Nightmare Presents: This Is Not for You by Gemma Files
We’re back with another installment in our monthly series of brand new fiction from Nightmare Magazine. Our October selection is âThis Is Not for Youâ by Gemma Files. Itâs the lead story in Nightmareâs Women Destroy Horror! special issue, guest-edited by legendary editor Ellen Datlow.
We hope you enjoy this special Halloween edition of Nightmare Presents.
Please be sure to share your comments below.
THIS IS NOT FOR YOU
by Gemma Files
Three potential sacrifices, just as Phoibeâd predicted, blundering through the woods like buffalo in boots. Mormo broke cover first, naked and barefoot, screaming, with the boys following after, whooping and hollering, straight into the gauntlet, too lust-drunk to see where they were going. Pretty little thing, that Mormo, with a truly enviable lung capacity; the best lure theyâd had by far in all the time Gorgoâd been attending these odd little shindigs, and swift enough to keep a good two lengths between her and her closest pursuer as she danced around the tiger-pits. No sooner did this thought register, however, then with a few more stepsâplus one wild, deer-like leapâshe was gone from sight, entirely: up over the deadfall, rustling the same bushes Gorgo and her girls hid behind, leaving the men in her wake, too shocked not to keep coming.
One took a thyrsus to the knee, so sharp Gorgo heard it crack, and pitched headlong, folding up, rolling. More blows caught him from several angles, breaking bones, tearing flesh; he flipped, bellowing, then gave a moaning âwhuff!â as Iris came down right on top, astride both hips, club inverted to crack his breastbone and pop at least one lung, squeeze heart against ribcage, bruise liver beyond repair. His skull met a log back-first, brain slammed hard, eyes rolling up; was probably out long before Irisâs partners (Scylla, Polyxena) could get on him too, their hands rock-full, looking to make like Cain.
To his left, meanwhile, another lucky winner got Deianiraâs spear across the top of his ear and recoiled, flinching away only to run straight into Charisâs strong grip instead. They were about the same height, but Charis had him from behind, choking him so hard he started to lift off the ground, kicking wildly. He tore at her arm with both hands, drawing blood, âtil she finally threw him down with enough force that Gorgo heard his nose pop, or maybe a cheekboneâthen heel-stomped him between the shoulder blades, holding him pinned even as he flailed, trying his level best to swim away. One armpit made a beautiful target for Deianiraâs next thrust, a goring stab that went in far as she could reach, and the pain made him rear back far enough for Gorgo to slash her scythe across his throat.
The spike of her own kill-pleasure came quickly after that, hot and red and sweet. It was good, but over so soon; just enough to make her want more, something better. Longer.
She sat back on her heels, panting, leather tags of her hiking boots cutting into her bare ass as she watched the manâsâboyâsâblood make a flaring collar âround his slackening, sweat- and dirt-smeared face. Asking Charis, once she had her breath back: âYou see where the last one went?â
Charis shook her head. âBack there, maybe.â
On her feet once more, over by the first one, Iris nodded. âSomething tripped a pit.â
Okay, then. âPraise be,â Gorgo said, heaving herself up, unable to quite keep her voice completely irony-free. âPraise be,â two new voices chimed in at the same time, from behind her: Aglaia, of course. And Phoibe.
Charis and the others turned, bespattered, grinningâstepped back a bit, all âround, to display their work to best advantage. Aglaia smiled wide and nodded, proudly, as Gorgo and Phoibe exchanged a small, cool nod of greeting.
âWonderful,â Aglaia pronounced, with the sort of authoritative, maternal warmth thatâdâve done Mother Theresa herself proud, if sheâd worshipped Kali instead of Christ. âVery fine. Now . . . letâs go see what Sheâs left us for last, and best.â
⢠⢠⢠â˘
The point was to do these things together, not alone. The point was to do them in secret, as much as could be arranged for. The point was to go elsewhere, overnight, and stay as long as it took to get it done. The point was to make it count.
The whole point of a mystery religion, in fact, as Aglaia kept reminding them, was that it was supposed to beâand stayâa mystery.
