This one needs a short preface.
There are some amazingly kind people and loving people in all religions out there.
However, some people, throughout history, have used their religion to justify their hate. Conversion therapy still exists, and hate crimes are on the rise. False narratives of love can fuel those.
Hate can never become love. Not even in horror fiction.
But hate can be conquered by love.
This was a fun story to write, but I noticed that certain themes appear more often than others in my fiction. In style, this is a bit of a detour for me, even though it’s still infused with Gothic elements. I love how the prose in this is a bit more “raw”.
Writing can heal, and so can reading, for words have power.
If you’d like to talk to me about how horror in particular can be healing, reach out to me!
Until then, read my stories, subscribe to my Substack, like and share my stories, keep writing, love each other, and don’t judge.
Passion
Dedicated to Those We Lost to False Christian Love
Antique bedframe.
Made from wood sacrificed by an oak that has witnessed the deterioration of sin.
Black leather pillows on sheets of purple velvet.
An aria sung by decay and dust.
On the sheets, between pillows of stolen leather, lies a man.
His hair is only beginning to turn that undefinable shade caught between grey and white.
Neither one, nor the other.
Eyes focused on the only source of light.
The fire of a candle tries to break through the darkness.
A pull that tugs at them like a moth that is drawn to the flames of a torch recently ignited in the dark of night.
Not daring to burn at its brightest just yet.
Gentle lines on the man’s face that have been left by alcohol.
Traces like that of a coal dancing through the ashes.
The promise of muscles beneath a tiny pouch on his stomach.
A growl.
A plea for satisfaction of his basic needs.
Imagination paints a vague picture.
An art style arriving from decades yet to come.
Time collides with place.
Futile to attempt to tell whether it is the middle of the night, or somewhere chthonic.
Fog creeps through the door like a blanket following a child dragging its broken china doll across the floor.
Layers multiply. Attempt and almost succeed in hiding a mantle.
Eyes opening. Focus on the growing void in the heart of the man who is fighting through the final veneers of his dream.
A shriek breaks the illusion of calm.
Akin to a finger dipping frantically into holy water.
Leaving ripples that blur into yesterday.
The putrid smell of death coils up Percival’s nostrils like a worm digging into earth when he awakes in the bed of last night’s lover.
A screeching clock shows that it is the early hours of this cold September morning on which the story unfolds.
There were too many drinks last night.
Percival had stayed at the tavern again until his feet were politely placed on the street, his coat following him mere seconds later.
On his way back home, he meets the stranger.
Beautiful. Enticing.
A sculpture, really.
Yes. At first, he thinks they had erected another one of those statues dedicated to some holy man.
The stranger’s body reflects the moonlight from its alabaster skin.
A craving to dip his toes into the lake of seduction washes ashore before Percival.
Everything about the other man’s physique is bathed in waters of perfection. Slightly too perfect, for Percival’s liking.
Usually, mostly out of force of habit, Percival prefers his men to be a bit rugged - traditionally ugly, even, to a certain degree.
Something to anchor the yearning to reality.
Perfection is too surreal.
Flaws of honesty are what make a masterpiece.
The only thing that shatters the illusion of a statue is what awaits him below that velvet frock coat swaying to the rhythm of the night wind’s gusts pulsating like an inexperienced lover’s thrusts.
It gently pushes Percival, trying to steer him in the other direction.
Away from darkness.
Towards home.
Percival should’ve listened, but too clouded is his mind from the ale.
Vulnerability.
Moments like such a one are when predators attack.
Movement once more.
Eyes searching for a sign of whether this was real or illusion.
Realisation is fed to him in small pieces.
It is only a frock coat.
And the creature wears nothing beneath it.
A whispered promise of passion.
Time covers the being’s legs in icy crystals. Freezes them to cobbled street.
A thud.
A button that lies on the ground.
Another revelation.
A gasp from what is revealed.
Bare flesh lies dormant beneath the frock coat.
A slow awakening of senses in both men.
Hunger in Percival’s eyes. Starvation in the other’s.
Movement in the statue.
No, not a statue, Percival reminds himself.
The phallus on statues is never this prominent.
