Geist intermezzo, p.9
Geist Intermezzo, page 9
“Damn.” Charles lifted his hand like a stage master commanding his trick puppet, eyes glazing over with a state of altered nirvana. “I can dig this.”
Cocking its head, Cesare’s eyes swirled like twin kaleidoscopes as blasts of psychedelic flame engulfed the dancers and bouncers, until it all cleared in a purple haze, leaving only black splotches and vapor in its wake. The battle was won.
Charles wiped the sweat off his brow. His geist dissipated back into the aether. “That escalated quickly. I can’t really blame Beatrice, though. Given I was like that too.” He offered Victor a shaky hand. “Hey, brother. You okay?”
Victor’s knees buckled, as he tried to stand. “She meant it, deep down. Do you think…?”
Charles tried to smile. “I had a hunch. Shouldn’t come as a shock, dude.”
“Does she really hate us? You know her better than I do.”
“Oh. You’re worried about that? That’s cute.”
It all hit Victor like a gutpunch. “Y-you don’t mean….”
Charles nodded. “Beatrice likes fish tacos. C’mon, she rocks that cobra seat better than I ever could, and has more balls than—”
“She’s not a lesbian! Let’s get going.”
“Really?” Charles smirked. “You honestly think she’s straight?”
“S-shut up.”
“I mean, come on. Remember that time, back at that bar—?”
“I said, shut up!” Victor spun around. “Now’s not the time to play the damn comedian. Do you want to save her or not? Instead of cracking jokes every five seconds, follow me. Her daemon is going to kill her! Do you get me?!”
“Dude.” Charles raised a grey eyebrow. “You really lashing out at me just because your crush is queer? Let’s be real here, that’s what’s up. Immature, man.”
Victor took a deep breath. “I—”
“No.” Charles looked him dead in the eye. “Don’t apologize. I know you like her. But that can’t be your only reason for this. Don’t tell me, not for one second, that you’re here just because you want to bang the goth girl. You’re better than that. Now,” he wiped his blades clean, “let’s show her daemon what we can do.”
“Y-yeah,” Victor stuttered. “Y-you’re right.”
CHAPTER TEN
Victor and Charles delved into the depths of the Danse Macabre, hearing the pulsing beats of batwave rock, feeling the foundations of nightmares lurking all around them. Eventually they came to the chained door of the concert hall, the innermost vault of Beatrice’s hellscape.
“Ready?” Victor braced himself. “I don’t know what’s on the other side.”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Charles replied.
With that, Victor opened the door. Peering into the final room, he barely saw through the fog. The scotch-stained carpet extended before a massive runway stage, surrounded by nightclub tables, with giant telescreens and speakers looming overhead, flickering and droning. Upon the stage, Victor saw a metal saltire, flanked by circular saws and giant needles. Beatrice was strapped to its arms, dozing in and out of consciousness.
Victor’s stomach sunk into the depths of despair. “Is she—?”
“Shit!” Charles bolted forward. “Can you hear me, dude?”
“Charles…?” She was barely able to raise her head. “Is that…you?”
“Jesus,” Charles sighed with relief. “Hang tight. We’ll get you outta here.” He looked about for a lever or pulley, and yanked down on a dangling chain. The cross was lowered, the cuffs came undone, and Beatrice fell onto her knees, mostly unharmed. “Are you sure—?”
“I’m fine.” Beatrice brushed him off, staggering up. “Goddamnit, you have no idea what I’ve been through.” She glanced at Victor. “Oh, h-hey.”
“Sure you’re alright-a?” Charles called as she limped away.
“Yeah.” She hid her tear-stained face. “I’m just glad….” At that moment, she slumped, leaning on the table, stricken by sudden fatigue. “Shit.”
Charles helped her shaking body up. “We gotta get you out of here. Now.”
Beatrice swiped his arm aside. “I got this. There’s a…well, there’s some kind of monster in here.” Her eyes darted about. “She says she’s me, but….”
Charles tried to smile. “You’re not the only one who went through all this, trust me. What happened, though? Who did this to you?”
“I don’t really know. This is like a bad dream, and…and….” She pounded her fists against the table. “Fuck, man! This place is just wrong!”
