SERVING SPIRITS

Natalie Whitley stirred her cocktail, vodka with cranberry juice and a twist of lime, which her husband Mitch, in his infinite wisdom on all matters alcoholic, would tersely point out was a Cape-Fucking-Cod. She didn’t care what the bartenders called it. It tasted good and produced the desired results.

She took a deep sip and tried to ignore the sounds of Hurricane Gwendolyn ripping through the night.

As a child, rumblings of thunder had always sent her bolting for the safety of her father’s embrace. But she was twenty-five now and no longer prone to outright panic.

A nasty squall line had moved into the area and conditions had deteriorated quickly over the last hour. The wind shrieked around the house and through the boughs of the trees outside, a spooky chorus of spectral voices, like thousands of doomed souls freshly escaped from purgatory, keening in salacious delight as they rode the storm to freedom.

She turned on the Bose stereo system and twisted the little silver volume knob until she felt Metallica’s bass line vibrating in her fillings, undulating pleasantly against her breastbone like it was emanating from her very heart.

Although the edges of panic certainly blurred and softened, she was nowhere closer to peace than she had been when the outer bands of the storm had churned onto land, bringing with it the wailing winds and flooding rains predicted to last for at least twenty-four hours. Northeast Florida had not seen a storm of this magnitude since Frances in 2004.

Everyone with any common sense at all had already evacuated the area for safer climes. A few years ago, Hurricane Floyd had caused quite the panic in Duval County. There had been mandatory evacuations ordered for the coastal region. Major flaws in the city’s emergency evacuation plan had been exposed when the westbound lanes of I-10 had become a parking lot. Natalie remembered thinking all those people would have been much safer staying home because they ended up stuck out there on the highway for hours, going nowhere.

Mercifully, the giant storm had taken a sudden turn for the north and spared Jacksonville and the rest of northern Florida the brunt of its devastation, favoring the jutting North Carolina coast for landfall.

Gwendolyn was another massive storm. She made landfall in Jacksonville Beach, another pier blown to the four winds. I could be in Vegas blowing off steam right now, she thought bitterly. Mitch had insisted they hunker down and ride this storm out in the safety of their own home. The house had been built to withstand a category five hurricane.

The fortress was actually her father’s house. Dad had bragged that the 10,000 square foot mansion would likely survive the end of the world. Natalie did not doubt it. Her dad had spared no expense on its construction and took the investment very seriously, planning to retire there. He’d been born and raised in Northeast Florida, loved the area and felt connected to it.

Natalie’s mother had passed away when she was still little. Natalie and her father had grown close, much closer than they likely would have if her mother had lived, she was sure.

But now her dad was missing and presumed dead in Haiti. He hadn’t been seen or heard from in months. A team of investigators had been assigned to the case, mainly because Seth Dent was a high-profile author, and worth a ton of money. But the search had turned up nothing so far.

Now she was all alone, even with Mitch here. Even though he’d been kind enough to mix her a stiff drink earlier—even massaged her shoulders for a few fleeting blissful moments— he’d retreated straight back into the office, where he’d been holed up for the last couple of hours.

She took a drink and thought about the dream she had last night. She did not remember the whole thing, but pieces of it danced around in her mind like a broken puzzle. There were scenes with Mitch carving his name in a tree crowned with hundred-dollar bills bearing her father’s face intermingled with ones where she was face down on the bed and Mitch was sawing her hair off in hunks, throwing it into a fire which licked at the bed sheets and crawled across the floor, igniting everything in its path.

This was not the first of the nightmares featuring Mitch in various stages of abusive behavior which had stalked her sleep lately.

She knew they were only bad dreams, but a nameless dread had boiled to the surface of her psyche and she sought solace through the only means at her disposal: liquor. And lots of it.

When it had become painfully obvious Seth Dent was not going to return from Haiti, Natalie and Mitch had taken up residence in his abandoned house. It had been fine at first, therapeutic even, but eventually the melancholy had set in and Natalie felt the need to distance herself from the painful memories her dad’s house invoked in her. Everywhere she looked there was a reminder of all she had lost. She was ready to re-establish herself. She had voiced the concern with Mitch, relaying her deep and heartfelt sadness and the desire to sell the house, but he’d only scoffed at the notion.

As she recalled the conversation, her mind drifted back to that night.

“Natalie,” Mitch said between bites of filet mignon, “why in the world would you want to leave the house your father built? Don’t you think it would make him happy if he knew you were there?”

“I feel him all around me, Mitch, and it’s just too hard to let him go,” she admitted, ashamed to expose her weakness to him, tears spilling over onto her cheeks.

Even then, she thought she shouldn’t need to be ashamed to say anything to him. Something had changed between them. There had been a time when he would have consoled her, but now he looked down his nose at her, contemptuously sneering.

“I keep expecting him to come walking through the door any day. It’s like time is standing still and I’m stuck in neutral while the world outside moves on without me. I want to be my own person. Doesn’t that make sense to you, Mitch?”

He pointed at her with his fork, and frowned. “Do you honestly think he would have preferred a stranger moving into his home? I don’t think so. It’s an amazing house, and your inheritance.”

It was painfully apparent she was not going to get through his thick skull. She tried a different approach. “So, that’s it. You never intended to get me out of here? Don’t you want me to be happy, Mitch?”

Mitch became irritated. She didn’t mean to piss him off. For a moment, she had feared he was going to yell at her, but he had taken a long pull off his bottle of Bud, wiped his mouth and smiled.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said, grinning mischievously. “Why don’t we take a vacation? Take a week or two and go to Paris. We can just get away from it all. Maybe what you need is to get away for a while. Things won’t look so bleak when we get back.”

His look of concern was less than genuine. It disgusted Natalie. “You really don’t understand me at all.”

He smirked at her and resumed gorging himself, as if to say the conversation was now over.

They had not gone on vacation. Mitch had not had any sudden bouts of compassion, had not appeared even remotely concerned with Natalie’s feelings. She was unable to lift herself out of the depths of depression on her own, either. A shroud of gloom descended on her, leaving her bereft. Mitch became withdrawn from her, spending a lot of time locked away in her dad’s office, pecking away at the computer keyboard.

Now she paced the living room, taking in all of the rare and expensive accoutrements her dad had amassed in his all too brief life. One hand absently twirled her purple and black dyed locks, a style she had adopted not long after losing her dad. She beheld Ma Femme Nue Regardant son Porpe Corps (Contemplating an Invisible Mirror), an original Salvador Dali painting her father had obtained for her a few years back and pondered her own dilemma. She felt the longing for her father’s gentle smile and loving embrace, which served only to deepen her sense of isolation. She missed him so much and stubbornly refused to concede he was truly dead. But deep down she knew that discovering he was alive equaled the odds of her miraculously reclaiming her virginity.

Her palms felt itchy and her head swam for a moment, disorienting her. She felt a hot flash course through her body, her face felt flushed. She was only on her second drink, but she felt as if she had downed half a bottle of vodka already.

The nausea washed over her and then abated, mercifully, after a few seconds, but she was left feeling shaken. She continued her pacing and thinking, ruminating on how her life had come to this point.