That wasnât her real name, obviously. Theyâd all taken new ones, first as pseudonyms on the cultâs website, then as part of their bonding exercises in âmeatspace,â as the kids put it; it was to draw a sort of metaphorical line from old to new, a clear path of translation, adaptation. Some of them came from what passed, these days, as âtraditionalâ backgroundsâodd idea, that, all these mystoi and Goddess-worshippers apparently long-embedded in between the non-denominationals and the atheistsâbut for most of them this was just a fantasy, a deep-rooted need, a burgeoning itch theyâd never quite known how to scratch before eventually stumbling across the myths, the literature, the site itself, which Phoibe had started and still maintained. A particular urge which everything around them said was bad, wrong, unnatural, even as that blood-beat voice inside told them it was anything but.
âWe shouldnât feel ashamed,â Aglaiaâan elder stateswoman of some sort of brown persuasion, her graying, loose-curled hair cropped shortâhad said during their first real meet-up. âNever. What we do here is older than everything else, all the forces arrayed against usâolder than laws, older than rules, older than the inadequate language we use to try and describe it with. It canât be explained. It doesnât have to be justified. And much as we may serve it, may be personally elevated by that service, transfigured even, we are none of us as important as the principle we subsume ourselves to. The tradition survives, always; we may die awayâwill die awayâbut it survives, always. It doesnât need us. Because even when everything else crumbles, this will still endure.â
Oh, and Aglaia really did make everything sound so pretty, Gorgo thought, whenever she really started to get her groove on; that was the basic trick, the recruiting pitch, the glue. To frame the reason they were all here as a certain route to spiritual ecstasy, but also make it sound like they were reaching for a goal far more lasting than their own selfish pleasureâsomething done on this whole sad, stained worldâs behalf for the unwitting benefit of everyone trapped inside it, exorcising sin while extirpating evil. Like it wasnât any real sort of crime at all.
Aglaia was a true believer, or she walked the talk so well as to be nigh-indistinguishable from one; Gorgo simply knew what she liked and was willing to swallow her share of theosophic psychobabble in order to get a bunch of women with similar interests to not just pitch in at the kill, but clean up after her. Total freaks, in other words, but very useful onesâwhich was exactly how, in essence, that membership in their little sewing circle continued to hold enough appeal for Gorgo to not just roll her eyes and walk away, even assuming Aglaia and her coterie would let her.
Every meet-up started with a prayer, Aglaia leading, the others reading along off of printout sheets, a different translation every time. This yearâs went like soâ
Preswa, Phersephassa, o Kore Hagne
Wise one, She who stops, She who lives in every harvest
Persipne, Praxidike, o Kore Semele
Wine-maker, Subterranean queen, Most flowery maiden
Persephone, Crown of terror
Beautiful, Fatal, She who consumes
According to Whose will the sacred task is doneâ
life to produce, and all that lives to kill.
âSo what is it you do, these days, exactly?â Phoibe asked under her breath, sidling up at Gorgoâs elbow. âStill bending young minds, or did they finally figure out you never actually made it all the way through teacherâs college?â
Gorgo shrugged. âOh, youâd be surprised how little research private schools put in, selecting instructors. Weâre doing Romantic poets this semester, Keats and all. âO what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering?ââ
âYou tell them itâs a tuberculosis metaphor?â
âOn the top layer, sure. Some girls, I push harder; seed an idea here and there, set tests. Try to seek out where their more hidden inclinations might lie.â
âI didnât know Aglaia was signing off on any more recruitment drives, especially amongst the underage.â
âSheâs got nothing to with it, Phoebe.â
âPhoibe.â
âWhatever.â
âYeah, okay. I mean, whatâs in a name, rightâSusan?â
âAwful mysteries here are ours,â Aglaia continued, âso we celebrate them in Your name, which no one may in any way transgress. Happy is she who has seen and believed, both on top of the earth and under it, though she who is uninitiate will never reap a like crop after death, but stay forever buried there in darkness and in gloom.â
Think thatâs my real name you got there, little bitch, just âcause you hacked it out of my digital footprint? Gorgo projected, while staring Phoibe down, as Phoibe struggled to do the same, and failed. My original? Think I couldnât change it or anything else about me in a minute, or less, if I wanted toâwalk away, disappear off the grid, and not come up for air âtil I stuck my scythe in your tech-savvy spine?
Think again.
