A Bloody Corruption

A heavy darkness hovered the town, clinging to every niche of the alleyways and shrouding the ill deeds of vile men. Small pebbles rolled and crunched up and down the sandy roads as the townspeople, old and young, traipsed along. The moon's hazing breath of white intermingled with the orange glow of candlelight, a brilliant affair illuminating the streets, casting shadows that stretched, ebbed and danced over the pathways.

Delilah gripped the wicker basket in one hand and fisted the collar of her cloak in the other. It was the hour before midnight, and the young girl had yet to return to her mother after spending half the day hidden in the bookkeeper's study, reading books of sin and fantasy. She was sure she had incensed her mother with her absence. She could almost feel her cheek throb as a bruise blossomed beneath the flesh. She could feel a numbing tingle in the wake of pain, like the sharp breath of winter snuffing a teetering flame.

A man passed her, dark eyes cascading down her lamblike frame. He didn’t stare at her the way a man would; he stared with the eyes of an unholy beast that had clawed from the pits of hell and splintered the earth, consumed with a violent thirst of blood. She bristled and tightened her fist around her cloak, tucking her chin to her chest as she hastened her gait.

His eyes swam in her mind—the flicker of a foreign wickedness, the evil that peeked behind his eyes, an evil beyond a sin of flesh. He could drain her of all life, of all vitality, 'til she lied stiff, festering in a shroud of death.

The thought alone sent her heart cowering in her chest. The ghost of Numbness's fingers haunted her body, erasing every inch of the pains and pleasures of life. She suddenly longed for her mother’s violent dismay, the throb of flesh, a sharp and tender reminder of her corporeal existence. She didn’t dare to chance a glimpse over her shoulder. With every swift twist and turn in her path, she eluded the prying glow of candle light until she finally reached the entrance to her home. She pushed the door open and stepped into the hazy warmth of her abode. The sharp scent of smoke twirled and wafted its way into her nostrils.

She softly shut the door behind her.

“Mother, I am back!”

She was met with not a sound, not a whisper, but a mere crackle from the fireplace mixing with the hiss, pop and sizzle of the water boiling in the kettle. Delilah disrobed herself and hung her cloak on the hook next to the door.

“Mother!” she called again. She toed her boots and ventured into the kitchen. The first thing she noticed was the mess of food and unclean dishes on the table—a stack of plates dirtied with crumbs of bread and drying puddles of broth, two cups—one of them knocked on its side—two forks, and a half-eaten piece of bread. Delilah ran her finger over its white-brown skin. It was coarse and brittle, as though it had sat there until it had hardened and staled. As she approached the edge of the room, she felt a thin stab at the bottom of her foot. She hissed and brought to her hands. Cradling the wound, she eyed the tiny shards of glass and porcelain bestrewed the floor. With a curious eye, she plucked a shard from her flesh and inched towards the edge of the kitchen. She called for her mother once more. The hall felt still, the silence as absolute as death, thickening her blood and raising her hackles.

Fiery red eyes floated before her mind’s eye. The hooded figure returned as an image, the suggestion a wispy breath from the lips of Anxiety herself.

O, full of scorpions is her mind! Another voice chimed, a hint of derisiveness in his voice. Could it be his voice? The voice of her predator, the creature who lurks in the shadows, waiting for her to stumble into his trap? Anxiety neared her climaxed as she stood before the ajar door that lead into her mother’s chambers. The door creaked as she pushed it open, revealing to her a horrendous sight.

The straw mattress was spotted with blood, and her mother’s rags were strewn all over the floor. Papers were torn from the leather bound journals, and alas, she found her mother lying in the middle of it all. Her throat gawked at Delilah with a blood red gaze. Looking deeper into it, she saw the pulse of life, of hot thick blood, absent—replaced with a dyinh gleam of crimson. Delilah collapsed beside her mother’s corpse and wailed, grief violently possessing her body. Dead she couldn’t be! Dead she couldn’t be! But then why was her body so cold? Through blinding tears, Delilah stared into her mother’s face, hoping if she stared hard enough, it would stir the old woman awake. Yet still her mother lied before her with cold and beautiful eyes looking nowhere in particular. Small grainy stains of red stretched over the raggedy fabric of her mother's dress.

Footsteps struck the ground behind her. She sagged over the corpse and tensed, fighting sobs and whimpers and hiccups. She felt the stranger’s presence looming over her. She dared not to look. She couldn't bare to face Him. Her predator.

“Fear not, child, for I am not what you think.”

“You’re a demon is what you are. A monster. You killed my mother!” she sniffled. He rested a gentle hand on her back and leaned into her side, combing his thick fingers through her tangled locks.