She had met Mitch a few years ago at one of her dad’s breast cancer fundraisers. Natalie’s mom had succumbed to the disease, after a lengthy and valiant battle, when Natalie was just five years old. Ever since, her dad had devoted a great deal of money to the search for a cure. A quest that was doomed to fail, in Natalie’s opinion.

There had been a bevy of rich and available young men vying for her attention that night, but she was tired of the pompous assholes who attended these events. So she’d struck up a conversation with one of the bartenders instead.

His name was Mitch, a tall and handsome fellow, especially those turquoise eyes, deep set and engaging. He was confident and outspoken, and Natalie had felt at ease around him at once. He shared Natalie’s disdain for the party guests, which endeared her to him. They had struck up easy conversation and exchanged numbers.

The sex was the best she’d ever had, and Mitch, though aggressive at times, was also generous, which was a rare thing in her experience.

They had dated for a couple of years and Mitch finally proposed. Their wedding had been something right out of a romance novel. A beautiful and expensive production, set in Paris, courtesy of a reproving, but quietly compliant, Seth Dent. Natalie’s dad had been mistrustful of Mitch from the moment he’d laid eyes on the man. Natalie had thought he was being overprotective, but the truth of the matter was that Mitch had worried her dad almost as much as a misshapen lump on his testicle would have.

Natalie had been oblivious of Mitch’s shortcomings at first. She loved him so much, she could not see the forest for the trees.

At the wedding, her dad had been several sheets to the wind, tossing back way too much Dom and even more Crown Royal. During the father-daughter dance, he had glared at her with eyes like caerulean daggers.

“You’re so naïve, Nat.” His snide tone would have been inappropriate and insensitive at any given time, but at that moment, it had bordered on unforgivable. “That man is nothing but a petulant gold-digger. As far as I’m concerned, he’s an opportunistic shit!”

She had placed a hand gently on his clean shaven cheek and gazed into his eyes, imploring. “I love him, dad. No one’s perfect. Not even you.”

He winced at this. And then smiled warmly. She had a way with words.

“Please just be happy for me and let me make my own choices without going apeshit about every one of them.” As an afterthought she added, “I’m a big girl, dad. I can take care of myself.”

He nodded his head, but his face bore an expression of unconcealed disapproval.

He had sighed deeply and thrown his hands up in defeat. “Mark my words, Nat. The man is trouble.” He had then abandoned the dance and staggered toward the bar in search of a fresh drink.

He had taken three steps before he turned back around and said, “I know you love Mitch, Natalie, but if he ever hurts you, I’ll kill his sorry ass. I mean it. I’ll make him wish he’d never been born.”

His steely glare had frightened Natalie.

Now that her dad was gone, Mitch’s true colors had shown through and proven the old man right. Mitch was pretty much worthless. It was too late to regret her choices, but her previously willful blindness was discouraging. She had a single remaining hope that things might change for the better, but only if Mitch’s claims were true, if he really was almost finished writing a future best-selling horror novel.

He was convinced he would be the next Seth Dent, but he’d been working on his first novel for years. Natalie had never fully believed he could do it, but after her dad vanished, Mitch’s efforts had doubled and he was always typing away on his manuscript.

She winced as she thought back on the all the empty promises the years had swallowed, and slugged back her drink. She strode to the wet bar to prepare another with hands that trembled ever so slightly. Vodka splashed on the countertop. She grabbed a kitchen towel off the rack and wiped up the mess.

Natalie stewed in the soft embrace of the sofa, staring through the talking heads on television yammering on about Gwendolyn, wondering how in the hell she was ever going to be happy.

That’s all she really wanted.

A little happiness.

Was it really too much to ask?

Right now, she was really happy that the neighborhood had underground power lines, and they had backup generators set up and ready to go when the power did go out. At least she could listen to music and keep track of the hurricane’s progress.

The latest assessment of the storm’s damage was at least ten thousand people were without power, and plenty more still expected to lose electricity. Much of the population had run to the hills, so the numbers were not very reliable anyway.

Sitting down had caused her head to grow swimmy again. How many drinks had she had? She thought it was three, but her memory was suddenly less trustworthy than usual. Her legs felt a little numb, too.

She felt anxious sitting there, so she stood back up and stretched. She felt so sleepy. The alcohol was meant to put her at ease, but it was having the opposite effect.

She went to the window and gazed out at the carnage. Mother Nature was throwing a tantrum. The trees whipped back and forth crazily, shedding branches like nervous dogs scratching loose fur onto the carpet. The yard was littered with hundreds of small green twigs, medium-sized limbs and several branches large enough to crush a minivan. Trash cans, mailboxes and assorted unidentifiable debris swirled here and there, shoved along by gale force winds. Rain sheeted sideways, pelting the windows like nails. Natalie stepped away from the calamity on display through the window, the chugging riffs of Black Sabbath’s “Children of the Grave” a fitting soundtrack to the apocalyptic weather.

She opened one of the ivory handled drawers in the coffee table and plucked out the stack of letters from within, taking them back to the couch.

The thick wad of correspondence was tied together with a fat rubber band, which Natalie dutifully pulled off with a little snap.

While her dad was in Haiti, he had written to Natalie regularly, at first regaling her about his arrival and subsequent tour of Jacme, the city where he would be staying during his visit. He had been overjoyed by the perfection of the locale and all it would do for his research.

Although he had always been reluctant to give any details of his novels away while he was still at work on them, he had told Natalie that his newest one had a plot involving a Vodou curse, that he wanted to learn the true nature of the religion, to get to know the types of people who practiced it, so he could add as much realism to the story as possible.

His agent had hooked him up with a self-proclaimed Vodouisant named Eliezer, who had proven invaluable to Seth in his endeavor. The Haitian had gone to great lengths to immerse Dent in the religion, giving him access to rituals and practices to enrich his understanding. Seth realized most of the information about Vodou he had gleaned from movies and books had been gross misinterpretations of the religion at best.

In one of the letters, he had mentioned Eliezer had pulled some strings and was taking him to a secret ritual very few people would normally be permitted access. There was a town outside of Jacme where a group of shadowy men, who called themselves Bokor, practiced the darker aspects of Vodou. Seth had been pleased about that, his spirits exceedingly high.

Seth had a habit of buying souvenirs for Natalie any time he traveled, and this time had been no exception.

A week following that letter, an enormous crate arrived via special delivery. The two burly delivery guys had wrestled it into the house with no little difficulty, frowning and cursing the whole time. The sweating men had gotten the crate as far as the den and had left it in in the middle of the floor beside the recliner. They were not going to open it, claiming they didn’t feel right being around it. Fifty bucks made it much more tolerable. They struggled with it, but finally opened it up to reveal a shocking abomination. Natalie screamed when she saw the awful thing.

The statue was the size of a power forward basketball player, chiseled out of what appeared to be ivory. After studying it for a few moments, her initial revulsion subsided. It reminded her of a cigar store Indian that might come to life in a horror movie, only much scarier. The head was long, about the size of a horse’s head, crowned with thick, blunt ram’s horns. The face possessed six sets of carefully sculpted eyes, the uppermost being perfectly placed and then another set below and another and so on until they ended at a slash of a mouth that was poorly rendered, as if it was added as an afterthought.

