next time she came around after work for fear I’d be cast into oblivion.
I have another thirteen souls to ingest before my transformation is complete. I am doomed.
The End
P.S. In case you were wondering, there’s quite a funny story behind that skirt Dennis showed me, it has to do with a Spanish lawyer, a missing set of ears and a ransom note filled with grammatical errors.
That however is a story for another bedtime.
The (actual) end
Confessions of a Succubus’ Ghost Writer
By Richard Paul
I dipped the quill into the ink pot and spent a good thirty seconds scratching the nib against the end of the tray to get the excess ink off. It had taken me three months to finally master the art of writing with the damn thing without leaving blots all over the parchments, the only trouble was that doing so often meant it took a good three hours to write every A5 contract, as well as wrist cramp the likes of which I’d have thought impossible.
I scribbled out the final sentence and set the quill down. From what Sabrina had told me, it was a feather from a three-headed griffin that had, in ages past, murdered his son. I’d never heard of a griffin with black feathers, nor one with three heads, but then what did I know?
The ink and parchment were easier sells. The former being fashioned from the blood of sinners who happened to have scurvy. The latter was sown together, rather predictably I’ll admit, from the flesh of any damned souls who had the ill fortune to be selected for Satan’s infernal paper mill. The crackly, flexible material felt nothing like flesh, but it smelled of hewn meat and on one occasion I wound up drawing blood from it while in mid sentence.
I spared my latest contract a glance.
Let this contract state, once and for all and beyond any
hint of doubt that I, John Johann Walker do promise my
love, my life and indeed my very soul to Sabrina Hallows.
By my signature, inscribed in my own blood, let this pact
be eternal.
That was it, that’s what takes me hours to write. Suffice to say though, there’s plenty of incentive to get things exactly right when doing jobs for Sabrina. If someone ever tells you the cautionary tale of Francisco Csatlos, or if you ever find the missing half of his penis, you’ll understand why.
There was a gentle knock at the door. I bolted upright so fast that my legs smashed into the table. I managed to keep the parchment in place but most of my writing implements, went flying, only to land neatly on the floor, face up with no mess whatsoever. Unbidden, everything then returned to its previous place.
My job comes with many a peculiar quirk such as that. Mine is hardly an important task, but apparently it’s important enough to be protected from flying ink, or that car door last week, or the bread knife incident of the 31st.
Whoever it was at the door knocked again.
“Simon,” Sabrina’s voice said through the wood, “it’s me. Open up.”
I sighed, half relieved, half nervous. A somewhat paradoxical combination I’ll grant you, but then my life is full of conflicting emotions these days.
I moved to the door, opened it slowly and found the almost familiar sight of a smiling blonde in a tight fitting tank top and leather trousers standing outside. I’d seen this form, or something along the same lines, twice before. Last time she’d been a good five inches taller, had dark brown hair in a bun and was sporting an undersized business suit and a pair of glasses that betrayed her victim as having a librarian fetish. The time before that she’d been a raven haired policewoman with one arm.
Every so often I found myself face to face with some truly horrific embodiments of perverted sexual fantasies. On two occasions I’d handed the soul binding contracts to the forms of twelve year old girls. The souls of the sickening gits that dreamt them up are safely locked away in my office desk. I refuse to eat them. Souls which stay disembodied on Earth pass over to heaven or hell after a year and a day anyway, so don’t think I’m cheating them of their fiery fate which, coincidently, is quite impossible.
“Hey there.” Sabrina said, her voice warm and friendly. She flashed me a smile that for an instant made me feel like a man who’d stepped out of the snow into a room with fifty lit fireplaces and complimentary Moscow mules. I shook the feeling away, it was simple demonic trickery.
The truth of things could be seen plain as day in her eyes where there was that unmistakable ‘cat in front of the birdcage’ look that I’d gotten so use to seeing. Whenever she took a form that I found appealing, which was more often than not, her predator’s eyes were the only constant warning about the perils of temptation.
Needless to say, if I didn’t already know what she was then my soul would have been hers long ago.
“Hi.” I finally returned. It then occurred to me to step aside and let her in. “You’re a bit earlier than I expected. I’m not quite finished yet, just the stamp and a few odds and sods to sort out.”