She was a bit of a parody, Phoibe, with her all-black clothes and her hair banded in grown-out dye-jobs like a floppy, cross-cut section of treeâyou could practically track her stylistic evolution, or lack thereof, from Manic Panic to Clairol to henna to what Gorgo could only assume was probably her natural shade, a subtle mouse-hide leather tone flecked here and there with the first glints of gray. Deep, slightly keloided dimples bracketing her mouth had once held barbell piercings, just like that scar furling her lip-corner told of a torn-free labrette; she wore a tricked-out pair of granny-glasses with Hipster-thick frames, and tended towards using blush for eyeshadow. But she sure as shit did know how to run a dark-net, so that was something, at least.
Up near Aglaia, everyone was chanting again. Gorgo mouthed the words as Phoibe mouthed them right back at her, a second or two late.
Blood waters it
Blood grows it
Blood alone sees it flower:
Great seed, seed of flesh and bone, Persephoneâs awful gift
That nurtures and destroys this world one sacrifice at a time
One lover
One child
One king.
Truth was, it would be nice to share interests with somebody in private life, Gorgo occasionally caught herself thinking. To be a mentor. She sure wasnât too likely to breed any soft-minded little co-conspirators herself, not at this late date, even setting the problem of stud-stock aside; adoption wasnât really an option either, or fosterage, for similar reasons. Short of walking away from her local maternity ward with a free souvenir, therefore, cherry picking each new class for potentials seemed the next best thing. Hadnât found any thus far, but it was early days still, and she remained hopeful.
Now she set hands on hips and waited, staring down, a whole ten extra yearsâ worth of game-face blankly in place. She had roughly a foot of height on Phoibe, plus a good fifty pounds in heft, not that she expected things would get physicalâboth of them had a certain investment in returning to work next week, after all, and doing it while looking like nothing worse than the morning after a particularly celebratory girlsâ night out. But when youâd been looking forward to something all year, sometimes things just happened.
A second later, however, Phoibe shrugged, raising her hands: no harm, no foul.
âIâm sure you know what youâre doing,â she said. âI mean, weâre all adults here. What you get up to on your own timeâs no concern of mine.â
âNope,â Gorgo agreed. âSo . . . anyone know who the sacrificeâs gonna be yet?â
âWhoever gets here first,â Phoibe replied. âSame as usual.â
âWell, how many candidates in play?â
âThree groups, two to four components each. Maybe four.â
âThatâs short odds.â
âNot really; Iâd show you the math, but . . .â Here Phoibe trailed off, maybe thinking I wouldnât want to bore you with it, or even you wouldnât understand, yet smart enough not to voice whichever outright, either way. Continuing, soon enough: âYou ever know anybody not to show up?â
Now it was Gorgoâs turn to shrug. âNot yet,â was all she said.
But that, as Aglaia would no doubt say, was where faith came in.
⢠⢠⢠â˘
The place they gathered had been a campground, once upon a time. They arrived singly from every direction, mostly by public transport, then hiked to the meet-point, where Aglaia and her acolytes had already set up most of the necessary infrastructureâdug catch-pits, strung bells, planted weapons (thyrsi made onsite, plus whatever else they brought with them), and built the cremation pyre high, for afterwards. People didnât tend to get naked âtil the appointed hour, which suited Gorgo fine, though there were always noticeable exceptions. Right now, for example, she could see tall, lean Charis belly dancing by herself off in the middle distance, pleasantly soft from hormones and with her bush grown full to hide the rest, yet proudly displaying the scars where her implants had gone in every time she back-bent far enough for them to catch the light.
At least one potential âsisterâ had quit because of Charis, or tried toâmade it back almost as far as the north road before Gorgo had caught up with her, dragged her into the bushes, and buried her under a deadfall with her flesh flensed sky burial-style so the animals would come running. Itâd been an on-the-fly decision, simple self-preservation instinct twisted into altruism by circumstance, done on behalf of a community Gorgo often questioned whether she needed at all; still wasnât entirely sure Aglaia even knew about it, though she suspected yes, especially since she hadnât found any bones left to crush with a hammer when sheâd checked the makeshift grave last time they met.
In Gorgoâs estimation, however, the radfems could say what they wanted, but Charis had always held her end up well enough to merit whatever help Gorgo chose to give her. Once the hunt was on, she was no different than any other gal with an oversized clitâbetter, considering her sheer stamina, her extra-long reach and strong, militarily-trained grip. When they piled in on the final sacrifice, all together, Gorgo had seen Charis literally work a manâs head from his shoulders like some live-action Mortal Kombat kill, twisting the finger-torn ruin of his throat and neck âtil his vertebrae snapped and spinal cord slithered free.