Mitch had sauntered into the den in his robe and slippers, hair disheveled and smelling like a brewery as the delivery men had been exiting, shaking their heads in bewilderment.

“What the hell is that thing?” Mitch was clearly repulsed by it. “When I first walked in, I swear it was looking me right in the eye.”

Natalie wasn’t terribly fond of the thing, either. Frankly, it chilled her. “It’s a gift from Dad,” was all she had been capable of saying.

“Get rid of it. It’s creepy as fuck, Nat.” He had turned and abruptly stalked out of the den and back to the bedroom where he had then passed out with a bottle of Gentleman Jack cradled in his armpit and a cigar stuck to his bottom lip. It was fortunate he had not burned the place down.

During the transfer to her father’s house, the movers had set the statue a bit too far towards the middle of the room. Natalie had attempted to slide it back against one of the walls, but it was too heavy. So she had left it there, a wood panel from the packing crate still under its feet. If Mitch had given a shit he could’ve helped, but he’d conveniently ignored it.

Natalie flipped through the well-worn envelopes until she found the one she wanted. In the letter, he inquired as to how she liked her present. He said that the statue represented an entity the Vodouisant had referred to as a Djab, and that he had sent it to ward off evil and protect Natalie in his absence. She knew that he had written this with a straight face. This made tears well up in her eyes every time although she didn’t know why. He went on to write if she were ever in danger and needed protection, she could invoke the spirit of the Djab with an incantation. Below that statement he had written in big block letters:

“RETOUNEN KOM DJAB, TIRE REVANJ SE MWEN YO YE.”

According to her Dad, the words had to be spoken aloud for them to be effective. This had given her further reason to be superstitious of having the awful thing in the house. She thought perhaps he had either lost his mind, or he was pulling her leg when he decided to bestow it on her

MITCH WHITLEY TILTED the glass of Scotch back and savored the aged amber liquid as it first burned his tender esophagus and then spread its friendly warmth out from his stomach into his arms and legs. On the monitor in front of him, the final page of the purloined novel beckoned him, demanding he type those last few stubborn sentences which would change his life forever.

Despite his claims to Natalie, Mitch had never gotten beyond a few pages of his many aborted attempts to write his own book. He had found that filling in a few missing links here and there in a nearly completed manuscript was a hell of a lot easier.

A bottle of imported lager sat full and sweating behind a sheaf of printouts that represented the majority of his notes regarding the novel. He took a chug to chase down the whiskey, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flexed his fingers, coaxing a chorus of resounding pops from his stiff knuckles. He heaved a sigh, assuring himself the words would come to him after a little break, and wheeled his office chair across the room to the window.

He wondered if enough time had passed since he had spiked Natalie’s drink with Rufinol. He hoped she was passed out on the couch by now.

The storm was a major turn-on for Mitch. He had always wanted to hunker down and experience the rush that came along with facing Mother Nature’s fury and the time had come. Natalie, of course, had immediately wanted to bolt. She was so childlike sometimes it made him want to throw up. Or maybe that was the Scotch.

He didn’t give a fat, greasy shit.

He was not about to let her force him to leave. Tonight was the big night and the storm provided the perfect cover for his plans.

It had taken a good half-hour of his life arguing with her about how safe they were in this house during which he had had to exert every ounce of his self-control containing the urge to smash her whining mouth in. Her puerility confounded him to no end. He had been consistent in playing out the game he had initiated with the Dent family to the point that he felt as if his true self were bulging against the inside of his skin, threatening to burst free at any minute, revealing the machine of rage he had deftly concealed all along.

He had been exceptionally persistent, waiting for a lucky break, biding his time with a woman whose existence was proof positive that God had a sense of humor, and it had paid off in spades. Soon it would all be worthwhile. What a lucky break Seth Dent had been removed from the picture. He actually had seen through Mitch’s façade, and had told Natalie as much. But she had been too convinced Mitch was the man of her dreams to believe in her dad’s warnings. He still couldn’t get over just how fortune had smiled upon him upon discovering Dent’s unfinished final book. It was the break he had been waiting for all his life. It wasn’t that he had not enjoyed Natalie’s wealth. Money was all the motivation required to maintain his inscrutable mask of innocuousness.

This truly was a momentous time for Mitch. Seth Dent’s mysterious disappearance had rent an opening for a new horror scribe that millions of readers could turn to now and Mitch had every intention of waltzing right in. He had always hated the bastard. Every time they were in the same room together, the sparks would inevitably fly. The tension had eased as the years ticked by, but then, right before Dent had left for Haiti, he had confronted Mitch.

Mitch had been at The Nineteenth Hole drinking a boilermaker with a couple of other golfers at the Orange Park Country Club, bantering and sulking about his 80 on the back nine, when Seth had sidled up to the Mahogany bar, dressed in jeans and a button-down plaid shirt, a look of malice etched upon his weathered face.

Seth claimed barstool next to Mitch and sat there grinning like an idiot as he ordered a Bloody Mary, making the group uncomfortable. Seth had never been a golfer and typically hung out at the River House if he was in Orange Park.

This was no chance encounter.

One by one, Mitch’s companions had wandered away, leaving him on his own with the bastard. Mitch ordered a double shot of whiskey and turned to Seth warily.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Dent?”

 “I want you to leave, Mitch. Get out of my daughter’s life for good.”

Mitch hadn’t been up to a confrontation, so he had turned to face the bar, staring at the old man’s reflection in the shiny mirror behind the rows of top shelf liquor.

“And why would I go and do that, Seth?”?” Mitch asked, trying to sound cool and collected.

Seth downed his cocktail and stood up, hitching his pants like the sheriff in a Wild West movie getting ready to harass some hooligans. Mitch had nearly guffawed at him, but managed to keep his mouth shut.

He turned toward Mitch and leaned in close enough for Mitch to smell the tomato juice on his breath. “I’m leaving the country, and when I get back, I want you gone. I don’t particularly care what your motivations are, although I know all you amount to is a gold-digger. I just want you to leave.”

“It’s not going to happen. Your daughter and I love each other. I find your remarks out of line.” He was seething with anger.

Dent had no right to act so out of line. Mitch had never so much as raised his hand at Natalie in anger. He thought about telling his elder that at his age, he should understand his daughter was grown now and free to make her own choices. His mouth clamped these words tightly inside, though. The money, Mitch, think about the money.

And then Dent had completely thrown him for a loop as he had thrown a large envelope down on the bar and gestured for Mitch to open it and look inside.

It was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills.

Mitch’s eyes had grown huge in his head. It was a shitload of money. He recovered quickly, though, intuiting Dent’s insinuation. If Mitch appeared even remotely interested in the bribe, the jig was up. He wasn’t going to let that happen. He knew it was a ruse. Dent would go running back to Natalie and spill the beans. Who knew how she would have reacted?

He had remained in control of his emotions, turned back to the mirror again and said, “I can’t believe your audacity, Mr. Dent. I really thought more highly of you. Thanks anyway.”

Dent had then leaned in closer and whispered into Mitch’s ear. “If you lay a hand on her, I’ll fucking kill you, asshole. Got it?”

