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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/1003701-Cat-got-his-tongue
Rated: 18+ · Book · Horror/Scary · #2222317
Invisible matters of the mind turned real into the written word.
#1003701 added February 5, 2021 at 7:25pm
Restrictions: None
Cat got his tongue
SCREAMS!!! daily win

“I din’t know. Seemed right at the time.” Amory Evan’s hands shook, rattling his stolid beer glass to shiver on the table. The woman sitting across from him wore the stylized mini skirt and halter of a second rate Las Vegas gambling/show girl. The smell of strong marijuana laced with stronger drugs and bad liquor permeated the air of the off-main street den of iniquity called Satan’s Palace.

“Can’t be fixed once it is done,” Lydia Morey wove her words and fingers together. “Mistakes have their price. You don’t have a prayer of a chance at getting away with what you’ve done.”

“Not my problem,” Amory sputtered, looking at her indignantly. He wiped beer foam off his thick lips, hammered the mug down. “They want you.”

Lydia let out a small, high pitched squeal of pain. Amory’s two big paws forced themselves over her hands, squeezing out a shrill, high pitched scream. “Let go of me. You’re drunk. You brought this on yourself.”

“Bitch witch. They think you special. Weren’t it youself, saying they’d be the one’s solve my mistake, as you call it?” Amory loosened his tight grip only to squeeze harder. It brought Lydia off her chair onto her knees. “Traded you as part the bargain.” His hands fastened on her throat, threatening to turn her heavy breathing off.

A shadow appeared, wavering at Amory’s side. “Boss? Hey. Don’t mean to interrupt.” It was, Guy, the bouncer, swaying, rubbing his ribbed bare stomach, The muscles moved like snakes under his hands.

“Sight of them makes me sick. There’s three of ‘em.” He groaned like he had a bellyache that wouldn’t go away. “Said tell you ‘Here be witcheries’. Told ‘em wait the door.”

Amory released Lydia, dropping her with a dull thud to the floor. “All three? They come here?”

“Must be come'n for Lydia without wasting time. Drag her to them. Not before I’m done.” A foot prodded the fallen figure. A pool of thick sticky blood clung to it. A ropey thread connected his sole to Lydia’s thick mass of black hair. “Head must be soft when she struck the ground.”

Guy dropped to join Lydia, like every bone in his body came unglued, The man curled up in a fetal position clutching his stomach, mewing “Let me go.”

“No need for that, ladies.” Amory cursed, took back a step, slipping a little as his other foot landed in Lydia’s blood. “Just getting back a little of my own. Lydia’s the one made a bloody mess of me.”

Three old hags, stood shoulder to shoulder, looking harmless, shriveled, dried up in age, all wrinkles and silent as death. The one in the middle spoke, “Life for life, curse for curse, Satan requires it.”

The hag on the right spoke next, “Rise up Lydia to your rightful place with us.” A palsied hand reached down, sunk into the writhing mass of muscle that was Guy’s obdoman, came away free with snakes of gory intestines. “Bless it Sister Ruth.”

The third hag knotted her fingers together and formed the words of an ancient spell. “Satan, answer our request in this your house of worship.” The bloody entrails smoked, hissed, writhed, slipped free to land on Lydia’s upturned head.

Her eyelids fluttered open, gaze fastening on Amory. “Swine,” she mouthed. Her tongue licked the word greedily, tasting the feel of it on her lips.

Amory hissed an oath, grabbed his beer glass, shattered it against the edge of its hard oak soiled table. Sharp teeth menaced the three frail figures. “Enough. You got her. Give me what you promised.”

“Dearies, must we?” Sang out the middle hag.

“I fear so. We are bound by Satan’s will,” crooned the hag on the right.

“Then the deed is done, for witcheries are we,” The third joined hands with the others.

Lydia kissed the entrails dangling down to her mouth. “Sweet life. Give me breath.”

Amory grunted, huge paws struggling to keep the sharp toothed broken beer glass from dancing towards his throat. “You promised.”

“But, I didn’t.” A fourth hag rose in place where Lydia had been. Only the voice was the same. “You wanted freedom, escape from your past. So be it, but in the form in which we bless you.”

There is a black cat greeting supplicants with prayerful whispers of debauchery of every kind who enter Satan’s Palace door. Many a glass tankard of beer is raised in toast. The black cat licks the foam of them landing on the soiled floor.

“Amory, penitant, you are free to go where you will.” The hag calling herself Lydia who visits upon occasion offers as the cat curls its tail around her reaching hand. “Ah, you think you have learned your lesson. Not yet, my pretty. Are you ready to become my familiar?”

There is no answer. Cats cannot talk, can they?

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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/1003701-Cat-got-his-tongue