“Beatrice?” Victor’s voice was trembling. “Well, how do I phrase it? Is it true that—?”
“Dude….” Charles shot him a glare. “Not now.”
Beatrice’s face paled. “What did you guys hear?”
“Kinda everything,” Charles said. “Don’t listen to him though.”
“Are you a lesbian?” Victor’s lips moved on their own, forcing the words out of his mind. Only afterwards did he realize what he’d said. “Shit, sorry.”
“Oh,” Beatrice spat, fire in her eyes. “Victor, let’s talk about that later. When I’m, you know, not in mortal danger. Nice to see you too.”
“What the hell, man?” Charles sighed. “I mean…just, shut up.”
Victor said nothing, turning away in misery and shame.
“Anyway,” Beatrice continued. “You’re right. We have to get out. How did you get down here? Through the TVs? Because that’s what I’ve deduced.”
“Right,” Charles replied. “But it’s a bit more complicated than that.”
A wicked laugh filled the air, accompanied by a tingling rush of static. The other Beatrice took form on the runway. Dressed in a latex corset and thigh-highs, its wan skin glistened in the blacklight, showcasing dramatic cracks and a hollowness within, like a wretched doll. With a lash of a whip, it licked the air with a serpentine tongue.
“You?” Beatrice was shaking. “What are you really?”
The daemon smirked. “Heh, I already told you. Come on. There’s no need to hide it anymore. I am you.” It warped and reappeared behind Beatrice, like footage out of focus, whispering into her ear. “Ever since Dad left, you had to act tough, finding the little things to cling onto.”
“Beatrice!” Victor called. “It’s okay, don’t—”
“Hush now.” The daemon raised a finger to its ruby lips. Victor felt all the moisture evaporate from his throat, leaving him voiceless and gasping. “Let’s not spoil this.”
“Dude!” Charles caught him as he slumped to his knees. “You okay?”
Victor nodded rapidly, but the daemon ranted on.
“And what’s this about Beatrice Morrison, the People’s Savior?” It laughed. “What a joke. You can’t even save yourself. It’s why you’re here to begin with. But you still keep up that punk rock act, to hide what haunts you every night. You don’t care about the downtrodden masses. You just want to be recognized.” Its heels clomped forward, like a dominatrix from the depths of Hell. “You learned to cope, better than most guys. I’ll give you that—”
“Shut up!” Beatrice lashed out. “Who do you think you are? I can do anything.”
“No, you can’t. Go ahead. Hide behind your attitude. Metropolis was always a favorite, wasn’t it?” The other Beatrice floated onto the runway. “But even in those movies, never once was there a girl who wasn’t shackled to some loser everyman.” It glared at Victor. “You always wanted to prove that wrong. That you weren’t another disposable sack of tits and ass. Something to be toted around like an award of chivalry. And when you wound up in Holy Gothica, you joined a terrorist cell, just to make yourself feel better—”
“I said,” Beatrice roared, “shut your whore mouth!”
The daemon only laughed, its power growing with each rebuke. “Whore? That’s a good one.” The fog rolled in, obscuring that runway stage as the daemon’s voice became one with an infernal legion. “Given how many dudes you’ve done, trying to feel something more than misplaced lust. Anything. But who says you even like men?”
Victor knew what was about to happen, and his stomach dropped.
Beatrice’s knuckles whitened into her fists. “I…I’ll kill you!”
“B-Beatrice….” His voice returned. “Don’t—”
“No,” she cried. “Don’t look at me! Don’t come near me!” Beatrice turned back to her daemon, hidden in the depths of the fog. “You’re a Rocky Horror reject, a-and….” Her voice rose to scream. “There’s no way in hell that you’re me!”
The dark clouds burst with a psychotic laugh, and the rising shadow loomed against the floodlights and over Beatrice. She collapsed to her knees, and it formed into a testament to her blackest thoughts across the runway.
The Mother Harlot.