“That’s ok,” she said, brushing past me and heading for the couch. “What’s-his-face said he’d be late, he has to have dinner with his wife first apparently.”
Making my way back to the desk, I turned to her and raised my eyebrows in surprise. The kind of men who Sabrina snared normally forsook their wives in favour of her company, not the other way around.
“What’s he thinking?” I asked, half a second before walking into the edge of the desk. My leg stung, but considering the height of the desk I’m lucky it wasn’t a crotch hit. Sabrina sniggered at the sight and abruptly my leg stopped hurting.
“Oh, but he hasn’t seen her in months.” She muttered airily, “He’s been away on business in America or Aberdeen or somewhere doing… something. But I shouldn’t worry apparently, because he’s going to leave her for me.”
I had to laugh at that. I decided to forgo the contract writing for a few minutes. It’s hard to hold the quill steady when guffawing.
“He is, is he? That’s very nice of him. Did you put him up to it? Or does he somehow think that the very attractive woman who’s, currently, half his age is looking for a lifetime commitment with some dodgy cradle snatcher?”
“He wants an excuse to change his will.” Sabrina laid herself back on the couch, grabbed the nearby TV remote and suddenly the 7 O’clock news could be heard. “His wife’s been cheating you know. He’s certain of it. He can feel it. Of course that’s why he’s spending his time with someone like this;” she gestured downwards at her current breasts, which looked fake if I’m honest. “she drove him away. It’s all her fault. He wants someone more devoted.”
I shook my head. It’s pitiful specimens like that which make me relish my job sometimes. Perhaps that’s unfair though. Sabrina, by her very nature, is a master of seduction and with anyone else Mr. Walker might have been more objective and sane in his reasoning. I wouldn’t bank on it though.
“Oh, before I forget.” She stood up, walked over to the desk and took a small vial from her left trouser pocket. Setting it before me with one hand, she absently started scraping the nails of the other along the back of my neck.
I focused on the vial. The smoky liquid within was a muddy orange colour. Condemned souls are always orange or red. I’ve never seen what colour the other stock are.
“Vincent Gorbachov,” she said lightly, “remember him? He’s just a gulp or two away from the fifth circle of hell.”
I stood up and took a deep breath. Sabrina stepped back to give me room.
“I put some Jack Daniels in it for you.”
“Thank you.” I said slowly. No matter how many times I do this I always get the jitters.
I took the vial, unscrewed the small bronze lid and held the alcohol laced soul to my lips. Two more deep breaths and I poured it all into my mouth. Every last drop of the ethereal mesh clung tightly together, I could feel Gorbachov’s essence slithering around behind my teeth as the alcohol detached itself and added a burning sensation to complement the creepy one.
I’m hopeless at downing shots. I normally have to hold it for a good ten or fifteen seconds before I can swallow it. With souls it takes even longer. Finally, and after much protest from my stomach, I managed to ingest the slippery bastard.
I collapsed to the floor, my throat twitching and my innards presumably suing for divorce. Sabrina knelt down beside me and ran her nails through the length of my abruptly silver, shoulder length hair. A few minutes ago I’d had an untidy mound of auburn fuzz atop my head, now I looked decidedly emo. I don’t know how I knew this while face down on the carpet, but know I did.
Every swallowed soul comes with some manner of fortuitous mutation. The first one had completely obliterated my previously tenacious acne. The second made me a good six inches taller. The third gave me a measure of limited telekinesis. Each one had twisted my body from the short, pimply faced husk of a man I’d once been to the pseudo-pretty, ¾ husk of a man that I am today.
The souls themselves don’t linger in my gut for long. If they are destroyed in this world they simply zip to the next. There’s no escaping the afterlife, not for the dead at least.
“You okay baby?” She asked, rolling me onto my back and putting her face needlessly close to check my wellbeing. I half expected the motion to make me throw up, but the sight of her chased all queasiness away, and I abruptly found myself lying on my back beneath a beautiful woman who was, as a rule, trying all the while to kill me.