Mitch had nodded curtly, tenaciously treading the fine line between anger and triumph, resisting the urge he had with every fiber in his being to stand up, finish his drink, and beat the hell out of Seth Dent.

Dent was digging his own grave acting like this in public. Mitch knew it. For once in his life, he was making the right play. He just needed to let Dent make an ass out of himself and keep his cool.

And that had been it. His self-control had won the day and Dent had gone out and taken his trip to Haiti, never to return.

Mitch hadn’t needed the dirt on Seth Dent. He hadn’t had to do anything and here he was, about to be a one-book author, and that was just fine with him.

He gazed out at the fury of Gwendolyn, feeling a peculiar kinship with the storm. Often he would obsess over how it would feel to wreak senseless and indiscriminate destruction on the world around him, but he had never dared to entertain these thoughts too seriously. The urge to commit acts of violence was overwhelmed by the need to maintain his freedom, no matter how mundane. Freedom is freedom, prison is hell. He envied Gwendolyn her freedom. She was merely a force of nature, existing outside of persecution for her crimes against humanity. She could kill and demolish everything in her path and the worse outcome for her would be her name was removed from the pool of eligibility for future use in association with a major storm.

He would finish the book tonight and soon he would be a much happier, and richer, man. His last task was one rife with danger, but he saw no other way to remove all potential obstacles to his success. Once he was free and clear of Natalie, he could drive into the sunset and never look back.

NATALIE SWOONED, nearly losing consciousness again. She felt as if her head had come untethered from her body and floated somewhere near the ceiling.

It was friggin’ hilarious.

Then, in a single lucid moment, she wondered if something was perhaps seriously wrong with her.

Had Mitch put something in her drink?

She had never touched drugs, so she wasn’t familiar with their effects, but she knew she was way too giddy for having only three drinks.

She felt foolish to even consider Mitch doing something like that. What motive did he have?

According to her dad, plenty.

She didn’t want to believe it, but her poor Dad had been determined to convince her something going down.

She wouldn’t have taken him seriously had it not been for a phone call she had received from him the day after the bizarre statue had shown up, the last call she’d ever received from him she realized now.

“Natalie, did you get the package I sent?” His voice had been ragged and he had coughed for nearly a full minute before he calmed down enough for her to answer.

“You sound terrible,” she said, attempting to keep her tone light. “You didn’t catch something funky over there did you?”

“Listen, Nat. I sent that statue for a reason. It’s called a Djab. It’s a Vodou spirit that is supposed to protect a person from evil. I had it made for you because I know what that shit husband of yours is up to.” More coughing and wheezing carried across the distance between them.

“That thing’s pretty creepy, Dad. And it’s freaking huge.”

Her father’s voice had become urgent.

“You have no idea of the things I’ve seen, Nat. Listen to me, and listen good. Mitch is up to no good and I have it on good faith he plans to do you harm. Last week, Eliezer took me to a meeting of the Bokor, and when he spoke to them of my skepticism, they agreed to prove their legitimacy to me. They performed a strange ritual and showed me visions. In one of them, I saw Mitch hurting you, Nat. They felt sympathy for your plight and urged me to join them in blessing the Djab, giving it power to protect you from evil. I know it sounds crazy, but they convinced me, Natalie. I’ll tell you some other time just how, but in the meantime, take this seriously. All I ask of you, and you must take this with deadly seriousness, when the time comes, speak the incantation. You did get my last letter, right?”

“Yeah, I got it. But, I wish you wouldn’t worry so much. I’m fine.” she lied. Her dad was scaring her and she had broken out in gooseflesh. “What’s wrong with you anyway? You’re scaring me.”

“I love you, Nat. Don’t take me lightly. I paid more than you will ever know to make sure you’re safe.” Natalie thought she heard a sob escape from her dad. She had begun to cry, as well.

“I know that bastard plans to steal my new book and publish it. Before he does it, he plans to get rid of you. He thinks he can get away with it, but he won’t. I swear on my soul he won’t. You have to trust me, Natalie. Promise me you’ll do as I say.”

She wasn’t sure if at the time she’d believed him or was merely placating him. “Okay, dad. Whatever you say. You’re really freaking me out.”

“That’s a good girl. I have to go now. I love you, Nat.”

And he was gone. There had been finality in his last words to her, a sense of closure that scared her more than anything else.

She gripped her dad’s letter in trembling hands. Feeling slightly ridiculous, she read the incantation aloud. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to happen upon uttering the strange words, but nothing did. The storm continued to rage outside.

Slightly disappointed, she stuffed the letter back into the envelope and headed to the bathroom.

She caught her reflection in the mirror and was surprised by how sleepy she looked. She was tired, yes, but found her libido suddenly raging regardless. It had been a long time since she’d felt anything resembling sexual desire, but found herself embracing the sensation.

A loud crash from the living room startled her, nearly causing Natalie to fall backward into the tub.

What the fuck was that?

She bolted from the bathroom, expecting to find a shattered window, or worse, a tree fallen through the ceiling.

The living room was eerily quiet. The stereo had fallen silent as her musical selections had come to an end, but nothing appeared amiss.

She warily padded into the den to see if perhaps the noise had emanated from there. The room looked intact, but something felt slight askew. She couldn’t place what it was.

BACK IN THE OFFICE, Mitch’s cell phone chirped to notify him a text message had arrived. He extracted it from the clip on his belt, wondering who’d be pestering him during a storm like this.

He unlocked the screen and read:

Thief, the pits of Hell are too good for you, but I’m going to send you there anyway.

The message had been sent without a listed number, no surprise. Mitch tapped delete but the message stayed on the screen. He tried again but the words remained, mocking him.

“What the fuck?” His skin prickled with goose-flesh. Even though he’d drank enough alcohol to immerse him in a calming haze, his nerves began to jangle.

“Someone trying to sabotage my plans? Give me your best shot shithead, fucking coward.” He tossed the phone onto the sofa, cursing under his breath.

He forced out a bitter laugh, trying to shrug off the sinister implications of the text message.

Who could possibly know? Absolutely no one.

Could his idiot wife in the very next room be mocking him? How could she know his plan unless . . . unless she’d been snooping around? Surely she wasn’t stupid enough to taunt him like this.

Sparks of molten anger ignited deep inside his brain, pulsing out through his temples. He needed to keep his cool. He poured another three finger wallop of Scotch in an attempt to calm himself, but more alcohol only served to fuel the inferno raging within.

It was time for him to check in on Natalie, anyway; hopefully she’d gotten drunk and had passed out by now. As he stepped through the door of his office into the hall, a fierce wind rattled the window with a bone-chilling howl.

Mitch froze in his tracks, listening.

For a moment there, he could have sworn the wind was moaning his name.

NATALIE POURED yet another drink, ashamed of herself for being such a fool. A Vodou curse was going to protect her from Mitch? How wasted was she?

Outside, thunder rolled so intensely the entire universe seemed to reverberate with the force of it.

She was sure Mitch was still back in the office, but decided to check anyway. The house beyond the living room was draped in darkness. She carefully snuck down the hall, past bedrooms and bathrooms to within several feet of the closed office door.