Sparagmos, Aglaia called it. The Maenadâs frenzy, bull sacrifice. A rending apart, followed by omophagia, eating the flesh raw. Or, as Gorgoâd always called it, albeit only to herself . . . fun.
âI know you donât think youâre one of us, really,â Aglaia told Gorgo, as Gorgo poured herself a bowl of ritual kykeon. âBut you do keep on coming, donât you? Why do you think that might be?â
ââCause I like it?â
âYouâre no great fan of organized religion in general, though, I think; most sociopaths arenât. Yet you must admit it can be useful, as a concept, even to those who question it.â
Gorgo sighed, steeling herself to stay polite. âOh, sure,â she replied. âMainly in that it gives us divine permission to go on ahead and do what we were gonna anyways, all wrapped up in a pretty story. Secret knowledge, womenâs magic, the matriarchy reborn . . .â
Aglaia shot Gorgo a look, as though unsure if she was being mocked. âSo youâll take advantage of the amenities on offer,â she said, at last, âbut you wonât do Her homage.â
âIf thatâs the price of staying on the mailing list, sure. Why not?â
âExcept that you wonât mean it.â
At that, Gorgo did have to snort, just a little. âHow you ever gonna know anyone âmeans it,â outside of yourself? Same way I âknowâ you do, i.e. not at damn all. Look, lady, I read The Bacchaeâhell, Iâve taught it. You really think we can bank on weapons of iron not wounding us when the fitâs in full swing, though, no matter how many of those little dried mushrooms you boil the kykeon up with? Barley, pennyroyal, psychoactives . . . itâs a nice high, but I donât ever remember getting milk and honey from stones or tearing up trees by their roots while I was on it, let alone wearing snake necklaces, or breastfeeding wolf-cubs.â
âCommunion wafers arenât made from real man-meat, either. Our feasts are, and not metaphorically.â
âThey werenât, thatâd be the deal-breaker right there, for me.â
Aglaia chuckled. âIâve seen you hunt,â she said. âOne of our fiercest, when She enters in.â
âHard to stop once I get going, Iâll give you that,â Gorgo agreed, suddenly tired. âCâmon, thoughâwhat I run onâs a fetish, not superpowers. I just like to kill people.â
âAh, but you donât just kill people, do you, when you have the choice? Iâm not talking about self-preservation, or opportunity . . . I mean pure desire, the perfect victim. The image you touch yourself to.â
Gorgo snorted again. Yet the words brought it rising up behind her eyes anyhow, automatic, irrefutable: a man, always, young and juicy for preference. And strong enough to fight hand to hand, take damage from, evenâpossiblyârisk losing to. Not that she ever had.
â. . . no,â she admitted, at last, with reluctance. âYouâre right. Thatâs never just âpeople.ââ
âThen you do Her work, and always have. Without even knowing it.â
Gorgo shook her head, stubborn. âDress it up all you want, Aglaiaâwhat I do is what I choose to, thatâs the whole truth, and nothinâ but. âCause I like it. I donât need any other reason.â
âIt gets done, however, either way.â
Oh yes.
The area of study devoted to those like Gorgo was choked with truisms, creating spaces sheâd always found it easy to slip between. Most serial killers, accepted lore went, were white rather than not, middle-class or lower-, organized or dis- . . . and male, overwhelmingly. Which meant that although there obviously had to be some who werenât, by simple process of elimination, nobody really spent a whole lot of time looking for them.
Didnât hurt that women coded societally as victims rather than predators, conferring a weird invisibility on those who didnât worry about becoming somebody elseâs meal. When menâs eyes turned towards Gorgo with ill intent, she met them head-on, smiling. Those unused to the concept turned away; those who didnât had made their bed, and she felt no guilt about laying them down in it.
As it turned out, this attitude formed yet another point of sympathy between Aglaiaâs lot and herselfâsince according to the mysteries, sacrifices self-selected through willing, deliberate transgression. They had to know there was a taboo in play, even to have some idea of the potential stakes involved, and choose to break said taboo anyways.
