Indian Dream
I've got a new story to show off! This one started out as a prequel to The Coffin's Occupant, but it quickly took a new shape and abandoned its connection almost completely. So, forget Alex for a moment, and wallow in the horror of an insane English businessman in 1843.
WARNING: This story is about a serial killer, from the serial killer's point of view. It is creepy and graphic. So much that it creeped me out, just being able to come up with something like this. If horror stories aren't your sort of thing, by all means, please don't read it.
Indian Dream
Indian heat pools inside the courtroom, and the old man sweats visible streams from under his wig. This courtroom has no women in it. They were emptied out, for men must protect the fairer sex from horrors like these presented this day.
The man who sits in the defendant’s seat is dressed well, a gentleman. His back is straight as a dancer’s and he still has his youthful vigor, though his hair whitens at his temples. All those who know his crimes shudder when his gaze touches their clammy skin. His glance alone makes them feel as though they are choking under his grasp. This is a man who has soiled the human race.
The judge scowls down at the gentleman and hisses, “Marcus Branbury, how dost thou plea?”
“I don’t deny any crime accused of me this day,” the gentleman begins, basking the people’s fear. “However, I wonder if I am to blame. India did this.”
All over the court, people leap to their feet. “What do you mean?” a young man, blushing in the heat shouts.
“India’s demons stole my soul. Every woman, man, and boy I freed,” he pauses to make a strangling motion with his hands, “was captive of those demons. I could see the unholy evidence on their skin! Reptile scales were concealed on every person I freed, and I loved them all so. I had no choice but to save them.”
The judge shakes his head. “Are you aware that no evidence of scales were found on any person you murdered?”
“That is because I freed them from the demon’s grasp!”
“And your wife?” the young man yells. “You murdered her before you ever came to India!”
“The poor beauty. She began moaning of illness from the rocking of the boat and would not be silent! I saw the scales on her lips when we spoke our farewells to merry England. So uncharacteristic was her weeping, I knew she must be possessed. When the boat swayed, she would not give herself to me. She was the first person I saved.”
“Monster!” the young man screamed.
“Dare you call me a monster? I see them clearly on your skin, right above the brow: two green scales, mere glints in the light from where I sit.”
“Silence in the court! Mr. Branbury, what was the reason that you came to India?”
“I managed the shipping of teak furnishings for the Clockwood Company. They required a new businessman in India. The work was dull, at best. Then I discovered a beautiful servant woman named Lydia, cleaning my room. I wrapped her in my embrace; her breasts were so soft, like fresh picked blossoms. She cried out; she rejected me with the same eyes that my wife had. Then I discovered a small, sparkling scale on her left breast. Her tongue turned purple in her mouth when I freed her.
“Then there was the scarlet woman who laughed at me; I never learned her name. She was not a woman, but a Hijra, a castrated male prostitute. She gave me the curtesty of warning me before I touched her, and made jest of my response. She was so strong, but when her blood flowed on my hands, I took in all of her power.
“But oh! The greatest of all the freeings was the last! The native stable boy who made my soul burn with passion that I had only ever had for women before him. I caught a glimpse of him as he tended the horses one afternoon. I insisted to the butler that I speak with him. Within a few minutes of my request, he stood before me humbly in my well-kept office, his head down and hands behind his back.
“‘I speak English.’ He spoke so quietly that I had to lean forward a moment. He was very slender, a boy not yet entirely a man. His skin and eyes recalled the color of soil, but his hair shone black as newly cooled iron and curled deliciously. They were waves like I have seen in good English children: soft and loose. I could hardly constrain my hand; my fingers desired to touch those cropped black curls, to caress them, to stroke them, to follow them to his dark scalp and pull them into place when I was done.
“‘I am Ananta. I work hard.’
“‘That’s a girl’s name,’ I laughed.
“He looked me in the eyes and quickly cast them down again. ‘You want me to have an English name?’
“My throat tightened, so I shook my head. His glance seduced me. His gaze owned me. ‘I’ll have you,’ I said.
“His chin snapped up and he smiled broadly.
“‘Report to the stable manager.’
“He scurried away behind my butler, who put up his nose at my insisting to interview the new stable boy. I think he suspected something then, for that was the last time I ever saw the butler.
“That evening, I found him in the stables, cleaning a stall. I put my hands on his shoulders and massaged the muscles. He froze and turned around, looking up because he was a few inches shorter than me. ‘What are you doing?’ His eyes opened so wide the whites glowed in the pale light.
