Paranormal Research Club Ch. 05

This is purely a work of erotic fiction. All characters, places, and situations are entirely fictional. All sexually active characters are 18 years of age or older. All rights reserved.

*** WARNING! ***

This chapter contains elements of non-consensual sex. Readers that find this material disturbing or offensive may prefer to skip this chapter. Thank you.

I lay in the bed, happily cuddled against the warm, soft body of my beloved cousin and listening to her gentle breathing. I hoped that this would be only the first of many nights that I would be falling asleep in her arms. We had a lifetime of friendship, shared memories, and a shared family history that had long ago made us inseparable. Heather had been my first real friend as a child, and we had always been there for one another. So much was changing for me so rapidly that perhaps I was wishing to be with someone who had always been a safe and trusted constant in my life. In my conscious mind, I knew that my emotions had been manipulated by deities with agendas entirely unrelated to my happiness. But I had always loved Heather deeply. The romantic nature of that love was new, at least on my part, but I truly couldn't have picked a better mate for myself.

I had expected to come to consciousness in my familiar clearing in the forest, perhaps even already alone with Heather and curled cozily together on the bed. I had hoped for a chance to discuss what Skagematuck had told me with her. What she chose to do with that information was up to her, of course. But I longed for her so deeply that I felt incomplete without her, and I knew that there was little chance of her choosing not to cement our bond forever.

I came to consciousness in a large, dimly lit room. The architecture was clearly antique, and while I am no expert on such things, it struck me as vaguely Greco-Roman. From a circular hole at the apex of the tall domed ceiling and a pair of small, high windows, the pale blue moonlight filtered in dimly luminous beams through the arid, dusty air. Sinister looking statues of dark bronze, many of which appeared to be depictions of an entire range of unspeakably depraved acts of horrific violence, were positioned regularly around the perimeter of the room. The slanted cylinder of moonlight illuminated an elliptical section of the hard, sandy floor, revealing a mosaic depiction of men, women, and even young children from some ancient society engaged in savage acts of ghastly violence against one another. Despite the grotesque and sickening subject matter, I was forced to feel a grudging respect for the artist that had used a naturally difficult medium to graphically convey a sense of utter madness and horror. I shuddered and looked away. I didn't know where I was, but I didn't like it and I was grateful that Heather wasn't here.

My eyes were slowly becoming more accustomed to the murky darkness, and I opted not to spoil my night vision by using my flashlight. I approached a large, heavy door that stood in one corner of the room. It was made of ancient wooden beams that had been reinforced with broad strips of black, rust-pitted iron. A heavy beam of dry, cracked, splinter-infested wood that held the door shut slid ponderously out of the way as I forced it back, making a harsh, rasping sound as it slid along the rusted iron brackets that held it. Bits of dirt, flakes of rust, and splinters clattered to the floor from the ancient wooden beam, and even in the dim light I could see dark stains in the wood from ages of contact with the rusted iron brackets. Dusty cobwebs were torn as the beam moved, and their occupants scurried to hide in the deep cracks in the dry, ancient wood.

I placed my shoulder against the rough surface of the door and pressed hard with my legs to force it open. It didn't budge, but I could feel the door move slightly when I backed up a step and then battered against it with my shoulder. Countless years of grime and rust had frozen the sturdy and unyielding iron hinges firmly in place, but with considerable effort I was able to get the ponderous door to open slightly as the hinges squealed loudly in protest and the hinges rattled against the shrunken wooden beams. A thin slice of dim blue outside light became suddenly visible through a narrow crack at the edge of the door. My legs trembled with effort and sweat beaded my brow as I pushed with all of my might against the barrier that held me trapped inside of the room. I am in excellent physical condition, but it still took me several minutes of grueling work to get the heavy door to open far enough for me to squeeze through it.

I walked outward, past tall columns of crumbling stone and into a paved area surrounding a courtyard of sorts. Dead, twisted trees rose up from a chaotic, weed-filled parody of a garden. A light, foggy mist hugged close to the ground, glowing blue in the dim moonlight. I saw a light colored human-shaped phantom approaching me from the side, and I turned to face it.

"John? Is that you? Where are we?" asked a voice that I immediately recognized as Cherise's.

