Rob Zombie - Lords of Salem

“Are you all right?” he asked. But she didn’t answer. Instead, she closed the bloody scissors, took a firm grip on the handle, and went back into the bedroom.

It’s fucked-up , thought Whitey. Sure, there were always disagreements over whether something should be smashed or trashed, particularly when they did local music and the bands tried to get their friends to call in and support them, but it never was as wide a range as this. People either loved the shit out of this track or they hated it and wanted to crucify the Lords. No middle ground.

And it was still going, still a line of people queuing on the phones, wanting their opinions to be heard.

He took the next call. “Smash or…,” he started, but then let his voice trail off.

The woman on the other end was weeping. Shit , he thought, some psycho , and reached to disconnect her.

“Please play it again…,” she managed to say before he cut her off. “I need to hear it again.”

Shit, he thought, her voice, the longing in it. She’d heard the song only once but it was like she was already addicted to it. Was she crying out of disappointment that the song had ended or out of joy that she’d been lucky enough to hear it? It was like all the crazies were coming out tonight.

“The chicks love it,” Whitey said. Yeah, that was right. Every woman who called in loved it. That was weird. Every man who called in seemed to hate it. That was weird, too.

“I guess it’s a girlie smash,” said Heidi. Girlie smash , he thought. That was a good one. He’d have to file it away and use it sometime himself.

“What can I say?” said Herman. “It’s obviously the new ‘Sexual Healing.’ ”

Little different sound, though, thought Whitey. A lot more aggravated—hardly a good track for bedroom fun, unless you happened to be Jack the Ripper.

He reached out and connected another line. Let it be a woman who hates it , he said. Break the pattern. It was a woman all right, but she didn’t hate it. As usual, being a woman, she loved it, thought it was a smash. Messed up , he thought, and a little creepy , and then he went on to the next call.

He’d turned over, was lying on his side now. He was still naked but he was covertly checking his phone, something she hated him to do after sex. Look up! she silently begged. See what’s happened to me, and then run.

But he didn’t. He kept checking his phone as she came slowly in and clambered into the bed and spooned him from behind.

“Mmm,” he said. “Back for more?”

She didn’t say anything. Her body started kissing him on the shoulder, the neck, leaving bloody mouth prints with each kiss.

“Feels great,” he said. He arched his back a little, rubbed his shoulder blades against her breasts. She felt the symbol carved on her chest tear a little, the wounds bleeding more freely. But her body pushed back, acting as though nothing was wrong.

“Are you wet?” he asked. “Splash yourself with water or something?”

She didn’t answer, just reached around him and put her hand on his cock, began to rub her thumb up and down its shaft. That distracted him a little, made him worry less. He tried to turn around and get where he could kiss her, but she kept holding on, tightening her hand around his cock and squeezing. Shhh , the beast said through her. The whisper sounded a little weird, but not so weird that he noticed.

“Okay, okay,” he said, giving up. “We’ll do it the way you want to do it. But honestly, I don’t know if I have another go in me quite yet. But sure, why not, we can play around.”

She kept rubbing his cock, rubbing her body up and down his back, tearing her wounds open. Everything was getting bloody. Everything was growing wet with blood. The beast inside her took a deep breath through her nose, enjoying the smell of her blood.

“Why are you sticky?” Jarrett asked. “Did you get something on your chest? Honey or something? Is this part of the game?”

“Sure,” the beast said. He stiffened a little. He knew her voice, knew something was off with her, something was wrong. Now he’d turn around and see what she’d done to herself and realize what danger he was in.

“Why are you talking like that?” he asked. “It really isn’t funny.”

Run, Jarrett! she was screaming inside. Run! Her hand, though, had left his cock and was groping through the bedsheets, looking for the scissors. She felt her fingers brush by them and tried to will them to keep moving, to not stop. Jarrett was trying to turn and she had let go of him enough that he mostly could. But instead of looking at her body, he saw only her head.

“What the fuck have you done to your hair?” he asked, drawing back.

Her hands found the scissors again and closed around them, and then swiftly she drew her arm back and brought them down hard and sharp into his neck.

He cried out once and tried to rear up, the scissors having cut through his flesh to lodge in his windpipe. Blood was coming in a kind of spray out through the wound, and the throat, too, was hissing from the hole, air escaping. He struggled and tried to turn around, and struck out and hit her hard on the side of the head. The beast inside of her laughed. Jarrett tried to sit up, made it partway, but then fell back, the color already drained from his face. He groped weakly at the scissors in his neck and managed to close his hands around them and tug at them. They came partway free and then his hand stopped moving and his eyes slowly glazed over. Slowly the hand released them and the scissors slid out on their own. Maisie’s hand was there to catch them.

She stared at them in her palm. Inside her head she was huddled, weeping, but unable also to stop herself from looking out. But the beast made her look. The beast showed her the scissors, turned them in her hands, watched the light glint off them.

Put them down , she told herself. Put them down and call the police.

The beast used her mouth to smile. And then her body began stabbing Jarrett’s corpse, over and over and over again.

Slowly the sheets grew sodden with blood. Inside of her the beast roared, swelled. She cowered, covered her head. No, she didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to have anything to do with what had just happened, nor anything else like that. She’d prefer dying to having to watch someone she cared for being killed.

The beast seemed to hear her thoughts. In some sort of space within her head it came over and crouched beside her, sniffed her. You’re no fun , it said. And then, So be it. I can have more fun without you. It stood straight and placed a red, clawed foot on her imaginary head, but still she felt it somehow in her real head. It began to press its weight down. She felt the pressure build, and then, all at once her skull cracked and the scaly heel made a mess of her brains.

Outside, she stiffened and collapsed. For a moment she was like that, seemingly lifeless and then she stretched and stood and gave a terrible laugh.

And then for a long time there was nobody left inside of her except for the beast, who began licking her lips and set her hands to carving up the body beside her. He started with the face, flaying the skin back and then cutting the muscles away to get down to the bone of the skull. He lopped a few of the fingers off, almost at random, and then started onto the elbow joint.

Once he left his residence in the body, there was nobody left inside her at all. Her body lay there, eyes wide, unable to move, no longer Maisie, no longer the demon, unaware that she had once been human, no longer really anybody at all. Then the injured woman within her skull began to slowly gather herself, pushing her brains back into her imaginary skull, slowly regaining consciousness, slowly coming to realize what she’d done.