“I pulled him toward me, but he held up his rake. ‘I must finish before night.’ His eyes were so impossibly large! The entire world could fit inside them; I felt my soul slip into their depths. The natives here have a story about a god who had the entire universe in his throat, so this must have been a similar perversion. I shook my head and hugged him to me. I could feel his body stiffen against mine; he pushed me away. ‘Sir, what are you doing?’
I tried to kiss him, but he backed into the corner.
“‘Please, Mister Branbury.’
“‘Marcus,’ I said, reaching to him. ‘My name is Marcus.’
“‘Marcus, please, I am not a Hijra.’
“I pretended I didn’t understand him, letting him explain, letting my soul drift farther into him.
“‘I’m not a eunuch!’ he shouted and squirmed out of my reach. Manure was on his knees. ‘My heart belongs to a woman!’
“All air was sucked from my lungs. A shearing pain in my chest exploded so fiercely that I gasped and doubled over, unable to breath. Ananta leapt forward, as if he hadn’t slain my heart a few seconds before. I collapsed, and he caught me. His hands were so gentle as he sat me down, leaned me against the wall. My skin craved his touch, even in his betrayal.
“‘Who is she?’
“Ananta muttered a bizarre Indian name that I didn’t care to catch.
“‘Would you change your mind if I said that you have my heart?’
“He shook his head and picked up the rake.
“My chest felt ready to burst open. ‘Don’t you see that I love you?’ I shouted, grabbing at his ankles. He tripped, but in mid fall twisted with unbelievable agility to land on his hands and feet. I gaped at him.
“‘Please,’ he said, wiping his grimy hands on his pants. ‘I have work to do.’ I held my hand out, and he helped me up and led me to the entrance, shaking like a wounded dove. ‘Let me be!’ he whispered Even his vulgar accent was beautiful to my ears.
“Oh! The pain in my chest, burnt as though hell itself had seeped into my veins. I found the medicine chest and opened a box of opium. Satan’s fires now intertwined with the waters of life within me, yet neither could quench the other.
“I was there when Ananta walked out of the stables. As he turned to flee, I grabbed his arm and forced him to come with me. ‘I love you,’ I explained. I said this over and over, yet still he did not appear to understand. His face contorted as though I laid a whip across his back. He fought to loosen my grip when we climbed the stairs. He pulled at his arm so hard that he lost his balance and his ankle twisted the wrong way. He was easier to drag up the stairs after that. I set him on the chair in my office to explain myself to him. Like a statue, he sat frozen; as though if I ever touched him, I would only stroke pleasureless stone. His black eyes betrayed him. They opened wide and looked right into mine.
“‘I love you,’ I said.
“‘I don’t think you do,’ he whispered, still holding me with those eyes.
“‘I can prove it.’
“Ananta’s eyebrows wrinkled. He opened his mouth to say something, but I kissed him before he had the chance. He struck me hard on the chest, his fingernails cutting through my clothes and ripping the skin. I didn’t let go of his face; I held him to me. I ran my tongue over his teeth and felt them change, felt his face change. I released him. His eyes were very big now; their pupils slits. He pulled away; I saw his scales vanishing into his skin.
“‘Marcus, you bleed,’ he said.
“My chest was sliced to ribbons. The fine clothes I had chosen for this occasion were ruined, but I no longer cared. ‘What are you?’ I whispered, trying to keep my spinning head from drifting away.
“‘I’m a servant.’
“My throat was choking me again. I had to show Ananta how I felt. I had to give him my pain. I had to make him choke on my pain! The next thing I knew his throat was in my hands. He thrashed beneath me, and I held him down with my body, no matter how reptilian he became. I held him with my body until he stopped thrashing; till his eyes, those beautiful, black voids sucking up the lamplight, gazing heavenward and didn’t hide from me.
“I knew that Ananta was dead when I let him fall from my hands that night. I had crushed his neck completely. No more blood moved through his neck where I held it. I knew I had to do something. I knew I had to rid of him. I sat beside him, pondering what to do with his lifeless husk for hours, but nothing made sense. I couldn’t think. My mind ran in endless circles, each conclusion leading to the one I had rejected before.
“In the center of the night, he woke up. The first moments of his re-awakening, I thought my mind tricked me to frighten me. Then he spoke, and his Indian accent was gone.
“‘Why did you try to kill me?’ he asked, his voice harsh and broken from my efforts. ‘I didn’t intend to hurt you so badly.’
“‘I saw your fangs, your eyes, demon!’