“Much better now,” I replied, smiling politely and trying to slither out from under her, “thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” She said before moving back to the couch. On reflection, I reflected, I guessed she wasn’t going to try too hard to ensnare me before I’d finished her contract.
To that end, after a moment’s fiddling with my new shiny mane, which was threatening to fall into the ink, I started the work again. All that remained was stamping the bottom right corner with the plastic ‘S’ stamp I’d bought from Canterbury Cathedral’s gift shop. Beneath the seal I wrote the words:
Simon of Aragon, solicitor of souls and part time scarecrow.
Infernal contracts draw power and thus validity from lies. Technically she doesn’t even need these things, she just needs to sleep with a bloke to get his soul. The contracts help ensure that no souls with the potential for redemption which she happens upon slip through her fingers. It’s rare, but it happens.
Anyway, with the task done. I set the fleshy parchment on the coffee table and bowed.
“And the rest I leave to you milady.”
She leaned forward and examined the item. Once she was happy with it, that smile of hers returned and she stood up. With a practiced stride that compelled me to stare at her arse, she stepped around the table and hugged me.
“Thanks Simon,” she said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Ensnare some other hapless loser and have him write your deeds. I thought distantly. That would have been a tactless and probably suicidal thing to say though, so instead I returned the hug.
What started as a friendly and rather loose embrace quickly escalated into a very tight one as she stepped in closer and pushed her breasts against my chest. The smell of her perfume, or testosterone-bewitching demonic musk, was enough on its own to send all manner of unwise thoughts through my head. Needless to say, trying to stave off the erection was as futile as arguing with the referee in a world cup quarter final against Argentina.
Coincidently, my penis was now five cubic millimetres larger.
Sabrina pulled back slightly and moved her head in front of mine. She was looking very pleased with herself.
“Mind if I come back round after work?” She asked with very convincing shyness in her voice, “We don’t spend as much time together as we used to.”
I couldn’t refuse her, it was forbidden for me to do so unless I had a genuinely good reason, which didn’t include self preservation.
“No, that’d be good.” I said, “I’ll head out in a little while and get some of that vodka you like.”
“Great, pick up something from Blockbusters as well, and maybe a pizza. No anchovies this time.”
“Sure.”
She lent forward and kissed me. I felt my heart go cold for the slightest of moments, but then the feeling vanished and its pace started escalating.
“I don’t deserve a friend like you.” She said, causing us both to chuckle. Finally pulling her arms away from my torso, she scooped the parchment from my coffee table and skulked to the door.
“See you tonight then.” She said, grinning again.
“See you.” I returned.
She stepped through the door and closed it gently behind her.
Thrice before I’d managed to resist her charms during a night in, but that didn’t stop me shivering in fear. Tonight I could find myself plummeting into the abyss along with Mr. Gorbachov if I wasn’t careful.
The obvious solution was to purge myself of all craven lusts with my right hand and a ‘Nuts’ magazine, but that too was forbidden. Ironically, Satan would not be pleased if I were to masturbate.
* * * * * * * * *
It was freezing outside, and because the only coat I owned was a paper thin leather thing which let the chill through without resistance, I found myself shivering all the way to Dominos.
I looked up into the starless sky simply because it seemed an appropriate thing to do on evenings where I feared for my very life. That said though, logically I had every reason to expect to see the sun tomorrow, or at least an overcast sky in the daylight hours. Sabrina still had a use for me, and hell maybe she really did consider me a friend, or maybe just amusing. Whatever the case, I doubted she was going to seriously try and rip my soul out through my penis.
So, as I walked onwards to the high street, I tried to focus instead on the latest change to my body. Along with the hair and incremental phallic stretching, my cheekbones had also straightened out a bit and my fillings were nowhere to be found. Only peripherals this time, which was all well and good. Some of the more noteworthy alterations were difficult things to get used to. One notable example comes from the after effects of consuming one Benjamin Simms’ soul. As a result my body no longer needs to defecate. At the time the revelation nearly reduced me to tears.
