Page 36 of Voodoo Burning

Fifteen

Donot let your heart envy sinners

– James 3:14-16,

It seems to be darkest between the hours of three and five in the morning. The stillness is thick and heavy, and the quiet seems to be listening. This must be the reason it’s called the Witching Hour, the time when the spirits come out and are at their strongest.

It was all I could do to wait until they’d finished and gone inside. The fury that’s flowing through my veins is intense. It started from the moment I watched the bastard Beauchamp lead the queen into the police precinct. It exploded as I watched them on the porch. He had his hands on her. I’m going to cut them off and burn them in front of his face. He’s not worthy of touching her, his blood is vile. The way she allows him to is almost more than I can stand.

He’s ruining everything!

I had a plan, everything was going perfectly. The ceremonies have to be done meticulously and with precision. I’ve been given a mission, and nothing is going to stop me. It was deemed so by God. He even delivered the queen into my hands as a gift, she’s to be the ultimate sacrifice. She was sent to anoint the ceremonies with her purity and her power. The crown on salvation.

Beauchamp is contaminating her.

He’s forcing my hand to deviate from the plan, to commit a sin. He has to pay.

Now Dominique must be punished to make her worthy once again.

I’m furious Beauchamp forced me to act rashly. This sacrifice was not carefully chosen. I needed to act quickly after wasting all that time watching them together, I couldn’t tear myself away from the transgressions unfolding before me. He’s made my blood boil and made me sin during this sacred procession. He made me release the seed of the Holy Communion as I watched him defile her. Tonight’s purging is going to have to be severe.

This sacrifice isn’t the same as the others, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to take her to stay on schedule. She wasn’t grateful, she didn’t understand she’d been chosen, that she’s meant to serve a special purpose. She screamed and caused a scene; it was Beauchamp’s fault. If he hadn’t forced me to watch them together, if he hadn’t forced me to act carelessly, it wouldn’t have gone this way. This time, people noticed, they must have heard her screams. I reacted when she punched me in the face. I think she broke my nose, the ungrateful cunt. I hit her, smashed my fist into her face, and it felt glorious. I want to cut her goddamn head off.

“This will be delivered unto you, God’s almighty wrath,” I spit the words out as I drag the tramp from the tree line.

It’s so still, so quiet, I can hear my heartbeat. There are no sounds except my footsteps and the sacrifice’s muffled screams. This is getting a bit bothersome. I roll my eyes. I stop, step to her side, and slam my foot into her ribs.

“You should feel special. You’ve been chosen. Stop acting like a fucking baby,” I snap at her.

No, no, no, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be! I take in a steadying breath and look up to the heavens. “Give me your strength,” I pray. I stand quietly a moment as tonight’s gift whimpers at my feet and I let the calm wash over me. When the fury subsides enough, and I feel in control, I let out another breath. “Ah, much better.”

I continue to pull her behind me. I’m not concerned with the trail I’m leaving behind us in the grass as I make my way to the building in the back. I’m pleased with tonight’s location. It wasn’t the first one I’d chosen for this ceremony, but considering the circumstances, it will do nicely. I like to imagine it’s the slave shack the young woman lived in, the one Bertrand Beauchamp burned. Having the ceremony here will be poetic justice.

I glance up at the house as I shove the sacrifice inside and envision the queen in bed with Beauchamp. Like a whore, a filthy whore like the slave was to Bertrand, and look at what happened to her. Rage unfurls inside me, hot and thick like molten lava. It wants to destroy everything, purge and cleanse the entire estate and leave nothing left.

Patience. You’ve got a job to do.

Because I had to deviate from the original plan, I don’t have any supplies. The only things I have is a can of lighter fluid, a lighter, the cat-o-nines-tails, and a knife. And the sacrifice.

“I will just have to make do,” I mumble as I grab the sacrifice by the hair and yank her up.

Looking around the space, it appears it was used as a workshop when the plantation was operable, but it’s now rundown and in a state of disrepair. The roof is barely intact, with a huge hole that lets a lot of moonlight in, enough to see in the darkened room.

Grabbing the rope that binds her wrists together, I jerk her up and feed it onto a rusted hook on the wall, one maybe a bridle or tools hung from. The sight of her nakedness makes me angry. It only reminds me of the two of them up there in his bed.

I have to fix that.

The only thing I can see in the dark are the whites of her eyes, big and round and bloodshot from crying. They’re the wrong color, I seethe. Goddamn Beauchamp! I grab the whip and lash her with it. Her body arcs like a bow, bent and rigid. The long talons of rapture reach up and scrape along my flesh, digging deep and eliciting a whisper of euphoria. I keep whipping her, lash after lash rains down on her flesh, tearing her apart, ripping her open. Finally, I drop my arm, for no other reason than it’s tired.

Her head is dropped forward, maybe she passed out. It annoys me. Everything feels wrong. Even the spirits inside me are not pleased, I can feel their fury. It’s raging like a tornado.

I drop the whip and pick up the knife. I clench my jaw and drag the tip across my left palm.

“This is my blood,” I snarl as blood pours from the wound on my hand. The usual sensations of bliss and joy do not come, and that angers me more. I turn my palm up so the blood of purification of the Holy Communion pools in my hand. I continue the prayer, “It will be shed for you, the new and everlasting covenant.” I flick my hand and splatter the anointment across the sacrifice’s body. “It will be shed for you,” the words feel wrong, and it fuels my rage. “So that sins may be forgiven.”

I drag my right hand down the sacrifice’s body, covering it with her flesh and blood.

I use it to write the symbols on the walls and floors. It’s time-consuming, but this is actually better. It will make it more powerful.

---