"I wish I knew," I replied as I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn't know what lived here, but I was in no hurry to meet it.

"I don't like it here. Let's find Mom and leave." she said. She sounded heart-wrenchingly young and frightened, and I felt the deep instinctive need to comfort and protect her. It would do her no good for me to share my own misgivings about this place.

"John? Cherise?" came a clear voice from the far corner of the garden. It was Rachelle.

Cherise followed me closely as I cut across the courtyard towards the voice. "We're coming," I said as I stepped past a piece of cracked marble that might have once been a fountain. Across a low wall that surrounded most of the garden, I could see a white shape that I recognized as Rachelle's dress. She climbed over a low wall and met us. In her hands, I saw that she carried something long and dark that looked like a rifle.

Seeing me and her daughter, she approached us and gave each of us a hug and a kiss. "I don't know where we are, but I propose that we find a way to get out of here. John, I don't know if you've noticed, but the statues are armed with real weapons. I found a musket along with some good dry powder and musket balls on one of the statues. I don't know where we are, but based on the way this place is decorated I suspect that whoever lives here isn't entirely sane. Being armed might not be a bad idea until we can figure out a way to get out of here. The gate is locked, but the two of us might be able to find a way to unbar it, especially if that magical knife Acratophorus gave you can cut through steel as easily as it can stone. The windows leading out of this place are too high for us to reach, but we might be able to figure something out there if we can't manage get the gate open."

Glancing around in the dim twilight, I saw that Rachelle had been correct. The statues were sickening in their detail, and the weapons were undeniably real. What manner of lunatic would make statues like this, and what sort of psychopath would see fit to use them as decoration? I quickly glanced about at the statues for one with more-or-less modern weapons. If one of these statues happened to be carrying modern military-style demolitions, I was confident that I had enough training with explosives to safely and effectively get the gate open in short order. I looked past an armored Roman legionnaire that was frozen in the act of violently attacking a young girl to see a bearded American soldier in an American Civil War era uniform. He had been depicted in the act of ramming the long socket bayonet on his Sharps rifle through the skull of an infant and deep into the chest of a pretty but obviously terrified young American Indian girl.

Cherise eyed the statue sadly. "Who would make a statue like that? That girl looks a lot like a girl I was friends with when my family lived among the Abenakis, and she had a baby brother just his age. They're not dressed the same, but the faces- Oh, dear God have mercy, that's horrible!"

Rachelle sadly shook her head. "Our family lived among them for several years. I had gotten married a lot younger than most people in your day and age do, and my husband had always taken good care of me. When he died, I had to learn a lot about self-sufficiency very quickly, and the Abenakis were the kindest and most patient teachers I could have possibly asked for. Cherise and I wouldn't have survived the winter if they hadn't let us stay with them and taken care of us. She was still only a little girl. There was a kind old woman in the village that was like a grandmother to her, and she would keep Cherise quiet and entertained by a warm fire on the long winter nights. Sometimes, when Cherise wanted to hear a scary story, she would tell her tales of a type of monster that they called a 'skadegamutc', or 'ghost-witch'. They didn't use it like a proper noun, but I've always thought it sounded very similar to Skagematuck's name."

The more I knew about Rachelle, the more I liked and respected her. Skagematuck was right; if I had to spend eternity in the presence of two people I had never met before, I couldn't have picked better company that Rachelle and Cherise. Already, with our souls bound inseparably together like three glasses of water poured into a single pitcher, we were able to communicate effortlessly despite the fact that I did not speak their language. I wondered what other useful skills they had learned during a hard life on the frontier that I might be able to learn from our shared memories. There would be plenty of time to concern myself with that later. For now, I needed to focus my energy on leading us out of this place.

I looked around the yard for warriors with familiar weapons before returning to the statue of the Civil War era soldier. His .52 caliber Sharps model 1859 rifle was the most modern and familiar weapon I could find in our immediate area. I shuddered in disgust as I grabbed the battered wooden stock and pulled hard to get it free. The cracked, dry-rotted leather of the weapon's sling creaked and strained as I pulled against the rear sling swivel in an effort to dislodge it. My skin crawled with disgust at the dry, grating sound that filled the air as the long steel bayonet began to work free of the all-too-realistic infant's skull like some vile and deranged parody of the Arthurian legend. Suddenly, there was a crunch like a tree limb snapping as one of the statue's hands came off, still firmly attached to the stock of the rifle.