Luckily, that was men in a nutshell, or so Gorgo had always observed. Long before the Internet, it had been a truth universally agreed on that whenever somebody started talking about a space being women-only, a segment of the male-identified population would come running with dicks out, ready to mark their territory in the hope no bitch would ever again be dumb enough to believe herself in possession of something they couldnât access. It was a winning combination of social mores and genetics, bless their heartsâjust the way weâre made, maâam, now get in the kitchen, et cetera.
âEverywhere but here,â Aglaia claimed, proudly. And so far, her claim had yet to be disproven, there being an undeniable strength in numbers which far outstripped whatever one woman could achieve alone. Everybody wanted community, in their heart of heartsâeven those who knew themselves, at base, quite outrageously unsuited to maintain it.
Female serial killers hid behind gender constructs, as a rule. They usually played out the roles people (men) expected them to, then killed inside of that as poisoners, black widows, angels of death . . . caregivers turned toxic. The reason the Maenad myth had been so discounted down the centuries, according to Aglaia, was that the very idea of a woman jumping on somebody and tearing them apart seemed physically impossible. But one had to wonder, like Gorgo remembered doing, even as a child: was there a reason men seemed so wary of âallowingâ women to congregate in groups? Could it be they guessed how a pack of women might be indistinguishable from one of lionesses, of hyenas?
Hours passed in chanting, dancing, singing, and the sun dipped low. The kykeon, fresh-cooled, got passed around like white lightning; Gorgo drank her next slug in one gulp, watching the newest mystoi sip, wince, almost puke. She already felt the drug deep inside her like hooks, opening her wide, letting in the world.
As the dusk began to swim and click around her, she saw Phoibe appear at Aglaiaâs elbow, night-blooming suddenly, pale out of dark. Watched her murmur in the priestessâs ear, then vanish once more, as Aglaia turned to motion Gorgo near.
âIntruders at the perimeter. Mormo has them chasing her alreadyâeasy meat for our best huntress.â
Gorgo rose, nodding, to shuck the last of her clothes. She left her footwear on, since running barefoot through the woods was like asking for lockjaw, but Aglaia didnât say anythingâpossibly since her good right hand Phoibe had apparently decided much the same, albeit sticking with sandals instead of Gorgoâs comfortably weighted hiking boots.
Charis handed her one more dose, which lit her up like a punch. Someone she couldnât quite see hugged âround her from behind, smearing two mud-clay handfuls across both breasts at once, then down over her abs, to cool her thighsâ hot vee. Gorgo tossed her hair and pulled loose; Charis caught her mid-stumble, grinning. âYâall ready?â she asked.
âSure am.â
âThyrsus, baby girl?â
âBrought my own, thanks.â The scythe-handle fit nicely into her palm. âYou cominâ, big sis?â
âBet your ass,â Charis growled, voice dipping lower than she probably wanted it to, not that that mattered: the ekstasis was on them both, pumping their blood, stiffening every sinew. Around, Gorgo saw the rest of the pack assembling, all the familiar faces. Iris, Scylla, Polyxena, Deianira . . .
They took off running, like Artemis Herself led the way.
⢠⢠⢠â˘
And here they were, now. The tiger-pitâs displaced covering, lid of the kiste, the sacred basket. Gorgo kicked it aside to reveal a third young manâboyâstaring up, down on one knee and crying with pain, at least one ankle probably shattered from the fall. He was a sweet-looking piece, muscled like a wrestler, hair picked out into a soft natural; his skin gleamed, shade falling somewhere between Deianiraâs ruddy bronze and Aglaiaâs warmer, darker hue. Which was a fairly apt comparison, as it turned outâbecause when he caught sight of Aglaia peering down on him over Gorgoâs shoulder his eyes went wide, fixed with shock, and awe, and terrified recognition.
âMom?â he managed, voice breaking. âMom? What . . . whatâre you doing . . . here . . . ?â
Aglaia didnât answer, not immediately. Just drew herself up, turning to stone; crossed her arms and waited, possibly to see what happened next.
âMom, shit . . . you have to help me. Theyâre crazy, these womenâre allâMom!â
Gorgo back-shifted, waiting as well. Until finally, another voice chimed in: âWell?â
Aglaia, without moving: ââWellâ what, Phoibe?â
The woman in question came shoving her way through, pale as a twilit ghost, âtil she stood almost at Aglaiaâs sideâalmost. But not quite.
