A lace shroud drapes the four-poster bed, enclosing the sleeping chamber. Joli’s favorite silk gown lies within, spread upon the quilt. Each night I pull from her hairbrush a few ebony strands. Reaching through the shroud, I drop them onto the gown, then light the candles encircling the shrine and take my position on the floor. From the book, I read and … I wait.
We prayed. Oh how we prayed but to no avail. The brush began the tale and in time, her long black hair fell like rain as the chemicals ravaged her body till-
“We tried everything,” the doctors said.
But I had not.
I finally tracked the succubus to a small village in the hills west of Sarajevo. It did not yield willingly but I was very persuasive and in the end, the thing relented. The instructions were quite simple and while I didn’t understand a word of the incantations, it assured me that was of no consequence. “Utter them,” she cackled, “and it will all come to pass.” I took the book when I left; that thing no longer had any use for it.
This is the thirteenth night – New Year’s Eve. I look down at the brush. Will what remains be enough? “Find a seed,” the succubus had said, “…something of hers to build upon.” If only I had known at the time but my journey took six months and the brush now bears my only hope.
I retrieve a few hairs and move to the bedside; my hand parts the lace curtain. Something is different tonight … a slight sweetness emanates from within the chamber. Not unpleasant – like the earthy bouquet of a fine vouvray. Could it be happening? My hand shakes as the wisps of her hair float down upon the gown.
The candles now lit, I take my seat and begin the incantations.
I’m finding it hard to concentrate. The lace shroud provides only a translucent clarity to the inner bedchamber … but I can feel it. Something is happening. I close the book and again move to the bed.
The image within the chamber is obscure. I reach down and retrieve one of the candles, then bend to my knees and carefully push aside the lace.
In the flickering light, I see the few hairs that, just minutes before, had come to rest upon the bodice of the gown – just those few. Where are the others? It has been almost two weeks and though I have been sparing in my offerings, there should be other evidence of my work. But no – only the few strands of this evening. This is a mysterious and dark game, I play. Why should I think I would understand any part of it?
The candle replaced, I return to my station and reopen the book. The words are beginning to sound familiar though I still have no understanding of their meaning. I repeat them in subdued tones. “Veneriti stapan…” I stop – the fragrance has reached out to me. I look up at the translucent curtain. Do I see movement? The sudden halting of my inhalation breaks the silence. Do I see movement within the chamber? Or is it only the flickering light of the candles playing with my desires? I restart the thirteenth incantation. “Veneriti stapan-” My God, there is something. My mind spins. I cannot read the words. There is something!
At the bedside again, candle in hand, I part the lace a third time.
The hairs are gone!
The sweetness is now overwhelming. The candle flickers as a slight breeze passes through the bedchamber. I watch as the frills of Joli’s gown ruffle ever so slightly. I peer down where the hairs had fallen earlier. The silk fabric shudders for a second then stops. I lean in closer – another shudder. I wait … another – then another – then another … the pulsing paces the beating of my heart.
I’m back at my station, my heart now racing. I glance over at the hairbrush – plenty of seeds left. The muffled sounds of cannon greet the midnight hour. “It’s going to be a good year,” I say. “My celebration will come … it’s just going to take a little more time.” Then I open the book and the words spew forth.
* * *
Weeks have passed since I first witnessed the stirrings within the bedchamber. Bells from the city beyond herald the call to evening mass. The new year is upon me and – God willing – a time of renewal, encompassing more than just my tortured soul.
This night marks the ninth since the last strands of her ebony hair – the last seeds – found their place upon her gown. I left the brush as well – she will have need of it soon, I hope. And now, on this evening, more than simple stirrings emanate from that inner sanctum. The fragrance there has now taken on an even more earthy nature – so pungent I am hard pressed to carry out my tasks without a sprinkling of camphor within the mask that covers my mouth and nose. In the flickering light of the candles that encircle the bed, I fear I would appear as some skulking thief. But of course, there are no witnesses to my deeds or to the sounds that now come from that hallowed place.
I sit, as always, on the floor at the foot of the bed, the book open before me. I measure out, again, the intended portion of powder from the vial. “To nurture the garden,” the succubus had said. I know the seeds – the strands of her hair recovered from the brush but the powder? “Her seeds to begin, this nutrient from my garden to finish the undertaking,” the Thing had mused.