“Ananta stared at me, shaking his head. ‘I thought a demon was an evil spirit, not a person who refuses to be another’s lover.’ His eyes lured me in again.
“‘Do not look at me!’ I shouted. ‘Give me my soul back!’
“‘I didn’t take it. I couldn’t. I’m not a demon.’ I heard him sit up, taking slow breaths.
“‘Demon,’ I answered, my hands choking the life out of him again. He couldn’t fight me, but I could feel my strength tapping out of me with this deed. I had to ingest more opium to have the strength to stand upright. This time I carried him to my room and stuffed him into my wool chest. Then I bandaged myself and went to sleep.
“That morning, the butler never came to wake me. Instead, I found Ananta sitting on top of the chest, staring at me. The window let light fall on him, and I could see clearly the damage I did the previous night. His neck was swollen half again its normal circumference and an ugly, black color. I could feel his eyes. His black irises dug into my chest, reopening my wounds. I had to cut out his eyes. He didn’t bleed as much as the Hijra did. I put them in my pocket. He wept blood and pleaded with me, asking me to give them back.
“I led him outside, and we walked the early morning streets to the water’s edge. He blubbered in Hindi the entire journey, sometimes squeezing out his throat some civilized English. We entered a small warehouse that I knew the company wasn’t using at the moment. ‘I have a wife!’ he whispered. I threw him down.
“‘I need my soul back. I need to release it,’ I explained to him.
“He tried to scream, but he couldn’t. I slipped my hand into my pocket, pulled out my penknife and opened up his neck. As the blood flooded the ground, I could feel my spirit rejoining me. It was somehow stronger with its foray into the demon’s body. I sat for hours with the dead boy, mourning him. He was so beautiful, even with blood in his curls.
“I laid him to rest the way I laid my wife to rest: carrying the broken body to the sea and letting it drift away. I kept his black eyes. They were too miraculous to depart with. The entire universe is inside them, after all.
“When I could no longer see his pitiful body on the waves, I walked home, stroking his eyes in my pockets.
“I returned to an empty household. The entire staff had fled, and in their place was a guard of white-faced soldiers. They could not understand the devastating infection that I see in this reptile land. And you!” the condemned man chokes, rubbing furiously at his neck, “The scales infect your skin, sir! I see them sure as death!”
So, other than being diabolically creepy, did you like this story?
WARNING: This story is about a serial killer, from the serial killer's point of view. It is creepy and graphic. So much that it creeped me out, just being able to come up with something like this. If horror stories aren't your sort of thing, by all means, please don't read it.
Indian Dream
Indian heat pools inside the courtroom, and the old man sweats visible streams from under his wig. This courtroom has no women in it. They were emptied out, for men must protect the fairer sex from horrors like these presented this day.
The man who sits in the defendant’s seat is dressed well, a gentleman. His back is straight as a dancer’s and he still has his youthful vigor, though his hair whitens at his temples. All those who know his crimes shudder when his gaze touches their clammy skin. His glance alone makes them feel as though they are choking under his grasp. This is a man who has soiled the human race.
The judge scowls down at the gentleman and hisses, “Marcus Branbury, how dost thou plea?”
“I don’t deny any crime accused of me this day,” the gentleman begins, basking the people’s fear. “However, I wonder if I am to blame. India did this.”
All over the court, people leap to their feet. “What do you mean?” a young man, blushing in the heat shouts.
“India’s demons stole my soul. Every woman, man, and boy I freed,” he pauses to make a strangling motion with his hands, “was captive of those demons. I could see the unholy evidence on their skin! Reptile scales were concealed on every person I freed, and I loved them all so. I had no choice but to save them.”
The judge shakes his head. “Are you aware that no evidence of scales were found on any person you murdered?”
“That is because I freed them from the demon’s grasp!”
“And your wife?” the young man yells. “You murdered her before you ever came to India!”
“The poor beauty. She began moaning of illness from the rocking of the boat and would not be silent! I saw the scales on her lips when we spoke our farewells to merry England. So uncharacteristic was her weeping, I knew she must be possessed. When the boat swayed, she would not give herself to me. She was the first person I saved.”
“Monster!” the young man screamed.
“Dare you call me a monster? I see them clearly on your skin, right above the brow: two green scales, mere glints in the light from where I sit.”
“Silence in the court! Mr. Branbury, what was the reason that you came to India?”