I could feel my hair stand on end as a low, mournful, agonized wail rose from nearby, and I realized with horror that it was coming from behind the figure's eerily detailed face. I looked down at the remnants of the hand that still clung tenaciously to the rifle, and realized to my shock and disgust that this was, in fact, no statue. While the preserved skin was smooth and resembled bronze in appearance, it was nothing but the brittle shell of an actual mummified human hand.

Grimacing in revulsion, I smashed the desiccated flesh from the rifle barrel with my fist, and it crumbled and fell to the ground in a shower of dehydrated tissue, bones, and shriveled sinew. I removed what appeared to be a human scalp that the previous owner had tied to the barrel and I placed it respectfully on the ground below where the statue stood. I was in no position to judge others for taking the scalps of their legitimate fallen enemies, but the wanton mutilation of murdered women and children was nothing that I could feel any level of sympathy or respect for.

I did not wish to risk the noise that properly test-firing the weapon would make, and my top priority was still getting the gate open and getting out of here. Still, out of old habit, I carefully inspected the weapon with my flashlight and checked the working parts to make certain that they still functioned properly. The rifle already had a percussion cap in place, and the breech was loaded with a well-preserved paper cartridge. While I would have vastly preferred a weapon with a more auspicious provenance, the old Sharps was undeniably a good weapon and I had no doubt that I would be able to use it effectively. I helped myself to the soldier's cartridge box, stuffing a cargo pocket with a handful of ancient paper cartridges and a small package of percussion caps.

"A suitable punishment, don't you think?" came a cultured female voice from nearby. "He enjoyed committing a wide range of horrific acts against his fellow human beings in life, and he offended the gods with his cruelty. Because his sins caught my particular attention, his soul was sent here after his death rather than being condemned to Tartarus for punishment. Now, he gets to be eternally frozen in one of the very sins that earned him damnation. This particular offense happened in 1864 at a place called Sand Creek, in what would eventually become the American state of Colorado. These particular victims were an unarmed 10-year-old Cheyenne girl and her infant brother, who she was trying to carry to safety after their parents were both murdered."

I turned towards the voice, holding the antique rifle low and resting my hand on the hammer, prepared to cock the weapon.

Before me was the handsome but unnaturally pale figure of a very tall, slender woman. She clearly saw that I was armed, but she didn't seem particularly concerned. Her marble-white flesh glowed almost blue in the moonlight. Strips of a tattered white garment that might have once been a dress of sorts fluttered in the breeze from her slender frame. The cloth had been shredded and frayed as though by a fierce wind, and it did little to cover her flawless body. Her long, wild, unkempt black hair cascaded down from the top of her head in disheveled waves of dark tangles that contrasted sharply with her ghostly alabaster skin. Her eyes sparkled eerily with a luminous inner light. Large, raven-like wings spread out behind her. Despite her tattered clothing, there was something unmistakably regal about the way that she carried herself, and I suspected that I was in the presence of a goddess.

Her voice was calm and almost sweet-sounding as she continued. "Until this man recognizes how wrong his actions were and truly turns away from the path of cruelty in his heart, his consciousness will be simultaneously experiencing this act from both the perspective of the sadistic killer he was, his helpless victims, and all those who loved them and suffered because of their untimely deaths. One might expect that this would be a nearly perfect formula for teaching him the true nature of his crimes and getting him to repent, but so far his heart is still far too cold and hard. I will keep his soul here until he can be trusted to behave around other mortals in the afterlife, but so far he has only felt anger and self-pity rather than genuine remorse. Would you believe that he actually blames his victims for his current predicament? Not surprisingly, he is currently nearly insane with rage against the stranger that just ripped his hand off at the wrist to take his rifle."

Her voice sounded sweet and almost childlike, but it also carried undertones that chilled me to the bone as she spoke. "So, mortal, what sort of punishment do you think is suitable for a guest in my house who sees fit to damage my property and then vainly threaten me with a silly mortal weapon inside of my own home?"

