III. The Drive
Toullee and Prince Berte arrive in one of the cars, pigeon free and quite well-rested. Of course, Prince is happier and rejuvenated more than Toullee, who was forced into listening to Prince. Eventually, Prince Berte resorts to colloquialism with the other faeries and sparrow-men. This is rare on account of his pretentiousness toward them, but the pain games are like a holiday. Besides, the fact that he’s struck favour with the Mistress is enough to impress the tiny, silly imps. Prince leaves the car, flying through one of its broken windows. He complains of car sickness as soon as he sees Cleopatras Needle on the foggy horizon. Toullee does not mind being left alone; he is more than agitated after the drive. He hadn’t changed form to anything useful the whole trip; most of his energy was allotted to bearing Prince’s company, and so his creativity was a bit dry.
As he pulls up, Toullee becomes a massive snake. He hopes that the other monsters have made better time than he— of course, they do not have to deal among demons. Toullee’s consanguinity is farfetched, for until other creatures of the north arrive, he will romp all over the low halls of Cleopatras Needle, preparing for the pain games. However, Toullee is not as excited as Kael, who has taken her sweet time to return.
The way that these creatures come about in this limbo world can be different. As for Kael, she must drive through the country before she comes upon a portal set out by Death. She takes a while to find it every year. Alas, the girl has no choice in finding it, because she is a human, and she has to be in the dark world anyways to be with the clan of Cat Kitty.
The monsters did not have to drive back at all, but because Scylla makes for deadly company, Prince Berte and Toullee commit one last murder on the way to London to get another car. The monsters of the north come through in many ways. They are beings definite as mist, and can travel like the morning showers to wherever they wish. How nice it is, that perhaps the beautiful dew drops on a spider web might be a monster’s disguise— or perhaps he is the spider.
Scylla flies back in her own way. No one cares to follow demons so closely as to find their method of returning to the shadows, or at least no one curious enough would ever live to recount. Either way, to each his own. The dismal creatures all come down somehow to meet at the place so evil Hell would’ve spat it back out.
***
The girl called Kael is often seen speaking to herself, really about anything; once the heartbeat goes, the breath goes, the blood goes, then following suit, the mind goes as well. Currently, however, she speaks not to herself but to Scylla. There is a specific preposition she is annually enticed by, but it is difficult to come by— it’s the sort of thing that must be proposed or it would be uncanny to go about. Rest, Kael knows with remarkable clarity when it is the optimum time to ask for something.
Kael finds Scylla in her room, the same room they shared last year. The same room that they’ve shared since forever. It is a fine room: two four-poster beds are near touching, forming a narrow sliver near to the wall. It has a bay window. The curtains are black and crisp from being used as towels to catch blood. There is a very quaint cherry wood desk that Scylla sits on when she plots by herself. Years ago, she pulled the brass handles of the drawers off and arranged them in rings on the wall. She still uses this as a target for practicing throwing the knives. Kael likes this room. One other monster, Coulee, will join them. Not one monster has ever stayed through consecutive years.
Slowly, the girl enters the room. Raises she her eyes, batting the lashes in a sickly display to the demon:
“You are must looking forward to the games. And surestly I am doing that too!”
Scylla bears her abhorrent teeth. She sneers, “Of course. Now shut up! I know what you want! You ask me every fucking year…” she groans something awful, something low from within her disgusting chest. Finally, she says, “I know what it is you want. I suppose you think I’ll acquiesce, but I’ve got a price to pay for that unnatural behaviour…”
“Oh of course,” smirks Kael, mocking peevishly the sarcastic tone of her enemy.
Kael sits on the floor before the cherry wood desk. Draws up her knees to her chest and awaits the silver snakes of blades and blood to enclose her. Scylla enjoys nothing more than torture. She can only barely look at something without feeling the overwhelming urge to maim, to destroy, to murder. Having someone agree to play the part of a victim enthralls her. Kael is quite aware, and she readily allows the silver blade to carve her like a morbid statue of insanity.
Perhaps, even though the pain can no longer be felt, the mind’s eye of agony is present and only foreign thoughts calm it. The girl, be sure, does not fear, but rather plots. With wide eyes she imagines Scyllas tactic being employed on the nerves of a shadow who can still feel the cutting sensation. It perks her; she delights that the corpses will see her as a horrid, nightmarish specter when she informs them of the start of the gain games.