The clackety-clacking of Mitch’s fingers on the keyboard brought instant relief. The man was too wrapped up in his writing to give two shits about anyone or anything else, especially her. Even if he was plotting to steal her father’s work, she was glad he was preoccupied with something other than her.

Even though she wasn’t certain Mitch had evil intentions towards her, unshakeable fear remained. It simply made no sense. No matter how much she reassured herself, she could easily imagine Mitch coming down the hall dragging an axe behind him, leering wildly like Jack Torrance in The Shining.

She shivered.

Natalie suddenly felt incredibly alone, and realized how deeply frightened she really was.

She found herself creeping back down the hall to make another drink. Safely back in the living room, she poured yet another Cape-Fucking-Cod. As the liquid splashed into the glass, a distinct feeling came over her—fear juxtaposed with a strange internal peace. As the feeling washed over her, the room spun around her like a funhouse nightmare for a moment.

Thankfully, the vertigo subsided almost as quickly as it had begun. It took her warm alcoholic buzz along with it, leaving in its wake a primitive lust that demanded to be sated.

She definitely did not want to have sex with Mitch, but she needed sex more than anything. And she needed it now.

A little smile crept onto her face.

Fuck him hard and he’ll pass out. Then I won’t be so afraid to go to sleep.

But could she have sex with a man she knew was using her as a means to an end? She didn’t know. And she didn’t know the answer to ultimate question still plaguing her: did she really have anything to fear from Mitch? Or had her dad simply filled her head with paranoia?

She slipped into the bedroom and stripped naked. Even though her lingerie had gone unworn for the last several months, she had no trouble locating the most risqué piece in her wardrobe: a sheer black teddy that left little to the imagination.

Ready for action regardless of her fear, she slinked from the bedroom towards the office to fetch Mitch.

WITH A FLOURISH, Mitchell Whitley stabbed out the last few words, and the final period. He drunkenly toasted his accomplishment, downed an oversized shot of Scotch and then drained the remains of his beer in one deep and satisfying chug.

He slapped the sweaty bottle down on the oaken desk top with a loud clunk, locked the screen, and released a deep-chested belch. It was perfect. This book would have been Seth Dent’s masterpiece, the sorry bastard.

Sorry, dead bastard, Mitch thought. It’s what you get for being a condescending prick.

Even the title, Serving Spirits, was catchy and alliterative. The cover art and the name of a book could ultimately mean life or death for the work within, and Mitch knew this one would stick in people’s heads. If it had the name Seth Dent on the front, it could have been dubbed I Fucked Your Mom and All You Got Was This Lousy Piece of Shit Book and it would have been an instant bestseller. In Mitch’s case, being an unknown author, driving sales was going to be trickier, but he had no fear that it would be published in no time and his would soon be a household name, at least long enough for him to get his money.

Outside, Gwendolyn gnashed her teeth and blasted the earth with her powerful breath. The lights had not so much as flickered all night and the storm was on them full force.

It was time to begin Act Three of the Big Show. Mitch eschewed the glass and swigged the Scotch deeply from the bottle, slapped his chest a couple of times and opened the bottom file drawer of his dead prick father-in-law’s writing desk. The 40-millimeter Glock lay there, its polished black metal promising violent death by simple action.

In a way, he would miss his dear idiot wife. She’d initiated this by sending him the malicious text. He had to make sure no one could trace any of this back to him. He lifted the gun out of the drawer, comforted by its weight in his hand. The pistol was loaded, a round with Natalie’s name on it already in the chamber.

Mitch tucked the Glock into the waistband of his jeans, pulling his t-shirt all the way down to better conceal it. He strode unsteadily out of the office and down the hall. Natalie surprised him as she too was making her way through the darkened hall toward him. She was wearing a sexy negligee and a big fuck-me smile.

This was unexpected. Then he remembered the Rufinol. It hadn’t knocked her out yet, but it had definitely made her horny. He had a sudden fantasy of nailing his unlucky wife and then blowing her brains out, and he was unable to turn off that glorious image, it would be perfect. She was a good lay, after all. It would be a shame not to take advantage of one last roll in the hay with her.

A wolf’s smile forming slowly on his own lips, he half walked-half staggered toward his soon to be dead bride.

AS NATALIE HEADED FOR her father’s office, Mitch exited into the hall, initially oblivious to her presence. A razor-sharp smile gouged his face when he saw her nighty. He looked like a traveling salesman, smile made of glass.

Natalie was accustomed to her husband’s mischievous appearance, but tonight it was disconcerting to the extreme. He headed down the hall towards her, eddies of malevolence swirled as he approached.

Whatever bad intentions were hiding behind his wicked smile, Natalie no longer remembered what she had been so scared of earlier. All she wanted now was release.

She rolled her hips as she walked, consciously creating a sexy image for the man her father had deemed pure evil, walking the way she knew would cause Mitch to drool, her long hair swaying down the length of her milky smooth back, her hands sliding seductively along the curves of her body to let him know that she was aroused and needed his hands on her, his cock inside her.

MITCH’S EYES QUICKLY adjusted to the darkness of the hallway. The full and firm outline of Natalie’s breasts showed through the sheer fabric of the silk teddy, and he felt himself swell with desire. He was really drunk and reminded himself there was a pistol tucked into the back of his pants.

Natalie gazed at him with lust, but her eyes were growing bleary, too. Good, she won’t last too much longer.

She began to trace tight little circles on Mitch’s chest with her fingers. His body broke out in gooseflesh at Natalie’s light touch. He was ready to take her into the room and fuck her for all he was worth.

Suddenly, Natalie grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him to her, parting her lips and kissing him feverishly, her tongue exploring his mouth hungrily. He lingered within the sensuous kiss for a moment, feeling himself grow inside his jeans.

He pushed her away gently. He had to fight the urge to push her down and take her right there on the floor.

“Let’s go to the bedroom and fuck like we used to,” Natalie pled, voice husky and self-assured, full of the promise of hedonistic pleasures to come. She breathed quickly, her hands suddenly everywhere.

She squeezed him through his jeans, moaning softly as she felt his hardness. In that moment, her thoughts were focused on nothing more than getting that throbbing monster inside her. Her father’s warnings and his silly Vodou incantation were all but forgotten. So was her fear of her husband. She had to have him, and now.

She pulled him into the bedroom by his shirt. This time, he went willingly, the gun in his waistband definitely not forgotten.

Natalie flung herself onto the king-sized canopy bed and spread her legs wide, revealing the part of her that Mitch loved more than anything. She pointed at him, finger beckoning him to come, to ravage her.

Mitch hesitated, trying to decide how he was going to handle this. He needed to put the gun somewhere in easy reach with Natalie none the wiser. He walked toward the bed and Natalie’s eager and obviously excited body and bent down right at the edge of the bed to administer a little foreplay. As she began to moan in delight, Mitch pulled the pistol out of his waistband and slid it under the bed.

After a few moments, Natalie began tugging on Mitch’s shirt again. This time, he allowed her to pull it over his head. He proceeded to remove his jeans and boxers for her and jumped into bed with her.

The power went out.