Two gazes meet in their frantic search for fulfilment.
Connecting. Destinies entwine.
The first stitch of the pattern is made.
Something beyond the realms of sanity gives the stranger his cue.
Move.
A longing that is sweetened by desperation kisses the lips of a desire that has won its war against fear when Percival realises that the man is gone.
Fragments of sound from behind Percival.
A hiss.
A sharp pain on Percival’s wrist.
A gentleman’s kiss. And something protruding from the lips.
Two sharp teeth cut the darkness with their reflection of the moonlight.
The hunter has chosen his prey, and he possesses a tongue that sags too much with drool for a human being.
Pink flesh wraps itself around Percival’s wrist. A snake choking its prey.
A dullness strokes the skin with brushes soft as desert sand as venom enters the circulation of Percival’s blood.
Pressure applied. The toxic juice stops at the command of force.
“Are you lost, beautiful?”
A voice, deep enough for the echo’s hue to become a shadow in the night.
It drags Percival’s mind back into the here and now.
The stranger must be one of those theatre people you frequently encounter in London. They, too, pretend to be a statue. Approach them, and they’ll want your money.
Demand it, aggressively.
Playing with your fear.
But the stranger had approached him.
Jumped him, even.
Seduction.
“I….” A bare stammer.
Percival merely manages to breathe that one word, for icy crystals dive into his throat and slash at his lungs.
The night is too cold for an autumn month, Percival realises.
Even in this part of England.
More surreality.
“I’ll show you the way.”
Senses heighten.
Climb the mountain of conscious thought until they meet with clouds that pull to them the blood of sinners past.
Fight instinct there is none, for Percival knows he would lose this battle.
The instinct for flight, meanwhile, threatens to overwhelm him.
“But I’m not…”
“Hush, beautiful. It won’t take too long.”
A burning sensation on his ring finger.
The stranger’s gaze singes three single hairs.
“Unmarried. Nothing to worry about. Tell your family you went to a brothel in the city. They’ll appreciate being given the illusion that you’ve had a whore.”
“But I’m not...”
Percival is still unmarried at the age of 32. The talk about him in the village suffices already.
Without anyone knowing he truly was what they said he was.
Never has he shown any interest in visiting the brothels his friends frequented.
“We’re alone. Come, now.”
A warning.
A raven’s screech.
Percival glances at the mysterious stranger again, taking in the sight of his body. Not daring to admit to himself the feelings this stirs in him.
Hope. Arousal.
That kind of danger.
The one that is just dangerous enough to be worth the risk.
A nod.
Prayers to no one that melt into the fear that they ignite.
The potential of exile.
If anyone sees him with this stranger, he’ll be dragged to the border of the village.
Tension becomes tangible.
Like the string of a guitar being pulled tighter.
Bodies close – close enough to touch..
But Percival does not dare to reach out.
Not just yet.
Intrusive thoughts.
A tomato splashes on the wooden pillory he finds his head in.
The soft flesh of the second and third bursts when they meet with his face.
No. Ignore the warnings. Ignore that feeling in your stomach.
Keep walking.
You might find love.
Or lust, at least.
Percival desperately searches for a sign that he might still be able to awaken his interest in trying to flee from that demon wreaking havoc inside of him. Her name is Temptation, and she is the strongest of them all.
A losing battle.
The preacher’s words from last week’s Sunday sermon fade into nothingness.
A shimmer of hope.
As long as he finally agreed to the arranged marriage to his cousin once removed, it’d be okay.
Even if someone did catch him and the stranger.
For people have always been willing to accept any meagre excuse as long as it fits as the missing puzzle piece of their perfectly accurate biblical world.
No harm to the patriarchy if you can hint at the possibility of there being another reason.
Like a priest hearing confession.
Don’t ask.
Don’t push.
Don’t tell.
Fog rising.
The mist that serves as the second layer of this veil seemingly breaks through the bottom of the cobbled street.
An illusion caused by the drink?
It must be the drink, Percival tells himself.
Thoughts of escape.
Percival considers knocking at a nearby door.
To find shelter.
To flee the stranger.
No, that might put someone else at risk.