This macabre imagery lasts only a fleck of a minute. For there are more important things at hand: this year, as with every other, Kael will decide a soul to save— even should they not escape on their own. Kael examines her options: where to hide, plot, make ready herself to capture the corpse, how to convince the body, and most importantly, how to prevent one of the others from stealing it. It is a lovely time, if one has as deranged a mind as hers. But if she sees saving a stranger as good fortune bade or merely a morals-aside challenge— only she knows.
This year, there are new bodies to consider. Kael occasionally will save a shadow who has only been at Cleopatras Needle for one round. Mostly, she will choose someone who has been re-killed time and time again. She doesn’t like old faces; finds them boring.
As Scylla finishes her torture, she begins panting. She screams and tears at her head, giving every morsel within her wretched being to stop herself and merely observe. “Burn in Hell,” she says. She shakes and her snake-pit eyes are a degree from unhinged.
Kael is not fazed by such a comment. Oh, no. She knows how to compose herself by now. She piques, “Priced for one feat it is! A cadaver. Every year, to that damned Mistress!” She knows that making rounds at the Mistress pleases Scylla. Scylla loathes everyone, but especially the Mistress, who confines her actions to the night, to the underworld. The way Scylla sees it, one night of glorious rampage does not do justice to any of the dismal creatures. She sees it almost a waste.
As such, the demon jerks a nod, knowingly. She cackles. “Take the old man—no fun to have a rotting body! Now. Get. Out.”
Kael has already vanished. By the time the last syllable left Scyllas lips, Kael decided on her copse. Success.
***
Toullee sees the other monsters of the north only at this time. He does not view them as companions, only as beings definite as mist. The other monsters do not model his whims, being that he spends his time in a waste among the faeries and demons and the girl called Kael.
The other monsters romp about upstairs, and he joins them. The dismal creatures are in constant battle for who will take the penthouse; this year, monsters have won. They discuss their killings. One monster, called Ives, takes a likeness to Toullee that neither fully understands nor attempts to, and they find themselves cautious in amity.
Of the monsters, there are two distinct groups. Some are like Toullee. By that, it is implied that they do not like plot nor partake in life’s moot and dank tasks in solidarity. Hardly any are as bitter as when they are without camaraderie. Toullee is, as is well established by those monsters of the north, as unique in his choice of fellowship as his being is definite as mist—between the girl, and the faerie, and the dee-men. But so there it lies.
The other sort of monsters—and these two are equally distributed by the nasty creatures—are tremendously macabre. They enjoy their plotting alone. They enjoy their murders alone. Boasting is the one time that is not really essential but nonetheless enjoyable for these types to interact with the other dismal beings.
Ives is unmistakably part of the latter. He is the darkness of twilight, the fire of hell, the sickening dip in a startled heart, the throbbing, eerie silence of despair for all those unfortunate mortals whom he graces with his presence. Currently, Ives describes to the others in blistering detail the decapitation of four souls this year.
“There I is, a tree, and the girl, she come up to me in her daze. Making a pattering on the window. And she goes to slam her lattice, and now that I knew she’s up I followed on just like that. Well that damned girl, she just goes back to her mirror. So I went to her door, because in the mirror’s reflection she would’ve seen me coming…”
***
The young woman stood by her mirror. Her tired brain rambled with profanities because it was late in the evening, it was unfortunate in terms of weather outside, bitter and smoggy; but mostly because the young woman couldn’t find herself the head upon her shoulders to accept her beau’s recent rejection. That was when she heard the knock on her door downstairs, from up in the sterile environment of her chamber.
It was unfortunate, rest ask anyone, to disturb someone at such an hour. No one decent came about past sundown, especially not for this girl. Anyways, she decided to check the door chain, because she knew the imprudence of answering. From her stairs, she looked at the small foyer. The view outside the transom stayed depressingly vacant; at any other time, it would be her aunt, as friends were an absent occurrence. Had she had more incentive to look into it, she might have attested the transom had altogether disappeared…
***
“She comes downstairs after I’s tapping on her door. Daft for even going down, but that’s all of them, and that’s why it’s so fun to kill ’em!” He throws his ugly head back, a tremendous and shudder-inducing guffaw, horribly malice. “I poured myself through the fan window. Better off now; that big head of hers never did sit well on her shoulders, why I sliced it off, ha!