My body shakes; I began to retch as the images and the smells make their way out from the depths of my shattered psyche. The Thing. The Thing! How shall I tell you? Even now I wonder that I found the courage. Of course, those of you who love … who worship that one in your life … that part of your life you know you cannot live without … may claim to understand. But do you? Would you if you saw what I saw? Touched what I touched … what I had to … to … caress? Earlier, I told you I was persuasive. That was a lie. It was in charge all along and I only obtained the book of incantations, the vial, and the instructions because I performed the unspeakable deeds that Thing demanded of me.
“Ohhh Godddd. Ohhhhh my Goddddd … there is nothing holy about any of this!”
Another confession, now that I’m at it. In my mind there is no doubt. I have gone over it a thousand times. I now know the truth – not as my ego first described it to you. No. No. It was the succubus that found me, not the other way around. “I’m old and I am dying,” it said. “Still time to make amends,” it said. “I want to know, again, of love. Just one more dance, dear Armand … just one more dance with you,” it cackled, “and I will help you find her again.” That hideous smile – and oh how my name slithered from its lips, a gurgling abomination arising in its throat forever embedded in my brain. And the smell. Oh how it reeked of age, its skin sloughing in my hands – but I did it. I did it! I did it for Joli.
Movement.
My eyes flash to the bed. The shape within is indistinct – the lace obscures any detail but it is there. It is there and it is substantial. The corners of my lips begin to rise then freeze in place. I have heard the murmurings for the last few nights … childlike … almost sweet. Tonight, they are different. Familiar? At some unconscious level, perhaps, and a chill rolls across my shoulders.
Time for work.
I pull the strings of the mask over my ears. The smell of the camphor is soothing. The last portion of the Thing’s powder rests in my hand as I make my way to the bedside. I no longer use a candle to light my way. The truth is, now I always close my eyes as my hand parts the curtain of lace. Knowing things are progressing is enough for me at this time. After all, it’s only the result of all this that has my interest. I sprinkle the powder broadly and-
My hand-
Oh my God!
My hand bumps up against something … something soft … something soft and wet … something soft and wet that responds to my touch.
My hand jerks back from the curtain and the leaves of lace float lazily back sealing me from what lies within. I try to let my mind float on the vapors of cinnamon and rosemary despite the burning arising in my hand.
* * *
I have been ill for days. The cause: the dust – the nourishment, the nostrum of the succubus, perhaps? During my distribution of its final portion, some spilled onto my hand. It burned and festered the flesh. No amount of water or salve seemed to diminish its intent. Then the fever fell upon me and I took to my bed.
Weeks, perhaps two, have passed; I cannot be sure, but now I am nearly right. Tonight I have returned to our bedroom. The full moon provides a soft glow to the chamber. I move to light the candles but stop-
I see her.
Legs dangle from the bed’s edge, the feet not quite reaching the floor. The rest remains hidden beyond the lace shroud.
I know those gentle limbs – those soft and supple appendages. I have caressed them, soothed them with oils and lotions so many times. My God! She is here.
“Joli?”
My outcry echoes in the room.
“Joli … are you there?”
My voice is now but a whisper. I wait.
The curtain parts; a hand comes forth. A second follows and now her arms reveal themselves.
My heart pounds as I approach the bedchamber.
The arms – her supple limbs that have embraced me a thousand times – beckon me.
But something makes me pause. The aroma emanating from the bedchamber has taken on a stifling aspect.
“Dear Armand.”
My God! I hear the abomination of my name spoken once again.
“My dear Armand. It is of the seeds we take our form and substance but it is from the nurturing that we derive our true essence.”
“We?” My voice quivers. “true essence?” My mind is spinning.
One of the hands before me opens; the hairbrush falls. Then the fingers of the other part revealing the vial – the bottle that contained the powder, the nurturing potion of the succubus.
“From my garden to hers, dear Armand.”
The nurturing powder … Oh my God. Only now do I realize its source – the decaying essence of the succubus, itself! I sink to the floor in utter horror.
The curtain opens wide and I gaze upon the beautiful countenance of my lost love. But then it smiles and I feel its touch as the Thing grasps my hand.
“I’ll always be here, my darling.
I hear the gurgling cackle and swoon as the stench envelops me.
“We’ll always be together now, my dearest Armand.”
I am a retired University Professor with experience in the Biotech Industry. My short stories have appeared in various online magazines including Dark Media Original Fiction, Surreal Grotesque, Fiction on the Web, Flash Fiction World and a piece forthcoming (winter/spring) on Tales to Terrify podcast. In addition, I have a number of self published novelettes, novellas and short story collections published through KDP at Amazon.com under the pseudonym, D. R. Hunter. I live in southern Arizona with my wife Jane, a Welsh Pembroke Corgi named Maggie and Millie, a rescued Mexican Chihuahua.