And when people are at risk, they throw any victim in their vicinity to the wolves.
“I should head home. I need to rest.”
“You’ll be able to rest at my place. Come, now, beautiful.”
The hand intensifies its hold on the wrist where the serpentine tongue had been.
Refusing to let go.
“You’ll come with me.
You’ll have the night of your life.
Trust me.”
Conviction.
Percival dares to look deeper into the stranger’s eyes.
Iridescent. Purple.
A dark lake without a bottom.
Without a bed.
What meets his gaze pierces a needle into his eyeballs.
“I need to get home to my wife.”
A smirk.
“You don’t have a wife. I’ve seen you look at me.
Come now. It’s getting cold.
You can have one more drink at my place.
I know you want it.
And you’ll get it.
And more to follow tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? No, he’d have to leave early. Before sunrise.
A wish for time to tread more slowly. A lure is spun around him, woven by spiders sent by the God of Lies.
The stranger’s promises wipe the doubts from what is left of Percival’s mind.
Resistance leaves no trace.
His judgement is clouded by the desire to finally be able to just feel.
And he wants that drink, too.
The craving for poisoned juices becomes too strong.
He had gone to the village tavern because he had run out of ale already, and thanks to his reputation, not even the greediest of people would sell him more.
Not until the end of the month at least, when they were desperate for money. Or even just the chance of getting more.
“Okay. One drink.”
A grimace is thrust upon the vampire’s facade of perfection.
Something seems wrong, but it is futile to attempt a description.
That glint of white again.
A stone on the beach of a crimson sea.
“Yes. You’ll get your drink.
And I’ll feed your curiosity until you’re full.”
Fear calls to the perspiration laying just beneath Percival’s skin.
Sweat that heeds the call.
Droplets that break through it, and pores that are filled.
A timid question.
“What’s your name, kind sir?
And could you kindly let go of me?”
The throbbing and pulsating pain on Percival’s wrist heightens his senses.
Fear.
Arousal.
A delectable couplet.
“Your shepherd will let you go once your face stops telling him otherwise.”
The composer of this symphony of death opens his frock coat once more.
This close, the sight is even more impressive.
Percival knows very well that there’ll be pleasure, but also pain.
Like the last blossoms of spring brushing across the ashen face of someone sailing down the river Styx.
A frantic attempt to cover the signs of his fervor with his free hand.
He licks his lips and finds there precious salt.
Emotions are caught in a hurricane.
Not even the cold night air can calm Percival now.
But what is that scent that walks with them?
Percival sniffs.
A tiger verifying whether a carcass will upset his bowels.
It reminds Percival of the smell his skin had emitted this morning after the alcohol of last night had left his body through the pores of his skin.
Sweet.
Sour.
Wrong.
Moonlight waning.
Their shadows follow them on their path, like a hound whose nose has just found the trail of blood he has been searching for all day.
Two shadows, one man, and the otherworldly stranger are headed for the church.
A chime.
The bells are ringing, for midnight has come.
A vision permeates Percival’s thoughts. A drop of blood in crystal water.
The stranger’s bare feet kicking at his intestines until his guts bleed.
Images of his blood being infused with fractions of possible horrors yet to come.
Then the priest appears before Percival’s inner eye, forcing him to kneel with the whips he dispenses.
Increased force.
Need of a confession of the sin he is about to commit.
He requires reassurance, but does not know where to find it.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To my place.”
The stranger’s voice again.
The vision is soaked up by the ground. Leaves behind only fear.
“Where is that?”
“You’ll see. You’ll be comfortable. Don’t you worry.
You’ll get your rest.
After I’m done with you.”
A smile that might mean either eternal torment or a soaring to the peak of satisfaction.
A building appears.
Arabesque, like the bodies of demons mingling in an orgy.
They are too close to the church now for Percival’s liking.
Why is the stranger stopping there?
Where is he going?
A thundering command.
“Wait here.”
Lightning bugs powered by guilt offer a deeper glimpse into the darkness.
When the man returns, Percival is able to see his face more closely.
Every detail.
Almost like it was chiseled from a marble stone.
