Whoever said that the dead can’t hurt us was wrong-dead wrong. And this tale I’m about to tell will prove it. You may doubt its veracity, but believe me when I tell you that it’s all too real-as I am living proof of its reality. I seek release from an obsession, and the recollection of a malevolence-a panacea for an evil that has fed on men for centuries. It’s been an evil without respite, and without redress for three hundred years-an unmitigated nightmare that will only end with her demisewith her “death,” and her destruction. And there’s a score to settle also, a score for old friends, whom she destroyed. And my ‘prey’ has a name. The Duchess DeMoynee, the demon, DeMoynee-and I will celebrate a new millennium by releasing her from time itself; I will see her mad attempt at immortality will be just that-a foul attempt, a failure-a mere flirtation with eternity. But let’s go back to where it all began (at least, for me) to those first heady days of her embrace, and the subtle arts of her dark seductions-an art so adept at conceiving evil, and bringing forth the darkness from within-from within that frailty known as man, who’s so at odds with his own darkness, yet is so easily led into the dark. We were an eclectic array of “intellectuals,” both self-proclaimed and genuine, all bound together by one belief, by one “transcendent” concept-that good and evil did not exist, only man’s misperceptions of reality. Fools! It would be a precept that would lead to evil, an apocalypse of the spirit, so to speak-and perhaps a well-deserved damnation, but still the worst scenario of them all-as in this so-called apocalypse were the seeds of their destruction. I was hunted too, but I survived. Why? I refused to be seduced. I wouldn’t succumb to the seduction. And now the prey’s become predacious, the hunter’s become the hunted. It was at a Halloween event some years ago, a buzzing throng of women and men in masquerade-and all were innocuous enough, of course, save one-as she was there, in her disguise-Renee DeMoynee, The Duchess Demoynee. We were all alive with the night’s delights, with our “dark” little holiday-but soon our surroundings were merely John Condenzio 132 a façade for a dark monstrosity, for a dark, eternal thirsting that neither time, nor eternity, could quench. And this glittering mix of masquerades would soon lead to a nightmare, and a living hell for those alive. And it led me to my quest-to this strange and terrible experience. She was a stranger to me, at the time, yet something bothered me from the start-yes, something about her was seductive-but something about her was surreal, as well-her countenance was unnatural, and there was an aura of darkness upon her; her attire was alluring, too, enticing trappings, to be sure-but something about her was unsettling, as if she didn’t belong with us. But no one seemed to notice, so I decided it was my own mind, a rum induced illusion in an atmosphere of fantasy. But then the dancing began, and as she swirled around us she engaged my friends in small talk, asking about their interests, and of our strange endeavors-but then the questions deepened, and soon they were revealing things: their tiniest desires, their innermost emotions and, worst of all, our inner circle, which she soon would join, and there’s the thing-for as I said-we had a paranormal passion; no mere flirtation, either-but one deep and dark indulgence: necromancy, witchcraft in all its aspects, the summoning of spirits through séance; the secrets of life and death itself. Quite a little litany-and one that would bring her deep into our midst, beneath the guise of an enlightened guest-but she used it to delude us. And then she began appearing nightly, to seduce us in the moonlight. And then she fed on my friends-and, as I said, I escaped-but barely.
Posted on: Mon, 13 Oct 2014 23:37:44 +0000
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