“A demon I am, and kill your mother I did. I tore her throat open with my teeth and drained her of every drop of life. I am Ornias, the King of Night.”

“What is it you want of me, King of Night?” She looked up at him, taking in his sharp and handsome face. He smiled at her, his sharp teeth gleaming with rheum.

“I want to make you my bride. I apologize for your mother. I believe I’ve given her quite a fright.” He chuckled. Delilah scowled at him fiercely.

“And what on God’s brown earth makes you think I’ll grant you my hand in marriage?”

“I can give you your mother back, of course. That is assuming you make the wise decision and wed me. If not, you’ll have to trouble yourself with placing her on the pyre.” She struck him across the face. Resting his fingers on a pale cheek, he cackled. “Feisty one, are you?”

“A sick, vile, condemned soul you are! Go back to hell where you came from!” He cackled cruelly. She shrank back, watching with horror as he ghosted a finger over the gaping wound across the base of her mother’s throat. He sank two fingers into the flesh and gathered the blood onto his fingers. He pushed two red fingers to her lips. Her mouth dried. The blood became sweet like honey. Without her permission, her tongue grazed across the tips of his fingers. She let out a wanton moan and sucked. He grinned wickedly. Tears prickled in her eyes.

What had he done to her?

She snatched herself away and recoiled.

"What have you done to me?" He smiled at her.

"I have corrupted you, darling. I've compelled you." He inched closer to her. "You see, I could've compelled you to accept my proposal, but what good would that have done? I wanted you to say yes at your own free will."

His gaze softened as he searched her eyes and brought his fingers to her face.

"O, Delilah. I knew you were special since the first time I've laid eyes on you. Your mother had that youthful freshness in her face, smooth skin, pink cheeks, brown eyes alight with adoration as she cradled you to her chest. Your eyes captivated me. Then you looked to me and smiled. Your memory of that day may have escaped you, but it still haunts me.

"I've watched over you as you blossomed into this beautiful beautiful young woman. I watched as you snuck books out of the library and hid in the old man's study to read. You'd sit, tucked in the corner of the wall, holding an orange in your hand, eyes gleaming like diamonds as you marveled the imaginary figures dancing before you. I watched you on your cot, clinging to your mother as you dreamed in color and music.

"You had this smile that made me want to be closer to you. Reveal my form to you and caress your plump cheeks. I've had many maidens, child. Women as sweet as red roses and as gentle as a spring breeze. But you, Delilah, are the sweetest of all."

Her eyes stung.

"No. I won't wed you! I refuse to be betroathed to a fiend!"

He wrenched her forth by her hair and pushed her head towards the corpse.

“Look at your poor mother! Look!"

She whimpered.

“Look at the torn flesh. Look at what remains of the blood that sputtered from her throat the minute I tore her open. Look at all the color of life that faded from her body."

Her lips quivered. She twisted away.

"Hark her deathly quiet, the stillness of her breath. Did you touch her skin? Feel how cold she felt? When I came, she invited me into her home, lovely as ever. We dined on bread and fresh vegetables and sipped the water fresh from the well. A kind woman she was.

"The same woman you've tasted on my fingertips. I can give her back. Make her more powerful and untouchable than she's ever been. And you'll be mine."

He turned her face towards him.

"Give me your hand in marriage, child, and your life will be whole again. You and your mother will live eternally. Have all the power, all the glory, resting upon your delicate fingertips."

Sobs bubbled from her throat. She had a choice. She did.

"If you refuse me, Delilah, you'll live with this for the rest of your life. Her death will weigh heavy on your heart. Your soul will be black."

"I'd rather my soul be black soul than have no soul at all!"

A dark grin spread over his face.

"I'm impressed. You're stronger than I thought."

Delilah scowled.

"But nobody refuses me."

Before she could blink, he surged forward and sunk his teeth into her neck. She could feel venom ripping through her body. She collapsed limp. Paralyzed. Her body jerked and twisted violent. She fought to scream, but sound laid caged in the back of her throat. Bones crackled and snapped as her body contorted beyond its natural limits. The blood and spit that had gathered splashed and sloshed around her mouth, some spewing out and dribbling down her face.

---

Ornias towered over proudly watching as his new creation began to take her beautiful form. The color of humanity was replaced with a hellish pale. He had known all along she would refuse. She was too pure and too innocent for her own good. He was sad to have taken her mother from her, but the woman had served her purpose. Her time was approaching her anyway. Delilah collapsed. Limp and still after several minutes of thrashing. Her limbs returned to their natural form and the gashes and wounds on her head started to heal. He kneeled next to her form and admired her. He caressed a cheek and smiled down at her gently.

"Delilah, my child. My bride. My beautiful creation."