If he were to attempt to slap the stranger’s face, would it hurt him more than it hurt the statue?
But no, the slapping would be done by the stranger.
Playfully.
Hopefully.
A sneer.
“The priest always hides his wine here.
Doesn’t want all of it in his church so that he’s got more for himself.”
Raindrops falling.
Failing in their mission to rip Percival from the clutches of his desire.
On a wooden bench, in front of the house of God, the stranger opens the bottle and drinks from it.
Gentle fingers on skin with the texture of old leather.
A jolting movement, too forceful to be loving.
But powerful enough to make Percival’s pulse quicken.
A staccato.
The motion is meant to guide the victim’s face towards the stranger.
Fingers brushing across lips.
The cold glass of the bottle meeting those lips.
Forcing them apart.
Like a stitched wound that is being torn open for the third time.
“Your turn. Drink.”
A retch escapes from Percival’s esophagus.
Had this wine gone bad already?
The priest doesn’t seem like someone who’d let wine go bad.
Fornication of doubts.
Generations of suspicion are birthed.
A putrid taste lingers on Percival’s tongue.
Putrescent, yes, even better.
That is how he plans on describing it in his diary come morning, safety, and the shelter of his own abode.
Darkness overtakes the scene, and the memory of the night ends for Percival.
Flames flare up once more before their pulse ceases, and Percival awakens.
Body trembling.
Sweat becomes a river of salt.
Purple velvet turns into lace.
Leather becomes wood.
The aria is grasping at her coda.
The lines on Percival’s face have grown deeper.
Chiseled in his flesh by an Italian master.
Futile still to attempt a guess at where Percival is.
The scent has lost all gentleness.
Become a serpent.
Memory of his grandma’s potato cellar.
Percival is comfortable, however.
He is unused to the quality of these sheets.
The lace has a hold on him, refusing to let him go, like a young mother nursing her dying infant.
The same single candle still illuminates the room.
Revived by passion.
Shadows of unknown origin waltz across the wall.
Disconnected images flash across his mind.
Clash with each other.
A pain on Percival’s wrist.
He has not suffered enough just yet.
The stranger’s hold on him is too strong.
Too tight for pleasure.
Approaching the threshold of pain. Leaving a hole in the web of comfort.
The border has been crossed.
But it cannot be the stranger, no.
For the mysterious man stands beside him.
Pulse heightened.
Still erect.
Pain and pleasure.
Percival is yanked back onto the bed when he tries to jump.
The endeavour is made before he even considers trying to locate an exit.
Some form of escape.
A thud.
A strip of crimson is wrapped tight around the wounded skin he thought the stranger had been clutching.
A second one tightens as his back collides with the wood behind him.
The oaken bed vibrates.
White.
The other man smiles.
Even with the stranger’s mouth shut, Percival can see the teeth dancing across crimson lips.
A tongue, lapping.
Looking for something to devour.
Expectation of a hiss.
Silence instead.
Silence that is as difficult to bear as the metaphorical cross the priest kept mentioning in his sermons.
Quietude.
Percival can hear his breaths echoing.
Miniscule soundwaves ricocheting off the walls.
“Sleep some more. One more sip.”
Seductive thoughts.
A cup is held against his mouth.
Percival tries to resist, but he thirsts for it.
Overpowering instincts that win.
As instincts for survival always do.
His throat hurts as he swallows, but delirium is near.
Comfort.
Awakening of the mind again.
A slumber that is about to end.
Fog that hasn’t lifted just yet.
A door bursts open.
Enter the priest.
Duty that has been fulfilled.
“Thank you, Charles. You’ve served your purpose.”
The priest’s gaze turns towards Percival.
A smile.
More teeth.
That tongue again.
Peeking out at Percival from between lips that are so dry, they break like the earth below grass that is walked on after a drought.
A sob.
Something attached to Percival’s neck.
Like a leech sucking desperately at the blood of a rat whose corpse has already dried in the sun.
Begun to crumble.
Disintegration.
A void.
“The Lord always finds His sinners.“
A smack.
“This is His body.”
A slurp.
“This is His blood.”
A tug on Percival’s heartstrings to play the aria’s final chord.