Anyway, I was about half way there when, suddenly, from one of slanted alleyways in front of me along a road facing the train tracks, who should I see emerge onto the lamp lit pavement with the head of a hairless sixteen year old in one hand and a moistened skirt in the other, but my old mentor; Dennis. Well, truth to tell he goes by the name Valarince now, which apparently means ‘Vengeful’ in the language of the Beast Princes, whoever they are. I should probably read up on all this stuff at some point.
“Dare I ask?” I asked when I got close enough, my eyes focused on his trophies.
“You may.” He responded; his once croaky, fifty a day voice now was a shameless rip off of Alan Rickman’s.
“Very well then, first off, what’s with the head?”
He looked at the thing, then back up at me.
“I would have thought you’d have asked about the skirt first personally.”
“Well the head is the more salient feature.”
“Is it? You’ve seen me deal with more than a few heads, and more than a few have been adolescent. You know why that is?”
“Another of the ruffians from your high school?”
“Yessssss.” He hissed, forked tongue and all. Dennis used to be a high school physics teacher. The stress got to him a bit. It was having his car tyres slashed that finally pushed him over the edge. Then one day he became a demon of sorts and as a result, troublemaking students have been winding up headless for weeks now. The school has been closed down but that hasn’t stopped the problem.
“And the skirt then? How is that more interesting?”
He rolled his eyes to heaven and swatted me over the head with the thing.
“The thing is, me holding a skirt in one hand connotes that there is currently a woman who’s missing it. I thought that might possibly interest you. Would you like to see?”
“I’m afraid this isn’t a good night for me mate, Sabrina’s spending the night round mine. I need to get some things.”
His pale face looked abruptly horror stricken, and his hair, identical to my own, literally recoiled in fear.
“This was her idea,” I reassured him, “maybe she’s just bored.”
“She is a succubus Simon,” he said with something like unto paternal concern, “they are never ‘just bored’ nor do they get lonely, nor are they ever casually sociable. She is after your soul. It’s her nature, it’s what she does.”
“I’ve kept her at bay three times before.”
“Which will only serve to make you careless. Look at yourself, you sound almost eager to be off so you can gather items for this imposed romantic evening. Let’s see…” He paused and lent forward to smell my thoughts, “a garlic and onion laden pizza and a DVD of ‘The Shipping News’? Well, perhaps I’m worrying about nothing. Don’t let me keep you then Casanova, if you must be off.”
Rest assured I’m not that clueless.
“I wasn’t seriously considering those.” I said with a sigh, “You know it’s not that easy.”
“Quite. The master demands that in such situations as these, you provide a proper evening for his daughters. Minus the sex if you can keep your wits about you.”
“I am as you taught me, and you survived.”
“That doesn’t mean you will. Just remember, when your transformation is complete you’ll be safe. One of the Satair; suave, shiny and soulless. Then there’ll be ample compensation for all this accursed temptation. Give in too early and you’ll spend eternity with your todger in a Demon’s jaws.”
“I remember.”
“Good, now go and get this night over with. Then tomorrow come seek me out. I want you to see this.”
He waved the skirt under my nose again, and then turned on his heels and moved back down the alley whistling the theme tune from ‘The Archers’.
* * * * * * * * *
The woman who reappeared at my door at 11:15PM looked so very different from when I’d seen her four hours ago. Her straight blonde hair was now dark red and stretched a fair way down the length of her back. She was slightly taller, just marginally shorter than me. Her breasts were smaller and, if you’ll forgive my questionable personification, more dignified.
For a man like me I guess it’s an ironic thing to have good reason to be terrified at the sight of a beautiful woman.
“Got the bastard.” She said, rather anticlimactically, “Ghastly shit’s hard on nearly fizzled out on me. You don’t want to know what I had to do to keep his dick up.”
“No, I’m sure I don’t!” I said loudly, trying very hard not to imagine the scene, though in retrospect the image of a naked bloke with erectile dysfunction might have proved helpful that evening.
She stepped through the passage and emptied the pockets of a new, well worn looking leather coat onto my coffee table. One phone, one signed soul ownership transfer contract, one full soul vial and a half empty packet of polo mints.
“Help yourself.” She said, flinging her coat over the couch. I wasn’t sure if she meant to the soul or the mints. I wasn’t really in the mood for either.