“I managed the shipping of teak furnishings for the Clockwood Company. They required a new businessman in India. The work was dull, at best. Then I discovered a beautiful servant woman named Lydia, cleaning my room. I wrapped her in my embrace; her breasts were so soft, like fresh picked blossoms. She cried out; she rejected me with the same eyes that my wife had. Then I discovered a small, sparkling scale on her left breast. Her tongue turned purple in her mouth when I freed her.
“Then there was the scarlet woman who laughed at me; I never learned her name. She was not a woman, but a Hijra, a castrated male prostitute. She gave me the curtesty of warning me before I touched her, and made jest of my response. She was so strong, but when her blood flowed on my hands, I took in all of her power.
“But oh! The greatest of all the freeings was the last! The native stable boy who made my soul burn with passion that I had only ever had for women before him. I caught a glimpse of him as he tended the horses one afternoon. I insisted to the butler that I speak with him. Within a few minutes of my request, he stood before me humbly in my well-kept office, his head down and hands behind his back.
“‘I speak English.’ He spoke so quietly that I had to lean forward a moment. He was very slender, a boy not yet entirely a man. His skin and eyes recalled the color of soil, but his hair shone black as newly cooled iron and curled deliciously. They were waves like I have seen in good English children: soft and loose. I could hardly constrain my hand; my fingers desired to touch those cropped black curls, to caress them, to stroke them, to follow them to his dark scalp and pull them into place when I was done.
“‘I am Ananta. I work hard.’
“‘That’s a girl’s name,’ I laughed.
“He looked me in the eyes and quickly cast them down again. ‘You want me to have an English name?’
“My throat tightened, so I shook my head. His glance seduced me. His gaze owned me. ‘I’ll have you,’ I said.
“His chin snapped up and he smiled broadly.
“‘Report to the stable manager.’
“He scurried away behind my butler, who put up his nose at my insisting to interview the new stable boy. I think he suspected something then, for that was the last time I ever saw the butler.
“That evening, I found him in the stables, cleaning a stall. I put my hands on his shoulders and massaged the muscles. He froze and turned around, looking up because he was a few inches shorter than me. ‘What are you doing?’ His eyes opened so wide the whites glowed in the pale light.
“I pulled him toward me, but he held up his rake. ‘I must finish before night.’ His eyes were so impossibly large! The entire world could fit inside them; I felt my soul slip into their depths. The natives here have a story about a god who had the entire universe in his throat, so this must have been a similar perversion. I shook my head and hugged him to me. I could feel his body stiffen against mine; he pushed me away. ‘Sir, what are you doing?’
I tried to kiss him, but he backed into the corner.
“‘Please, Mister Branbury.’
“‘Marcus,’ I said, reaching to him. ‘My name is Marcus.’
“‘Marcus, please, I am not a Hijra.’
“I pretended I didn’t understand him, letting him explain, letting my soul drift farther into him.
“‘I’m not a eunuch!’ he shouted and squirmed out of my reach. Manure was on his knees. ‘My heart belongs to a woman!’
“All air was sucked from my lungs. A shearing pain in my chest exploded so fiercely that I gasped and doubled over, unable to breath. Ananta leapt forward, as if he hadn’t slain my heart a few seconds before. I collapsed, and he caught me. His hands were so gentle as he sat me down, leaned me against the wall. My skin craved his touch, even in his betrayal.
“‘Who is she?’
“Ananta muttered a bizarre Indian name that I didn’t care to catch.
“‘Would you change your mind if I said that you have my heart?’
“He shook his head and picked up the rake.
“My chest felt ready to burst open. ‘Don’t you see that I love you?’ I shouted, grabbing at his ankles. He tripped, but in mid fall twisted with unbelievable agility to land on his hands and feet. I gaped at him.
“‘Please,’ he said, wiping his grimy hands on his pants. ‘I have work to do.’ I held my hand out, and he helped me up and led me to the entrance, shaking like a wounded dove. ‘Let me be!’ he whispered Even his vulgar accent was beautiful to my ears.
“Oh! The pain in my chest, burnt as though hell itself had seeped into my veins. I found the medicine chest and opened a box of opium. Satan’s fires now intertwined with the waters of life within me, yet neither could quench the other.
“I was there when Ananta walked out of the stables. As he turned to flee, I grabbed his arm and forced him to come with me. ‘I love you,’ I explained. I said this over and over, yet still he did not appear to understand. His face contorted as though I laid a whip across his back. He fought to loosen my grip when we climbed the stairs. He pulled at his arm so hard that he lost his balance and his ankle twisted the wrong way. He was easier to drag up the stairs after that. I set him on the chair in my office to explain myself to him. Like a statue, he sat frozen; as though if I ever touched him, I would only stroke pleasureless stone. His black eyes betrayed him. They opened wide and looked right into mine.