Dressed in fishnets and stilettos, its breasts were exposed and pierced with silver studs, face covered by a hood and crown of strange geometry. Only crimson lips were visible, curling into a smirk against skin of cracked porcelain. But for all its might, the daemon sat lazily atop a seven-headed dragon, twisted from cobra seats and exhaust pipes—a motorcycle turned living throne. Carrying that was a tower of doll-masked musicians, all pixie cuts and corsets, shackled to their mistress in servitude, armed with ill-tuned guitars and cellos. And the Mother Harlot snapped those chains, pulling its thralls’ leashes tight, as the Devil in the Black Dress.
“I hear the sounds of the city and dispossessed. Get down. Get undressed,” the Mother Harlot screamed. “I am the mistress of sorrow and sensation. And now, my reflection,” its voice softened, as throbbing beats and bass filled the air. “Dance the ghost with me.”
#
The televisions overhead flicked on, as if broadcasting a snuff film. Beatrice stared, speechless, as the Mother Harlot raised a barbed wire whip, only for Charles to tackle her aside. Victor chased after them. The floor beneath the runway transformed into an abyss of scarlet eyes and gnashing teeth—a captive audience of daemons.
Black tentacles lashed out at Victor and the others, ichor spreading like a cancer of the mind. The three leapt onto the stage, blinded by stage lights, flashing for a rock concert, while the Mother Harlot loomed as a giantess of lust and fury.
“Hey.” Charles laid a hand on Beatrice’s shoulder. “We got this, dude.” With that, he let loose a musical roar, tossing that die like a grenade. “Come forth, my trippy-ass angel of death!”
With a haze of acoustic riffs, Cesare warped into existence once more. The Slumbering Magician and the daemon dueled, their chains and whips tangling, like twin guitars shredding into the night. But the Mother Harlot snapped another lash, lunging at Charles and Beatrice.
“Don’t get in my way,” the daemon shrieked.
Victor felt those cobalt flames engulf his toy rabbit. “Defend them, Dante!”
With a surge of righteous fury, the geist burst and blazed forth by Cesare’s side, mask all wan and ornate, a knight of childhood wonder. Against the strumming chords, Dante rushed before Beatrice and Charles, parrying the burning whip with a swipe of its halberd.
A lone viola sang through metal and mist.
“Hmm.” The Mother Harlot leered from those cushions. “What exactly are you two doing? Trying to defend her? Then I’ll need to whip you all into submission!”
Beatrice shivered in terror, unable to even speak.
The stage lights rose and the guitar solo kicked in. The pipes on the daemonic steed let loose pulsing jets of cold flame. “Come on, ‘Dante,’ let’s see you win your Beatrice’s heart. Oh, wait….” The Mother Harlot’s voice rose to a mad cackle. “If you’d actually read the Inferno, you’d know the truth. Dante never got to lay a finger on his masturbatory idol. It was a stalker’s lust. Nothing more. Even if I was straight, I’d never fall for an arrogant prick like you.”
Victor held back tears of rage, Charles’s words of comfort bouncing off his ears. He only heard the chanting audience of daemons.
With a gun for the lover and a shot for the pain.
Even against the words of doubt and discord, Victor listened to the choir in his mind’s ear. He marched forward, cane at hand. His breathing grew heavy, masking his rage with resolve. As Cesare blocked the Mother Harlot’s wanton blows with its coffin lid, Victor felt the cinders of hope burn in the depths of his soul, hotter than any hellfire.
“Dante,” he roared. “Save her!”
Beatrice flinched at those words, eyes darting at Victor—not out of resentment, rather, instinct. As if the notion of “salvation” was unnecessary on some level. Even in Hell, the Music of the Spheres reached Victor. With a series of enchanted gestures, like a conductor, he piloted Dante through the frigid flames and fog, each movement slicing through the shrieking audience.
“There you go again. Trying to ‘save’ her,” the Mother Harlot sighed. “Like unlocking some achievement in a game. Do you even know what you’re doing?”
“I’m doing the right thing,” Victor retorted.
“Oh, you’ll have to do much better than that.”
The Mother Harlot lashed out again, but Dante was too swift and quick. When it neared the palanquin, a doll-masked guitarist gave a swift kick. Its spiked heel slammed into Dante’s chest, an off-key note filling everyone’s ears, sending the geist careening across the runway.