“I got a ham and pineapple thing from the place.” I muttered pitifully in a quiet, inferno-wary voice. “I tried to wait for you but in the end I couldn’t resist taking two slices.”
She grinned, I think more to herself than me. This news seemed to please her.
“I hope that’s all you started without me for.” She said, catching me completely off guard. It was a few seconds before I could respond.
“Of course.”
“Good,” she kicked off her shoes again, (someone more fiercely this time, almost shattering a nearby vase), and moved towards the bathroom. “be back in a sec. Pour me a glass of something please hon.”
“Sure.”
She vanished from sight, I poured the drinks and foolishly drank my own too quickly to try and stave off the panic. Bison Grass vodka is a superior brand, but the act of downing it as hastily as I did resulted in a rather embarrassing coughing fit. Trying to pour myself a refill whilst wheezing made for a lot of spillage.
When Sabrina reappeared she had shed her jumper to reveal a very tight fitting, almost transparent white T-shirt. She walked with the casual air of someone who’d just returned home from the night shift. She moved back to the couch, collapsed onto it and beckoned me over with one hand.
Like a good plaything, I brought her drink and the pizza box over to her. She downed the former with far greater ease than I’d managed and then started on the latter, managing somehow not to spill any of the toppings onto the furniture.
“You want him now?” She asked, pointing at John Walker’s gaseous form.
“No thanks.” I replied quickly, “One a day’s my limit.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, genuinely surprised.
“Yeah, I’ll leave it till the morning.”
Logically, consuming these souls as soon as I could and completing my transformation as soon as possible made sense. When I was fully transformed I’d be one of the Satair, a demon of sorts, free to serve the Devil’s cause on Earth until the apocalypse. Then afterwards I’d have an eternity of tormenting, (rather than torment), in sunny Hell to muddle through. Tis better to have a low pay job with terrible hours in Hell than to cling to a fool’s hope of heaven.
I couldn’t do it though; not yet. My body still felt bruised and creepy after the last one only four hours ago. Human frailty still endured in me and somehow it managed to gain precedence over common sense.
Anyway, the night started out easily enough. We drank some, talked some, demolished the pizza and then got to watching Over the Hedge. I’d hoped that humour might help dispel my craven lusts somewhat. The first time Sabrina stayed over I’d tried something similar with Silent Hill, hoping to cock block myself through fright. Instead Sabrina had simply imitated terror herself, followed by vulnerability, which led to her grabbing and my arm at lot and keeping her body close to mine as if I were some kind of shield against the fictitious demons on screen who, if anything, were questionable interpretations of her workmates. I of course found the whole scene rather appealing and had to resist the urge to play the manly comforter or whatever.
This time we laughed at the antics of a hyperactive squirrel and recidivist racoon as we got more and more drunk.
The sense of impending doom I felt at the sight of the cheery, colourful credits list was far stronger than I can adequately describe with a sentence like this. To my right I saw a hungry smile emerge on Sabrina’s face. With this flimsy shield now done with, I was all the more vulnerable.
“Do you know what I’d like to do?” She asked.
I parted with a pitiful sound halfway between a squeak and a sigh by way of response.
“Well?” she said.
“What?”
“Dance.”
I couldn’t help but feel a bit stupid at hearing my first assumption proved wrong. Little time to worry about that though. Sabrina quickly pushed herself up and stumbled towards the iPod platform thingamajig in the corner. Soon the sound of Alkaline Trio’s ‘Good Mourning’ album was resounding through the room at a volume that would probably have Mrs. Patterson complaining to the landlord in the morning.
Sabrina grabbed hold of my hands and pulled me to my feet. What followed was a ridiculous spectacle of drunken flailing and spinning that I could never bring myself to do while sober.
I calmed down a fair bit during this routine. Our foolish maelstrom left little chance for proper physical contact and despite the many violent collisions with the furniture, I actually wound up enjoying myself.
Track 12 came about. It’s a quiet, slow paced song and at the sound of it, I suddenly found Sabrina pressed against me. Her hands clasped around the back of my neck and once again our chests were touching. She moved her lips to my ear and whispered;
“Do you know what I want to do now?”