A noise like a shotgun blast sounded from somewhere outside, making them jump. A transformer must have blown. Underground power lines regardless, the house was hurled into inky darkness.

Natalie squealed like a little girl on a rollercoaster.

“Are you scared, little girl?” Mitch asked, laughing drunkenly.

She was silent for a moment. Her heart hammered her chest so fast, it scared her. Despite the shock of the power outage, both Natalie and Mitch were still lost in the throes of their lust.

“I don’t know. It depends on what you’re going to do to me with that thing,” Natalie finally answered.

Mitch exhaled a heady breath of whiskey and tobacco smoke and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “I’m going to impale you on it, you naughty bitch.”

Natalie gasped, her hunger for him deepening upon hearing this dirty talk. “Get up here, you beast, I’m going to show you the time of your life.”

Natalie pinned Mitch to the bed and sat down on him. She climbed on top of him and rocked back and forth with wild abandon. She wanted nothing more than for this to last all night. Outside, the wind howled and the rain battered the house. The banshee winds created a perfect counterpoint to the sounds she and Mitch made as they bucked against each other.

Mitch writhed and groaned breathily beneath her, his hands fumbling around in the dark, grasping every inch of her.

He squeezed her breasts a little too roughly and she pushed both hands down upon his arms, pinning him back down. She knew he was drunk and she struggled to assert her control over him, but her limbs had taken on the consistency of rubber and she felt light-headed and cotton-mouthed.

Despite the dizzy sensation she felt, Natalie was on the verge of climax, and she felt Mitch begin to thrust into her more earnestly from below. His hands gripped her rump firmly, squeezing as he shook with imminent release. She felt him stretching her further and further until she could not imagine being able to take it anymore. And then Natalie and Mitch reached the peak of their frenzied lovemaking, both of them releasing groans of heady delight. Lightning crashed like the symbols at the peak of the Alfred Hitchcock film The Man Who Knew Too Much and for a moment, the room was bathed in ethereal light.

Natalie turned her head to look out the window as the lightning lit the room and saw the silhouette of what could only be a large man standing out there. The man’s features were lost in the darkness, backlit by flashes of lightning.

Natalie loosed a scream which curdled the air, causing Mitch to start at first. Then he let out a loud burst of laughter. The eerie cackle reminded Natalie of a hyena she had heard once when she was in New Mexico with her dad.

“Wow babe,” Mitch’s voice was slurred and his words punctuated by heavy post-coital breathing, “I knew I was good, but damn.”

Natalie didn’t hear him.

She had pulled herself off of his deflating penis, feeling his semen lazily draining out of her, and rolled off the side of the bed like it had caught fire and dropped to the floor.

Her head was spinning from the orgasm and something else. She was not sure if she had really seen someone outside, but the image had been all too real. She lay there, sprawled and dizzy on the floor, her eyes squeezed shut. When she opened them finally, she saw something glinting underneath the bed. She reached out and her hand brushed against the unmistakable cold metal of a handgun. Knowledge dawned on her and she grabbed it. Sweaty and naked, she crawled across the floor and plopped down against the wall by the bedroom door, obscuring the gun behind her back.

“What the hell are you doing, Nat?” came Mitch’s bemused voice.

“I have a cramp in the arch of my foot, Mitch, Goddamn!” She tried to sound like she was in pain. “I’ll be all right.”

Where had the fucking gun come from? Mitch had surely planted it there at some point tonight. Natalie was an obsessive maid. She had swept and mopped this floor yesterday and had made sure no dirty socks had been pushed underneath the bed in the process. There had not been any dust bunnies and there most certainly had not been a gun.

Her father had been right all along. How in the hell had he known? She knew she could not escape the house tonight, and perhaps Mitch had planned this from the beginning. He had convinced her to stay here during a hurricane with the knowledge that once it bore down on them, she would not be able to escape. It was a perfect opportunity to get rid of her. There could be a gangland style shootout in the house and no one would hear it.

Now she had the gun, but she was feeling woozy. Had Mitch drugged her? If he had access to a gun, she was sure he could get some drugs.

Possessing weapon empowered her as she slowly gained her feet and looked at him lying on the bed. She stood there a moment, swaying unsteadily, looking down at him, wondering how she could have ever been so stupid. His eyes were closed and his face was slack. He wasn’t asleep, but he looked at ease.

“Mitch. Look at me,” she said, her words barely audible over the wind.

He looked at her with a dumb, slack-jawed expression. His half-hooded eyes were blank at first. Then he registered the pistol aimed at his face and his facial muscles tightened with anger.

“Well, well,” he said, still stretched out in post-coital exhaustion. “Where’d you get that gun, Nat?”

“I think we both know where I got it, Mitch.” She was not going to let him treat her like an idiot anymore. “The only question that needs asking is what the fuck were you planning tonight?”

She kept her arms locked in the shooter’s stance she had learned from her dad. He had taken her to a range several times as a teenager and she had fired several handguns under his supervision.

Nevertheless, the gun was heavy. Her arms trembled with a mixture of exertion and fear. Shooting inanimate targets was something entirely different than shooting another human being, even if it did happen to be a scumbag like Mitch.

Meanwhile, the scumbag was off the bed and headed her direction. He had his hands held out defensively in front of him, but his expression was one of confidence. He looked like he had complete control of the situation, but he was wrong about that

“Well, why don’t you just put that thing down before you do something that you’re going to regret, Natalie?” His tone was plaintive, but Natalie knew he was waiting for her to slip up. He was like an asp, coiled and ready to strike.

“Don’t come any closer, Mitch!” Natalie screamed.

“I know what you were planning,” she spoke slowly, careful not to take her eyes off the dirty snake. “I can’t believe my dad was right all along. I’m in your way, right? You want all the money, why share it with me in wedded bliss when you can just make me disappear and take it all for yourself, right?”

Mitch came within five feet of her and shook his head in disbelief. “Really, Nat. As if you had no idea, right? You pretty much sealed your fate with that ridiculous text message earlier.”

She didn’t know what he was talking about. She figured he was trying to distract her.

“Text message? I didn’t send any text message. Don’t make me tell you again. Stay. Right. There. Asshole.” She made the most menacing face she could muster, which looked absolutely ridiculous to Mitch.

When she said she didn’t send the text, he stopped for a second, and made an odd face. Then his grin reappeared, and he came forward again.

He was a couple of feet from her now, steadily advancing. His hands were curling back and forth at her—gimme, gimme.

“And I suppose that you’ve been squirreled away in my dad’s office writing an original novel, right Mitch?” She leveled the gun at him and pulled the hammer back. “Don’t come any closer to me, man. I don’t want this to happen, but I swear to God, I’ll fucking shoot you.”

Mitch paused. Standing there, naked, he appeared defenseless. Natalie wracked her brain trying to come up with a way to detain Mitch. She hated his ass and wanted nothing more than to blow him away, but she was no murderer. Him or you, lady, a calm voice spoke up, you have no other choice.

Mitch was seething with rage, but he complied with the cunt. What else could he do? He didn’t want to risk grabbing the gun while it was cocked and pointed at his face. He doubted he was in any real danger of being murdered, but there was a chance she would accidentally pop him one. That would not do. All he needed to do was to lull her into complacency and he would be able to get the jump on her. Then she was really going to pay. Up to this point, he had planned to get rid of her quickly and efficiently. Tying a loose end up in a nice neat bow.

