I’ve never done this before, but there’s a first time for everything.
WARNING: This story contains very mature subject matter. As Jean-Baptiste’s grandfather would tell you, some monsters walk on two legs.
This is a horror story, and you have been warned. Please don’t read this out of context, or you’ll hate me. Go HERE to read from the beginning or pick up on anything you’ve missed.
On a good day, he spent most of his time covered in blood. When he went to bed at night, the smell of it lingered like the smell of sex — and when it came to sex, it was the blood, more than anything else, that aroused him.
He was a tall, muscular man, with attractive, if somewhat intense features, but he had never been involved with a woman from Bayou Bonhomme. His proclivities were such that he didn’t dare reveal them to anyone who might share the information around town. So, when the urge took him, he generally left town, to pick up some barfly or, when necessary, prostitute. Not that he ever paid for sex — he found that violence, or the threat of future violence took care of most things, and was an added excitement.
He liked to cut things, and would be content to spend the entire day working with his blade, carving up the bodies, like a sculptor removing the excess rock or clay, leaving behind the carcass as the final product — his David, his Venus de Milo. Sometimes, when he was left alone, he would stare at what remained after the cutting, and he would become uncomfortably aroused at the flashes of fantasy that his mind dreamed up.
His father had been a drinker, and had drank himself to death when he and Darrel were just boys. He never touched the stuff himself — he liked to remain clear — he sometimes found it hard to think as it was. Sometimes his mind just seemed like it was full of noise, and even remembering names was difficult for him. He wasn’t stupid — in school he’d excelled at the sciences, and had a particular affinity for chemistry. But there wasn’t money for college, and so after school, he and Darrel had gone into business for themselves, opening up a cleaning service. Mostly they provided janitorial services for all the schools in the area. That all ended, of course, when Darrel disappeared, and the kids stopped disappearing. Darrel was never officially implicated, but people put two and two together, and all of a sudden people started coming forward with complaints, and that was the end of Gilles’ cleaning business.
So Gilles had re-opened his father’s old shop, which had its perks as well as its drawbacks. Dealing with people was sometimes difficult, especially in those moments where his head filled with static. He wondered if something was wrong with him — if that’s why he couldn’t hear The Voice.
He’d been true to The Faithful, never wavering in his devotion, but he’d never heard The Voice. He’d witnessed many things, had even felt its sacred touch, but he’d never experienced the intimacy that the others described. At first he felt resentful of this, but after a time, he began to realize that he was being tested. He had to prove his faith without The Voice guiding him. A faith like that was strong. It was easy to believe when you had the voice of your god in your head, but to hold on to belief, and trust blindly in the benevolence of C’thuN’Chuk — that was his burden, and it set him apart from the others.
He was the forerunner — he knew that now. At first, he had thought it was Darrel — he thought that Darrel was sacrificing the kids he took to please the god in the swamp. But then he came upon his brother doing horrible things to their bodies, and he knew that his brother was mad. Because he loved his brother, he decided to allow his madness, and to use it to muddy the waters of the police investigation, drawing the attention away from The Faithful. When Darrel was done with a body, he would take it and experiment on the remains, melting and burning it with various chemicals — nothing exotic, just cleaning supplies, mainly. He liked seeing the bodies transformed, their features disfigured. When he was done, he would offer the remains to the swamp god. He only hoped that C’thuN’Chuk was appeased — for no matter how many bodies Gilles offered, he could still not hear The Voice.
Looking back, he saw this as the beginning of his good work — the catalyst that would spur him on to his role as C’thuN’Chuk’s silent prophet. He was like John the Baptist in the old Bible stories. He had killed Jimmy Singleton to start the cycle anew. It had been fifteen years, and Gilles had grown impatient. He had often asked Matriarch Olivia why C’thuN’Chuk did not just call out to the whole world and reveal himself. Surely the world would tremble with reverence and fear, and worship.
Olivia’s answer troubled him.
“Would you share this with the world?” She asked. “C’thuN’Chuk has chosen The Faithful to share in her communion. She is not for the rest of the world. She is the Good Man of the Bayou, and he has blessed us with his protection.”
Gilles thought she was mocking him; that somehow she had guessed that he could not hear The Voice, or worse — that C’thuN’Chuk had told her this, and that they were all laughing at him behind his back.
He’d promised himself that he would see his god triumphant in his lifetime, and so he had lost his patience. He offered up the Singleton boy, drawing the others out of their complacency. The time of sacrifice had come around again.
In the back room of the shop, where he did most of his work — both for the business, and sometimes for his own personal gratification — he kept a TV on, playing a constant stream of pornography. Some people listened to the radio while they worked, he found that watching violent sex acts put him in the right frame of mind to do his job. He was in the middle of an incision when his telephone rang. Not the shop phone. His phone. No more than three people had this number, and the person whose name came up on his Caller ID surely thought that she was the only one who had the number.
“Hello,” he said, not bothering to turn the porno down. A man brandishing a fake knife was forcing two women down on their knees, and one of them screamed as he pretended to cut her.
“Olivia,” he replied, continuing to watch, as the man pushed one women’s face roughly into a dirty mattress. He was only partially paying attention to the old woman.
“Okay,” he said. His free hand, covered in blood, had reached inside his pants and was working his erection. The woman on the TV had her mouth on the man.
“Do you want me to send her a warning?” Gilles asked, his penis out in the cold air now, his hand beating wildly up and down.
“I understand,” he said, slightly disappointed. He’d thought that Olivia was asking him to hurt Colette Bergeron. He knew so many ways to hurt a woman, each and every one of them more exciting than the last.
“Of course. Olivia, if you need me to take care of this, I…”
But she cut him off again.
He knew that she was afraid of him. She treated him like he was her pet monster. She might look down her nose at what he does, but when she needs someone like him to do the things she can’t bear to do on her own…
Gilles hung up the phone and ejaculated all over the floor, steam rising from his spent semen into the frosty air. He tucked his now bloody penis back into his shorts and fastened his pants back up. A bell rang from out front, instantly drawing an irritated reaction from somewhere inside his head. He forgot sometimes that for this business to work out, he occasionally had to deal with customers.
He yelled that he was coming, and took off his plastic apron. Customers didn’t like to see blood. Quickly washing his hands in a nearby sink, he donned a pair of clear latex gloves and opened the swinging doors, emerging into the storefront.
“Good morning,” he said, not smiling. He’d never quite got the hang of smiling. He’d tried once, and the girl he was with told him that it made him look like a snake. He’d broken her jaw in three places without even hitting her. He just squeezed her face with his two monstrous hands. “How can I help you folks?”
A man and a woman stood in front of the counter, eyeing the merchandise.
“I was hopin’ to get a couple a’ Porterhouses, Gilles,” the man said. “Reckon I could get a couple cut ’bout an inch thick? The missus and I are havin’ a cook-in date night, and I promised her I’d grill up a couple a big ones.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Gilles said in his friendliest tone, and grabbed his butcher’s knife.