“Rip my soul out?” I ventured. Somehow though my voice was more playful that accusatory.
She pulled her head back and stared at me. She looked hurt.
“What? No. Of course not. Do you honestly think I’d do that to you?” she said, her voice was pained but her grasp on me remained unchanged, “I like you Simon, I’d never hurt you.”
I suddenly felt like such an arsehole. What was I thinking? We were friends for fuck’s sake. I was her co-worker, her friend, confidant. Why in the Devil’s name would she try and kill me? How could I think that?
“I… I thought…”
Wait, no, come on Simon you know what she’s doing. This is clever Succubus talk. Dennis has told you over and over that she’ll be after your soul. She has no choice, it’s her nature. She pretty much told you that too when you first started writing contracts for her. Get a fucking grip.
Saying that was one thing, doing it was another.
“I’m sorry.” I said. “I… I don’t know what…”
“Shhhh.” She rested her forehead against mine. I could smell her mint-scented breath on my face. “You worry too much. Just let go. It’s ok.”
Her clothes quite literally vanished, so did mine. With each second I could feel my resolve crumbling. Everything except this temptress before me ceased to be. At that point I honestly thought I was in love.
We kissed, this time my heart didn’t go cold, it raced on with all the excitement of a man with a beautiful naked woman is his arms. One of my arms slithered down the length of her back while my other closed around her shoulders and pulled her closer.
I don’t know how long we stood there, and I only have a few vague snapshots of memory from the whole thing. My face in her breasts while… (Hang on, why am I telling you this?)
Anyway, at some point she pulled herself away and walked backwards to the bedroom, beckoning me forth with one hand.
I watched her until she vanished into the darkened room, then my legs started walking forward almost of their own volition. Their movements were slow and uncertain, I was stumbling forward like a drunken marionette, and whether or not I actually was one at the time is anyone’s guess.
Don’t do this the weedy remnant of sanity in my head pleaded, You’re doomed if you do. Literally fucking doomed.
I knew that, and it scared me. In that instant though there was just too much mess and testosterone and demonic ensnaring musk swimming about my cranium to make the fact matter.
Step back my brain screamed at me, close the door. Leave the flat, run onto the bloody street or get the kitchen scissors and slice your nuts off, just don’t fucking go in there!
“Simon”, Sabrina’s voice crooned from within, “aren’t you coming?”
I was almost at the door, if I was going to save myself, I thought distantly, it would have to be now.
A flash of inspiration brought me to what remained of my senses. With a force of will that was physically painful, I turned my legs around and started to edge back to the coffee table. The effort of resisting Sabrina’s supernatural charms as well as (I suppose) my own irrational urge to simply get laid, was more than a little difficult. As I walked, my legs suddenly gave out and I landed on the hard floor with a crash.
“Simon?” I could hear scuffling on the bed sheets, she was coming back out to see what I was doing.
I forced myself to kneel, then I crawled to the table as quickly as my survival instincts could propel me.
I reached out, grabbed John Walker’s soul, unscrewed the lid and downed the fucking thing with no caution whatsoever.
Now I really wish I could say that this soul completed my transformation utterly, that I stood up as a fully formed member of the Satair, that my soul was locked in an unbreakable pact with Satan and that with the threat of damnation gone, me and Sabrina celebrated in the bedroom for three solid days.
Instead the soul reacted so violently with my system that I threw it back up along with dinner and passed out in my vomit while the soul escaped out the window. Sabrina found me face down and stark-bollock naked in my own puke and took no less than twenty pictures on her phone which she made a point to show me the next time she came round with a new male target singled out.
She made no mention of what had happened, or what had almost happened. It was business as usual, she was just a flirtatious friend who stole souls for a living. I was her nerdish servitor, waiting in terror for the next time she came around after work for fear I’d be cast into oblivion.
I have another thirteen souls to ingest before my transformation is complete. I am doomed.
The End
P.S. In case you were wondering, there’s quite a funny story behind that skirt Dennis showed me, it has to do with a Spanish lawyer, a missing set of ears and a ransom note filled with grammatical errors.
That however is a story for another bedtime.
The (actual) end