Five minutes was all it had taken to turn everything upside down. The bitch had seduced him, taken his gun and was now threatening him. Now he desperately wanted to watch her bleed. To make her suffer was his only desire. His focus was slightly dulled by all the alcohol he had ingested, but he knew that at any moment, Natalie would drop an opportunity on him, and she would wish she had never fucked with Mitch Whitley.

Natalie motioned toward the window with the Glock. “Get your ass back there now, Mitch.”

Thunder crashed, rattling the house like a loose tooth. The storm was louder than ever.

Mitch didn’t move. His eyes were fierce, determined, and his glare intimidated her. He was much stronger than she, but the gun evened the playing field. Why wasn’t he afraid?

Natalie frowned and stuck the pistol out, finger on the trigger, fiercely clutching the grip. It felt so much heavier now, like its purpose had taken on a weight of its own.

She gritted her teeth together and whispered a silent prayer of forgiveness as her finger slowly pushed down further on the trigger, nearly past the point of no return.

And then the bedroom window exploded.

The pressure in the room dropped. A blast of wind swept through the bedroom and the air was suddenly filled with projectiles.

Glass showered the room, striking Natalie, ripping her flesh, causing her to cry out in pain.

Something crawled through the smashed window.

Spiraling horns jutted from its head and cheeks. The darkness made the details of its face barely perceptible, but she knew that there were many more eyes than there should have been. The face was much longer than that of an ordinary man.

It was the face of the statue her father had sent.

The Djab, the spirit her father’s incantation had awakened had undoubtedly taken up residence within the lumbering monstrosity

In the den earlier she’d sensed something amiss, the feeling of being watched. Now she had no doubts as to what it had been. The Djab hadn’t been in its usual spot. The crash she’d heard must have been the door slamming shut as the thing had slipped out of the house.

Drawing itself up to its feet, it observed Natalie through the creepy sextet of eyes. It was impossible to tell what, if anything, it felt. The face was too hideous to tell if there was any kind of emotion on display there.

It was, simply put, monstrous. A buzzing filled the room, as if it had been invaded by millions of invisible insects. The Djab stood motionless despite the blasting wind and rain that pummeled the bedroom, arms outstretched, patiently waiting for Mitch to unknowingly step back into its embrace.

Its mouth opened and closed slowly, as though rusty from lack of use, before gaping wide open to allow a long tongue to snake out from the toothless black hole to probe the air around the hideous face. Natalie tried to maintain her composure as she breathlessly watched.

As lightning subsided and darkness again descended upon the room, a tree limb as thick as a Louisville Slugger burst through the window. It struck Natalie square across the forehead, knocking her out cold.

AS NATALIE COLLAPSED to the floor, Mitch couldn’t believe his luck. When the window exploded his first thought was that Natalie had panicked and pulled the trigger. He’d said a quick prayer to any god that may be listening, begging to be spared from Hell and forgiven for being a piece of shit. He was happy he remembered to get that in, just in case.

The effects of his heroic alcohol consumption wore off all at once, leaving him feeling weak and dizzy. He needed to kill Natalie and get the hell out of there.

A violent burst of wind punched through the room, casting Mitch onto the bed. He bounced back up onto his feet, still not having spotted the Djab, his attention solely focused on the gun still clasped in Natalie’s hand.

Amidst the rubble scattered across the floor, Natalie struggled to get back on her feet. As blood flowed down her cheeks from a ragged laceration on her forehead, she still managed to keep the Glock trained on him.

Stunned by her speedy recovery, Mitch wasn’t sure if she would really shoot him. He decided not to roll the dice and instead threw the weight of his body into her without warning. The force of their collision was brutal, driving them both to the floor, sending the gun skittering out of the room and into the hallway.

Mitch straddled her and punched her in the jaw, knocking her skull so far back that it looked as though it was about to become unhinged from her neck.

He screamed incoherent threats as she tried to crawl away, his voice drowned out by the storm’s fury.

As Natalie tried to lift her head he punched her again, this time right in the bleeding gash across her forehead. He winced in pain as his fist struck bone, but this time she stayed down.

She felt as if her skull had been caved in, pain exploding through her body like an electrical shock. Consciousness came and went for a couple of seconds, and she feared she might be dying.

After some time, the waves of delirium passed. As she regained awareness, she realized Mitch was no longer atop her, crushing her into the floor.

Panic flooded her mind.

Where’s the gun?

It was gone, along with her shit-head husband. It was dark and the storm raged inside the room.

Then she saw the Djab, still standing in the exact same spot it had been when Mitch bum rushed her.

Dreadful thoughts bounced off each other in an incoherent jumble as pain sizzled her brain like bacon in a pan.

One thing remained abundantly clear: the words Dad instructed her to speak aloud had somehow breathed life into the Djab.

Her dad had been involved with black magic in Haiti, she knew. Whatever he’d been doing there must’ve actually worked. Natalie had never put credence in the supernatural, but this thing was here regardless, standing tall in its satanic-looking glory, supernatural as fuck.

If that much was true, then it could also be true this monster was sent here to help

As these thoughts surged through her pain-addled brain, she looked up to see Mitch’s penis swinging directly above her head. His other gun was pointed at her as well.

His former leer was long gone, replaced by a deep scowl absolutely livid with rage.

“How was your beauty sleep, princess?” His upper lip lifted slightly as a thin trickle of drool escaped his mouth. “I have to admit, I find you sexier when you’re bleeding.”

Natalie managed to get elbows underneath her. Blood-soaked hair matted across her face, obscuring her vision. She tried to wipe it from her eyes, grazing her slashed forehead in the process, sending another crippling jolt of pain down her body again.

“Don’t get any ideas, Natalie. Stay down.” Mitch was something straight out of a nightmare, his clenched teeth dazzlingly white despite the darkness, as flashing light from the storm reflected off his glistening naked body.

“This could have been quick and painless, but you had to go and fuck it up, didn’t you?” he shouted. “Now you’ve pissed me off so much the only thing that could possibly cheer me up is to take you apart piece by piece.”

He chuckled mirthlessly. The buzzing noise filling the room was like a thousand wasps burrowing into his brain. It was driving him mad.

“Let’s get you out of this room first. It’s too loud in here. It won’t be nearly as much fun if I can’t hear you scream.”

Mitch grabbed a handful of Natalie’s hair and yanked roughly, trying to pull her up to her feet. A clump of hair separated from her scalp with a sickening rip, engulfing Natalie once again in flaming agony.

Nevertheless, she resisted with every ounce of strength she had remaining, which was precious little after the beating she’d endured.

Her noncompliance only encouraged him to exercise more violence upon her. Releasing her hair, he clenched his fists together, driving them into the soft exposed flesh of her belly.

She expelled a mixture of air and bile, defiantly thrusting her hands up toward him, groping for purchase, questing for anything she might be able to squeeze and maim.

Her hands found his balls.

She tugged downward with a furious roar.