Trying to buy the three of us more time as I backed away, I began talking. It wasn't far to the gate. "Ma'am, I'm sorry for damaging... your property. My name is John, and I don't know where we are or how we got here. I'm not trying to threaten you or anyone else, but I need to keep my friends safe until we can figure out a way to get out of here."

The being laughed beautifully and melodiously, but her voice carried with it an unmistakable sense of unspeakable and dreadful power. "I know who you are, John, and you're here because I brought you. You won't be leaving until our business together has been completed to my satisfaction. But the fact that I invited you into my home does not imply that you have my permission to harm my possessions, and that soldier is my property and will most likely remain my property for the rest of eternity. I am Eris, goddess of chaos, strife, and warfare, and this is my home. I have business with you, mortal, but you are beginning to try my patience by thinking that you have the power to intimidate me with useless mortal trinkets. I demand that you put that rifle down immediately."

I kept Cherise and Rachelle behind me, standing protectively between them and the goddess as we slowly backed towards the gate. I thought of the men that I had killed overseas, but I had only done what had been absolutely necessary in order to get myself and the men with me out of there alive. I knew, no matter what the devils of my conscience screamed at me in my nightmares, that I had never done anything like that wicked soldier from the infamous Sand Creek Massacre. Cherise and Rachelle deserved nothing but bliss in the afterlife, but they were apparently here because of me. I owed it to them to keep them safe.

Perhaps I could hold off this being with the rifle long enough for Rachelle to cut through the lock on the gate with my enchanted knife. It wasn't a perfect plan to be sure, but it beat sticking around and finding out what she had in store for the three of us. Particularly if her plans involved adding us to her collection of statues.

Cherise was almost to the gate when Eris gave me an impatient glance and gestured towards the rifle in my hands. Without warning, I felt an invisible but irresistible power tear the old Sharps rifle from my grasp with such fearful violence that the butt of the weapon narrowly missed smashing my jaw. The wood and steel weapon with its long bayonet flipped high into the air until it was little more than a black speck in the dark blue sky. Long moments later, it fell to earth with tremendous force, driving the murderous steel spike along with a large portion of the rifle's barrel deep into the earth at the very spot where I had been standing moments before. If I had not continued to back up, I would certainly have joined the young Cheyenne girl and her brother in dying a grisly death at the end of that merciless blade.

Without warning, the goddess lunged for me like a tigress attacking its prey. I sidestepped her attack and, using an aikido technique that Diana had once taught me, re-directed her momentum harmlessly to the side. Faster than I would have believed possible, she regained her footing and was upon me, gracelessly grabbing me with the impossible, relentless strength that only a deity could possess. As she effortlessly slammed my spine against the unyielding earth, every bone in my body was jarred numbingly, my teeth banged together, and the air was crushed from my lungs. Despite her height, she was slightly built and did not weigh much as she climbed on top of me, straddling my waist and pinning my temporarily stunned body securely to the earth. Her deceptively slender arms were as strong as heavy steel beams, and my efforts to struggle and throw her off of me were entirely ineffective. As I struggled with all of my might to gain some leverage, she quieted me with a slender, milky-white hand that clamped tightly around my throat. I sensed that she had more than enough strength in that hand to have killed me easily, and I wisely quit struggling. She smiled at me with cruel arrogance as she relaxed her grip on my windpipe. She straddled my chest, sitting up and looking at me with a terrible possessiveness that chilled me to the bone.

Suddenly, from behind me, there was an ear-splitting explosive roar. A vast cloud of flame, sparks, and billowing white smoke flashed in the dim blue twilight, briefly lighting the world around us in a sickly yellow cast. A ragged hole the size of a quarter was ripped in the tattered white cloth between the goddess' breasts as a round lead ball three-quarters of an inch across struck Eris directly in the center of her sternum. The clearing became deathly silent, and the sulfurous stench of burnt black powder filled the air. The soft lead ball fell through a rip in Eris' garment, and it landed with a dull, lifeless thud against the sturdy denim shell of my insulated vest. Even through the thick garment I could feel the heat of the musket-ball. Looking down, I saw that the soft lead was deformed and flattened as though it had struck something soft and yet utterly impenetrable.