“I covered the face with me hand; just screaming up a storm, she was, and I told her she best let it out; she ain’t got much opportunity coming up, has she, once her neck’s in shambles! I took me axe and I showed the tart, real slow-like. Got the back of the blade and grabbed them hands o’ hers. Pinned ’em right up the small of her back, shoved ’em up the sockets to her shoulders. Popped right out, and the elbows bent all at sharp angles. Ah, the screamin’!” he trails off, almost dreamily. Once he is recovered from such grotesque detail, he pauses no time to delay dismay.
“Hard to believe there’s that much blood in them mortals’ veins, ain’t it? And that mouth gaped open as it laid there, stupidly, ha!” Ives struggles out his sentences between gasping laughs. “Might’ve been a relief to have an open mouth and some silence, I’s sure of it!” The horrid creature breaks into another roaring cackle, storming all in his presence with a harsh, putrid wind and icy retort. Once this shameless display is made over with, Ives continues on, telling the murders as if they were no more significant than a passing storm. He cares not to repeat the same details every time; the syllables must remain fresh on his tongue to retain their splendour, after all.
After Ives gets a round of vulgar comments and applause from the nasty monsters, they begin to all recollect at once. A monster named Pilkington raises his voice above the rest:
“The fires were the best,” he gushes with a slobbering mouth. “I- I- I can hear the screams, the skin charring and peeling off layer by layer!” He snickers quietly, breaking into gasping breaths. “And then I poured the rest of the liquor on, turned it bright blue!”
Thrasher laughs excitedly, “You could’ve heard the boneses smashing down the rocks with mine, ha!” He takes a different approach in his killings— throwing people down stairs and off bridges, and smashing their skulls with rocks or his fists. He does this for three reasons: firstly, because Thrasher is embarrassingly incompetent at using a knife or other tools; secondly, because throwing requires almost no planning, which he is equally incompetent at; and thirdly, because he finds his joy in the slow sounds of cracking bones, each one having its own timbre leading to the skull.
“Quiet, you son of a bitch,” snaps Moritiana. “I’ve the best killings.”
“We all knows how yeh pins them to the walls,” Toullee smirks and looks away. “Glossy kniveses and all that. Not much of a story if it’s being always told the same every year.” Suddenly, the chatter stops as his eyes return. Toullee is used to Scylla and tells her off as he pleases, but the monsters exist in quite different hierarchy.
Moritiana narrows her eyes. She breathes heavily and slowly. She becomes a massive three-headed dog, and shrieks with all the power she has, “And does that make it any less riveting, to consistently murder more than any of you? I’ve killed hundreds. And you, why you wait with those detestable outcasts. You forget your place. No matter how I’ve done it, rest if you say anything of my methods, I might be so inclined to employ them on you. There are worse things than purgatory, worse things than being among monsters. Remember that. So, perhaps, Toullee, if you believe that my stories hold no hand, you’d ought spend time in the lower wards with those more befitting of your miserable existence.”
The terrorist’s voice is somber. Dead shark eyes stare menacingly at the world, stone cold, merciless.
Toullee, embarrassed but not having any less faith in his comment, bows his head and turns to mist. He assumes a smaller form outside the door in the dim hallway, watching as the others continue to recount stabbings, crucifixions, burning, hangings… He notes how their laughter has changed to become more lively; part of him briefly wonders if it is more lighthearted due to his absence or due to Moritianas outburst.
“Toullee, how was your measly plot?” Coulie piques. “Toullee? Toullee?”
“Damn ’im. No’ a right monster anyway,” Ives muses. Eyes glinting, his comment tells the creatures that their stories are finished.
***
The nasty driver must be taking a while to turn, because the car seems to be falling to one side faster than anything that could happen to prevent an accident. I can feel the slits on my body now. But nothing matters to that pain— soon I imagine worse things will befall. I smell smoke and damp leaves. We are driving through a forest. Nothing about this circumstance would seem out of the ordinary had I witnessed a passing car just a few days ago. It sickens me.