âHeâs penetrated the mysteries, hasnât he?â she declared, nodding downwards, voice pitched to ringing. âSeen things done, heard things said, just like the rest of them. Should the priestessâs son go free, and other womenâs sons pay in his stead? Is this Her will?â
Posturing little hooker, Gorgo thought.
âDidnât hear Aglaia say what she wanted done with him, one way or the other, myself,â Gorgo pointed out. âAnd since Iâm a hell of a lot more likely to listen to her than to you on the subject . . .â
âHa! The unbeliever speaks.â Phoibe threw her arms wide, addressing the whole cult, now flocking in around Gorgoâs hunting team. âSee how she mocks? Ask yourselves why Aglaia would ever let somebody like this in in the first place, let alone allow her to stay. Then ask yourself if it isnât obvious that the Goddess chose to punish Aglaia for her hubris by sending her first-born to the killing floor! How else could it have happened?â
Defend yourself, idiot, Gorgo tried to project Aglaiaâs way, watching heads on all sides begin to nod, albeit reluctantly. But Aglaiaâs eyes stayed on the pit, her whimpering child. She might as well have been a statue.
Murmuring spread in every direction, like a tide.
Time to run, maybe, Gorgo thought, reluctantly, gripping her scythe hard enough to hurt. Save yourself, before this shit shifts on you; drop out, get gone. This was a bad idea. Itâs like Missus Gast used to say, my third foster-Mommyâsomeone like me just needs to stay the hell away from people I want to keep safe . . .
(. . . unless Iâm killing âem.)
That was when it happened, sharp as a woundâthat same unfurling times ten thousand, the kykeonâs blow suddenly felt all over, a general uproar. This lurching, queasy sensation of opening up so far it was like her insides were out, skin shifting, one massive neuron blur. Blood broke from her nose, mouth, the corners of her eyes; later, sheâd find burst vessels on both eyeballs, a pair of tiny red flowers. For now, however, it was as though something else had a hold of her, puppeting her from the gut. Making one hand fly out, scytheâs point sticking deep into Phoibeâs still-babbling throat, then jerking free again, conjuring a flood. The spurt slapped across Gorgo before hitting Charis, who gasped, and Aglaia, who didnât; a general cry went up, cultists reacting as one. Phoibe fell, flopping, while Gorgo shivered still upright, mouth opening against her will. Words torrented free, garbled, unfamiliar, Greek-accented. Sayingâ
Fury-source, Wrathful One, All-Ruling virgin,
Kore Semele, light-bearer incandescent
Horned Maiden, Earthâs vigorous daughter
When Death comes, we go willingly to Your realms
Until again You send us forth, into this world of Form.
She didnât know this prayer, Gorgo realized, unable not to complete what she could only assume was the verseâs ancient formula. Not one sheâd heard, nor one sheâd read. No translation of The Bacchae sheâd ever taught could have left it behind in her mindâs folds, waiting to suggest itself under pressureâno, this was something else. Something Other.
At her boot-tips, Phoibe had almost ceased shuddering. Gorgo found herself pointing at her, mouth stretched Body Snatchers-wide, pronouncing: âHowâd it happen? Ask the hacker. The girl with the math. Ask her how she sought him out online, groomed him, brought him and those friends of his hereâbecause she wanted to mount a coup, thought heâd make Aglaia look weak in front of you, that she could turn you against Her chosen. But nothing happens, ever, except that She allows it.â
âPraise be,â Charis chimed in, wiping Phoibeâs blood straight into her mouth; âPraise be,â Iris agreed, kicking Phoibe so she flipped, so her last breath went down into the earth itself, Persephone-Perswaâs home. To which Aglaia finally nodded, dignified as always, and put her hand on Gorgoâs still-shaking shoulder, palm-print burning a hole, all the Goddessâs presence suddenly drained from once more, leaving her numb and cold, scythe drooping.
