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by Alex Davis

The circle forms, closes. A circle of the broken. A voice, old and cracked speaks above their movements.

I am the messiah in darkness, a god painted night. I am the image of Christ marked with blood, I am your sins. I offer no salvation. I am within each of you, you have come to me seeking final acceptance of your folly. I embrace you within the warmth, the purity of your true desires.

Each of the lost holds a blade within their hand, sharpened silver. They now each take one arm, cut deep into the veins there. The skin parts easily under the shining edges. The arms are held out, and the blood begins to drip freely onto the white carpet, an abstract crimson. The carpet beneath spilled red begins to pulsate, shifting, responding to each drop of vitality. The whole room starts to move in such a way, the walls contorting into strangled forms.

I offer you truth where the voices of empty holiness offer you lies. I offer you each fantasy you hold and ask nothing but the release of your morality, the casting away of conscience. Follow me into the lands of lust fulfilled. You will suffer the pleasures of an untold world, and revel in the agony of its being.

From the carpet something now rises. Its shape is human, but is has no features, no face. Its skin is a pale shade, pockmarked with bloodied circles. The voice now appears to be coming directly from it, although it has no mouth to speak the words. It reaches for one of its apostles, taking her by the hand. Her expression is reverent, hopeful.

Allow me into you, my child, and your time on this earth shall be done. The gates of Nkatha will be open to you. You shall lead these acolytes into that forbidden land. I shall pour into you and you shall understand my nature as you know your own.

The whitened shape leans down to her wounded arm, as though looking at the long cut there. It now places its apparent head to it, and soon enough that part of its pallid shape is pulled into the separation there. She lets out a little cry, afraid, not comprehending what is happening to her. Soon the rest of the risen creature is forced into the narrow wound, vanishing into her bloodstream.

For a moment she stands, unmoving, unwilling to move. Now she lets out a scream but it is cut short as her body is lifted from the floor, suspended. Her eyes pour clean all off their colour, utterly blank for a few moments before being filled with red-black liquid. A series of cuts begin to open across her body, each bursting forth from the once-safe flesh in a nightmarish tapestry. The wounds begin to open, widening, stretching her body into an elongated travesty of itself. The expanding of these openings causes her body to explode, opening absurdly from her spine. Her innards fall to the floor, followed swiftly by the bones that once held her shape together, all swallowed quickly by the hungry surface of the room. Her skin is now folded outwards, floating before the stunned followers. The wounds that taint her parted skin twitch uneasily, and through them can be heard a singing in voices unintelligible. Now they understand, and one by one they climb into these fresh gashes, the gateways to Nkatha.

Purity shall not be found without, but within. The purest, those most driven by the strength of their wishes, shall be at once gateway and homeland. This is a truth given to those willing to see through the blindness. I am the black light, the ebony lantern that leads you there.

She is Nkatha, as you all may be.

Copyright Alex Davis 2004

Alex Davis runs a new dark writers group in Derby (England)  The site for the group is www.geocities.com/sepulchrewriting/index.html

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