Victor winced, clutching his ribs in agony.
“Now.” It turned to Beatrice, grinning. “Do you hear me call?”
“Piss off.” Beatrice gripped the keychain on her wrist, standing up. “You don’t know me. Stop it. They…they did nothing wrong.”
Victor’s knees quivered. Spiritual fatigue took its toll. He tried to turn the other cheek. This wasn’t his daemon, but the Mother Harlot’s words shredded his ego. And in the heat of the moment, Victor sprung forth with his last ounce of strength as Dante obeyed his will.
“Victor,” Charles yelled. “Don’t rush in. Wait a sec!”
As the geist charged at the Mother Harlot, the daemon let loose a metallic screech. The piercing wail shattered Dante into fragments of cotton and ectoplasm, ripping it raw out of Victor’s mind. A railroad spike drove into his imagination, impaling all with a seizure of agony.
Victor screamed, about to fall into the “crowd.” The howling force knocked the cane out his hands, skidding across the runway towards Beatrice.
Her eyes fell upon the blade, if only for a moment.
“Goddammit, man.” Charles ran forward, catching Victor. “Hang in there!”
He twitched in Charles’s arms, vision splashed with monochrome, fading in and out of consciousness. He felt a freezing blast as the Mother Harlot let loose another jet of black fire from her dragons, inching closer. The daemons screeched and cheered.
“You think this is what I want?” Beatrice choked. “You don’t know me!”
“B-Beatrice,” Victor mustered. Against every fiber of his wracked being, he staggered up, clutching his chest. “Don’t deny it. She’ll just get stronger—”
“And what do you know?!” Beatrice snapped. “You actually think I believe this? Dude, you don’t know what I’ve been through. You don’t know shit!” The Mother Harlot mouthed along with each syllable. “Just go away! What were you guys thinking, coming after me?”
“That’s right, tell them how you really feel. How we feel.” The Mother Harlot leaned against the cushions, propping its legs. “Don’t let these dicks get in the way. After their bullshit, they deserve to die too. Right?”
Beatrice said nothing, still shaking in terror.
“But that’s going to end.” The Mother Harlot let the leashes go. The draconic heads oozed with liquid nitrogen, lunging, preparing to rip Beatrice apart. “Don’t worry, it’ll be quick.”
She stared on, wide-eyed and rooted in terror, until, a dragon’s jaws yawned open, like a monstrous python, swallowing her whole in a rusty gulp.
“Beatrice!” Victor screamed.
#
“It’s all your fault,” a voice echoed in the nothingness.
Beatrice’s eyes opened to silent fog, deep water all around her, until the nitrogen mist took her. She was floating in the metallic belly of the beast, paralyzed by fear and confusion.
What just happened?
When she regained the power to move, Beatrice grabbed ahold of a drifting sheet of ice. Slipping onto its rocking surface, she shivered, watching as skeletal fins passed her by.
“It’s all your fault,” the voice repeated.
Beatrice knew who it was, sickening her with anxiety. The source of it all. What she tried to ignore every night. “Stop it, Mom,” she whimpered, her composure cracking.
“You’re the one who drove your father off. Why, why?” the memory sobbed, bottles clinking in the background. “Why did I have to get stuck with a selfish brat like you? I haven’t smiled once since the day you were born. You think I like selling myself out? Dancing on the pole? They all come and go, because you ruin it.” That voice rose to a scream. “Goddamnit, I should have had that abortion!”
Beatrice’s lip quivered, trying to feign strength, until she utterly collapsed into the snow of tears. She was deathly cold. Beneath the mask, she was exhausted and broken. A lost child, pretending to be something she wasn’t. Deep down, she’d always known that.
Even here, she listened to the twisted songs of “weakness.” Beatrice stared at the reflection in floating mirrors of ice, seeing a doll mask instead of her own face. She shut her eyes, gritted her teeth, and for the first time she could remember, Beatrice allowed herself to cry.
“I deserve this,” she whimpered. “I—”
A sudden boom reverberated through the iron belly, accompanied by another voice. “Cesare!” Charles called from outside. “Get. Her. Out!”
