Chapter 4 - Dreaming
Faces, long and slender, round and pudgy, dark, yellow or pale, they stream before his eyes. Faces, all of them he recognizes, every line, every curve, dimple and wrinkle. Like the display of a 'one armed bandit', a slot machine whose only purpose is to rob you of your money, those faces flash before his eyes as they have lost their souls.
A barn on the hill, teetering to one side, its wooden planks are loose, hanging in places where the wind and elements have torn them from its side. The roof, though still whole, is bent and wavy threatening at any time to collapse in on itself. The full moon shines upon the barn and the dreary old weeping willow at its side, bathing them in a light nearly as strong as the sun might have on stormy day. A slight breeze touches those old branches, lifting them, a sight as though fingers were reaching towards the barn, yearning to touch and caress those wooden planks but always in vain.
He can see her, sitting below the willow, dressed in naught but her night gown its arms fluffed to her wrists, the bottom belled out over the ground where her toes just peek from below. She is beautiful, young and tender.
As he moves closer, silent as a dove lifted on a warm afternoon wind, he glides through the glades at the edge of the swamp, ever nearer till he can see the glistening tears that roll down her reddened cheeks, trickling to her chin where they stop but a moment and drop to her open hands.
A face, one that suddenly came to stop on that spinning display, her eyes pierce him as the second wheel shutters to a stop, her face in agony. Her scream tearing at the very fabric of his existence as the third draws to its end, a shattered reflection of the first, her face reflected as though from the shards of mirror heaped on the ground, her yellow eyes and flashing teeth drawing him in, pulling him into the depths of her hell.
She sobs, her body shaking violently from her anguish. All else is forgotten, nothing is heard, the bellow of the frogs, the chirps of the crickets, the swishing sound of the air through the braches around her, it all falls on the deaf ears of one in mourning.
He can smell her now, the sweet scent of a young woman budding, the salty taste of her tears. He can hear her cries and short bursts of coughing sadness, the friction of her foot pulled across the fresh grass as loud as the crashing rocks of an avalanche in his ears. He can hear the creaking of her door through the open bedroom window from whence she came and heartbeat of the man that must be her father checking in on his little girl. So close now, he can see her breath on the chilled air, taste her torment and smell the pungent order of a woman ripe and ready for his seed.
She looks up at him, surprise and terror balled into a distorted face pulling from him as he sucks her to his barreled chest. A child in his arms, nearly weightless, soft and warm, drool runs from the corners of his mouth. She screams, so shrill, full of fear and tortured, her soul flees her body.
Those faces, each and every one, all at the same moment, they cry out in horror.