“‘I love you,’ I said.
“‘I don’t think you do,’ he whispered, still holding me with those eyes.
“‘I can prove it.’
“Ananta’s eyebrows wrinkled. He opened his mouth to say something, but I kissed him before he had the chance. He struck me hard on the chest, his fingernails cutting through my clothes and ripping the skin. I didn’t let go of his face; I held him to me. I ran my tongue over his teeth and felt them change, felt his face change. I released him. His eyes were very big now; their pupils slits. He pulled away; I saw his scales vanishing into his skin.
“‘Marcus, you bleed,’ he said.
“My chest was sliced to ribbons. The fine clothes I had chosen for this occasion were ruined, but I no longer cared. ‘What are you?’ I whispered, trying to keep my spinning head from drifting away.
“‘I’m a servant.’
“My throat was choking me again. I had to show Ananta how I felt. I had to give him my pain. I had to make him choke on my pain! The next thing I knew his throat was in my hands. He thrashed beneath me, and I held him down with my body, no matter how reptilian he became. I held him with my body until he stopped thrashing; till his eyes, those beautiful, black voids sucking up the lamplight, gazing heavenward and didn’t hide from me.
“I knew that Ananta was dead when I let him fall from my hands that night. I had crushed his neck completely. No more blood moved through his neck where I held it. I knew I had to do something. I knew I had to rid of him. I sat beside him, pondering what to do with his lifeless husk for hours, but nothing made sense. I couldn’t think. My mind ran in endless circles, each conclusion leading to the one I had rejected before.
“In the center of the night, he woke up. The first moments of his re-awakening, I thought my mind tricked me to frighten me. Then he spoke, and his Indian accent was gone.
“‘Why did you try to kill me?’ he asked, his voice harsh and broken from my efforts. ‘I didn’t intend to hurt you so badly.’
“‘I saw your fangs, your eyes, demon!’
“Ananta stared at me, shaking his head. ‘I thought a demon was an evil spirit, not a person who refuses to be another’s lover.’ His eyes lured me in again.
“‘Do not look at me!’ I shouted. ‘Give me my soul back!’
“‘I didn’t take it. I couldn’t. I’m not a demon.’ I heard him sit up, taking slow breaths.
“‘Demon,’ I answered, my hands choking the life out of him again. He couldn’t fight me, but I could feel my strength tapping out of me with this deed. I had to ingest more opium to have the strength to stand upright. This time I carried him to my room and stuffed him into my wool chest. Then I bandaged myself and went to sleep.
“That morning, the butler never came to wake me. Instead, I found Ananta sitting on top of the chest, staring at me. The window let light fall on him, and I could see clearly the damage I did the previous night. His neck was swollen half again its normal circumference and an ugly, black color. I could feel his eyes. His black irises dug into my chest, reopening my wounds. I had to cut out his eyes. He didn’t bleed as much as the Hijra did. I put them in my pocket. He wept blood and pleaded with me, asking me to give them back.
“I led him outside, and we walked the early morning streets to the water’s edge. He blubbered in Hindi the entire journey, sometimes squeezing out his throat some civilized English. We entered a small warehouse that I knew the company wasn’t using at the moment. ‘I have a wife!’ he whispered. I threw him down.
“‘I need my soul back. I need to release it,’ I explained to him.
“He tried to scream, but he couldn’t. I slipped my hand into my pocket, pulled out my penknife and opened up his neck. As the blood flooded the ground, I could feel my spirit rejoining me. It was somehow stronger with its foray into the demon’s body. I sat for hours with the dead boy, mourning him. He was so beautiful, even with blood in his curls.
“I laid him to rest the way I laid my wife to rest: carrying the broken body to the sea and letting it drift away. I kept his black eyes. They were too miraculous to depart with. The entire universe is inside them, after all.
“When I could no longer see his pitiful body on the waves, I walked home, stroking his eyes in my pockets.
“I returned to an empty household. The entire staff had fled, and in their place was a guard of white-faced soldiers. They could not understand the devastating infection that I see in this reptile land. And you!” the condemned man chokes, rubbing furiously at his neck, “The scales infect your skin, sir! I see them sure as death!”
So, other than being diabolically creepy, did you like this story?