The pain was excruciating. It bloomed in his nuts, exploded outward into his stomach, and radiated like lightning out into his extremities. There was no vernacular to describe it other than sheer agony.

His foot shot out instinctively, connected with Natalie’s face and she tumbled away, releasing the death grip she had on his grapes.

He doubled over, his guts wracked with spasms of dreadful pain and he vomited up at least a pint of whiskey all over his feet. Nauseated and sweating, the taste of bile and pure revulsion sticky in his mouth, he forced himself to regain control of his functions.

Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to lie down and wait for the pain to subside. Though Natalie was still sprawled out and moaning on the floor, he knew better than to delay ending her miserable existence any longer. This had gone on long enough. He had to give her credit, though. Her will to survive was powerful. He was not going to allow her to survive this night, but his admiration for her tenacity gave him pause.

NATALIE KEPT THINKING: Why isn’t that thing protecting me? Isn’t it supposed to? Is it just going to watch Mitch kill me?

She looked up at him through the blood sheeting down from her various wounds.

Mitch aimed the gun at her.

He could not steady his trembling hands, but he had plenty of bullets. It was close range. Now or never, Mitch, old boy, he thought as he pulled the trigger.

The bullet split the air by Natalie’s left ear and thunked into the wall behind her, followed immediately by a sonic boom, drowning out the storm. Natalie screamed, instinctively raised her hands in defense, useless though the gesture would ultimately be. Mitch was laughing maniacally now. His glee sparked pure terror in Natalie.

The storm had picked up in intensity, the wind tossing Mitch’s hair around in a frenzy like Medusa’s snakes.

The room was lit by another volley of lightning and Natalie saw the Djab was now directly behind Mitch. It towered over him, its mouth wide open and its eyes all full of hellfire.

“No more bullshit, Natalie,” Mitch seethed. “It’s over. It’s so time to die.”

Natalie’s eyes squeezed shut as she waited for the end. She wondered if she would hear the gunshot before the lead tore her brain from her head. Then she wondered why she was still able to think. Inexplicably, she no longer heard the mindless howling of the wind. The air around her was nearly still and dreadfully muggy. She no longer heard the strange buzzing. With no background noise, she was able to hear Mitch’s labored breathing. She opened her eyes. And saw the Djab wrapping its arms around his chest, engulfing him in a monstrous bear hug.

Mitch was still posturing with the gun like he was Wyatt Earp getting ready for a showdown. He turned his head towards the window to see why it was so quiet all of a sudden. He came face to face with the Djab.

“What the fuck?” was all he had time to say. Then he was screaming.

When the thick and powerful arms embraced him, he recoiled in horror and tried to make a break for the bedroom door.

It was too late.

The monster’s embrace was so powerful, it incapacitated Mitch completely. Natalie heard ribs cracking like kindling popping in a campfire.

Mitch’s body began to spasm, his cries of pain the soundtrack to the terrifying scene, his feet kicking wildly a foot above the floor. After a few more moments of this strange dance, the thing dropped Mitch to the floor, where he crumpled like a rag doll, whimpering pathetically. As Natalie looked on in disbelief, the Djab shimmered like a heat mirage on the highway, its body dissipated into black smoky tendrils which coiled up toward the ceiling and then back downward. She watched in awe and terror as the tarry substance slipped into Mitch’s open mouth and disappeared down his throat.

He stretched his arms towards her, grasping at her in a pathetic display of supplication.

Pain was his world now. This night had taken quite the unexpected turn, and Mitch had time to realize his plans had been flushed down the toilet along with his future.

When he tried to move, he found his body unresponsive. His brain said go, but his body said “fuck you, asshole.” Something was horribly wrong with him, but he could not understand what it was. He tried to speak to her, to ask what she had done to him, but his vocal cords were nonresponsive. All he could do was look around anxiously, mewling like an infant whose mother had denied him the breast.

Natalie saw the Glock lying innocently on the floor a foot in front of her. She reached out and grabbed it. Pulled it to her and held it tight. She gripped the smooth handle of the gun in both hands, locking her elbows.

She watched him writhing on the floor and knew that she would not need to use the gun anyway.

His eyes bulged, his hands clenched and unclenched rapidly, sweat pouring off him like water cascading from a melting glacier.

She sniffed him. He smelled like fear.

MITCH CONVULSED IN AGONY on the floor, head thrashing from side to side. Blood erupted from his mouth, his ears, and his nose. Natalie watched helplessly as he writhed in unimaginable pain.

Mitch’s eyes popped open. They looked too big until Natalie realized, rather, it was his face that was too small. His lips shriveled into a thin craggy slash as his features contorted into a rictus of horror. His cheeks sucked in until the outline of his teeth and gums became visible through his emaciated flesh.

His body began to collapse in upon itself, his arms and legs curled up grotesquely like the witch beneath Dorothy’s house in the Wizard of Oz.

The only part of him that wasn’t shrinking was his eyes. Those bulging orbs telegraphed the unimaginable agony of his transformation.

As Mitch disintegrated into little more than a skeleton full of rapidly deteriorating organs, Natalie felt her gorge rising.

The Djab materialized within his remnants, regaining its previous form. It observed Mitch’s husk and appeared content with its work.

The Djab bent over the corpse—now little more than a smoldering pool of dark matter—until its face was only inches from the ruined body. Then it sucked what little remained into its gaping maw, tendrils of blackened humanity that flowed upwards, like smoke.

Natalie dropped the gun to the carpet and backed up to the wall, feeling as if she’d slipped down a rabbit hole into hell. Her father had sent this creature, this demon, to protect her, of that she felt certain. Natalie knew she would likely never understand how this came to be, but it was true nonetheless. She slid down the corner of the room until she plopped down onto her butt, and wept.

The Djab observed her stoically from the other side of the room, but she sensed no malevolence. It had performed its function and appeared satisfied. She doubted it would harm her, but still she felt fear.

As minutes ticked away, the wind picked up, howling through the bedroom, curtains dancing, bed sheets billowing. Natalie’s apprehension ebbed, replaced by a childlike curiosity. Her body had become a tapestry of injuries, but the pain was dull and distant, no more than a minor distraction. She watched, fascinated, as the Djab turned to face the blown-out window. It stared up into the swirling clouds blotting the sky.

Then, to her surprise, it spoke her name.

The voice was that of her father.

She locked her gaze upon its face, unsure of which set of eyes to place her focus, and could feel its gaze penetrate her mind.

There was something in those eyes, only for a moment. She recognized a semblance of humanity etched into its demonic features. She was so tired, but before the drugs and exhaustion carried her down into unconsciousness, she whispered, “Thank you, daddy”

The Djab did not reply.

It had returned to its original, carved ivory state.

Whatever she had seen there, real or imagined, existed no more.

Natalie crawled down the hallway to the living room, climbed onto the couch and fell immediately into a deep sleep.

She did not awaken for nearly twelve hours.

When she finally awoke, her body ached tremendously. She knew she had injuries that would require medical attention.

But that did not concern her just yet.

She walked to the bedroom and found a disaster waiting for here there. There was no sign of Mitch, save for a black stain on the carpet where the Djab had taken him.

The statue was still perched in the corner, no more alive than Mitch. But something was different now.

It was smiling.