âPraise be,â Aglaia agreed, approvingly. âIâm so happy for you, Gorgo. Itâs seldom any of us feels Her grace directlyâto have that one be you is a rare honour, and welcome. Especially since Iâdâve had trouble killing a woman, myself, even one whoâd betrayed Her covenant.â A lovely smile. âBut then, thatâs what She sent us you for.â
âThe fuck you say,â Gorgo replied, all out into a rush, with no time for self-censorship. Her nervous system was still twitching, refusing to obey, or she wouldâve cut Aglaiaâs throat nextâsomething Aglaia seemed to know, since she glanced at Charis, who gently pried the scythe from Gorgoâs limp hand, folding her into an embrace.
âCâmon now, baby girl,â Charis said, soothing. âYou got nothing to be afraid of. We all want to feel her hand on our souls the once, like you just did. Itâs why weâre here.â
âNot . . . why Iâm here . . .â Gorgo said, muffled, into Charisâs pectoral, her implant-springy breast. But Charis only laughed.
ââCourse not,â she replied. âWe all know that. Is now, thoughâand thatâs beautiful, donât you see? Hell, itâs divine.â
âLiterally,â Aglaia agreed. âOh, Gorgo! Youâre a saint to us now, a true Maenad. The very proof of our religion.â
And that murmur was back again, eddying right, left, and every which way, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. They seized on Phoibeâs body and bore it away, tearing off pieces as it went; probably ending up on the pyre with the rest of the meat, fit for the celebratory feast, with the bones all divvied up and buried wherever individual cultists went home to, after.
Iâm trapped, Gorgo thought, hanging there in Charisâs arms, while Aglaia and the others clapped, cheered, and ululated in approval, each according to their preference. Theyâve got me now, these freaks, them with their goddamn Goddess. Iâm altered, forever changed. Like I donât even know my own self anymore.
âWhat about him, down there?â she asked, finally, through trembling lips.
Throughout the preceding action, the still pit-trapped boyâAglaiaâs unlucky sonâhad fallen silent long since, in terms of pleas. Now it was just grunts and cursing, oh God oh God oh shit, help me please, with the kid scrabbling at the walls like a crippled badger, trying his level best either to heave himself free or bring the wallsâ earth in on top of him, so he could suffocate before they pulled him free and ripped him apart. Perhaps having stared enough, however, Aglaia didnât even look, this time. Simply shook her head, curls lifting slightly (softer than his yet similar, Gorgo could now see), and saidâ
âPhoibe called him, but She made him answer. This is not for him, for any of them, yet still they come: anathema, to be dedicated, to be cursed. He chose his own fate.â
At that, the scrabbling stopped, as if kicked. Gorgo heard the kid moan out, instinctive, maybe in supplication, maybe in protest: Mom, oh Mom, Mommy, no. Please, God, please.
True Believers, true belief; not such an arrant hunk of legitimized murder wrapped in bullshit fairytales after all, as it turned out. Moreâs the fucking pity.
No God here, little boy, Gorgo thought, as close to sadly as she was capable of. And closed her eyes.
[end]
Nightmare Magazine is usually edited by bestselling anthology editor John Joseph Adams (Wastelands, The Living Dead). This month, however, Nightmare is presenting Women Destroy Horror!, our special double-issue celebration of women writing and editing horror. Guest editor Ellen Datlow has selected original fiction from Gemma Files (âThis Is Not for Youâ), Livia Llewellyn (âIt Feels Better Biting Downâ), Pat Cadigan (âUnfair Exchangeâ), Katherine Crighton (âThe Inside and the Outsideâ), and Catherine MacLeod (âSideshowâ), along with reprints by Joyce Carol Oates (âMartyrdomâ), Tanith Lee (âBlack and White Skyâ), and A.R. Morlan (â. . . Warmerâ). Our Women Destroy Horror! nonfiction editor, Lisa Morton, also has a line-up of terrific piecesâa feature interview with “American Horror Story” producer Jessica Sharzer; a roundtable interview with acclaimed writers Linda Addison, Kate Jonez, Helen Marshall, and Rena Mason; a feature interview with award-winning author Joyce Carol Oates; and insightful essays from Maria Alexander, Lucy A. Snyder, and Chesya Burke. You can wait for the rest of this month’s contents to be serialized online, or you can buy the whole issue right now in convenient eBook format for just $2.99. You can also subscribe and get each issue delivered to you automatically every month for the discounted price of just $1.99 per issue. This month’s issue is a great one so be sure to check it out. And while you’re at it, tell a friend about Nightmare!
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